Stolen Child (33 page)

The cars arrive just before Joy leaves for school. A white police car with yellow markings, followed by a grey Toyota Auris. At first, glancing out her bedroom window and noticing them, Joy assumes the policeman who emerges, Eoin Morris, her father’s friend, is calling about the Ramblers. He’s the secretary of the club and often drops in on his way home from work. But that’s usually in the evening. Joy can’t remember the name of the second guard who joins him…it’s something Irish…Sinéad or Sorcha or Siobhan – yes, Siobhan
Comerford,
whose sister is in the same school year as Joy.

The doors of the grey car also open. A woman steps out from the driver’s side. She’s dressed in a navy suit and carries a briefcase, which she rests on the bonnet of her car. A man emerges from the passenger side and hurriedly buttons his jacket when the wind flaps it open. The woman removes documents from the briefcase while she talks to Eoin.

Joy’s father comes into view from the side of the house and hurries across the grass towards them. His mood since they came home from the exhibition yesterday has been dire. Today he intends working on the cottages. His jeans are
tucked into his wellingtons and he’s wearing the chunky fleece jacket Joy bought him for Christmas. His head jerks back when Eoin holds up his hand like he’s stopping traffic and says something to him. The woman glances up and notices Joy at the window. The winter sun shines with a harsh, metallic glare. Her tinted glasses flash across the space separating them. Together with the man, she moves past the guards and heads towards the doorway.

Joy hears voices downstairs, Miriam’s raised in protest. She opens her bedroom door as Miriam reaches the landing. Her grandmother’s face is waxy, her hands trembling. Beyond her shoulder, Joy can see the man and woman standing in the hall.

‘Joy, they want to talk to you.’ Miriam sounds hoarse, her breath shallow.

‘What do they want?’

‘I don’t know, darling. It’s some dreadful misunderstanding but you’d better do as they say.’ She takes Joy’s hand and leads her to the top of the stairs.

‘Are you Joy Dowling?’ the woman asks when Joy reaches the hall.

‘What’s going on?’ she asks. ‘What’s happening to my father?’

‘Are you Joy Dowling?’ The woman repeats the question in the same polite tone.

‘Yes. Of course I am. What’s wrong?’

‘My name is Althea Egan,’ the woman replies. ‘I’m a social worker and this is my colleague, Hugh Colley. Please come with us, Joy. Everything will be explained to you shortly.’

‘Explained? What will be explained? I’ve done nothing wrong…Gran, tell them to get out of our house.’

The woman keeps talking about Joy’s welfare and how her safety is the most important thing to be considered.
Joy runs past her and out the front door towards her father. He’s handcuffed to Eoin who, stiff and red-faced with embarrassment, is also talking about her welfare. He keeps going on about some Child Care Act and how Joy must be placed under the protection of the state.

‘What are you talking about?
What
Child Care Act—’ her father demands.

‘The 1991 Child Care Act.’ Eoin sounds as if he’s reciting by rote but when her father tries to embrace her with his free arm, the policewoman barks an order that freezes him to the spot.

‘Tell me what’s wrong…what have you done?’ she cries. ‘I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s happening. Please tell me.’

When her father reaches out to answer, his voice cracks. He hasn’t shaved since yesterday and the rasping noise he makes when he rubs his hand against his chin reminds her of the night her mother died. That same nervous gesture, repeated again and again, as if he must touch something rough in order to focus. Nothing can be as awful as that time, she thinks. Miriam, reaching her, holds her hand so tightly that the ring she wears, the one with her birthstone – which she has promised to leave to Joy when she ‘pops her clogs’ – cuts into Joy’s fingers.

Joy turns to Eoin. He used to crawl like a bear along the floor and let her ride on his back when she was small; now he stands still as a statue, no expression on his face, apart from his cheeks flaming, when he says, ‘Joy, this is for your own good. Please go with the social workers. They’ll take good care of you until all this is sorted out.’

‘Fuck
off
!’ Joy jerks away when the woman attempts to hold her arm. ‘Don’t you
dare
touch me.’

Her father speaks directly to Miriam. ‘Contact my solicitor,
Maurice Doyle, immediately,’ he says. ‘There’s been an appalling mistake and I want him to come to the Garda station immediately.’

‘We have to go, David.’ Eoin still sounds like a friend but Joy knows that their friendship is dead forever. ‘Like you say, it’s a cock-up but I’m just following orders.’

Joy moves back towards the house. ‘But I don’t have to go—’

‘Go with them, please,’ says her father. ‘Miriam will stay with you.’

