The Godforsaken Daughter

by Christina McKenna

  It was the third vigil. He’d visited the street on Wednesday, the day after his encounter with Mrs. O’Leary. He’d parked slightly nearer her home, and had maintained his surveillance for the best part of two hours.

  Surveillance! Henry smiled grimly as he turned the word over in his head. But it was surveillance, he told himself. His activity—or, rather, lack of activity—went hand in glove with his impersonation of a police officer, the pretense that had convinced the elderly lady of his bona fides.

  Now it was Friday, and Henry was seated in the parked car for the third night in a row. Three hours had passed, and like before, neither Halligan nor his mistress had shown.

  Mistress. He reflected on that quaint, somewhat old-fashioned word. He associated it with the gentry, or the French political classes. Try as he might, he found it almost impossible to think of Connie in that light. She wasn’t the “sort”; she was too independently minded to be somebody’s mistress. And was it not the case that only married men had mistresses? Was Halligan a married man? Henry had no way of knowing. At that stage, it was all guesswork. He didn’t even know—

  He jumped. Without warning, the barrel of an automatic rifle had tapped his side window.

  The soldiers had appeared from nowhere, or so it seemed. There were two of them. They stood on either side of the car. A third had moved into view just beyond the windscreen. He wore an officer’s cap and uniform. With a lazy circling motion of an index finger, he was wordlessly ordering the window to be wound down.

  “Good evening, sir,” the officer said. The tone of voice was almost mocking, it seemed. “May I see your papers, please?” Henry reached for the glove compartment. “Slowly, please, sir.”

  He suddenly felt vulnerable. Not without reason. The British Army had already shot dead more than a hundred people in Northern Ireland, most of whom were unarmed civilians.

  At the same time, he was confident that his background would count in his favor. He came from a long line of Protestants and belonged to the “Unionists,” that section of the people who swore allegiance to the Queen and her armed forces. As he handed his driver’s license to the officer, he told himself that a quick check would reveal where his loyalties lay. That he posed no threat to the soldiers.

  “I’ll have to ask you to step out of the car, sir.”

  Henry began to sweat. He hesitated.

  “Please, sir. We have to do a quick search. Nothing to be concerned about.”

  The two soldiers—a private and a corporal—held their weapons nonchalantly as he opened the door and climbed out, but he knew that one false move would have them covering him again. He was shaking as the officer indicated that he should remain standing a little distance from the car.

  Slinging their guns behind their backs, the soldiers went to work with practiced hand. The private switched on the car’s interior lights; the corporal produced a flashlight and played it over the parts concealed in shadow.

  “Nothing here, sir,” he said.

  The officer nodded at the boot of the car. The corporal opened it.

  “Sir, I think you should see this.”

  The other soldier was keeping him covered with the fearsome weapon. The officer went to look. He returned to where Henry stood. In his hand were several boxes of pills.

  “Yes, I’m a doctor. Medication is part of my job.”

  “And this?” The officer held up a transparent plastic pouch containing a small, flat cake of a brown-colored substance.

  Henry was speechless. He made an effort to speak but could not. He knew what the substance was. He thought of Geraldine, Connie’s friend from college days, and her comment about them enjoying the odd joint. Could this stuff be hers? Connie’s?

  He looked on in dismay as the officer opened the pouch and sniffed significantly. He nodded.

  “Take him,” he said to the corporal. “You,” he told the private, “lock the car and give the keys to me.”

  “A psychiatrist?” Major Dunglass said, looking Henry in the eye with a stare that he swore had not wavered in ten minutes or more.

  “Yes, a psychiatrist, a medical practitioner who deals with mental illness and emotional—”

  “I know what a psychiatrist is, Dr. Shevlin,” Dunglass said acidly. “My question is: What’s a psychiatrist doing with a significant quantity of cannabis? And more to the point: What were you doing in your car, in that street, at that hour?”

  “Nothing illegal, I assure you. And I resent being treated like a criminal. There was no need for your corporal to accompany me to the lavatory down the hall and watch my every move.”

  The major said nothing for a moment or two. Then he pushed his chair back with an abruptness that startled Henry, stood up, and went to a counter set against the wall. All the while, the two soldiers, still with automatic weapons loosely at the ready, stood at either side of the door, keeping watch. There was an RUC constable stationed opposite, keeping watch. A man in a business suit was observing the proceedings with interest, his face shaded by a fedora. He hadn’t said a word since the interrogation began some minutes before. He was standing in one corner of the interview room, hands stuck casually in his pockets.

  Major Dunglass returned to the table. He tossed the boxes of pills and the pouch of cannabis resin onto it.

  “Amphetamines, Dr. Shevlin, and fifty grams of what our experts assure me is top-grade hashish. That constitutes an illegal substance, psychiatrist or not. Are you going to tell me what that quantity of drugs was doing in your car?”

  “I was hoping you would tell me,” Henry said coldly. He jerked a thumb at the corporal. “Or perhaps you should ask the young man who planted them there.”

  “That’s a very serious accusation, Doctor. I hope you can back it up.”

