Jack just sat with his head in his hands, staring at the floor. Oonagh wandered through to the kitchen and pulled a pair of sweat pants from the tumble dryer, before topping up her coffee. ‘Want one?’
He glanced up, taking this as some sort of truce, and nodded. She gave him two sugars instead of one and topped his mug up with boiling water from the kettle, hoping he’d scald his tongue. She knew she’d lost the war, but there were a few battles she could win.
In the first few months she had dug her heels in, refusing to be bowled over by him. It was just a bit of fun after all. Kept him at arm’s length. But inch by inch, he pulled her just that bit closer. They traded all the usual crap. The pasts and backgrounds. The hopes and dreams. And just when she dipped her toe in the water, just when she allowed herself to be seduced by the cosiness of it all, he snatched it away. What did she expect, a sodding engagement ring? She handed him the mug.
‘Jack, have you ever heard the song ‘The Snake’?’ He shook his head as he blew on the coffee. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s an old Northern Soul song. It’s about a woman who finds a half-dead snake by a riverbank. The snake begs her to help him. She’s scared at first, but takes him home anyway, warms him up, feeds him and cares for him until he’s well again. She even allows him to sleep on her pillow. Then one day he turns round and bites her. And as she’s dying she asks him why he turned on her after all her kindness. And do you know what he says?’ Jack shrugged his shoulders, sucking in cold air and trying to cool his scalded tongue. ‘He turns round and says to her, I’m a snake you stupid woman – what did you expect me to do!’
Jack opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She let rip. ‘It was you who started all the crazy chat about having a future together. I knew the score, Jack. I never once asked for anything from you. But you! You were always talking about—’
He butted in, ‘… Having ten scabby weans climbing over my S Type.’
She didn’t laugh at his pathetic attempt at slang in his posh Kelvinside accent. He stretched out his hand, but she didn’t take it. Just glowered at it, chewing on her bottom lip.
‘Fool me once, Jack, shame on you. Fool me a second time, and you’re a total bastard!’
She lit another cigarette, sat down on the settee opposite him, and crossed her legs. He’d given up on the coffee and the mug sat on the table between them. ‘I just don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Is this all a game? For months you were all over me like a rash, then suddenly you’re avoiding me like the plague. Are you that shallow? Once you’ve made your conquest it’s no fun anymore?’
‘It was just all getting a bit…’ He hesitated while he chose the right word.
She chose it for him. ‘… Heavy?’
‘I didn’t say that, Oonagh. That was your word.’
She got up and walked over to the window, wondering where the hell all the traffic wardens were when you needed them. ‘You’ve changed. I just feel I don’t know you anymore.’
‘Everything’s so fucking black and white with you, Oonagh. I don’t need this just now. I’ve got enough crap in my life. I can do without you acting the drama queen because you’re not getting enough attention. Fuck’s sake!’ He stood up to leave.
This time she reached for him, struggling over her wounded pride. ‘Jack, has something happened? Are you in some kind of trouble? Are you taking drugs or something?’ She sounded like her mother.
He let out a snort. ‘Apart from the odd joint you roll me, no, no drugs. I know doctors get all the best shit, but you can rest assured, Oonagh; it’s nothing like that. He looked at his wrist, using his watch as a prop. ‘Look, I really have to go. I’ll call you.’
She watched him walk away. Don’t fucking bother she thought and slammed the door behind him.
5
Glasgow, 2000
It wasn’t even midday and she was shattered. Her row with Jack had left her drained. Too much shit was going through her head.
She drove through the West End to the studio. As usual the traffic was thick on Byres Road, but for once she was glad. It gave her a few extra minutes to get her act together. She put on the Joni Mitchell CD, stopping at the second track, which told the story of thousands of poor unfortunates over the years. It would make a good backing track for the Magdalene Programme when it was finally ready. The research was proving painfully slow. Oonagh had spent months at the national archives sifting through census reports, workhouse records and court documents going back centuries.
