The Child Before

by Michael Scanlon

  An energy. Called lust.

  Later, he asked Vicky to drop him off at the top of Main Street. He wanted to walk home he explained. But he didn’t need to explain. Vicky didn’t ask. Because Vicky didn’t really care.

  ‘You’ll be at the next meeting,’ she said, but it wasn’t a question.

  What it really said was, See you around.

  Beck watched the car disappear along the brightly lit street.

  The air was warm. A rare epoch in a cold, rain-soaked land. Cross Beg looked pretty during the summer months. Even the empty buildings and the upper façades of all of those along Main Street, normally grubby and faded, with cracked windows and mottled curtains stuck to glass panes, looked fresh behind that explosion of colour from their hanging flower baskets. Beck noted that the buildings seemed naturally brighter during the warm summers, the yellow and purple streaks left by the winter storms fading like the colour of an old bruise. Passing the Hibernian Hotel two men in baseball hats and bandanas, one wearing a sweatshirt with ‘I’m a 1%’er’ across the front, were smoking cigars. They spoke in that loud confident way of Americans.

  As Beck passed, one of them said in a slurred around the edges voice, ‘Hi there, buddy.’

  ‘Good night,’ Beck said, and walked on.

  He thought of Inspector O’Reilly. He thought of Samantha Power. He thought of baby Róisín. And he thought that somewhere out there on this night was the person responsible. He wondered what that person was doing right now? At this very moment? Were they sleeping, free of guilt, incapable of feeling remorse for what they had done? Or were they awake, tortured by the memories.

  It was late. He needed sleep. He walked on, along the deserted street.

  Fifty-Seven

  Maurice Crabby did not go home. Where was home anyway? Kelly’s Forge? Cross Beg? St. Bridget’s?

  He drove north west, towards the ocean, and along the coast road, passing through darkened sleeping villages, the white of the breakers visible on his left even in the darkness. Near Ballyvaughan he turned onto a track that ended in the dunes of a beach. He turned off the engine, and he could hear the clinking noises of it as it cooled. He opened the window and could hear the sea, a rhythmic breathing of water on sand.

  It was as dark as that night, that night when it had all started. And when, in a sense, it had all finished too. He watched through the windscreen the gentle curls of white over the tops of the dunes that were the waves breaking on the shore.

  His own mother. The thought would not leave him. His own mother.

  He began, again, to cry.

  He squeezed the steering wheel, tighter and tighter, until he could feel his nails biting into the flesh on the underside of it. He opened the door and got out, looking at the sky. There was nothing in that blackness. Not a star. Nothing.

  And then he looked to the sea again, to the faint flashes of the white wave tops. And began to walk towards it. Through the dunes, losing sight of the ocean momentarily, and then re-emerging, there it was, a little way ahead, across the beach. The tide was in, the dark ocean, mysterious, unquantifiable. He closed his eyes and listened to its breathing, and, as if in a trance, slowly began walking ahead. He did not open his eyes again until the sound of the waves were loud and seemed to surround him. And when he did, finally, the water was lapping at his feet. Before it he felt his insignificance. Another step, into the water. It would be easy. So easy. To just walk into it, become lost. Forever.

  Crabby took another step.

  Fifty-Eight

  Beck turned the key, pushing open the door, stepped into the hallway. He was tired, suddenly so very tired. He climbed the stairs in the darkness and made his way to his bedroom, pulling the curtains and unbuttoning his shirt at the same time. He piled his clothes onto the floor by the bed, and climbed in. It wrapped itself around him and carried him away. Within seconds, the room was filled with the sounds of his stuttered snoring.

  I have returned. Did you think I would just walk away? Forget all about you? Leave you in peace? I will never forget you. I will never leave you. Certainly not in peace. You ridiculous fool. You gobshite. You moron. You cretin. Now, take my hand you idiot, come with me.

