Hush, Little Baby

by Shane Dunphy

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Indulge me.’

  ‘I have a Master’s degree.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘Sociology.’

  ‘Karl Marx, Émile Durkheim, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘See? Education. I took a course in sociology while I was in prison. Of course, I don’t have a Master’s, but I daresay I could hold my own in a discussion.’

  ‘I’m sure you could. Now, back to Downey.’

  ‘He came to visit me, while I was inside. During the period I was studying the social sciences, actually.’

  ‘Were you friends back then?’

  ‘No. I had met him, once or twice, through shared acquaintances. But we weren’t close, no.’

  ‘So why the visit?’

  ‘Your little nugget about the Magdalene whores is, I’m afraid, old news. Eddie was being investigated, and that was why he came to talk to me. I think he wanted to look me in the eye, see what prison had done to me. He was, to his credit, exonerated. It’s all on record. You won’t catch him on that.’

  ‘Shit,’ I said. ‘You’re still not answering my question, though. Do you think this man has sexually abused the boy I’m working with?’

  Green puffed on the cigar, blowing a cloud of blue smoke in my direction. ‘You say the hallucinations are all rooted in occult imagery – demons, devils and the like?’

  ‘Yes. Downey told me my client was obsessed with the occult, but I can find no evidence to back that up. I think he’s lying.’

  ‘I’m going to tell you something, and you can make what you will of it. It means nothing, and of itself is neither illegal nor incriminating.’ His eye had a sparkle in it, and I knew he was congratulating himself on how clever he was.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Occultism – the Kabbalah, the Gospels that were not included in the biblical canon, Celtic spiritualism, Pagan rites – these are all fetishes of the good Father Downey. He developed an interest in such things while he was in the seminary, and has continued to pursue studies and research into arcana throughout his ministry. He’s been warned against it several times by the Bishop but has defended his activities in the name of ecumenicism. He just loves all those fallen idols, you see: Mary Magdalene, the Whore of Babylon – all those sex rites and acts of incest and sodomy in the Old Testament – he can’t get enough of them.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m just thinking aloud, that’s all.’ Green smiled, blowing a row of smoke rings towards the ceiling. ‘You’re coming at the problem from the wrong angle. You see, your boy isn’t obsessed with the occult – but Edward Downey is.’

  14

  It was three before I got home, and, despite my fears, I fell on to the couch (Marian had my bed, Patrick the one in the spare room) and knew nothing until my alarm went off at seven.

  It was Marian’s turn to drop Patrick to school, so I got my gym bag and went to the leisure centre. I spent an hour in the pool and twenty minutes between the sauna and steam room. Feeling considerably better, I picked up some wholemeal muffins and a large coffee, and went to the office. Ben was standing chatting to Mrs Munro when I arrived and grinned at me. ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Good. You ready for our meeting this morning?’

  ‘Meeting?’

  ‘The case review for the Byrnes? You asked me to call it?’

  ‘Oh, that meeting,’ I lied sheepishly.

  ‘I’m going to pretend I believe you remembered, and remind you that people will be arriving at eleven o’clock. That gives you two hours to get your shit together.’

  ‘Any change with Johnny Curran?’

  ‘No. They’ve managed to persuade Tilly to go home, but it wasn’t easy. You can head over after lunch, if you’ve nothing else on. For the moment, though, I have to ask you to focus on Larry and Francey. Can you do that?’

  ‘I’m on it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘When we’ve both got some time, remind me to tell you about some other news I picked up last night.’

  ‘We’ll chat later. For now, you need to prepare a report that will persuade the gathered professionals that the twins should not, as yet, be handed over to their mother. Who will, of course, be attending the meeting.’

  ‘No pressure, then,’ I said, and went into my office.

  At eleven o’clock I joined a group of ten people, including Larry and Francey’s teacher, workers from Rivendell, the centre where they lived, a child psychologist, and several social workers and psychologists in the conference room. Sitting across from me, glowering, was Ethel Merriman. I smiled sweetly at her. She turned away, pretending to be engrossed in a conversation about guardianship arrangements that Ben was having with the senior social worker from our district.

