A Savage Hunger (Paula Maguire 4)

by Claire McGowan

  Alice

  Out. I’m not sure if it even exists any more, or if it’s just something I imagined. Some days in here, it’s like the only world that exists is him, and me, and the other girls. The smells of blood and vomit and the white lights flickering overhead. The cuffs. The strip-searches. Being watched, all the time and every second of every day and night.

  But I have to still believe in it, the idea of Out. In my head I start running through all the things I’ll do when I get there. Ride a horse again, feel it breathe and strain beneath me, put my feet out of the stirrups and lie along its warm back, hugging it. Go to the beach really early in the morning, digging my feet into the cold wet sand. Go to the cinema by myself and see three films in a row, right through. Ride a Ferris wheel, and scream when we reach the top, hanging there as if by magic, as if we’ll never come back down. Go to university – me, in a campus full of trees, in glasses and a scarf, laughing in a big group of boys and girls. The smell of autumn in the air – wet leaves and rain. I haven’t breathed fresh air in so long. It’s all I want in here. Magazines aren’t allowed and of course anything you can eat is pointless. If someone was coming – which they aren’t – I would ask them to bring a jar of outside air, so I could breathe it all down in one gulp. It isn’t too much to ask, is it?

  Charlotte asked me: What would you do to get out?

  Anything, I said. Anything.

  Her eyes were glittering. Pinky swear? She held up her cold finger, like a white witch, and we swore. And for a while, we played the game. The Ana game. And we were pure.

  But of course she won. Because she’s dead. But soon, very soon now, we’re going to be even.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Will we be able to use any of that?’ They were walking back to the car, which was unmolested, though being watched from a distance by a crowd of young men in sportswear who looked like the most sport they ever did was running away from the police.

  Corry unlocked it. ‘If we can prove Peter did something similar to Alice . . . She could have been traumatised, run away, or even done something to herself.’

  ‘Maybe he did more this time. Made sure she couldn’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Maybe. But we can’t bring him in without any evidence. Still, we can use the previous allegation, if something comes up. In the meantime we’ll have to watch them – all three of them.’ She shook her head grimly, looking back at Colette’s house. ‘I can’t believe they tried to prosecute her.’

  ‘Let’s not forget that Ireland is a country that put a teenager under house arrest in the nineties, so she couldn’t have an abortion after she was raped.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ Corry sighed. ‘It’s just hard . . . Doing this job, you have to know you’re on the right side. Otherwise you may as well give up and work in a coffee shop or something. Because if we don’t have that, we have nothing. And when it’s the state doing stuff like that – it makes it harder.’

  Paula thought about it. They were the only people who seemed worried about Alice. Not even her own parents. Not even her closest friends. ‘If I went missing . . . I think I’d at least want to know someone was looking for me.’

  ‘Me too. Come on, belt up.’ Corry started the engine.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ Paula put her seat belt on.

  ‘I thought we might as well pay another visit while we’re down here.’

  The girl was pretty in a pinched, overly made-up way, with long, straightened brown hair and a baggy cardigan over a vest top and jeans. She paused with her key in one hand in front of the tatty student house, plastic bag in the other. Hangover food, crisps and fizzy drinks and chocolate. Like a child would buy, if given money for the first time. ‘What?’ she said impatiently, as they approached. ‘You’re not the Jehovah’s lot, are you? We’ve told you we’re not interested.’

  Paula heard Corry make a small noise in her throat. ‘It’s Alison, is it? Alison Carter.’

  ‘Yes – oh shit, are you the Guards? I’m going to pay it, I promise, it’s just I’m really busy with uni just now—’

  ‘Not the Guards,’ said Corry. ‘Can we come in, please?’

