Red Ribbons (28 page)

‘Go on. Please.’

‘He told her it would keep her safe.’

‘Safe from what, Jessica? What would it keep her safe from?’

‘Weirdos, you know what I’m talking about, guys who mess with young kids.’

‘Sexual abuse?’

‘Yeah. It’s all so stupid now, isn’t it? He killed her, didn’t he?’ Her voice rose and her face went pale as she said the words.

‘Jessica, try to stay calm. We don’t know for sure who killed Caroline, but it’s important we know what this man said to her. Did Caroline feel under any threat in that way from someone in her life?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I think she just thought it would help her.’

‘Now think carefully, Jessica. What did Caroline tell you – what exactly did he tell her about the crucifix keeping her safe?’

‘I dunno, religious crap. He said it was a sign of Christ’s unconditional love, how in death he wanted to protect the innocent.’

Kate sat back, Jessica’s last sentence repeating over and over in her head. She thought of biblical words she had learned at school: ‘Suffer little children to come unto me.’

‘Is that it, Jessica? You are not holding back on anything else?’

‘No,’ Jessica replied, shaking her head. ‘That’s it. That’s everything.’

‘Thank you so much,’ Kate said warmly. ‘And thank you, Mrs Barry. You’ve been really helpful, Jessica. This really will help us.’

SINCE COMING TO ST MICHAEL’S, I HAVE NEVER SOUGHT personal possessions, I didn’t want anything to remind me of the past. In the beginning, there was no talk of such trivialities. Back then, it was all about punishing me or holding the lunatic back from the edge of madness. It took some time before the undercurrent of anger and pity became more about dealing with the carcass of the person I’d become, rather than the circumstances of its creation.

In here, you’re cut off from the outside world, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t come in. It comes in through the faces of those who’ve looked down on me, bearing the imprint of how they viewed and judged my so-called crime. To be fair, some tried to hide it, preferring to cover up how they felt under the guise of their professionalism. Invariably, even the staunchest of them slipped.

Recently, though, the outside world has come in differently. I have my updates from Bridget, snippets from real life as she sees it. There’s the radio that plays in Living Room 1 when we have our meals, the television we watch in the evening in Living Room 2. Sometimes, the outside comes in with the new inmates. Some of them are so young – all of them seem younger than me.

At the start, I think us long-termers frighten them. The fear is written across their faces as clear as day. They see us, and get scared we are their future. They’re not told about our individual stories or our past. Why would they be? Our past, like their fear, is on our faces too. We are all victims to it.

I think people look at me with pity now. Pity is somewhat easier to
take than hate. There are those who still avoid me, still look on me as a child killer, a woman capable of the worst crime imaginable. I know the question a great many of them want to ask when they see me. It is something I would ask myself if the situation were reversed.
Why doesn’t she kill herself? Why does she choose to live when her child is dead?
I understand why they think this, because I’ve thought the very same thing.

At the beginning, or at least when I arrived at St Michael’s, no other option seemed open to me. Losing my life was something I would have welcomed. At the very least, it would have taken me away from all the anguish and the pain. I’d even thought about the afterlife – how, if I killed myself, there might be a chance, despite everything, that death would bring me closer to her. I had no fear of death, no fear at all. In many ways, there was no other way forward. What was there for me to live for after Amy was gone? I’d no interest in the sham of a life I’d been living, and despite how I felt about Andrew, what we had would never have been enough. I would have always known that the two of us being together was in some way responsible for what had happened. Even if it wasn’t, happiness was something I neither sought nor wanted any more. Happiness would have been impossible to bear.

The decision to stop eating was an easy one. After my failed attempt to kill myself in the fire, they decided I needed to be watched day and night. So there was no other option open to me. It would be slow, but it was an effective way of dying. It was when they moved me from here to the main hospital that Joe visited me. It was the last time I saw him, barely conscious by then, my body tied up with tubes and machines.

I heard the nurse tell him I might not be able to hear anything. That helped him, I think, to clear his mind of things he might otherwise have held back. He displayed all the emotions I’d expected – anger, pain, a complete lack of understanding about how I could have done such a thing. His words were a way of saying goodbye to everything that had gone before, rather than looking for any real answers. I had
gone beyond listening to people, but when Joe came into the room, I knew I owed him that. He had lost Amy too.

