by Laura Elliot
The house, three storeys high, reminds her of Leamanagh Castle, except that it’s not a ruin and, instead of fields, the smooth lawn is bordered by a high privet hedge. Joy enters a hallway with parquet flooring and steps leading upwards to a reception desk. The woman walks in front of her, the man takes up the rear. The handcuffs are imaginary, yet as tight as the ones that held her father captive.
‘Try to understand, Joy,’ the woman says when Joy is washing her hands after using the bathroom. ‘Your safety is our only concern—’
‘Don’t.’ She covers her ears. ‘You take me from my home without any explanation and you want me to understand?’ She has never known the strength of hatred until now. ‘Where am I?’
‘Everything will soon be explained to you.’
The woman click click clicks in her brisk high heels down a corridor and holds a door open. The room they enter is brightly lit with long oblong windows. An older woman rises from behind her desk and comes forward to greet Joy.
‘These situations are very difficult,’ she says and gestures Joy towards a chair beside the window. She must have nodded to the others because they melt from the room without a sound.
‘My name is Patricia.’ She draws another chair forward and sits opposite Joy. Her pink scalp shows through fine silver hair. She has old hands, wrinkled as dead leaves, and her eyes, staring at Joy from beneath her fringe, are compassionate, kindly, motherly. It is this concern that fills Joy with an unbelievable dread and the realisation that her world is about to be rent asunder.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Carla Three days later
In the arrivals hall at Dublin airport, Carla positioned herself beside a tall, young man with jutting cheekbones and dramatic curls. He carried a rose and a violin case, and leaned forward expectantly each time the sliding doors parted. A musician in love. She imaged a chaotic flat, the pizza wrappings binned, the clean sheets a sensible afterthought.
Robert’s plane had landed twenty minutes earlier but there was still no sign of him. The sense of being under a microscope was sickeningly familiar. She peered through the cheap pair of glasses she had bought in Penneys – brown frames, nothing flash or glamorous to attract attention – and surveyed the latest surge of passengers. Her black jeans and tan jacket were unremarkable. At the last moment she had changed the woolly multi-coloured scarf that she usually wound around her neck for a plain, neutral one that blended into her jacket. No hat. Her black hair had grown slightly and the effect, although less severe, was also less dramatic. Apart from her height, nothing remained of the Carla Kelly who had once chased publicity with the same vigour as she now avoided it.
It was so simple in the end. Blood tests and a doctor with an enquiring mind had pre-empted Carla taking any action. Robert had rung her from Australia with the news, which Detective Superintendent Murphy had already broken to him. It was night time in Melbourne and he was weeping. She had imagined this moment so often and, now that it had arrived, they were separated by continents. Nothing to do but weep with him, her heart breaking all over again as she imagined their daughter’s terror and distress.
The file on Isobel had been re-examined and the DNA tests – carried out on Carla and Robert when the tiny bones were discovered in the industrial estate – proved conclusive when they were matched to Joy Dowling. As the news spread among her family, they had arrived at her apartment and gathered around her. Carla was glad they did not bring champagne. To have popped corks and toasted the future would have been unendurable. No one seemed to know how to handle this revelation. A stranger would soon become part of their lives, carrying with her an entire childhood based on a falsehood.
‘If only Gillian had lived to see this day,’ whispered Raine when she embraced Carla.
‘She always believed Joy…Isobel would be found,’ Carla replied. ‘You’ve no idea of the strength that faith gave me.’
David Dowling had been the target of their anger. Carla, listening, understood the instincts of a lynch mob. She wanted to be part of it and then, just as insanely, her rage gave way to such overwhelming confusion that she fled the crowded room.
Since then Robert had been in touch with her constantly. Orla Kennedy, who now carried the title Family Liaison Officer and was nearing retirement, was on hand to guide her through the following days. Fifteen years since she had held Carla’s hands and batted off the media in the distraught atmosphere following Isobel’s disappearance.
‘This is the best retirement gift I could ever receive,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been able to forget you. You struggled so hard and for so long.’
‘And then I disappeared.’
