by Martina Cole
Assumpta just wanted it gone from her, as if she was drowning an unwanted kitten.
The door of his office opened quietly, and he stood still as a statue. His daughter was there. He could smell her, the perfume she wore, the heavy scent of her make-up. She had always worn far too much make-up. She was a beautiful girl, and he had never understood her fascination with painting her face. But he had allowed it. He had given his wife the final say on the girls and their lifestyles. Now he was sorry, even though he knew that his Carmel had done her best by the girls. She was as baffled as he was about Assumpta and her predicament. He stood stiffly, looking out of the window, seeing the beauty of the view, all the while forcing down his anger, his disappointment and his shame that his daughter had really thought that he would not have a problem arranging for her to have her child scraped out of her. One wrong word from his daughter now, and he would likely seriously harm her.
Assumpta looked at her dad. For her whole life he had only been there as a provider – her mum had been the main carer. She had done her best, but she had always been more interested in how she herself looked, or in how they were dressed.
Assumpta had been sexually active since her early teens. Her reputation meant nothing to her. She was a Costello and that had given her the power over everyone in her orbit since she could remember. Everyone was nice to them because they were Costellos – no other reason. She had started sleeping around to prove to herself that she could transcend the Costello name. If only she knew then what she knew now.
She was already four months gone, and all she wanted was for her dad to make it go away and let her start her life again, properly this time, sensibly, with the gift of hindsight. Now she knew the pitfalls, she was more than willing to learn her lesson. Whatever it took, she would do it.
‘I’m sorry, Dad.’
Patrick closed his eyes in distress. She sounded so young, so innocent. This was his baby, his first-born. This was the girl who adamantly refused to give him the name of her child’s father.
He gulped at his whisky. Then he said as calmly as humanly possible, ‘Just tell me who the father is. That is all I want to know.’
Assumpta swallowed down her annoyance. If he only knew the circumstances, he might understand her reluctance to broadcast it to the nation. But if he did, he would realise that she couldn’t say exactly who the father was. She had a vague idea, going by the dates, but that wasn’t going to be enough for her father. ‘I wish I could turn back time, Dad. But I can’t, no one can. I just want the opportunity to put this behind me and start again.’
Patrick turned around then, and looked at his daughter. She was so pretty, all tits and teeth – a real brahma. Her hair was thick and shiny, her eyes were deep blue, and she had his mum’s high cheekbones. She was a Costello all right – physically, anyway.
‘You’re having this fucking baby, Assumpta – get that through your thick head. As a Catholic, I can’t believe that you ever thought otherwise. If you don’t have your baby, Assumpta, I will cut you off from this family without a second fucking thought. I swear that to you in the name of the Christ Child Himself. I will never forgive you as long as you live. You will be as dead to me as the child you murdered.’
It was over. Patrick Costello looked at his daughter and knew that he had finally beaten her. His threat to cut her off had frightened her more than anything else. That troubled him, but he firmly believed that the child would be the making of her. It was the only thing left that could redeem her in his eyes.
Assumpta knew that she had no option but to do as her father insisted. He had shown her how serious he was, and he was not going to change his mind. This child she was carrying meant more to him than it could ever mean to her. She hadn’t thought for a second that anyone in her family would welcome her pregnancy; she had banked on her parents wanting the child removed as quickly and quietly as possible. That her father, Patrick Costello, really believed in the sanctity of life had been something she had never thought possible. But she could not have been more wrong. The stories she had heard about him all of her life suggested the opposite. His capacity for great violence, the myths about his involvement in the death and the disappearance of people who had thwarted or challenged him, implied that her father was a murderer.
To now find out that this same man was adamant that abortion was unacceptable, was a sin against God, scared her. She had always assumed that his churchgoing was just another scam, nothing more than a public show, a pretence to make him look like a good, decent man. That her father actually believed in the Catholic Church, and its most basic of beliefs, forced her to reappraise her position.
But she had one last argument up her sleeve. One she hoped would cancel out everything else her father had said.
‘Dad, I have to tell you something.’
Patrick shrugged. He could be magnanimous now – he had won the war. ‘Go on, then.’
‘This baby I’m carrying might be black.’
Patrick could hear the hope in her voice. She genuinely thought that a black child might be enough to make him turn against everything he had ever believed in. This daughter of his would never cease to amaze him.
‘And?’ He made sure his voice was as nonchalant as possible.
Assumpta was rattled by his reply. ‘I just thought you should know, that’s all.’
Patrick laughed. ‘The fact you said “might” tells me all I need to know about you. But I couldn’t give a flying fuck if it was sky blue with pink spots. It’s going to be born and it will bear the Costello name. It will be my first grandchild and, as such, it will be given every opportunity I can provide for it and, hopefully, unlike its mother, it will have the brains to make something of itself.’
