“What are you?” Anne asked. Her voice shook, which wasn’t the effect she was hoping for. She cleared her throat, put steel at the back of her soul and repeated, “What are you?”
If she’d expected it to try to appeal to her, to convince her she was wrong and this was her Madrigal, she was disappointed. Perhaps the diazepam had made it sluggish and stupid, diminished its ability to dissemble. Or perhaps it simply didn’t care anymore; perhaps it wanted only to kill her. The thought sent a shudder through her, icy as a drop of cold rain that finds its way through the gape of your jacket. Anne wondered if her real child would ever return.
“Where is my daughter?”
It struggled again, then appeared to give up; the angry glow of its gaze seemed to decrease as if it was thinking, now, how best to negotiate.
“We are what we are,” it answered in the voice that was many voices.
“You’re not mine.”
“We are what we are,” it repeated.
Anne pushed out a breath, then grabbed the pliers from the desk top. She took hold of one of the creature’s feet. The child had refused to have her toenails clipped since she’d come home. They were long and ragged and snagged on the sheets; it was easy to fasten the metal jaws onto the horny plate of the smallest toe. Anne peered at the thing and said, “What are you and where is Maddie?”
It did not answer, merely bared its teeth, and Anne saw they had their own shadows, their own doubles. Maddie’s little pearls and the others superimposed over top, the sharp ones that she didn’t want catching her flesh. She braced herself and pulled with all her strength; the nail ripped away with a sickening tear.
The thing shrieked and struggled, but the bonds held. It glared at her, weeping and hissing, and she waited until it calmed down, then moved the pliers to the next toe. But even as she prepared to dole out more torment, the injury she’d inflicted began to heal; the discarded bloody shard on the tiles no longer mattered, as the empty cuticle filled, a quick-quick-slow process, new horn covering the pink fleshy pad, then taking extra time to set, to settle, to become hard again, a little glassy.
Anne looked at the monster that had her daughter’s face. It smiled, smug, and said, “Just the small hurts.”
She tightened her grip and pulled again. The nail came off and the creature’s scream gave Anne a terrible sense of satisfaction. Though it recovered rapidly, she could hurt it over and over if need be. She might have worried at the coldness of her thought, but Anne had greater concerns.
“Where is my daughter and what are you?”
The creature hesitated, blinking away tears, and Anne hefted the tool. Her prisoner answered quickly. “Your daughter is here. Inside. What is left.”
The way its face twisted told Anne there was more to know. She hitched the needle-nose pliers to the next nail even as the old one grew back in.
“She is inside me as I am inside her. By now, I should have won, she should have gone, but this one … this one is strong.” It spoke a little desperately, and Anne sensed a fear that had nothing—or very little—to do with her; it sprang entirely from Madrigal’s continued presence, from her refusal to give up the frail body.
“You call us fairies. We call ourselves aossí.”
Anne coughed out a disbelieving laugh. “Fairy folk? You’re fairy folk?”
Before she’d died, Anne’s great-grandmother didn’t speak unless it was to tell a tale. Stories were the only speech left to her, their rhythms her last remaining song, the only concepts left in her head. She used to speak of the fairy folk of Ireland, the hidden folk, those who lived under the hill, those who sometimes took children away to feed them Fae food so they’d stay beneath the earth in the darkling kingdom, dress them in gold and silver and treat them like small royalty. Anne remembered the recitations only dimly; they were no more than echoes and ripples of an old life, an old land. They hadn’t belonged in the country where she and her children were born.
The creature leaned forward as far as it could against its bonds. “We take them, the little ones; we need their bodies. In our own place, beneath the hill, we exist in our common form, but out here, we cannot; we require a solid condition to travel above the earth.”
“Why? Why come up here?”
The look it gave her was one of contempt. “Why? Why not? Curiosity. Hunger.” It grinned again. “Mischief.”
“Can I get her back?”
The thing shook its head, and Anne thought she detected something like regret.