  Beck tossed his head from side to side on the pillow, his legs kicking beneath the duvet, trying to break free. He opened his mouth, a low croaking sound coming from it. But it was too late. The Scarecrow had him in his grasp. Who led the way quickly, dragging Beck behind, with that unmistakable smell of his wafting behind, of leather and soap. The ground held no difficulty for either of them, they seemed to float above the gorse and ditches. Beck recognised this place. He pulled on the hand that gripped him, his hand so small, like a child’s, but the grip of the Scarecrow was too strong. They did not linger at Kelly’s Forge, but continued on, over the ditches and on, disturbing the sleeping cows who opened their eyes but could see nothing, merely felt their presence passing them by. They stopped eventually at an ivy mountain, it seemed to rise forever, a wall that reached to the sky. He had seen this before, a glimpse, the other day, when he came to the wood. But now it didn’t look like a wall, it looked like a living creature, its green, dark coat shimmering in the breeze.

  A flash of lightning lit up the night sky, with it a sound, low and sharp. Yet it was not thunder. The lightning struck again, and so too with it came that sound. Higher now, more piercing. Beck felt the grip of the Scarecrow weaken. The lightning flashed once more and with it the sound came again. The grip almost non-existent now. Then gone.

  Beck opened his eyes. He looked about the room, breathing rapidly. The light of the street lamps through the fabric of the curtains was a blue hue.

  He turned his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

  No, don’t think.

  He threw back the duvet and got up. He dressed and left the room, went down the hall and knocked on Claire’s door. When she opened it he spoke.

  ‘Don’t ask any questions. Get dressed? We’re going out.’

  ‘Going out…’ still not a question. Her eyes were alert, there were no cobwebs of recent sleep. Her eyes searched his, then she said, ‘Give me a minute,’ and the door began to close.

  Fifty-Nine

  The trees are of birch, poplar, Norway spruce and in the centre a mighty ash almost 300 years old. It is cool here, and even on the hottest day it is shaded, the tree tops catching the sun like a web. This forgotten corner is hidden behind the remaining section of high stone wall that once formed part of the Kendrel estate boundary. The wall itself is almost hidden by wild bramble and bushes now. This spot is beautiful, peaceful. But so too is it eerie. The locals say it is more than eerie. They say it is haunted. They say the banshee prowls through the trees when darkness falls. Many have heard her, or so they claim, when her soft wailing sound wakes them from their sleep. Yet it is not a fearful sound. It is alluring. It is a sound that many want to follow. Some do, and they never return. They call this place, this piece of ground, the Banshee’s Garden. It is the forgotten place. No one comes here. Ever. Not even teenagers for dares at Halloween. No, no one comes here.

  It is silent, so deathly silent.

  A fog had settled on the abandoned village, and as they crossed the ditch and walked along the overgrown track, the bushes and trees on either side crowded round like silent, ghostly, witnesses. The light from their torches cut hollows into the swirling air, and the crackling of the undergrowth beneath their feet was carried off into the darkness, the sound appearing much louder than during daylight. They continued through the remains of Kelly’s Forge until they reached the end. It was surprising how quickly nature had reclaimed this place. Although the cottages had been constructed of dry stone, without mortar or cement, such dwellings can stand for centuries. But not here. Here, they had been skewered by the trunks of trees and weakened by their roots, leaving behind nothing but indistinct accumulations of stones and, though gable walls still stood, these were lost to ivy and foliage. Soon, there would be no trace left of the place called Kelly’s
Forge.

  The ditch rose before them.

  ‘We’re going over that,’ Beck said. ‘Okay?’

  Claire turned her torch to either side of it, illuminating the ghostly witnesses, the freakish trees, pointing at them with their spindly arms.

  Beck used his free hand to grip a fuchsia branch. The grass was wet with dew and his feet slid as he grappled his way up. At the top, he leaned down and offered his hand to Claire. She ignored him, used the same branch to pull herself up.

  They shone their torches into the field beyond, the eyes of the cows lying between the rushes, dots of yellow, reflecting back the light like laser beams between the rectangular glow of their ear tags.

  Behind them, where the land sloped, the fog had cleared, and in the distance, scattered through the darkness, particles of light from houses and hamlets.