When he spoke, he sounded different from how I remembered him. A man who has lost everything doesn’t speak with the same voice; his grief deepens everything. What I hadn’t expected was how his grief had left him with little room for hating me. I think by the time he was able to build up his resolve to come and see me, he had taken on much of the blame too. Just like me, he turned inwards. Perhaps he asked himself questions, ones that ensured his sleepless nights would be filled with waiting for answers, filling the loss.

He spoke about how he didn’t understand how sick I was, chided himself for doing nothing. I could have tried to convince him of the truth, I could have made a last-ditch effort for him to understand that it wasn’t me who killed our daughter. But then I realised. I realised the truth would hurt him even more. He would have worried about how Amy might have suffered, how afraid she might have been. Either way, when he came into my room that last evening, the only thing I knew for sure was that I owed it to him to listen.

He stopped talking halfway through his visit, as if he had run out of words but could not bring himself to leave. In the corner of my eye, I could see his shape sitting like a large heap on the hospital chair. When he told me he had come to say goodbye, I felt more sadness for him than for myself. He planned to go to Canada, with Andrew. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but everywhere he went, every person he met, they all seemed to know who he was. The sadness in their eyes was too much for him. He said he didn’t hold out much hope, but at least if he was someplace else, he might be allowed deal with his grief alone, not feel like it belonged to others. In part, I think, I preferred him angry. When he was angry, he had some fight left in him.

Again, he asked me why I had done such a dreadful thing. It was pointless. Even if I thought about denying it, what would it have achieved? How would it have helped him? I guess he thought if he
understood, he could move on, but I doubted it. All of us cling to our own desperate methods of survival. I knew the truth, and it was a truth I would not be sharing with Joe.

When I attempted to speak, he didn’t hear me at first. I tried my hardest to call out his name. All I heard was a cracked whisper, but it was enough to make him look up. ‘I’m sorry’ was all I could say. He wanted more, I knew that, but as he took in my words, I sensed a form of closure for him, some faint hope that what had gone before might some day be resigned to memory.

When he stood up to leave, we both knew he was drawing a line in the sand and I was not going to stop him. Unlike me, he had done nothing wrong. If Joe found some small relief in my apology, that was okay by me. The truth was something only I needed to bear. He had lost his daughter, he had suffered enough.

After he left, I made the decision to eat again. I had no desire to get better as they, the hospital staff, had kept jabbering on about. Rather, I decided that death was far too easy an escape for the likes of me. Why should I be released of the burden of guilt, when a man who had no hand or part in being anything other than a good father blamed himself for missing the so-called tell-tale signs of his wife’s madness?

When I see Dr Ebbs again, I’ll ask him for Amy’s photograph. He’ll give it to me, I’m sure of it. Maybe it is okay for me to ask for a piece of Amy back. It’s not because I feel any more deserving. My punishment is one thing I am absolute about. But I would like to have one small thing to place under my pillow when I go to sleep. After fifteen years, it’s not a lot to ask. No matter how bad my next meeting with the doctor is, I know that by the end of it, I will have her picture with me. I might write to her, use my copybook. It doesn’t matter what the words are, as they will be our words, and that is a beginning of sorts.

IT WOULDN’T TAKE HIM LONG TO GET TO CRONLY LODGE, traffic was always light on Sunday mornings. He had thought about taking the train, one left Dublin at 7.32 a.m., but the return train wasn’t until 14.01 p.m., which would restrict his other plans.

On the drive down, he went over the events of the previous day. He had felt unsettled during the night, and hadn’t been able to put his finger on exactly why. It was only when he had the opportunity to reflect, he realised how much the past few days had taken out of him. He didn’t like loose ends, untidiness – nor did he like being rushed.

Provided he had no unwelcome visitors to Cronly, he should be able to take care of things quickly. If everything went to plan, he would be back in Dublin by early afternoon. He’d already texted that irritant Daniel about being sick. Bulldog Face loved the limelight; no doubt everyone would think him on his deathbed by the time Daniel filled them in breathlessly.