Some of the information was online but a fair proportion was still only accessible in hardcopy. She rather enjoyed holding the original documents in her hands, especially the records from Lochbridge House. The few grainy photographs she had found showed a huge Victorian tower that grew out of the ground, with uniform rows of bleak windows. The red sandstone bricks had been blackened by generations of soot and misery. To Oonagh it looked independently evil, a malevolent entity casting its shadow across the city, corrupting everything it touched. But the building had been razed in the sixties. All trace of its existence obliterated. And getting accurate information on the home was an arduous task.
Oonagh had phoned the Catholic press team every day, and even turned up in person once a week. But they’d refused to play ball, initially denying any involvement with Glasgow’s Magdalene Institute. After months of painstaking legwork Oonagh had feared they might have been telling the truth. She’d been surprised to discover that many of the homes outside Ireland – including the very first, in London – had not been run by nuns at all, but by other Christian denominations, often with significant state involvement… or complicity as she preferred to think. Dumping grounds across the world for women shunned by society. She knew she’d have to shoehorn that integral detail into the finished programme.
She’d been about to throw in the towel when she’d discovered the vital piece of evidence she needed. It had been with a mixture of nerves and excitement that she’d made the final phone call to the diocese.
‘Hi Denis, it’s me again. Now, I know you’re not aware that the Church had any dealings with the Magdalene Institute in Glasgow, but I’ve discovered the strangest thing.’
‘Really?’ The voice at the other end was dry with a hint of sarcasm.
‘Listen to this…’
‘Oh, I’m all ears, Oonagh.’
‘The bill for demolishing Lochbridge House was actually paid for by the diocese. Now, does that not seem strange to you, that the Church would pay to bulldoze a property it didn’t own?’
‘I’m assuming you can back this up?’
She said nothing.
‘Well, it was a very long time ago, Oonagh… Perhaps, well, perhaps the Church paid for the work… as an act of charity…’
Oonagh’s smile could be heard down the phone. She launched into her final assault. ‘And then what do you think? Yes, you’ve guessed it; the diocese actually sold the plot on to private developers. Now why on earth would they do that with a piece of land they didn’t own? Would that be strictly legal, Denis?’
‘Aye, all right, Oonagh, you’ve made your point.’
She’d been to university with Denis Flattely. Or Denis Flattery, as she called him. For a time they’d worked together as reporters at Radio Riverside, just outside Glasgow, where the managing director had bullied the staff into wearing paper hats on a Friday to prove how much they enjoyed their jobs. Their paths had crossed fairly regularly over the years. With his gift for the gab, and his aversion to hard work, it had been inevitable that Denis would end up in PR. He eventually gave in and ‘offered her’ Father Thomas Findlay, to help her with her research… and to ensure that he could act as a technical advisor on the programme.
Oonagh knew it was more a PR exercise than any gesture of goodwill. An attempt at damage limitation. Denis was no fool. Each new day seemed to find the Church at the centre of a fresh scandal, a new ecumenical skeleton in the closet. Give him his due, Oonagh thought, he knew how to play the media at its own
game.
A white van beeped its horn behind her. She stuck the car into first and crawled for three yards before having to stop again. The rooftops of the new flats built on the Lochbridge House grounds could be seen across the skyline of the Hillhead tenements. Oonagh tried not to let herself be haunted by the ghosts incarcerated in those huge living tombs. How many poor creatures had lived and died there because no one had cared enough to take them home?
Oonagh pulled into her reserved parking bay. She was the last to arrive.
It took her twice as long as normal to reach the office for people were stopping to congratulate her on the previous night’s programme. But she liked to make an entrance. By the time she reached the meeting room her ego was well massaged, and the ghosts of Lochbridge House had been stuffed to the back of her mind.
Alan Gardner stood up as she entered, grinning from ear to ear. On the desk a bottle of champagne stuck out from an ice bucket. Bottles of wine and beer rattled on the drinks trolley behind him. A dent had already been made in the tray of deli sandwiches. Ross Mitchell stayed in his seat, licking the mayonnaise from his fingers. The rest of the team gave her a mock round of applause, and Oonagh affected a theatrical bow. Alan stepped forward and gave her a hug. ‘Oh, it was great, Oonagh. Well done. And guess what?’
