The Escape

by C. L. Taylor

  There’s a name at the top of the scan. Mrs Joanne Blackmore and a date, four years earlier. Joanne Blackmore? So that’s Helen’s real name then.

  She carefully places the items back in the box, returns it to the top of the wardrobe and reaches for the plastic bag. It’s set quite far back and she has to stand on tiptoes to grab the handle. She sees the contents before she’s even pulled it off the wardrobe. It’s stuffed with money. She yanks it towards her and rifles through it. There must be thousands of pounds in here.

  She drops onto the bed as her legs give way. No one carries that amount of money with them in cash. It has to be stolen. Unless Joanne Blackmore is on the run? Mary stands up again and replaces the bag of money on top of the wardrobe. Her heart thuds heavily in her chest as she gazes around the room. What else is Joanne hiding?

  She lifts up the pillows and the duvets but there’s nothing beneath them so she turns her attention to the mattress, sliding her hands underneath, feeling for anything unusual. When she doesn’t find anything she tips the mattress up. The pillows, the duvet and plastic bag full of clothes slip to the floor. Nothing. There’s nothing under the mattress. Under the bed then? She drops to her knees and looks underneath. Nothing there either, apart from a couple of socks and the pink and white knickers she’d seen the girl wearing.

  Where else? Where else? She returns to the suitcase and searches through it again, looking for zipped compartments and hidden pockets, but doesn’t find anything unusual. The only place left to look is in the drawer of the bedside table. It’s one of the first places she looks when a guest checks out. They’re forever leaving their glasses, medication and books behind. Out of sight, out of mind, when they’re hidden away.

  She yanks the drawer open but there’s nothing unusual inside. Just a couple of blister packs of medication, some Sudocrem, some wet wipes and what looks like a slim photo album. She reaches for it and opens the first page. The first photograph is of Joanne, but with long blonde hair. She’s lying in a hospital bed with a baby, wrapped in a white blanket, in her arms. Mary turns the page. There’s another photo taken in hospital. This time of Jo and a man with fair hair with the baby cradled between them. There’s a wedding ring on the third finger of the man’s left hand. And one on Jo’s finger too. Her husband then, the one she said died. Mary continues to turn the pages. As she does, the child grows – from newborn to smiling baby to crawling to standing. Some of the photos feature Joanne, some feature the man, some are just of the child. Mary’s confusion grows as she reaches the penultimate photo in the book. There’s no doubt that the child in the book is little Lee. She’s got long fair curly hair in the images but her face – her wide blue eyes and rosebud lips – is exactly the same. It doesn’t make sense. If Lee is Joanne’s child why cut off all her hair and dress her as a boy? Why keep thousands of pounds in a plastic bag?

  Mary turns the final page. The last photograph is of the girl standing by a bed with an older woman. In the bed is a gaunt-cheeked man. He’s looking at the camera but, unlike the child and the woman, he’s not smiling. He looks unwell. Mary’s gaze flicks towards the face of the older woman. There’s something very familiar about her. Her smile has sparked an uneasy sensation in the pit of Mary’s stomach. She runs a finger over the clear film covering the photograph. It feels unusually thick so she peels back the plastic edging and reaches a finger behind the photograph. She touches something and carefully pulls it out. It’s another photograph but this one is folded in two.

  She unfolds it, takes one look at the two people in the black and white image, and then hurls it away from her.

  It floats down to the carpet and lies still. A man and a woman gaze up at her. They are both smiling. The woman is Mary’s childhood best friend Brigid Gallagher on her wedding day. She’s standing outside the Church of the Sacred Heart dressed in a simple white dress with a veil in her hair. Beside her is a man in a cheap dark suit.

  Liam O’Brien.

  The man who killed Niamh.

  Chapter 62

  I’ve found you, Jo.

