The Lost Children

by Theresa Talbot

  At least she was in a room on her own, and for that she was grateful. It was white and sterile, with a massive square window looking onto the corridor. Her hands strayed down to her belly. It felt empty, but she wasn’t sure. A doctor eased his way into the room.

  ‘Hi, Oonagh, you’re getting to be one of our regulars.’ He looked at his notes, smiling.

  ‘Must be drawn to the smell of cabbage.’

  He sat on the bed beside her. ‘Do you remember much of what happened?’

  She clawed through her mind, trying to piece together what led her to this, but all she remembered was Cat licking at her blood and Tom yelling at her.

  ‘You were attacked, Oonagh. Do you remember being attacked?’

  She tried to shake her head, but didn’t have the energy. She was lonely, miserable and wanted to be in her own bed.

  ‘Well,’ he continued. ‘That’s no surprise; you took quite a knock to your head. Probably banged it on the stairs as you fell. You might remember more as the days pass. We’ve stitched up the wound in your neck. It’s a typical puncture wound, so we had to give you some internal stitches as well. But they’ll dissolve. To be honest, it was a close thing. Just millimetres from the carotid artery. You were very lucky, you know.’

  ‘And?’ She knew he was gearing up for the big one.

  He gave her a slight nod. ‘We had to do an emergency D&C.’

  She stared at him until he continued speaking.

  ‘You were haemorrhaging quite badly, Oonagh, I’m afraid you lost the baby.’ He patted her thigh through the single sheet and blanket to make it all better. It didn’t.

  She said thanks anyway and felt embarrassed for him.

  ‘When can I go home?’

  He seemed relieved to be changing the subject. ‘Stay here today, then there’s no reason why you can’t go home tomorrow. As long as you’ve got someone there to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘In case I get attacked again?’ She affected a laugh and thought if she pretended to be happy she might even fool herself into believing she was.

  ‘Now, there’s someone here to see you. You up for it?’

  She looked out and was glad to see Alec Davies in the corridor. ‘Yeah,’ she said.

  The doctor’s pager bleeped and he departed for some other poor victim who needed his attention. By the time Davies entered the room a nurse was already on her knees changing the bag on her catheter.

  ‘The doctor said it was okay for me to come in,’ Davies said.

  ‘As long as you’re not squeamish.’

  The nurse paused until Oonagh nodded that it was okay for Davies to stay, then she continued with the task in hand, hooking up a clean bag to the unit, and leaving with Oonagh’s pee – and dignity – tucked under her arm.

  ‘If you tell anyone about this I’ll have to kill you,’ she said, groaning as she let her head rest back onto the pillow.

  Davies sat down on a chair beside the bed, trying not to laugh. ‘Ach, I’ve seen worse in the mirror. Anyway, how’re you feeling?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ she said, looking down at the paraphernalia of tubes poking out at every angle. ‘Fair to hellish.’

  ‘Your mum’s downstairs getting some fresh air. Shall I go and fetch her?’

  ‘Just give me a minute. I hate the thought of her seeing me like this.’

  Davies nodded. ‘Oonagh, we need to get to the bottom of this. Can’t you remember anything about what happened?’

  She shook her head. Again.

  ‘I questioned Cranworth earlier.’

  She stared at him, astonished. ‘It wasn’t him!’

  Davies told her about the meeting. About what Jack had said. She stroked her belly. ‘I lost the baby, Alec.’

  ‘I know, Oonagh. I’m sorry.’ She thought he seemed genuinely moved. Then his face hardened. ‘Cranworth denied it was his. Suggested you were maybe a bit infatuated with him. Tried to paint you as a bunny boiler.’

  ‘Bastard!’ Her wounded pride caused an aching lump in her throat that hurt far more than the bruises and stitches. ‘Still, Alec, I don’t think Jack would have hurt me. I mean, not like this. We did have a row last night—’ That was the only thing that was clear in her head.

  ‘And you didn’t see him after that?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘We’re trying to see if there’s a connection with the break in at your place the night before. Who did you see in The Rogano before hooking up with Cranworth?’

