The Game Changer (34 page)

KATE PHONED ADAM, AND TOLD HIM SHE WAS GOING for a run. She was apprehensive, but she had to start somewhere. She hadn’t planned to go back to her old home, but thirty minutes after making the call to him, she stood across the road from the house she had grown up in.

The earlier rain had eased, and with the sun coming out from the clouds, the passing traffic made swishing sounds on the wet tarmac and through the puddles. She stared at the house, as she had a few weeks earlier, and thought about ringing the bell. Perhaps this time there would be an answer, and she could walk on the floors she had once run on as a child.

Unlike the other houses, there wasn’t any smoke coming from the chimney and the windows looked darker. Immediately she understood why: the heavy curtains were drawn. She told herself that nobody was at home, yet she crossed the road regardless, repeating what she had done before, ringing the doorbell and not expecting an answer. She listened as the bell rang in the hallway, visualising her mother rushing to the door. Kate put her fingers to the lock at the top, imagining her father turning his key. Other memories came back: the three of them together, returning from the park, their cheeks rosy red with the cold, all wearing coats, scarves and gloves, huddled on the front step, waiting to get inside to the warmth. She thought of birthday parties and Christmases, when her father had taken down the video camera and recorded all the happy bits, as if they, instead of the dark times, were the long-standing proof of their lives.

‘Can I help you?’ a female voice hollered from behind.

Kate turned to see the old woman with the dachshund.

‘There’s nobody home,’ the woman said. ‘They’ve gone away.’ This time she was wearing a clear plastic raincoat with the hood up.

‘Do you know when they’ll be back?’ Kate asked.

‘It’ll be a while. I’m keeping an eye on things for them.’ The woman maintained her position at the gate, as if she was some sort of sentry. ‘Who’s asking?’

‘My name’s Kate Pearson. I used to live here.’

The woman blinked a few times. ‘Oh, yes, I remember you. You’re the girl that went missing.’

‘That’s right,’ Kate replied, although she was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with being referred to in that way. ‘Do you know where they’ve gone, or if there’s any way I can contact them? I’d like to visit the house for old times’ sake.’

‘I used to know your mother,’ the woman replied, instead of answering Kate’s question. ‘We played bridge together.’

‘Mrs Grant, is that you? I didn’t recognise you.’

‘Well, none of us is getting any younger.’ Her tone said she was insulted by Kate’s remark.

‘No, no, I didn’t mean anything by that. It’s just that it’s been so long.’ Her sentences came out on top of one another. ‘Sorry, Mrs Grant.’ She smiled, attempting to retrieve the situation. ‘I think you look great.’

‘I like to exercise. There’s no point in letting the body age too fast.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘You can call me Pat, seeing as how you’re not a child any more.’ Clearly she was mellowing.

‘Good to meet you again, Pat.’ Kate walked towards her.

‘I have a key if you want it,’ the old woman said, as if it was some kind of tease, then added, ‘there’s an alarm connected to a security depot, and they need a local key holder. I wouldn’t be giving it to anyone, mind, but I guess it wouldn’t do any harm for you to have a quick look around, seeing as how I know you.’

‘Great.’ Kate could hardly believe her luck. ‘That’s really kind of you.’

Pat Grant rooted in her bag, while the dachshund glared at Kate, but obediently remained in the sitting position. ‘They’ve gone somewhere on the south coast, on holidays.’ She held up the gold Yale key, then handed it to Kate. ‘They must be mad in this bloody awful weather.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Don’t be long now. I’ll be back with Hubert in a quarter of an hour. The wet weather isn’t good for his bones, especially if he’s out too long. The alarm is inside the door,’ then lowering her voice, ‘the code is “pass”.’

Kate held the key in the palm of her hand. ‘I’ll be quick. I promise.’

