The Good Turn
Page 1
DEDICATION
For Freya and Oisín,
(with apologies that this is neither the Wren & Robin book,
nor the one about the witches and Volcano Mountain).
CONTENTS
Dedication
Dublin, Ireland: Tuesday 1 September 2015
Anna
Part One: Galway, Ireland: Saturday 31 October 2015
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Dublin, Ireland: Tuesday 1 September 2015
Anna
Part Two: Galway, Ireland: Monday 2 November 2015
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Thursday 5 November 2015
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Friday 6 November 2015
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tuesday 1 September 2015
Anna
Part Three: Roundstone, Ireland: Saturday 7 November 2015
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sunday 8 November 2015
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Monday 9 November 2015
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Dervla McTiernan
Copyright
Dublin, Ireland
Tuesday 1 September 2015
ANNA
The waiting room was ugly and neglected. It had been cleaned recently – the overpowering smell of disinfectant was testament to that – but in a desultory way that did nothing to brighten the grubby walls or lift years of ingrained dirt. The disinfectant failed to completely mask the smell of body odour and Anna sat with one hand tucked around her daughter’s and the other to her mouth and nose. The room was half full. Mostly addicts waiting for their methadone appointment, from the look of them. There was an old man in the corner, coughing and coughing with his mouth wide open. A wet, porridgey, stomach-churning cough. He choked, then coughed again, harder, and something splattered on the tiles in front of him. God. Anna looked away, squeezed Tilly’s hand for comfort. The little girl didn’t react. She was distracted, absorbed in reading the posters stuck to the noticeboard on the opposite wall. One poster dominated the board. It had a white background and jolly red letters, was a bit Christmassy looking.
Do you use snow blow? People who take snow blow may take more risks. People who inject snow blow are likely to inject more often, therefore increasing the risk of sharing injecting equipment. Using snow blow may also enhance your sex drive, increasing the risk of unprotected sex.
Anna gave Tilly’s hand a little pull, drawing her attention away from the poster. ‘Won’t be long now, love,’ she said. ‘We’ll be in and out, and then I’ll bring you to school, all right?’
Tilly’s grey eyes darkened at the mention of school, and Anna tried to smile reassurance at her, felt the smile fail on her lips. Tilly did have a few friends at school. Some of them were right little bitches, always ready with a game – as long as that game involved hurting someone. But at nine you just want to belong, don’t you? To be part of something.
‘Will we do something nice this weekend, do you think?’
A young fella sitting across from them and a few seats down looked at Anna as if the invitation had been meant for him. He’d been sitting there just like they had for the last hour and a half, his right hand picking and picking at his trackies. Pick pick scratch, pick pick scratch. Anna gave him her best you-must-be-joking look and turned back to her daughter.
‘We could go to the library,’ she said. ‘Get you a few new books.’ Tilly smiled, but there was no spark to it. They went to the library every Saturday. ‘Or we could go to the zoo. What would you think about that?’ Anna wanted to bite the words back as soon as they left her mouth. The bus trip alone would be a tenner, tickets in another twenty or thirty euro. But Tilly’s smile widened into something almost convincing and Anna forced herself to smile back.
‘Matilda Collins?’
Anna stood. The receptionist nodded in the direction of an open door.
‘He’s ready for you.’
Anna went in, Tilly following so closely on her heels that they almost tripped over each other. The doctor didn’t look up when they entered, just kept tapping away, head bent over his keyboard. He was youngish, red haired, freckled. The beginnings of a bald patch.
‘What can I do for you today . . . Anna, is it?’ His eyes were kind. Anna sat. Tilly hovered beside her.
‘It’s Tilly,’ Anna said. ‘Her teacher said I should come and see you.’ Had demanded it actually. Had picked up the phone and threatened to call in the social worker if Anna didn’t do as she was told.
‘Yes?’
‘Because Tilly hasn’t been speaking,’ Anna said.
The doctor’s eyes flicked to the little girl. He gave her a little encouraging smile. ‘Right. And how long has this been going on?’
‘About a month,’ said Anna.
‘A month?’ He frowned.
Anna swallowed. It had been three months. Three months of silence. ‘Yes,’ she said.
The doctor was more concerned now; Anna could see it. Could see the beginnings of mistrust hidden behind a veneer of warmth.
‘Any other symptoms?’
Anna shook her head. The doctor wheeled back on his chair and drew Tilly towards him. Massaged her throat, then had her open her mouth so he could look inside with the help of the little torch thing and an ice pop stick. Tilly stared up at him, eyes wide, body weight shifting. She looked like a fawn that might take flight at any moment.
‘Are you sore here?’ he asked, pressing on her throat.
Tilly shook her head.
‘Nothing hurts,’ Anna said. ‘I’d know if something was hurting her. She’s just decided not to speak. That’s her choice, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t see any signs of physical trauma. Nothing to suggest a t— . . . a lump of any kind.’ He’d been about to say tumour. Cancer. Jesus. The idea had never occurred to her.
