Stolen Child (31 page)

It’s been two weeks since Clare Frazier came to Maoltrán and her father seems unable to finish a sentence without including her name. Joy knows why he does it. She does the same with Joey’s name. She never intends mentioning him but, somehow, his name slides out and her heart gives a little ping from excitement.

Clare has been twice to Rockrose to dinner. She went with them on a picnic to Inchiquin Lake and they surfed last Sunday in Lahinch for the entire afternoon. No sign of Dylan or Nikki, even though her father rang Dylan and told him they’d be there.

Joy sees her through the window of the Stork Club talking to Dee Ambrose. She must be pregnant. Why else would she be in Dee’s shop? She’s still slim so she must be in the early stages. Her father will be disappointed when she tells him.

Danny’s car is parked on the other side of the road. She crosses over and meets him as he saunters from Daly’s newsagents.

‘Hi, Danny,’ she says. ‘How’re things?’

‘Same old…same old.’ He tears the plastic off a pack of cigarettes and poses against the side of his car. ‘I’m heading back to the pad. Want to come?’

Clare emerges from the Stork Club and glances over towards them.

‘Who else is coming?’ Joy asks.

‘Lucinda and the usual outlaws. We can have a barbecue.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Then hop in, babe,’ he says in his fake American accent and opens the passenger door for her.

Clare stands on the edge of the opposite pavement, unsmiling, watching.

The inside of Danny’s house is so different from Rockrose, Joy can’t even make a comparison. It has lots of glass and skylights, and a lounge as big as a football pitch, or so it seems from where she’s sitting. In the basement there’s a home cinema with strobe lighting. No wonder it’s where the gang like to hang out. Usually they hang out in Danny’s den. She’s never been in the lounge before. Glass sliding doors lead to the balcony. She steps outside and peers through a telescope. She can see the ocean, the sails of yachts fluttering like seabirds.

Danny hands her a cocktail. He calls it a Kamakazi Shooter, which makes it sound dangerous and exciting and like something her father would absolutely forbid her to drink.

‘Where are the others?’ She leans over the balcony but the driveway is empty. ‘You said they were coming.’

‘Relax,’ he says and puts his arm around her. ‘They’ll be here soon.’

‘Your parents will go mad if they see us drinking,’ she says.

‘They’d want a fucking strong telescope to do so.’ Danny grins and tightens his grip. ‘There’re on an overnighter in Dublin. Come on inside.’

He puts on Snow Patrol, which is cool because he usually
prefers heavy metal bands like Wolfmother and Children of Bodom.

‘A mojito,’ he says and mixes a second cocktail. This one tastes even better. Still no sign of Lucinda and the gang. She knows, without looking at Danny’s face, that they were never invited. He collapses onto the wide leather sofa and pulls her down beside him. Their isolation makes her nervous, especially when he tells her there are six bedrooms in this house, and he wants to do
it
to her in each one. After she finishes the mojito, he mixes two A-Bombs. They close their eyes and knock them back even faster.

‘C’m’ere, babe, let’s dance.’ Danny slows the music until it seems as if she’s floating in his arms. It’s so bright outside, crazy to be drinking shots and dancing up close in the middle of the day. When he pulls down the blinds, the room is filled with a hazy, beige light. He presses his hands against the small of her back and moves them lower, caressing her and holding her so close it hurts. The thought of all those bedrooms would not be so frightening if only her head would stop spinning.

The first bedroom, he says, belongs to his parents and has a king-sized waterbed. She wonders what would happen if it burst. Would they drown or swim to safety? Weak with laughter, she trips and collapses to her knees. Danny demands to know what’s so hilarious. She crawls towards her handbag when she hears her mobile ringing.

‘Turn the fucking thing off,’ Danny moans, and he tries to grab it from her hand. She holds it out of his reach and answers.

‘Where are you?’ demands her father.

‘With Lucinda.’

‘Don’t lie to me. I’ve spoken to her. Are you with Danny Breen?’

‘Yes. But there’s a gang of us here. I thought Lucinda was here too—’

‘I’m outside his house and I’m staring at a window with the blinds drawn. If you’re not out of there by the time I count to ten, I’m kicking the door in.’

‘
Dad—
’

‘I’ve started counting. One…two…’

She clicks off the phone and flings it back into her handbag.

‘Ah fuck, what now?’ Danny moans when she staggers to her feet.