∞

Turning the key in the door, she wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but in the hallway her heart quickened, as she punched in the alarm code. It wasn’t the idea of being inside someone else’s home. It was the acknowledgement that somehow, again, she was stepping back in time. She had last been inside the house eight weeks after her mother’s death, to clear away her things. The memorial cards had been sent out, the visits to the solicitor and the bank sorted, and all the other details that followed a person’s death completed.

Back then, the house hadn’t pulled at her memory strings. Her mother had been in the nursing home for so long that the place didn’t feel the same, seeming more like an empty shell of what it used to be. Leaning against the front door, another image jumped into her mind: her mother in her final days, her lower lip dropped in an effort to breathe, her frame shrunken to little more than bone, the veins on her hands protruding, and that vacant stare, the one that looked beyond you.

That afternoon, though, the house felt different, and she could
see the place anew, with open doors leading to each of the rooms, every element containing part of who she used to be. The light forced its way from behind the drawn curtains, and she could feel a draught sneak up the hallway from the back of the house as she breathed in her old home again.

The first new owners had been a young couple. Later, she learned they had fallen on hard times, the husband’s business collapsing with the end of the Celtic Tiger, and the house was resold. To whom, Kate had no idea.

She switched on the light in the hall, opening the front zip of her rain jacket. There were new furnishings – lamps, carpet, an umbrella stand – and pictures on the wall. It was as if someone had taken a drawing done by another and changed it, putting items where spaces had been blank.

Conscious of time, Kate walked through the house, until she stood outside her parents’ bedroom. The doors had remained unchanged, other than a fresh coat of cream paint. Holding the handle, she paused, wondering again what she expected. How many times had she turned that handle in the past? How many times had she stood in that exact spot? She tried to envisage herself as the twelve-year-old who’d thought she knew so much.

Turning the handle with a jerk, she pushed the door forward with such force that it bounced back on itself. She was surprised to find the room empty of furniture, except for her mother’s old dressing table and stool. Kate had cleared out most of the stuff to charity shops, and anything that wasn’t good enough had gone in a skip. In the haze that followed the funeral, could she have forgotten them? It didn’t matter one way or another. Perhaps the new owners had found them and decided to keep them.

Kate took a couple of steps closer, visualising herself as a child, looking in the mirror after she climbed onto the stool, her younger self gazing back at her. She brought her hands to her face, touching her older features, aware that the flow of fresh tears was close. There was something utterly private about this room, which she had
never noticed before. Perhaps it was the half-darkness, creating an intimacy, but this was the room where her parents had made love, where, more than likely, she had been conceived. Now both of her parents were gone and, with them, their secrets.

Kate looked at her watch, knowing Pat Grant would be back soon. Reluctant to leave, something guided her to the drawers of the dressing table, which she opened one at a time. They were empty. She sat down, running her hand across the top, feeling the waxed wood beneath her fingertips. It was as if she was physically trying to connect with her mother by touching something that had belonged to her. She raised her hand to the mirror, passing her fingers around the edge, stopping at one of the sides, feeling something behind the glass. She stood up, pulling the dressing table out from the wall. Stuck to the back with Sellotape was a folded newspaper clipping. She removed it carefully. It was old and faded. She placed it on top of the dressing table, pulling back the curtains to allow in light. With it came a chill, and she shivered. In the street below, she saw the spot where she had stood when she was looking in. She opened the paper, conscious that it could fall apart because of its age. She looked at the date – 30 November 1987. The lead article was about the disappearance of Peter Kirwan. At the bottom of the page, there was a photograph with the caption ‘Schoolgirl delighted to meet the President’, and underneath, she saw her eleven-year-old face, with her name, Kate Pearson, written in bold type. It had been a school visit to Áras an Uachtaráin, and she had completely forgotten about it. She looked again at the article about the missing schoolboy, realising that his name and the date at the top right of the newspaper had been circled in red pen. Who had done that, and why?

