by J. M. Smyth
‘Ah, not at all,’ he said and set off, both hands on the wheel, eyes front. Careful driver. You’d have thought he was taking his driving test.
‘You’re a doctor, I see.’ His bag was at my feet.
‘I am.’
‘Busy?’
‘Sure now. January. You know yourself.’
I did indeed. I’d only just got over a sore throat. Had to take antibiotics. ‘You know,’ I said, diving straight into why I’d swung the lift, ‘something’s always interested me, and maybe you can help me out.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Well, a mate of mine’s wife had a baby born in the house and when he went in for its birth certificate, they just handed it over. No proof required. I mean how did they know he was telling the truth? He didn’t have the baby with him.’
‘When a baby is born at home, the attending doctor or midwife rings the maternity ward dealing with that area – St Martin’s in Dublin, in the case of Clonkeelin – and the birth goes on the register. The registrar’s office only has to ring the maternity ward in question to confirm before issuing the certificate.’
‘In that case, you wouldn’t do me another favour?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Ring St Martin’s and tell them you’ve just delivered a baby.’
‘Eh? What baby?’
‘A girl.’
‘What girl?’
I think taking a revolver out of my inside pocket gave him a hint. It affected his driving anyway. One look at it and he nearly ran into a hedge. ‘Watch the road now,’ I said. ‘We don’t want to be calling any doctors.’
He was a steady old boy, all the same, and soon got a hold of himself. Didn’t look like he was shitting himself or anything. Just like I had his undivided attention. Interesting how people’s faces react to this type of carry-on. Some the blood drains out of. Though it doesn’t always take a gun to make that happen – footsteps approaching the dormitory after lights out used to have the same effect; you get to know the sound of certain footsteps – while others’ ability to make spit runs out on them. The doc was fast becoming the latter. From then on he sounded like he could murder a drink. Still, as long as it didn’t affect his voice too much. It was his voice I wanted. More than likely St Martin’s would recognise it. Of course I could always ring them myself, saying I was Doctor Skeffington, and report a birth, but what if I hit on a nurse who knew him? She’d know right away I wasn’t him. Whereas if he rang, it would all seem authentic.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what all this is about, but—’
‘No buts, Doc. Just pull in at that phone box.’ (I’d clocked it on the drive out, for the return trip.) ‘All you have to worry about is making the call the way you always make it. Then you can go home.’ I find it best not to give people too much information when their lives are under threat. That way they can tell themselves that everything will be OK if they simply do what they’re told. It’s bullshit of course, but that’s self-preservation for you.
He hit the brakes.
‘In you go,’ I said and went in behind him. ‘Tell them Anne Donavan’s just had a baby.’
‘Anne Donavan? But Anne’s not even pregnant.’
What the fuck did that have to do with anything? Some people, I dunno, you have to tell them a dozen times. ‘Make the call, Doc, and stop fucking about. I haven’t got all night. C’mon, move. And don’t forget to tell them her address.’
He did what he was told, fumbling with the dial and pressing the ‘A’ button a couple of times when the hospital answered. ‘Hello, this is Doctor Skeffington … I’ve just delivered a baby to Anne Donavan, Clonkeelin …’ All that crack.
‘A girl,’ I whispered.
‘A girl,’ he told whoever was on the other end. ‘A baby girl.’
I’d decided to call the girl Frances incidentally. Frances Anne Donavan. I like the name Frances. The ‘Anne’ part was for the kid to latch on to as a sign when she grew up. Her birth had now been registered by Anne Donavan’s own doctor.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘back in the car.’
‘Can’t I go now?’
‘You don’t expect me to limp home, do you?’ What kind of doctor was he? It must’ve been the guts of ten miles back to Dublin. Not that I was going there right away. Besides dealing with him, I couldn’t leave my Merc lying around for Winters to find and think: fuck me, that’s Red Dock’s car. Wonder what it means. You know what cops are like, always wondering what stuff means.
