Keep Her Silent

by Theresa Talbot

  Eva nodded. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.’

  Oonagh stood up to go. She felt awkward, not knowing quite what to say.

  ‘Just do your best,’ said Eva.

  Oonagh stepped forward and hugged her. ‘I promise,’ she said, with no idea how much good that would do.

  49

  Glasgow 2002

  There wasn’t much that still shocked Oonagh O’Neil, but this sickened her to the core. She waited in the car at the bottom of the street. She’d had to borrow her mum’s car, given that she’d wrapped her own around a lamp post. Her mum was only too glad to help, but nagged her to get a better insurance deal; one that offered her a courtesy car whilst hers was out of action. Oonagh could hardly tell her mum that her licence had been suspended and she was banned from driving until the tests were complete. She pushed the pang of guilt to one side and settled back in the seat.

  The driveway was clearly visible and from here she’d be able to see any visitors coming or going. Usually a Tuesday, they’d said. Usually mornings. So she waited. She’d toyed with the idea of having a Thermos flask of coffee in the car to keep her warm and awake and to stop her getting bored, but had realised she’d be running to the loo every five minutes so she’d ditched that idea. She’d make a rubbish cop on stake-out.

  Perhaps this was a bad idea. Almost two hours had passed and her legs were stiff and cramped and she was running low on petrol as she kept the engine ticking over to let her listen to the radio without draining the battery. She should have topped up on the way. Almost twelve o’clock. She was going to call it a day when the red Fiat slowed at the gates and swung left into the driveway. She wasn’t 100 per cent certain it was him, but she was pretty damned sure and that was good enough. She gave him a five-minute head start, then locked the car and walked the few hundred yards to the house.

  Smiley-Face opened the door again and looked disappointed to see Oonagh wasn’t laden down with goodies this time. ‘Is eh…?’

  ‘She’s in the garden.’ Smiley-Face tipped her head towards the back. ‘Loves her garden, so she does.’

  Oonagh smiled and envied her being so happy in her job.

  ‘Just go through. She’s got another visitor today.’ Bingo. Oonagh made her way to the back garden and saw Dorothy Malloy reclining on a lounger. She wore a large floppy hat and oversized shades with a blanket over her legs. Every inch the femme fatale of yesteryear. The man at her side sat upright, elbows resting on his knees. He had his back to Oonagh, but she recognised him immediately. Dorothy Malloy looked relaxed and happy and turned her head as Oonagh approached; in turn the man at her side twisted in his seat, his eyes followed Oonagh as she made her way to their table.

  ‘May I?’ She gestured to the empty chair but sat down before anyone had a chance to object. Dorothy looked pleased to see her and reached her hand out. Oonagh gave it a little squeeze. Her brother didn’t look quite as thrilled; Graham Anderson kept his eyes down and moved a small stone along the path with his toe.

  ‘How you getting on, Dorothy?’

  ‘Oh, I’m much better, Oonagh.’ She gestured towards the man. ‘This is my brother…’

  Oonagh nodded. ‘We’ve met already,’ she said.

  Graham Anderson forced a thin smile.

  ‘I’m glad you two are getting acquainted again.’ Again, not much from the brother, a slight shrug of his shoulder. He rubbed his hands along both thighs, a cue to leave, and made to stand up.

  ‘Please, Mr Anderson—’ she didn’t much feel like being familiar ‘—not leaving on my account, are you?’

  ‘Oh, Graham.’ Dorothy’s mouth formed a small pout. ‘You’ve only just got here – please stay.’ He glared at Oonagh. She felt a slight pang of guilt at interrupting the family reunion but she was sure there’d be more. He glanced at his sister and reluctantly sat back down.

  ‘Shall we have tea?’ Dorothy Malloy could barely contain the excitement in her voice. Oonagh offered a tight-lipped smile and nodded, Graham Anderson gave his now characteristic shrug. Dorothy stood up and trotted off in her childlike way, excited at the prospect of a tea party.

  ‘It was you I came to see.’ Oonagh cut to the chase.

  ‘I’ve told you all I know. I gave you the diary. What the hell d’you want?’

