by Hill, Casey
The two of them shrugged, acting as though the prospect didn’t bother them.
‘What’s in your hand?’ Chris indicated to the older one, who wore a Manchester United tracksuit top. He looked to have his fist clenched around something.
‘Smoke,’ he replied, opening his hand to reveal the burning end of a cigarette.
‘You’re too young to be smoking. Does your mammy know about it?’
The two of them grinned nonchalantly. ‘She doesn’t give a fuck what I do,’ the smoker replied with increasing bravado.
‘Hey, watch your language and put that out, you little shit,’ Kennedy ordered.
The boy took one last drag from the cigarette then flicked it on to the grass. Exhaling deeply, he aggressively blew out the smoke.
‘You’re pushing your luck, mate. Quench that out and put it in the bin. This is a playground,’ Chris barked, losing patience with the two troublemakers. These kids had no regard for authority of any kind, and being disrespectful – especially to the cops – was a badge of honor these days.
‘Right, quit the messing, lads, do you know Jade Carney?’ Kennedy asked, trying to move things on.
‘Yeah. What of it?’
‘She was playing here earlier,’ he continued. ‘As she left a man tried to grab her and get her in his van.’
The boys were silent. This was not what they had expected.
Chris pushed on. ‘Jade said the man was walking around the field earlier when she was playing here. Did you two notice anything?’
They shot each other a glance.
‘Could you describe the man?’ Chris continued, realising that they had seen something. Move right through the question of if they saw him, let them know that you already know they did.
‘Bobby said he looked like a paedo …’
‘What made you think that?’
‘He thinks everybody looks like a paedo, he’s worried they might fancy him or something,’ the older brother teased.
‘Could you describe him for me?’ Chris asked again, trying to focus them. ‘Then we might forget about the smoking, littering and vandalism down at the local school,’ he added, bluffing.
The two boys seemed to know they were on a hiding to nothing so they decided to play ball.
‘He was a nasty-looking shit – kind of greasy gray hair, wore one of them blue suits like a mechanic.’
‘A boiler suit? Like an all-in-one?’
The older one nodded. ‘Yeah. Bloke at the garage wears one like that.’
‘Anything else?’
The other brother chipped in. ‘He was watching. You know, like when you’re trying to watch someone but look like you’re not? That’s what he was doing. Over there, by those bushes.’
Chris looked over. There was a clump of bushes about twenty yards away from the playground. ‘That’s more like it.’
‘Whatever. Can we go now?’
Chris and Kennedy watched them as they slouched away, their jeans hanging almost off their backsides. Just as they reached the merry-go-round, the younger one turned back. ‘He was smoking too, yer man I mean. I was dying for a fag, but he,’ he nodded towards his brother, ‘wouldn’t give me his last one.’ He chuckled. ‘I said we should go ask the guy for some but Ethan said he’d probably only want a blow job in exchange.’
When the boys had left the playground, Chris and Kennedy walked across the field towards the bushes. Kennedy peered at the ground on the far side of the shrubbery. Chris joined him, studying the surroundings. ‘Find a cigarette butt, get some DNA?’
‘That’s the theory. Get Miss Baywatch to work her magic.’
They both fell silent as they scanned the muddy ground. Kennedy saw several old butts, but it was Chris who struck gold. ‘There. Looks fresh,’ he said, pulling a plastic bag out of his inside pocket. He proceeded to pick up the butt like a responsible dog owner would pick up their pet’s droppings. ‘If this is our man’s, then we might just have caught a break.’
‘Not before time too,’ Kennedy added.
.
Chapter 20
‘So what’s this plan of yours to break the ice then?’ Kennedy asked Chris as they drove back towards the children’s home the following day in the hope of getting Conn to open up.
‘Check the glove box.’
Reilly leaned forward in the back seat to get a better view of Kennedy pulling Chris’s so-called ice-breaker from the glove box.
‘A book?’
