The operator stayed on the line. Tried to calm her, told her help was on its way. But still she felt so utterly alone. Alone and afraid, her asthma attack squeezing the life from her chest, piercing her lungs.
She crawled to the kerb and crumpled onto the wet pavement. All the while her eyes were fixed on her front door, which was wide open. If he comes out now I’m finished.
There was no way she could make a run for it, not in her state. Her lungs felt as though they were going to burst. The lack of oxygen was making her head spin, and the blood pumping through her veins caused a loud whooshing in her ears. The sound grew louder and louder, until she realised it was the squeal of a siren. The car zoomed towards her, the headlights growing larger and larger until it screeched to a halt outside her house. She thought she saw the flashing lights of an ambulance in the distance as the sour taste of bile rose in her throat.
She dropped her head between her knees and threw up onto the kerb.
Only then did she allow herself to pass out, the faces of the Magdalene girls swimming in her head.
19
Glasgow, 2000
There was no mistaking that smell or that sound. Yesterday’s dinner mixed with the stench of sick lingered stale and heavy in the stifling heat. A trolley crashed down a nearby corridor, and the clang of metal against metal echoed round the building.
The last time she’d been in a hospital had been when her dad had been ill.
‘Don’t worry, Dad, you’ll be out of here by the weekend,’ she’d promised. It had been her turn to lie.
He’d hung on for a whole month before dying. Why did they call it a stroke? To her the word conjured up a gentle caress, not a fatal blow. Every day she’d sat for hours, stroking his forehead, holding a plastic infant cup to his mouth, gently coaxing him to take just a sip. Talking to him until she was hoarse. Once or twice she’d thought he’d smiled at her, but the doctor explained it was just a reflex action in the muscles around his mouth. She prayed to God the tears that fell from his eyes and landed on the pillow were caused by the same muscle reflex.
She hadn’t been with him when he’d died. She’d gone home to get some clean clothes and half-decent food for her mum. She hadn’t been gone twenty minutes, but as soon as she’d stepped back into his room she’d seen the pain etched in her mum’s face and had known instantly that he had gone.
*
‘Hi there, feeling any better are we? You gave us all quite a fright y’know?’ The nurse was Irish.
Oonagh opened her eyes and tried to focus. She was in the treatment room of A&E. A corridor with five or six bays, each separated by an orange fibreglass curtain that reminded her of the photo booth at Central Station. The main lights overhead were out, thankfully the lamp above her bed was angled away from her eyes. A mask over her nose and mouth was linked to a nebuliser feeding her oxygen, but still the smell of strong disinfectant caught the back of her throat. Her mouth was dry and she instinctively sucked on her tongue and licked her lips for moisture. She was aware of a dull ache in the back of her neck, and down her body. Her elbow throbbed from her fall and the wound on her hand had turned red and prickly.
The nurse pulled back the curtain and a young doctor took her place. Swamped by a white coat miles too big, her dark hair was scraped back into a lank ponytail. Her eyes disappeared into two black rings above round girlish cheekbones that seemed out of place with the dark hollows above. She flicked through some notes attached to a clipboard as she walked towards the bed. Oonagh noticed her nails were bitten down to the quick.
‘Do you smoke, Oonagh?’
‘Thanks, but I don’t think I’m allowed to, what with the oxygen and…’ Oonagh pointed her index finger at the oxygen mask and, with an exaggerated comic gesture, shrugged her shoulders.
It was the wrong time for jokes. The doctor was in no mood for one-liners and wore the stony expression she probably used for Friday night drunks.
Oonagh continued on a more serious note. ‘Well yes, yes, actually I do, but I think this attack was caused more by stress than fumes.’
‘How many a day? Ten, twenty, more, less?’ she continued, ignoring Oonagh’s self-diagnosis.
Oonagh lay her head back onto the pillow and let out a low moan. She removed the mask from her face, confident in her ability to breathe again. ‘Look, there was some madman in my house, the attack was panic induced, nothing to do with cigarettes.’