‘I don’t blame you.’ Orla tut-tutted and shook her head. ‘The media…a school of sharks. I was furious with some of the coverage.’
‘They had so little to go on. No clues. Susanne Dowling was clever.’
‘As well as devious,’ replied Orla. ‘And she’ll never have to answer for her actions. Unlike her husband.’
‘Unlike her husband,’ Carla repeated.
David had been taken into custody, his initial period of detention extended by a further six hours. He had maintained his innocence throughout his questioning. On television she had watched him, shielded by friends, returning to his home.
‘David Dowling will stand trial for abduction,’ said Orla. ‘He’s been released on bail on condition that he presents himself at Maoltrán Garda Station every day.’
Joy was in the care of foster parents until she expressed a wish to meet her parents. So far, she was refusing point blank to consider communicating with them in any way.
‘Give it time,’ advised Orla. ‘She’s absolutely traumatised. With patience and good will, you’ll meet your daughter soon.’
Carla, remembering Joy Dowling’s impetuous personality, the adoration she had so openly displayed for the man she believed to be her father, wished she could feel so certain. Had Susanne Dowling, oblivious in her grave, created a gulf too wide for them to cross? Somehow, they had to build a different bridge. One that would bring them together, and that first step had to be taken by Carla. She would reveal her identity to her daughter before their first meeting. Give Joy time to adjust. A phone call was impossible. After numerous attempts to write a letter she gave up. Her excuses made her cringe. If only she had not gone to Maoltrán. If only she had walked away when she saw her daughter in the cemetery. If only she had ignored David Dowling who had filled her with such fury and, later, with a longing she had refused to name. It seemed inconceivable, those feelings that she believed had died within her, the jabbing excitement, the dizzying flights of fancy…and all the time he was a thief…thief… who had stolen her child…destroyed her future. She had gone to Maoltrán to break up the Dowling family. Now that the dream had become a reality, she was terrified by the consequences that would soon be unleashed.
Her mobile phone bleeped. Luggage delayed. Will be with you asap.
She grimaced wryly. They had planned for every eventuality except delayed luggage. Her nervousness grew as the delay stretched. The waiting crowd looked normal enough but she knew better than to trust appearances. Any self-respecting journalist would give his or her eye teeth to film the Anticipation parents reuniting.
On her other side, a stout businesswoman with a brisk jaw dangled a sign from one hand. Something about a language school. Carla’s mind darted like a mayfly from one ripple to the next but she was incapable of absorbing more than fleeting impressions. The businesswoman wore silver high heels, confident stilettos to go with her ruthless chin. The musician had delicate fingers. How could it be otherwise? The young woman who rushed towards him was equally perfect: willowy limbs and dark, tempestuous eyes. She too carried a violin case. Carla watched them lower their cases and collide, heard their joy as he lifted her high then folded her in his arms. It was too beautiful to last. This would be their golden season. Carla wished them luck then turned her attention back to the sliding doors.
The woman w
ith the silver stilettos held her sign aloft and a group of Spanish students veered towards her. They spoke rapidly as they flowed past Carla, knowing their shrill conversation would soon be replaced by the stumbling blocks of the new language they had come to acquire. Josh Baker, still as eager as ever for the angle, the soundbite, the scent of suffering, moved from his vantage point behind one of the pillars. Carla, spotting him instantly, was not surprised. Of course he would have been tipped off, and now he was preparing to attach himself like a burr to her life once again. As he sank out of sight, she sauntered away from the waiting crowd and walked alongside the olive-skinned students. Josh never glanced in her direction. Nor did the camerawoman lounging beside him. Their indifference exhilarated her. Triumph when it came in quiet ways was all the sweeter for its containment.
Outside the arrivals hall she texted Robert. Josh Baker waiting for you. Orla Kennedy will organise another exit. I’ll meet you in my apartment.
No candles on the kitchen table. No music playing softly on the stereo. Nothing to suggest intimacy as they sat opposite each other, just a dish of goulash and a shared bottle of wine. Occasionally, unable to control their emotions, they fell silent, then one or the other would pick up the story, go back over the details, as if repetition would make it easier to understand.
