by C. L. Taylor
I cross the room and open the curtains. Elise grunts as the plastic curtain rings slide across the tracks. Outside, the street lights flicker and glow, their amber light cutting through the dusky gloom of the street. The narrow residential road is flanked with parked cars. My car is two cars down, the back seat and boot crammed with the remnants of my life in Bristol. I didn’t bring any of the suitcases inside. I couldn’t, with Elise in my arms. The Garda’s car – white with a blue and yellow stripe – is parked directly outside the B&B.
‘Mummy,’ Elise mumbles from the bed.
‘Go back to sleep.’ I half turn but, as I do, a figure appears in the street below. Even in the half-light I can make out what he’s wearing – a peaked cap, short-sleeved blue shirt and a stab vest. I press a hand to my chest as he approaches his car, unlocks the driver’s side door and steps inside. And then … nothing. I can’t see him any more. I have no idea if he’s radioing for backup or informing the station that he’s going to arrest me.
‘Mummy,’ Elise says again. ‘Milk. Milk, please, Mummy.’
In the street below, the car’s indicator light flashes. A moment later the car pulls into the road, crawls to the end of the street, turns right and disappears. I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window and all the air rushes from my lungs in one long, slow breath. He’s gone. I was so certain … so sure that –
Knock. Knock.
I spin round, my skin prickling with fear. Elise stares at the bedroom door, her sleepy eyes suddenly alert.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound is louder this time, more urgent. Were there two policemen downstairs? I glance towards the window on the other side of the room. I could still try and escape. But the door looks old and cheaply made. It reverberates with every knock. One shoulder barge and it would swing open.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I want to ignore it. I want to dive under the duvet, put my fingers in my ears and hum as loudly as I can to block out the incessant knocking but I’m not a child any more. I no longer believe that closing my eyes will make me disappear.
‘OK, OK.’ My fingers fumble at the lock and Elise wails for milk as I open the door.
I can do this. I can be calm. I can hold myself together.
‘Sorry to disturb you so late.’ The landlady tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear. ‘But I thought you should know that the guards have just been. Three cars were broken into on this street earlier today and if you’ve got anything valuable in your car you might want to bring it up to your room.’
I saw her lips moving. The words ‘guards’, ‘car’ and ‘valuable’ are buzzing around my brain but they may as well be in a foreign language for all the sense they make. I was so relieved to see my landlady, and not a second policeman, at my door that I didn’t process a word she said.
She stares at me over the thick, black rim of her spectacles. ‘Will you be getting your things from your car?’
‘Yes … yes … sorry. Yes, I’ll …’ I glance back at Elise, who’s slid off the bed and is opening and closing the door to the wardrobe. Slam. Slam. Slam.
The landlady grimaces. ‘I’ll stay with the little one if you’d like. If you’re quick.’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you. Thank you so much.’
I can still feel her puzzled stare boring into my back as I pull on my coat, jam my feet into my shoes and hurry down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Chapter 38
We are speeding up the M1. There are no leaves on the trees but the fields on either side of the motorway are green and the verges are thick with gorse. We’ve passed Dublin and still nothing looks familiar but I am relieved to have left Wexford and be back on the road, heading north. There were grey skies when we left but there are hints of blue between the dark clouds. It feels like an omen, a sign that I’m doing the right thing.
We left the B&B after breakfast. Elise turned her nose up at the white and black pudding but wolfed down the sausage, bacon, beans and half a slice of toast. I picked at my own breakfast, too tired to eat.
I leave the motorway and take the R152 towards Drogheda. I’m about half a mile down the road and overtaking a tractor when the engine of the car makes a strange stuttering sound as I press on the accelerator.
‘Shit,’ I swear under my breath as the engine warning light flashes on the dashboard. I tap on the accelerator again. This time the car doesn’t respond. I glance in the rear-view mirror. Elise is asleep in her car seat. I could carry on and hope the car holds out until we arrive – I’m only about half an hour away from Clogherhead – but it’s too much of a risk. I have no idea whether it’s a minor issue or not. I’ve got no choice but to pull over.
