Stolen Child (10 page)

By then I knew Miriam’s story. I asked her if she felt any animosity towards her ex-husband, who had walked out on his family when David was six years old.

She shrugged and admitted her only emotion was in difference. ‘And David,’ I asked, imagining him as a young boy, alone in his room, playing his harsh angry music, giving the finger to the man who had deserted him. ‘At first they used to meet,’ she said. ‘But not any more, not since he was thirteen and stopped mentioning his father’s name.’

David arrived home from Saudi Arabia six months later. In Molloy’s, the local pub where set dancing was a tradition, he stood out from the crowd, a tanned, mature man with a new firmness about his mouth that suggested authority. He was immediately whisked to the floor by an impetuous young woman.

‘Imelda Morris,’ Miriam nudged me. ‘She’s been friends with David since their pram days.’

More than friends, I thought, watching her heels flashing.

Miriam nudged me again when another young woman danced past. ‘Corrine O’Sullivan,’ she whispered.

Up close, Corrine was pretty in a blowsy way that would, I suspected, soon turn to flesh. Her boyfriend was sturdy and straight-backed, a squared-off chin that would brook no arguments. I watched David dancing with Imelda and Corrine dancing with her husband-to-be. They seemed oblivious of each other, yet I sensed the tensions that could be released by an inadvertent glance. I thought of Nina, my mother, cold and silent in her grave, and wondered where all that angry energy went when it could no longer be contained within the body. But the night passed off without incident. David asked me to dance. I suspect a hint from Miriam sent him in my direction. I shook my head, having no wish to compete against the fleet-footed Imelda, who claimed him once again.

When he came home on leave again I’d learned to set dance. In Molloy’s, I wore a sundress with a discreetly plunging
neckline and my toenails were painted red as sin. What was ten years between a man and woman, I asked myself. Nothing…if it was the man who carried the years. But for a woman, trapped by time, by a biological clock, it was different. I had squandered my time with too many men and had no more to waste.

Imelda had youth to flaunt but I was skilled in the art of pleasure. I knew how to give, if not to receive. How to stroke and caress a man’s flesh, to apply firm or gentle pressure, to moan deeply, to breathe urgently, to gasp, as if pain and pleasure had clashed then melded. I often wondered if the sour coupling that led to my conception was responsible for my inability to experience pleasure; but David, on our first night together, had no reason to doubt my satisfaction. No condoms. I reassured him. Everything was under control.

We were together every night until it was time to start his next contract. I didn’t write and tell him I was pregnant. Time enough when I was sure. Two months later, I was in Dublin, attending a meeting with a department store buyer, when a cramping pain forced the breath from my lips.

‘It happens,’ said the doctor in the family planning clinic. ‘First babies, it’s tricky. No reason why it should ever happen again.’

Miriam, busily crafting glass, did not notice my shadowed eyes when I returned to the studio, and David never knew.

Six months later, when he came home again, I’d chilled white wine in the fridge and red wine was breathing on the hearth. I served beef roulades with blue cheese and walnuts, a blackberry crumble for dessert. He carried me to the bedroom. Afterwards, I brushed his hair from his eyes and whispered endearments. Sweat beaded his chest. I leaned my
palm against the beat of his heart and, for once, I wished I could experience that hot, racing sensation where nothing else exists outside the boundaries of our desire.

We slept and awakened, made love again. Three times he came inside me and when he finally left my side, his eyes dark with spent passion, I lay still and sensed his strong determined sperm shouldering each other in the rush to create something wonderful between us.

Three months passed before I wrote and told him I was pregnant. I assured him he’d no reason to worry. Nothing would be demanded from him, no commitment, no support, no strings. I imagined him reading my letter, surrounded by the scorching sands. He would be alarmed at first, then reassured, then wincing, thinking, no doubt, about his son, who now lived with his mother and stepfather in Canada.

He rang and proposed. We would be married when he came home on leave. He spoke with certainty. This child would carry his name.

I asked him if he loved me. We’d had so little time to know each other.

‘Yes,’ he said, and I believe he spoke sincerely. ‘I love you, Susanne. That’s all we need to begin our lives together.’

A week later the pain began. Miriam drove me to the hospital.