  Vera was outside; she would be called in after the professionals met and given a jargon-free account of what had been said. She would then have the opportunity to participate in the decision-making process.

  Ben opened the meeting by giving a chronological account of the Byrne case, pointing out, step by step, the events that had brought us to this point. This is not usual in a review, but he and I wanted to make sure the details of the twins’ story were not glossed over.

  He then went to each person in turn and invited them to give their reports. It was much as I had expected. Larry and Francey were both coming on in leaps and bounds – they were still way behind in school but were catching up rapidly, and their behaviour in the residential unit was, in the main, exemplary.

  ‘We still see occasional relapses,’ Bríd, the manager of Rivendell, stated, ‘but they’re few and far between.’

  I found it interesting that she made no reference to the fact that such regressions all occurred immediately after access visits with Vera, but made no comment on it.

  The social workers went next: one speaking about the children, one commenting on Malachi, and finally Ethel, who sang Vera’s praises.

  ‘Vera Byrne is a woman who deserves our respect and congratulations,’ she said. ‘She has suffered much, but displays a zest for life, and a commitment to learn, grow and develop, both for herself and the good of her children. I believe that Larry and Francey will benefit greatly from being returned to her full-time care at the earliest opportunity, and that proper monitoring will show them to be not only totally safe but also very happy in this arrangement.’

  It was then my turn. I focused on what I knew about Vera from personal experience, including her goal to get the children back because, as she had put it, they ‘belonged to her’ and what I had seen at access visits. I told the group about the work that was being done on the Byrne homestead in Oldtown, especially the shed where the children had been imprisoned, which had been not only repaired but reinforced. I ended my presentation with a detailed breakdown of disclosures given by the children, in their own words. ‘I submit that this is not only the wrong thing to do,’ I said, looking at each person around the table in turn, ‘but is, in actuality, a reckless and irresponsible act from a gathering of people whose job it is to protect these children. We have, as a community, failed Larry and Francey from the moment they were born. They were forgotten, left to languish in the most appalling of circumstances, abandoned to endure the most sadistic, premeditated abuse I have encountered in a career spanning more than a decade. The twins have told us, categorically, that their mother was not the begrudging, bullied participant in the abuse she has tried to persuade us she was, but that she, in fact, was the real driving force behind their torture. I implore you to give the children’s testimony due consideration, and not to be blinded by Vera’s performance. Because I assure you, a performance is all it is.’

  Meg Utley, the senior social worker, had listened intently to my report. ‘That’s a very bleak reading of the situation, Shane. What you’ve said is certainly interesting, and worrying, but can you see that you’re asking us to base our
decision on conversations you’ve had with Vera that no one else was privy to, on gut feelings about her intent which you can’t substantiate and on disclosures that could be interpreted in any number of ways?’

  ‘I understand your reservations, Meg,’ I said, choosing my words carefully. ‘But, with respect, I’ve been the worker on this case with the greatest number of contact hours, with the children and both parents. Surely that puts me in a better position to see what’s happening than anyone else.’

  ‘I agree with you. But we need really solid grounds to deny Vera custody of her children. You’ve been doing this work for long enough to know, as well as any of us, that our intention, in any child-protection case, is to keep the family together if at all possible. Since Malachi was imprisoned, Vera has, from what I can see, behaved in a very reasonable manner. Her husband, on the other hand, has continued his campaign of violence, even though he’s behind bars. You’ve been on the receiving end of it yourself, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Malachi is like a two-year-old child in every way other than his size,’ I said. ‘You cannot hold him responsible for his conduct. As it happens, he has actually expressed remorse for what he did to the twins, which is something I have never heard Vera do in any meaningful way.’