Assumpta turned to leave, and Patrick fought the urge to kick her arse out of the door. She had disappointed him in more ways than one. It wasn’t the pregnancy itself – he would have come to terms with that eventually – but his daughter’s disregard for her own child’s welfare, and her complete indifference to it had really shown him how selfish she was. He had to admit that he was ashamed of his daughters – both of them. They were cut from the same cloth, and so self-absorbed they couldn’t see further than their own needs and wants. He had grown up with nothing; they had been given all they could desire from an early age. His girls knew the price of everything, but the value of nothing.
There was poor Josephine Flynn, who had more right to motherhood than this whore of his, and yet she had lost child after child, denied the one thing that she craved. Well, his Assumpta was finally going to learn the harsh realities of life. She was going to have her child and, if she had any nous whatsoever, she would finally understand about consequences.
He had heard all the tales about his daughters. Declan had given him the gossip, so he wouldn’t hear it from strangers. He had been shocked but, more than anything, he had been so hurt. That he had unknowingly harboured such poisonous vipers, such vacuous females, had really shown him the truth of his life. Carmel, God love her, had trusted them implicitly. She was even more outraged than he was about their exploits.
Everyone around him had known about his daughters, and the lifestyle they had chosen to pursue, while he was left in the dark. It was the worst kind of betrayal for a man like him who prided himself on never being taken unawares. He had no option but to face it, hold his head up, and front it out.
But if anyone ever had the nerve to say anything to his face, he would kill them without a second’s fucking thought. He was going to find out who the father of his grandchild was, and the names of every single man who had taken his daughters to bed behind his back. Patrick’s reputation was everything to him; it was something he had to fight for, and he would do exactly that.
Chapter Thirty-Five
‘Listen, Pat, this has all got to stop, mate. You are making a fucking fool of yourself.’
Michael Flynn was asking for trouble, but he had no choice. Patrick was out of control, he seemed to have complete
ly disconnected from reality. He had never seen anything like it in his life.
Declan stood watching him. Michael knew that he had not really believed that he would actually say anything to Patrick, even though they had planned this together. Patrick wasn’t a man who encouraged any kind of criticism about himself, in fact he had a serious problem dealing with it. But something had to be done, and Michael was the only person with the balls to do it.
Patrick looked at Michael. The contempt in his voice was evident. It was not something he had ever thought he would hear directed at him, let alone from young Michael.
‘I don’t give a flying fuck what you might think, Michael. You need to remember that you work for me, mate, not the other way around.’
Michael steadied his voice, aware that he had to try and defuse the situation. But, by the same token, this had to be sorted, things had to be said. ‘And you need to remember who you are, Patrick. If you have any brains you will stop this fucking witch hunt. Think about it. If your daughter actually knew who had knocked her up, don’t you think she might have fucking mentioned it by now? I really do understand how you’re feeling, but you are making a laughing stock of yourself. It’s a joke, Pat. You’re not the only man whose daughter is having a baby on her own. It’s the eighties, it isn’t even a fucking big deal these days.’
Patrick recognised that, on one level, Michael was speaking the truth. He was chasing after nothing. But he just couldn’t stop himself. He hated that his daughter had let herself down so much and that, at the same time, she had let him down, shamed him in the worst way possible. He blamed Carmel. She was a fucking disgrace, she had failed him miserably. She was another trollop, another user. It was a family trait, by all accounts, and his daughters had not inherited it from him. That’s if they were his daughters, of course. He was wondering about that now. He couldn’t eat or sleep. His whole life was consumed with thinking about his daughters, the lives they had led, and his complete ignorance of it all. He couldn’t believe that he had been so naïve. He had always told his girls how lovely they were, how beautiful they were; he had treated them like princesses, totally convinced of their goodness. He had assumed they understood the importance of decency, had cherished their virginity, known the value of self-respect. But that had been a complete fucking myth on his part. They had apparently lain down for anyone who gave them the time of day. He had never once even suspected them of anything untoward. Now he could only wonder what else he had missed, what else had been going on beneath his nose. Every day he was finding it harder to believe they were his flesh and blood.
Even Declan and Michael were suspect to him now. He had given them the same trust, and now he could only wonder at his own foolishness. His Carmel was the most suspect, as far as he was concerned. She had been in charge of the girls after all. Now he was constantly reminded of Carmel’s past. She had hardly been a wilting fucking virgin when he had met her, but she had been much younger than him, and she had pursued him with a fucking vengeance until she got him. He had happily signed on for life, for a family and a home. She had supplied the family, he had supplied everything else. He had given her and his girls everything that money could buy, contentedly settled down with Carmel, and he had never once given her cause to doubt him or his loyalty. But could he really say the same about her? He wasn’t so sure any more.
Michael sighed; he could see that Patrick wasn’t listening to him, was unaware that he was even in the same room. ‘Are you even listening to me, Pat? I’m talking away to you and you’re off with the fucking fairies again. Get a grip, will you? We are already haemorrhaging fucking money. You keep missing meetings, and when you do bother to turn up you pick fights with men you have known all your life – men who rely on you because they trust you, because you have always been so reliable in the past. If you don’t fucking sort your head out, Patrick, we will be seconded. We are already losing custom but, worst of all, we are losing face. Our credibility is shot thanks to you.’