  Beck turned left, the sound of his and Claire’s feet as they walked through the grass a low swishing noise in the open air. They walked to another ditch, the sides sloping down to the bed of a dried stream bed. Was this the same stream he had encountered the other day? Beck wasn’t certain. He calculated he could jump it. When he tried he landed short and slid to the bottom. The light of his torch revealed the dry bed veering right ahead of him.

  ‘Can you get down here?’

  For the first time, Claire’s uncertainty began to change into resistance. She stood motionless.

  ‘I’m getting second thoughts about this whole thing. Look at us. What are we doing here?’

  ‘We’re here now. Can you just come down?’

  ‘No. You need to tell me.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Claire.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Beck stepped forward, the sharp edges of the stones squeezing into the soles of his sneakers. He cursed for not having worn boots. He began walking away.

  ‘Beck. Where the fuck are you going? Beck…’

  Beck ignored her, continued on.

  After a moment he heard the scraping sound as she clambered down the sides after him. He slowed, waiting for her to catch up.

  They walked on in silence. The stream bank levelled out into a low impression strewn with mossy rocks and stones. Beyond it the land fell away, joining the sweeping curve of the surrounding hills. Beck moved left, the land soft and pitted, a labyrinth of gorges between peaty, gorse-covered mounds. They stepped carefully from mound to mound, Beck missing his mark at one and his leg disappearing up to his knee in the crevice between.

  The world began to brighten, any lingering mist dissolving along with the darkness, the new day slowly stretching to fill the spaces between the horizons.

  The soft rough ground gradually gave way to firmer, stonier territory, hard, sun-baked soil with thin grass sprouting from it in clusters. And just beyond, a high wall of ivy, bushes and bramble, curling into a mane at the top, giving it the appearance of a vibrant green tsunami.

  Beck froze, staring at it. Claire was silent. Then Beck began quickly walking ahead. Up close, glimpses of grey stone through the ivy. Beck pulled some of the growth away, revealing a portion of the wall. He looked along it in both directions.

  ‘A secret place,’ he muttered.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A secret place,’ he said, and louder, ‘Looks like.’

  Beck turned and walked ahead to where the wall ended in a pile of rubble. Claire followed. Only those rocks on top were visible through the weeds and nettles that wrestled for possession. It was a corner section. The other section lay ahead, intact, stretching off into the trees.

  They stepped over the rubble, to where the air was flavoured by wild orchids and lilies. Ahead, gnarled and knotted trees, towering above them, ancient and ragged. Beck saw a mighty ash, brooding, as if sensing his presence. Beck felt he was not wanted here, in this place of feral trees. And with it came the unmistakable sense that he was being watched.

  He walked slowly along the edge of trees inside the wall. There was a soft murmuring sound as the mighty branches moved. The air was cold, but the morning sun sent shafts of light down between the branches, creating pools of lights on the ground about them.

  He came upon a dip, a cut in the ground, like a fold on a giant’s chin. His eyes were drawn to what looked like wild cotton on top, disappearing down the sides into it. He led the way and when they reached it he could see that the wild cotton was, in fact, wool. Beck turned his head slowly and looked into the dip. It took a moment to distinguish them, the bones had darkened and merged with the colours of the earth. They were small skeletons. Three of them. Animals. Perfectly intact; legs, ribs, tailbone, head. The jaws open, a row of white teeth top and bottom, the gape so wide Beck knew their deaths had not been peaceful.

  ‘What is it?’ Claire, her voice low.

  Beck was thinking about it.

  ‘This is where it feeds. A fox. Probably. It’s quiet here, and safe, close to its den.’

  They went down the sides.

  ‘They’ve been picked clean,’ Beck said. ‘Completely. Look like lambs to me.’