I dig through the suitcase in the back of the boot, shifting jumpers, socks and underwear to one side as I search for my mobile. The road is quiet now, the tractor long gone. A couple of cars slowed as they passed us, parked up on the verge, but I’ve waved them all on. Help means questions and I still have no idea whether Elise and I are in the Irish press. There must be a mechanic nearby who could turn up and tow us to his garage. I’ve still got nearly €150 in notes and if it costs more than that to fix the car … actually I don’t know. I don’t know how I’m going to pay for accommodation in Clogherhead either. I should have got some more cash out in Wexford. Even if the police could trace the withdrawal they’d have no idea where I went next.
‘Damn it.’ I shove the jumpers, socks and underwear back to the other side of the suitcase. ‘Where is it?’
‘Aha!’ I snatch up the phone and press the button on the side. Nothing happens; the screen remains black. I press it again, holding the button for longer this time. Still nothing.
I prise open the back of the phone with my fingernails and rub the battery between my hands but I know it’s futile, even as I slot it back into place and press the button again. I threw the phone into the suitcase last night, when I thought the police were about to arrest me. After I brought the suitcases upstairs Elise demanded something to eat and I forgot all about it.
‘Oh God.’ I run my hands over my face and take a deep breath. What now? What the hell do I do now?
I hear the car before I see it; the purr of the engine as it slows and the crunch of tyres as it pulls into the verge behind me. It’s a black Mercedes – large, sleek and powerful. Sunlight glints on the windscreen, making it impossible for me to see who is inside.
Someone’s come to help. Oh, thank God.
No.
Wait.
A spark of fear courses through me as I remember that I’m not some random woman who’s broken down by the side of the road. I’m on the run. My face is plastered all over the newspapers. People are looking for me.
If the Mercedes had stopped to help me, the driver would have flashed their lights or beeped the horn as they pulled onto the verge. They wouldn’t have slid quietly up behind me and turned off the engine.
I take a step away from the open boot and towards Elise’s door, my eyes still trained on the black car less than twenty metres away.
Have they been trailing me the whole way from Wexford? I didn’t spot them in my rear-view mirror. Were they deliberately hanging back, hiding behind other cars as they followed my every move? Did the landlady realise who I was this morning and ring the Gardaí? Or is it Paula? Is she sitting beside the man who chased me through Boots? Who’s behind the windscreen, watching me and waiting?
There’s an almost silent clunk as the catch on the driver’s side door releases. They’re getting out.
‘Elise!’ I yank open her door and pull at the catch on her car seat. Effie Elephant drops from her grasp as she stirs in her sleep, and falls into the footwell. ‘Elise, wake up! Come on, sweetheart! Elise, we need to go!’
Chapter 39
Max swigs from his bottle of beer. He’d really like a cigarette too but he can’t bring himself to spark one up. Elise might be miles away but this is still her home and he doesn’t want her to come back
to a house stinking of fags. It’s important that everything stays exactly as it was when she left. She’ll be traumatised, after the ordeal Jo’s putting her through, and she’ll need stability and predictability when she returns.
Not that he’s any closer to finding her. There was a brief moment at Brigid’s when he thought he was going to get a break. Andy’s carer turned up while Brigid was making a second cup of tea, and she led him into the bedroom, giving Max the run of the house. He headed straight into the living room, hoping to find a photo or letter that would reveal where Jo had gone. He pulled open the top drawer of a chest of drawers in the corner of the room: knitting stuff. He tried the second drawer: coasters, placemats and linen. When he yanked at the third drawer Brigid walked in. He didn’t bother to try and defend himself. Instead he turned and walked straight out of the house without saying a word.