  But once again the mist came down. ‘Look Alec, it’s not that I don’t want to help, it’s just—’ She rubbed her eyes and felt useless and pathetic. ‘My head’s all over the place just now. I don’t know what the hell they’ve given me – but by Christ I want some to take home!’

  He laughed. ‘You’re probably still a bit groggy from the anaesthetic.’ Then he looked serious. ‘Whoever attacked you was a vicious bastard. That bruise on your shoulder, that’s from his heel. He stood on top of you while he pulled the blade from your neck.’

  Oonagh strained her head to look.

  ‘Oh God, Alec, I’m scared. Why would anyone want to kill me?’ She tried to stop herself from welling up once more. ‘My jokes can’t be that bad!’ She laughed and then burst into tears.

  Davies leaned across and drew her close. She buried her face in his chest. Suddenly the severity of the situation hit home and she was terrified.

  ‘Listen, you need your sleep.’ He laid her head back on the pillow. ‘Try and rest and we’ll talk properly tomorrow. Doctor says you can go home then.’

  She sniffed and dragged her nose across the back of her hand, wincing as she tugged the needle holding the drip in place.

  ‘Just one thing, Alec: when you speak to my mum, don’t tell her that I was pregnant. She’ll go to pieces.’

  ‘Course not.’

  *

  Outside in the corridor, McVeigh ran towards him and thrust a steaming cup in his direction. ‘Here. I got you a wee hot chocolate. Oh,’ he fished in his pocket, ‘and I’ve got that name from The Rogano.’ He handed it to Davies. ‘How’s she doing? Want to run that name past her, see if she remembers?’

  ‘Naw, come on. Leave her, she’s dead beat.’

  *

  Charlie peeped through the slit in the curtains. Davies and McVeigh stood outside on the doorstep below. Davies was well protected in a padded navy blue anorak, whereas McVeigh shivered in a flimsy pinstriped jacket. Bloody coppers. Piss off.

  He stayed perfectly still, moving only his eyes to glance at the clock. Veronica would still be at her mum’s. He was alone. They banged the door again. Harder this time. Still nothing, he remained silent at the window. At the same time the phone rang. He let it ring.

  Another couple of minutes and they’d have met him coming up the front path. Lucky break or what?

  After the second knock they gave up and left. Well, that confirmed it. They couldn’t know too much or they wouldn’t have given up so easily. Arse holes!

  Despite the cold, sweat had seeped through his shirt. He took off his jacket to save it from becoming saturated too. He wasn’t as fit as he used to be. He’d left his car parked a few blocks away and legged it the rest of the way home, coming in unseen through the back door. He reckoned it was only a matter of time before they’d want to see him. Oh, he’d talk to them all right, but not just now.

  A fly buzzed on the windowsill, tossing from side to side in the last throes of life.

  A bit late for flies. He picked it up and held it carefully between his thumb and forefinger. One by one he pulled the legs off. A childish pursuit that still brought the same childish pleasure. As a boy, he had sat for hours in the summer sun doing just this very thing. Still, no harm done. It wasn’t as though they felt any pain. They had no central nervous system for god sake. They couldn’t feel any pain. What the fuck was all the fuss about? They spent their lives landing on, and feasting off, shite. Hardly in a position to complain about someone else’s harmless pastime
? She, on the other hand, did have a central nervous system. She did feel pain. And she did complain about other people’s harmless pastimes. Stupid Bitch!

  Charlie felt the stirrings of an erection at the memory of stealing through her house. Getting in and out the previous day had been just as easy as it had been the night before. He’d come across some stupid bitches in his time, but Oonagh O’Neil really did take the biscuit. Just standing in her kitchen had given him a hard-on. The second time had been even better than the first. Much better. She had actually been in the house. He’d stood at the foot of the stairs and listened to her in the shower. The scent of her soap and shampoo had filled her home. He pictured her wet and naked.

  Led by the bulge in his trousers, he’d dared himself. Up one, then two, then three steps, then back down again when he’d heard her switch off the taps. He’d nearly shat himself when the key had turned in the lock. Hiding in the cupboard under the stairs he’d thanked God for his wee jaunt the night before, which, as it turned out, had proved to be a bit of a reconnaissance mission.