Today, he chose to wear his charcoal merino turtleneck sweater, finishing off the look with a grey cashmere scarf, the way he’d seen Jude Law wear it in
Alfie
. The day was bright and crisp, so he’d decided on his fitted grey wool blazer as a perfect complement. He had numerous expensive items in his wardrobe. Although careful with money, he always chose items that would withstand the test of time. It was all about balance, a saving here, another one there, affording him the odd indulgence and reward.

The ribbon was safely stowed in the buttoned-down pocket inside
his jacket, close to his chest. He hoped it would bring him good luck. Sunday would be busy in the village, but he had no intention of engaging in tedious social interaction. His mother’s funeral had been a trial: the obligation to play the loving son, Mrs Flood taking charge, the gardener and handyman, Steve Hughes, prowling around the house like he owned the place. Even that awful man from the caravan park, Oliver Gilmartin, had attended. Still, it was all old news now. Things were moving on.

≈

No matter how many times he walked the pathway to the big house, the magnificent nineteenth-century facade was always pleasing to his eye. The lime-washed walls, imbued with the smell of the sea, and the high sash windows, battling down for the harsh winters of a seaside town, had such a soothing effect on him. Importantly, the once decrepit condition of the house, as it had been in his youth, was no more. Even the gardens looked well. He could hear still his mother’s high-pitched voice in his head: ‘The thing I’ve learned about planting Lily of the Valley is that you must pick a place to plant them, and absolutely nothing else.’ At first, he had planned to cancel Hughes tending the gardens – he had never liked the man and found him too friendly for his station. On reflection, he had changed his mind. He realised that keeping the gardens looking good might help sell the house, in time. Besides, Mother had been fond of having Hughes there to keep the garden exactly as she liked it. She had her flaws, but the lowering of standards was never one of them.

The last time he’d been to Cronly, Caroline was with him. It seemed like a lifetime ago, although only four days had passed. He pushed open the front door. The house was cold and dark inside, with the curtains drawn tightly. Despite this, it still filled him with a welcome sense of being home.

Wasting no time, he made his way to the kitchen. The back door by the stove was bolted from the inside. He slid back the bolts, unlocking the newly fitted Chubb lock before heading out through the garage and up the pathway to the top of the hill. From there he could see the coastline for miles. Tara Hill stood 800 feet above sea level, formed on molten rock more than 400 million years old. The furze and heathers that flanked the surrounding area had lost their bright summer shade of yellow, but the elderberry trees were still adorned with dark cherry-coloured berries, a sublime delight after their summer of creamy-white clusters.

It was his mother who had told him that the elderberry tree dated back to Roman times, and that it was the tree Judas hanged from after his betrayal of Christ. To William, the trees were magnificent specimens. Ever since his holiday in Tuscany as a boy, he’d grown to compare the view from Cronly Lodge to the view overlooking Costa degli Etruschi.

He inhaled a deep breath. That day, the brilliance of the elderberry trees was surpassed only by the vibrant blue of the ocean, despite it being October. He knew the water would be perishing cold, but he was still tempted to chance a swim, resisting only because time wasn’t on his side. The beach was one of his favourite places, even in summer, when it was spoiled by the annual throng of vulgar tourists. It was here, as a child, inhaling the smell of the Atlantic, that he had developed his love of swimming; the beach, like Cronly Lodge, held good memories for him, as well as bad.

Once back inside the house, he checked the doors and windows, turning the Chubb twice on both the front and back doors. Pulling across the bolts he’d recently fitted, he checked his watch. It was just gone ten o’clock, time was speeding against him, but the important thing was to remain calm, a clear head would achieve so much more.

The ticking of the Napoleon clock soothed him with the familiarity of its sound, just as it had when he’d been here with Caroline. Safe
and constant, it had guided him with timely patience the night he’d prepared her. He had tried not to think about the blood as he’d cleaned down her face and body. He remembered how her skin had looked so pale, her hair soft and delicate in his fingers, the tease of her lovely curls. He had been surprised by how long her hair was when he’d brushed it out. Plaiting it was very relaxing. Within the rhythm of the clock he’d completed his task, remembering the right positioning. Although her body had become rigid, he fixed her until she was close to perfect.