Her voice had regained its strength and came out louder than intended. She swallowed hard. Her throat felt coarse and raspy. The doctor raised her eyebrows, and put her notes down on the bed.
‘It’s okay, I’m finding it hard to give up myself, but then I don’t have chronic asthma.’
‘About ten a day, sometimes more.’
‘Well, you know the score, I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you how dangerous it is.’ She told her anyway. ‘You may not be so lucky the next time.’
‘I don’t feel very lucky this time!’
‘Anyway, panic’s over, for now. We’ve stabilised your breathing, and we’re monitoring your airways. Your peak flow’s on the up so I don’t think there’s too much to worry about.’
Oonagh rubbed the back of her neck. The ache continued.
‘You’ll feel a bit sore for a day or two, we had to stick a tube down your throat to help you breathe, getting lugged on and off a stretcher can also cause a bit of bruising, oh, and you probably pulled something when you fell.’
Oonagh thought the last part was probably added as an afterthought, in case of any legal comeback under the Patient’s Charter.
‘Now, the police want a word, you up to it?’
Oonagh nodded.
‘In the meantime, is there anyone you want us to call?’
There was no one. She was in a city she’d lived in all her life, and there was no one. Most of her friends would be tucked up in bed with a warm man by now. A phone call from the hospital would reduce her mum to a quivering wreck; Tom had enough on his plate; her PA, Gerry, was in Ibiza; and she could hardly call Jack.
The events of the past evening came flooding back to her and she realised she wouldn’t be calling Jack again. The sudden loneliness overwhelmed her and she broke down. The doctor looked down at her feet, embarrassed, and drew a circle on the floor with the toe of her white clog before shuffling out of the cubicle, the racket of her heels clattering against the lino and bouncing off the stark walls as she left.
20
Glasgow, 2000
‘Did you actually see anyone in the house, Oonagh?’
She pressed the heel of her hands against her eyes and rubbed hard. The red prickly wound streaked black from her mascara.
‘No.’
Her standard issue paper robe rustled as she clasped her hands in front of her. The faint smell of alcohol, mixed with bile, lingered on her breath.
She licked her fingertips and tried to wipe the black grime from under her eyes. Perhaps this wasn’t the best time to talk to the police. They sat by the side of her bed, good cop, bad cop, or the Maryhill equivalent. Good Cop, Crap Cop?
She recognised Good Cop, but couldn’t remember his name. They’d met briefly about a year ago, when she’d covered a story about a serial rapist who had terrorised women in the West End. The maniac had carried out a reign of terror for the best part of a decade, raping over twenty women in and around the University campus. There had been little to go on, and few clues: he always wore gloves and a condom and made his victims comb out their pubic hair afterwards. The Police had needed as much help from the press as possible and the investigation had made up a third of a three part programme on the Scottish Crime series.
In the end he’d been caught after his girlfriend had recognised his photofit, which was plastered across every television screen and newspaper for miles. However, she hadn’t turned him in right away, only when one of his victims had fought back and he’d arrived home one night with what looked like a love bite on his neck. She’d thought he w
as two-timing her. Her motive for turning him in was jealousy and revenge. Pure and simple.
‘There was no evidence of any forced entry and, well to be honest, it doesn’t look like anything’s been disturbed.’
‘How would you know?’
Crap Cop sat back, looking slightly miffed.
‘Look, I told you, I got this weird, threatening phone call, and then someone messed about with my computer. The message on the screen said he was in the house.’
There was a six inch gap where the orange curtain around her bed didn’t meet the wall. A teenage boy lay on his side next door, pupils so enlarged that it was impossible to tell what colour his eyes were. His rotting teeth jutted out at random angles from his gums like a row of condemned houses. Oonagh stretched over to tug the curtain closed. It budged an inch and then stuck.
