The Godforsaken Daughter

by Christina McKenna

  “He . . . r-a-p-e-d . . . me-e-e-e. He raped me, Father.”

  At last: the monstrous truth, which had torn at her heart for so very long, was let loose.

  The shock of it reverberating in the small room.

  Father Kelly, jolted, trying to come to terms with it. Trying to comprehend the violation she’d suffered and kept secret all the years. This frail, fast-declining woman he thought he knew so well.

  He watched her, eyes shut tight, swallow down the shame.

  What could he say? What words would bring her comfort? He strove to find the right ones.

  “That . . .” he began. “That, Martha . . . that is not your sin . . . it is his.”

  She sighed, grateful.

  “Did you . . . did you know this man?”

  She shook her head. “I never saw him again.” She opened her eyes and looked into his. “But there’s . . .”

  “Now,” Jamie said, as the applause died. “I’d like to play a special—”

  “Hi, do yins know that Jamie McCloone keeps his hair in a box under the bed?”

  It was the foul-mouthed Chuck Sproule. The crowd laughed uproariously.

  “Aye, that’s where I put it when it started fallin’ out,” Jamie shouted to equal jocularity. Then: “I see, Chuck, that you’re with your mammy tonight. Did she never tell you not to drink on an empty head?”

  A deafening cheer went up.

  Jamie’s jeer had hit a nerve. Chuck’s face turned to stone. He got up and staggered toward the stage.

  “Oh God, he’s gonna hit Jamie!” Rose called out. “Paddy, go and pull him back.”

  Paddy got up, but just as quickly was sitting down again. Several men in the audience were already upon the young rascal. They bundled him down the stairs, to loud whoops and hoots.

  Mrs. Sproule and her daughter shot to their feet. They slammed down their drinks. A stunned silence fell.

  “We’re not stayin’ in this dump!” the daughter declared.

  “Aye, yins are nothin’ but a pack of feckin’ Fenians shites!” fumed the mother, adding a bit more color to the daughter’s announcement.

  “Booooo-o-o-o-o!” went the crowd as they stormed out.

  “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!” someone was heard to shout.

  Ruby was glad to see the back of them. They were not nice people. She was very impressed at the way Jamie had handled the situation, and when the troop was safely out of sight, applauded with the others until her hands grew hot.

  “As I was sayin’,” Jamie continued, “I’d like to play a special number for two lovely wimmin there at the back: Ruby and Rose. It’s their first time here tonight . . . so give them a big hand.”

  All heads turned in the ladies’ direction, glasses held high.

  “To Ruby and Rose!” they chorused.

  The ladies and Paddy acknowledged the toast with raised glasses.

  All at once, Jamie was launching into a rousing rendition of “The Star of the County Down.”

  The crowd sang along.

  From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay,

  And from Galway to Dublin town,

  No maid I’ve seen like the sweet colleen

  That I met in the County Down.

  Ruby sipped some more Babycham; tears rolled down her cheeks. Tears of the kind she’d never experienced before in her life—those of absolute joy.

  “Forgive . . . me . . . Father . . . I had nothing . . . nothing . . . but . . . h-a-t-r-e-d in . . . my heart . . . for . . . R-u-b-y . . . from the be . . . beginning. How could . . . I love . . . her? She . . . she had . . . had come . . . from e-v-i-l . . .”

  The lines of a poem came to the priest now, lines of writing inscribed on a page and signed Edna Vivian Clare on April 30, 1951.

  You brought her to this world through tears,

  And stains of the darkest blood;

  But that misfortune had to be, so you

  Could give her whole to me.

  He saw Ruby’s trembling hands passing the page to him; her tear-stained face. Heard her voice.

  “Was she putting a curse on me, Father? She was writing about the night I was born?”

  “We all come from God; none of us comes into this world through evil, Martha. Where there is life there is hope, and you and Vinny gave Ruby a good life. You did what you thought was for the best. You can’t blame yourself.”

