The Blue Pool

by Siobhan MacDonald

  “I see.”

  So, the guy had form.

  “The woman, the female NCO, well she ended up in a bit of a state. Fourteen stitches to her face. A looker by all accounts – at least she had been before the accident. And, see the thing is, well it was her word against his. No witnesses would come forward. No one saw anything. No one wanted to get involved.”

  “And Queally? Was he injured?”

  “Nothing major, only his hand I think. Remember, I told you his hand was scarred? I guess that was it. He needed stitches as well. So, that’s the low-down so far, Charlie. That’s the reason this guy was discharged from the army.”

  Charlotte was silent a moment. “You know what, Richard? That stinks. It really does. I mean it’s just not good enough, is it?” She opened the car door and squashed her cigarette into the tarmac.

  “I’m not with you. What do you mean?”

  She picked up the quenched stub and put it in the sandwich bag she kept especially for that purpose. She pushed it to the back of the glove compartment.

  “Well, put it like this. The army disgorge their unwanted dross onto the unsuspecting public and look what happens! It’s all right for the bloody army, but what about the rest of the population? God, I don’t know how you don’t burst into that cell and punch that creep’s brains in!”

  Richard didn’t respond.

  Shit! She shouldn’t have opened her big mouth. The unexpected news had thrown her.

  “Forget I said that. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Of course I don’t mean that. That was a stupid thing to say.”

  “Not really, Charlotte,” he said slowly. “You think that thought and worse hasn’t crossed my mind over the last few days? You think I can bear the thought of someone like that anywhere near that poor girl…” his voice cracked. “I was very fond of Sarah, you know.”

  This was true. Yet, everyone had expected only the detached professionalism of a policeman from Richard.

  “Of course. Look, I’m really sorry, Richard,” she said. “All of this is making me very unsettled. I just want to know what really happened once and for all.”

  “Believe me, so do we all.”

  “Of course you do. I know that,” she said softly this time. Richard would always be sensitive. “So, when are they going to arrest him?” asked Charlotte anxiously. It was hard to believe that the police had been working on the case for nearly a lifetime now.

  “I’m not sure what the next step is. Things are a bit confused at the moment. Shaw and his team are discussing the best way to proceed and exactly what charges to bring. And Charlotte?”

  “Yes?”

  “You do know that all of this is under wraps? Don’t you? I could lose my job here you know. And that wouldn’t be good for me because word is that I’m in line to be promoted.”

  “What? Oh, Richard, that’s really super news!” Charlotte allowed herself to be diverted for a moment. She knew just how long Richard had waited for this. She’d often felt it was so very unfair the way he was always overlooked.

  “It’s not in the bag yet, Charlie.” He sounded chuffed. “But I’m hopeful.”

  “High time, Richard. The force should be delighted to have you. To recognise what a dedicated officer you are. But you will let me know as soon as you hear anything else, promise?”

  “I will. Look, I’ve got to go now, Charlotte. Been called out to a domestic. Don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon, you’ll see.”

  She tossed the mobile up on the dashboard and was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming sense of déjà-vu. That’s what Richard had said twenty-five years ago. Don’t worry – it’ll all be over soon. And just like twenty-five years ago, she didn’t know what to hope for. She didn’t know what the best outcome would be for her. She really didn’t. She drove home, her stomach knotted, wondering what was about to unfold.

  * * *

  Opening the front door to the house, she was surprised to find Tom, her eldest, at home. The girls had gone to piano. The leftover, tell-tale waft of scorched pizza lingered in the hallway. So, he’d been home long enough to forage in the kitchen. But Tom should have been at after-school study.

  “Hi, Mom, have you been to the salon? Your hair looks nice.” Tom leaned over the upstairs banister.

  She tried not to smile. He was such a chancer. Back home, she was hauled back into the present, away from all her maudlin ruminations.

  “No, Tom, I’ve been at work, as well you know. And I’m not falling for that old trick.”

  Someone had once told Tom that telling a woman her hair looked nice would smooth over any situation. So what situation was he trying to hide, she wondered?