He takes another sip of beer then places it on the coaster to the right of his laptop. Going to Brigid’s was a waste of time but when he returned home he found Jo’s birth certificate in a folder in the bottom drawer of her chest of drawers, along with Elise’s birth certificate, the mortgage agreement and a couple of old bills and credit-card statements.
He unfolds it and scans the information at the top:
Child’s full name: Joanne Mary Gallagher
Date of birth: 05 July 1975
Mother: Brigid Gallagher
Father: Unknown
Unknown? He raises an eyebrow. So Brigid gave birth to Jo before she got married? In 1975. No wonder his mother-in-law gets prickly whenever she’s asked about Ireland. It must have caused quite a scandal at the time.
Place of Birth: Cork
Max narrows his eyes as he examines the map of Ireland on the screen in front of him then rests an elbow on the desk and scratches his head. Cork’s on the south-west coast. He could have sworn that Jo told him she grew up on the east coast of Ireland. She’d definitely mentioned the sea and beaches several times when they’d talked about their childhoods.
‘Gah!’ He thumps the desk with his fist. Why didn’t he listen when she told him where she grew up? Now he’s stuck. With no father listed on the birth certificate and no idea what his name was, his only clue to Jo’s whereabouts is her mother’s name.
Brigid Gallagher.
He types the name into Google and presses enter.
290,000 results.
Shit.
Brigid was definitely married to Jo’s father at some point. He can remember her telling him about a photo she found of her mum and dad’s wedding day. Brigid had hidden it away somewhere and Jo took it. He opens a website – one where you can search for Irish marriage records – but they don’t carry records post-1950 so he tries a genealogy site instead.
BINGO!
There’s a record of a Brigid Gallagher marrying a Liam O’Brien at the church of the Sacred Heart, in the parish of Laytown, diocese of Meath, on 5 August 1975, four weeks after Jo was born.
He flicks over to Google Maps and looks up Laytown. It’s on the east coast of Ireland. That has to be it.
He tabs back to the genealogy site and scrolls down, looking for more information. What the fuck? There’s another Brigid Gallagher listed, only this one was married to Joseph Kearney – same church but four months later.
Shit.
He clicks on both entries, looking for Brigid’s home address on the marriage banns, but it’s not listed online. The only way to get hold of it is to pay for a copy of the marriage certificate but that would take up to two weeks. Screw that.
He types the address of the Sacred Heart church into Google. No phone number. Damn.
He sits back in his chair and rubs his hands over his face. When the police rang him at 9 a.m., to tell him about the sighting of Jo and Elise on the ferry yesterday, they said they didn’t have any more information. And yet he’s found a lead in less than half an hour. What the fuck are they doing?
He could hand this information over to them and hope they act on it, but it’s killing him, being so passive, letting them take control. The more time passes the more frantic his imagination is becoming. What if Jo’s already moved on from Ireland? What if she’s taken a flight to Barbados or Dubai or some other country that isn’t part of the Hague Convention? He’ll have lost Elise for ever.
No. He sits forward in his seat and drums his fingers on the desk. He can’t trust that the police will act quickly enough, not when there’s so much at stake. He needs to go to Ireland himself. If he flies to Dublin, he can rent a car and drive to the church. If they let him view the marriage banns he’ll have two addresses, two potential Brigid Gallaghers, and a rough idea where Jo has gone.
He opens the top drawer of his desk and rummages through the pens, Post-it notes, USB sticks and receipts. No passport. He opens the second drawer and does the same. And the third drawer, and the fourth drawer. He stands up, glances around his office and heads for the living room. He must have left it in the cupboard in the corner of the room. As he yanks the door open and sees the space left behind by Henry’s memory box his stomach tightens. He ignores the sensation and rifles through the books and board games left behind, carefully at first, then more desperately.
‘Where the fuck is it?’ he shouts as he scoops everything off the shelves and onto the floor. ‘Where’s my fucking passport?’