I jumped in the back and told him where to go. Then came a spot of reminiscing. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
‘No. No, I don’t.’
I’d put on a bit of weight since our last meeting. ‘You made a similar phone call the night I was born.’ No gun needed that night.
‘The night you were born?’
‘You delivered me. My mother was Teresa Donavan. She had twins.’
I don’t think he was much into reminiscing. He was more concerned about his future. But it was coming back to him. Not his future – it was taking its last trip. The memory. Not a pleasant one, if the gob on him was anything to go by.
‘Which one of us was born first?’ I asked. The lady in question having since departed with the info, he was probably the only one left who knew.
‘Ah …’
‘Sean or me?’
‘Ah …’
‘Quit with the “ah”s, Doc. You’re not checking my tonsils. Which of us was born first? Sean or me?’
‘Ah …’ Shit. He hadn’t given it much thought of late. ‘In the name of God, why are you asking me this?’ was the sort of crap he was expecting me to put up with.
‘Answer me.’
‘But I don’t know.’
‘Was Sean first or was I? I’m Robert, by the way, in case you don’t recognise me. Nice to see you again after all these years. Which of us was born first? It’s a simple question. Me and Sean used to lay bets on it. He used to bet me he was. I used to bet him I was. Typical kids’ stuff. So who was born first – me or Sean?’
‘I don’t know, as God is my judge. It was too long ago.’
‘Think, man, think. How many sets of twins did you deliver then never lay eyes on again, for fuck’s sake?’
It was no good. He was straining for an answer but couldn’t latch on to one. By this stage, if he had, it would only have been his way of attempting to appease me. Therefore I wouldn’t have believed him. That’s the trouble with this lark – nobody bothers to remember fuck all about you. Fuck it. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, Sean. You were born first.
‘Why did she give us up? And don’t give me any doctor–patient confidentiality crap.’
‘But you don’t understand. I was standing in for my predecessor. He was off sick. I was only here for a few months. I loved it here. When he retired five years ago I bought his practice. I had always practised in Dublin. I wanted to end my working days in the countryside. I … I …’
Fuck it – this wasn’t working out at all. Nobody lies with a gun in their neck. I’d felt sure he could help me. I didn’t ask him who my father was. He wouldn’t have known that either. If he had, he’d have known why we’d been given into care. ‘Care.’ There’s a word if I ever heard one. I looked it up in a dictionary once. It had a lot of definitions – but not the one that applied to me and Sean.
‘Take the next left.’ It had a long stretch of narrow road that rounded a sharp corner. ‘And hurry up, for fuck’s sake. Hit the throttle.’ I doubt he’d ever hit it as hard.
I couldn’t leave him to talk.
I slammed his head down onto the wheel hard enough to knock him out, then dived down behind both seats a split second before the car smashed into the high wall bordering the field that formed the corner. It hit it a fair old whack too. Hard enough to make the back end leave the ground. If I’d been in the front, I’d’ve wrecked my hair smashing through the windscreen. What was left of his was already wrecked. I was all right tho
ugh, no damage done. Just a pain in my side. That’s what I get for not wearing a seat belt.
I got out and opened the bonnet.
The trouble with this method is that sometimes the ‘whack’ fucks the bonnet catch and it won’t open. Makes it hard to pour petrol over the engine. Half a Lucozade bottle’s usually enough. You have to be quick though. No need to strike a match – the heat of the engine sets it alight then it’s drop the bonnet and get the fuck away from it as fast as you can.
The only thing I didn’t like about this was that the law’d find out he was a careful driver and wonder if foul play had been involved. On the plus side, this was the country, and sheep are forever darting in front of cars. Maybe he got caught out swerving to avoid one. The bump on his head would be consistent with hitting the wheel on impact, leaving him unconscious to be barbecued. And although cars rarely burst into flames on impact, the fuel pipe would be destroyed and forensic wouldn’t be able to tell conclusively what had happened.