‘First babies, it’s common enough,’ she said, and cried with me, held me gently, as if she was afraid I’d shatter at her touch. She faded quietly into the background when David returned from the oilfields to comfort me.

‘We will still be married,’ he said, ‘and we will have many children.’

We married that summer in Maoltrán. I’d achieved what I desired yet I was haunted by ghosts; the ache was unbearable. Miriam moved into my house and I moved to Rockrose.
‘Less clutter, more space,’ she insisted. ‘Two women together in the family home, not a good idea.’

The Burren billowed into the distance, a grey patchwork quilt stitched in green. I imagined the earth seething beneath the limestone ridges and dolmen tombs; and on the surface, the gentle orchids and gentians, the woodruff, harebells, eyebrights and rockrose spurting from the cracks. This grimly beautiful landscape would absorb my grief. We would have more babies. They would grow up wild and free and happy.

I was in the business of persuasion but fate mocked my hopes one by one. And then they began to whisper to me, my lost children:
no more…no more…no more.

They don’t whisper any more. Not since you came to me. The only sound that breaks the night silence are your fretful cries, as if you are trying to break through the walls with your voice.

Today, sitting at my kitchen table that had once been hers, Miriam asked how I was feeling. Her expression was guarded, as if she was picking her way through thistles. She wanted to know if I’d seen Dr Williamson.

I shook my head and told her everything was under control. I’d seen a doctor when I was in Dublin visiting my father. He prescribed antidepressants to get me through the next few months.

She frowned, as if I’d suggested lacing my tea with arsenic. ‘They will only mask your symptoms,’ she said, a hint of ice in her tone. ‘We’re not exactly a backwater here,’ she added. ‘Dr Williamson is highly qualified and a trained counsellor to boot.’

‘I’m suffering from exhaustion,’ I replied. ‘I’ve a child who doesn’t sleep at night.’

She bit her bottom lip and looked away. ‘I’m not for a
moment suggesting you need counselling,’ she said. ‘But I suspect you’re suffering from a touch of postnatal depression.’

You, as if hearing her words, awakened and cried. Miriam waved me back into my chair and went upstairs to pick you up. Moments passed. I heard her footsteps crossing the landing. The creak of old wood tells its own story. I walked silently up the stairs, skipped the fifth step, which always squeaks, and paused at the top. She was holding you in her arms. Her chin rested on your head and her hand patted your back,
pat-pat-pat.
You gurgled against her, content in her embrace as she stared into David’s bedroom.

A sweater lay over a chair, a book and his Walkman were on the dressing table. I had not touched his room since he left last week and it was obvious we no longer shared a bed. That’s the worst of knowing the geography of a house. It’s possible to figure out what should be other people’s private business. I turned before she noticed me and waited for her in the kitchen.

‘What you and David need is a break,’ she said when she returned. ‘I can take a few days off work and move into Rockrose to look after my little cabbage.’

I took you from her and sat you on my knee. You began to cry, to wriggle in my arms, your legs kicking against me.

‘Colicky,’ said Miriam. ‘David was exactly the same for the first few months.’

She loves making comparisons and is delighted that your eyes turned out to be brown. ‘Bog pools,’ she calls them. ‘Exactly like her father.’

‘Later, in the summer,’ I promised her. ‘Maybe then we’ll go away.’

She refused to be fobbed off, believing, no doubt, that our friendship allowed her an inappropriate level of interference. ‘Living down the lane, so far removed from others,
it’s isolating you from normal life,’ she said. ‘Too much solitude is for men with beards who like to perch on rocks.’

She waited for me to share her laughter and looked at her hands when I remained silent.

I saw her to the front door. She kissed your cheeks.

‘I’m sorry you’re not coming back to the studio,’ she said. ‘But you now have everything you need to make this a happy home. Look after my son. He lost one child. Let him enjoy his daughter. It’s a shame he has to spend so much time away from home.’

‘It’s his own choice,’ I replied.

‘Is it?’ Her question was rhetorical. She had already decided on the answer.

I locked the door behind her. I allowed the silence to settle. You stirred, restless, your eyes searching, always searching. Miriam was right to call them pools. I want them to pool with love for me but more often they pool with tears and you awaken in the night with a shriek that jerks me upright in the bed. I rock you…rock you…walking the floor until you exhaust yourself back to sleep.

