Stolen Child (13 page)

Last month we were seven years married. Seven years since we exchanged rings and vowed to love each other for eternity. Miriam insisted on babysitting.

‘Go…go…go!’ She waved us away from Rockrose, ordered us to be happy. Like my mother used to do. I swore I would never sit opposite my husband in silence and I never do. It’s easier since you came. Eighteen months of age and running like a sprinter, you bind us together. Or so I believed.

We dined by candlelight in Giuseppe’s Bistro on Howe Street. Throughout the meal, we talked about you, laughed over your antics and wondered if there was another child in Maoltrán with your intellect and cuteness.

Imelda Morris entered with her brother Angus and a man with a sinister black goatee, whose name is Marcus. His pale grey eyes bulged slightly when she introduced David.

‘I’ve heard a lot about
you.
’ He stared pointedly at David and, behind the goatee, his smile hid secrets. He’s gay, I saw that at a glance. Her gay best friend, her confidant. What had she told him about my husband?

‘You
must
come to Molloy’s later,’ she said. ‘No…
no
,’ she
insisted before I could even open my mouth. She wagged her finger warningly at me. ‘I don’t want to hear excuses about your babysitter. Life’s too short. We must grab the moment and enjoy.’

Molloy’s is not enjoyment. It’s cigarette smoke and loud music and the impetuous Imelda with her clattering shoes and flouncing hair.

‘I hope you don’t mind me borrowing your husband,’ she said, coy and determined as she pulled David to his feet. ‘We were dancing together when we weren’t making mischief in our prams.’

For some reason she seemed to find this hilarious and so did Marcus.

I watched them twirl and come together, separate and form fantastic manoeuvres. The crowd stood back and gave them the floor, whistling and stamping them on. I saw her red lips aching for the touch of him. And he held her firmly to him, his strong supple body bending her every which way.

Marcus stood too close to Angus, their fingers just touching, their minds dancing fast and furiously to the same tune. But this is a country village where discretion is a necessary tool for survival.

‘Watch your back,’ Marcus whispered into my ear. ‘Imelda’s claws are long and sharp as hooks.’

Seven years married. Seven-year itch. Something was definitely going on.

What else was I to think when he left for Dublin the following day? Men cheat. It’s a fact of life. My father cheated on my mother. Tessa did not enter his life suddenly. She let the cat out of the bag once when she’d had a glass of wine too many. So did David’s father. Edward Carter cheated, double-cheated, treble, probably.

David claimed he was meeting someone called Paul.
Someone he’d never mentioned before. He wanted to talk to him about a consultancy he plans to set up in Miriam’s converted studio. That’s where I searched first. Nothing. No indiscreet Visa payments or crumpled hotel receipts. But I found a letter in a drawer in his desk, postmarked Dublin, the writing carelessly formed and slanting. Impetuous.

Carla Kelly.

Her signature seemed to leap from the bottom of the page. Five months hidden in his desk. How come the wood was not scorched or burned to ash? How dare she…how dare
he
…? I replaced it where I’d found it and ran outside.

I entered that green hollow space where it all began. Nettles stung my knees when I knelt and cursed her. Was there no end to her intrusion? She had entered my space. I had to vanquish her.

You had awoken from your afternoon nap. I heard you crying when I entered the house, your outraged howls at being ignored. I carried you downstairs. I kissed your wet, angry face and held you tightly in my arms. When you were calm again, I strapped you in the car seat and drove to Doolin, drawn there by the violence of my mood. The waves were high, roaring and raging against the rocks, flinging question marks into the air. I left you in the car and walked to the edge of the rocks. A dangerous place to stand on a wild day when the wind is high and the spume salts my face. But I stood there and tempted fate. One wave was all it would take. But you drew me back. A cloud, black and flat as a tabletop mountain, crossed the sun and the world darkened. That is how it will be in death but I could not go there, not when you still needed me.