Behind her, the bedroom door creaked, closing, and suddenly she needed to be out of that room. Everything she had heard about paedophile rumours, unofficial cognitive testing of children, her father and Malcolm, and all the unanswered questions, came ramming into her mind. Had her father kept the clipping on the
pretext it was about her, when all along, there was a very different reason? If he had, why had he circled the boy’s name and the date, bringing attention to something he wouldn’t want highlighted? And why hide it at the back of her mother’s dressing table? Unless it hadn’t been her father who’d put it there. What if it had been her mother? Had she known something so terrible that she had kept it as a permanent marker?

AT FIRST SARAH WASN’T SURE WHERE SHE WAS. There was a bright light above her head, and as her eyes settled, she realised it was a fluorescent tube. It was blinding. The smells around her reminded her of hospitals. When she tried to move her head, she couldn’t. Her mouth was dry, and something was stuck into her right arm. It felt heavy, as if she was weighed down by it. She wasn’t alone. There were muffled voices in the room. She recognised one as Jessica’s. The sharp light eased. She blinked rapidly, and shapes became clearer. She caught a whiff of disinfectant.

‘We thought we’d lost you, Sarah.’ The voice sounded strangely cheerful. It was Jessica’s.

‘Where am I? Where’s Lily?’ she screeched. ‘I can’t see her! Where have you taken her?’

‘Calm down.’ Jessica’s voice still upbeat, sickly sweet. ‘Lily will be here soon.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Sarah pleaded, trying to force herself into a sitting position. Her body felt like a lead weight. She realised the thing in her arm was an intravenous drip and her flesh was badly bruised. ‘I must see Lily,’ she roared, ‘she’s my baby.’

Jessica placed her hands on Sarah’s shoulders, easing her back down.

‘Where is she?’ Sarah hissed, spitting at Jessica.

Instead of being angry, Jessica rubbed Sarah’s forehead with her hand. For an instant, Sarah thought she was going to throw up. It was then that she heard the wheels, tiny spinning wheels. She managed to turn her head towards the door. A slim woman in her mid-twenties, attractive, with shoulder-length honey-brown hair, and wearing a white hospital coat, pushed a clear plastic cot with a baby inside it into the room. She knew it was Lily, and her body eased with relief.

‘Is she okay?’ Sarah asked, hoping they would tell her what she wanted to hear.

She expected the woman in the white coat to answer, but instead, Jessica said, ‘Look at her, Sarah. She’s perfectly fine. Isn’t that right, Dr Redmond?’

‘Mother and baby are doing great, but Sarah can call me Lisa.’

‘I need to talk to John,’ Sarah muttered. ‘He’ll be worried.’

‘Plenty of time for that.’ Jessica smiled.

Sarah looked around the room for her mobile phone, but couldn’t see it. ‘Where’s my phone?’ she asked, sounding accusing.

‘Sarah, it’s important that you remain calm. You know the signal is bad here on the island. I’ll get one of the members to fetch it for you, shall I?’

‘Please. Thank you, Jessica.’

‘But first you must look after your baby.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she replied, looking at Lily, feeling guilty, but even as she was thinking that, she realised her mind was on some kind of slowdown. She saw Dr Redmond, Lisa, increase the flow of liquid from the drip under Jessica’s instructions.

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘Extra fluids,’ replied Jessica. ‘We need to keep the supply at a high level, now that you’ve come back to us after your turn.’

Sarah kept staring at Jessica, watching her pick up Lily from the cot, ready to hand her to her.

‘What happened?’ Sarah asked. ‘I remember taking tablets, but after that, I can’t remember anything.’

‘You took too many, Sarah. It’s nothing to worry about now. We’ll have you on your feet in no time.’ Jessica fixed the blanket around Lily before handing her over. The pain wasn’t so bad for Sarah now, but the room was turning, and her vision blurred. She felt as if she was about to drift into sleep, but instead, she tried hard to concentrate.

‘My phone,’ she mumbled. ‘I need to call John. I want him to come here. I want him to come for us.’

It was Jessica’s voice she heard next: ‘The weather will ease soon,’ she said. ‘You can call him then, and I’m sure he’ll want to come to see you.’