The Child Before

by Michael Scanlon

  He was sitting very low in the seat now, disappearing beneath the dash whenever a car appeared ahead of them, or behind, then peeping up again, enough to see the road ahead.

  Not far now, she thought, Mylestown. All she had to do was get there. People would help her. In Mylestown. Not far now…

  ‘Turn right.’

  Oh, Christ.

  It was the turn off for Kelly’s Forge. Nothing down there.

  Nothing.

  Why’s he taking me there? Why? Why? Why? Her mind thought of the possibilities, kept returning to just one. No. Please. No. Not that.

  She looked in the rear-view again.

  Róisín was awake, smiling back at her. Samantha Power looked into those small, crystal blue, beautiful eyes, and her heart ached. Her beautiful baby girl was awake. So innocent. So placid. Such a happy child that she rarely cried.

  ‘I have a baby. Please let me go. Pleeeease…’ panic in her voice now, speaking low, didn’t want Róisín to hear, didn’t want her to sense that something was wrong.

  And Róisín started to cry.

  And she knew she had to get away, pressing her foot down hard onto the accelerator, the car speeding up. Forward. Forward. Had to get away…

  ‘What the fuck you doing?’

  Forward. Forward. Speeding up. Faster and faster. Looking in the rear-view all the time. Róisín screaming now, hysterical, waving her arms. I have to get to my baby.

  At the end of the road. Nothing ahead but a low, weed-covered embankment. Kept going. Forward. Forward. Help is somewhere. Just so long as I keep moving. Don’t stop. Keep moving. Help has to be there. Somewhere.

  He yanked the steering wheel, and the car wobbled, then straightened again. She kept her foot on the accelerator. Forward. Forward. He yanked on the steering wheel a second time, the car wobbled again, but this time didn’t straighten. Instead it juddered, the front dipping and rising like a boat in a swell. A mountain of green rose before her, she could see bushes, dangly branches of trees. No, no, no. Have to keep going. She screamed, covering her eyes with her arms as the car ploughed into the mountain, then through it, dangly branches snapping, bushes falling away beneath the car, but somehow, somehow, avoiding the trees, emerging on the other side, bouncing over the rough ground, her foot still pressed to the accelerator, the underside of the car scraping the undergrowth, the detritus collected from the impact forced up by the turning wheels, compacting tighter and tighter into the wheel arches until finally the wheels stopped turning, the engine whined, then stopped and died. Stalled. No sound. Nothing but the screaming of the baby.

  She unclipped her belt, pushed herself from her seat, fumbling over the seat towards her baby. Oh Jesus, please spare us. I’m coming, Róisín. I’m coming. It’s all going to be alright. Mummy is coming. Mummy is coming. Her hand shaking, but finding the clip on the front of the child’s chest, her palm pressing against it. Clunk. It opened, the straps falling away. Reaching for her baby now, so close, her fingers touching the child’s hands.

  Oh sweet Jesus in heaven. No. No. No. Feeling herself being dragged back.

  His hands upon her. She could feel them running under her skirt, pulling at her pants, all the time being dragged back. Another hand on her top, ripping it open. Pushed against the dash, her legs pinned against the seat, facing him. Those small, black eyes staring, in front of her, in that strange head, as if behind the slits of a mask. Behind his head, her baby, no longer screaming, but looking at her strangely, as if trying to decipher what was happening. It was a look Samantha had never seen before, a look far beyond the baby’s years.

  As a rage erupted in Samantha. A rage that had never been there before. Not when Billy Hamilton had struck her all those times. Not when Edward Roche had shouted at her, had insulted her, had laughed and ridiculed her, belittled her.

  But it was there now.