I’ve done a terrible thing but there’s no going back. One deed borrows another and when, on the way home, I stopped off at Miriam’s Glasshouse, I knew what I had to do. Miriam
was delighted to see us and agreed immediately to mind you for a long weekend. Things between myself and David have not been easy, I admitted. Hormonal. I sighed and she nodded in agreement.

Those cursed hormones, she joked – cursed with them, cursed without. She’s in the throes of the menopause, hot flushes, mood swings. She wrapped her arms around you. Even the most adorable babies can play havoc with a marriage, she said. Paris is a wonderful place, perfect for a short break. She went there once with her husband. A wonderful city, she said, especially for lovers. Her mind drifted back to younger days, then she shrugged, unwilling to allow her faithless husband space in her busy thoughts.

We’ve been here for three days now. Tomorrow we’ll fly home. Miriam was right. Paris is wonderful. We swooped in a taxi along the Champs Élysées. The city lights twined around us like a necklace as we circled the Arc de Triomphe. We relaxed in cafés along the banks of the Seine and talked about you. We shopped for baby clothes and wooden toys that spin in dizzying loops or chime gently. When we rang home, Miriam assured us you were both getting on like a house on fire.

David stopped at an open grill and bought two cones of roasted chestnuts. Above us, the Eiffel Tower glittered like an arrow winging towards heaven. We showed your photograph to a pavement artist and watched you come to life on parchment.

We lay together on a vast bed and made love. Afterwards, he was silent as we rested. The emptiness between us was so vast I was afraid to move in case he heard the sound of our breaking apart.

My memory is a storehouse of useless information, lying dormant until the moment it becomes useful. Then it opens
like a flower and the scent is sweet and powerful. The post boxes in Paris are yellow. We sent you a postcard, a picture of a kitten chasing butterflies, knowing we’ll be home before it arrives. I slipped it through the slit of the post box. The letter to Josh Baker followed. Anonymous. He can do with it as he wishes. A mother will always protect her young. It is written in our genes.

Carla placed the tray on Gillian’s bed and settled the pillows behind her. She drew back the bedroom curtains and looked down over Sandymount Strand. The tide was a shimmer on the horizon, the beach busy with joggers and dog walkers. Her mother-in-law was feeling energetic this morning and hoped to manage a short walk after breakfast.

They walked slowly across the hard-packed sand. Occasionally, Gillian’s lips compressed but she was determined to stay on her feet as long as possible.

‘A day at a time.’ Gillian stopped and gazed out towards the frill of the retreating tide. ‘I wish I’d had the good sense to live my life like this, cherishing the little things, the moments like this. But the years went so fast. They ran away on me, Carla.’

The sun continued to shine and the wind stayed soft. Josh Baker was upon them before Carla became aware of him.

He had rung her earlier before she left her own house and asked if he could interview her.

‘I already told you I’m not prepared to do any further interviews unless they have been arranged through Kay Communications,’ Carla had replied.

‘You mean
Carter
& Kay.’ His tone, filled with the same brash confidence he had shown at the last press conference, unnerved her.

‘Carter & Kay no longer exist,’ she snapped back. ‘If you ring Norma Kay, I’m sure she’ll give you any information you need. Goodbye.’

She had debated ringing Edward; then, anxious to reach Gillian, she had left her house, half-expecting Josh to be waiting outside.

But he had waited until now. He walked alongside her and Gillian, the cameraman moving backwards as he filmed them. She tried to compose her features, to protect Gillian, who had stumbled when the journalist appeared.

‘Why did Edward Carter take such an interest in your daughter’s disappearance?’ He held the microphone towards her.

‘He wanted to help us find Isobel.’

‘Did he offer his help or did you approach him?’

‘I approached him. What is this about?’

‘What is your relationship with him?’

‘He’s a public representative. Why are you asking me these questions?’ Aware that the camera was still rolling, she resisted the desire to cover her face. ‘People have been amazingly kind. In particular, we appreciate the massive effort the police have invested in their search for our daughter.’

‘But they would not have extended the search if Edward Carter had not used his political influence.’