  This is it – Seamount B&B – where you’ve been hiding with my daughter. The woman in the post office didn’t immediately recognise you from the photo but, when I suggested that you might look different, she’d told me that she’d served a tourist that looked a little like the woman in my photograph. Only she had red hair. I covered your hair with my fingers and asked her to take another look. Could the woman with the red hair be the woman in the photo? Yes, she said, nodding, you could be sisters, but the woman she’d served was definitely with a boy. A fine-featured boy admittedly, but definitely a boy. I was about to leave. I was going to ask at the caravan instead but then the shop owner called me back.

  ‘Lee!’ she said. ‘The boy’s name is Lee. I distinctly remember his mother calling him that when he was trying to snatch some sweets off the shelves.’

  Lee. Li-Li. So that’s what you’ve been doing, Jo. You’ve been trying to pass our daughter off as a boy.

  The shop owner was very forthcoming when I asked her if she knew where you might be staying. She gave me the address of Mary’s B&B and told me that I should hurry if I wanted to catch you because your landlady had told her that you had a flight to catch in Dublin this evening. That was nice of her, wasn’t it, Jo? Very helpful.

  ‘Hello?’ There’s no answer when he knocks on the door so Max knocks on the window. A net curtain is hung behind it but he can make out chairs and tables and a dresser at the back of the room.

  He returns to the front door and is about to knock again when it opens. An ashen-faced woman in her sixties stares out at him. The door is only open a crack so he can only see her face.

  ‘Yes?’

  Max reaches into the back pocket of his jeans then changes his mind. There’s something strange about the way the B&B owner is looking at him. She looks fraught and fearful. Has Jo told her about him, is that why she’s hiding behind the door?

  ‘I … er …’ He clears his throat. ‘I was wondering if you have any rooms available.’

  ‘No.’ She shakes her head.

  ‘But there’s a sign in the window saying you have vacancies.’

  ‘I don’t. I need to change the sign. Goodbye.’

  ‘Wait!’ He pushes against the door before she can close it. ‘Please, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Take your hand off my door or I’ll call the police. I told you, I don’t have any rooms.’

  ‘I know and … I’m sorry … I know I’m intruding but I’m desperate.’ He bites down on the inside of his lip so hard he tastes blood in his mouth and his eyes water.

  His ‘tears’ have the desired effect. Mary stops pushing back against the door and her face softens.

  ‘Desperate for what?’

  ‘To find my wife and daughter.’ He keeps one hand on the door and reaches into the back pocket of his jeans with his free hand. He pulls out the photo and shows it to her. ‘Have you seen them?’

  He watches Mary closely as she looks at the photo. You don’t spend nineteen years as a journalist without learning how to read body language. Sure enough, her eyes widen, ever so slightly. Recognition.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She pushes the photo back towards him. ‘I’ve never seen them before.’

  Interesting. Everyone else he’s shown the photo to has pumped him for more information. Why are his wife and daughter missing? Where is he from? How long have they been gone for? But not Mary Byrne. She looks like she can’t get rid of him fast enough.

  ‘The woman at the post office told me that they’re staying here.’

  ‘She’s mistaken.’ Mary looks pointedly at his hand. ‘I have things to do.’

  ‘She’s a drug addict. Did you know that, Mrs Byrne?’ The older woman flinches as he says her name but he hasn’t got time to explain why he knows it. ‘The police arrested her for keeping drugs in our home. And she’s mentally unstable. She’s ill and incapable of looking after our daughter. I’ve got a court order that has a
warded me custody of Elise. Would you like to see it?’ He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket but Mary waves him away.

  ‘There’s no need. As I told you, I don’t recognise the woman and the child in the photo. Good day to you.’

  ‘Please! Jo’s a very manipulative woman.’ He pauses, gauging the older woman’s expression. He definitely saw her lips tighten when he said the name Jo. ‘She’s given you a different name, hasn’t she? You see! That’s the kind of woman we’re dealing with. She’s manipulative and she’s a liar. What’s she said to you? That she had to go on the run with our daughter to protect her? But Jo’s the one that’s putting Elise in danger.’

