Authors: Claire Mcgowan
She remembered the askew look in Bernice’s eyes, and it pushed her to her feet, the room swaying. Nothing in the room but the table and chair, the laptop, a plastic jug of water and a cup, a bare light bulb, the metal camp bed. There were alarming marks on the wall, like splashes of some dark liquid. Paula pushed the thought away. She dropped to her knees, panting with the effort, head swimming. She could turn the table onto its side, maybe, climb up to the small windows. They looked thick. Could she punch one out, detach one of the table legs maybe?
Paula looked under the bed and felt around in the dust for anything worth having. Her fingers brushed a small object and she pulled it out. Cold metal, a clip in the shape of a butterfly, like you’d use to put up long hair. She couldn’t place it for a moment, then she did. This clip had been in Heather Campbell’s dark hair – she’d taken it out when complaining of a headache that day in the station. Before she’d been butchered, her child cut out and her body tossed away.
Paula sat on the floor, winded by the realisation. They didn’t feel anything for her, these two sisters. She was nothing but a husk. All she had was time.
Chapter Forty
Light. Silence.
When Paula woke again, the handcuff was back on, her arm twisted painfully over her head. Magdalena stood over her. In her hands was the soft red scarf Paula had snatched from the wardrobe the day before – was it the day before? She didn’t know – thinking only to keep warm in the cold. Magdalena’s eyes were closed as she muttered softly to herself. Without opening them she said, ‘So you did bring me something of hers after all.’
‘What?’ Paula was barely awake and didn’t understand. Then she remembered. That red scarf, just lying around the house for years, that had been her mother’s.
‘I can see her.’ The woman’s fingers gripped the wool and she opened her cold eyes. ‘Paula. You know why you’re here. You won’t come through this. Your father – he deserves to lose all he has. Bridget did, so he has to as well. That’s how it works.’
‘He tried to help her.’ She couldn’t form the words and anyway she knew it was useless to plead.
Paula closed her eyes. She heard Magdalena lean down to her and whisper. ‘Be at peace, now. There’s nothing you can do. But I’ll tell you this one thing I’ve seen from the scarf, if it helps you be easy.’
Her eyes flew open. Magdalena Croft was bending over her, the scarf held tight in both hands. When she looked at Paula, her eyes were kind. How terrible, in the midst of all this, to find kindness. She said, ‘She’s alive, Paula. Your mother. I’ve seen her alive.’
Paula opened her dry mouth. ‘No.
No
.’
‘Yes. I see her over water, getting on with her life. She’s not alone. I can’t see who – but there’s people. A family. She’s happy. She’s let you go, Paula, so you should do the same.’
Something in Paula was convulsing as she lay immobilised.
It’s lies, lies, all she does is lie.
But her heart was a city going up in flames, a land reduced to ash. The ugly toad of hope was hopping to its death because this was the worst, wasn’t it? The worst thing she could have heard. Part of her had imagined her mother in a quiet grave, frozen under warm soil, gone, dead, and when Paula’s time came, maybe she’d see her again. She’d imagined this despite her own atheism, a deep comfort. And now what – she wouldn’t even be there, when the time ran out? Now that Paula couldn’t escape?
There was a loud noise, and Magdalena froze, frowning. Paula tried to listen, shaking her head to clear the tears that filled her eyes. It came from upstairs. Someone was knocking at the door.
Magdalena turned and looked at her for a moment. Then she placed her hand over Paula’s mouth. It was dry and cold, smelling faintly of antiseptic. ‘Be sensible,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘No one can help you now.’
They stayed very still. Paula had little choice, her arm chained, her heart racing, struggling to breathe through her nose and straining to hear. Upstairs was the slow tread of feet, and the knock on the door came again.
Magdalena removed her hand from Paula’s mouth, with a warning look, and went to the window. Underneath it was a small box Paula had assumed was a light switch. Magdalena flipped it and noise filled the room.
Paula tried to say something, remembering Patrick Duggan –
she listens, the wee listening things.
Her voice came out as a low moan, and Magdalena immediately was at her side, gagging her again. ‘Be quiet, girl.’
Voices. A high, nervous one she recognised as Bernice’s. A deeper male one. It was crackly and difficult to hear. Magdalena was poised and rigid, her hand gently but firmly smothering Paula, who wasn’t sure if she had the strength to scream anyway. Who was it? The police? One of Magdalena’s followers? Or something innocuous, like a salesman? Imagine if you could have been saved by someone delivering pizza flyers.
