by Finn Óg
“How?”
“They must really have wanted that phone. It must have serious shit on it we never looked at.”
“You dumped it, so it doesn’t matter.”
“You don’t understand, Sinead.” Áine was shaking her head again.
“Understand what, Áine?”
“They’ll be able to see who we called.”
15
The two women sat silently for a while, Sinead desperate to ask questions but keenly aware that her sister was in too much pain to deal with her much-too-basic queries about tech and what it all might mean. Áine held the fingertips of one hand to her temple, desperate not to move a muscle lest the pain increase.
“There’s an infirmary at the convent. I want to go and get you some co-codamol or something but I don’t want to leave you here.”
“Drugs would be good.”
“I know, but what if they come back?”
“Drugs, sis.”
“How did they get up here? Where was the fucking concierge?”
“I’ll be sure to ask him when I can reach for the bastard, Sinead. But drugs, please.”
You could come with me?”
“Is that a joke?” Áine pained herself by looking up at her sister. “I am not moving a muscle.” She was too sore to argue further, to say that her attackers were unlikely to return, but she was afraid – not that she was about to admit it. So she stayed still. Only her eyelids moved and even they brought horrendous pain to her bruised sockets.
She heard Sinead stand and move about in aimless frustration, before going to the bathroom. Áine could hear her pulling out boxes and creams from the cabinets for a third time, searching for painkillers that they both knew didn’t exist. She stomped back, fell into the two-seater sofa and began to think aloud.
“I wish …”
Áine was supposed to say “What” but didn’t want to flinch.
Sinead filled the silence, “I wish one of them was here.”
Áine’s interest warmed a little. Her eyes darted to her sister but she refused to move her neck.
“Min or Sam,” Sinead said.
The thought of it pleased Áine, although she doubted it would go anywhere.
“They’d know what to do,” Sinead rambled, prompting a sarcastic snort from Áine.
“Bust heads,” she said through thin unfluttering lips, but not in her normal disapproving manner. Áine could very much see the attraction of a few busted heads.
“Maybe I’ll ring him.” Sinead’s thoughts were all one-way traffic. “Min,” she clarified an unasked question. “Maybe I should just see what he thinks.”
Ordinarily Áine would caution against an open call and explanation, but her mind was filled with as much fury as her body was with pain, and she was tired and groggy and wanted someone else to make the decisions. She may not have been beyond caring, but her concentration was focused on not moving and waiting for her sister to locate drugs from somewhere.
“Pharmacy,” she muttered.
Sinead looked up. “But—”
“Ten minutes, there and back.” Áine closed her eyes and said reluctantly, “You could use one of your old prescriptions – see if they’ll take pity.”
Áine opened her eyes to see Sinead stiffen at the reference to her past requirement for such medication. She looked at Áine’s misery and stood up to go in search of an old script.
Áine’s mind blanked. She wondered if she was on the edge of consciousness and fleetingly considered whether she would care if she blacked into a coma and never surfaced. The pain was everywhere – chest, chin, lips, mouth, her head was screaming at her and her neck felt like it was rusted solid.
Sinead returned with a shoulder bag, from which she produced an odd piece of rubber. “I’m going to need you to use this. You’ll have to get up, sorry. I’m not leaving unless you force this under the door.”
“What?” Áine said, utterly exasperated.
“It’s a wedge. Unbelievable really, but it will stop anyone getting in. Just force it under the door.”
“Are you serious?” Áine tried to snap.
“If you don’t do it, I’m not going.” Sinead tried to be stern.
“K,” Áine said, and Sinead moved to help her up, bringing a yelp and a tear shed in pain.
“Áine, I still think it’s hospital time.”
“Drugs,” was all she said in return.
They hobbled to the door and as it closed, Áine went through the agony of moving her leg to kick the dropped wedge under the frame.
She would live with the pain, she thought, just as she would live with what Sam might do to the bastards who beat her, if he ever turned up again.
Sinead fished another piece of paper from her back pocket with a trembling hand. She was upset at the sight of her twin, for sure, but she knew that it was the idea of requesting the meds, the notion of pleading that she needed them because of old afflictions, that was the more pressing and disturbing issue. The elevator pinged and opened two floors above ground, frightening her that someone was about to enter the lift.
She found herself holding up a hand in a manner completely alien to her when a man attempted to walk in. “Please, social distancing. It’ll be free in a moment.” She hit the button to close the doors and watched the neighbour she vaguely recognised nod apologetically.
In the foyer she looked around for the concierge, anger building in her, but the desk was empty. Frustrated, she made to leave for the street but changed her mind. The wedge would have to suffice for half an hour. Instead, she turned for the stairs to the underground car park. She walked towards her car and then wavered, thought for a split second and turned towards the bins. She lifted the lid of the one nearest her and saw that her last letter had already been removed, and dropped it in surprise. The noise echoed around the car park and back to her. What the hell, she reasoned, and lifted the lid again, using the remnants of the tape already there to affix a new letter. She turned and went to her car.
