“But how could you know? How could anyone know?” Bram pleaded. “I couldn’t tell anyone. I see with hindsight that she was banished to Killoran by her family. Cast out through no fault of her own I’m sure. The least I could do was keep her secret. Do the decent thing. That’s what she’d have wanted I believe.”
“You did the best you could do, given the circumstances, Bram. You can’t blame yourself.”
“I appreciate that, Father. I hope I did. But I think Vivian, being such a religious person, resents the fact I didn’t give the little thing a Christian burial, and perhaps that’s why I’m having these strange dreams about her.”
“You want me to bless the grave?”
Bram nodded, grateful for the priest’s understanding. “I’d much appreciate it if you could, Father.”
“I’d be happy to.”
The sounds of somebody dismounting from a bicycle pulled them promptly back to the present.
“Don’t stir, Bram. Just the housekeeper.”
Bram got up. “No, Father, I’ve taken up enough of your time already.”
“I suppose it’s best your new tenant doesn’t learn any of this?”
“Absolutely.”
“How is she faring by the way?”
“Very well,” Bram lied.
“One wonders how we can conduct the ceremony without her knowledge.”
But Bram had already taken care of that.
“She’s going away to Portaluce for a few days, so I’ll let you know, Father.”
“Good enough. I’ll await your call then.”
Bram thanked him and walked away, relieved that he’d finally shared Vivian O’Meara’s story.
With one disagreeable task taken care of, his next priority was getting Rita Ruttle out of Willow Close and away to Portaluce as soon as possible.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Portaluce, Antrim Coast
Dreams.
Unsettling dreams.
So many of them so hard to countenance: scenes from the past, massing, parting, smashing, cracking, scattering far and wide, then returning to merge and fuse and meld together again and again and again into crazy murals of pain. And she, Dorinda Walsh, stuck in the paralyzed moment, having to observe the nightmare screenings through a sleep-induced coma of despair.
She sees a little girl climbing stairs.
Oh, the treads are so steep and it takes effort, slow, painstaking effort, to conquer each one! The carpet is red with daubs of yellow the colour of buttercups, the texture thin in places where boards show through. The wallpaper is yellow too, with swirls of tiny red roses riding alongside her.
The child is not alone.
Her left hand is gripped by a bigger one: a male hand coated with fine black hairs. The bigness of the man looms over her. When she looks up he’s like a tree, so tall she can’t see the top of him where his hair or the leaves would be.
The stairs are like a cliff-face. Three flights to the summit, going all the way up under a fall of dingy light. Up and up and up they go. And it is cold, so very cold. Icy fingers reach up the stairwell to pinch her legs between ankle-sock and hem.
The man, tugging her along, has no care that he might be hurting her. Her small arm is stretched beyond its reach, tiny hand frozen in his heavy grip. She dare not cry out.
Crying is a dangerous thing.
So she keeps her head down, focusing on the daisy motif cut-outs on the toes of her little patent shoes. And she thinks of Amy, her pet canary, asleep in her cage below, tiny beak folded inside her silky, yellow wings. Picturing Amy asleep makes her feel warm and happy and safe for now.
Finally, they gain the landing at the very top of the house.
The man halts, glares down at her.
“I hope you’re not crying,” he says in a voice charged with menace.
She looks up at him – the towering, tree-like man – and shakes her head from side to side.
“Good!” he barks.
With that he yanks her down a corridor to a door at the far end. It’s painted bright blue, with fluffy clouds floating across it. A door into paradise.
Her little heart flutters. She imagines a wonderland beyond the door: a wonderland of sunny skies and rolling hills, where rabbits hop and children skip in meadows of the most brilliant green. Just like the images in the bedtime storybook that Mama used to read to her.
The man turns the handle and throws the door wide.
But there is no blissful world beyond the door. Only darkness, a thick curtain of black.
He shoves her in.
The door slams shut.
The little girl screams . . .