‘Not just any book. It’s ‘Ceol na hÉireann’ – the music of Ireland, one of my old schoolbooks. One of the tunes Conn was playing yesterday is in there, but he was playing from memory.’
It was definitely worth a shot, Reilly thought. The kid seemed to find comfort in music. So typical of Chris to find such a gentle, non-invasive way of breaking down someone’s defenses. Which merely made his own pigheadedness about his medical condition all the harder to take.
At the home they were once more greeted by Maggie Molloy who led them again towards the day room where Conn’s music could be heard.
‘OK, here goes nothing,’ Chris said, walking into the room with the music book in his hand, the others having agreed to keep a safe distance this time.
‘Dia dhuit arís Conn. Cén chaoi a bhfuil tú?’ Hello again, Conn. How are you?
The boy glanced up briefly before looking back down at the piano keys.
‘Fuair me rud éigin agus ceapaim gur thatnóidh sé leat.’ I found something you might like.
Conn glanced up again, this time his gaze landing on the book in Chris’s hand.
‘I used to play piano in school and this was one of my favorite books – I think you might recognize some of the tunes. Do you mind if I sit down?’
After a beat, Conn moved over slightly on the bench, making room for Chris beside him without taking his eyes off the book.
Chris opened it at one of the few songs he could play well, and placed it in the script holder. Loosening up his fingers, he then placed them very deliberately on the piano keys, and began to play.
For the first few seconds he was hesitant, finding his way, but then he relaxed into the flow of ‘An Chailin Alainn’, filling the room with his graceful swirls.
Conn kept his attention on Chris the whole time he played, watching his hands as they danced across the keys.
Finally Chris finished, then said in Irish: ‘ My mum made me learn when I was young. Do you know that one?’
Conn shook his head.
‘I heard the tune you were playing when I came in. Was that one of your own?’
The boy nodded.
‘Could you play it for me?’
Conn thought, then nodded once more. He closed his eyes, then slowly began to play, his fingers caressing the keys.
Reilly watched from the hallway, fascinated to see Chris finding a way to get through to the young boy. It was a paternal side of him she had never seen before and she had no idea that he could play the piano, never mind communicate in Irish. But once again she felt a growingly familiar sense of being very much on the outside looking in – today both literally and figuratively, given that she had to stay out of the room and couldn’t understand a word.
When Conn played, his face was calm, lost, almost beatific. She tried to reconcile it with Maggie’s description of him yesterday as feral. Not feral, she thought, but wild, wild and untamed like the ocean. Wherever the boy had been, whatever he had done, she guessed that discipline had been minimal, and freedom virtually unlimited.
Conn continued to play, glancing repeatedly up at Chris, then down again at the keyboard.
She saw Chris watching him carefully, trying to gauge his mood. Did Conn want Chris to play with him now?
Chris obviously deduced the same thing and tentatively he joined in, his eyes still on Conn.
The boy gave a barely imperceptible nod, then closed his eyes as the melody took over. Chris gradually picked up the pace, slow at first, then with increasing confidence. As he pla
yed he followed the melody that Conn had established, adding to it, embellishing it.
The sound filled the room, creating a safe, warm environment, yet in amongst the grace of the music Reilly could also hear echoes of wild places, stormy waves crashing on the shore, winds whipping the trees, dark, dangerous nights and long, lonely days.
Now that Chris was playing, Conn allowed the music to becoming wilder and wilder. Chris stayed with the basic melody, but the young boy roamed far and wide, at times returning to the heart of the music, at others wandering far away.
Then, the music stopped.
Conn sat very still for a moment, then looked over at Chris with wonder. ‘Seineann tú go hiontach,’ he said, his voice barely perceptible. You play great.
Chris smiled. ‘Thanks. You too. I'd like to play some more in a minute, but I need to ask you some questions now. Is that OK?’ he asked in Irish.
Conn looked carefully at Chris, then looked around the room. Reilly and Kennedy stayed out of sight.
She knew Chris had established a crucial bridgehead, but was it strong enough to withstand the questioning, or would it crumble as soon as he moved away from the safety of the music?