  “Before, before I go . . . She needs . . . she needs to know. But I can’t tell . . .”

  “I’ll take care of Ruby, Martha. Don’t worry about that.”

  She nodded, grateful.

  “Vinny was a . . . a very special man. He . . . he loved Ruby as his own. He . . . never . . . blamed her. I-I never knew if he . . . if he knew. But his mother did. Edna . . . knew. And hated me . . . because she thought I’d . . . I’d used her son. And I did in a way . . . I met him on the bus after it happened. He was so kind . . . so very kind. It was as if . . . in the space of . . . of an hour I’d met the Devil and then . . . an angel. I told him I’d fallen down, which . . . which was the truth in a way. But I never told him what had happened. I told no one . . . not even my parents. They would have dis . . . disowned me. When I discovered I was . . . pregnant I had no one to turn to, so I-I clung . . . I clung to Vinny. It was Oaktree or Magdalenes. I deceived him. But if . . . if . . . he suspected that he never gave voice to it. He was a gentle . . . man. Such a gentleman.”

  The priest squeezed her hand tenderly. Martha gave a faint smile. Her eyes opened suddenly. She stared at the ceiling. Her other hand, holding the rosary, opened on the bedcover.

  “Oh . . . the light, Father! The light . . . so . . . b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l . . . I . . . see . . . the gentle . . . tell . . . tell . . . Ruby . . . I’m . . . I’m . . . s-s-orry . . . so . . . v-e-r-y . . . sorry . . . for . . .”

  Father Kelly gently freed her hand, laid it back on the covers with reverence. Her breathing was getting weaker and weaker.

  Quietly, he left the room and went downstairs.

  At the sound of his footfall, the twins turned their despairing faces toward him and got up.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, going to them and taking their hands. “You have to be strong now, girls. It’s time . . . time to say good-bye.”

  Slope O’Shea took the call. He left his help to tend the bar and went directly upstairs.

  Jamie, having finished his stint, had joined Ruby and Rose.

  Paddy ordered another round.

  “You play very well, Jamie,” Ruby said, as Jamie took a seat beside her.

  “Aye . . . thank you, Ruby. Been playin’ that accordjin since I was ten, so I have.”

  “God, Jamie, that was lovely!” enthused Rose. “Never heard the like of it.”

  “Thank you, Rose.” He sipped his pint. “It’s very warm work.” He caught Slope’s eye. “Paddy, I think Slope wants a word with you.”

  Paddy got up. “Be back in a minute.”

  “Wonder what he wants,” said Rose. “Hope there’s nothing wrong.”

  Soon, Paddy returned to the table. He looked sad.

  “We . . . we have to take you home, Ruby,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s . . . it’s your mother.”

  Chapter forty

  There’s a Mrs. Hanson to see you, Dr. Shevlin.”

  Edie hadn’t bothered to knock. Or, if she had done, she’d been unusually quiet about it. He frowned. He’d been trying to concentrate on the notes he was making.

  “Hanson? I don’t recall seeing that name on our client list.”

  Edie shot a furtive glance out into the corridor and shut the door behind her. She came round his desk and stood beside him. She seemed uncharacteristically nervous. Something was up.

  Then he remembered. He left his chair.


  “Mrs. Hanson? A middle-aged lady? Short hair?”

  “Yes, that’s her. Nicely dressed. She has . . .”

  Disconcerted, Henry stood staring at his secretary.

  “Are you all right, Henry?”

  His thoughts had returned to his home in Belfast, to a morning close on the heels of his wife’s disappearance. He was reliving an unsettling—and highly intrusive—interview, conducted by a no-nonsense RUC sergeant who wore perfume that did not fit with her demeanor.

  “Sorry, Edie. Please . . . please show her—”

  “I was just going to say: she has a man with her.”

  “A man?”

  “Yes . . .”

  His mind raced. His heart sank.

  “Is he . . . is he wearing a hat?”

