by Adam Grinter
“Little town in Cumbria called Maryport.” I explained.
“Oh OK. What’s there?”
I explained about the article we’d found. How all the dates fit. How the word miracle leapt out at us, so we needed to chase this lead down.
“Sounds promising.” William said. I could tell he liked the miracle birth part. I could sense he wanted this to be the one.
“Don’t get your hopes up. We haven’t found anything yet.” I tried to temper his expectations and his excitement.
“Thomas, I have faith in you.” With that he was gone.
Faith didn’t seem to be in short supply, it was actual information we were missing.
Chapter Thirteen
I showered and got dressed in my cleanest clothes. I had the same bag I’d travelled to Venezuela with. At some point today I needed to buy something else to wear. I was sure Maria was probably in the same boat as me.
We met for breakfast, I recounted my conversation with William and she told me she’d had a similar talk with Father Christopher. It seemed they left us alone when there was nothing to do, but tried to micro-manage when they felt we were getting close to what they wanted.
We were in no rush to leave. Victoria Cottage Hospital was only half a mile away from the hotel. We ate our fill from the breakfast buffet. I managed to have a second cup of coffee. Despite all the travelling I’d done in the last couple of days I was starting to feel a bit more like my old self.
We left the hotel at nine-thirty and debated briefly whether we should walk to the hospital or drive. We decided we didn’t know where this would lead us, so we jumped in the car and drove the two minutes round the corner.
Our second visit to a hospital in seventy-two hours was in stark contrast to our first. The hustle and bustle of Venezuela was replaced by a lethargy that the British seem proud of. There was no urgency anywhere to be seen. A porter stood counting bed sheets folded into a roll-cage. A cleaner made half-hearted attempts to sweep the cigarette butts that had gathered at the edge of the smoking area. A nurse carrying a clipboard sauntered out of the automatic doors and stopped, debating which way to go. She made up her mind and strolled off to our right.
We entered through the glass doors and I looked around for a sign similar to the one we had found in Venezuela.
I found it, nudged Maria gently and pointed, superfluously, in the direction the arrow was indicating. We wandered down a corridor and arrived at a desk which was manned by a middle-aged, dark-haired, slightly overweight lady. Her striped smock had a badge pinned to it announcing her name was Elizabeth and ‘she was here to help’.
“Hi Elizabeth.” I said as I leant on the desk in front of her.
She beamed a full smile, flashing very white teeth. “How can I help?” She asked pleasantly.
“I’m looking for information on a patient who was here twenty-five years ago.” The moment I said it I realised how ridiculous it sounded.
Elizabeth thought for a moment, the smile never dropping from her lips.
“I’m not sure I can help with that.”
“Is there a records room we could check?” I asked thinking back to the Venezuelan hospital.
“No. Everything’s been transferred to Carlisle for the transfer to the new computer system.”
“Could we go to Carlisle and try to find the records?” I was getting desperate. So near and yet so far.
“I’m sorry, it’s closed to the public.” Elizabeth told us and then added, “data-protection and all that.”
Data-protection, political correctness, health and safety are all terms trotted out by Brits. We all nod knowingly, not actually understanding their meaning. I played my part in this peculiar British charade and nodded sagely and tried to look both uncomprehending and understanding at the same time. I thought I carried it off well enough.
We had hit a wall, I wasn’t sure where we could go from here. Maria came to my rescue.
“Was there anyone that work here at the time. Might know something?”
“Umm...” Elizabeth was racking her brain. “Louise might know.”
“Louise?” I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice.
“Yeah, she’s been here forever.” Elizabeth explained.
“Where can we find Louise?” Still trying to contain my enthusiasm.
Elizabeth looked doubtful. Internally debating whether she should tell two strangers the movements of a member of staff. She made her decision.
“I’m not sure I can give you that information. Are you the police?”
Now it was my turn to internally debate what to tell her. How could I explain what we were doing? What we were? What we suspected?
I didn’t have to worry, Maria again came to my rescue.
“Believe or not, we work for Catholic church.” She said with a light, self-deprecating laugh.
Elizabeth digested this and came to her decision. “She works the maternity ward.” Bingo. “But she doesn’t start till six tonight.”
We thanked her for her time, feeling we had pushed our luck far enough and walked away from the desk.
I looked at Maria inquisitively trying to convey how she knew the church line would work.
“Crucifix necklace.” Maria answered.
“Oh.” I replied.
Now we waited.
#
We spent the day killing time. It felt like we were back on a stake-out. We didn’t go far from the hospital, we mooched in the cafes and ate a leisurely lunch at a local pub. Waiting time is slow time.
We’d agreed that six-thirty was the ideal time to look for Louise. She’d have started her shift, she would be alert and hopefully not too jaded by the night-shift to talk to us.
At six-thirty-three we stood at the locked doors of the maternity ward trying to work out how to get past the intercom entry system.