  “How come you’re home early, Tom. What about after-school study?”

  If any of her kids needed to study, it was Tom. It was his last year of secondary school. Leaving Cert year.

  “Couldn’t make it today, Mom. Me and Fonsie had to put up posters around town.”

  “Posters for what?”

  “The wrestling match at the weekend.”

  She groaned. Mark wouldn’t just go mad. He’d go ballistic.

  “I thought we’d sorted all of this, Tom. You can do all the promotion and event management you want during school holidays. Not during term-time. This is your last year at school. I don’t think you realise that.”

  “But this is real life education, Mom.”

  “You father isn’t going to see it like that.”

  Tom came half-way down the stairs.

  “By the way, Mom. Did Kirsten phone or call for me here at any stage last week?”

  Kirsten, the cling-on girlfriend.

  “No, pet.”

  “Ok. I’m off for a shower before dinner.” He sounded disappointed.

  Lately, Tom spent more time in the shower than his sisters. All because of that girl. He’d never bothered much about hygiene before and now the smell of deodorant around the house was over-powering.

  Hearing the hum of the shower, Charlotte set to work in the kitchen, anticipating the row that would follow at dinner-time. Mark was easy-going but lately his son was pushing all the wrong buttons. There was really no point in comparing Tom to his sisters, Charlotte said. The girls were different. Diligent about their schoolwork. Tom was not like that. Charlotte put it down to his gap year, that break in Tom’s already less than illustrious academic career. It had awakened talents in him that his father would have preferred to be dormant.

  Last year, Tom had brought fledgling bands to the school and to the local rugby club for gigs. He’d promoted mime and juggling acts. He’d become accustomed to having money in his pocket – not that he managed to hang on to it for long. Quite the entrepreneur, his year-head had remarked. Charlotte had felt proud.

  The phone rang in the hallway. It’d be for the kids. The shower still hummed upstairs. She’d have to answer it.

  “Hi, Mrs Costello. Is Tom there?” No one called her Mrs Costello. She normally went by her maiden name.

  Charlotte bristled. This was the fourth time this week. “No. I’m afraid Tom’s not here at the moment.”

  “Oh… will you tell him I called? Ask him to call me back?”

  Brassy.

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Costello.”

  Charlotte hung up. The shower was still going upstairs. The girl was persistent, for sure. Kirsten did part-time modeling and it was highly unlikely that she’d even pass her Leaving Cert. Charlotte had driven past her on her way home from work. Sitting there on a wall outside the Spar shop, surrounded by drooling teenage boys. Toying with them all. Charlotte knew her type.

  She looked around the kitchen and sighed. There were bits of grated cheese and pepperoni on the floor. The freezer door was open and had started to defrost. A swarm of flies buzzed around the rubbish bin whose lid was open. Bits of broken crockery smeared with Nutella lay outside the dishwasher door. The kitchen tap was still dribbling. Normally all of this would irk her but today
she was going to let it go. Kids will be kids, she thought. One day soon, it would just be herself and Mark rattling about this house. The house would be tidy, but the kids would be gone. It would just be her and Mark.

  They’d been in the house for nineteen years now. Charlotte had never seen any reason to trade up like the neighbors who had come and gone. She had grown attached to the house in rather the same way she’d grown attached to her job. As she set to, tidying the kitchen, she wondered what was happening at the police station in Limerick. Today was the last day they could hold that guy. Despite her foolish outburst, she was confident that Richard would call her as soon as he knew anything.

  They’d done a great job in keeping it quiet this time. Charlotte was relieved. There hadn’t been a peep in the media. Maybe it was so long ago now that it wasn’t even deemed newsworthy, not sensational enough, not salacious enough to warrant coverage. If the initial story were to break today, the media would have no hesitations. There’d be no holds barred, no matter who Angela Nugent knew. They’d be talking about drugs. They’d be talking about sex-games that had gone wrong. Angela Nugent wouldn’t have been able to gag the media today.

