Wake Wood (13 page)

‘You’re right, Mrs O’Shea. I don’t know what I’m asking,’ Louise conceded. ‘But what I do know is that I ache every minute of every day to see my little girl again,’ she pleaded.

Arthur entered the room behind them. He lifted his hand to Peggy in acknowledgement but remained behind Patrick and Louise in the shadows that shrouded the doorway.

Peggy looked from Louise to Patrick. ‘You two may live in Wake Wood now. But it’s not part of you. It’s not your home. You’re just visiting and, maybe one day, one day soon, you’ll move on and go elsewhere. I can’t imagine what that’s like; moving on, wanting to live in another place, one that’s full of strangers. The rest of us, well, we’re all born here, rooted here in this land and in the woods. We couldn’t survive outside of Wake Wood.’

‘Mrs O’Shea,’ Patrick interposed. ‘Louise and I are happy here in Wake Wood and I promise you we intend to stay here.’

Peggy pursed her lips disapprovingly before she
declared
, ‘The ritual is not for outsiders. Only those born and bred here, in Wake Wood.’

Arthur stepped forward. ‘Not usually, Peggy, but when people want to join us and contribute to the community the way Patrick and Louise have done, we can make exceptions …’ His voice trailed when she left her chair and confronted him in amazement.

‘How can you say that there can be exceptions, Arthur? Patrick’s success in running your veterinary practice has blinded you. There’s never been an exception in the past. The people wouldn’t have stood for it then and they won’t stand for it now.’

‘Without exceptions the town will never grow, Peggy,’ Arthur replied. ‘Do you want Wake Wood to wither and die for lack of young people, like so many other small towns in this part of Ireland? Please, Peggy, you know we can’t do anything without your permission.’

Peggy took a candle from the bedside cabinet. She stood in front of Patrick and Louise. ‘All right, Arthur’s had his say. Now stand up for me. Both of you.’

Patrick and Louise obediently rose to their feet. Peggy held the candle very close to Patrick’s face and studied him while three full minutes ticked off the bedside clock. Moving the flame even closer, she stared into his eyes for another minute before moving on to Louise and repeating the procedure.

Louise stood unflinchingly as the old woman examined her face, her eyelids, her skin, her hair.

Peggy finally lowered the candle but she continued to stare at Louise for a long time before turning back and replacing the candle on the cabinet. ‘No, Arthur. It’s not
right
,’ she declared finally. ‘The ritual is for people born and bred in Wake Wood only. There can be no exceptions. Certainly not for incomers who haven’t even lived out a full year in the town.’

‘Peggy, haven’t you listened to a word we’ve said to you?’ Arthur pressed.

‘I listened,’ she snapped.

‘Louise has explained to you about her daughter?’ Arthur checked.

‘She did.’

‘Then how can you say the ritual’s not for them?’

‘Because it’s the truth,’ Peggy insisted stubbornly. ‘It’s not for them.’

‘You must have a reason for saying that. What is it?’ Arthur questioned.

‘There’s a reason, a good reason, but I can’t see what it is, so I can’t explain it.’ Peggy returned to her chair. ‘I can only say that Patrick and Louise aren’t right and I won’t give them Mick’s body. That’s my last word on the matter.’

Arthur moved close to Peggy and laid his hand on her arm. ‘Peggy, they have to ask. Everyone who begs the return of a loved one has to ask, we both know that. But I can see that now is too soon for you. It’s not a good time. You’re upset.’

‘Of course I’m upset, Arthur. My Mick is dead,’ Peggy retorted. ‘But there’s something else. Something I don’t like about them,’ she reiterated.

‘They have to ask,’ Arthur repeated. ‘But as you know, you have to be amenable. It’s the only way that the ceremony of the return can continue. Don’t you
want
to see Mick again yourself, Peggy? I thought that you’d have wanted to spend those last days with him.’

Peggy’s eyes rounded in alarm and her voice rose in anger. ‘Surely you wouldn’t deny me Mick’s return, Arthur. That’s my right as a resident of Wake Wood. The last three days with my loved one so I can say goodbye, properly.’

Arthur shrugged. ‘Patrick and Louise need your help, Peggy.’

‘I see. That’s the way it is.’ She looked from Arthur to Louise and Patrick.

‘That’s the way it’s always been, Peggy,’ Arthur pointed out calmly. ‘A life to bring back a life. You know that.’

‘And you’d blackmail me over this?’