Dorrie, jolted back to semi-consciousness in her white cell, sensed that her own cries had roused her. Her head was exploding. The cacophony in her ears, like an orchestra all out of tune, banging and crashing against her skull.
She tossed from side to side and opened her eyes.
It was all right. She was safe again. She glimpsed the crucifix above the door and took it as a sign. A good sign.
Then, of a sudden in the lock, the sound of a key turning.
Someone opened the door.
Her throat constricted. She half-closed her eyes again, feigning sleep, not daring to move.
She heard the murmur of a woman’s voice, the rustle of her raiment. All at once a figure, like an apparition, glided into the room. Was it an angel? Was it a ghost, a shape-shifter stealing in from some mystical realm to carry her away from this netherworld of grief?
The figure in white rested a hand on her forehead and took her pulse. The patient sensed immediately she was safe again, away from the tall man and the steep stairs and that sky-door that opened into the blackest pit.
Soon she slipped back into the tender embrace of the sleep state.
And so the dreams and nightmares came and went, as did the hours of light and dark, like pages turning in a life-sized picture book.
Sometimes the pictures were vile and ugly, thick with images of beasts and brutes. But soon the sun came out and burned them all away, so that only the brightest and best pages of the little girl’s life shone through.
Mama hugging her tight.
Mama kissing her cheek.
Mama blowing out candles on a birthday cake.
Mama helping her dress.
Mama, oh dear lovely Mama! The scent of her hair, the light of her smile, the lilt of her voice. Mama, her saviour. Mama, her champion. Mama, her buffer against the cruel world.
On the fourth morning of her incarceration, F-32 awoke into the early morning light, and knew instinctively that all was well, that today she’d be leaving the white convent by the sea and going home.
The sorry episode that had propelled her behind the locked door of the cell-like room had passed. The world had righted itself again. Flawed it might still be – but she could live with that. She’d lived with such disruptions for a long time and would no doubt encounter them again in the future.
For now though, those demons – so much a part of her – had been fought and conquered: locked and chained below decks with the help of medication and the kindness of strangers in this sterile, ascetic place that was somewhere between a hospital and a cloister.
She threw back the bed-covers and went directly to the concealed closet.
It felt good to put on clothes again. There were no mirrors to reflect this small victory, but she imagined any garb an improvement on the regulation bed-shift with the embroidered monogram. Had she been a prisoner? It certainly felt like it. Dismayed, she placed the nightgown on a hanger and thrust it back into the closet for the next unfortunate addict.
She opened the bedside table and took out her handbag and effects, her mind focused on simply leaving as soon as possible.
But when all packed up and ready, a desperate sadness took hold of her, forcing her to the window. Why, she could not know, for the scene that greeted her was anything but threatening: the sky cloudless, the ocean as still as glass, so much
at odds with the bruised vista she’d been expecting.
The beach shimmered golden in the morning light. The beauty of it bringing tears, and the lines of a poem:
My tale is heard, and yet it was not told,
My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green,
My youth is spent, and yet I am not old,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen . . .
“It’s good to see you on your feet again.”
A woman’s voice had broken in on her meditation.
She turned back from the window to see a nun standing just inside the door, holding a chair.
“Sorry . . . I . . . I never heard you enter, Sister.”
“Oh, there’s no need to apologize.” She came forward and placed the chair by the window. “We’re all allowed our daydreams. How do you feel today?”
“Much better, thank you.”
“Good. Please . . . won’t you sit for a little?”
She drew up the other chair.
“Beautiful morning,” the nun continued. “The sun is God, and He paints such arresting scenes for us, don’t you think?”
“Yes. But . . . this . . . this scene makes me sad. I don’t take pleasure in it. In fact I don’t want to look at it any more.”
“That’s too bad,” the nun said.
“I’d . . . I’d like very much to leave today and go home, Sister.”
“Do you know where home is?” She gave her a searching look. The look a mother might give her child before setting her on the road to school.
