The Bells of Scotland Road (30 page)

Mam. Mam kept crying. When she visited the hospital, she was always talking about needing the toilet or going to see the doctor. Really, she was going outside to cry in the corridor. It
wasn’t like Mam to cry so much. Mam was crying because of what had happened, because of . . . No, no, Maureen told herself. Don’t try to remember, don’t think about it. You never
saw his face. They keep on asking you the same questions, but you didn’t get a look at him. He came from behind . . .

There was a big mark on the ceiling of this hospital room, as if something or other had spilled and filtered through from upstairs. She was in a small ward of her own. People came in with food
and drink and medicines, but she was alone most of the time.

Fairy Mary had visited her star pupil. She had gone on and on about Maureen getting better and being picked up by a talent scout. ‘We’ll see you on the professional stage yet,’
Mary Turner had chirruped. ‘This won’t make any difference, so don’t worry, because the scars will go.’ Maureen could not quite manage to worry about the scars.

The man had not just strangled her and left her for dead – he had also left his marks. There were the blemishes on the surface of her body, and there were those inside. Apart from being
hit and strangled, she hadn’t been aware of or conscious during anything else. But she was sure that he had done the really bad thing, the thing she and the rest of the girls had been warned
about. ‘No man will want you for a wife unless you keep yourself to yourself,’ Sister Agnes had said. Maureen had had no choice.

The door swung inward and Father Brennan rolled in. He was a fat man with a jolly face, yet she didn’t want to look at him. He said some Latin and held out the host, but Maureen tightened
her lips. She didn’t want Holy Communion. She just needed to be left alone. ‘Open your mouth, child,’ said Michael Brennan. On no less than three occasions, Maureen had
refused.

‘Maureen?’

She looked straight at him, kept her mouth firmly closed.

‘Why, Maureen?’

She didn’t know.

Father Brennan sighed. ‘Child, let me help you. I’ll do anything, anything at all if you will only let me. Can’t you talk to me? Can’t you allow me to comfort
you?’

Maureen simply stared at him until he went away.

The day wore on. She slept occasionally, was glad when she woke, glad when the dreams stopped. Her throat remained sore, but she was able to swallow soup and rice pudding. She had heard them
discussing her voice box, had listened while they had gathered to wonder aloud about damage to vocal chords. So, once safely isolated again, she had tested her power of speech, had found it to be
rusty, but competent.

The lights went on outside in the corridor. She had nothing to say, and that was why she remained silent. After a while, they might get fed up and go away with their questions. Why should she
talk about it? Why should she let herself be forced into encouraging the recurring nightmares?

A nurse came in. The nurses always wore bright smiles and over-white aprons that hurt the eyes and crackled with starch. The woman switched on the light and gave her patient a cup of cocoa. Once
propped up on pillows, Maureen sipped at the drink and avoided eye contact with her minder. They were all waiting and watching. If she uttered one single syllable, the police would swarm like flies
in summer all round her bed.

‘Would you like a biscuit?’

Maureen made no reply, did not nod or shake her head. Let them all think she was struck dumb, then she might get some peace.

‘A hot water bottle? Shall I fill your decanter for you?’

The patient closed her eyes.

‘Your mam been in yet?’

They were so annoying, so persistent. Never an hour went by without them trying to trick her into some kind of response. But she was going home soon. Mam had told her that she could come home
and rest in the kitchen on Grandma’s old sofa. Maureen remembered Grandma, just about. After her death, Mam had taken over the rent book. Mam had lived in Dryden Street for ever.

When the nurse had left, Maureen closed her eyes and let out a sigh of relief. Another day accomplished without being forced to talk. Talking would have been useless, because she had nothing to
say. Where was she? Ah yes, she had been thinking about home and how Mam had always lived there. It was a drab house. No matter what colour the walls got painted, they inevitably attained a
brownish tinge after a while. Dad was always on the roof sticking felt over leaks. The tap in the back kitchen was stiff, sometimes needed a quick belt with the hammer.

Maureen Costigan had envisaged something better for herself. The London stage, perhaps, or the wireless. She had a nice singing voice. Well, she used to have a good voice. Until . . . Who was
he? she wondered. And where was he?