‘Which means this may be psychological,’ the doctor continued. ‘Can you think of anything that might have triggered Matilda to react in this way? A stressful event? Something upsetting?’
Anna shook her head.
He cleared his throat, lowered his voice. Didn’t quite meet her eye. ‘It will be difficult to help Tilly, you know Anna, if I don’t know everything there is to know. I do understand that some things are hard to talk about . . .’
Anna said nothing, pressed her lips tightly closed.
‘What are your living arrangements at home?’ He looked at her bare left hand. Her fingernails were bitten bloody. She clenched her fist, too late. ‘Is Tilly’s dad in the picture? Or another man?’
Anna lifted her chin. ‘What’s that got to do with a
nything?’ she said.
‘I’m just . . . I’ll refer Tilly on to an ENT specialist, in case there’s something physical going on here that I can’t see. But if there isn’t, if Tilly is simply choosing not to talk, that’s something called selective mutism. It can happen in children after they’ve experienced a trauma of some kind. And I wondered, I need to ask you if Tilly has ever seen violence in your home. If perhaps your partner . . .?’
Anna could see what he thought of her. A single mother, too young, probably on gear or something. The kind of woman who would put some violent man before her daughter.
‘I’ve no partner,’ Anna said. ‘And I’d never let anyone hurt Tilly. Or me either,’ she said, firmly.
He nodded slowly.
‘And you can’t think of anything Tilly might have seen or experienced that might have upset her?’
‘No,’ Anna said, and nearly choked on the lie. She tried to hold his gaze but the weight of the sham was too much and she looked away.
He sighed. ‘I’ll need to refer Tilly to a paediatric psychologist for assessment. But in the meantime, I have a duty to ensure that Tilly is in a safe environment. That her home is a safe place. Do you understand?’
Anna swallowed. Fear clutched at the base of her stomach. ‘Of course I understand. I’m not stupid. And everything’s fine at home. It’s just me and Tilly. We live by ourselves.’ Lies, lies, more lies.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s good.’ He turned back to his computer, found her address and read it out, waited for her to confirm it. Then he spoke to Tilly, his expression very kind, his voice very gentle.
‘Tilly, if there’s anything at all you’d like to tell me about, I’d really like to hear it. If you’re afraid, or you need help with something. If you don’t want to talk, you can write it down if you like.’
He offered her a piece of paper and a pen. Tilly looked at them like they were foreign things, like she’d never seen them before. Then she turned into Anna, folded herself into her mother and hid her face in Anna’s neck, as if she were much younger than her nine years.
‘Tilly’s fine,’ Anna said, her voice thick with unshed tears. She couldn’t cry. ‘We’re fine.’
A long, painful moment passed. Anna stayed perfectly still, watched the doctor, watched as his expression dissolved into something that looked like disappointment, then she breathed an inward sigh of relief.
‘Very well,’ he said. He turned back to his computer, started typing. ‘I’m going to refer you to Doctor Williams, Andrea Williams, for an urgent appointment. She specialises in these kinds of cases.’ His printer sputtered into life beside him. He waited, then pulled the letter from the tray, signed it, and handed it to her. ‘Call this number, today please. I’ll call Doctor Williams’ office myself, to let them know to expect to hear from you later today.’
Anna took the letter. ‘That will be fine,’ she said. What kind of cases?
They made their way out of the clinic. Outside, in the cool sunshine of a September day in Dublin, Anna took a deep, deep breath, and let it out again. She looked down at the upturned, worried face of her daughter, and wondered what the hell she was going to do next.
PART ONE
Galway, Ireland
Saturday 31 October 2015
CHAPTER ONE
Peter Fisher was woken by movement in his bed. The room was dark, only a sliver of early morning light making its way through the curtains. He blinked, tasted last night’s beer on his tongue, sour and tacky. More movement. He turned in time to see a woman’s dark head disappear under the covers. He lifted the duvet, looked down at her.
‘What are you doing?’ His voice was on the rough side. He cleared his throat.
She stilled. ‘Looking for my knickers.’ A laugh in her voice, a hint of embarrassment.
He thought about it. ‘I think they’re on the floor on your side.’
She emerged from under the blankets, looked at him. ‘Right. Close your eyes so.’
Smiling, Peter dropped his head back on his pillow, closed his eyes, and took a moment to replay the previous night’s activities. When he opened them again she was standing at the end of the bed. Her knickers were white cotton, her bra black lace. God, but she was in great shape.
‘Sneaking out, were you?’
She pulled on her jeans, looked around for her T-shirt.
‘I’ve got training,’ she said. ‘And I’m late, late, late.’
She played camogie. Her team had a semi-final coming up. Which was why she hadn’t been drinking the night before, and he had.
Peter let out a heavy sigh. ‘I knew if I let you take advantage of me you wouldn’t respect me in the morning.’