Oonagh was in no mood for guessing games, but didn’t want to appear churlish. ‘What? What?’ She shook Alan gently by the shoulders. ‘Tell, what is it?’
‘Well,’ he said, dragging it out, ‘we don’t have all the facts and figures yet, but initial results from the audience focus group are VERY positive. They love it! And…’ he stretched out the word, looking round to make sure the whole team was paying attention, nodding his head he continued ‘… and the good news is… the head of factual programmes for the network was on the blower this morning.’ He gave the word network imaginary inverted commas with his fingers. Oonagh wished he’d just get on with it. ‘He saw the VT and he wants it. The Other Side is going national, Oonagh.’
The whole team let out a whoop and jumped around the room giving each other hugs and high fives. Even Ross made a half-hearted attempt at joining in, making sure he didn’t miss out on the chance to bask in reflected glory.
Oonagh waited until her glass was empty, then made an excuse to slip outside, needing just a few minutes alone. She punched the air outside the bathroom ‘Yes!’ then ran in and threw up.
6
Glasgow, 2000
The circus had begun.
Tom had been summoned to the arch diocesan office in the centre of the city. He took his car as far as the suspension bridge, and then walked the rest of the way in the cold sunshine. His legs were heavy as he dragged his feet along Clyde Street. He was already exhausted. The morning’s confession had been mental. Normally they were lucky to get two or three penitents, but Father Kennedy’s sudden death had acted like a magnet for all the local loonies. The church had been crammed. Not everyone had felt the need to confess though. A few had just loitered, staring at the altar, miffed at missing the action.
The office was tucked away behind St Andrew’s Cathedral, which always reminded Tom of the Louvre in Paris: a historical building with a modern glass structure trying to steal the limelight. In the cathedral’s case the offending edifice was St Enoch’s Shopping Centre.
It was a long time since he’d been to Paris. He wished he were back there now. Melting into the crowds. Just a guy. Not some holy man who was supposed to know the answers.
The roads were dead. It was the first day of a petrol strike, and already the country was acting like it was in the grip of a fuel crisis. The relative peace and quiet did nothing to calm him. Only gave him space to think, and right now that wasn’t such a good thing. He stood on the edge of the pavement for a few moments and considered his options. He could go for a drink before facing the ringmaster. There was plenty of time. But he quickly decided against it. Not because he’d be an unusual sight in a Glasgow bar, but because today he needed a clear head.
He could just not turn up. Or he could have the decision taken for him. He closed his eyes, waited a few moments, and then ran blindly across the road. The deafening blare of a horn told him in no uncertain terms to get out of the way and he ran terrified to the other side with his eyes and mouth wide open.
His whole body was shaking, he was truly losing it. He steadied himself against the lamp post.
He was still trembling when Charlie Antonio emerged from the building and blocked his path.
‘Sordid business about Father Kennedy, eh Thomas?’
‘What?’
‘Not every day a priest is bumped off in Glasgow.’
Tom squared up to him, careful not to raise his voice. ‘But that’s rubbish. Who told you that? Anyway, what would you know?’
‘Oh, c’mon tae grips. I’m a journalist, Tommy Boy, I’ve got contacts.’ Antonio pulled on a pair of sunglasses. Tom wanted to lamp him, but was too scared.
‘You’re behind this, aren’t you? It was you who got the police to come sniffing round? How bloody stupid am I?’
‘Ach, stop being such a tit.’
And that’s exactly how Tom felt, like a right tit. His right leg trembled uncontrollably as he struggled to keep his voice calm and steady. ‘Okay, Charlie, so now what?’ He tipped his chin towards the building. ‘Who did you speak to up there? And what did you say?’
‘Oh you know me, height of discretion and all that. Don’t worry, Father, the Men In Black are keeping shtoom. I only got as far as the receptionist – torn-faced old cow. But let’s face it, Thomas; it’s only a matter of time. They’ll need tae speak tae the press sooner or later. I mean tae say, it’ll look a wee bit sus’ when there’s a dead priest and no bloody funeral.’