“Once we have them, we crush them, press them into a corner of themselves until they are no more than an echo.” It licked its lips as if weighing up what more to tell. “But this child, this Madrigal of yours, would not go. She has remained all this time, yearning to return home, to take what is hers by right.”
“What is that?”
“Vengeance.”
“You’re lying,” said Anne through gritted teeth and tore out another toenail.
The creature thrashed, weeping and howling. “I cannot lie, not trapped like this. You know the rules; your blood must tell you!”
“What blood? What fucking blood?” Despite the soundproofing, Anne frightened herself with the volume of her voice. She waited to see if there was the tread of a waking man coming from above. But no.
Sobbing, the not-daughter said, “Your kind takes your heritage with you, surely as a scent. Other cultures, after a time, blend in with their new environments, but the Irish never really do. They’re always identifiable, no matter how many generations between them and the misty green, no matter how thin the blood becomes; they don’t forget what runs in their veins, that Brigid and Morrígu are their true mothers. You carry it just as you carry your grief; even when you celebrate, you know that sadness will follow as surely as your shadow trails behind you.” It panted, slumped against the chair. “And just as you bring that with you, so you bring your ghosts, too, and your demons. They trail upon your heels no matter where you roam in the world.” Then, defiantly, it added, “You’re such rich meat; why would we ever give you up?”
Anne dropped the pliers and fled. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, tears coming so fast that the washer and dryer were snowy blurs in seconds, and her breath so hot and hard, she thought she might choke. She wondered if what was left of her child was keening in the soundproof room. Trying to scrub the flecks of blood from her hands, Anne crumpled to the floor and wept.
* * *
When she came to her senses, Anne wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but she was aware of the night hours slipping away. She washed her face in the laundry sink and ran damp hands through her hair as if that might help matters, then cracked the door. The creature with her daughter’s face raised its head and watched as she slid inside and resumed her seat.
“I’m sorry,” it said and Anne heard Maddie’s voice alone. “I’m sorry, Mummy.”
It almost broke her, but she refused the tears. She licked her lips and stared at the creature’s toes, which were whole again, then at the features which had once been so beloved. “You say Maddie came back for revenge. Against whom?”
“The one who took her.” It shrugged. “There is always one who does what is needed in the upperworld. Those of my sort who are tasked with such things seek them out, make accords. They serve us in return for whatsoever their hearts desire. For some, it is wealth, others advancement, for others, illusions and dark satisfactions.”
“Who was it? Who took her?” Anne asked urgently, feeling suddenly so close to the truth that she ached. But her daughter-not-daughter shook its head.
“She doesn’t know, your girl, nor do I—I am not a seeker. We give those who serve us the means to induce a deep sleep, some tiny measure of our own power to facilitate, keep them hidden. Even if she’d seen, her memories are mostly gone now; they have decayed just as a body does when it is not fed. There is only the core of her, and that is anger … and a recollection of you.”
Anne trembled.
The thing went on. “But I can assist. She recalls the scent, so I recall the scent. I can track the one who collected her.”
“That’s what you were doing the other night?”
It nodded. “I could smell something familiar about the man in the park. But it was too faint; he’d had contact with but was not the one who took your child. Not our Mr Underhill.”
“Mr Underhill?”
“That’s what they’re called, those we do not take beneath but leave out here to do our bidding. There are many.”
“Why don’t you take them?” Anne frowned.
“They are flawed; they must be so to agree to do what we ask of them, to take a reward for the lives of others.” It gave a crooked smile. “Those that are pure of heart, innocent, are much easier to control, to dominate. Ones like your daughter.” It made a rueful sound that might have been laughter. “Or she should have been so.”
“Why are you telling me this? Why help?”
“Because I want to go home! I am trapped as surely as she,” it fair howled. “You think you’re the only beings who value that? I want my own form back; I want out of this meat cage, this child who will not let me go, will not die! I tire of sharing.”
Anne wondered if it understood the irony; from the way its eyes shifted, she thought perhaps it had an inkling.
“If I let you go, we’ll work together. And when you’re done?”