  “Yes. Shall I show them in?”

  The nameless one. Who else would it be?

  His presence alongside Hanson could only mean one of two things. One: Connie was safe and they could be at last reunited. Two . . . No, two didn’t bear thinking about.

  “Henry . . . Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve gone a bit pale. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?”

  He nodded gratefully. Hardly had Ms. King shut the door than she opened it again, admitting the two visitors.

  Henry had sat down behind his desk, not only because he had, quite literally, gone weak at the knees, but also because he was obeying a cardinal rule of one-upmanship: he that is seated has a psychological advantage over he who is standing. Hence the age-old tradition of a king or emperor remaining enthroned while others are brought before him and made to stand.

  As Edie had said, the sergeant was dressed in civilian clothes: a rather dull blue suit worn with a white blouse and a thin string of pearls. She carried a black clutch bag that matched her “sensible” shoes.

  “Hello, Sergeant,” Henry said carefully. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Please, take a seat.”

  And the man? Yes, the sinister man was back. Not much changed from thirteen months before, in that dimly lit room of an army barracks. Except the hat was of a different color. He took it off. The reason for his wearing it evident now in his bald head, which made him look much older than before. The eyes, though! Those soulless eyes were unmistakable.

  “I’m sorry that we had to come unannounced, Dr. Shevlin,” Hanson said.

  Her voice was somewhat kinder than he’d remembered it. That unnerved him. It was a well-known fact that police officers adopted a kindly tone when imparting sad news to . . . to . . . the next of kin. The phrase came unbidden, unwelcomed.

  The next of kin.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” Henry said. “Constance. That’s why you’re here.”

  Hanson exchanged a look with the man. He nodded slowly.

  “Yes and no,” she said. “It would depend on the course of action you choose to take, Doctor.”

  “I . . . I . . . don’t understand. What . . . what are you saying?”

  The door opened and Edie entered with a tray laden with tea things. All went quiet as she set them down before Henry and his visitors, and exited. He found himself wishing that Edie had brought something stronger.

  But the man was pointing to the intercom on the desk in front of him.

  “Would you mind switching that off, please, Doctor?”

  The voice was precisely as Henry remembered it. It brooked no refusal. Henry did as he was bidden.

  “Good,” Hanson said. “What we’re about to tell you must not go beyond this room, Doctor. Is that understood?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “This is Mr. Webb. He’s a member of the Intelligence Service.”

  “You mean MI5.”

  “Yes. He’s been working closely with the authorities in Belfast these past couple of years. I should tell you that myself and Constable Lyle have been liaising with Mr. Webb and his colleagues. You might say it’s a joint effort. Counterterrorism. I’m sure you’re familiar with the term.”

  Henry nodded, studying the man as he sipped his tea. MI5. Her Majesty’s Secret Service. A real-life James Bond. But he knew that there was nothing glamorous about MI5. Not in Northern Ireland at any rate. He read the papers; he followed the news. The “dogs in the street” knew that MI5 had infiltrated the terror gangs of Ulster. To be sure, their efforts had brought several dangerous killers to justice, yet theirs was a murky world of vicious double crosses. A world wherein it was often hard to tell who the good guys were.

  Webb set his teacup down and mopped his lips with a handkerchief. He fixed Henry with a steady look.

  “Your wife—Constance—had got herself mixed up with some very dangerous people, Doctor,” he began. “I explained some of this last year. Let me recap. One of our American associates, Harris Halligan, was passing on valuable information concerning the movements of the Irish Republican Army. Constance was unaware of Mr. Halligan’s true identity and motives. While in his company she witnessed a murder.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “It was plain bad luck that your wife got mixed up with Halligan when she did. It appears that he liked her paintings and saw them as another way to curry favor with the Republicans. But, alas, he overplayed his hand. We had to get him out very quickly to a place of safety. And as a consequence, Constance, too. Their lives were at risk. Anyone associated with her was also in grave danger.”