‘My dad’s outside,’ she says. ‘He’s going to drive his jeep through the front door. See you ‘round, Danny.’

‘You’re an effing minger,’ he yells as she runs down the hall.

She hates her father and loves him in the same breath. He grabs her arm and pulls her outside the door, then marches down the hall to confront Danny. She hears their voices, her father shouting, and she cringes, her head spinning from the shots and the fresh air.

‘Why don’t you lock me in a tower?’ she shrills when he storms back out and slams the front door behind him.

‘I wish I could,’ he yells just as loudly. ‘I’d throw away the key until you’re old enough to behave sensibly.’

‘The way you behaved with Corrine O’Sullivan?’ Her voice is so high it could split iron. ‘Pity Gran didn’t lock
you
in a tower.’

‘That was different.’ He’s not yelling so loudly now. ‘Corrine was older—’

‘Only by
three
years. You’re such a hypocrite.’

‘Just because I messed up doesn’t mean I’m prepared to stand by and let you do the same.’

‘Let me have fun, you mean.’

‘Fun? That creepy bastard has only one idea of fun. And don’t think for one minute that he’d hang around to deal with the consequences.’

‘Did you?’

‘Too right I did. But Corrine had other ideas, which is why my son has been separated from me for most of our lives.’

‘But if you’d married Corrine, you wouldn’t have had me.’

‘And think how much easier my life would have been,’ he roars. ‘You’re going straight to your room. I’m grounding you until further notice.’

‘Don’t bother,’ she yells back. ‘I’m going to my room so that I never have to speak to you again for the rest of my life.’

Self-imposed isolation can only last so long and by the third evening Joy is ready to forgive her father.

When her grandmother opens the bedroom door and carries in her dinner on a tray, Joy tells her she will eat it in the kitchen.

‘Don’t think that’s going to lift your grounding,’ warns Miriam. ‘You really pushed your father over the edge this time.’

‘I know.’ Joy’s hangover was a hideous punishment for her stupidity. ‘I’m reformed, utterly and forever.’

‘I sincerely hope that includes ending your friendship with Danny Breen. Honestly, what were you thinking? If it hadn’t been for Clare—’

Miriam stops and bites her lip, a dead giveaway.

‘She
snitched
!’ Joy is outraged. ‘I wondered how Dad knew. She has a nerve
spying
on me. Who does she think she is with her—’

‘Calm down, will you?’ Miriam turns, still carrying the tray, and heads towards the door. ‘You should be glad she was worried enough to ring your father.’

‘Why should I be glad? It’s none of her business what I do.’

‘Maybe not. But she took Danny Breen’s measure quickly enough, the little twerp. Can you imagine what your mother would say if she knew about your carry-on?’

‘Gran.’ Joy sits on the edge of the bed and stares at her feet. ‘Why didn’t you like Mum?’

‘What makes you think I didn’t like her?’ Miriam places the tray on the dressing table and comes back to her.

‘You can’t hide your feelings.’

‘I didn’t dislike her, Joy. But Susanne was a very private person. It was difficult to get close to her.’

‘Was it because she made Dad unhappy?’

‘Two people make a marriage, Joy. And they were probably happy in their own way.’

The sound of a woman’s voice drifts up the stairs from the kitchen.

‘Is
she
here again?’ Joy asks.

‘She’s having dinner with us tonight. Be nice to her, Joy. She’s a sweet woman and she’s no intention of stealing your father. She has someone special in her own life—’

‘I know. Dad told me. I think she’s pregnant. She was buying stuff in the Stork Club.’

‘That would be wonderful for her.’ Miriam smiles and gives Joy a hug. ‘Come on, you. It’s time to rejoin the human race.’

Clare smiles and rises when Joy enters the kitchen. She looks relaxed, as if she belongs in the house. Her skinny jeans emphasise her long legs. She certainly didn’t buy
them
in the
Stork Club. Joy casts a sideways glance at her father, who knits his eyebrows in a ‘behave yourself’ warning.

The conversation around the table floats above her. Miriam is talking about
Annie
and how Joy played the starring role in the school musical.

‘How wonderful.’ Clare claps her hands and beams. ‘You’re a singer. I’d no idea. Personally, I can’t hold a note in my head but my brother is a fabulous singer.’