All her life, Maureen had been proud of her looks and her abilities as an entertainer. But it was as if her attacker had removed all ambition and all interest in herself. She didn’t want
to live round here any more, only she no longer thought about moving towards something. Maureen felt more like running away, just running and running until she got as far as possible from . . .
from him. A tear made its slow way down her cheek. At just under fourteen years of age, Maureen was certain that her life was over.

Michael Brennan smothered his chips in vinegar. He was partial to a nice bit of cod with chips and sloppy peas. Across the table sat the bane of his life, one Liam Bell. Liam
was staring at him, was tacitly condemning the older man’s greed. On Liam’s plate, there lingered a sliver of steamed yellow fish, two boiled potatoes and a sprig of cauliflower.
‘You don’t like your food much, do you, Liam?’

Liam prodded the fish with his fork. ‘I don’t believe in overindulging,’ he replied pointedly.

The parish priest lay down his cutlery. ‘Liam, do you have to be so hard on everyone – yourself included? It’s like living with a saint. Saints are all very well in their
place, but I imagine that many of them would be slightly less than interesting company. Can’t you let the halo slip just a little?’

Liam chewed on a bit of cauliflower, took a sip of water. ‘It’s just how I’m made,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry if I cause offence.’

‘Well.’ Michael pushed away his plate. He would warm the food later, though it would not taste the same, he thought sadly. His housekeeper was a good cook who enjoyed the pleasure
her employer got from the meals she made. Liam Bell had upset her, too. ‘You know, I’m packed to bursting at confession. I don’t know what sort of penances you’ve been
giving, but it’s my door they’re all coming to.’ It seemed that no-one liked the young priest. ‘Even your father comes to me.’

‘So he should,’ said Liam quickly. ‘I told him to go to you.’

Father Brennan sighed. This man was so correct, so completely sure of himself. ‘Have you no faults, Liam?’

‘Of course I have.’

‘And to whom do you confess your sins?’

‘I go into the city, just as you do. After all, we can’t be living in one another’s pockets, can we?’

Michael Brennan fought a familiar shiver that made its way like a cold finger all the way along his spine. Occasionally, in a certain light, he caught an expression in Father Bell’s
features, a look that seemed akin to madness. It was rather like being in the company of a reptile, some kind of large snake with staring eyes and no ability to blink. He gazed at his assistant,
watched the man eating slowly, carefully, as if he counted the numbers of chews before allowing food to enter the sanctum of his stomach. For more than a minute, Michael kept watch. His companion
blinked just twice in that time.

‘Are you going to leave that?’ asked Liam.

Father Brennan picked up his knife and fork, attacked the tepid meal. In all his days as a priest, he had never encountered another ordained man as soulless as this one. Liam Bell was strange,
even weird.

‘Did you see Maureen Costigan?’ asked Liam, his tone rather lighter than normal.

‘I did.’ The coldness had returned to Michael’s spine.

‘How is she?’

‘Silent.’

Liam cut a small potato into four pieces. ‘Did she have Holy Communion?’

‘No.’ It was like watching a surgeon at work, thought the parish priest.

‘I wonder why.’

Father Michael Brennan dropped his fork. It crashed against his plate and bounced to the floor. He noticed that his companion did not react to the sound, that he simply carried on eating. Liam
Bell was in some world of his own, was living in a place where few things touched or worried him. Michael picked up a dessert fork and used it to finish his meal.

‘Do you know why she refuses Holy Communion?’ asked Liam.

‘No.’ The older man’s appetite suddenly deserted him. ‘I’ve no idea at all,’ he said. ‘Have you?’

Liam ran his eyes over the face of his senior. ‘Of course not,’ he replied. ‘How should I know what goes on in her head?’

‘Exactly,’ said Michael Brennan, rising to his feet. ‘If you will excuse me, Father Bell, I feel the need to pray.’

Diddy Costigan put the last few items into a suitcase loaned by Sam Bell. Edith Spencer would be here shortly. In other circumstances, Diddy might have felt rather
uncomfortable at the thought of travelling in the company of Edith, but such minor concerns had been relegated to a rear compartment of her mind. Her sole aim now was to do anything she could for
Maureen.

Nicky passed a blouse to her mother. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after the others. It’ll do you good to get away.’