  He’d thought she was dead, as she’d lain there, saying nothing. Even when he’d pulled out the blade. Good as gold she’d been. And bloody hell, he’d really had to give it a bit of welly.

  He’d felt sick when he’d found out she was still alive. That fucked up everything, well and truly. But he’d still get paid. The extra cash would come in right handy to get the electrics fixed on his car. Not being able to get the windows up and down properly really was driving him mental.

  27

  Glasgow, 2000

  The Valium was having no effect and the crisp white sheets were hard and scratchy. The room was stifling and she couldn’t sleep. Which, as it turned out, was a blessing really. Every time she closed her eyes, Freddie Kruger clawed at her neck with his razor sharp blades. Oonagh couldn’t quite clear the fug from her brain and was glad she couldn’t remember being attacked.

  She flicked on a portable television at the bottom of the bed and put the subtitles on so as not to wake any patients in the next room. It was nearly midnight and she hoped it would take her mind off things. The Omen was getting another go on Channel 5. The sight of Lee Remick falling seven stories from a hospital window and crashing to her death through the roof of an ambulance did nothing to calm her nerves.

  She gazed out onto the city. The rooftops took shape against the sodium glow of the streetlights. Somewhere out there was a man who wanted her dead. And she had no idea why.

  *

  Tom couldn’t sleep. The radio was on by the side of his bed and Oonagh was top of the hour every time.

  ‘Family, friends and colleagues of Oonagh O’Neil have been left stunned by the brutal attack. The thirty-six-year-old tele-journalist is being treated in hospital after being found seriously injured in her West End home yesterday. It’s reported Miss O’Neil had been stabbed, but the police are refusing to confirm any details at this time.’

  Tom switched on the television. This time a reporter was outside Oonagh’s house, shivering under a huge umbrella.

  He’d just heaved himself out of bed when Mrs Brady rapped gently on the door. It pissed him off that she was always so timid. Before he had a chance to tell her to go away she came in with a cup of tea. He couldn’t speak to her, or even look at her. Instead he just nodded to the dressing table. Her hand trembled so much that the noise of the crockery drowned out the television. Could she not request a special papal dispensation and use a mug, just this once? His mounting irritation boiled over.

  ‘Mrs Brady! Can you just put the tea down please! And close the door on your way out.’

  The cup dropped from her grip. Tom watched as the tea made an elaborate fountain. It splashed out in perfect symmetry, leaving Mrs Brady holding just the saucer. Before Tom could say anything, she was on her hands and knees picking up the pieces of smashed china. He felt a slight pang of guilt mixed with his impatience and struggled to keep the despair from his voice. ‘Just leave it, Mrs Brady, I’ll get it, don’t worry.’

  It was only then that he realised she was crying. There was no sound, but tears were streaming down both her cheeks. She reminded him of a young boy at the seminary, who had sobbed silently after night time visits from the brother in charge.

  ‘Oh God, Mrs Brady, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.’ He felt bad. The past week must have been tough on her, too.

  She lifted her eyes and looked at the television. A press shot of Oonagh flashed on the screen before some media expert started comparing the attack on Oonagh to that on Jill Dando, spouting about the dangers of working in the public gaze. Mrs Brady was transfixed by the screen.

  ‘Her poor mother – I know what it’s like to lose a daughter…’ She shook her head.

  To Tom her eyes suddenly seemed to be filled not with tears but with years of memories and loss.

  ‘Mrs Brady, I had no idea you had a family… I mean I didn’t realise you’d lost a child.’

  ‘You never asked.’ She shuffled out of the room clutching the broken pieces of china in her hand.

  28

  Glasgow, 1958

  Dawn broke, forcing the blinding winter sunshine through the stained glass windows. The colours danced on Irene Connolly’s red-raw eyelids. She squeezed them shut even tighter, and a low moan escaped from her mouth.

  At first she thought she was back in her own home. In her own bed. Then the pounding ache in her temples spread throughout her body, spinning its web through her muscles, her bones, through every joint. And she was cold. She tried to move but couldn’t. Thick crusts sealed her eyes and she felt wet and sticky between her legs.