Which left the little matter of my prints. They were all over the inside of the car. It goes without saying that they’d end up as charred as the good doctor. That’s what he gets for giving people lifts. I waited for a few minutes to make sure he didn’t come round. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have survived long enough to get out anyway. I’d nearly wound down the back-door window before the impact to let the air in on it. Air would’ve got the flames going faster, but the law might’ve wondered why it had been left open on a winter’s night. Had he been carrying a passenger? Who? It doesn’t do to give the bastards too much to think about. Besides, you’re only talking about getting it going faster by a matter of seconds.
Leaving the windows closed of course meant that the heat from the flames made pressure build up inside, and the only way it could escape was by blowing the windows out. I legged it way before that happened, empty Lucozade bottle in hand. Can’t leave evidence like that lying about. I have to take my time when it comes to legging it. That’s why I always have to be choosy when it comes to the likes of this. I can’t do anything if it involves lifting. I heard the glass blowing out though. Not much of a bang. More of a boomph. I doubt the doc’d heard it or gave a fuck. He was approaching the rare stage. Another ten minutes and he’d be well done.
The following morning I went straight to the Registrar of Births, Marriages and Deaths in Dublin and applied for a birth certificate for Frances Anne Donavan and gave them the mother’s details. They phoned the maternity ward, did their confirming and issued the cert. Anne Donavan now had a baby called Frances she didn’t know about.
Didn’t matter: she wasn’t gonna bring it up. It had gone from being a Winters to being a Donavan, and now it was in for another name change. I’d already taken it to experts in that department.
The day the kid was snatched by two of Charlie Swags’s finest, I was waiting in the lower ground floor of the same car park. They bunged it into the back seat and I drove straight to the west of Ireland to an orphanage in Connemara. It cried for most of the 200 miles. I got some of it on tape for Whites’ farmhouse attic. Mustn’t forget the special effects. It was only when I arrived at the orphanage that I noticed what was making it howl. Some of the paste that had been squirted into Mary Winters’ eyes had gone into its left eye, and had left it red raw.
I put a note in its shawl saying ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please take care of my baby. They won’t let me keep her.’ The nuns would believe it was illegitimate, and the note would indicate the mother couldn’t raise it by herself because of the shame it would bring on her family.
Thanks to all that stigma stuff they’d attached to illegitimacy, dumping unwanted kids was easy. I couldn’t have done it without them.
And the reason I’d chosen this particular orphanage: I didn’t want the kid found. It was in Connemara and Connemara was a generation behind Dublin. In some instances, ten of a family eking out a living on a few acres, living in a cottage with a tin roof and mud floor, no electricity or running water – let alone a TV to see the news – was not common, but not unheard of either. And Irish was spoken as much if not more than English. Dublin news wasn’t exactly widespread in that part of the country. A too-easy view to take, I know. Connemara was hardly the Amazon jungle. People there would hear of it. I mean we’re talking about a cop’s kid being kidnapped. Then again, on the face of it, it was just another little baby girl born into a world where she wasn’t welcome, dumped on the steps of a home in the middle of the night with no birth cert. And I knew that the Church had made a career of keeping babies. I knew the system – that keeping her gelled with what I knew about them.
I forgot about the kid for a while after that. Then I took to renting a cottage in the village she was near for the occasional week over the next few years and got on nodding terms with a couple of the nuns. In the summer months the kids worked the land they had there, growing vegetables and stuff. They used to sell them to the public, and I was a customer. Gradually I got to know some of the kids by sight. One in particular stood out. At my reckoning she was just coming on six years of age, and she had a birthmark just above her elbow, which I had searched for the night I’d brought her there, to identify her to me later on. But that wasn’t what made her stand out. She had what had turned out to look like a second birthmark – a blotch in the corner of her eye. The wallpaper paste had scarred her. A very minor mark, not unattractive, strangely enough, but it looked permanent. The nuns hadn’t treated it, and it had burned her.
So I’m standing there in my walking gear, as if I’d holidayed in the area for that purpose, complimenting this nun on their set-up, and admiring the rows of meticulously weeded vegetables, when the girl came over with a basket of carrots she’d dug up. She emptied it onto a cart then turned to the nun.