  Henry could barely take it all in.

  “So that was why you planted those drugs in my car.”

  “Quite so. You understand now that we could not have you pursuing your search for Constance. There was the clear risk that you’d be putting at least three lives in danger: Halligan’s, your wife’s, and your own. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand, Mr. Webb, I think.”

  “We planted the drugs in your car in order to threaten you with imprisonment. You were what we call a loose cannon, Dr. Shevlin. You could have gone off at any moment, and blown a hole right through our operation.”

  Henry grimaced at the man’s choice of language. He was in little doubt that the cannon metaphor was one in frequent use in the London offices of MI5.

  “Am I to take it then that I’m no longer a risk to your, er, operation?” Henry asked cautiously. “That Connie is safe.”

  “The operation has been terminated, yes . . .”

  Terminated. He groaned inwardly. Despite himself, despite his medical training and his years of applying that training, he was quickly developing a healthy contempt for the man sitting opposite. He was seeing Webb for what he was: an individual engaged in an unnatural business. Spying. Working behind the scenes, flouting the laws of the land on a whim. In Webb’s twilight world operations were “terminated.” But so, too, were human beings. When they posed a threat, or when they’d outlived their usefulness.

  “. . . the risk factor for you, however, remains.”

  “Is Constance alive?” He was looking at Hanson.

  “Yes. She is.”

  Oh, the relief of hearing that! He put his head in his hands, took a deep breath, summoning the courage to ask the next vital question.

  “Where is she? Where was she?”

  “For the first three months, on Innisfree, until her cover was blown.”

  “Wha—”

  Hanson looked at Webb.

  “We had to move her around several safe houses after that.”

  “Safe houses? Safe houses where, exactly?”

  “We’re not at liberty to say, for the simple reason that they would no longer be safe houses, Doctor. That is classified information.”

  “Oh yes, that old chestnut. When a question doesn’t SUIT YOU, it’s suddenly classified information. Where is she now?”

  They didn’t answer him.

  “WHERE IS SHE NOW?”

  “Keep calm, Doctor.” It w
as Webb.

  “No, I bloody-well won’t keep calm! This is my wife we’re talking about, not some statistic in some dreadful operation of yours. So tell me where she is.”

  “If I tell you that, Doctor,” the man said evenly, “your life will no longer be the same. Everything you hold dear will be gone. You will have left it behind—as Constance had to.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I—”

  “When you visited Innisfree—”

  “Oh, so that’s what’s brought you here? How did you know I went there? Were you following me?”

  “No, Doctor. You weren’t followed. But one of our operatives in the area informed us of your movements.”

  Henry shut his eyes and raised a hand to his brow. A name came unbidden.

  Max. Mad Max, the latter-day hippie, the Screamer.

  It had to be. He thought back. Max was the last person he’d have suspected of being an agent for Her Majesty’s Government. The clothing, the drinking, the alternate lifestyle.

  And that cryptic answer to his question:

  “Are you local?”

  “I get around.”

  But wasn’t that how the operatives worked? They blended in. No one would suspect them.

  “Mad Max,” he said, eyes open again. “You people have no morals.”

  “When it comes to saving lives, morals take second place,” said Webb.

  “Tell me what I have to do. Tell me how I can get to Connie.”

  “Go back home,” Hanson said. “Leave here as quickly as possible. We’ll alert the health service, have them send a replacement. Go home, Doctor. Say good-bye to your father, your friends, and colleagues. Tell them you’re going abroad.” She smiled. “And that won’t be a lie.”

  “You will hear from us in two weeks’ time,” said Webb. “When you do, we’ll escort you to your wife’s location. You and she will be reunited. You and she will also share this: you will be exiles. You will no longer be Dr. Henry Shevlin. You will, like your wife, be given a new identity. That is the choice you must make. You will be in witness protection for the rest of your lives.”

  “Think it over, Doctor,” Hanson said, getting up. “It’s a big decision to make.”