“Yes, I do, Sister.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, quite sure. Thank you.”
“Here, take this.” She passed her a small card. “The Samaritans . . . you can call them any time . . . just in case you need to talk to someone . . . in the future. You can do so in the strictest confidence.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember that.”
“Now, let’s walk you to your car.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Samaritan Centre, Killoran
“Samaritans . . . May I help you?”
It was 7 p.m. on Friday evening and Rita-Mae was on duty with a sore foot and a troubled mind.
Despite recent setbacks her important voluntary work could not be neglected. She had the dates and times marked in red on a calendar that hung in the kitchen of 8 Willow Close and she dared not miss an appointment, no matter how bad she might be feeling, or how perilous things might seem. Saving lives seemed more important than ever now, anchoring her in a rapidly changing situation she felt she had little control over.
She’d spent the previous two days and nights behind the locked doors of number 8 – all windows shut and blinded – keeping watch on the Glacken house through a crack in the curtains of her bedroom. Waiting for mother and son to reappear. But there was no sign. The curtains on both upper windows remained drawn. They’d obviously gone off somewhere. But the minute she saw those curtains pulled back she’d be over there for a showdown.
Bram Hilditch had called twice, but she hadn’t answered the door. The phone had rung several times, but she’d ignored that too. Who else could it be but the landlord, with his fake sympathy and empty apologies?
His betrayal of her with the Glacken boy was simply one insult too many.
“Samaritans . . . May I help you?” she said again, into the pause.
The person on the other end didn’t respond.
She waited.
Phone pressed tight to her ear, detecting only the shallowest breathing on the other end.
A woman perhaps.
Or a man holding the receiver out of range.
She studied her right foot, bandaged across the instep. One dead pigeon and a shoeless flight out of the woods – a journey of a good ten minutes – had reduced the foot to a mosaic of minor cuts and grazes. Wearing shoes was too painful so she’d resorted to sandals, even though it was not sandal weather. It might be the middle of spring, but the air was still holding on to an unseasonal chilliness.
The lull on the end of the line was getting longer. The breathing sustained and shallow, but regular. Not likely a “live” suicide, she told herself. Not like Kevin, the angry young man in the phone box whom she’d lost not so very long before.
She listened more intently for secondary sounds. Cars going by. The creak of a chair. The latter would tell her the caller was not in a public phone box.
But there was nothing. Only the faint breathing and the silence.
Someone ill in bed? Dying. Someone dying, friendless and alone, but at the very end wanting the comfort of hearing another human voice.
She’d try again.
“It’s all right . . . I can wait . . . wait as long as you like,” she said, tone softer, quieter. “Take your time . . . there’s no rush . . . my name’s Rita by the way. I’m here for you.”
All at once she heard the receiver fall back on to the cradle.
The line went dead.
Well, she’d given it her best shot. If the person had passed away at least she’d been there for them.
She brought her mind back to the present. Blossom’s booklet, The Life of Saint Catherine of Siena, was still in her pocket. She decided to delve into it, to pass the time between calls. Having been to the Glacken house and discovered the skylight window, she had the unnerving idea that someone was up there, watching.
Had watched Vivian-B and was now watching her.
Vivian-Bernadette O’Meara’s writings, still in the drawer of the kitchen table along with those three intrusive photographs, had mentioned someone – a voyeur – watching her. Watching her every move.
Rita-Mae had not been able to return to that drawer since the fateful day Maud Gilhooley had bobbed up her path asking after the cake tin. So much had happened since then that she was simply too afraid to read more. But the notes she’d read about Vivian-Bernadette on file and those pages of lines she’d written were like some kind of punishment, playing in her mind like a looped recording.
I must follow in the footsteps of Catherine of Siena.
She looked at the phone. Perhaps that caller hadn’t died and was summoning the courage to ring again.
Perhaps?
