Crying in the Dark (19 page)

I finished telling him about Mina, and he nodded, slowly.

‘She hasn't returned? You've checked with her parents?' His voice was without accent, deep and rich.

‘I called them just before I arrived. They haven't heard from her.'

‘You said she's run before. Is this the longest she's been away?'

‘I think so. It's usually just overnight.'

He nodded again, but I could tell he was elsewhere, running over possibilities in his head. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the city, particularly the parts most others did not know.

‘There are several things that spring to mind.'

‘So you'll help me?'

He nodded as he continued speaking. ‘There is a market for young girls of her … appearance … there are those who will pay handsomely for them. She may already have been taken to be trafficked out of the country.'

‘It's never happened before. I think she goes to the same people each time she runs away from home. They're probably using her, but I don't think she's in danger of being taken out of the country.'

‘Let's hope not, but it's sensible to be prepared for every eventuality. Her people are wealthy?'

‘Yes.'

‘There are those who would find her, if her father was prepared to pay for it. I could give him some names of reliable men.'

‘You mean mercenaries or private investigators.'

‘People who know how to do that kind of work, yes.'

‘Well, if we fail, that may just be something to consider.'

Devereux stood up in a fluid motion – one moment he was sitting with his legs up on the desk, the next he was standing with his hand outstretched.

‘If she's still in the city, I'll find her. Should it turn out that she's been moved, I know people who can find her, as there's money to be had for doing it. Tell her family not to worry.'

I shook his hand, which was very dry to the touch.

‘I wish there really was nothing to worry about, Devereux. I honestly do.'

He smiled, which actually looked sort of sad.

‘She's undoubtedly in danger. But we'll bring her back. After that, it's up to them to help her sort through whatever it is that's causing her pain. And she'll have to do some work herself. There's only so much others can do for her. Ultimately, it'll be up to her.'

I walked to the door of his small office.

‘Call me as soon as you've got anything.'

‘When I've found her, you'll know.'

‘Don't pick her up without me. She'll need a familiar face.'

‘As you wish.'

I walked through the main office and out to the car-park, wondering what I'd unleashed.

It was early afternoon when I finished with Devereux, and, after ringing the Henrys to inform them of my (lack of) progress, I drove over to Haroldstown to see the Walshes. I was due a visit, and, on a more selfish note, I wanted to do something that would take my mind off Mina and her plight.

I had decided that I would act on Benjamin's advice and stop beating about the bush, surreptitiously attempting to build a case for or against the reality or unreality of the haunting. I was going to approach the issue head-on.

When I got to the house, I called Biddy aside.

‘I want to go out the back with the boys today, Biddy. We've played games around this for long enough. I want to see what goes on out there.'

‘I've told you before, I don't want that.'

We were standing in the dark hallway. I could hear the sound of the television from the living room, a cartoon playing loudly.

‘Do you want me to help them, Biddy?'

She looked at her shoes, a battle clearly going on in her face.

‘All right, don't do anything to scare him, okay?'

‘I promise I'm not going to cause a fuss. It doesn't really matter whether I believe in what's happening in the garden or not. What matters is what it's doing to your sons. I want to see how they are when they're with him.'

She nodded and gestured towards the door of the living room. ‘Go and do what you have to do.'

Bobby and Micky gave me a warm welcome, chatting excitedly about a trip they had taken with their mother and aunt to the park the day before. I looked at some pictures they had drawn for me of them on the swings and slides (I had been encouraging them to record as much of their lives as possible through a variety of media) and then I agreed to watch the rest of the cartoon with them before we began the session.

When the cartoon had finished, I switched off the box, and we sat down on the floor, facing each other.

‘I want to meet your dad today, boys. I'd like you to bring me out with you, and introduce me. I think it's time. We've talked a lot about him. Now maybe you can show me.'

They looked at me gravely, then at each other.

‘He don'just come. He calls to us when he wants to see us,' Bobby said. ‘He might not come for you.'