  “My dear major, I’m a clinical psychiatrist with an impeccable police record. I haven’t so much as a speeding ticket—or even a parking fine for that matter. You can check . . . if you haven’t already done so.” He narrowed his eyes. “The army, on the other hand, hasn’t exactly got an enviable record in Northern Ireland. If you think—”

  Henry flinched as the major brought his palm down hard on the table. He was livid. He expected a blow to the head at any moment. He was regretting his remark.

  “I’m going to ask you directly, Doctor: Are you dealing drugs?”

  “Don’t be preposterous!”

  “A straight answer, please: Are you or aren’t you?”

  “No. No, of course not.”

  “Then how do you explain the fact that you were observed on three successive evenings, seated in a stationary vehicle containing illegal drugs, within sight of premises used by a known terrorist and drug user?”

  “What?!”

  “You heard me, Doctor. And would you please address your answers to the tape recorder.”

  “I-I . . . Do you . . . do you mean Halligan?”

  “To the tape machine, please.”

  Henry had gone pale. His voice was barely audible. The police officer came and moved the recorder closer.

  “What’s your relationship with Harris Halligan?”

  “I don’t know the man.”

  “I see. If that’s the case, why were you keeping his lodgings under surveillance?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You were.” He picked up a notebook and flipped a page. “On Wednesday evening, Thursday evening, and this evening.” Dunglass leaner closer. “Furthermore, you paid a visit to Halligan’s home on Tuesday afternoon at ten minutes past three, and left shortly before four. Do you deny that?”

  How, thought Henry, could they have known all that? Mrs. O’Leary. That was the only answer. Or was it? Dimly, he recalled an army vehicle that had passed by out on the street when Mrs. O’Leary had admitted him. But the jeep had sped past without slowing. No, there had to be another explanation. He thought of
the anonymous houses to either side of Mrs. O’Leary’s, the houses opposite. Any of those dwellings could be harboring a watchful pair of eyes: eyes that kept tabs on visitors to Halligan’s quarters. Yes, that had to be it. The owner of those eyes had alerted Major Dunglass to his presence.

  “I’ll not answer any more questions until I have legal representation,” he said.

  The major chuckled.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Doctor, but that’s not how it works here. You’re dealing with Her Majesty’s Armed Forces now, not the civil authorities. Might I remind you that Northern Ireland is in a state of emergency at present, and that the Special Powers Act has been reinstated? I’m the law here, Dr. Shevlin, and I decide whether or not you need a solicitor.” He leaned across the table again. “And my answer is ‘no.’”

  Henry realized he was in a very dangerous situation. He looked to the RUC constable for help, confirmation, clarification—anything. But the police officer dropped his gaze to the floor. No help there.

  “Now, what was the purpose of your visit to the O’Leary house on Tuesday?”

  “I was looking for my wife.”

  “Your wife.”

  “She’s disappeared.”

  Dunglass switched off the tape recorder.

  “Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

  “You didn’t ask me.”

  At the major’s prompting, Henry related the events surrounding Connie’s disappearance. He was careful not to mention the Republican mural he’d seen on the Falls Road, or its “original”: the canvas he’d attacked at the Mondrian.

  “When did she disappear?”

  “A week ago. On the twenty-fifth of May. I was led to believe that this Halligan person knew something about her whereabouts.”

  “Had she IRA involvement, Doctor?”

  “No!”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Major . . .”

  The voice was soft but heavy with authority. It was the man in the hat. He’d left the corner and had moved to stand next to Dunglass. Henry tensed again. He did not like the look of things.

  “Please dismiss your men, Major,” the stranger said. “And wait outside until further notice.”

  Dunglass, to Henry’s bemusement, obeyed at once, but with bad grace. He made a curt gesture to the police constable, who at once went to the door. He rapped on it sharply and it was opened from outside by unseen hands. Without a backward glance, the four left the room.

  “Now, Dr. Shevlin,” the man said, coming out of the shadows. “We can dispense with all this.” He laid a finger on the pouch of hashish and slid it to one side. He sat down in the major’s chair and unbuttoned his jacket, pushed up the brim of his hat.

  Eyes, colorless yet penetrating, met Henry’s. A shiver ran through him. That glacial stare, the predatory presence. He hadn’t met the real thing very often during his career but was in little doubt that the individual sitting opposite had the hallmarks of the psychopath.

  “I want you to listen very carefully. If you value your freedom, and wish to avoid a serious criminal charge, you’ll do exactly as I say. You stand accused of two offenses: being in possession of illegal narcotics, and impersonating a police officer. Do we understand one another?”

  Henry could do no more than nod glumly. He’d guessed correctly: they’d spoken with Mrs. O’Leary, and she’d told them of his deception. His gaze fell on the other’s jacket. Did he imagine a holstered weapon concealed by the fine tailoring? He thought he did.

  “Your wife was foolish enough to involve herself with the IRA. This was—”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “Be quiet, Doctor. I warn you: any more interruption and this meeting is over. I shall summon the duty sergeant and instruct him to charge you with possession of an illegal substance, plus the impersonation. You will stand trial and be sentenced to at least five years for those crimes, and will be struck off the medical register. In other words, Doctor, I will ruin you. I have it in my power to do so, and I will not hesitate if you continue to thwart this investigation. Nod if you understand.”