  ‘I take grave exception to that!’ Ethel Merriman piped up, her face a deep puce colour. ‘I have had many discussions with Vera about the acts she was forced to perpetrate upon her children. She has a sincere sense of regret about the effect these abuses have had on Laurence and Frances. She has articulated her sorrow about this to me many times.’

  ‘Yeah, I think that falls under the category of “conversations that no one else was privy to”,’ I said. ‘The only emotion I’ve ever encountered from Vera in relation to her role in the children’s brutalization was pure, unadulterated glee, and her only regret is that she was interrupted when the kids were taken into care.’

  ‘I will not stand by while this wonderful woman’s character is dragged through the mud in this manner,’ Ethel Merriman said, negating what she had just said by standing up.

  ‘Ethel, please sit down,’ Ben said gently. ‘This is a particularly difficult case, and one where it is natural that feelings will run high. I suggest we all take a short break, and then call in Vera to speak. Before we have a breather, however, I think we need to seriously consider the evidence on all sides. The fact is, we have a kind of polarized picture of this woman, and that makes me, for one, uncomfortable. Can we really send the children back into her full-time care if there is a shadow of doubt as to her competence?’

  ‘The only doubt is coming from him,’ Ethel Merriman spat.

  ‘I have some doubts,’ Bríd said.

  ‘I suppose, if I’m honest, so do I,’ Meg said.

  ‘As do I,’ Ben said. His eyes met mine. I nodded. It was time to play our trump card. ‘But,’ Ben continued, ‘Shane and I have a suggestion.’

  Vera Byrne was dressed in a dark blue suit, with a skirt cut just above the knee. Her hair had been freshly styled and dyed, and her perfume as she sat next to me was much more expensive, and more subtle, than Ethel Merriman’s. I was struck, as I often was, by the force of her personality. There was no sense of the worry and trepidation most people would have experienced had they been in her position. All she radiated was confidence. She believed she was preaching to the converted – it appeared she genuinely thought she’d be walking out of the room when the meeting was over with a pledge that her children would shortly be returned to her tender mercies.

  ‘Thank you for coming today, Mrs Byrne,’ Ben said, peering at her over the top of his round, wire-framed glasses.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Vera said, her expression neutral, her tone measured. It wasn’t the answer any of us were expecting; Vera was, it seemed, playing her cards close to her chest.

  ‘We’ve all had a chance to share our thoughts on how you, Malachi and the children are doing, and I’d like to just sum that all up for you, now,’ Ben continued. ‘Then, you can tell me what you think of our conclusions, and maybe give us a sense of your plans for the future, how you feel you’re coping on your own, and anything else you’d like to share with us.’

  ‘I’ve only really got one thing I’d like to share, and it’s a question,’ Vera said, still deadpan.

  ‘Certainly,’ Ben said, smiling.

  ‘When can I bring my children home?’

  Ben’s smile never wavered. ‘All in good time, Mrs Byrne. Now, Larry and Francey have been performing wonderfully well at school. Larry is reading at the level of a six-year-old, which is a huge improvement …’

  Vera sat impassively through Ben’s presentation. She never interjected, or asked for anything to be clarified or repeated. It took close to ten minutes, during which time Ben’s voice was the only thing heard in the room. He didn’t try to cushion the negative comments, but asserted clearly the doubts that I had voiced, and that he, Bríd and Meg had echoed. When he was finished, he sat back, removing his glasses. He took a sip of water and held up a hand, signalling that Vera could now respond. When she didn’t, he tried to draw her out. ‘Some of that must have been quite difficult to hear.’

  Vera shrugged. ‘I know what a few of you think of me. It’s not news.’

  ‘Well, here is your opportunity to explain to any of us who still harbour some fears for the twins how we are wrong. Would you like to avail yourself of this forum?’

  Vera looked around the room, her eyes falling on me last of all. I looked back at her, holding her gaze. ‘I’ve made every effort,’ she said, ‘to show you all that I am a different woman now. I don’t see what else I can do.’