  ‘Are your family expert shape-shifters?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Dorothy, she seems to change her whole body with the blink of an eye. You, last time I saw you, you were at death’s door.’

  ‘Oh, I’d had chemo the day before. It gets you like that.’

  ‘Shame.’

  Graham Anderson flashed her a look; clearly the cancer card wasn’t working. Oonagh couldn’t be arsed any more and needed some answers.

  ‘D’you want to start by telling me the truth?’

  ‘The truth? Shit, I don’t even know what that is any more. Where do I start?’

  ‘How about why the hell you didn’t tell me you worked with Dorothy’s husband?’

  ‘Because it’s none of your fucking business!’ At least that part was true. It wasn’t.

  ‘Might not be my business, Mr Anderson, but I’m making it my business. Something’s very wrong here. Your poor sister’s fucking gaga, your brother-in-law got his heart ripped out and your nephew was drowned in his own home by some sicko who—’ He made to speak but Oonagh was having none of it. ‘Don’t you dare tell me Dorothy killed that wee boy. She’s your sister, for God’s sake, do the right thing by her.’

  Dorothy waved from inside the kitchen. Oonagh wasn’t sure exactly where she was going with this. ‘Marjory Channing—’ Graham Anderson flinched at the mention of her name ‘—don’t even pretend you don’t know her.’

  ‘Not here.’

  ‘OK, where? You name the time and the place.’

  ‘It’s not that black and white.’

  ‘It is from where I’m standing.’

  Dorothy sauntered down the path, the tea tray high in her hands. This strange hybrid woman-child who looked as vulnerable as a petal yet could rip out her husband’s heart without so much as a backward glance. What the fuck was going on inside her head?

  50

  Glasgow 2002

  ‘You know she’s dead, don’t you?’

  He gave her a quizzical look. One that looked well rehearsed.

  ‘Marjory Channing.’ This time Oonagh couldn’t read his expression. There was nothing there.

  They sat outside the café at Pollok House. It was quiet enough, the schools were back after the Easter break and just a few dog walkers passed in the distance, far enough away not to hear their conversation. Graham Anderson had initially appeared reluctant to meet again, but changed his tune once Oonagh had mentioned Marjory Channing’s name. Anderson’s name had cropped up several times throughout Marjory’s dossier. He’d been a key player in the early days. A brilliant scientist by all accounts.

  ‘OK, start by explaining what pups are.’

  ‘Pups?’

  Oonagh sifted through the documents left to her by Marjory Channing. The word pup cropped up a lot. ‘An acronym, I take it?’

  ‘Oh.’ The penny dropped. ‘Previously Untreated Patients. PUPs. They were a vital component in testing the new heat-treated product.’ Graham explained that heating the pooled plasma was the chosen method to rid the blood products of any virus. Oonagh sensed he was dumbing it down slightly for her. Testing the efficacy of this method had proved very difficult. Most haemophiliacs were contaminated in one way or another.

  ‘Contaminated?’

  ‘Yeah, don’t forget they’d been exposed to so many treatments, so much contaminated blood, so many drugs, the effects of which can lie dormant in the system for years. It was almost impossible to gauge the effect of the heat-treated products on them.’ He paused for a moment. ‘We needed a clean batch of patients.’

  He spoke as though they were lab rats. Which in effect they were.

  ‘How could you find…?’ Oonagh wasn’t re
ally sure how to pose the question. She wanted Eva Muirhead to be the nutter that everyone accused her of being. The grieving mother tipped over the edge by her son’s death. ‘How did you manage to find patients who weren’t contaminated?’

  Graham gave her a look she couldn’t read. ‘Kids.’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘The younger the better, I’m afraid.’

  Her worst fears were being confirmed. ‘You used children as a control group for your experiments?’ She caught Graham’s eye; she glanced down and realised she was rubbing her tummy.

  She waited but there was no response. ‘Why?’

  ‘Listen, dear, this isn’t the media where we can just airbrush everything into perfection. Sometimes life’s tough, OK?’

  ‘Don’t bounce this back onto me! And don’t call me dear.’