  It was different back in 1991. The media storm that had raged for weeks abated only after Angela Nugent decided nothing more could be done. And every few years after that, there had been sporadic appeals and investigation specials. But they only rekindled a short-lived interest.

  Charlotte had escaped lightly back then, in comparison to the other two. The coverage for Ruth and Kathy had been particularly harsh. There had been so much in the news at the time, that sometimes even now, strangers would remark how Charlotte looked familiar to them. In a way she was pleased that she hadn’t changed that much.

  Charlotte’s face had been on the TV screen for weeks. And there had been that one photo that the media had shown time and again. The one of the four of them, dancing on the car-port of the house in Laurel Park during rag-week. Charlotte reckoned one of the guys from the courthouse had leaked it to the papers.

  She’d found it hard, how much those guys’ attitudes had changed towards the three of them after they returned to college that autumn. Initial sympathy had slowly ebbed away, leaving a vestige of distrust and discomfort. Invitations to college house parties didn’t come and heads would turn to stare at them in the college canteen.

  Clearing away the last of the broken crockery, Charlotte heard the key in the front door. It was Mark with the girls.

  “Okay, sweetheart?” He kissed her on the cheek and surveyed the chaos in the kitchen. “Any chance of a bite to eat?” he said looking around.

  Charlotte was still in her raincoat and hadn’t done much for the last half-hour except stare out of the window into the back garden.

  “You know what? I think we’ll have a take-away,” she said.

  “A take-away? Yay! Can we have Chinese, Mom, please? Sweet and sour chicken, please oh please?” Rachel was pulling at her coat sleeve.

  Mark looked at her, raising an eyebrow in question. Charlotte normally frowned on take-out food, eschewing the unhealthy gratification of salt, fat, and calories in favour of a nutritious home-cooked meal.

  “Chinese it is then.” She smiled indulgently.

  Half an hour later they all sat at the table tucking into an array of Chinese take-out from foil and plastic cartons.

  “Jeez, Mom, what’s up? Did you have a brain dump on the way to the health-food store?” scoffed Tom.

  “Don’t be rude to your mother,” said Mark, through a mouthful of noodles. He wasn’t a tidy eater.

  “Dad, you must admit this is radical – a bit of a departure from Mom’s country kitchen.”

  “Hmmph,” said Mark, noodles slopping onto his front. “How was school today, Tom? How’s the study going?”

  “Fine, great, Dad. It’s all going just great.”

  Mark looked up. “All on course for accountancy then?”

  “Yeah, about that I’ve been meaning to say – I’m not so sure any more…”

  “Accountancy’s the man for you, Tom,” said Mark looking directly at his son. “A good solid job. You keep up the good work now.”

  Charlotte avoided making eye contact with either of them. If Mark could keep Tom at his studies, things should settle down eventually. Dealing with that girl was proving tricky enough for Charlotte.

  “Mom, can I go round to Anna’s when we’re finished?” asked Susie. “I did my homework in school.” Anna was Susie’s friend around the corner.

  “Okay, then. As long as Rachel walks you round.”

  “Oh come on, Mom, relax. I’m eleven. This is nuts. No one else’s sisters have to do that.”

  “I know sweetheart, but we’ve been over this before. You know the deal. You want to go – Rachel walks you.”

  She’d have to relent one day soon and let Susie go on her own. But not just yet. She didn’t want to make a fool of Susie, but only last week she’d read an article in the local free-sheet about a suspicious van up by the playground.

  “That was lovely,” said Mark, squeezing Charlotte’s shoulder as he left the table. “I’m going to get my slippers, it’s been a long day.”

  Meals were a functional affair for Mark. Once the business of eating was over, he rose immediately from the table, not one to linger over a cup of tea or a glass of wine. The kids stayed, picking over the last morsels of battered chicken and cashew nuts.

  Moments later the stomp of angry footsteps came marching down the stairs. Mark burst into the kitchen brandishing one of Tom’s wrestling posters.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “Oh, that’s just one of Fonsie’s posters,” said Tom, casually.