‘How does Sharon feel about all this?’ Carla asked.
‘Threatened, jealous, angry – although she’s tried not to show it,’ he replied. ‘She’s always believed I settled for second best…and I did, at the time.’
‘And now?’
‘I need her support, not her insecurities. She’s my wife and nothing that’s happened will change that. I think Isobel—’
‘Joy. We must call her Joy.’
‘Her name is Isobel. We’ve waited long enough to use her name.’
‘She’s lost so much, Robert. We can at least let her keep her name.’
‘She lost what was never hers to lose.’
‘But she doesn’t believe that. She adores her father—’
‘I’m her father.’
‘Of course you are. But she needs to adjust to the shock of discovering who she is. We have to allow her that time.’
‘What’s the media situation?’ he asked.
‘It’s been contained until now. But Maoltrán is a small community. They’re now swarming over Rockrose.’
‘Rockrose?’
‘It’s where she lives…lived.’ She took a deep breath and blurted out the truth. ‘I’ve been there.’
Robert grew increasingly agitated as she tried to explain, apologise, stumble past his constant interruptions.
‘How could you go there without first consulting me?’ he demanded when she finished speaking.
‘What would you have told me to do?’ she asked.
‘Obviously, I would have told you to go straight to the police with your information.’
‘And then what?’
‘They would have followed proper procedure.’
‘As they did when Dr Williamson gave her statement. And look what happened. Our daughter’s in care now and refusing to meet either of us.’
‘But what did you hope to achieve by going there?’ ‘I wanted to see that woman’s grave…oh, I don’t know…perhaps I wanted to dig her up, expose her for the liar and thief she was…I hadn’t intended meeting Joy, not then, but she suddenly appeared and I was swept along—’
‘Exactly. You were swept along, determined, as you always are, to do things your own way.’
‘No—’
‘Yes.’ He banged his fist on the table. ‘And now you’ve compromised your relationship with her. She thinks you’re Clare Frazier.’
‘I know…I know all that. But she will understand…’
‘Understand what? I’m her father but you never thought about me when you decided to go off on this hare-brained mission.’
‘You buried her, Robert. Remember?’ ‘Don’t throw that at me. All the evidence—’ ‘All the evidence was circumstantial,’ she replied. ‘Just as circumstantial as the evidence Dylan Rae presented to me. I didn’t want to get your hopes up and have them dashed again, especially when you were so far away.’
‘I was never far away from you…or her. Every day…you’ve no idea…’ His voice broke.
‘But you were far away, Robert, in every sense of the word.’
An hour in each other’s company and they were fighting. The urge to cry quivered effortlessly through her and was resisted. He too struggled to compose himself. As he drew her into his arms, his face, deeply lined with tiredness, was achingly familiar. They held each other without desire, friends now, unable to escape into the passion that had once bound them together. Like a flame that had raged too strongly, the love they had known was quenched that evening with a gentle puff.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Joy
Hi Isobel,
My name is Jessica Kelly. I’m Carla Kelly’s niece. I Googled your name and found your website. It’s so cool. I just wanted to say Hi and to tell you how stunned and thrilled and excited and happy we are that you have been found.
When I was small, you were my imaginary friend. My parents never wanted to talk about you in case it would upset me but bit by bit I found out about my stolen cousin. I had a hidey-hole in my back garden that no one knew about. It’s where I escaped from my brothers (your cousins)…oh my God!!…you don’t want to know anything about them! I’d take down my tea-set and dolls and my xylophone. I invited my aunt in one day. She looked so sad until I told her about my secret friend. It helped her, knowing I didn’t believe you were dead. I stopped having you as my imaginary friend when I was about eight but I never stopped hoping I’d meet you some day.
You must be feeling really frightened by all that has happened to you. My main reason for emailing you is to reassure you that my aunt and uncle are really nice people. He used to love my aunt madly and I think he still does but he has another wife and they have two children so I guess it’s not on. He’s a cop. Funny, isn’t it, that he couldn’t find the person he most wanted to find in all the world?