It hesitated. “Then I shall return under the hill. This child will be gone.” Anne was silent so long that the thing sounded anxious when it said, “Do we have an agreement?”
Slowly, Anne nodded. “I know some of the ones they questioned. I’ll find out who else there was. We can go visiting and you can do your bloodhound act. But no attacks, not in daylight, not in public. When we find whoever it is, you need to be patient. Agreed?”
Her unchild nodded solemnly. “And when it is done, I shall be free, your child will be satisfied, and you will know that justice has been done.”
Anne wasn’t sure about that, but for the moment, she would take what she could get. She untied the bonds.
* * *
“Thanks for coming, Jasper. I didn’t really want to go to the station.” She’d chosen a table towards the back of the cafe, but not so far in that they looked clandestine. Just enough so other customers kept their distance.
“Never a problem for you, Annie. And never a hardship to get coffee and cake.” He smiled, toasting her with the cup, and she thought how he’d changed since they’d dated in high school. Three marriages behind Jasper Dawson, but no children. Bodybuilding and vanity kept him in shape, unlike most of the cops at the Finnegan’s Field station, whose junk food diet left its loud mark on them. His hair, once so thick and black, was long gone, receding in his twenties, shaved off in his thirties as if it by choice, then completely lost in his forties as he’d climbed the career ladder, making it to District Officer of a fifty-thousand-square-kilometre area and all the rural towns it contained. She liked the way the pale blue uniform shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders, and the navy trousers were tight in the right places.
She thought briefly about their adolescent fumblings behind the sports shed, how clever his fingers had been then, making promises his cock didn’t bother to keep when she’d at last agreed to go all the way; how selfish he’d been. Not like Brian with his saggy bum, potbelly, and full head of greying hair, Brian who’d stepped up when she found herself pregnant, and Jasper off at the Academy and not answering letters or returning calls. She’d never told him her oldest was his, that Brian was a better man than he was; that all the while he spent being transferred around the state, collecting promotions and wives like trophies, Brian had done what he couldn’t have, and done it far better.
Anne wondered how she looked to him now. She never sensed any flicker of interest. Wasn’t sure it had been there much past the night she gave it all up to him. There was the chase and the catch and the kill; after that, the hunter was sated. She knew she still looked good, better than Brian did, but then again, the greys were outnumbering the browns on her head, the skin beneath her eyes wasn’t as firm any more, nor was her jawline, and thin runnels radiated out from her mouth even though she’d stopped smoking years before when Jason came along. Maddie would have grown up to look like her if …
She shook her head and smiled. None of that mattered anymore.
“What do you need, Annie?”
“I just … I just wanted to talk about Maddie. How she was found…”
She could see from the way his lips tightened and whitened that he was annoyed. Annoyed at having to go over this again, at having to discuss why he couldn’t find her little girl in the first place, and why she’d come back. How she’d come back. He was pissed off because he hadn’t been the one to bring her home, Anne thought.
“Look, Anne. I don’t have any answers. All I know is we looked high and low. You were there; you saw how hard everyone worked, saw how no one got any sleep for days and days on end. You know how determined everyone was, the cops, the searchers, the social workers … everyone.” He ran a hand through hair he no longer had. “Whoever took her hid her incredibly well. How she escaped—surely, she escaped, because the sort of person who steals children generally doesn’t let them go—I don’t know.”
“I know, I know. And I’m grateful, Jasper; don’t ever think I’m not.” He’d been there for them all, a shoulder for both her and Brian, avuncular to Jason. Even after the search had been scaled down, then called off, he’d still visited, came to dinner, dropped over of an afternoon or morning, just to let them know they’d not been forgotten, not by him, at least. “I was just wondering was there anyone you looked at in particular? Anyone apart from the ones we already know about … and not just the drifters…?”
“Annie, you know I can’t—”
“You know what they say: most crimes are committed by someone known to the victim.”