‘He calls to me,' Micky said firmly.

‘Well, can't you call him? Won't he come if you want him to?'

‘S'pose we could try,' Bobby said, looking uncertain.

‘I'd really like it if you did.'

Micky was already on his feet. ‘C'mon then. I think I should be the one. He calls me, see? I'll do it, righ'?'

Bobby sat where he was for a moment, seemingly still unsure of the proposed enterprise.

‘Does Mammy know 'bout this?'

‘Yes. I asked her if it was okay.'

‘I don' tink Daddy will be too happy.'

‘Why not?'

He shook his head, obviously unhappy. ‘I jus' don't. Le's play a game instead. What 'bout musical chairs? We played that th' other time. It was good fun, wasn' it?'

Micky was at the door by now.

‘Oh, come on, Bob. It'll be okay. Stop bein' a sissy.'

Begrudgingly, Bobby stood up and followed us.

They walked down the narrow path that ran through the grass lawn that covered most of the garden, and stepped up onto the raised verge of the ditch, which was overhung with branches from trees and shrubs that had grown wild behind it. I remained several feet from them, not wanting to get in the way, squatted down on my haunches and waited. The object of the exercise was not to intervene. I simply wanted to see what happened during these secret meetings.

They stood for a few seconds, not saying anything. I got the sense that they were gauging the atmosphere, taking stock of the light and the temperature. Micky was slowly turning in circles, looking at the top of the tree line. Finally, after several minutes had passed, he called loudly: ‘Daddy! Daddy, I wants you. Daddy, come and see us, please.'

I had expected that he would continue calling, but after that single cry he fell quiet, and he and his brother stood side by side on the ditch and waited.

What happened next has played on my mind a good deal in the intervening years, and I wish to state clearly that I am open to admitting that there may have been aspects of suggestion in how I perceived it. But, as far as I can recall, and without conscious exaggeration, this is what I experienced with those two children that summer's afternoon.

Everything seemed to go very still, as if the trees had stopped all movement and the very breath of the wind had ceased. I felt a trickle of sweat run down the small of my back. It was as if the actual environment was subdued, waiting pensively for someone or something.

‘He's coming,' Micky said.

A sudden blast of cold wind almost knocked me over and I had to steady myself with a hand on the ground. The branches over the children's heads lashed violently and then, just as quickly, were still, but a very audible breeze continued to ruffle the leaves like an electric current.

‘Hello, Daddy,' Bobby said, his eyes now fixed on that intangible point in the air.

‘Daddy, this is Shane – he's our friend we telled you 'bout,' Micky said, and I noticed that there was a new quality to his voice. It seemed to be deeper.

The boys went quiet, seemingly listening to something. I moved slowly around to the left, trying desperately to see if they were using a visual point of reference, but once again could see nothing.

‘Daddy, that isn't nice,' Bobby said. ‘He's not bad. He's good to us.'

Micky had started to look frightened. I had to fight the urge to go to him. Something was happening. And whatever it was, they were unprepared for it.

‘I don't wanna say that to him, Daddy,' Micky said. ‘He's my friend.'

‘That's not true. He wouldn't do that,' Bobby said, tears in his voice now.

I'd had enough. I stood up and slowly walked over to them. They were apparently unaware of me, locked into the confrontation with whomever or whatever it was they could see. I reached out my hand and touched Bobby on the arm. He started, pulling away from me in alarm.

‘You gotta go 'way from here,' he said, his body quaking. ‘Not in the house – far 'way. He's awful mad. You gotta go right now.'

‘What's going on, Bob?' I asked, trying to sound calm, but probably not succeeding. The air seemed to be full of electricity. I could almost see it crackling about us. A bank of dark clouds had gathered overhead, and there was a scent of rain heavy in the air.

Micky slowly turned his head so that he was looking at me. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils dilated to the point that I could barely see the corneas.