‘Can I give Jack one, Sister?’ she asked.
Sister smiled like the Virgin Mary at her and the girl gave the donkey the carrot, patting him and all that, saying, ‘There’s a good boy, Jack.’
Not to be too obvious about singling her out, I asked a couple of other kids their names. ‘Gemma Small’ and ‘Rebecca Donagher’ they said.
‘And what’s your name?’ I then asked her.
She, like the others, looked at the Sister for permission to speak.
‘That’s our Lucille,’ said the Sister. ‘Aren’t you, Lucille?’
‘That’s a nice name,’ I said. ‘And what’s your second name?’
‘Kells,’ she said, all shy. ‘Lucille Kells.’
Now that I knew what they’d renamed her, I could let the years roll by and see what happened. Fifteen years went by before I went looking for her again. Only now I didn’t know where she was.
A pretty secretive world, the orphanage system. Tracing kids isn’t easy. I could break into the Health Board’s office and go through their computers till her name came up. The same for adoption placement agencies. Maybe she’d later been adopted. Break into Church computers, those of the Registrar of Births, Marriages and Deaths. Everything’s computers these days. Employ a snoop? I know a few good ones, who could get me any kind of info. Lucille Kells could be registered with credit-card companies, the driving-licence department; have a medical card, store cards. Any number of ways of finding her.
A lot of guys in my position would’ve kept closer tabs on her through the years – tailed her the day of her release, got to know her by being helpful until, and if, she made a move on Clonkeelin, then taken it from there. All kinds of options. Not me. Why would an apparent stranger go to those lengths? Why risk being seen by the law as the first person to help her on her release then, following the deaths of those she believed were her birth family, the Donavans, leave yourself open to all kinds of suspicion?
What I’m saying is – if it could be proven that I’d taken an interest in Lucille, it would form a link. Fuck that. I’m way too cautious for that. How do you think I’ve stayed ahead of the law all these years? As far as anybody knew, I did not know Lucille, and she did not know me.
And that’s how it was gonna stay.
The fact was Lucille was in her early twenties before I tracked her down. A car accident left me with two broken legs and, because the left one’d been broken when I was a kid – Christian Brothers threw me out of an upstairs window – and hadn’t been treated properly, the second break wrecked it. Left me with twenty-eight per cent bone density from the shin down, screws, plates, all that, crutches for a couple of years, the limp worse than ever.
Anyway, I’d worked out a long time ago, and this was reinforced as I got older and came across some of the kids I’d grown up with, that the religious – the Crucifix Brigade who brought me up, some of them anyway – had a system for naming dumped kids. I’d met up with a kid called Brag. He found out his real name was Brown. He came from Athenry in County Galway. They’d used the first two letters of his real name ‘BR’ and added the ‘A’ from Athenry and the ‘G’ from Galway and came up with Brag for easy reference. B-R-A-G. Dock: ‘DO’ being the first two letters of my real name Donavan, ‘C’ for Clonkeelin, ‘K’ for Kildare. That’s how they’d arrived at Dock. I met another lad who hadn’t been able to find out his real name. I knew him as Tom Crew. I told him he’d probably discover that his real name began with ‘CR’ and that he came from some town beginning with ‘E’ in a county beginning with ‘W’. Waterford or Wexford, or some place like that. That’s the way the bastards have you, y’see – running around buying maps to find out where you come from. I’m not saying they did this countrywide, but it did go on a fair bit. Another lad was called Lord. I didn’t fancy his chances. Lord, like Kells, is a religious name. Since the religious didn’t know where Lucille came from, they’d obviously come up with her name and offered it up in their prayers or some crap like that. Unknowns – those babies who were abandoned without paperwork, as opposed to those whose backgrounds were known – were given names with a religious connotation to them. That’s my theory. The nuns probably named her after a ninth-century holy book that was written by some monk, The Book of Kells.