  ‘You BASTAAAARD!’ Launching herself at him, pushing against him, smashing her knee on the gear knob, but feeling no pain. ‘You BASTAAAARD!’ And Black, momentarily stunned, merely staring at her. Frozen. She was on him, and they both toppled back towards the passenger door. She reached for the lever and pulled it, the door snapped open. But Black had taken the opportunity, grabbed a handful of that thick curly hair, wound it around his hand, and pulled it back. She felt the pain now, as he squirmed out from beneath her, wrapping an arm around her as he came up, the shift in axis giving him the advantage of his superior strength and weight, pulling her backwards, off him, forcing her down onto her belly across the seats, and then he was lying on her back, half in, half out of the car. She bucked against him and he half fell sideways, but came up again, on top, heavy, immovable this time. And Róisín continued to scream. He glanced back at the baby, looked at those little blue crystals with his black pools of evils. He looked away, and pushed against Samantha’s body beneath him, harder and harder. But still he could feel those small blue crystals upon him. He had wanted her body beneath him. All his life he had wanted it. He had fantasised about it. He had imagined it. He had imagined her face instead of those others in countless porn movies. In his sick mind he thought she might want him. Like in those movies. That he could abduct her and she would want him. And if she didn’t want it, well then, he could just take it. But she didn’t want him. She didn’t want it. So he was taking it. He pushed against her, reaching down for his zipper, glancing into the rear seat. The screaming of the child tearing at his ear drums now, the small blue crystals burning into him, and realising he had nothing. He didn’t even have a hard-on.

  ‘YOU BITCH!’ driving a corner of the chisel into her neck, slicing it open, all the way across.

  A geyser.

  Of blood.

  The child screaming.

  Little blue crystals following him as he fled.

  Ninety-Four

  Vicky was lying in the cramped footwell between the front seats and the narrow back bench of the pickup. Hogtied, legs and arms bent behind her back, roped together, duct-tape wound around her mouth, her face pushed into the back of the seat: she could see the lines in the leather, like satellite imagery of a brown and barren landscape. The stiff suspension bounced her up and down, the vehicle shaking and rattling as it moved over rough ground. Her hip hit the floor and she winced.

  They travelled for what seemed a long time, but then the road became level and smooth, the drone of the engine steady and constant. She twisted her head, peering into the gorge between the two front seats. Could see his profile, one stubby hand on the wheel, dirty jeans. After some time, the pickup turning, with it a noise, like a yard brush being pulled along the sides. Slowing down, bouncing again, but not much, now turning in a wide arch, pushing her against the back of his seat.

  Finally the pickup stopped, the engine died.

  Silence.

  A deafening silence.

  She held her breath, her heart loud inside her, like the beating of a drum, filling an auditorium in her ears, a rhythmic booming: Boom. Boom. Boom.

  The creaking of the seat as he moved, the door opening. He hesitated before getting out. Then the sound of his footsteps, walking away. She held her breath again. Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Concentrating, trying to decipher sounds.

  But there were no sounds.

  There was nothing.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Then, behind her.

  ‘Hello sweetie.’

  Sweet Jesus Christ.

  ‘You don’t look very happy, sweetie. Something wrong? I’d have thought you’d be happy to see me. I mean, although you’re my second choice and everything, but still. You see, I had someone else in mind, an old friend you could say, from way back, but… how shall I put this? Why let a good plan go to waste, eh? That’s what I say. Vicky. Vicky. Vicky. You love a good time, don’t you? Oh yes you do. So what d’ya say. How about you and me? Having a good time.’

  His voice loud, filling the car. His hands, squirming under her shoulders, dragging her out, plop as her legs and ass hit the
ground. The sun dazzling, she squinted her eyes against it. She looked down, at the dry, chalky earth, then up, at the grass along the edges of the chalk, to the bushes and trees further on.

  She shook her head… Danny Black.

  Jesus.

  Danny Black.

  ‘Think you’re so hot, don’t cha? Think you’re above everybody else, don’t cha? Above me. Don’t cha? Bitch. Teasing me… think that was enough to get me to do what you wanted? Really, you think I’m that stupid? So who did you think the killer was, Vicky? Come on, I really want to know. Tell me.’

  Vicky made a whimpering sound.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Crabby,’ she said. ‘Maurice Crabby.’

  Danny threw his head back and laughed.