The man’s voice said, ‘Good evening, madam. Is Mrs Croft here, please? I’m from the MPRU in town.’ Gerard! It was Gerard. Paula’s heart pounded at the sound of his nasal Ballyterrin tones, and Magdalena felt her tense and pushed down harder.
‘No, she isn’t here. I’m sorry, officer.’ Bernice.
There was a pause. ‘Would you know where she is? She’s been helping us on some cases, but we’ve not been able to get hold of her. Thing is, one of our own staff went missing last night.’
I’m here I’m here look down.
Bernice sounded perfectly calm now. ‘I’ll tell her you were asking for her. She’s out of town for a few days.’
‘Do you know where?’
A pause. ‘She didn’t say.’
‘And who would you be, madam, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Again a slight pause. ‘I’m her cleaner. I just come in once a week.’
‘Are you the owner of the van parked outside?’
‘Yes, that’s right. For my supplies.’
Paula was desperately trying to think if Gerard would ever have seen Bernice at the hospital.
She’s lying she’s lying, please Gerard, come into the house, find me
. . .
‘All right, madam. Please do tell her we’d like to speak to her.’
‘I will.’
Silence again. The sound of the door shutting. Magdalena relaxed a fraction. ‘I told you, we know how to cover—’ They both jumped as a pair of legs appeared at the small, high windows. By the looks of it, Gerard was peering through the back windows of the house. Paula tried to wrench her face away but Magdalena held her fast. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘Come on now.’
Paula had to lie there as the legs stretched up when Gerard craned to look at something.
Look down look down
. He didn’t. The window must not be visible from up there. The legs moved away, and soon there was the sound of a car starting up.
Magdalena sighed and took her hand away. She laid the scarf on the bed, and gently she touched a finger to Paula’s face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That’s it for you. But what I said is true. Your mother is alive. She doesn’t know you’ll die in this wee pokey room. But maybe now I’ve told you, you can go with a bit more peace.’
She went out, closing the door gently. Paula shut her eyes, feeling tears run down the sides of her face.
More time went by. Paula didn’t know how much any more, her body held fast in the grip of the drug, her mind turning in slow, lazy circles. She knew there was no way out of this room. She would die here. But she lay there, and every time she opened her eyes she saw the same grey walls, and still nothing had happened.
She woke. There were voices outside the door of the room. Her heart began to race as she listened.
‘Bridget, for God’s sake, you’ll kill them both. There’ll be no baby then. You know I’m right.’
‘But they might come back! You heard him. He didn’t believe me.’
Magdalena sighed. ‘I can hardly blame him. Could you not have told the truth?’
‘They know me. They’ve spoken to me twice at the hospital. I told them I wasn’t there that day the baby went, and I never claimed for working it, so they didn’t have me on their interview lists. But they’ve seen me. It’s too risky.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly made them suspicious now.’
‘That’s why I have to do it!’
‘Pet, could you not wait a few weeks? We can take her away somewhere. What about to your house?’
‘Too small. The neighbours’ll talk.’
There was a long pause. ‘I won’t stand in your way, if that’s what you want. But you know what will happen.’
‘I have to. I’m getting my things. It’s time.’
Silence again. They’d moved away. Paula sat bolt upright, pulling herself up with both hands. This was it. She had to get out and now. The police might be coming, but it would be too late.
When she stood up her legs collapsed under her. She hauled herself up again, pulling on the table. The windows seemed impossibly high. She staggered up, putting one knee on the table and with a huge amount of effort dragging herself onto it, hands on the narrow windowsill. Then she just had to stand up. She felt around the edges of one tiny window, set in place with putty and shot through with wire. There must be a way to get it out. She looked around for something to use but there was nothing, unless she dismantled the furniture. Even the jug of water was plastic. Outside she heard a noise, and panicking, snatched up the laptop from where it lay on the table, and swung it as hard as she could against the window. There was a loud crack, and she almost blacked out with the effort. Once more and the glass began to shatter, though it didn’t budge from its frame.
Come on come on.
Another swing took all she had, but she felt the pane shift a little. She was gathering strength for another go when she heard the door open.