Fifteen minutes later, she entered the convent grounds. She parked on the stones where she wasn’t supposed to, ran up the stone steps and shuffled quickly along two corridors and another flight of steps to the landing with the infirmary. Inside, the musty smell of old, empty beds and disinfectant reminded her of unpleasant nights when women had been treated for similar afflictions to those sustained by Áine. Sinead was no nurse, but she had seen the sisters busy themselves at the various cabinets, readying bandages or plasters.
She opened cupboard after cupboard, quietly reciting a plea to not get caught. She hunted the cupboards for the heavy stuff and eventually, low down, found a locker filled with regimented boxes of diazepam, tramadol and paracetamol. Only that one of the nuns was a registered nurse, such stashes would not be allowed.
“Feeling unwell, Sinead?” the condescension in the query filled her with dread. She turned to find the Mother Superior standing in full headmistress mode. How had she crept up on her so quietly?
“My sister, she’s had an accident and she’s in a lot of pain.”
“Those are prescription medications, I’m afraid, Sinead.”
“Are they?” she tried. “She’s been attacked. I need to give her something.”
“Attacked? Sounds like she needs to go to accident and emergency.” The way she enunciated “emergency” conveyed extreme scepticism.
“Not with the virus, Mother – that would just make a bad situation worse.”
“Well, you’ll need to be care—”
“I will,” Sinead said, stepping around the old woman, trying not to compare her to a witch, but all out of patience.
“Well—” she heard the nun say as she hustled through the door.
“Gotta go, Mother, sorry. It’s an emergency!”
Sinead ran down the small flight of stairs, back along a corridor and bumped into Macy.
“Came to see you,” Macy said, timidly but with some faint trace of accusation.
“Sorry, Mac
y, something urgent came up. Someone needed my help – couldn’t be avoided, but I do want to go through all the qualifications stuff with you.”
Sinead moved to dance around Macy and was treated to a “Yeah”. She had weathered all the doubts she was prepared to in the space of a few minutes. “Look, Macy, this really is someone who needs my help. If you want to do this kind of job, you need to be prepared to drop everything to go to those who need it, when they need it. Now, I will help you – I promise you that, but there is someone who needs my help a whole lot more right now.”
“Sorry,” Macy muttered, as Sinead ran down the stairs and opened the door. Macy stared over the balcony, keen to apologise properly.
And that made Macy the last person to see her.
16
“So what you’re saying, sister—”
“Reverend Mother.”
“Sorry?”
“I am the Mother Superior here. Mother will suffice.”
“Right, well, what you’re saying is that you caught the refuge manager stealing drugs from the cabinet?”
“Well, I didn’t think she was stealing them, guard,” the Mother Superior bristled. “I simply—”
“But she’s not allowed to distribute drugs, is that right?” The officer’s thick Dublin accent was distasteful to the pompous nun.
“That’s right, but—”
“So is she, or is she not, allowed to take drugs from the infirmary?”
“Well, no, but I thought your inquiry would focus on the manager being missing?”
“She can’t really be missing if she’s only been gone twenty-four hours, sister.”
“Mother.”
The guard ignored her. “She’s an adult – it’s allowed, but if she’s been stealing prescription medication, that’s suggestive of something else altogether.”
“Like what?”
“Exactly, sister.”
“What?”
“Like what?” said the guard, who much to the nun’s irritation was proving as intelligent as he was disrespectful.
“Who reported her missing?”
“Again, sister,” said the guard, “not missing. Just never showed up. Her sister, as it happens, who is not prepared to open her door to speak to us, which is odd, don’t ye think?”
“Why will she not open her door to you?”
“Yes,” said the guard.
“What?”
“Yes, sister, why will she not open her door to us?”
The old nun was tiring of the smart shenanigans. “Well, I’m not sure I can be of any more use. I’ve told you what happened and you’ve spoken to Macy, so you can let yourselves out.” She coated the silent female guard with a long disapproving look and left the room.
Macy stood sheepishly as the guards turned to her again.
“And what was the reason, would you say, that the manager didn’t take her car when she left?”
“I dunno.” Macy shrugged.
“And it was parked where it is now?”
“Yeah,” Macy said. “I saw it just as the door closed.”
“And does she often park on the footpath? Those pebbles aren’t for cars are they? Most of the other cars are parked further away.”
“Don’t know,” said Macy.
“And you didn’t see anything else?”
“No.”
“Can you tell us anything else? Is …” the guard checked his notebook, “Sinead well liked here? Is there anyone in this place,” the guard circled the air with a finger, “who doesn’t like the way she runs things?” Macy looked guiltily at the cop, who tilted his head slightly. “You need to tell us. We need to know what’s happened here.”
“Well, Sinead did ask someone to leave a few days ago?”
“Oh?” said the guard, leaving that wide open.
“A woman.”
“Aren’t ye all women in here, Macy?”
“Eh, well, yeah.”
“So?”