  “Don’t take me for a fool, Tom. I’ll ask you again, what’s all this about?”

  Tom looked at Charlotte, but she wasn’t going to bail him out again. He’d been warned.

  “It’s a wrestling match we’re promoting this weekend.”

  “A bloody wrestling match, eh?” said Mark. “What did your mother and I say at the beginning of term? No more of your antics until the school holidays. This is a year for study. Not acting the clown. How are you going to get in to university, arsing about the place with this carry on? You’ll end up in McDonalds asking customers if they want ketchup with that. Is that what you want? Well, is it?”

  “Wouldn’t be so bad,” muttered Tom.

  “Get up those bloody stairs and do some study before I give you a boot in the ass!”

  Tom loped out of the kitchen.

  Mark looked at Charlotte.

  “What?” she said.

  Mark shook his head. “You’re too soft on that boy. Too soft altogether. You give the girls a much harder time.”

  Charlotte didn’t think so. Shouting matches didn’t solve a thing. Sometimes a more subtle approach was called for. A more clever approach. She finished in the kitchen leaving Mark in the sitting-room fuming while he flicked through the channels.

  But raising girls was different. Perhaps it was Charlotte’s fault that she hadn’t allowed them to grow and develop and experience danger. One day she’d tell them about Sarah and how she’d vanished off the face of the earth. One day. Not now.

  She shivered despite the balminess of the evening. Her family was everything to her. She wouldn’t trust anyone else. She’d built a cocoon around them all. But now she felt uneasy. There were outside forces at play again. All the old feelings that had been squashed away were threatening to stutter back to life.

  * * *

  No one knew what she felt. No one knew what she’d gone through. Not even Kathy or Ruth. Mark had never known what it felt like to be a social outcast. He’d never endured that wounding pain, that isolation. He’d never suffered the bewilderment at what had become of Sarah.

  1991 was long ago but still the hurt remained. It started with Tomas Walsh. He had too much study. He didn’t have time for a girlfriend. It would be fairer on Charlotte if they broke up. Sarah had vanished – and t
hen this. She’d been devastated.

  There were the lab practicals at college. Sarah had been her lab partner. But no one wanted to step into Sarah’s shoes. No one wanted to pair with Charlotte. She was slowly and surely ostracised. Oh, she was acknowledged for sure. Her fellow students replied when she spoke to them alright, but only when she was the one to initiate the conversation. Charlotte was excluded from any ‘in’ jokes or any fooling around.

  She became paranoid. She sensed the lecturers looking her with caution and suspicion. Like she couldn’t be trusted. She tried to ignore it. Over time, she lost the art and social skill required to make new friends.

  Her friendship with Kathy and Ruth suffered. The three of them had taken a flat off the prom at Salthill. A brilliant flat with a view of the bay and the north Clare coastline from the sitting room window. Big enough for five. But no matter how many notices they put up, no one applied. No one wanted to live with them.

  Kathy and Ruth started to argue, lapsing into embarrassed silence as soon as Charlotte joined them. She wondered what it was they argued about. Did they know something? Did they suspect something? Charlotte sensed they were keeping something from her.

  She’d bide her time and act naïve. That generally worked. Charlotte was good at melting into the background. The other two would trip up sooner or later. She’d be patient and catch them out.

  They thought they were more complicit in what had happened to Sarah than Charlotte, and they were suffering. Practical as it may have seemed at the time, there’d been an undeniable callousness in leaving Sarah hitching on her own.

  Kathy’s night-time crying became unbearable. She clung to guilt and grief like it was the only thing that was keeping her alive. Like she was the only one who’d been affected. No one had a clue how Charlotte felt.

  And then one day out of the blue, things changed.

  Kathy left. She put a note on the kitchen table along with the rent for the rest of the term. She didn’t want to stay in university. She didn’t want to do Psychology. Her parents had sold the farm and she had money. She was leaving Galway and all its memories. She’d had enough. She was going traveling. Charlotte survived all that upheaval and more.