‘Blackmail’s an ugly word, Peggy. I’m merely pointing out that Patrick and Louise feel the same way about seeing their daughter again as you do about seeing Mick. Everyone here in Wake Wood has a right to a last goodbye. What’s it to be, Peggy?’

‘Seems you’re not giving me much choice, Arthur,’ Peggy answered ungraciously. She turned to Louise. ‘All right, you can have Mick’s corpse. But I don’t mind telling you, I still don’t like it. It’s not right. I can’t tell you why.’ She shook her head. ‘I can only say it isn’t. And mark my words, no good will come of it.’

Subdued by Arthur’s intimidation of Peggy O’Shea, Patrick and Louise made their way back down the stairs, through the hall, where the wake was in full, noisy swing, and pushed their way to the front door.

Martin was holding it open for guests who were leaving. Patrick shook his hand.

‘Thank you for coming. It was good of you to pay your respects.’ Martin spoke automatically. Patrick had heard Martin repeating the phrase to every departing guest as he’d walked down the stairs.

Louise held out her hand. To her surprise, Martin didn’t shake it. Instead he hugged her and kissed her cheek.

‘Goodbye, Martin. Take care of yourself and look after your hand,’ she murmured.

‘I will, Louise. And thank you.’

Arthur joined them and Louise allowed him to usher her out of the door. The three of them walked down the lane to Arthur’s car. The light was poor and it wasn’t easy to negotiate the pools of mud. Arthur didn’t say anything until they were all safely closeted in the car, and even then he glanced around for potential eavesdroppers.

‘Now listen to me,’ Arthur said solemnly when he was sure he couldn’t be overheard. ‘Now listen to me.’

Just like in the barn, Arthur’s voice had taken on a mesmerising quality. ‘You will need to produce a relic of Alice for the ritual.’

‘A what?’ Patrick asked in bewilderment.

Louise thought she understood. ‘Something like her favourite teddy bear? I’ve kept everything that belonged to our daughter. Her toys, her clothes, all her books and drawings. Just tell me what you want, Arthur, and I’ll find something suitable.’

‘The relic needs to be more directly connected to Alice
than
one of her possessions,’ he said decisively. ‘A lock of her hair would normally do, but we’re very close to the time limit when we can bring her back. So it needs to be something far more personal.’

‘A pillowcase or pyjamas that haven’t been washed since she died?’ Patrick suggested.

Arthur stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Eyelashes often adhere to the inside of a death mask. Still, the more I consider it, the more I don’t think eyelashes or even eyebrows would suffice in this case. And speaking of a death mask – I don’t suppose you had one made?’

Stunned by the suggestion, Patrick muttered, ‘No, it never occurred to us at the time.’

‘Some people keep children’s baby teeth.’ Arthur was trying to be helpful. ‘That would probably work.’

‘We didn’t keep any,’ Louise revealed.

‘I see.’ Arthur jammed his car keys into the ignition. ‘Well, whatever you provide, it must be personal to Alice. Very personal in a corporal, physical way. I hope you understand.’

‘We do, but we need time to think of something,’ Patrick pleaded.

‘Not too much time, Patrick. That’s the one thing that’s in desperately short supply. Whatever you find, you will have to deliver it to me tomorrow evening at sunset. I’ll have everything arranged by then. If we decide to go ahead at that point, tomorrow night your daughter will sleep under your roof. You have my word on that.’ Arthur turned the key and drove slowly down the track towards the main road.

THE CLOUDS BURST
and rain began to fall when Arthur drove Patrick and Louise from the O’Shea farmhouse to their cottage. Large drops thundered down on the roof of the car, making conversation impossible. Louise wasn’t sorry. Preoccupied with Arthur’s demand for a ‘relic’ of Alice, she was racking her brains, trying to think of something they could use.

By the time Arthur dropped them off at their door, the winter chill had iced the rain to sleet. They didn’t invite Arthur in. He drove off quickly and they went into their living room.

‘The relic,’ Patrick began.

‘Yes?’ Louise looked expectantly at him.

‘I have an idea where we can get one.’

She listened in silence while Patrick outlined his suggestion.

‘Yes,’ she answered briefly when he had finished speaking.

‘Yes,’ he repeated, shocked by her reaction. ‘No argument, no protest, just “yes”?’

‘It’s a ghastly, horrible prospect and I would argue with you if I could think of a single alternative, but I can’t.’