Chapter 40
‘Come on, Elise. Come on.’ I pull my slumbering daughter out of the car and hurry towards the front of the car without looking back. I can hear the crunch of shoes on gravel. The driver of the Mercedes has got out of the car and is crossing the small stretch of verge. They’re coming. They’re getting closer. Where … where … where do I go? Where do I hide? There are hedges on both sides but they’re too dense and prickly to let us get through to the field. My breath is coming in fast, raggedy gasps and I feel light-headed with fear. Where do I go? The road is my only other option. I’ll flag down a car, but there aren’t any. Why are there no other cars?
I risk a glance back as I round the bumper. A man with shiny black shoes, a dark suit and close-cropped hair meets my gaze. He doesn’t look away. Instead he takes another step towards me, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
I take a step closer to the road. It’s still deserted. Where are the cars? Where are the people? If I scream no one will hear me. No one apart from the crow wheeling overhead, cawing loudly. My only choice is to run, but there’s no way I can outrun him, not with Elise in my arms. Plead then? He might have children of his own. He might take pity on me. But not if he’s a policeman. If he’s a policeman he’ll force me into that car and he’ll take me back to England. I’ll never see my daughter again.
‘Please!’ I shout as I reach the edge of the road. ‘Please, don’t.’
The man pauses. He’s reached the boot of my car. He glances inside and then at me. A frown wrinkles his brow. Is he with Paula? Is that why he just looked in the boot? He thinks I’ve got whatever it is she stole from Max. I have to convince him that I don’t have anything of hers, that there’s no point hurting us, that I’ll give him everything I have if he’ll just let us go.
A deep, bassy rumble fills the air and the ground beneath my feet vibrates. Something large and heavy is travelling down the road towards us: a truck or a tractor. I can’t see anything from where I’m standing. It must be behind me. I need to step into the road and flag it down. I take a step to my left. As I do, the man jolts back to life and hurries towards me.
‘Wait!’ he cries as I step into the road. ‘Watch—’
A horn sounds, a rush of air hits me full in the face and Elise screams in my ear. And then I’m yanked backwards, forcefully, by my shoulders.
‘Jesus!’ the man breathes as an articulated lorry rumbles past, just centimetres from where I was standing. ‘You could have had yourself killed.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ I brush Elise’s shorn hair away from her face as her nails bite into my neck and she stares up at me with
wide, uncomprehending eyes. I could have killed her. I could have killed us both.
‘You’re shaking,’ the man says. ‘You need to sit down.’
I don’t resist as he guides me towards a patch of grass at the edge of the verge. I don’t twist away as he grabs my elbow the moment my legs give way beneath me, and carefully lowers me into a sitting position.
I continue to shake for several minutes, then, as the man sits beside me, I burst into tears.
‘Just do it,’ I say as I bury my face in Elise’s hair and tears roll down my cheeks. ‘Just do whatever you’re going to do.’
‘You what?’ He leans away, observing me with a confused expression on his face as he rubs a hand back and forth over his hair. ‘I … er … I’m not sure I understand.’
Irish. He has a rich, deep Irish accent. I lift my face from Elise’s hair. Up close I can see that his nose is narrower, his chin wider and his pale-blue eyes are more deeply set than the man who chased me through Boots. He’s younger too, early thirties maybe.
‘I stopped because I thought you were having trouble with your car,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry if I scared you. I was just about to introduce myself when you ran into the road and … well …’ He tails off and gazes longingly in the direction of his car.
‘I’m sorry. I’m … I’m … just a bit jumpy.’
‘English, are you?’
‘Irish,’ I say. ‘But I’ve been away for a while.’
‘Quite a while, I’d say!’ Fine lines appear around his eyes as he smiles. His face looks less threatening but I’m still wary. ‘Where are you heading?’
‘Why do you need to know that?’
‘Oh, OK, OK.’ He holds out both palms. ‘I was just going to offer you a lift somewhere if you needed one, that’s all.’