‘Isobel’s file was still open.’

‘A file will always remain open until a case is solved,’ Josh replied. ‘That’s police procedure. But demanding that taxpayers’ money be used to further the search when there were no further leads to follow suggests an abuse of political power. Was there a personal reason why he took your case
and not any of the
other
unsolved cases, whose files still remain open?’

‘My husband and I are grateful for any help we receive…’ She put her arm around Gillian whose breathing had become shallow. ‘Please, Josh, turn off the camera. My mother-in-law does not need to be involved in this. You can see—’

‘You used to work for him.’

‘Not directly. I modelled briefly for some of his clients.’

‘How long ago is it since you worked for him?’ Josh held the microphone closer to her mouth.

‘I already told you…I didn’t work for him—’

‘Was it eleven years ago?’

‘I can’t remember…what has that to do with this interview?’

His mouth frightened her. It was tight and hard, like a trap that would snap the spine of small animals.

‘Would you call yourself his friend?’

‘No.’

‘Or his mistress?’

She heard Gillian gasp and step forward. Before she could stop her, Gillian had swiped the camera with her arm. Her face, gaunt and pale, was set with determination.

‘Leave us alone,’ she shouted. ‘Haven’t you inflicted enough hurt on us as it is? What more do you want?’

The cameraman, taken by surprise, jerked the camera upwards and almost fell. He regained his balance and focused the camera back on Carla, who was too stricken to move.

‘What kind of question is that?’ Her voice rasped.

‘A straightforward one,’ Josh replied. ‘You can answer yes or no.’

‘I certainly am not his mistress. How dare you suggest otherwise.’

‘You’ve denied an accusation I never made. I simply asked
a question. As a journalist, it’s my responsibility to establish whether or not there is an intimate link between you and Edward Carter. My source alleges that the link dates back over eleven years when you worked for Carter & Kay. My source also suggests he travelled to a clinic in London with you when you terminated a pregnancy.’

The cameraman moved nearer. She was aware that her face was being captured, every nuance, blink, twitch, wince, her soul stripped bare and exposed. Saliva flooded her mouth. She wanted to throw up. She tightened her lips, forced herself to swallow, aware that Gillian was holding her upright and that she was clinging desperately to a dying woman, drawing on Gillian’s strength, her unflinching bravery.

‘I am not, and never was, Edward Carter’s mistress.’ She spoke slowly. ‘If you dare suggest otherwise, I will sue you for slander. My husband and I are fortunate that he took an interest in our case. He gave us fresh hope that our daughter will be found.’

Anticipation Mum Denies Affair.

Publicity feeds publicity. She knew better than most how it worked. Like a snowball on a downward slope, it grows in proportion to the distance it travels.
Spurious Claim, Insists Politician.
For the tabloids it was a soap opera made in heaven. As the storm gathered force around her, she refused to make any comment. Her poise on the beach was remarkable. Years of catwalk experience stood her in good stead but she faltered in the end. The truth was written across her face. And she was dealing with the wrong journalist. Josh Baker is a snake who can ease his way through the densest lie. He had followed the trail to the clinic and infiltrated the records. The director of the clinic protested loudly at the unethical nature of the leak, ordered a major investigation of his staff, then quietly faded from the story. Unknown sources came out of the woodwork and declared that the affair between Edward Carter and Carla Kelly had been an open secret. They lied. Edward Carter understood how to use publicity and how to hide from its glare. No hiding now. He fronted the headlines, posed the question. Should a politician use Dáil privilege to forward his own
personal agenda? The press were determined to have an answer.

For three weeks they waited outside her house but a story can only run for so long, especially when the fuel runs out, which it did when he resigned from politics.
Spur Removed from Body Politic.

His bird-wife stood beside him and said he had always been a good husband, a family man, a servant of the state. A politician’s wife to the core of her faithful heart.

But Carla Kelly continues to jerk at the even rhythm of our lives. I opened the
Irish Times
this morning.

Gillian Gardner. Beloved mother. Died peacefully and courageously at her home after a long illness.