‘No,’ says the social worker. ‘I’m sorry, sir. That’s not allowed.’

Her father stumbles when Eoin moves forward, then falls into step beside him. The Garda car moves off. He is visible in the back seat, his face straining towards her until the car disappears between the hedgerows.

‘We must leave now, Joy.’ The man speaks for the first time. ‘I’m sorry we’ve had to move so fast but your welfare is our responsibility now.’

If she hears one more word about her welfare she’ll scream.

‘I demand to know where you are taking my granddaughter.’ Miriam sounds like herself again, calm and even more authoritative than the social worker. ‘I’m warning you now. Heads will roll for this.’

‘Visiting hours will be arranged as soon as possible,’ says the woman. ‘But, as of now, you are obstructing us in the discharge of our duty.’

It’s too ludicrous for words but it is those commanding words that direct Joy into the car and away from Rockrose. The road stretches through Maoltrán and weaves through the Burren, past the broad Atlantic rollers and the kittiwakes swirling against the tide, onwards towards the signposts pointing to Dublin.

Joey is in Dublin. He stayed on after the exhibition to buy materials and do some more interviews. When her mobile rings she knows, without looking at the screen, that it’s him.

‘I’ve just been talking to Gran,’ he says. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘I don’t know,’ she sobs, and she arches her shoulder away from the woman. ‘They just burst into my house and took me away…and Dad’s been arrested.’

‘I know. Can I speak to someone?’

‘Yes.’

She holds her phone towards the woman. ‘My brother wants to talk to you.’

Joy can hear the sound of Joey’s voice but not what he’s saying to the woman.

The social worker listens impassively and says, ‘I’m not free to disclose that information.’

Joy can tell that Joey is becoming increasingly upset but the woman’s expression doesn’t change.

‘Joy is under our care and will receive a full explanation as soon as we reach Dublin.’ She nods at something Joey shouts then says, ‘I’m sorry you think I sound arrogant but I’m not prepared to have this discussion with you over the phone. Of course Joy is free to ring you at any time. I’ll pass you back to her now.’ She smiles at Joy and hands over the phone.

How
dare
she smile? Joy wants to hit her, kick the seats, headbutt the man, leap from the speeding car. Her eyes are swimming in red.

‘Ring me when you reach Dublin,’ says Joey. ‘It’ll be sorted by then. I’ll come straight away and take you home.’

The house, three storeys high, reminds her of Leamanagh Castle, except that it’s not a ruin and, instead of fields, the
smooth lawn is bordered by a high privet hedge. Joy enters a hallway with parquet flooring and steps leading upwards to a reception desk. The woman walks in front of her, the man takes up the rear. The handcuffs are imaginary, yet as tight as the ones that held her father captive.

‘Try to understand, Joy,’ the woman says when Joy is washing her hands after using the bathroom. ‘Your safety is our only concern—’

‘
Don’t.
’ She covers her ears. ‘You take me from my home without any explanation and you want me to understand?’ She has never known the strength of hatred until now. ‘Where am I?’

‘Everything will soon be explained to you.’

The woman
click click clicks
in her brisk high heels down a corridor and holds a door open. The room they enter is brightly lit with long oblong windows. An older woman rises from behind her desk and comes forward to greet Joy.

‘These situations are very difficult,’ she says and gestures Joy towards a chair beside the window. She must have nodded to the others because they melt from the room without a sound.

‘My name is Patricia.’ She draws another chair forward and sits opposite Joy. Her pink scalp shows through fine silver hair. She has old hands, wrinkled as dead leaves, and her eyes, staring at Joy from beneath her fringe, are compassionate, kindly, motherly. It is this concern that fills Joy with an unbelievable dread and the realisation that her world is about to be rent asunder.

In the arrivals hall at Dublin airport, Carla positioned herself beside a tall, young man with jutting cheekbones and dramatic curls. He carried a rose and a violin case, and leaned forward expectantly each time the sliding doors parted. A musician in love. She imaged a chaotic flat, the pizza wrappings binned, the clean sheets a sensible afterthought.

Robert’s plane had landed twenty minutes earlier but there was still no sign of him. The sense of being under a microscope was sickeningly familiar. She peered through the cheap pair of glasses she had bought in Penneys – brown frames, nothing flash or glamorous to attract attention – and surveyed the latest surge of passengers. Her black jeans and tan jacket were unremarkable. At the last moment she had changed the woolly multi-coloured scarf that she usually wound around her neck for a plain, neutral one that blended into her jacket. No hat. Her black hair had grown slightly and the effect, although less severe, was also less dramatic. Apart from her height, nothing remained of the Carla Kelly who had once chased publicity with the same vigour as she now avoided it.