Every year on your birthday, I visited the Angels’ plot in Glasnevin Cemetery with my family. But my aunt never went there on that day because she had her own belief. She went there other times and said it was to honour the memory of a child with no name. She never stopped believing she would find you and now she has.
I can’t wait to meet you in person and welcome you into our family. Don’t tell my aunt I contacted you. She wants to give you space…and so do I. You don’t have to respond to this email but it would be nice to hear from you and maybe be each other’s friends on Facebook.
Love from your cousin,
Jessica.
Joy stands beneath the shower and switches it to cold. At first she yelps, then grits her teeth as her body slowly adjusts to the jets. This is a power shower, icy needles on the back of her neck. She wants to be numb. That way she has control. The sensation is almost unbearable, then utterly unbearable, and she is forced from the shower to shiver in this strange bathroom in this strange house in this strange city in this strange situation, which is so ridiculous she needs to stand back once again under the flailing jets.
Five days have passed since she was kidnapped. These strangers, those impostors who have broken up her family and caused an incredible miscarriage of justice, have decided she will be in foster care until she is willing to meet her so-called parents. To pretend to be Isobel Gardner. It’s too ridiculous for words.
Most of the time she stays in her room and emails her friends. They are fascinated by her story. She’s a celeb in Maoltrán. Woo hoo… send in the paparazzi. She bangs furiously on the keys and tells Lucinda to stop writing drivel about how she always wanted to belong to someone beautiful like a famous supermodel. Danny Breen also emails. He’s in Trinity now and will call and see her soon. They can go for a drive in his Boxster. Anywhere she wants to go?
Rockrose, Joy emails back. Br
ing me home.
Patricia says it’s out of the question. She had hoped Joy could stay nearer her home but both of her so-called parents are anxious to be near her. Joy doesn’t care where she stays as long as this crazy situation is sorted out. Her father (no way will she call him Mr Dowling, as Patricia does) is allowed to see her once a week but always in the presence of Patricia.
The woman knocks on the door.
‘Everything all right, Joy?’ Her cheery question has an anxious undertone. Katie is her name and she must be used to disturbed young people wreaking havoc on her bathroom. Some of the tiles are cracked and there is a dent in the door, as if it has been kicked violently and often.
‘Yes.’ Joy can hardly speak. Her teeth chatter and the cold water wins. She switches off the shower and dries herself, drags her clothes back on. Katie and her husband Philip look after young people with what Katie calls ‘issues’. Joy does not have issues. She is the victim of a grave miscarriage of justice. Those are her father’s words. She clings to them, recites them to everyone who calls to see her. And many people have called, most of them in tears of shock and outrage over this appallingly grave miscarriage of justice, which, claims Miriam, will result in heads rolling and lawsuits and compensation claims for millions.
Her grandfather and Tessa were her first visitors. Her grandfather looked stooped and walked with a cane. When he sat down, he placed his hands on the cane handle but he was still unable to stop them trembling. They wanted to look after her until her father is tried and proved innocent. But they are not allowed because, officially, until it is proved otherwise, she is not related to them. Her grandfather had snuffled so much that Joy handed him a box of tissues and ordered him to stop pretending he wasn’t crying. He kept saying it was all his fault and going on about a baby boy until Tessa said he was upsetting everyone.
After they had left, she rang her grandmother (the idea that Miriam is not her grandmother is equally ludicrous) and asked her to bring the photo album when she visited the following day. Miriam told her it was in police custody but she would bring anything else Joy wanted. And that is precisely nothing. Joy does not want any of her possessions, except her laptop. Her grandmother has booked into a nearby guesthouse and won’t leave Dublin until Joy is with her. Her ‘creative drive’ is kaput, she says. Joey can run the studio until their lives are back to normal again. But there is something about her voice that worries Joy. It’s subdued, not furious and yelling the way it was when the social workers marched Joy into the car. Sometimes they don’t talk much. They just sit, holding hands, like they’re storing up memories to hold forever.