Bernice/Bridget was dressed all in blue surgical scrubs, a cap over her hair and a mask on her face, eyes unreadable above it. Without even looking at Paula she whisked in, carrying a tray she set down on the table. On it, surgical knives, glinting in the dull light. Panic took hold of Paula’s throat and her voice forced its way up from the torpor. ‘Let me out! Get away from me!’
Without looking up, the woman shook her head slowly. She moved to Paula and lifted her straight off the table, dumping her on the bed as if she weighed no more than a child. Paula trembled, all her panicked energy leaked away from the effort of standing.
‘Please, Bridget.’ No answer. Her arm was lifted and snapped into the handcuffs again, a piece of skin painfully trapped. Bernice turned back to the knives, laid out on surgical paper. Why bother to clean them, Paula wondered, when she’d be left to bleed anyway, blood rushing for the gaping lips of her skin? Habit, maybe. She remembered those autopsy pictures of Heather Campbell and talked faster, though her voice was weak and cloudy. ‘It’s your name, isn’t it? When you lived at
Ceol na Mara
? Bridget.’
Nothing. She saw the muscles in Bernice’s back, under the scrubs. Held taut.
‘Bernice?’ Paula’s voice cracked. ‘Bridget, sorry. I know you’re still Bridget, aren’t you? You were kind to me. I needed help when I came to you, and you were nice.’
Silence. The slow exhale of breath. Outside the heavy press of snow.
‘I want her,’ Paula said. Her voice seemed leached of all strength. ‘The baby. The little girl.’
Nothing.
‘I want the baby, Bridget. I’ll look after her. I know I was confused, and I didn’t realise before. I was stupid. I’m young – OK, I’m not that young, I know – but I was scared. Please, Ber – Bridget. Please don’t hurt my baby.’
Nothing. The clink of the instruments as she examined each, the sound of her breathing against the surgical mask.
‘OK,’ Paula said, faster. ‘Maybe you were right. I don’t deserve her. You’d be better than me. I’m a mess. I sleep around, I drink – though not since I found out, I swear. I want her to be safe. So you can take her, if you need to. But Bridget – she isn’t ready yet! It’s too soon. You know that. She’ll die.’ Paula’s voice broke. Surges of terror were running through her body, the handcuff chafing at her wrist. The bed creaked under her but nothing gave. She felt pain shoot through her skin. ‘Bridget? Are you listening? You will kill the baby if you do this now. I know you gave back Alek, and Lucy is OK, she made it – but you know what will happen. You’ve worked in neonatal units. You know the babies don’t live if they’re too small. My baby’s not even three months inside me. You will kill her. You will kill us both.’
Nothing. The woman didn’t even turn. Paula began to cry again, harsh, dry sobs catching in her mouth. She felt so dried up there were no tears left. The only sound was her desperate, empty weeping. She’d lost. She knew it.
There was movement. Bernice/Bridget turned. Above the mask, her eyes were blank and expressionless. The grey showed in her roots, and Paula could see no trace of that girl in the picture, in a small cottage by the sea, where the wind blew hard and lonely. The girl with the quick smile, and the man’s hand on her shoulder, his head ripped off. Up close, knowing what she did now, Paula could see the scars running down the sides of the woman’s face. She must have worn make-up before. She’d had something done, surgery maybe, and that was why no one had recognised her as Bridget Conaghan.
‘I’m sorry, Bridget.’ Her voice was failing. ‘I’m sorry he hurt you. Your grandfather. I know it was him.’
Bridget was turning towards her. In one hand another syringe. Rohypnol, Paula had worked out, or something like it. Keeping her quiet, pliable. Unmoving. Bridget lifted Paula’s free arm, which was floppy as spaghetti. The syringe plunged in. Paula could barely feel it. She moaned. It flowed through her veins, dark and deep, putting her under. Then Bridget picked up the tissue she’d discarded and pushed it deep into Paula’s mouth. The paper was dry; she retched against it.
‘Breathe through your nose,’ said Bridget flatly, turning back to the table of knives. Her voice and her tread had the impersonal grace of a nurse. When she turned again the scalpel was in her hand. It glinted under the orange light. She moved the three paces to Paula – not quick, not slow. In control. She pushed up Paula’s jumper, exposing her to the dank air. One hand was placed on Paula’s white abdomen, goose-pimpled with cold. The other brought down the knife, and Paula felt the steel touch her skin, then go into it. A bright rainbow of pain. That was all.