  He waits for Mary to say something. He can see the indecision in her face. He’s been in this situation hundreds of times before – witnesses to crimes who are unsure whether to talk to him. They want to share what they saw, they’re dying to talk about it to someone who might understand, but a journalist? Everyone knows that journalists twist your words. And what if there was some kind of repercussion from the criminal or their family? He can tell when they’re wavering. When they need one more push to spill their guts. That’s the stage he’s at now with Mary. He’s going to have to show his hand.

  ‘I know who you are,’ he says, softening his voice and adopting the most sympathetic, heartfelt expression in his repertoire. ‘I know the tragedy you’ve been through and I’m so very, very sorry for your loss. I can’t begin to imagine how much you’ve suffered. I was sickened when I discovered that Jo’s staying with you. Of all the places she could have chosen to stay …’ He shakes his head. ‘She’s more unwell than I thought. Unless,’ – he pauses for dramatic effect – ‘unless she deliberately sought you out, Mary. In which case she’s as dangerous as her father. And now another child is in danger, my child, and you’re the only one who can stop something terrible happening to her. You could save her life.’

  He cringes, inwardly, as he says the last sentence. It’s a horribly cheesy line, the sort of thing television adverts for abandoned dogs or overworked donkey charities close with. Every single word of those adverts is meticulously crafted to tug at your heartstrings and make you put your hand in your wallet.

  He drops his chin, wrings his hands together and swallows hard, as though he’s fighting back tears. And he waits. His words will be sinking in. Mary will be wrestling with her conscience. She might even have tears in her eyes. Five, four, three, two …

  The door slams shut.

  What the fuck?

  ‘Mary!’ Max hammers on the door then crouches down and shouts through the letter box. ‘Mary Byrne. Please! You need to help me. I know they’re living here. Please, Mary. You need to do the right thing or you’ll be an accessory to child abduction.’

  He waits, but Mary doesn’t appear in the hallway. The only sound he hears is his own desperate heartbeat, thundering in his ears.

  He slips one of his business cards through the letter box. ‘Here’s my number, Mrs Byrne. Think about what I said and give me a ring. You couldn’t save Niamh but you could save Elise. Do the right thing, Mary. I know you’re a good person.’

  The letter box clatters shut as he stands up and looks around. There are two cars parked outside the house. One is his hire car, the other is a silver Ford Fiesta. He peers through the windows, looking for any indication that it’s Jo’s car, but there are no CDs scattered on the passenger seat, no Diet Coke bottles, no car seat, no crisp crumbs on the back seat, or toys, books and games. Jo had to have hired a car to get here from Rosslare. But did she make the journey with Elise alone or with someone else? What if they’re already on their way to Dublin to catch a flight?

  He slams the top of the car with the palm of his hand. What now? He looks from the Ford Fiesta to the B&B and then back to his own car. He could wait outside the B&B to see if Jo comes back or he could drive to Dublin airport and hang around Arrivals. Or …

  No!

  He hurries back to the B&B, opens the letter box and peers inside. There’s a silver buggy parked up in the hallway, just like Elise’s.

  Max smiles.

  So, you haven’t left then, Jo. You’re still here, either hiding in the B&B or somewhere in the town.

  Either way I’ll find you. I’m going nowhere until I do.

  Chapter 63

  Mary watches from behind the net curtains, her heart twisting with indecision, as Max gets into his red Vauxhall Astra. She’d been so startled when she’d opened the front door to him. It was as though the photograph album had come to life. One minute he was frozen in time, smiling out of the photograph, and the next he was on her doorstep, pleading with her to help save his child’s life. What was going on? First the revelation that red-haired Helen was actually a blonde-haired woman called Joanne, then the discovery of the photograph of Brigid and Liam, and now Max, threatening her, telling her she was an accomplice to child abduction. When he’d mentioned that Jo was Liam’s daughter she’d felt as though the foundations of her home were rumbling under her feet and the walls were shaking. Every bone in her body told her to slam the door shut in Max’s face and hide away until the devastation was over.