It was so simple in the end. Blood tests and a doctor with an enquiring mind had pre-empted Carla taking any action. Robert had rung her from Australia with the news, which Detective Superintendent Murphy had already broken to him. It was night time in Melbourne and he was weeping. She had imagined this moment so often and, now that it had arrived, they were separated by continents. Nothing to do but weep with him, her heart breaking all over again as she imagined their daughter’s terror and distress.

The file on Isobel had been re-examined and the DNA tests – carried out on Carla and Robert when the tiny bones were discovered in the industrial estate – proved conclusive when they were matched to Joy Dowling. As the news spread among her family, they had arrived at her apartment and gathered around her. Carla was glad they did not bring champagne. To have popped corks and toasted the future would have been unendurable. No one seemed to know how to handle this revelation. A stranger would soon become part of their lives, carrying with her an entire childhood based on a falsehood.

‘If only Gillian had lived to see this day,’ whispered Raine when she embraced Carla.

‘She always believed Joy…
Isobel
would be found,’ Carla replied. ‘You’ve no idea of the strength that faith gave me.’

David Dowling had been the target of their anger. Carla, listening, understood the instincts of a lynch mob. She wanted to be part of it and then, just as insanely, her rage gave way to such overwhelming confusion that she fled the crowded room.

Since then Robert had been in touch with her constantly. Orla Kennedy, who now carried the title Family Liaison Officer and was nearing retirement, was on hand to guide her through the following days. Fifteen years since she had
held Carla’s hands and batted off the media in the distraught atmosphere following Isobel’s disappearance.

‘This is the best retirement gift I could ever receive,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been able to forget you. You struggled so hard and for so long.’

‘And then I disappeared.’

‘I don’t blame you.’ Orla tut-tutted and shook her head. ‘The media…a school of sharks. I was furious with some of the coverage.’

‘They had so little to go on. No clues. Susanne Dowling was clever.’

‘As well as devious,’ replied Orla. ‘And she’ll never have to answer for her actions. Unlike her husband.’

‘Unlike her husband,’ Carla repeated.

David had been taken into custody, his initial period of detention extended by a further six hours. He had maintained his innocence throughout his questioning. On television she had watched him, shielded by friends, returning to his home.

‘David Dowling will stand trial for abduction,’ said Orla. ‘He’s been released on bail on condition that he presents himself at Maoltrán Garda Station every day.’

Joy was in the care of foster parents until she expressed a wish to meet her parents. So far, she was refusing point blank to consider communicating with them in any way.

‘Give it time,’ advised Orla. ‘She’s absolutely traumatised. With patience and good will, you’ll meet your daughter soon.’

Carla, remembering Joy Dowling’s impetuous personality, the adoration she had so openly displayed for the man she believed to be her father, wished she could feel so certain. Had Susanne Dowling, oblivious in her grave, created a gulf too wide for them to cross? Somehow, they had to build a different bridge. One that would bring them together, and
that first step had to be taken by Carla. She would reveal her identity to her daughter before their first meeting. Give Joy time to adjust. A phone call was impossible. After numerous attempts to write a letter she gave up. Her excuses made her cringe. If only she had not gone to Maoltrán. If only she had walked away when she saw her daughter in the cemetery. If only she had ignored David Dowling who had filled her with such fury and, later, with a longing she had refused to name. It seemed inconceivable, those feelings that she believed had died within her, the jabbing excitement, the dizzying flights of fancy…and all the time he was a thief…
thief…
who had stolen her child…destroyed her future. She had gone to Maoltrán to break up the Dowling family. Now that the dream had become a reality, she was terrified by the consequences that would soon be unleashed.

Her mobile phone bleeped.
Luggage delayed. Will be with you asap.

She grimaced wryly. They had planned for every eventuality except delayed luggage. Her nervousness grew as the delay stretched. The waiting crowd looked normal enough but she knew better than to trust appearances. Any self-respecting journalist would give his or her eye teeth to film the Anticipation parents reuniting.