  She was suddenly pale and polite, ushering them into the dirty, ash-stained living room and evicting the long-haired type who was skulking in there with a stern, ‘Fintan, will you go upstairs’, that made Paula sure there were drugs somewhere on the premises. Slumming it, at least for a while, all of them, before getting jobs in PR or a bank, probably.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Alison perched on the armchair Fintan had reluctantly vacated. ‘Did something bad happen?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Corry, looking with distaste at the stained sofa cushions. ‘We’re from the PSNI and we’re investigating the disappearance of a girl up north. You may have seen it on the news. But I’d like a word with you about Katy Butcher.’

  At this, Alison’s manner switched again. She groaned and sat back, so a space of flat midriff appeared between her skinny jeans and vest top. ‘Christ, you’re not here about Katy? That stupid bitch. She gave you my name?’

  ‘No, she didn’t mention you at all. Your school did. I just need to find out a bit about her background, her character. Before she went to university.’

  ‘Oh my God, did she know that girl who’s missing? I bet something weird happened. I bet she did something.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Paula, who was also trying not to touch any of the sofa cushions. She was sure there was a bodily fluid of some kind ground into them.

  ‘Because, hello, Katy is a total spaz. I haven’t spoken to her in like seven years.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  Alison hooked her slim arms around her legs. ‘The thing about Katy is, right, she likes girls, but she’s in total denial about it.’

  ‘You’re saying Katy is gay?’ So why then would she claim Peter Franks was her boyfriend?

  ‘Duh. I said it to her when we were like fourteen, hello, you’re probably a lesbian and I’m not – I mean it’s not the gay thing, it would be cool, I’m just not into it – but she burst out crying and told the teacher I was bullying her. Then this one time, she was having a sleepover at mine and she tried to – urgh, I don’t even like talking about it.’

  ‘She made a move?’ Corry suggested.

  ‘Yeah, she like tried to . . . touch me. In bed. So I said I wasn’t like that, and she’d better sleep on the floor or something. She started to cry and said she’d go home, she’d walk – it wasn’t far, see, we were practically neighbours. Then like an hour later, middle of the fucking night, I hear my mum screaming. Katy’s in our bathroom, and she’s well, she used my razor, and she – cut herself. You know.’

  ‘She tried to commit suicide?’ asked Corry.

  Alison made a noise. ‘If you call hacking at your wrists with a pink Gillette Venus suicide – like hello, do it properly . . . And there’s blood everywhere, like everywhere, it’s like a horror film, and she’s all puking and groaning, lying on the floor, and she left this . . . note . . . about how she liked me.’ Alison put her head in her hands. ‘Oh God. It was so embarrassing. I had to explain to my folks, and her folks, and it got all round school we were, like, lesbians. Urgh. She ruined school for me. I never spoke to her again.’

  ‘I see. Is there anything else you can tell us?’

  ‘I bet she was in love with that girl,’ said Alison shrewdly. ‘Was she? I bet she’s got something to do with it. She’s so weird. Honestly, I bet Katy knows something about it. Bet you a million pounds. Am I right?’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ said Corry, getting up by way of answer. ‘What was it you hadn’t paid, by the way, a parking fine?’

  ‘Um . . . speeding ticket.’ Alison blushed. ‘I’m going to, I swear, I just—’

  ‘See that you do. Oh, and, Alison . . .’ – as a toilet flushed upstairs – ‘it wouldn’t be within my remit to search this place for drugs, but I could easily send someone round to do so. Make sure you clean it up. An
d if you have any information about Katy Butcher that we might need to hear, let me know immediately.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘So I think a purple cravat would go lovely with the wedding theme, what about that?’ Hearing voices as she opened the door, Paula stopped in the hallway of her house to listen.

  ‘What’s a cravat?’ Aidan sounded scared.

  ‘Ach, you know, a sort of tie.’

  ‘Can I not just wear an actual tie?’

  There was a noise of derision. ‘If you want it to just be like some normal day . . .’

  Paula went in to rescue him. ‘Hiya.’

  Dr Saoirse McLoughlin, Paula’s bridesmaid, oldest friend, and godmother to Maggie, was sitting at the table, her godchild on her knee. ‘Well, there’s the bride!’