She’s always doing that, slipping in bits of information about her family. At the picnic by the lake she told Joy about her niece, who used to have an imaginary friend. Joy had told her about Polar and all the cursing he used to do. Clare had flung back her head and laughed so heartily that Joy had joined in. But when Joy told her about the Judgement Book, she had stood up abruptly and walked to the edge of the lake. She stood there for ages, staring across at the castle beyond the reeds.

Miriam rummages in the bottom of the dresser and draws out the album. ‘I’ll show you some shots of her in action.’ She opens the album towards the end and shows the photographs of Joy singing ‘Maybe’.

Joy’s eyes sting when she notices the
Annie
write-ups and photographs from the
Clare Champion
and the
Maoltrán Mail.
Her mother had placed them in a plastic envelope and stuck it in the back of the album. She started the album when Joy was a baby and recorded every year of her life. It’s enormous and Joy has not looked at it for ages.

Clare pushes her plate aside and places the album on the table, opens it on the first page. Joy wants to scream. All those dribbling baby photographs exposed. Oh Christ! She’d forgotten about the scans. The outline of her emerging self looks like the scribbles a small child would make.

The second scan doesn’t look any clearer until her father says, ‘I couldn’t see anything either until the sonographer
showed me.’ He traces his finger over the scribbles and suddenly Joy can see her alien head and grub-like body, her skinny frog arms and legs. Despite her embarrassment, it’s kind of cute. By the last scan, she’s practically waving and saying ‘Cheese!’ to the camera.

Clare sucks a sound deep into her throat. ‘Were you with Susanne when those scans were taken?’ she asks.

‘Just the second one,’ he says. ‘I was abroad for the other two.’

‘I was with her when she had the first one taken,’ says Miriam. ‘It was a real walloper of an emotional moment when we saw it. The last one was a relief. She’d been worried because the placenta was low-lying but the scan reassured her everything was okay.’ Miriam smiles across at Joy. ‘All Susanne was short of doing was framing it and putting it on top of the television.’

‘Pass the sickbag,’ moans Joy. ‘Fast.’

Clare looks equally squeamish. She presses her hand to her mouth and chews the side of her finger. Then she turns to the next page and looks at the photograph Phyllis took after Joy was born.

She’s wrapped in a towel, lying against her mother’s breast. Her mother’s hair is plastered to her scalp and she looks exhausted. But it’s her expression that brings a lump to Joy’s throat; her shining smile of happiness and relief.

Clare wheezes, like she can’t get enough air into her lungs. When Joy looks at her, afraid she will collapse again like she did in the cemetery, her lips are pressed so tightly together, they’re almost invisible. She pushes the album away from her and leans against the table as she stands.

‘I have to go now.’ Her voice is shaking so much she has to wheeze again. ‘Please don’t see me out…Thanks again for the meal, Miriam…it was lovely…goodbye…goodbye.’

‘What was all that about?’ asks Miriam when the front door slams. It’s like a draught ran through the kitchen and set the pots rattling but that’s only the sound of Splotch whining. Her father sits staring at the door, as if he expects Clare to materialise through the wood at any moment.

A phone rings. Everyone looks at their own mobiles but the ringing comes from under the album. Her father picks up the mobile phone and runs to the front door but the car taillights are disappearing beyond the bend in the lane. The phone stops in the same instant.

‘Frank.’ He reads the name on the screen. Almost immediately it begins to ring again. ‘No, she’s not here,’ he says when he answers it. ‘She left it behind her.’ He pauses then snaps, ‘In a friend’s house.’ He listens again, his expression cross and impatient. ‘Yes, I’ll see her tomorrow. Yes, I’ll tell her you phoned. Goodnight.’

She arose early and tossed her clothes into her suitcase. In a few hours’ time she would be back in Dublin. Obsession was a dangerous madness and it had claimed her once again. To think she had considered contacting the police, had almost rung Robert and blurted out her farcical story. The photograph she had kissed so often it was smudged from her lips had told a lie. There was no resemblance between the girl and Robert. No bloodline flowing, no genes replicated. Carla had seen the evidence, three precious scans charting Joy Dowling’s journey through the womb.

She would call in to Rockrose, pick up her phone and be on her way. A flying visit. With any luck Joy would not be there. Carla carried her suitcase to the car and locked the cottage, slipped the key under the nearest gnome. She reversed down the garden path, almost knocking over the gnomes nearest the edge. Outside the gate she indicated left and was drawing away from the pavement when she noticed the jeep approaching from behind. She switched off the ignition and lowered the window.