‘Tá tú Gardai?’ Conn asked.
‘Sea.’ Chris nodded.
Conn looked down at his hands; those long elegant fingers, perfect for playing the piano. He mumbled quietly. ‘What have I done? Am I in trouble?’
‘No, not at all,’ Chris assured him. ‘But when I was your age, I always assumed I was in trouble too,’ he chuckled.
Conn was still looking down. ‘What do you want to ask me?’
Chris spoke softly. ‘It’s about your tattoo. About where you got it, and where you were before you came here.’
Conn looked up at Chris again. He gazed at him carefully for a moment, as though weighing things up, measuring his trust, then finally nodded. ‘OK.’
At first the boy answered slowly, but gradually he seemed to become more comfortable with Chris’s questions, and the replies became more animated.
His demeanor was one of patience, Reilly thought, as she listened to Kennedy’s rough translation of the conversation in a low whisper for her. This was a boy used to waiting for things to happen, comfortable with his own company, someone who had learned to survive on his own.
It also amazed Reilly how Chris had hit on exactly the right method to lower the boy’s defenses and also how comfortable and at ease he was in dealing with Conn. Especially for a man who didn’t have any children of his own. The notion of what a good father he would make automatically popped into her mind, and she banished it immediately and tuned back into the translation.
‘They say they found you wandering the streets? Do you remember how you got there?’
Conn shook his head. ‘It was cold. People out here are so mean – I didn’t like it, I just wanted to go home.’
Chris frowned. ‘Out here – here at the center, you mean?’
Conn shook his head, and Chris continued. ‘You were found in Dun Laoghaire. Where is home?’
Conn went very still. The only movement came from his hands, fiddling compulsively in his lap, one stubby fingernail picking at another. Reilly noticed his jaw muscles clench and unclench. Finally, he almost spat the words out. ‘They didn’t want me any more.’
‘They? Who were “they”?’
Reilly could see from Conn’s eyes that he was remembering. He would have been nine years old when the police picked him up. How much did an obviously traumatized nine-year-old remember? ‘He said I was too disruptive, that I had to leave.’
Reilly strained her ears even though she couldn’t possibly understand. She felt frustrated. She was good at languages and spoke near-perfect Spanish, the primary language in many of the southern states back home. The Irish language had a very different air – it sounded less rhythmic and more gutteral – much closer to the Nordic languages than the lyrical cadence of Spanish and Italian.
‘Who wanted you to leave, Conn?’ Chris asked gently.
Conn looked troubled. The past was evidently painful for him to recall and to explain. His voice came out in a whisper, a faint expiration of sadness right from the heart. ‘Father,’ he sobbed. ‘He was...’ Then he stopped and looked quickly away, gazed out the window at the trees whipping back and forth in a fierce wind, their leaves being ripped loose, swirling and scattering in tormented gusts.
She saw his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands and knew that Chris could lose him at any moment, that Conn could clam up in a flash, and bring down the veil that had protected him.
But if he didn’t keep going and take advantage of the connection they had shared, they might never have another chance. Reilly wanted so desperately to ask Conn some questions herself, but knew she had to trust Chris, trust the rapport he had established with the young boy. She understood how fragile the process was, how easily Conn could close up, how deftly Chris was steering him through evidently heartbreaking memories.
‘That must have hurt. Being told to leave by your father.’
Chris’s words pierced Conn’s defenses. Somebody understood. He nodded, the tears running down his cheeks. ‘I only wanted to stay there. Be with the others. Just be with the family...’
‘You must have loved your family very much,’ said Chris softly. ‘How many of you were there?’
Conn sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Six. There were six of us. Me, the father, and the girls.’
Reilly noted how the reference was to ‘the’ father not ‘my’, as Kennedy continued to translate. Her mind automatically flicked to the widely reported incidences of Catholic child abuse. Worth considering?
‘Four girls?’ said Chris jokingly. ‘And just you to keep them in line?’