Declan could see that his brother was too far gone to listen to reason. Patrick was already tuning Michael’s voice out. When he had these episodes, he had the knack of only hearing what he wanted to hear. In truth, his brother rarely listened to anything he didn’t want to hear anyway. It was part of Patrick’s psyche, his inability to ever be wrong. It was this unpredictability that gave him the edge over everyone else. He was not going to listen to anything unless it suited him, unless it was directly concerned with this latest fixation. Michael had never really experienced Patrick like this before; Declan knew how dangerous it could make him.
He had always accepted that his brother lived outside normal human parameters. It had once been his strength, the reason he instilled fear into everyone without even trying. Anyone with half a brain could see that Patrick Costello was marching to a different beat to the rest of the world. Now his brother had descended into utter chaos. This latest episode went far deeper than ever before. Declan had seen him paranoid, but never against his own. Who would ever have thought Patrick could have been brought so low by his own children?
Assumpta had destroyed her father. She had unknowingly unearthed the man’s only known weakness, and Declan, like Michael, could see that, if they weren’t careful, someone else was going to step up and take over the businesses. This kind of weakness was treated with the scorn it deserved in the world they inhabited. Patrick was far too influential to let something so personal take precedence over anything else. This kind of trouble was sorted quietly, and that suited everyone concerned. It was the law of the pavement, and was how it would always be. It was how the Costellos had made their mark, how they had taken over someone else’s business. The trick was to make sure that the same thing never happened to you.
Declan shook his head, and said quietly, ‘Leave him, Michael. You’re wasting your fucking time.’
Michael knew that Declan was right. Patrick was oblivious to them. It was frightening, but Michael couldn’t help his morbid fascination at the man’s obvious lunacy. Patrick looked wrong; he was not just manic, he was without any kind of boundaries or guidelines. Everything that kept them at the top of their game was now going to destroy everything they had worked for. It was unbelievable, and Michael was well aware that he had to be the one to take control, because Declan wouldn’t.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Josephine was happier than she had been for a very long time. She was still pregnant, and she was still the only person who knew about it. She was not going to tell anyone until she had to. She had let everyone down so many times in the past, she wasn’t going to chance it again. The pain of each loss became more acute – it never lessened. Everyone she saw would give her clichés and pity. It was the pity she hated the most. She could feel this baby inside of her every minute of every day. She felt different this time, she was convinced of that. It felt right somehow. It was her secret to keep, this was her own private happiness. Her silence meant no one was watching her every move, questioning every expression on her face, asking if she was feeling ill, or if she was off-colour, telling her to sit down or lie down as if she was dying or something, searching her face constantly for the first signs of pain, followed by the miscarriage they had been expecting all along. No one forcing her to rest, or sitting with her so she never had any time on her own. It was wearing having so many people caring for you, tiring trying to be upbeat and constantly pretending that you weren’t terrified of losing yet another baby down the toilet. This was so much better for her. This was far more relaxing.
She rubbed her belly gently, caressing her child and hoping that this time she might actually get the chance to hold this one in her arms.
Michael’s mother was the real bugbear; she felt the woman almost wished the losses on her daughter-in-law. She was a vicious old bitch who saw Michael as hers and no one else’s. A child, a living child, would cement their marriage and she believed that was something Hannah didn’t want. She felt awful even thinking it, but it was the truth.
She heard Michael’s car as it crunched on to the driveway. He was early; she had not even thought about any dinner for them – not that he would care, of course.
She could hear him as he walked around the side of the house – he always came through the back door. It was a running joke between them. He said it was his council-house upbringing: out through the front door and in through the back.
Josephine automatically put the kettle on. He always expected a cup of tea. They had become so predictable. She wondered if that was because they had not been blessed with a child yet. A child didn’t allow for such routine. It was the reason why people could never make plans, or guarantee their days. A child was also the reason why people like them got married in the first place.
‘Good girl, I’m dying for a cuppa.’
Josephine plastered a smile on her face. Then, turning to her husband, she said as gaily as she could, ‘Name me one time you have ever come in this house and not had a welcoming cup of tea. It’s me job, isn’t it? It’s what I live for, Michael, catering to your every whim!’
He laughed with her and felt himself relax. It was hard sometimes; Josephine could be sensitive. He adored her with a passion, but he knew that she felt the absence of a child acutely. She would never believe he didn’t care either way. She was a very beautiful woman, and she was the only woman he had ever wanted – ever would want. If only she could believe it.
‘I want my whims catered to, Josephine. I think you can cater to them tonight, actually,’ he said teasingly.
She poured them both out mugs of tea and looked at him assessingly. ‘I think I can just about manage that, Michael, if you’re good.’