‘No funeral?’
He looked straight at Tom. ‘Cryin’ out loud, d’you need me tae draw a diagram, Tommy? The polis’ll no’ let him be buried until they work out what the hell happened tae him. Do me a favour, Tommy, never leave the Church, you wouldnae last five minutes in the big bad world.’ He shook his head and let out a snort as he turned his back and walked away. Gallus as fuck.
‘Help the homeless, Father?’ The Big Issue seller appeared from nowhere.
Tom had no change. He muttered something pathetic and patted his pockets as proof, before walking towards the entrance.
‘Thanks a lot, Father… THANKS A FUCKING LOT!’
*
Tom made his way to the office on the third floor. A grey nun wearing a grey habit and a grey knee length skirt sat behind a desk in the corridor, staring at a computer screen.
‘I’m here to see Father Watson. I have an appointment. I’m Father…’
‘Yes, of course,’ she interrupted, pressing her index finger on the intercom, announcing his name. ‘They’ll be with you shortly.’
‘They?’
A thin smile spread momentarily across her lips as she went back to her computer.
Tom watched the clock on the wall behind her head. It was a full five minutes before the light on the intercom flashed and she ushered him into the room. The office was modern and impressive, with a clear view over the Clyde and the south of the city beyond. On the wall hung an antique crucifix, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A collection of rare, leather bound religious manuscripts was displayed in a bookcase in the corner. Tom thought of the Big Issue seller outside.
Father Watson stepped forward and offered a nicotine-stained hand. A smouldering cigarette perched precariously on a dangerously overflowing ashtray on the desk. Tom’s heart sank when he saw Davies and McVeigh.
Davies was standing by the window. Tom noticed he was nibbling his pen the way ex-smokers do, and staring at the cigarette with apparent longing. McVeigh loitered by his side, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his red hair had a life of its own.
‘Nice to see you, Thomas.’ Father Watson’s vigorous handshake was almost strong enough to crush the fragile bones in Tom’s knuckles.
‘What
’s with…?’ Tom glanced at the two policemen. Father Watson kept shaking just a second longer than necessary and looked Tom straight in the eye, squeezing his shoulder in mock concern. ‘Don’t look so worried, son, you’ve nothing to be afraid of,’ he said in a way that made Tom feel he had every reason to feel afraid. ‘We just need to clear this business up.’
‘What business?’ said Tom, wriggling from under his grip. ’What’s going on?’ He was speaking to Father Watson but looking at the two cops.
‘Oh, for God’s sake calm down, Tom.’ Father Watson sounded mildly irritated.
DI Davies put his chewed pen in his top pocket. ‘Did you know Father Kennedy was allergic to penicillin?’
‘Eh? Yes, of course I did, why?’
‘Well the post-mortem examination revealed quantities of the drug in his body. Any idea how it got there?’
‘No, of course not,’ yelled Tom. ‘Don’t you think I would have mentioned it if I did? Jesus Christ.’ Davies raised an eye-brow. Looked more amused than shocked. Tom was past caring, he didn’t like Davies.
‘Did you know Father Kennedy was trying to get you transferred to another parish?’
‘Oh, hang on a minute—’
‘What did you two argue about the day before he died?’
Tom looked at Father Watson. ‘Thanks!’
‘Well?’ asked Davies.
The room was stifling and the stench from the overflowing ashtray was making Tom’s stomach heave. He slumped into a chair. ‘Tell me you don’t think I actually gave him penicillin.’
Davies bit the inside of his cheek and sort of shrugged. McVeigh picked at a loose thread on his cuff, but was obviously taking in every word.
‘Deliberately?’ Tom said.
Father Watson filled a paper cup with water from the machine in the corner and handed it to him. ‘Here.’ The edge of the cup reeked of cigarettes but Tom ignored the stench and drank it anyway.
The Lost Children Page 3