She turned to the first page:
CATHERINE WAS BORN DURING THE PLAGUE IN SIENA ON 25 MARCH 1347 INTO A FAMILY OF TWENTY-FIVE CHILDREN. HALF OF HER BROTHERS AND SISTERS DID NOT SURVIVE CHILDHOOD. CATHERINE WAS A TWIN, BUT HER SISTER DIED IN INFANCY.
That last made her think of her own twin sister, who’d died at birth – or so her mother claimed. What if she hadn’t died?
Rita-Mae sighed. How different life might have been had her sister lived! She’d never have had to struggle through the years on her own. As time wore on and Rita-Mae grew up, her heartless mother, Hedda, point-blank refused to even discuss the dead baby. Would lash out at the mere mention of her, so Rita-Mae learned to keep her counsel with regard to the little girl she’d never known.
AT SIXTEEN, CATHERINE’S PARENTS WANTED HER TO MARRY HER BROTHER-IN-LAW, WHO’D BECOME A WIDOWER ON THE DEATH OF BONAVENTURA, BUT CATHERINE RESISTED THE PROPOSAL BY CUTTING HER HAIR AND BEGINNING A REGIME OF EXTREME FASTING.
PRAYER AND FASTING WOULD BECOME A DAILY PRACTICE AND END IN HER DEATH AT THE AGE OF THIRTY-THREE.
Brrring brrring . . . Brrring brrring . . .
The phone was ringing again.
She snatched it up.
“Samaritans . . . May I—”
“Rita . . . aye, Rita. How you?”
She caught her breath.
The stalker!
Lenny!
“I don’t have to talk to you . . . y-you’re not a serious case.”
“I think you should listen tae me. For if you hang up on me, like you did the last time, you might . . . well, just let’s say you might end up regretting it.” A pause. “I mean really regretting it.”
She palmed the mouthpiece. Took a deep breath.
“How dare you threaten me?!”
“Saw what you done to the boy, Rita.”
“What boy? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sniggering. “Think you do.”
She heard drink being gulped down.
“Aye . . . I think you do. See, I miss nothin’, Rita. I see everything, and I’m not likin’ what I’m seein’ of you these days. In fact ’cos of what you did tae the boy I think I’ll have tae take you in hand, if you get me meanin’?”
She couldn’t find her voice. Her throat had turned to dust. There was a glass of water beside her, but she dared not touch it. Dared not let him hear her fear.
“See, the last crazy bitch that lived in that house . . . she started out all right, just like yerself, then she insulted the boy. That was the wrong thing tae do. Very, very wrong. Had to give her a good seein’ to, in a manner of speakin’.”
She heard him drag on the cigarette. Wanted to slam down the receiver. But stayed her hand, stricken by the threat.
“Maybe we could work something out, Rita. Some way you could . . . well, please me . . . put me in a better mood, if you get me meanin’. ’Cos you’re a good-lookin’ woman. Don’t need any of that oul’ make-up. And you don’t drink either. Never seen you buy drink since you moved here. I like that. A good-livin’ woman . . . aye, good-livin’, just the way I like me women. No vices, like the rest of us. Now, why don’t we start by you tellin’ me what colour knickers yer wearin’ under that nice blue skirt?”
“None of your business! I’m not wearing a blue skirt,” she snapped, looking down at the skirt, which was indeed blue.
He chuckled. She heard him inhale again.
“Think you are. That foot of yours will take a bitta time tae heal up too.”
“You stay the hell away from me, you hear! I won’t be driven out by the likes of you. Think you’re so bloody clever, intimidating women on their own. What a brave, bloody coward you are! Well, hear this, I’m not afraid of the likes of you! You’re lower than the scum of the earth. Should be locked up. Or maybe you are locked up somewhere and this is how you get your kicks. Now, I’m going to terminate this call. Goodbye!”
She slammed the phone down, heart hammering. Head pounding. She’d broken every rule in the Samaritan handbook, but who would know? She’d had enough.
The Spinster Wife Page 27