  ‘That’s so lame. Call yourself a what… TV producer, investigative journalist? That’s the best you can come up with? Jeez, and you thought I was stupid? That’s the most stupidest thing I ever heard of. It was right in front of you all along and you couldn’t see it. Me.’

  And his eyes, rummaging over her entire body now, aggrieved and angry, staring at those certain hidden places, smirking now. His voice dropped to an ugly whisper.

  ‘Did you ever think? You might, you know, like it? With me? No, I don’t think you ever did. No one thinks of Danny Black in that way. So then, there’s only one way to do this. If ol’ Danny can’t have it, then ol’ Danny has to just take it… I mean, it’s not my fault, I got needs too you know. I ask you, what am I supposed to do? Look and not touch, is that it? I dooon’t think so.’

  He released her and moved off to the side. She turned her head. He was staring ahead, his back to her, as if contemplating something. Then slowly he turned again, and she could see his brown boots stomping across the dry earth towards her. He went behind her again. His hands on her wrists now, his hot breath on her neck. She felt a sharp tug, then a slackening, as he began to untie her.

  He came round and stood in front of her.

  ‘Get to your feet,’ looping the rope between an elbow and the crook of a thumb and index finger.

  Her legs were numb, struggling to her feet, like a new-born fawn. When she stood he threw the rope into the back of the pickup, reached out and grabbed her right wrist, began walking ahead, dragging her behind.

  ‘Time to get serious, sweetie.’

  And she heard nothing then but a long, anguished, feral scream. He did not react. Because he did not hear it. It was in her head.

  Ninety-Five

  Superintendent Wilde took his everyday dress uniform jacket from the coat stand in his office, hesitated, returned it to its hook, selected the tactical fleece instead, put it on, looked at Beck.

  ‘Do you really need that?’

  He was referring to the Walther 9mm parabellum in the leather holster that hung from Beck’s shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know. I hope not.’

  ‘We don’t normally…’

  ‘Bother. Maybe you should. Dublin South Central took away any illusions I had.’

  ‘It’s your choice of course. But note my objection.’

  ‘Noted. ERU would take an hour to get here, at least. If you could note that?’

  ‘Don’t act like you know everything, Beck,’ Wilde said, heading out the door. ‘It’s tiresome.’

  In the station car park, the superintendent got into the passenger seat of an unmarked Volvo V60, two uniforms climbing into the rear. Claire and Beck went to the unmarked Focus. A marked estate with Garda Ryan, Sergeant Connor and a couple of detectives took the lead as the three cars headed out of the car park. It was 17.35. A time when Black might be home, or heading there, or thinking of heading there. After all, he had no idea they were coming.

  Ninety-Six

  She could see the back of a house ahead, at the end of a track, a two-storey, traditional farmhouse, fading white paint, moss-crusted edges on the roof slates. Rounding a corner, a farm shed to her left, a big blue tractor inside, next to it a bank of turf. To her right, another track, leading to a long narrow building with a low red roof, beside it a green-painted grain silo. He opened a gate to the house and pulled her along a path that led to the back door. Two dirty cats slunk about by their feet, making short mewing sounds, hungry. At the door he stopped. He pulled the tape from around her mouth, some stuck to her hair, she felt the hot pinpricks as it was torn away.

  ‘If you scream. It won’t make any difference. Just so as you know.’

  But now she knew what she had to do if she were to survive. Go along. Obey. Watch. Everything. For an opportunity. Any opportunity. To escape. But most of all. To stay calm.

  He opened the door, up a single step, into a small kitchen, she could smell rancid cooking oil. A sink, piled with dishes rising out of dirty water. He pushed her to the left, up another step.

  It was him!

  He killed the girl. He killed the police inspector.

  Him.

  Jesus!

  ‘That you, Oliver?’

  The old woman appeared from a doorway. Small, scraggy, stooped, with long, white, matted hair partially covering her face, wearing a long, stiff, pinafore dress.

  If she screamed now, wouldn’t this woman… But something stopped her.

  ‘I keep telling you,’ he said. ‘I’m not fucking Oliver. Oliver is dead. Has been for years. My father is gone to hell, mother.’