‘He says he hurted you once before,' he droned in a monotone. ‘To show you he was real. You gots to go now, or he'll hurt you again. Worser. He don't want you in the house no more.'

The wind kicked up again, a plaintive wailing accompanying it. In a great downward gush, the rain came. I was soaked through in seconds.

‘Come on, boys,' I shouted over the roar of the elements, pulling both of them to me. ‘It's time to go back in.'

They came passively, moving as if they were in a trance. I closed the back door against the howling gale and ferocious downpour, and steered the boys to the front of the house. I could hear Biddy moving about upstairs. She did not come down to join us. Bobby and Micky sat together on the couch, staring at the wall.

‘You gots to go,' Bobby said again, shivering, water running from his hair into his eyes. ‘He ain't goin' to let you stay.'

I sat down in front of them on the floor, placing a hand on each one's shoulder.

‘I'm not going anywhere,' I said firmly. ‘He can't hurt me, and he won't.'

Micky, a strand of saliva dangling from his lower lip, stifled a sob. ‘You don't know him. He's mad now, and that means trouble for you. Don't make him mad no more.'

I looked out the window, and was amazed to see the sun shining brightly, and not a single raindrop on the glass pane. The boys and I were drenched. I stood up and went to the front door, opening it. The footpaths were bone dry. Somehow, it had rained at the back of the house, but not at the front.

I went home and changed into dry clothes, then sat in front of the TV for half an hour, channel surfing. I opened a bottle of beer, but took a couple of sips and set it aside. I switched off the television and put on a CD, Springsteen's
Nebraska.

I grabbed my keys and went back out.

It was six when I knocked on the door of Sylvie's flat. The front door of the building had been opened by a skinny woman who was coming out as I walked up, and she let me in without even looking at me.

There was no response, so I banged a bit more loudly, calling: ‘Sylvie, it's Shane. Are you home?'

She opened the door, and I felt my heart drop.

She'd been badly beaten. Her left eye was swollen shut, her cheek on that side red and puffy. Her lower lip had obviously burst, probably through her having bitten it, and it was caked in blood, misshapen and discoloured. Her forehead was black and grazed. I could see more marks about her neck and shoulder, where her top hung loose. The rest of her was probably a patchwork of bruises too.

‘Have you come to see your handiwork?' she asked.

‘Oh Christ, Sylvie, I'm sorry.' I knew why this had happened, and I felt sick to my stomach.

She turned and walked back into the flat. ‘He hasn't been back since, so you may as well come in. Mind you, what you were thinkin' comin' at this time, when he's usually here, I don't know.'

I followed her inside and closed the door behind me.

‘He did this because of what I said to him?'

The flat was a mess. It had been spotlessly tidy on my last visit. It seemed that she had let things slide. The room was in semi-darkness, the curtains drawn. Toys, rumpled clothes, cups, plates, dirty nappies rolled up in balls, used baby-wipes were everywhere. The television was on with the sound muted, playing
The Simpsons.
The door to the kitchen was open, and I could see that it was in an advanced state of disarray too. The smell of rancid food seeped out.

‘From what he told me, you did a little more than talk to him. He said you tried to rough him up.'

I plonked down onto the couch.

‘I may have gotten a little physical, but I didn't hit him or anything. He wasn't hurt.'

‘It doesn't matter. He's beat me up before plenty of times.'

She was a wreck in more ways than just the injuries. Her hair was stuck to her head, greasy from days without being washed. Her clothes were wrinkled and stained. I could smell sweat and more from where I was sitting. She obviously hadn't been looking after herself.

‘It doesn't excuse it. If I caused this to happen, I'm truly sorry. I was trying to get him to treat you better, not worse.'

She attempted to smile and stopped, her lip causing her pain.

‘He said that you'd made it so's he couldn't pimp me out any more. Said that if he couldn't put me on the street, then he might as well have me for himself. So he had his fun with me and then gave me a fairly sound hidin'. Usually, when he beats me, he tries not to leave any marks. This time, he didn't have to worry about that.'