The door buzzed and opened from the inside as a man exited the ward. I hoped his partner was happier than him about the bundle of joy they had probably just received. He was scowling and angrily texting someone. His thumbs moved quickly and deftly across the phone keypad. The movements were slightly too staccato and heavy to be sending a happy message. We took advantage of his distraction and grabbed the door before it closed and locked again.
The hallway of the ward was quiet. The side room doors were mostly closed but a few were slightly ajar. We could see family members gathered around proud mothers as they lay propped up in their beds. The scenes were all almost identical, but we weren’t here to observe the miracle of new birth, it was an old birth we needed information on.
We found the nurse’s station easily and waited patiently for one of the nurses to be free enough to acknowledge us.
“May I help you?” The voice came from behind us. We turned to see a young nurse standing, looking at us expectantly.
“Hi there.” I flustered. “We’re looking for Louise. Elizabeth said she was the best person to speak to.” I said with slightly more composure.
“She’s just dealing with a patient.” The nurse said curtly. “Stay there I’ll tell her you’re waiting for her.”
No questioning who we were, why we were there. Nothing. Security was just an illusion, if you had a name or looked like you had a purpose people would wave you through. A scary thought, but very useful.
We waited patiently.
“Hi, I’m Louise.” Again, the voice came from behind us.
I turned and saw a lady in an identical uniform to the previous nurse. She was older and carrying a few more pounds, she had a friendly face and was smiling at both Maria and myself. I took the lead again.
“We spoke to Elizabeth earlier and she told us you would be the best person to talk to.” I smiled mirroring her, to put her at ease. Louise looked at me curiously. “We’re looking for information on a birth from twenty-five years ago.” I continued as I fumbled for my phone. I was trying to get the newspaper article up on it so I could jog her memory.
“You must mean baby John.�
�� Louise said before I could even retrieve the device from my pocket.
Both Maria and I must have looked surprised.
“Oh, you don’t forget something like that.” Louise said by way of explanation.
“Why’s that?” I asked still rummaging for my phone. It came free and I opened up the article and passed it to her. She briefly looked at the screen nodded and handed it back to me.
“Yeah that was him.” Louise confirmed. She looked beyond Maria and me, and it felt beyond the hallway we were in. Back to the birth that had stayed with her all this time.
I waited for her to continue, still smiling and hoping I was conveying intrigue and not insanity.
“You’ve read the article so you know the basics.” I nodded knowingly. “The mother, Catherine, was brought in. She was DOA. Dead on arrival.” I knew what it meant but didn’t interrupt her. “She was eight months pregnant and had been hit by the car. They never found him, you know.” She added conversationally. I nodded encouragingly. “Her hip took the hit. The baby should have been killed on impact. We listened for fetal heartbeat not expecting to hear one, but there it was strong and normal. We performed a c-section expecting to find a broken or at least distressed baby. He wasn’t broken or distressed. He was one of the most beautiful boys I’ve ever seen.”
She paused in her storytelling. Enjoying the memory. A smile touched her lips.
“We couldn’t believe it. He was our little miracle.” There was that word again.
“You called him John?” I asked.
“His mother was dead. The grandmother was still alive but in no fit state to look after him. Drugs.” A one-word explanation. We nodded in sad agreement that we understood. “He was brought in from John Street, so John he became.”
“What happen after birth?” Maria was hanging on Louise’s every word.
“A couple of days later, once we knew he was fine, social services took him and he went to the nearest children’s home.”
“Where is that?” I asked.
“Penrith.” Louise answered.
I didn’t know Northern geography particularly well so wasn’t exactly sure where that was but nodded at her as if I did.
“Did you find out what happened once he was there?” Maria asked.
“I went and saw him once. When he was a month old. He seemed happy, they took good care of him. I held him. He was lovely.” Again, she revelled in the memory.
We both let her have a moment.
“What was his surname?” Maria interrupted eventually.
Louise came back to reality and thought hard about the question. “Byrne.” She said decisively.
We had his name at last.
Chapter Fourteen
John Byrne.
We had his name and his date and location of birth.
We sat in the bar of the Waverley Hotel and discussed strategy. We’d found out there was only one children’s home in Penrith, a place called Jimmy’s. For what it was, it looked pleasant enough. The rooms looked tidy and airy and they had a playground in the back garden for the children to use.
“You need to phone him.” Maria told me.
I had been putting it off but knew she was right. I made the call.
He answered after two rings.
“Hi Robert.” I started.
“Thomas, my boy.” Robert bellowed down the line. “How are you? What happened to you? What was that phone-call I got about you?” No small talk, no preamble. Straight down to business, as if the six months of silence had never happened. Same old Robert.
“I’m fine.” I answered. I wondered how best to describe what I was now doing. ‘Miracle hunter’ had never sat comfortably on my tongue but I could think of no other description that fit what I was doing. I spoke non-specifically instead. “You were right, the call was asking for a reference. I got the job and that’s why I need your help.”
“Say no more, say no more.” Robert said as if I had confirmed his suspicions, even though I knew he was way off the mark.
“I need information on someone.” I felt slightly guilty playing into his fantasy of what I was doing and taking advantage of our relationship. However, it was the quickest way to get what I needed.