Good Cop decided to have a go. ‘How do you know it was a man, Oonagh? Did the message say it was a man?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake stop splitting hairs! All I know is that someone was in my house, and whoever it was made sure I knew it.’
‘What did they say in the phone call – did they threaten you at all?’
‘No – not really, they were just a bit weird. I can’t really remember what they said exactly,’ she lied, ‘just that it scared the shit out of me.’
‘And you didn’t recognise the voice on the phone?’
‘No. It was disguised. One minute it sounded like a child, the other a man – but it was the same person.’
‘Probably just weans having a carry on. Gadgets can make your voice sound like Darth Vader or Betty Boop – they’re ten a penny.’
She shook her head. ‘But the message on the PC?’
‘Is there anyone with a grudge against you?’
Crap Cop took over. ‘Maybe it was a pal playing a practical joke?’
Both Oonagh and Good Cop gave him a look and he shut up again.
‘We don’t know yet that the two incidents were related. It’s possible it was just a break in. They probably came in during the evening while you were out, just left that message on your computer for a laugh—’
‘Oh, ha bloody ha.’
He continued. ‘I know. It’s far from funny! But some people do strange things for kicks.’
Oonagh stared at him. ‘D’you mean to say someone expertly broke into my house leaving no trace, stole nothing, called me with a perverted, disgusting message, and then left a message on my computer screen just to frighten me? Oh, come off it!’
It was Crap Cop’s moment of triumph. ‘D’ye ever leave a back window open when you go out, Oonagh?’
‘Well, yes, sometimes, but I need to leave it open for the cat.’ She knew it was a feeble excuse. Good Cop became Bored Cop and shared a knowing look with Crap Cop. Oonagh read it well.
‘We’ll do door to door inquiries tomorrow, check CCTV of the street to see if that sheds some light. I know it’s horrible, but these break ins are more common than you’d think.’
‘Okay, so it was easy enough for them to break in. So, why didn’t they take anything then?’
‘D’you know for definite nothing was taken?’
‘Well, no, not really, but—’
‘You’ll probably find a couple of bits n’ pieces gone when you check. They don’t take anything too big nowadays. Used to be videos, tellies n’ stuff. Now it’s just credit cards, cash, things like that.’
They got up to leave.
‘We’ve arranged for a car to pick you up and drive you home. Doctor said you can leave in a few hours. If you want we can get a WPC to stay with you in the house for a wee while.’
‘No thanks, I’ll be fine with just the ride.’
‘And we can arrange for you to speak to someone from Victim Support?’
Oonagh didn’t answer him.
Crap Cop stood behind Bored Cop as he pulled back the curtain of the cubicle.
‘You’re lucky it was just a message they left you, most people are cleaning shite off the carpet for days after a break in. It’s amazing what these wee bastards get up to.’ Then, in a final gesture towards community policing, he said, ‘All the same, I’d buy myself a new toothbrush if I were you!’
21
Glasgow, 1958
Irene Connolly pressed her forehead against the window. Darkness had already fallen, ice had formed on the inside of the glass and her breath steamed up the pane. Outside, Sally knelt on the ground and gently lowered a box into the hole. Irene looked at the mound of earth nearby that covered Patricia’s coffin from the day before.
‘If you’re well enough to be up you’ll be well enough to go back to work very shortly.’ Sister Claire pushed the metal pail along the floor with her mop. It’s clattering echoed around the bare walls, water splashed out onto the newly-washed stone slabs. Irene turned to get back into bed, oblivious to the trail of blood dripping down her leg onto the floor.
‘Look what you’ve done,’ the nun tutted as she dragged the mop over the mess.
Irene crouched down and pulled the sleeves of her thin cardigan over her hands. She spat on the floor and tried to wipe away the bloodstains.