  He peered ahead, studying the ground, its contours. It appeared unnaturally uneven, not following the smooth contours of the incline behind them. Ahead, the moss and lichen had a bubbled effect. He walked ahead slowly, stopped and pressed his foot down onto one, felt the grit beneath. More bones, but now covered by the forest floor, like a mat. Looking ahead again he saw another, slightly larger than those about it, against a tree, as if pushed into it, the moss and lichen creeping up the trunk. Beck walked to it, knelt down and pulled back the covering, exposing the tips of bones resting against the wood. He pulled carefully on one, and it slid out, nothing to hold it back. But it was old, coarse with age and deeply pitted, bronze in colour. The bone was small, semi-circular in shape. But unmistakable. Especially with the six little teeth set into it like pine nuts. It was the lower portion of a human jaw bone. More specifically, a baby’s jaw bone.

  Sixty

  Dr Gumbell was dressed in a beige linen summer suit and stood, staring down at the selection of bones he had spread about on the ground. He had taken the precaution of wearing wellington boots. Beck wondered where he had gotten these at this hour. They looked brand new. For a long time, he stood motionless, stroking his chin between two fingers, the smell of stale alcohol wafting from him like a bad cologne. Finally he spoke.

  ‘This case is throwing up the rarest of scenarios, and all at the same time. Quite compelling. Quite amazing actually. From a professional point of view. Everything is here, from what I can see,’ he said. ‘Mail order skeleton. We have a calcaneus – that’s the heel bone, Beck, in case you didn’t know – a fibula, tibia, a femur, and a pelvis. I didn’t arrange them all.’ He pointed vaguely towards the ground. ‘Have here a vertebrae, a couple of ribs, and a scapula. Then things get a little messy.’ He pointed towards the tree. ‘The cervical vertebrae, the neck, and that jumble of bones there, the skull. See what I mean? Like the end of a butcher’s bucket, all piled there.’

  He picked up his medical bag from where he had left it by his feet, opened it and took out a large magnifying glass and pencil torch. He closed the bag and put it down again, then stood it on its end and sat on top of it, stretching his legs, placing one on either side of the bones. The pencil light illuminated the remains as he leaned forward, bending his long back, peering through the magnifying glass. After some time he sat back and sighed, held up the magnifying glass.

  ‘Beck. My back is killing me. Take this. And the light. Inspect those other bones behind me, there. Tell me what you can see.’

  Beck took the glass and light, studied the other remains through the magnifying glass.

  ‘The bones are ribbed,’ he said. ‘Or gnawed, whichever you’d prefer. Why didn’t it eat the bones as well?’

  ‘Why would it?’ Gumbell said. ‘There’s nothing to gain from eating a bone but a lot of ultimately wasted hard work. And probably a painful stomach. But then again, I’m no vet. The human bones are gnawed too. So, what does tha
t make it? If an animal eats a child, maybe it kills it too? An every day occurrence in some parts of the world. The question is, is this a crime scene?’

  Beck didn’t know the answer to that question. Not yet.

  ‘I mean,’ Gumbell added. ‘I’ve never seen a wild animal standing in a dock myself. Have you?’

  ‘We don’t know how it died,’ he said.

  ‘True,’ Gumbell replied. ‘We’ll have to wrap these up and take them to the lab in HQ. Have an anthropologist look at them. No need to stand on any ceremony, anything of forensic value has long since disappeared. Except the bones themselves, that is.’ He seemed distracted, and leaned forward. He pulled the covering back further about the tree, a handful of bones tumbling out. He picked one up and dusted it off, held it up for inspection.

  ‘Inspector,’ a voice from behind Beck.

  Beck turned. The uniform was walking purposefully towards him.

  ‘The station’s been trying to contact you. The call came through on the radio. There’s no mobile cov…’

  ‘What is it?’ tetchy.

  ‘Edward Roche, boss. He’s dead. He died during the night. Cardiac arrest. He’d lost too much blood. They couldn’t stop it.’

  Beck was surprised. He thought of the wide set, tattooed Roche, and nodded. At least that might get finance out of Superintendent Wilde’s hair. For a while at least.

  ‘I’ve another one,’ Gumbell said then.

  Beck turned back to the State Pathologist.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That’s no surprise. There’s plenty of them here after all?’

  ‘I mean a different one. A different bone.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Beck said, still not getting it.

  ‘I mean from a different skeleton. There’s more than one. Wake up, Beck.’