The letters had started to arrive shortly after Isobel’s disappearance. Mostly they were messages of support, offering prayers and hope. Medals, mass bouquets and holy pictures fell from the envelopes. Good luck tokens also came, small packages with crystals and dried bunches of four-leaf clover, amulets and phials of sand or strange-coloured liquids. The latter ones were usually accompanied by long, rambling descriptions of guiding spirits and psychic predictions. But other letters – Carla was unable to tell if the senders were unbalanced or unbelievably cruel – claimed she was being punished by God for her past wanton behaviour. These letters were mostly linked to the lingerie advertising campaign that the press had unearthed. Photographs had been cut from newspapers. Much folded and with suspicious stains, they were enclosed with the anonymous letters. She saw herself in lingerie and transparent tops, boldly posing. How thoughtlessly she had worn such clothes, proud of her body, enjoying the caress of the camera, blissfully unaware that such images would haunt her future.

Whore of Babylon…Scarlet Bitch…Shameless Hussy…God Has Seen Fit To Punish Thy Wickedness.

Since the Garda search had been scaled down, the number of letters had decreased. Carla flung the morning’s post on the table and made a cafetière of coffee. She read every letter she received, searched them for clues, hoping that somewhere in the crazed ramblings she would find the key to Isobel’s disappearance. So far, nothing had been deduced from the well-meaning messages of sympathy – or from the dark sponges that soaked up her misery and squeezed it out again in vile capitals.

A psychic called Miranda May had sent a prediction in this morning’s mail. For once, the letter claiming psychic intuition was short and to the point.

Dear Carla
,

I have received strong psychic signals from your daughter. Look for her in a place of stone. She is safe and well-nourished. Do not be downhearted. Keep the candle of hope burning. Your patience will be rewarded.

Miranda May.

Carla grimaced and folded it back into the envelope. The next letter belonged to the ugly category. Even before she opened it she knew, could almost smell the stale air of venom and religious wrath that possessed the senders. She stared at the scrawling handwriting.
You deserved God’s retribution…Your child has been spared a life of shame and debauchery…Harlot.
The words no longer shocked or alarmed her and nothing she read brought Isobel’s recovery any closer.

She was cupping a cold mug of coffee and staring into space when she heard the doorbell. Two hours had passed since she had picked up the mail. She had no idea where the time had gone or what she had thought about while she was
in that vacuum. It happened regularly, snatches of time disappearing, as if her mind closed down in an effort to bring her through the day. Earlier, the sun had been shining but the sky had greyed now and the rain had started falling.

‘I was just about to give up,’ said Raine, shaking out her umbrella. ‘I’ve been standing outside for ages.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t hear you.’ Carla walked back towards the kitchen, conscious, suddenly, of the groceries she had purchased yesterday and dumped on the floor, intending to unpack them later. The frozen food would have to be binned. The smell of last night’s cooking still lingered in the kitchen but she had no memory of the meal she had prepared. She lifted a bundle of laundry from a chair and gestured at Raine to sit down.

‘Coffee?’ she asked. ‘It’s just made.’ She lifted the cafetière, touched the cold glass and placed it back down on the table, switched on the kettle.

Usually at some stage during the day, Raine called to see how she was faring. The Anticipation collection was no longer being produced. Mothers-to-be refused to wear a label with such tragic connotations and Raine, who had invested all her finance in the promotional campaign, had been forced to place her small design company in receivership. Ripples upon ripples, thought Carla. Robert in a desk job and she, sitting here day after day, waiting for…what? Her heart to leap whenever the phone or the doorbell rang? To find a clue among the mail she had scattered across her table? To read the papers to see if her daughter had been mentioned? To wait for Robert to come home?

The editor of
Weekend Flair
had been apologetic but firm when she had phoned Carla to tell her that her contract would not be renewed. Readers of
Weekend Flair
wanted to be entertained on Sundays, not reminded of the frightening things
that could happen if they lowered their guard for an instant. Returning to the catwalk, even if she wanted to do so, was impossible. Her life, she knew, had changed irrevocably. She had no idea what shape her future would take. The future was the next hour. Thinking beyond that was impossible.