A breath and then silence, absolute and forever. Carla tried to absorb the enormity of the break. No jagged edges, just a clean snapped thread between the space Gillian had occupied and the next stage…life…existence…wherever her spirit had gone.

‘I want to pass my belief on to you,’ she had whispered before drifting into unconsciousness. She clung to Carla’s hand, her grip weak but insistent. ‘Isobel is alive. No matter what you are told, believe what I tell you now. My husband is waiting for me to join him. But I’ve no sense of Isobel’s stillness in this place where I’m going.’

Carla, looking at Gillian’s face as it settled into the rigid posture of death, tried to believe that her mother-in-law’s belief had, by some form of osmosis, entered into her. But the only emotion she felt was grief and a shaming sense of relief that she would no longer have to witness Gillian’s optimism being quenched as the months passed and hope faded.

Robert held her hand as they walked away from the graveside. She was aware of stares, eyes flicking sideways
then away again. The notorious Carla Kelly.
God has seen fit to punish thy wickedness.

‘When I asked you for the truth, you looked into my eyes and lied,’ Robert had said when she told him about herconfrontation with Josh Baker. ‘How could you say you loved me, knowing, all the time, you were deceiving me?’

‘I was afraid you wouldn’t understand—’

‘Understand what? Have you any idea of the risk you were taking? Ireland is a village. Everyone knows everyone. It was bound to come out.’

‘No one knew,’ she said. ‘I never told anyone, nor did Edward. Afterwards, I never met him again until now.
Never
.’ She had hugged her arms, numbed by the exposure that was opening up before her. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you, Robert. All I thought about was our daughter.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘
Our
daughter. But she never was mine, was she?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She was your trophy, Carla. And then she was your tragedy. All the publicity…you were addicted to it.’

‘Stop it, Robert. You know that’s not true. Are you trying to destroy our marriage?’

‘I don’t have to lift a finger. You’re managing it all by yourself.’

She had shook her head, unable to believe the power they had to hurt each other. ‘I take responsibility for what has happened now…but my past is my own business.’

‘Your past belongs to everyone, Carla. Every two-bit hack and gossip columnist. And you’ve no one to blame but yourself.’

‘If it helped to find her, I’d do it all again,’ she told him.
‘I love you, Robert. But I can’t live with an unforgiving man.’

‘And I can’t live with a woman who shares everything with me except the truth. Because, Carla, when that
everything
is weighed against trust, it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.’ His mouth clenched. He buried his face in his hands. She thought he was crying but he was as tearless as she was.

On the night the programme was aired, Carla had walked from the house, her footsteps drawing her in the direction of the Grand Canal. Head down, her eyes following the line of the water’s edge, she had walked past lock gates and bridges, past the barges and the swans that emerged from the reeds to trail ripples in their wakes. Ripples upon ripples spreading outwards as television sets flickered and her secret was exposed, fodder for an evening’s viewing; her life destroyed, and Edward’s too, ripples rippling…She collapsed onto a bench and wept violently, her hair shielding her face, giving her a privacy that had come too late. She was still weeping when Robert had found her and brought her home.

The phone was ringing when they entered their house.

‘Gillian wants to see us,’ he had said. ‘We’d better go immediately.’

They had driven without speaking to Sandymount. Gillian was in bed. She looked drained, her eyes bruised with pain.

‘Make your marriage work,’ she had said and her grip on both their hands was a tight command. ‘Ignore the publicity. It will pass and be forgotten. All that matters is that you are together when Isobel is returned to you.’

Later, alone in bed and unable to sleep, she had waited for his footsteps on the stairs. He would have started
drinking as soon as she left the living room, she believed, and he would sleep in the spare room, probably forever. Eventually he crossed the landing and paused before entering their bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped, his hands dangling between his knees.

‘I love you,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know if it conquers all. I don’t know anything any more.’