  ‘You brought her home. At last. Hello dear, my name is Loretta. It’s about time Danny met a nice girl.’

  ‘Listen, you’ve got to help me,’ Vicky said. ‘I’ve been kidnapped. This man…’

  He laughed.

  ‘Say hello to mother.’

  Vicky’s throat was dry. She coughed.

  ‘I thought she’d died,’ the old woman said.

  ‘She did. But she’s back. Aren’t you, Mary?’

  He pushed her down the hall.

  ‘Oliver. I have some news. We’re going to have another baby.’

  ‘I’m not fucking Oliver. Jesus.’

  ‘And did you hear? He’s dead. President Kennedy. It was on the wireless… Oliver, Oliver, where’re you going? Come back. You’re always leaving me, Oliver.’

  At the end of the hall he stopped. They were by the foot of a steep stairs, steps of bare wood, worn at the centre from the weight of countless feet.

  ‘Go back into the room mother. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘What did you say you’ll do, Oliver?’

  ‘Go back into the fucking room. Or I’ll put you into the shed. Again. Your choice, mother.’

  The sound of shuffling feet, fading, as she retreated into the room, a door closing.

  He pushed Vicky onto the stairs.

  ‘Up.’

  She began to climb. But she was not moving fast enough. He pushed her again, hard, and she stumbled forward. At the top she felt his hand rough on her back again, this time remaining there, shepherding her forward, then to the side, like an animal, along a short hall and in through an open door. A musty smell. He closed the door, pitch black. He turned a light on. The window was covered in stripes of black plastic. There was a double bed, linoleum-covered floor, heavy dark dresser and wardrobe. The light glowed from inside a glass floral shade hanging from the ceiling. He pushed her again, harder, across the floor. She sprawled onto the bed. He was right behind her. She felt his rough hands on her left foot, a cold hardness wrapping itself around her ankle, with it a clunking sound. She pulled back her leg, could hear a rattling noise, with it felt the pain as the clamp bit into her flesh.

  He stood, looking down at her, then turned and walked across the room and out the door onto the landing, his footsteps fading along the hall. The sound of a door opening, a low squeaking noise, for a moment silence, then the squeaking sound again as the door shut. Silence. She sat up, looking down at her feet. Saw that her right foot was manacled to a leg of the bed. She stood, grabbed the base of the bed with both hands,
pulling, attempting to lift it. But it was useless. It was too heavy. Just like the dresser, and the wardrobe, the bed was made from heavy, dark wood.

  She heard something. Listened. A door opening, the same squeaking sound as just before. Footsteps, heavy on the wooden floor. Approaching. The booming in her ears sounded again as she realised he was coming back. She held her breath. Boom. Boom. Boom. The foot stomping on the drum pedal, a lone instrument in an auditorium, filling it, the only sound. Still she held her breath, until it felt like hot claws were inside scraping at her chest. Breathing out at last, trying to control it, not wanting to make any sound. The effort made her dizzy.

  The footsteps drew closer. At the back of her throat she felt bile rising, bubbling into her mouth. She gagged once, twice, three times, then threw up onto the floor.

  He was standing in the doorway, looking at her as she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Shook his head as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, sliding the latch across. It made a scraping sound that echoed through her.

  Oh Jesus…

  She watched him, his face, stared at it, wondering…

  He walked to the other side of the bed, unbuckling his belt as he went. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. He swung it a couple of times above his head. She exhaled, welcoming the sight of the swinging belt. She didn’t mind if he beat her. Anything was better than… than that.

  But instead, he dropped it to the floor. His small eyes observed her, in that weird head that looked like a goat’s. His top lip rolled back, exposing his big teeth, saliva oozing out through the gaps. And now he was undoing the button on the waistband of his jeans. She started to gag again, a dry gag, but nothing coming up. The sound of his zipper like the buzzing of a swarm of wasps, or pieces of flesh being pulled from inside her head. It mingled with the booming sound, everything so loud she felt her head would explode.