Conn smiled. ‘I dream of them still, wonder if they dream of me...’ His eyes were fixed upwards on the ceiling and she could see him gulp back tears.
‘You said you were a family. Were the girls your sisters?’ Chris asked.
‘Not my real sisters, but we were all a family.’
‘Where did you live, Conn? Did the place have a name?’
He nodded. ‘Of course. It was called Tír na nÓg.’
‘Tír na nÓg?’ Chris repeated, and Reilly saw Kennedy frown, evidently confused.
Through the stories Mike used to tell them as kids, Reilly was somewhat familiar with the legend of Tír na nÓg – it was the Gaelic equivalent of Nirvana, or Valhalla. Had Conn lived in a house called Tír na nÓg?
‘Can you describe it for me, Conn, the place where you lived, this Tír na nÓg? I’ve always heard that it was incredibly beautiful.’
Conn looked nervous. His hands skittered across the keyboard, tapped random keys. Painful memories were surfacing again, and he was struggling to deal with them. ‘Maybe tomorrow. I’m tired now,’ he said wearily.
The toll the questioning had taken on the boy was obvious. His hands were red from the constant squeezing, and he was visibly exhausted. Reilly guessed he had given as much as he could give for one day.
Chris seemed to feel the same way, though he couldn’t mask the disappointment in his tone. ‘OK, Conn. I’d love to hear more about it sometime. And I’d like to maybe play the piano together again. I could bring you some more books.’
Conn smiled but said nothing, and then simply resumed playing. This time there was no invitation for Chris to join in. He was retreating back inside his world, losing himself once more in the safety of the music. But Reilly felt certain that another time, another day, Chris would be able to cross the bridge once more, and get a further glimpse into Conn’s secret world, into Tír na nÓg.
Chris slowly headed towards the door before turning back to the boy.
‘Conn, maybe the next time I come I can bring you a music player and some CDs so you can play some music in your bedroom. And maybe you might show me the angel wings on your back?’ he added, in the hope Conn would have time to think about it.
But as he walked tow
ards the door, Conn stopped playing and spoke again. ‘They’re not angel wings; I’m not a girl,’ he scoffed, as if this was obvious. ‘They’re the special wings father gave us – our swan wings.’
Chapter 21
Outside the home, Kennedy lit his cigarette, battling against the fierce wind as it whipped around them. ‘No wonder social services thought he was nuts.’
Chris glared at him.
‘I’m trying to understand what he said at the end, about the tattoo,’ Reilly said. ‘About them being not angel wings but swan wings.’
‘I don’t even want to begin to think about what that means,’ Kennedy groaned.
Chris nodded to a café across the road from the home. ‘Let’s talk about it somewhere warmer.’
‘Good idea.’ Reilly wrapped her coat around her as a squall of rain appeared and she and Chris scampered across the road. Kennedy followed at a more leisurely pace, trying to squeeze in as many puffs of his cigarette as he could before they reached the café.
It was fuggy inside, with hot air steaming up the windows. The place packed with workers grabbing a late breakfast or an early lunch – a full Irish, buttered toast, fried eggs.
Reilly and Chris settled for a cup of tea, but Kennedy couldn't resist the lure of fried meat. ‘Josie won’t let me have the good stuff at home,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s all bloody muesli and wholewheat toast these days.’
Reilly cursed her keen sense of smell as the appetizing whiff of fried bacon swirled beneath her nose as they waited in the queue. Her diet was becoming poor these days – way too much convienence food – and she really needed to get out running more. Getting the time to train for the marathon she’d mentioned to her father might be a stretch, but she had to find a way to nip in the bud her slowly thickening wasteline. Or at least find somewhere local that did good sushi. But the cold weather seemed to make her crave greasy stodge, like fried potatoes and bacon, or ‘rashers’ as they called them.
‘You did a great job getting him to open up like that,’ she said to Chris after they sat down at a corner table. ‘And you knew exactly when to stop.’