On her other side, a stout businesswoman with a brisk jaw dangled a sign from one hand. Something about a language school. Carla’s mind darted like a mayfly from one ripple to the next but she was incapable of absorbing more than fleeting impressions. The businesswoman wore silver high heels, confident stilettos to go with her ruthless chin. The musician had delicate fingers. How could it be otherwise? The young woman who rushed towards him was equally perfect: willowy limbs and dark, tempestuous eyes.
She too carried a violin case. Carla watched them lower their cases and collide, heard their joy as he lifted her high then folded her in his arms. It was too beautiful to last. This would be their golden season. Carla wished them luck then turned her attention back to the sliding doors.

The woman with the silver stilettos held her sign aloft and a group of Spanish students veered towards her. They spoke rapidly as they flowed past Carla, knowing their shrill conversation would soon be replaced by the stumbling blocks of the new language they had come to acquire. Josh Baker, still as eager as ever for the angle, the soundbite, the scent of suffering, moved from his vantage point behind one of the pillars. Carla, spotting him instantly, was not surprised. Of course he would have been tipped off, and now he was preparing to attach himself like a burr to her life once again. As he sank out of sight, she sauntered away from the waiting crowd and walked alongside the olive-skinned students. Josh never glanced in her direction. Nor did the camerawoman lounging beside him. Their indifference exhilarated her. Triumph when it came in quiet ways was all the sweeter for its containment.

Outside the arrivals hall she texted Robert.
Josh Baker waiting for you. Orla Kennedy will organise another exit. I’ll meet you in my apartment.

No candles on the kitchen table. No music playing softly on the stereo. Nothing to suggest intimacy as they sat opposite each other, just a dish of goulash and a shared bottle of wine. Occasionally, unable to control their emotions, they fell silent, then one or the other would pick up the story, go back over the details, as if repetition would make it easier to understand.

‘How does Sharon feel about all this?’ Carla asked.

‘Threatened, jealous, angry – although she’s tried not to
show it,’ he replied. ‘She’s always believed I settled for second best…and I did, at the time.’

‘And now?’

‘I need her support, not her insecurities. She’s my wife and nothing that’s happened will change that. I think Isobel—’

‘Joy. We must call her Joy.’

‘Her name is
Isobel.
We’ve waited long enough to use her name.’

‘She’s lost so much, Robert. We can at least let her keep her name.’

‘She lost what was never hers to lose.’

‘But she doesn’t believe that. She adores her father—’

‘
I’m
her father.’

‘Of course you are. But she needs to adjust to the shock of discovering who she is. We have to allow her that time.’

‘What’s the media situation?’ he asked.

‘It’s been contained until now. But Maoltrán is a small community. They’re now swarming over Rockrose.’

‘Rockrose?’

‘It’s where she lives…lived.’ She took a deep breath and blurted out the truth. ‘I’ve been there.’

Robert grew increasingly agitated as she tried to explain, apologise, stumble past his constant interruptions.

‘How could you go there without first consulting me?’ he demanded when she finished speaking.

‘What would you have told me to do?’ she asked.

‘Obviously, I would have told you to go straight to the police with your information.’

‘And then what?’

‘They would have followed proper procedure.’

‘As they did when Dr Williamson gave her statement. And look what happened. Our daughter’s in care now and refusing to meet either of us.’

‘But what did you hope to achieve by going there?’ ‘I wanted to see that woman’s grave…oh, I don’t know…perhaps I wanted to dig her up, expose her for the liar and thief she was…I hadn’t intended meeting Joy, not then, but she suddenly appeared and I was swept along—’

‘Exactly. You were swept along, determined, as you always are, to do things your own way.’

‘No—’

‘Yes.’ He banged his fist on the table. ‘And now you’ve compromised your relationship with her. She thinks you’re Clare Frazier.’

‘I know…I know all that. But she will understand…’

‘Understand
what
? I’m her father but you never thought about me when you decided to go off on this hare-brained mission.’

‘You
buried
her, Robert. Remember?’ ‘Don’t throw that at me. All the evidence—’ ‘All the evidence was circumstantial,’ she replied. ‘Just as circumstantial as the evidence Dylan Rae presented to me. I didn’t want to get your hopes up and have them dashed again, especially when you were so far away.’

‘I was
never
far away from you…or her. Every day…you’ve no idea…’ His voice broke.

‘But you
were
far away, Robert, in every sense of the word.’

An hour in each other’s company and they were fighting. The urge to cry quivered effortlessly through her and was resisted. He too struggled to compose himself. As he drew her into his arms, his face, deeply lined with tiredness, was achingly familiar. They held each other without desire, friends now, unable to escape into the passion that had once bound them together. Like a flame that had raged too strongly, the love they had known was quenched that evening with a gentle puff.