  ‘A bride with no dress,’ said Aidan.

  ‘Er, you’re not supposed to know about the dress. Hi, pet.’ Paula ruffled Maggie’s hair.

  ‘Mummy, Aunty See-sha’s here!’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’

  Aidan said, ‘Well then, I’ll take Miss Maggie up for a wee-wee, and you two can talk about it in secret. I know you love all that.’

  She glared at him as he went, scooping Maggie into his arms, shooting her a small wink.

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ Saoirse started to say, then blinked as Paula suddenly asked: ‘What do you know about anorexia?’

  ‘Er, not a massive amount. I did a rotation once in psych, but it wouldn’t present to Casualty much.’ Saoirse was an A&E registrar, focusing on what she called the ‘blood and guts’ of medicine.

  ‘Well, would you know, or could you find out, if someone was starving, say, and they suddenly started eating again – what would that do to them?’

  ‘You mean would they put on a lot of weight fast?’

  ‘I was thinking more of bulimia, if they developed that too.’

  ‘Well, bulimia can easily be fatal. Puts a massive strain on the heart, which is usually damaged already with anorexia.’

  ‘So someone could die?’

  ‘Yeah, they could. If you’re starving, even eating normally can kill you. It’s called re-feeding syndrome. People had it after the war. Why?’

  Paula shook her head. ‘Sorry, bit caught up with this case.’

  ‘I can see. You haven’t even mentioned the wedding. Anyone would think it wasn’t in, hello – two weeks’ time!’

  Paula shrugged off the brief burst of panic. ‘Oh, you know me – I’m not good at that girly stuff. Is your own dress ready?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s all taken in.’ Paula remembered that when they first chose it – ages ago, because that one was for Saoirse and therefore not as terrifying as her own – they’d picked one with an empire line, because of the chance Saoirse might be pregnant by the time it was worn. And two rounds of IVF later, she wasn’t.

  Her friend was looking at her. ‘Pat says you still haven’t picked one.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to Pat?’

  ‘I saw her the other day in the hospital.’

  This reminded Paula of two things – one, that Saoirse and Pat were basically organising this wedding for her, and two, that she hadn’t been anywhere in sight on her friend’s own big day. She’d been twenty-five, doing her best to stay away from the town that held so many painful memories, but still. Still still still. God, she could be a right bitch at times. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d not have been able to do this without you.’

  ‘You’d not have wanted to do it.’

  ‘No, but – it’ll be nice.’

  ‘It’ll be lovely,’ said Saoirse. ‘You’ll see. I could have become a wedding planner after mine. Dave said he’d break down and cry if he ever heard the words “your special day” again.’

  Paula nodded. ‘And Pat’s been to about a thousand weddings. She knows everyone in town, and I mean everyone.’

  ‘Is she OK then?’

  ‘I think so, why?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. Just wondered why she was in the hospital. She seemed a wee bit off, not her usual self.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe she was up visiting someone. She does that a lot.’

  ‘OK. I better go anyway, I have a shift tonight. Here, read this.’ Saoirse got up, foisting a bridal magazine on Paula. The woman on the cover had teeth whiter than her veil and looked as if every thought in her head had been replaced by confetti. The cover read: Your special day – new trends in table wear. 101 things to do with your hair. The great cake debate – three-tier or cupcakes?

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Saoirse firmly. ‘You have to order your dress. You won’t get anything decent now anyway, you need at least ten weeks. I ordered mine a year in advance.’

  Yes, thought Paula, because you know what you want and that you won’t change your mind, and you and Dave have basically been together from the second you met and you’ve never had a moment’s doubt about him. ‘You’re too good to me, you know,’ she said awkwardly. They were not the hugging kind of friends. ‘I don’t know why you put up with me.’

  ‘Remember that time your dad hurt his leg?’

  ‘When were we seventeen? Yeah, why?’