She drew him down beside her and removed his clothes, slowly unbuttoning, unloosening; each piece of clothing sliding to the floor. When he was naked, she straddled his back and worked her hands into his neck, releasing the hard knots of tension, fanning her palms over his shoulders, working her way down his vertebrae and back to his neck until she felt the stress ease from him. They did not speak. Words were redundant as they sought each other and grappled with the truth that their future together depended on whether it was more painful to be together than to be apart.

Isobel would never be found. Carla forced herself to confront this bleak truth. The campaign had been wound down, and her Garda file, open still, was quietly gathering dust. Steve Robson had admitted defeat. His disappointment was personal as well as professional. He was an experienced detective, stoical and tough, but, like the police investigations, all his leads had petered out. So also would the donations from the public, now that
The Week on the Street
had aired her past. Too many famines, earthquakes and other worthy causes where results could be achieved.

Nothing left now except to file away Steve’s final report with all the other material she had accumulated since
Isobel’s disappearance, including the letters of support. Her daughter would not be returned to her by detection. The trail was cold, had ever been thus.

‘So, what now?’ said Leo when she called into his office a week after Gillian’s death. He signed off on the audited accounts from the ‘Find Isobel’ fund and wrote the last cheques for services rendered. ‘What will you do with your time?’

‘I don’t know.’ Time without purpose was her enemy. But she was unable to think beyond the immediate.

Leo opened the top drawer on his desk and drew out a manuscript. ‘Take a look at this for me,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t mind a second opinion.’

‘What is it?’

‘A memoir of sorts. There’s a whiff of sulphur from it, not to mention gelignite. I’ve to vet it for any possible legal issues that could arise after it’s published.’

Leo specialised in the laws of libel and worked with a number of publishers offering pre-publication advice. Carla skimmed through the foreword, which had been written by a well-known peace activist. From what she could gather, two men from Northern Ireland, former terrorists from different religious backgrounds, and now middle-aged, had become involved with a cross-community project after they were released from jail. As part of that project, they had written their life stories. They wanted to publish them within the one book cover, under the one title. As a symbolic gesture to the tortuous peace process, it had merit, but Carla placed the manuscript back on Leo’s desk.

‘Sounds like a project that could give either of them a bullet in the head,’ she said.

‘A bullet in the head is their concern,’ said Leo, pushing the manuscript back towards her. ‘A libel case is the publisher’s concern and that’s where you come in. You’ve a sharp mind. Read it and see what you think.’

‘Come off it, Leo.’ She laughed and placed the manuscript out of his reach. ‘I used to write a beauty column. That hardly gives me the expertise to vet the lives of two murderers.’

Northern Ireland did not interest her; she despised the Unionist politicians with their clenched mouths and closed minds, and felt the same contempt when she listened to the rhetoric of Sinn Féin.

‘Times are changing, Carla,’ said Leo. ‘Peace may be dropping slow and tortuous but it’s coming to Northern Ireland. This is a timely book but it needs careful scrutiny. Take it with you. Read a few chapters before you make up your mind. If you’re still definite, I’ve other manuscripts that might be more suitable.’

‘Are you offering me a job, Leo?’

‘Could be,’ he said and groaned. ‘My brain has gone into serious decline since the twins arrived. Twenty-five-hour shifts, that’s what life is like in the Kelly household. Let’s see how you get on with this. Then we’ll talk again.’

A fortnight later, he asked her to attend a meeting in his office with the publisher, Frank Staunton. The publisher’s eyebrows lifted when she placed her notes in front of him.

‘Impressive,’ he said when he finished reading them. ‘I hope to have the pleasure of working with you again.’

To her surprise, she had been drawn into the two stories from the moment she began reading them. Two separate encounters, two separate environments that were remarkably similar if one looked behind the slogans and dominating murals. She had been impressed by the writers’ honesty, repelled yet fascinated by the journeys they had taken: death,
pain, anger, despair, and, finally, a tortuous redemption. She recognised within herself the steely hatred that had driven them forward before they realised that blood, when it flowed from a dying man, made no distinction between creeds and classess.