‘Are you leaving us already?’ David lifted his eyebrows quizzically when he saw her case in the back seat.

‘Yes. I’ve enough research done to complete my book.’

‘You left us so suddenly last night. Did something we do upset you?’

‘You were very hospitable. I’m sorry if I appeared rude.’ She fell silent, unable to think of a rational explanation for her sudden departure. She no longer needed to hate him but it was impossible to shake off the reason she had come to Maoltrán. ‘I found it difficult looking at the album. Those scans…they reminded me of another time.’

‘I understand.’ His expression was sombre as he leaned in the window and handed her the mobile. ‘Your fiancé was looking for you. He rang twice last night. He sounded suspicious when he heard my voice. I hope I reassured him.’

‘Thank you. He’s not my fiancé…not yet. I hope the hostel works out for you, David.’

He had done nothing to harm her. Nor had his wife or their daughter. They were innocent projections of her own obsession.

‘Hopefully, it will.’ He shook her hand. ‘You’ll have to come and see it when it’s finished.’

‘I’ll certainly call in if I’m passing this way but—’ She was still holding his hand.

‘I’m not being polite, Clare,’ he interrupted her quietly. ‘I’d like you to pass this way again…and soon.’ He too seemed equally incapable of releasing his grip.

‘I’m sorry, David. I don’t think that’s a sensible idea,’ she said.

‘No, it probably isn’t.’ He was the first to draw away. ‘Good luck with your life, Clare.’

‘And you with yours, David.’

He gave her a half-salute and walked towards his jeep.

The shock of her discovery still trembled through her but with it had come another emotion, one she had not allowed
herself to appreciate until this instant. Relief. A tiny sprig that freed her from the responsibility of breaking up his family. It had the power to release her from an endless expectation, to allow her hopes to fade. Finally, she could be at peace with those tiny bones resting in the Angels’ plot.

David Dowling stopped and came back to her car. He leaned in the open window. Before she could move, he clasped her face between his hands and kissed her.

‘You’ve wrenched my heart, Clare,’ he said. ‘I wish I could tell you how I feel…this man who rang…you said he’s not
yet
your fiancé. Am I to assume he soon will be?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, David. I’m sorry.’

Her antennae would have been alert on any other occasion. She would have sensed his desire, been aware that there were undercurrents playing between them. But those undercurrents had been flowing in different directions. Now, freed from the fury and the longing that had driven her to Maoltrán, she could allow herself to see what had been obvious all along.

This time, when he walked away, he did not turn around.

She sat in her car until the sound of his jeep faded. No other sound distracted her except the thud of her heart. She drove without stopping until she reached the coast. The sand dragged against her footsteps. The waves cast spume in the air, sprayed her cheeks with salt. She cried then, hunched into a sand dune, until she no longer believed it was possible to shed another tear. But, somehow the tears kept flowing. She drove away, leaving nothing behind but the husk of longing.

On her return to Dublin she rang Frank and told him she had cut short her stay. He arrived shortly afterwards with wine and a takeaway. After they had eaten, she lay against
him, wanting him with an urgency she had never before experienced in his arms. He, responding, slid hard and smoothly into her. Her body pulsed with a needling ache that sweetly turned to pleasure as her mind reached out and reclaimed that moment in the car. The touch of lips so fleeting, so electrifying. Madness.

When Frank was sleeping, she pressed her head deep into the pillow and forced herself to count sheep. But there was no momentum to their jumping. They crashed and scrambled and flipped into impossible huddles. Suddenly, she recalled a letter from the past. Frank flung his arm, heavy with sleep, around her. She slipped out from under its weight and made her way to her office. In Maoltrán, she had been so obsessed with Joy that she had not allowed a flickering memory to surface. Too much effort needed to concentrate. But now it flickered again. She remembered the address. Surely it would be too much of a coincidence. In her filing cabinet she took out the mail she had received after Isobel’s disappearance. Yellowed with age and ridden with unrealised hopes, she had not looked at these letters since the ending of the campaign. She separated those with a Clare postmark and, after a short search, found the one with his signature. She sat with it in her hands until she grew cold and shivery. She must have responded to him. What had she written? Did he still have it? Why should he? She had to let go. She searched for another letter. A place of stone…Miranda May. A fake name, as fake as the information she supplied. Carla placed his letters, along with Miranda’s crazy ramblings, into the shredder. Before switching it on, she added the photograph of Joy Dowling, and watched them flitter into the past.