She grinned at him, pulled her T-shirt over her head and looked around for her boots.
‘You’re a hard woman.’
She sat on the end of the bed, started to lace up her boots, gave him a sideways look. ‘I’d say you’ll recover,’ she said.
She was ferociously cute. Even first thing in the morning. He wanted to pull her back into bed and kiss her, but would be better to keep his distance until he found toothpaste and half a gallon of mouthwash. She might have had the same concern – when she came close to say goodbye, she kissed him briefly on the cheek before heading for the door.
‘I’ll see ya,’ she said.
‘Hey, Niamh,’ he said. She turned.
‘D’you want to meet for lunch?’
She looked surprised. ‘I’m meeting my sister,’ she said. ‘But . . . maybe later?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll give you a shout so.’
One last smile, warmer this time, and she was gone.
Peter considered going in search of water, thought better of it, rolled over, and went back to sleep. When he woke for the second time there was more light coming through between the curtains, and his headache had receded a bit. This time he made straight for the shower and his toothbrush, came back to his room to dress and straighten the bedclothes. He pulled back the curtains and opened a window to let out the stale air of the night before. Cold, fresh October air streamed in. He headed for the kitchen.
The apartment was a two-bedroom on the second floor of a three-storey building on St Mary’s Road. His roommate, Aoife, had found the place for them, had actually signed for it and paid the deposit before he’d even seen it. Which was just as well – you had to move fast to find someplace that was both decent and affordable in Galway. In his price bracket there was a lot of competition from students. Aoife was a doctor at the hospital. She could probably have stretched to a fancy one-bed, somewhere with new carpets and fully functional plumbing, but they liked to live together, and she never made a thing out of the fact that his crappy salary narrowed their options considerably. Besides, their place was two minutes’ walk from the hospital, which worked well for her.
Aoife was stretched out on the couch in the living room. She was wearing jeans, socks with a hole on the right heel, and a navy jumper that looked suspiciously big for her. The Saturday papers with their glossy magazine supplements were spread all around her. There was an empty coffee cup from the place on the corner sitting on the small table at her knee, a plate with a few lonely croissant crumbs keeping it company. She raised bright eyes to him.
‘You’ve emerged. You do realise it’s nearly lunchtime?’
Peter gave her a grin that was half a grimace, went into the little kitchen and came back with a glass of water, drank it down.
‘That bad?’ Aoife asked.
Peter shook his head. ‘Is that my jumper?’ he asked.
She looked down at the jumper in mock surprise. ‘Is it?’ she said. ‘Did I hear the lovely Niamh commence the walk of shame a few hours ago? Did you kick her out?’
Peter laughed, dropped into the armchair. He felt buoyant, despite the hangover. First day off in two weeks, and so far it was pretty close to perfect.
‘She had training. We’re meeting for dinner, maybe.’
Aoife raised an eyebrow.
‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Commitment.’
Peter shrugged. He liked Niamh. She was bright and funny. She always seemed happy, too, and that was nice to be around, when so much of his work meant being knee deep in human misery.
‘Not working?’ Aoife asked, reading his mind.
He looked at his phone. ‘Not so far, anyway.’ First day off in two weeks, but that didn’t mean he’d get to keep it.
Aoife stretched, knocking half the papers onto the floor in the process. ‘Any plans for the day?’
‘Haven’t thought about it.’ He should go to the gym, or for a run maybe. The annual physical was coming up. He poked a dubious finger into his stomach, thought about shuttle runs and the previous night’s beers. Nah. ‘Do you want to go to the cinema?’ There was a new Bond film – Spectre. He’d heard good things about it.
Aoife looked wary. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Which movie?’
Peter’s phone rang before he could answer her. Aoife rolled her eyes and let out a sigh of exasperation. Peter checked his screen before answering. It was a blocked number, probably the station. He pressed the button.
‘Fisher.’
‘Reilly wants to know if you can come in for the afternoon.’ Peter recognised the voice. It was Deirdre Russell. A colleague.
Peter looked at his watch. ‘I’m off today,’ he said, unnecessarily.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I told him. But he said to ask you anyway. We’re very short.’
Nothing new about that, not lately anyway.
‘Who else is in?’ Peter asked. He locked eyes with Aoife, who stood and started to gather up her newspapers. Peter stayed where he was, listening, not yet willing to accept that his day off had just been cancelled.
‘Basically me, Reilly and Mulcair,’ Deirdre was saying. ‘The entire task force is out on surveillance – they left hours ago. They think there’s stuff coming in by boat this evening.’
Peter stood up, looked out of the window, felt a flicker of irritation. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s mad how they always get a tip-off when it’s a sunny day, isn’t it?’
Deirdre paused. ‘They seemed sure this time,’ she said.
Peter snorted. ‘I’ll be there in a half-hour,’ he said. Silence on the other end of the phone. ‘What?’