  Graham Anderson ran his hands through his hair. ‘You just don’t get it.’

  ‘I’m beginning to. You used children, babies, as lab rats to test if your drugs were safe? Where are the fucking ethics in that?’

  He traced a line through the puddle of tea that had spilled on the wooden table. His jaw set in a hard line. ‘If we worried about ethics we would have no antibiotics, no organ transplants, no stem cell research. You don’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, come on, it’s hardly the same thing.’

  ‘These experiments were vital for the treatment of future generations.’

  ‘And what about this generation? What about the generation you decided to inflict with a fate worse than death? Do they not deserve the same consideration as the future generation you talk about so generously?’

  Oonagh got up to leave. ‘Maniacs. You were all just maniacs.’ She stood up, but knew she couldn’t leave just yet.

  ‘What do you think it takes for an educated man… or woman to slice into someone’s flesh without a second thought? There has to be a degree of… detachment.’

  ‘But you deliberately targeted children.’ She was screaming now; a passing jogger turned to look but quickened his pace again when he saw no one was being killed.

  ‘Dear God, are you really that naïve?’

  Oonagh sat back down, shook her head; it was automatic rather than a response. He was on a roll. He looked manic. ‘Where d’you think most of the medical or scientific breakthroughs come from?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Neo-natal care. Babies who’re going to die anyway. Take cooling therapy for instance. Babies born with hypoxic ischemic encephalopathy,’ he waved his hand, dismissing her question before she asked it, ‘Basically it’s brain damage through lack of oxygen. If those kids are put into a medically induced state of hypothermia we can dramatically increase their chances of survival. But it’s not without risks. And in the early days it was all trial and error.’ He was on a roll; Oonagh was sickened to see a flicker of excitement in his eye. ‘No-one knew for sure how it all worked but we just kept at it until we got it right. And yes, a few died along the way. Collateral damage. And now brain cooling is used not only on babies, but people with acute head injuries with remarkable results. And that’s all down to the experiments in the neo-natal units.’ He sat back, paused for breath. ‘Dear God, if we had to ask permission for every medical experiment we’d still be using leeches.’

  ‘Just because it’s happening doesn’t mean it’s right!’

  ‘No, perhaps not. But let me ask you this. You’ve just given birth. That child has had some… trauma during birth… brain damage, not enough to kill it, but enough to ensure you’re changing nappies seven times a day and feeding it through a tube in its stomach for the rest of its life. Or, the doctors can repair the damage and the child can do all the other stuff normal kids can do. What would you want? Eh?’ He held a coin on the end of his thumb. ‘You’re pregnant, right now. Just imagine. Your baby faces a life of misery. I can toss this coin and with your call I can make sure your baby is happy, healthy and normal. You decide the fate of your child, over the suffering of some nameless, faceless people a generation ago.’ He flicked the coin in the air. ‘Tell me. Would you be so high and mighty then?’

  She thought of Eva Muirhead clutching her child’s school shoes to her chest. The fight was leaving her. ‘Stop it! This isn’t about… about what you’re talking about. This is about right and wrong. This is about using babies as lab rats. This is about—’

  He cut right in. ‘Finding a cure for an illness which kills thousands of people every year. Listen to me. Scientific breakthroughs were on the line. Careers were being forged here. Great works being put to the test. D’you think Marie Curie didn’t have the odd casualty here and there? As I said, collateral damage. It happens. These boys were already diseased.’

  Oonagh slumped back onto her chair. Unable to take in what he’d just said. She tried to be detached from it all. Did her best to see the bigger picture; understand the greater good, the needs of the many over the needs of the few. She couldn’t.

  ‘Fuck. Josef Mengele had nothing on you guys. At least the Nazis wore a badge.’

  ‘Save me the bleeding heart liberal crap.’

  Oonagh tucked her hands under her thighs. She didn’t trust herself not to take a swing at him. ‘And your sister? Where did Dorothy come into all this? Was she just another piece of collateral damage?’

  She saw a chink in his armour. He slumped. ‘Sometimes things just get out of control.’

  She waited for him to continue. Instead he just stared out at the White Cart Water. The river was high today.