  But she didn’t. She stood in the doorway, guarding her home from the man with tears in his eyes and devastation in his voice. He spoke so quickly she couldn’t take it all in. Jo was a mentally unstable drug addict. She was manipulative and a liar. She was putting Elise’s life in danger. She was Liam O’Brien’s daughter and she was dangerous. It was as though he was speaking Mary’s fears aloud and she was so close, so close to telling him that Jo and Elise were on the beach. But then he’d mentioned Niamh – he’d intimated that she should save his child because she’d failed to save her own – and her heart and the door had slammed shut simultaneously.

  How dare he use that against her to try and manipulate her! What did he know about what had happened? What did he care? He didn’t see her as a person. He saw her as a means to an end.

  Brigid Gallagher had known the real Mary. They’d met on the first day of primary school. Mary had admired Brigid’s long black plaits. Brigid had admired the red bow in Mary’s hair. It was their very first conversation and one that had started a friendship that stretched throughout childhood, adolescence and into their early twenties. They shared their worries and their fears with each other, the details of their first kisses, their hopes and dreams for their future. They’d talked about soulmates, baby names and careers. They went on holiday together. And when Mary met Patrick at a dance in Drogheda and decided that he was the man she wanted to marry, Brigid was the first person she told. That was the first time their relationship hit a rocky point. Mary spent a lot of time with Patrick in those first heady months and rarely saw her best friend. Brigid accused Mary of abandoning her. She said she was glad that she’d found love but she was in danger of losing her friendship.

  ‘I’d never do that to you,’ she said. ‘Not for a man. Not for anything. We made a pact when we were little, remember? To be friends for ever.’

  That night Mary couldn’t sleep for crying. She was madly in love with Patrick but Brigid was right, she had been a bad friend. The next day she organised to go to tea with Brigid. She also rang Pat to ask if he had any nice friends that he could introduce to Brigid. But before she was introduced to any of them Brigid met Liam when she was walking the family dog on the beach. Mary didn’t like him at first. She thought he was a bit of a gadabout, a drifter, five years older, who moved from town to town in search of work, but he was nice to Brigid. He treated her well and made her laugh.

  And then Liam went off to England for a building job and Brigid found out that she was pregnant.

  She cried like her heart was breaking. They both did. It was the worst possible shame to befall an unmarried mother in Ireland in the 70s. Brigid’s mother suggested she go to Cork, stay with a second cousin and have the baby away from prying eyes. She said she should give it up for adoption if she wanted any kind of respectable life for herself. Brigid did go to Co
rk to have the baby but she didn’t give it up for adoption. She returned to Clogherhead shortly after the birth with a tiny pink bundle in her arms and she told her parents that if they didn’t accept little Joanne she’d move so far away they’d never see either of them again. Brigid’s da was furious. He raged at her, shouting that no one threatened him, particularly not his own daughter. But Brigid’s mam wore him down. If her daughter could walk through the streets of Clogherhead with her head held high then so would she. And woe betide anyone who judged them.

  They did, of course. There were whispers and sly glances and raised eyebrows. Some of the older people in the village crossed the street when they saw Brigid walking towards them, pushing her pram. Mary knew that inside she was burning with shame and anger but she never showed it. Not once. Instead she would raise her chin and wish them a very good morning.

  No one thought Liam O’Brien would come back, least of all Mary, but Brigid was insistent. She said that, when he read the letter she’d sent him about the baby, he’d come back and he’d marry her. And he did. Against all expectations he returned to Clogherhead. The local priest wouldn’t marry them so they were forced to go to a different parish, and in the Church of the Sacred Heart he put a ring on her finger. Mary didn’t attend the wedding. No one did. Brigid said she understood why her parents hadn’t attended but Mary could see past the stoic look on her best friend’s face. She was bitterly, bitterly hurt.

  Niamh was born six years after Joanne. Brigid was bridesmaid at Mary and Patrick’s wedding. She’d whispered in Mary’s ear, after the ceremony, that tonight would be the night she’d conceive her child, but it had taken longer than that. A lot longer. Every night for five years Mary prayed to God to bring her a child. And then, finally, her prayers came true.