She made fresh coffee and carried the cafetière to the table.

‘What’s all this?’ Her sister-in-law pointed to the morning post.

‘They come all the time,’ said Carla. ‘The good, the mad and the ugly.’

Raine, reading one of the letters, shuddered and dropped it back on the table. ‘Sick bastard,’ she muttered. ‘He needs help, preferably from a straitjacket.’

‘Could be a woman.’ Carla shrugged. ‘As usual, it’s anonymous.’

‘Why don’t you destroy this obscene rubbish as soon as you read the opening line?’ Raine demanded.

‘Because…I don’t know…I keep hoping there’ll be a clue.’

‘A clue?’ Raine impatiently interrupted her. ‘We’re talking about the ravings of sick, crazy people. How could you possibly give credence to any of this crap?’

Carla hesitated, swallowed. ‘Maybe this is a punishment…’

‘For what?’ Raine demanded.

‘For the things I did in my past.’

‘Ah! The past.’ Raine tapped the sheaf of envelopes on the kitchen table until they were aligned together. The sound, growing more insistent, echoed her agitation. ‘We’ve all done things in our past that make us wince. Show me someone who hasn’t and I’ll stick pins in them to see if they bleed. No one has the right to sit in judgement—’

‘God has—’

‘God? When did you start believing in God?’

‘It’s easy to mock, Raine.’

‘I’m not mocking you,’ Raine replied. ‘But I want to hear about this God who freeze-framed your past and is now demanding retribution. Is he the same God who said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me”?’

‘It’s the emptiness,’ Carla said. ‘Nothing can fill it. There has to be a reason—’

‘Yes,’ said Raine. ‘A terrible crime was committed. What happened to you and Robert is a tragedy, not a punishment. Have you any more of those letters?’

Carla opened a drawer and emptied the contents over the table.

‘Jesus!’ Raine caught some of the mail in her hands as the letters began to slide over the edge of the table. She placed the letters out of Carla’s reach and pointed towards the kitchen door.

‘Go upstairs, Carla, and change out of that hideous dressing gown. You look like a grizzly bear. You need to get out of here and fast. I’ve some good news for a change. I’ve been offered a job. I’ll tell you about it over lunch.’

When Carla returned downstairs, Raine had sorted the mail into two piles.

‘This stuff has to go.’ She pointed towards the smaller bundle. A much smaller bundle, Carla realised, yet those were the letters that filled her mind. Raine opened the back door. The rain had stopped. A ray of sunshine flared through the clouds. She pulled a barbecue set into the centre of the terrace and flung the letters into the tray.

‘The people who wrote this filth have nothing to do with you…or your past.’ She handed a box of matches to Carla. ‘Torch them,’ she ordered.

The first match blew out but Carla managed to light
the second one. She flamed one page then another. They watched the letters curl and brown, the obscene words startlingly visible for an instant before they were consumed.

Over lunch in Sheens, Raine told her that Fuchsia, the British chain store group, had plans to open six fashion outlets in Ireland. They had commissioned Raine to design their rainwear collection.

‘Raine-Wear,’ she said and clinked Carla’s wine glass. ‘What else can it be called?’

‘Here’s to Raine-Wear.’ Carla glanced out the window to see that the rain had once again started falling. ‘Looks like you could be onto a winner with this one.’

‘It’s going to involve a lot of travel.’ Raine frowned, her earlier excitement replaced by anxiety. ‘Mum seems well at the moment, but I suspect she’s doing what she always does, keeping us in the dark about the real situation.’

‘I’ll take care of her.’ Carla reassured her. ‘I need to keep myself busy. This could shorten her life…’

‘That’s not true.’ Raine shook her head. ‘If anything it’s made her stronger. She has no intention of dying until Isobel is back with us again.’

Carla spun the stem of her glass until the wine slopped over the edge. ‘Four months,’ she said. ‘I never thought I’d survive three hours.’

‘You’re strong,’ said Raine. ‘Stronger, I suspect, than my brother.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Is it? Has he been drinking much?’

‘Not much.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘He hates working at a desk.’