  She was aware of footsteps running on the stone floor. They stopped at her head.

  ‘Blessed God, Sister Agatha, I think she’s dead.’

  She felt someone take her pulse, fingers on the side of her neck.

  ‘Stop being so melodramatic. Get someone to help you carry her back to bed.’

  The first voice was hysterical, breathless, panting. ‘But look at her… her… her y’know… between her legs, she’s bleeding.’

  ‘Just get her up to bed. And get her cleaned up. The doctor’s coming today. He’ll take a look at her.’

  They covered her naked body in a sheet before taking her back upstairs, someone at her shoulders, another at her feet and a third in the middle.

  Pain shot through her as they peeled her off the ground. Her hip bones dug into the floor, her ribs felt black and blue from the pressure.

  They swung her between them through the long empty corridors and up the stairs. She was aware of letting out another long moan as they dropped her onto the bed.

  *

  Irene woke with someone standing over her. A dark shadow of a man. The light behind him was creating a halo around his entire body. He was silent as he pulled back the covers.

  Not again. She instinctively reached to his groin, just wanting the whole thing over with quickly.

  The nun slapped Irene’s hands away. ‘We found her in the chapel this morning, Doctor. Naked! She’d been there all night.’

  She tried to speak. ‘I…’

  ‘Quiet, girl!’

  Irene was aware of the nun rocking back and forth.

  ‘Obviously suffering from some form of sexual hysteria,’ she heard the doctor say. ‘I can’t examine her like this. Tie her hands down please.’ The doctor stood back. ‘And her feet too,’ he added.

  She was aware of her hands and feet being bound to the four corners of the bed, but had no energy with which to resist.

  The examination didn’t take long, nor did it take the doctor long to reach his conclusions. Self-inflicted pneumonia from spending the night naked on the floor of the freezing chapel. Superficial wounds, again self-inflicted and apparently very common in young women with a history of mental illness and sexual deviancy.

  ‘I’m not surprised, you know,’ Sister Agatha said. ‘I’ve seen it all before, many times.’

  Then the doctor’s cold
, rough hands pushed her nightdress up around her waist and Irene screamed uncontrollably at the pain as he explored the cause of her bleeding.

  He pressed down hard on her belly with one hand, while his fingers probed the inside of her pelvis.

  ‘When was her baby born?’

  ‘Three days ago, Doctor.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘Defective,’ Sister Agatha whispered.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing too much wrong. Not physically anyway. Keep her in bed – tied down if you have to – for the next few days, until her temperature comes down.’

  Irene’s head swam and the voices merged into one. She was sure her eyes were rolling in her head. The fever circled over at her like an unwelcome, engulfing physical presence.

  *

  She was back in her own bed, at home. Being shaken, told to wake up. But it wasn’t light yet, wasn’t time for school. The curtains were drawn. The room was in darkness. Her big sister, Patricia, was perched on the edge of the bed, fully dressed. Her coat was buttoned up and tied at the waist with a belt. Her thick, dark wavy hair was pushed up under a felt beret. Irene wiped the sleep from her eyes, drowsy and confused.

  ‘Irene, I have to go now.’ A package wrapped in brown paper was at Patricia’s feet.

  ‘Where? Where are you going?’ Irene cried, panic creeping into her voice.

  ‘Shh, shh, you’ll wake up Mum and Dad. I’m going away, Irene. I need to go tonight.’ She put her arms around her wee sister’s shoulders and squeezed her tight.

  Irene struggled to understand. ‘Is it Dad? Is it ’cause you keep fighting?’

  Patricia nodded her head, tears springing to her eyes. ‘Irene, I have to go. I have to go far away from here. I’m sorry, but I can’t stay here. Pray to God you’ll be safe.’ Patricia kissed her, pressing her warm lips into her cheek, nuzzling her neck. ‘God bless, little one.’

  Irene’s sob hiccupped in the back of her throat. ‘Will you come back, Tricia? Promise you’ll come back.’ She grabbed at her sister’s navy gabardine overcoat.