  Henry nodded again. His back was damp with perspiration. He thought he could smell his own fear. Nothing from his psychiatric training had prepared him for this.

  “When you leave this room, Dr. Shevlin, you will forget everything I’m about to tell you. For your own good. I will not even tell you my name, because as far as you’re concerned we never met, and this conversation never took place. Harris Halligan is one of our operatives, working undercover for British Intelligence. Unfortunately, your wife got involved with him. We do not know the details of her relationship with him, and to be honest, it’s immaterial to me at present. The only reason I’m telling you this is that I don’t want you jeopardizing the whole operation. If you want her to come out of this alive you must stop looking for her.”

  Henry was speechless. He knew enough to understand what it meant to be a British undercover agent, and the price an agent paid if unmasked. Such spies—for spies they were—ended up being tortured, executed, and buried in unmarked graves by the Provisional IRA. The thought of Connie being associated with such dangerous people was too horrible to contemplate.

  “Have I made myself clear?” the man was saying.

  Henry nodded dumbly.

  “Good. You see, Doctor, if you go looking for your wife then you’ll also be placing yourself in mortal danger. When the time is right we will contact you. So step back, and let us do our job.”

  “When the time is right? I don’t understand. What do you mean, ‘the time is right’?”

  But the answer he gave was just as ambiguous.

  “As I said, Doctor: If you want to see your wife again, stop looking.”

  Chapter twenty-three

  Saturday afternoon found Ruby at the kitchen sink, scrubbing a saucepan. She hadn’t slept well and was feeling anxious at the thought of the twins’ arrival off the three o’clock bus.

  The previous weekend, they’d gone to Manchester to see George Best playing at Old Trafford. Maybe they’d have his autograph, but she wasn’t holding out much hope. They rarely gave her gifts, just stuff they didn’t want themselves or had grown tired of. There was a drawer in her bedroom chock-full of half-used bottles of perfume, worn handbags, fake jewelry with bits missing . . . the works.

  In the front room, Martha was having a chinwag with Ida Nettles. It was unusual for Ida to visit on a Saturday, but Ruby was in no doubt that her actions the previous evening, and Father Kelly’s visit, had sent her mother to the phone with an invitation to her friend.

  She rinsed the saucepan under the faucet and set it on the drainer, stood for a while staring out the window. It was a calm afternoon: the sun shining, Beldam Lake as smooth as glass, shimmering in the distance. The window was in need of cleaning, but Ruby didn’t much care. She now had more important things to think about than cleaning windows and knitting tea cozies. She’d allowed the more mundane household chores to slide of late, but the mother hadn’t seemed to notice. Or if she had, she didn’t say anything. Ruby knew that her daughter’s mental state was more of a concern to Martha these days. Why else had she summoned Father Kelly?

  Thoughts of the priest stole into her mind. Every time they did, she pushed them out by envisioning the ritual she’d perform at the solstice, just four days away. It was now more important than ever that she stick to her plan. Because she was sure he was trying to break her connection with Dana. Snatches of Edna’s writing came to her.

  Be wary of one who would dominate you . . .

  twist worship from you for their own gain and glory . . .

  Yes, she knew his game.

  But next Thursday night she’d be gaining access to a world that he, a mere priest, could not even begin to imagine.

  Raise the curv’d blade at the moon

  On the twenty-first
of June

  This rite shall make thy dreams come true,

  And wondrous powers shall thee accrue.

  The specter of May and June came hard on the heels of the priest. She’d learned so much in the two weeks since she’d last seen them; her inner life, enriched beyond measure by the secrets in The Book of Light. She was confident that she’d taken every measure possible to keep those secrets safe. The case was still under her bed. There it would stay. She’d thought about hiding it out in the shed, but felt it would be a betrayal of all that Edna and the Goddess stood for. Her grandmother’s dying wish was that it remain in the farmhouse. That link she’d forged with Edna would not be broken. Not for the twins. Not for anyone. She’d simply lock the bedroom door against them.

  A raven alighted in the back garden. Ruby blinked. It was a sign. When her father died in the field, a raven had landed beside his body. Now she knew what it meant. Her heart lifted. The raven was a symbol of the afterlife. It moved between the worlds of the living and the dead. And she, Ruby, would be moving between those worlds very, very soon.

  “WADE IN WATERS STILL AND DEEP. WHERE THE LITTLE BOY DOTH SLEEP.”

  The voice was back! She was elated.

  “Wade in waters still and deep. Where the little boy doth sleep. Yes, I will, I will, very soon.”

  “Are you all right, Ruby?”

  She jumped and turned.

  Ida Nettles was gazing up at her, small eyes glinting with presentiment.

  “Yes . . . yes, Ida. I . . . I was miles away.”

  “Who were you talking to?”

  Ida had never forgiven Ruby’s jibe in the supermarket concerning her purchase of hair dye.

  “No one. Is it more tea you want? I’ll . . . I’ll put the kettle back on.”

  Ruby made to move toward the stove, but Ida caught her arm.

  “Where the little boy sleeps? What little boy were you talkin’ about?”