  ‘Could you explain why you’ve been having work done on your old home, when it has been stipulated that it is no longer fit for habitation?’ Meg asked her.

  ‘That is one of the only things I have to leave my children when I’m gone,’ Vera answered. ‘I have no money, no fancy jewellery or fine books. All I have to pass on is that house. I don’t plan to live in it, but I thought, as I saved a few euro here and there, I could begin to have it fixed up.’

  ‘And the shed at the back, where they were locked up – you thought it would be proper to have that repaired?’ Meg pressed. ‘Wouldn’t having it demolished have been more appropriate?’

  Vera said nothing for a moment. She stared at Meg with a look that was impenetrable. I wondered if she was trying to buy time to make up an answer, or if she was too angry to speak and needed a moment to gather herself.

  ‘I’ve been reading a lot of books on healing, at the moment,’ Vera finally said, and her voice was level and without emotion. Damn, she was good. ‘One of the things I have learned is that pretending a bad thing didn’t happen is a surefire way of turning it into something huge, and terrible. Hurt breeds and grows in the silence, that’s what I’ve read. You have to face up to it. Have you heard that said before?’

  Meg nodded, seemingly fascinated. ‘Yes, Vera. I have indeed.’

  ‘I locked Larry and Francey up there, for days and nights on end, without food or clothes. I beat them and I performed unspeakable carnal acts upon them both. Knocking down that shed will not erase what I, or my husband, did. But it might serve to give those memories even more power.’

  Meg nodded. ‘Very well,’ she said.

  ‘So, when can I have the twins?’ Vera said again, turning her focus back on Ben.

  ‘We’ve gone over that, and I think we all agree that you’re making a concerted effort to improve yourself,’ Ben said. ‘However, as I’ve said, some of us retain doubts.’

  ‘I –’ Vera started to argue, but Ben hushed her immediately.

  ‘With that in mind, what we have decided is that, before the twins are returned to your care, we would like you to see a therapist. Just for a short series of sessions. I imagine the terrible – er – abuse you experienced at Malachi’s hands has left some emotional scars. This will give you the opportunity to explore that. Look on it as some “you” time.’r />
  I was looking directly at Vera when Ben told her this. From where I sat, I could see her in profile. The only sign of the inner rage she must have been feeling was a barely visible tightening of the jaw.

  ‘How short?’ Vera asked, through clenched teeth.

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose that’ll be up to the therapist to decide, but I think it’ll be no more than ten sessions or so.’

  Vera nodded slowly. ‘I don’t have any choice, do I?’

  ‘You always have a choice,’ Ben said briskly. ‘You can do this, enter into it whole-heartedly and be reunited with your children, having gained some understanding and insight into what happened to you, and what led you there. Or you can refuse to participate, and the children will remain in care until we’re satisfied there is no risk in sending them home to you.’

  I thought I saw a twitch in Vera’s eye, a nervous tic. Sitting so close to her, I could feel the rage boiling inside her, coiling like a wild animal. The unspent energy of it almost had the hair on my arms standing on end. We waited for Vera to answer.

  ‘Of course I’ll see your therapist,’ she said at last. ‘Let me know when you’d like me to start.’

  ‘Ethel will get back to you with dates, the address, that sort of thing,’ Ben said, making a note in his diary. ‘Well, I think we’re finished here.’

  When the last person had gone, Ben and I sat looking across at one another.

  ‘That was a fine idea of yours,’ he said. ‘Very crafty, but a damn good plan.’

  ‘Thank a very short, rather cynical prison officer,’ I said, balancing my chair on its back legs.

  ‘I don’t think we can stretch the therapy out indefinitely. Ten, maybe twelve sittings will be as much as she’ll tolerate.’

  ‘I’m banking on her not getting anywhere near that number,’ I said. ‘She’s too proud. She’ll snap. Can you imagine her lying on the couch and allowing some upstart shrink to ask prying, personal questions about her childhood? She’ll flip. I give her three weeks. Maybe less.’