  ‘Remember you came to stay for a while after, when he was in hospital? Well, Mammy took me aside, and she said, you mind that wee girl, Saoirse. She’s had a hard time of it, and you’ve your mammy and daddy and your brothers and sisters and everything. I said you’d be welcome to our Niamh, but she was right. She’s still right, always is.’

  Paula didn’t know what to say to that, memories crowding her, that summer of violence and heat, her mind made up to leave town for good, even if it meant losing Aidan and her best friend in the world. ‘Are you saying I’m some kind of charity case? Thanks, Glocko. If Mammy McLoughlin said put your head in the oven would you do it?’

  ‘Anyone would,’ said Saoirse. ‘Have you met my mammy? She’d have put the fear of God on Osama Bin Laden, so she would.’

  ‘Don’t think he had a lot of fear of God, not as such.’

  ‘True. Right, I’m away, these sunburn cases won’t lecture themselves. Eejits. Bit of sun and they’re out frying themselves in chip oil.’ She gave Paula a rough pat on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Maguire, time to bride it up. Offer it up to Jesus.’

  Which was another of Mammy McLoughlin’s sayings.

  Ringing. Her phone was ringing. It was Monday morning, and Paula squeezed her eyes open, groping on the bedside table for her phone. Aidan was in the shower already, singing an off-key version of ‘Born to Run’. Next door there was some ominous creaking from Maggie’s room. She snatched up the phone. Corry. ‘Hello?’

  ‘You up? I’ve already had Willis on me this morning wanting an update.’

  She rubbed her eyes: 7.45 a.m. Willis must be under serious pressure. ‘Well, we’re doing all we can.’

  ‘He doesn’t think so. Anyway, I’ve another angle.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Paula warily, recognising the voice Corry used when she needed you to do something you definitely wouldn’t enjoy.

  ‘I’ve a few contacts in the East Sussex police. Apparently Katy was right – Alice tried to kill herself while she was at the clinic there. So if she was suffering with anorexia again now, maybe she did hurt herself after all.’

  ‘Uh-huh . . .’ She was waiting for the favour.

  ‘What do you say, fancy a quick jaunt to your old neck of the woods? See what you can find out?’

  ‘Aw, come on. I can’t leave Maggie.’

  ‘Go and come back in a day. Seriously. I want you to go, talk to them as a colleague. See if they think she might have tried it again.’

  Part Two

  ‘This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping they would call after her . . .’

  Lewis Carroll, Al
ice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  Ballyterrin, Northern Ireland,

  July 1981

  The streets were full of dead men. It was all you could see now. The bones under the skin. What they’d look like if the flesh fell from their bodies, if their eyes were sunk and milky, if their breath stopped in their chests, something begun and not ended. Did you always die breathing out? you wondered. Maybe you’d find out, before too long.

  Ballyterrin. A crappy wee town on the border, all housing estates and fields and a stinking canal, but it was home. All the same you were jumpy as a snake driving through it. A hot day, tarmac melting on the roads. The streets pressed full of traffic, peelers on every corner in their green uniforms and hats, guns cocked. Rifle green, they called the colour. The colour of injustice. You’d been brought up to hate the RUC. If someone robbed your car or your house you’d ask the Provos to sort it out. Not the peelers, never the peelers in a million years, it would be betraying your kin and country. So how come now, as you drove carefully through the town in your crappy borrowed Jetta, all you wanted was to pull over to one of the cops and tell them everything? Please, arrest me. Don’t make me do this.

  As luck would have it, today was your day to escape the random checkpoints. Every time you crossed the border or drove round Belfast, yes, it was out of the car and have it searched, spread your legs sir with the gun trained on you, just a routine search sir it’s our prerogative. So many other times. Even when you’d your wee niece in the car with you, six years old, crying as the soldiers with the big guns had a good rummage through your boot. They didn’t care. Children were no defence, old people, you name it. To the Brit Army you were just scum, all of you. So how come this day, and you a twenty-year-old man driving alone, with a shifty look and a gun under the passenger seat, they wave you on through, not a bother on you? Sod’s law.