‘Would he prefer a bullet in his head?’ Raine snapped.
‘He may look like Mr Average Nice Guy but his face is recognisable now.’

‘He’s well aware of the risk. Everything’s changed, Raine.
Everything.
I wake up in the morning and wonder if my legs will take me from the bed. Will they take me to the shower, to the kitchen? Will they take me from this restaurant? The phone rings and I think maybe this is it…maybe today…and it never is…
oh Jesus.
I’m going to cry and make a show of myself.’

‘No, you won’t.’ Raine grasped her hand and held it tight. ‘Small steps, Carla. That’s how you keep moving.’

That night, waiting for Robert to come home, she saw Edward Carter on
The Week on the Street.
Usually when she saw him on television or heard him on the radio, she immediately switched him off but she stayed sitting, the remote control untouched. He was being interviewed about a tribunal, something to do with a conflict of interest and corruption in high places. The weight he had gained since entering politics added to his authority, she thought, and his dark hair, now veined with silver, was long enough to suggest a streak of rebellion.

Carter & Kay Public Relations had become Kay Communications when he had ended the partnership and entered politics. What better occupation? He could juggle words like a set of clubs, knowing exactly where they would land after he had flung them into the air.

Josh Baker was the journalist who first referred to him as ‘The Spur’. The name stuck. Carla suspected he encouraged its use, enjoying the inference that he was a spur in the belly of the government, a needling, digging-in, jolting-them-into-action spur.

The following morning she rang his constituency office. His secretary was apologetic. He was in the Dáil and not
available to speak to her. If she wanted to leave her name,

the secretary could pass it on to him.

‘Tell him Carla Kelly would like to speak to him.’

The pause at the end of the line was laden with sympathy.

‘Of course I will, Ms Kelly.’

An hour later he rang her back. They arranged to meet

the following day.

The scent of tiger lilies filled the kitchen. Some of the blooms were open, the speckled petals curling away from the aggressive stamens. Carla had read somewhere – she could not remember where, and she must have been pregnant with Isobel at the time – that a tincture made from the tiger lily was good for nausea and vomiting in pregnancy. But she had not needed a tincture. Not once during those nine months did Isobel make any demands on her body, apart from pattering it with her hands and feet.

She accepted the flowers from Edward Carter and arranged them in a vase. He nodded when she offered him coffee.

‘The Garda have stopped searching for her,’ she said. ‘I need you to convince them it’s too soon to give up.’

‘What makes you think I’d have any success?’ Edward Carter stretched his legs under the table and drank his coffee.

It unnerved her to see how easy he was in her surroundings.

‘You’re a politician—’

‘On the Opposition benches,’ he reminded her.

‘If anyone can do it, you can.’ She sat opposite him, forced herself to stay still. ‘I have to find her,’ she said. ‘Otherwise I don’t know how I’m going to go on.’

‘I’ll do my utmost to help you, Carla.’ He spoke confidently, as suave and as persuasive as she remembered. ‘A baby simply cannot disappear without trace. There must be something
the guards have missed. No one could carry this off on their own. Someone must have information that can help. I’ll bring it up in Question Time in the Dáil. I’ll also check out my contacts in the media. Once the story dies away, you’re forgotten. If I’ve anything to do with it, you’ll share the future with your daughter.’

She wondered whose conscience he was trying to appease, hers or his own.

‘How do you spend your day?’ he asked.

‘Waiting for the phone to ring,’ she replied.

‘That will destroy you.’

‘What else can I do?’

He shook his head and stood up. For an instant she thought he was going to touch her. She drew back, an involuntary gesture that he immediately noticed.

‘I treated you badly…’ He fell silent when she raised her hand, holding it like a barrier across her face.

‘I need to concentrate on the future, Edward. Not the past. Can you help us?’

He nodded, acknowledging the futility of his apology.

‘How are your family?’ Carla asked before he left.

‘All grown now,’ he replied. ‘Gone their own way. I’ll soon be a grandfather.’

‘And your wife?’

He held her gaze for an instant then looked away. ‘Wren is as busy as ever with her charity work.’

After he left, Carla opened the back door and flung the lilies into the bin. Their odour was too strong to endure in the small space she now occupied.