Diddy paused. Maureen had never been anywhere. None of the Costigan children had travelled further than New Brighton on the ferry for a day trip. ‘Monica, you’re a good
girl.’

Nicky was thinking about their Maureen and she felt a bit guilty. She’d never had much time for their Maureen, because their Maureen had spent years floating about in a cloud of
self-admiration. But now, Maureen had given up. She’d given up talking, singing, dancing, hoping and looking in mirrors.

‘Don’t forget to make your dad’s carry-outs.’

‘I won’t.’

‘And stay in when it starts getting dark. Or make sure Graham’s with you.’ Scotland Road had always been such a safe place. The Scotties looked after their own, loved their
neighbours in the truest sense. There were some ongoing differences, of course, but people round here would back a hated neighbour if that neighbour had any trouble from ‘outside’. And
it had come to this. Gone were the days when a daughter could nip out late on a Friday night for ribs and cabbage. ‘God, this is terrible.’ Diddy sank into a chair. ‘We’ll
all be looking over our shoulders.’

Nicky squatted down next to Mam. ‘It was a one-off. It was a stranger, Mam. I bet he’s moved on now.’

‘How do we know that?’ asked Diddy helplessly.

‘Because it’s never happened before.’

Diddy patted the hand of this sensible girl. It had happened before. Val had died, though. And a man had hanged for the murder. She shivered. ‘What’s the world coming to,
girl?’

‘I don’t know, Mam.’ That was the truth. Nicky and her siblings had invariably felt protected from all harm since infancy. There was a permanence about Scotland Road, a feeling
that the place would be here for ever. People pulled together and helped each other out, minded children for sick mothers, made sure a poor family had a bite to eat. One bad person had shaken
everyone’s faith in an area where most folk were decent.

‘Poor Maureen,’ moaned Diddy for the hundredth time.

‘You can’t put it right, Mam,’ said Nicky gently. ‘You can’t stop it happening, because it’s already happened.’

Nicky was wise. Diddy touched her daughter’s cheek. She was plain, yet still beautiful. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she said again.

The uncomely young woman bared her teeth in as near a grin as she could manage. ‘I’ve got a good mam, that’s why.’

Diddy drew her daughter close and let the tears flow anew. She didn’t want to be weeping when she arrived at the hospital to pick up their Maureen. She didn’t want to be crying in
Edith Spencer’s posh car. Nicky had been Diddy’s backbone during the past few days. ‘I’m sorry,’ she blubbered. ‘You’re too young for all this,
Monica.’

‘No I’m not,’ replied Nicky truthfully. After what had happened to her sister, Monica felt as old as the blue-misted hills of Wales.

Maureen Costigan got out of the hard bed and put on the clothes Mam had brought in yesterday. She wasn’t going home. She was going to some sort of a farm outside Bolton
to stay with Mam, Mr Bell’s cousin and cousin-in-law, Bridie Bell and the two little girls. Anthony Bell was there, too, living in a cottage.

Mam had chattered away about Bolton, had used the special voice that emerged only when she was upset and pretending to be all right.

Maureen stepped into her shoes. It was funny, but she wasn’t looking forward to seeing Anthony Bell. She didn’t seem to have feelings any more, didn’t want to laugh or even cry
properly, couldn’t be bothered with any of it.

At the small mirror, she combed the black hair, saw how bruised her face was, caught sight of a small scar, didn’t bother to study herself closely. Soon, she would be able to talk –
if she wanted to. At least she would be away from the Rose Hill mob, the policemen who had gone on and on about how much they wanted to catch the man, about how Maureen was the only one who could
help. ‘What if he does it to somebody else?’ they had asked repeatedly. Maureen couldn’t manage to care, not yet.

She sat on the one chair and waited for Mam and Mrs Spencer. It occurred to her that this room had been home since the attack. She had been secure here, had been able to lie still and allow life
to continue without her help or hindrance. Now, she must go out and join the race again. A small finger of fear touched her heart, the first emotion to visit her spiritless core. But it was a mere
shadow, and it passed in an instant.

Limekiln Lane. The recreation ground. A hand across her mouth. Dragged down. Something round her neck. Narrower than a scarf. Wider than rope.

Her heart maintained its steady rhythm. She would allow in no panic.