“OK, who?” Robert’s eager tone said he was happy to join the conspiracy.
I gave him the details and could hear him writing it down. I thought telling him to destroy written records might be taking it slightly too far, so I left it unsaid.
He assured me he would get back to me tomorrow when he was back in the office. We said our goodbyes and hung up.
“He’ll let us know what he finds.” I told Maria.
#
We set off the following morning for Penrith. Having looked it up I discovered we were heading fifty-three miles east, inland.
The journey passed in almost complete silence as we closed in on our target. I was concentrating on the unfamiliar roads and following the directions from the sat-nav. Maria just stared out of the window taking in the rolling green hills and fields which were in stark contrast to the dusty yellow landscape of her country.
We arrived at Jimmy’s and parked a little way past it on the road. As we walked back up the slight hill to the front door my mobile rung and I saw it was Robert calling me back. Hopefully, he had found our man.
“Robert, did you find him?” It was my turn to cut through the small talk.
“One report, Thomas.” He had my interest. “Age eighteen, picked up in Penrith.” Definitely our man. “Saturday night drunken fight. Usual city centre antics. Released without charge the next day. Not enough evidence apparently.”
“Great, thanks Robert.” I was genuinely pleased with what he had found. It meant we were getting closer. He had been here seven years ago.
“What do you want him for?” Robert asked not unreasonably.
“I wish I could tell you.” I answered cryptically. Again, I felt slight guilt at keeping him in the dark. My side ached trying to keep me honest but Robert seemed to be enjoying the intrigue I had created for him so I deliberately let him misconstrue my words.
“I understand.” He said, not understanding at all.
#
Jimmy’s looked like a normal family home from the outside. We walked up to the front door and rang the bell. The door was opened by a short, dark-haired, lady in her mid-twenties. Her hair was scraped back and tied in a tight pony-tail. Her make-up was layered on thick and a cursory glance showed the poor skin underneath it was trying to hide.
“Hello there.” I said in my friendliest tone.
I was met by silence, but she cocked a tinted eyebrow in an invitation for me to continue.
“We’re looking for information on one of your previous …” I searched for the right word. “residents.” I wasn’t sure if that was right terminology, but I wasn’t sure what other term to use.
The eyebrow didn’t lower.
“John Byrne. He came here twenty-five years ago?” I tried to make it a question in the hope she might respond verbally to me.
Another lady came to the door and ushered her colleague back inside.
“Thank-you, Alina. I’ve got it from here.” She threw the words over her shoulder and then turning back to us she explained, “Sorry, she’s Romanian. Doesn’t speak English very well, but great with the kids.”
I started again. “We’re looking for information on someone who stayed here some time ago. John Byrne.”
“Why?” The response was immediate and defensive. “What’s he done?”
“Nothing.” I asserted. I put my hands out in front of myself in a placatory gesture I hoped would calm a situation that could go one of two ways very quickly. “We’re not the police.” I added in what I hoped was a helpful tone.
“Oh OK.” The defensive tone was gone, replaced by weariness. “Sorry, it’s been a rough morning. Come through.”
She turned and lead us into the kitchen. Bedlam reigned all round. Kids happily screaming, shouting and a thundering
of feet from the floor above. She ignored all of it and asked, “tea?”
“That would be great thanks.” I answered.
She fussed in cupboards as she pulled out mugs and teabags. “Sugar?”
“No, thanks.” Maria and I responded almost in unison.
The kettle boiled, tea was brewed, and we moved to the kitchen table now the niceties of British life had been covered. The table was covered by a vinyl cloth, adorned by pictures of fruit and vegetables. I assumed the children enjoyed the vivid colours. Whereas the staff liked the wipe clean facility that it provided.
“So, you’re looking for John?” The staff member asked as soon as we sat down.
Instead of answering straight away. I tried to break through her defences so she would give us the information we needed more easily.
“I’m Thomas and this is Maria.”
“Sharon.”
“Nice to meet you, Sharon. We’re working for the church and are looking for John in relation to some information that has come to light in the last couple of weeks.”
“Oh.” Sharon replied, not quite understanding. Truth be told, when it was said aloud, I didn’t understand it much myself.
“We just need to speak to him. We think he can help us.” I felt like I had gone back to my police days. But how do you explain to someone that we think his birth was prophesied from the other side of the world. The word that lead us to him was miracle.
“Is this to do with all that priest and little kid stuff.” Stuff was said in a particular tone that suggested it was a euphemism for something else.
It took me a moment to realise what stuff she was referring but then I understood. “No, no. Nothing like that.” I reassured her.
“Did you know him?” Maria again tried to touch on the human element, while I had been trying to push forward with the practicalities of the search.
“Yeah.” She adopted the same wistful look as Louise. “I had just started and he was seventeen.” She was older than she looked. “He kept to himself. The other kids didn’t like him. The kids thought he was weird. He’d never had any luck in being fostered so he’d been here for most of his childhood years.”