  ‘Why did you give me Dorothy’s diary?’

  ‘You said you wanted to help.’

  ‘You hand a journalist a diary that implicates your sister in the killing of three women, and you expect me to believe you’re looking out for her. Do us a favour.’ Oonagh couldn’t stomach any more. She waited for him to answer.

  He cleared the phlegm from his throat. ‘Dorothy’s served her time. I wanted you to help her. See that she’d suffered from… from something. She wasn’t in her right mind when she killed Andrew.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock. I’d kind of guessed that when she was banged up in Cartland for the past twenty-seven years.’ This was going nowhere. She needed to get him back on her side.

  ‘Graham, you said yourself, you’re dying. What difference would it make if it all came out now?’

  ‘I’ve also got two grown-up kids out there somewhere. A family.’ He looked scared. No one wanted to be related to a killer. Guilt by association.

  ‘So why get me involved at all?’ This wasn’t making any sense.

  ‘You’ve met her. She’s a poor soul. I’m terrified for her. That this’ll all come out. I just wanted to make sure that she had someone on her side.’

  Oonagh had the distinct impression that she was being taken for a ride. She played her trump card. ‘Dorothy’s going to be hounded by the press from here on in anyway.’

  He obviously didn’t know what Oonagh was getting at.

  ‘Dorothy’s agreed to speak on camera for a programme I’m doing.’ She called his bluff. ‘Once it’s revealed she never went to trial, was never formally charged, this is going to explode. The Home Office will be up to its knees in the brown smelly stuff and your sister’s name and pictures will be plastered all over the Internet.’ Oonagh needed to smoke out Graham Anderson.

  ‘You wouldn’t do this.’

  She was back in the saddle. ‘Graham, it’s the last thing I’d want. But getting the truth out there is vital. This will ensure that no other women will be subject to the miscarriage of justice that Dorothy went through. That women will be treated properly by the mental health profession. Think of the lives of the future generation. And let’s not forget careers in journalism are being forged here.’

  Oonagh was sure she could see the word bitch being formed in Graham Anderson’s mind. ‘And once the story’s out there, how long d’you think it’ll take for a tabloid to track down your family for a statement?’

  He worried the coin between his thumb and index fi
nger, then flicked it in the air. ‘I’ll toss you for it.’ The coin spun in the air. ‘Call,’ he yelled.

  Oonagh couldn’t believe she was party to this. ‘Heads.’

  Her heart pounded as the coin landed on the table and spun on its side for what seemed an eternity before resting with the head facing upwards.

  ‘This is your lucky day, Oonagh O’Neil.’

  51

  Glasgow 2002

  Alec Davies checked his phone for the third time since leaving the house. It had been over an hour since he’d dropped Oonagh a text and still no reply. She was pissed off with him. Couldn’t quite grasp the enormity of the crime that Dorothy Malloy had committed and the effect it had on everyone it touched.

  He made his way to Chief Constable Gordon Threadgold’s home. It was the first time he’d ever been invited. Strictly speaking he wasn’t quite invited this time, but what he had to say couldn’t be done over the phone.

  Davies straightened his tie as he stood on the doorstep and tugged down the back of his jacket. He could hear footsteps in the hall and quickly shined each shoe on the back of his trouser legs before the door was opened.

  Threadgold stretched out his hand. ‘Alec, good to see you, my boy,’ as he gestured for him to come in. Davies tried not to look impressed as he was led through the hallway into the living room. His whole flat could have fitted in here.

  ‘Very nice,’ was all he said as he sat on the soft cream sofa.

  Threadgold nodded as he made his way to the drinks cabinet. ‘It’s Jean who likes the nice things.’ He took a decanter of red wine from the cupboard. ‘I just tag along for the ride.’ He grinned as he held it up to the light to examine the colour. Davies wasn’t really a huge fan of red wine. He was still mortified at the memory of bringing a girl home for the first time and his mum taking a bottle from the kitchen cabinet with a raffle ticket still attached.

  ‘D’you know there are over a thousand varieties of grapes in Italy alone?’

  Davies held the document folder on his lap. ‘No, I must say that’s a surprise.’