“She was a busybody, annoying everyone. Sinead got her another place, in Rathmines, I think.”
“Alright,” said the guard. “We’ll get the details from Sinead’s number two when she comes in later, then, will we?”
“S’pose so,” Macy said, “I wouldn’t have a clue about that stuff.”
The guard looked to his colleague. “It’s too early to do much more. All we know is she’s cleared off with a load of drugs. Let’s call her assistant later and keep in touch with the agoraphobic sister on the phone.”
Áine’s pain was gradually being replaced by fear. The Guards had treated her with little more than hostility when she’d explained that Sinead had gone off to get her some painkillers.
“Ah, yeah?” the guard had said, knowingly.
Áine’s defences had gone up immediately.
She lay back on the sofa and stared out the huge window, unable to register anything. It was easier just to let her focus blur. Then the landline phone rang and she had to drag herself up, pacing gingerly around the back of the sofa, using it as support. She reached for the receiver and held it to her ear, a shot of pain from her elbow coursing up to her brain.
“This is Garda McKenna. We called earlier but you wouldn’t open the…”
“Any news?” Áine cut across him.
“Hard to get gear at the minute, isn’t it?” he said.
“What?”
“Does she often raid the convent for the fun stuff, then?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your sister.”
“She went to the convent?”
“Looking for drugs, apparently.”
“Painkillers,” Áine corrected.
“See, that makes me wonder why you wouldn’t open the door to us.”
Áine bit her lip and nearly yelped at the pain. “The virus,” she tried.
“If my sister was missing, I think I’d chance it to see the guard investigating it.”
Áine closed her eyes. She hadn’t wanted to let him in, to see the mess of the attack, which would have demanded an explanation that was not hers to give. She’d stood on the inside of the door, still wedged shut, and listened to the guard ask her questions. Her mind had struggled to make sense of what to do. To reveal her damage and tell him about the vicious beating would lead to an admission that the attackers were looking for the madam’s phone. The phone would be connected to Sam and had, in effect, been used to conceal contact with a possible fugitive, wanted for murder. Her mind had muddled, it had all suddenly become too confusing. She’d decided then and there that she couldn’t have Sinead completely disown her for spilling it all just because she was worried about her twin being missing for twenty-four hours. Áine was terrified that she’d damaged their relationship beyond repair as it was – to say something that could lead to Sam’s apprehension would have sealed the deal.
“Are you still there?” the guard asked.
“Yeah,” Áine said. “Where did she go after the convent?”
“Exactly,” said the guard. “She didn’t take her car.”
“What do you mean?”Áine’s heart sank, sure now that her worst fears had been realised.
“Her car’s abandoned outside the door of the convent. Not even locked.”
The temptation to tell the Guards everything became almost overwhelming, yet Áine said nothing.
The guard snorted derisively. “So here we are. You call us, but you won’t tell us what’s going on. You won’t even open the door. Your sister leaves her car at her back and goes for a long walk or whatever, and you sit on the phone all silent. I’m not sure this is a disappearance at all. It looks drugs related to me.”
“No,” was all Áine could manage.
“Tell you what. If you decide you’re going to help explain what’s going on, you can ring me. You have the number on the card I slipped under the door you wouldn’t open. Until then we have a pandemic to be dealing with, OK?”
Áine hung up the phone. She held herself upright against the
kitchen counter for a long while, increasingly convinced that she should have just told them the whole story. The ache was everywhere now, inside her head, all down her back and ribs. She needed help, she needed someone else to make the decisions. So she did the only other thing she could think of: she walked slowly to the control room, lifted the IP phone and called Min.
A full day and night without painkillers added to Áine’s anguish. She stared into the mirror for a long, long time, the effects of the attack only half on show; the blunt end of the hurt internal. They had made her afraid, deeply sad and anxious in a way she had never experienced before. She was scared primarily for her sister. She knew Sinead would never leave her for this length of time – angry or otherwise, without painkillers, which meant only one thing: they had her. That meant they would be questioning her about the phone and where it had been left, and Sinead wouldn’t be able to answer. Perhaps she would relent, eventually, and explain that there was only one person who knew where it had been dumped, and that would bring the attackers back to her door.
Áine felt deeply guilty for worrying about herself, but it was unavoidable. She knew she couldn’t undergo another beating – her head felt drunk with vacancy as it was. She imagined it was concussion but she had no idea how to manage it. Nobody had ever hit her before. Not once. Sinead, on the other hand, had a point of reference. Áine had seen the effects of all that, and it wasn’t pretty. She found herself fearing that, like her twin, some sort of post-traumatic depression might descend upon her, which brought further guilt and deeper worry.
The television flickered, mute, as she sat and waited for something to happen. She was preparing herself for an incoming phone call to say that her sister’s body had been discovered. The tears fell heavily then, her throat contracting, and she wished she had enough sleeping pills to make a job of it. The only time she turned up the volume was when the news came on. She’d sat through four cycles – breakfast, lunch, evening and the nightly bulletins. Nothing.