‘Come on, Irene. Get up, pet.’ Sister Claire gently ushered her back to bed and helped her change her sanitary dressings. Irene took the blood soaked rags from her knickers and replaced them with the fresh ones Sister Claire had already folded for her. Pain gripped her abdomen and she wished she was lying peacefully next to her infant daughter.
Despite the cold, beads of sweat ran down her neck and her back. The ache between her legs intensified, moving up through her groin. From her fever she guessed she had contracted some sort of infection. It wasn’t surprising really, given the conditions. She pulled the sheet up around her neck and began to cry. For the first time in years she longed for her father. Despite what he’d done to her, she wished he was there to help. He’d know what to do. She hadn’t realised she’d fallen asleep until she felt someone jab her in the back. It was Sister Agatha.
‘Sister Claire tells me you’re up on your feet again.’ She hovered over the bed like a black crow. Her hands now clasped in front. ‘You’ll be fine to get back to work tomorrow.’ She noticed Irene’s tears, which streamed down her face. ‘Don’t cry for your dead infant.’ She gestured out to the yard with her thumb. ‘That thing was nothing more than an abomination. It was God punishing you for the evil sin you committed. You should be thanking The Almighty it went so quickly.’
She blessed herself as she spoke. Irene told her she didn’t care. Patricia was happy now, she was in heaven. Sister Agatha told her she was wrong. Patricia wouldn’t be heaven. God couldn’t bear to even rest his eyes on Patricia as she hadn’t been baptised. She hadn’t been in a state of grace when she’d died, and therefore would have to spend all eternity in limbo. At least until enough prayers and sufferings were offered up to the Blessed Virgin Mary. Then, and only then, might God in his mercy let Patricia into heaven.
Sister Agatha seemed to think it all quite reasonable. Trading prayers for eternal glory. But Irene couldn’t stomach any more.
‘Fuck God, and fuck you!’
She heard the noise before she felt the pain. The nun’s hand smacked hard across her face. It stung her cheek and unleashed a demon in Irene that had been growing there for years.
‘FUCKING JESUS! FUCKING GOD! FUCKING MARY MOTHER OF GOD! FUCK THEM ALL!’
Irene’s hysterical screams could be heard through the building as the nun struck her over and over and over again. But she continued to scream. Sister Agatha’s top lip curled back to reveal her stubby yellow teeth, clenched together in anger. Globules of white spit gathered at the corners of her mouth. She grabbed Irene’s hair, which had been cut close to her head, and dragged her through the dormitory and down the stairs. Her bare legs scraped across the stone steps and her feet struggled to find the ground, her heels danced on the floor as she desperately tried to remain upright. Sister Agatha only stopped when they reached the shower rooms.
Sister Agatha picked up a fresh brick of pink carbolic soap. ‘Wash out your mouth.’
Irene held the soap in both hands. Her eyes pleaded with the Sister of Mercy to switch off the water and stop the madness. But Sister Agatha was unmoved. ‘Wash out your mouth,’ she repeated.
Irene edged the pink bar towards her lips, scraped a corner off with her nails and began to wash.
‘Properly.’
Irene scraped off more of the soap, braced herself and stuffed four fingers deep into her mouth, down her tongue. The foam slid down the back of her throat and the smell filled her nostrils. It made her gag. She felt the sickness rise from her belly. But there was nothing in her stomach to help the rising tide of vomit. Green bile gurgled up her throat and mixed with the soapsuds before escaping from her mouth. She didn’t have the energy to lean her head clear. The sickness oozed from her mouth and dribbled onto her chin, then down her chest.
Sister Agatha turned her head in disgust. She waited until the freezing water rinsed off the debris then turned off the taps.
Irene struggled to get to her feet. Her bruises were now beginning to show, and the skin on her legs was raw and bloody. Her body was blue from the cold.
Grabbing Irene by the wrist, Sister Agatha held her at arm’s length to protect herself from the dripping water.
Despite her exhaustion, Irene fell into step beside her.
The Lost Children Page 11