‘What we’re about to do will be illegal as well as ghastly, Louise. If we’re caught we could be imprisoned—’

‘I know,’ she cut him short.

‘Yet you still want to go ahead?’

‘We have no choice, Patrick. Not if we want to see Alice again.’

‘You’re right.’

She made an effort to concentrate on the practical. ‘We’d better change out of these clothes.’

‘Given the weather, into something warm and waterproof,’ he advised.

They went upstairs, hung their funeral clothes away and donned thermals, flannel shirts, thick sweaters, slacks and boots. While Louise piled their warmest waterproof coats, gardening gloves and her handbag into the car, Patrick went to the garage. He switched on the light and left the door open. Louise sat in the passenger seat and watched him pack a holdall with tools he picked out from his wall racks. When he’d finished gathering what he wanted, he zipped up the bag and carried it to the boot of the car. After depositing it inside he returned to the garage, brought out a spade and pickaxe and tossed them alongside the holdall. He switched off the light inside the garage, locked the door and proceeded to check all the doors and windows on the cottage.

After he’d disappeared around the side of the house, Louise pulled down the sun visor above her seat and hit the car’s interior light. She’d taped the last
photograph
that had been taken of Alice to the back of the visor.

She ran her fingers over the contours of Alice’s face, so beautiful and so heartbreakingly familiar. Slowly, lingeringly and lovingly she traced the smile on her daughter’s lips with her forefinger. What had Alice been smiling about? She recalled taking the photograph in the garden of their old home. She remembered that they’d both been laughing beforehand but, try as she may, she couldn’t recall why. Had they been playing a game? How could she have forgotten?

She started when she heard Patrick’s approaching footsteps and immediately flipped up the visor. Keys in hand, Patrick shut the boot before sitting in the driver’s seat.

‘What’s the time?’

She checked her watch. ‘Nearly ten o’clock.’

‘We should reach there in about three to four hours, depending on traffic. Hopefully there’ll be no one about at that time in the morning.’ He switched off the interior light, turned the key in the ignition, reversed the car and set off down the drive.

For the first time since they’d moved to Wake Wood they headed directly out of town into the network of narrow lanes that led – eventually – to the motorway. A silent hour and a half later they reached the six-lane thoroughfare. Patrick flicked through the channels on the car radio until he found one that played innocuous background music.

Louise settled back and tried to pretend that the drive was no different from any other she and Patrick had
taken
. But she couldn’t prevent a sick sour feeling of foreboding rising from the pit of her stomach. Her imagination went into overdrive. She tried to picture Alice in her coffin – not as she’d been when they’d buried her, but as she’d be after months in the earth. How long did it take a child’s body to decay? She hadn’t asked at the time, but now she wondered if the coffin they’d chosen was airtight. If it was, would that have delayed decomposition? Would Alice’s face still be recognisable? Would she be able to bear to look on her again?

What seemed like half a lifetime later, Patrick turned off at an exit and entered a 1930s-built suburb of the city centre. After the rural surroundings of Wake Wood, even at night the built-up area appeared strange, almost alien. The lights were too bright, the neon signs gratingly garish, the streets dirtier than Louise remembered from the time they’d lived there. She’d never felt at home in Wake Wood. And now she felt like a stranger here. Would she ever find a place she could truly call home again?

It was then that she remembered the promise Arthur had elicited from Patrick. Alice’s return would bind them to Wake Wood for the rest of their lives. They could never leave the town afterwards. She’d wanted to ask Arthur what would happen if they tried but she’d lacked the courage.

She dared to look at Patrick but he was staring straight ahead, concentrating on the road. She couldn’t believe they were even contemplating what they were about to do. But, as she’d told Patrick, she simply couldn’t think of an alternative.

They reached the deserted city centre and turned west. They passed tower blocks of social housing, pubs, a solitary church, a supermarket, off-licence and a bingo hall, before turning down a side street bordered on one side by an Edwardian terrace of houses long given over to multiple occupation and, on the other, the railings of the cemetery where they’d buried Alice.

Patrick slowed the car to walking pace. Behind the railings, uniform rows of gleaming wet marble headstones stretched as far as they could see. He finally parked on a grass verge some distance from the locked gates and as close to the railings as he could get. He switched off the engine and the windscreen wipers fell silent. Rain was still sheeting down from the skies in a heavy, unrelenting downpour that gleamed blue-white, like icicles, in the light of the street lamps.