“Annie—”
“What about Bill Watkins at the chemist? Ted Doran over at the water authority? The baker’s boy, Toby Anderson? People talk.” She dug, found inspiration. “Mrs Flynn! What about nosy old Mrs Flynn?”
His face turned hard. “Mrs Flynn lost a kid of her own, same as you did, only years ago. Don’t you remember? Stop it, Annie. You got Maddie back. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
As if the Barkers, who’d lost old friends—those offended by what police questioning implied—as well as all ability to judge who they could and could not trust … as if they could go back to the way they were by this simple act of restoration.
After last night …
Anne sighed and sipped her coffee. She hadn’t known about Mrs Flynn, or hadn’t remembered. She couldn’t tell Jasper what she’d seen, what she’d heard. “I know. I’m sorry. I know everyone did their best, especially you, Jasper; I know that. It’s just…”
“She’s home, Annie. She’s home. Everything’s okay with her, right?”
“Of course!” she lied too brightly. “Everything’s fine. Sometimes, my curiosity gets the better of me.”
“You know what curiosity did to the cat, Annie.” He laughed and grinned fondly. The radio at his belt squawked, and he said, “I gotta go. Give my love to everyone.”
She nodded. “Thanks for humouring me. Come over for dinner again soon; we’ve not seen you for a while. Don’t be a stranger, Jasper; you’re family.”
He hugged her tightly, then rose and walked away, hooking the handset up to answer the call.
Anne stared after him. She’d been foolish to think he’d give up names. She swirled the dregs of her cappuccino, drank them down, and then waited a few moments before pulling the to-do list from her handbag. Chemist (painkillers, facewash, pantyliners, Bill Watkins); bakery (bread rolls, maybe a date slice, Toby Anderson); supermarket (loo paper, laundry liquid, three-litre bottle of milk, Bodie Hogan). Brian would be taking Maddie and D-fer for a walk. She’d be done soon; she’d go home and put on dinner
. Afterwards, she’d try to think up a new strategy.
* * *
Mrs Flynn was watering her front yard when Anne pulled into the drive. She didn’t go up to the garage door, didn’t hit the remote, but killed the engine, got out of the car, and walked across the road. The old lady’s white hair caught the afternoon light and seemed to glow, and her smile was friendly and sad as Anne approached.
There was no good way, thought Anne, no easy way. She blurted, “I’m sorry, but … I know you lost a child…”
She may as well as have slapped the woman’s sweet face. No, punched it, pressed it in as far as she could for the features appeared to collapse in on themselves. Anne put out a hand to stop her from turning away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be cruel, but I have to talk to someone.”
Mrs Flynn nodded slowly, waited; made Anne speak.
“Were there any suspects?” She didn’t know if that was the thing to ask, but it was all her mind released from its depths.
The old woman shook her head but said, “Plenty, love. Plenty, but none as they could prove and none as they could pin it on.”
“Anyone who’s still here?”
“Mick Galbraith, Neil Rooney. Aidan Hanrahan’s older brother Liam, him as hung himself from a tree out by Deadman’s Mount a year after my Bridie went missing. An unlikely suspect for you, to be sure.”
Galbraith and Rooney were old, old men now, both in the Care Home on the South Side. Neither was sufficiently mobile to grab a small child and spirit her away; they certainly hadn’t been any more limber three years earlier. Anne rubbed her hands hard over her face, concentrating on the pressure, trying to anchor herself to something solid-seeming.
“Worst day of my life, Annie. Realising she’d not come home from school, then waiting and waiting and saying all the prayers I was ever going to have in me. Making promises to a shite of a God while the men searched high and low, through paddocks and bush, dredged the rivers and dams, turned people’s homes inside out, looking for my little girl. And all those prayers, Annie, all that begging and what did it get me? Nowt. Not even a body to bury.” She puffed, trying to get her breath back; then Anne realised she was wheezing a laugh up from her ancient lungs. Mrs Flynn said something then, so low Anne doubted she heard properly: “Perhaps there’s something worse, though, having one come home.”
Some of the Best from Tor.com: 2016 Page 41
