The Girl From Yesterday (21 page)

None of them answered, and I didn’t have time to wait – I had to get to Jim.

I got up and ran towards the shouting, praying that whatever was about to happen would be controlled and as gentle as possible. When I got to the door, I saw that was not to be. The front yard was full of cars – it looked as if every social worker in the Garshaigh region, as well as most of the police, had come out for the removal. Jim had thrown himself at Sid Doran, who was nursing a bruised jaw. The youngster was being restrained by two flak-jacketed police officers. He was shouting and spitting, trying desperately to get loose and finish what he had started. As I watched, he lashed his head back and butted one of the guards full in the nose. The hurt man snarled and used his forearm to clout Jim across the face.

‘You treat that boy gently!’ Sid shouted, but I was already across the yard and had shoved the man back. He loosed his grip on the boy, but his partner still held firm.

‘Keep it together!’ I said through clenched teeth. ‘The kids are not the criminals here.’

The guard was squaring up to me, his eyes streaming and a trickle of blood coming from his right nostril.

‘Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?’ he snarled, reaching for his baton.

‘This man is with me,’ Sid shouted, getting in between us. ‘He is part of the team. Now let’s get this done as fast and as painlessly as we can. Get the boy in the van, okay?’

Jim was carried kicking and screaming towards the paddy wagon that was parked near the front door.

‘Where are the adults?’ Sid asked me.

‘Inside. Dora is in bed, Tom is in his office.’

‘Show me,’ he said, and my heart sank.

‘We need to be very careful with the children.’ I said. ‘Tom has their heads all messed up about what’s going on.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Sid said as we walked down the hall, ‘you take the kids to the van and stay with them, and let me deal with Tom. If we can minimize the trauma of all this, it would be best for everyone.’

‘Do you have a care order?’ I asked.

‘Not yet. I’m going to try and get Tom to sign a voluntary one, but if he won’t do it we’ll go the Section 12 route.’

Section 12 of the Child Care Act allowed social services and the gardai to remove children from their home without a warrant, if there is reason to believe the child is at serious and immediate risk of harm. It is not a popular course of action, but in some cases is essential.

When we got to the living area the three remaining children were sitting in a tight cluster, their arms around each other.

‘Kids, you remember Sid,’ I said, trying to sound upbeat.

‘Daddy says he is a bad man,’ Emma said. ‘Why you with him?’

‘He wants to talk to your daddy,’ I said.

Right then there was a roar and Tom crashed into the room, throwing furniture aside as if it was made of cardboard.

‘Bad Daddy!’ Winnie cried, and covered her head with her hands.

I ran to the children and tried to get them to stand up, come with me, but they were tangled with one another and would not move. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sid fleeing the way he had come, Tom in hot pursuit.

‘Come on, you lot,’ I said. ‘I need to talk to you and you’re not helping.’

‘We ain’t goin’,’ Emma said. ‘You s’posed to be our friend. Why you bein’ mean t’us?’

‘I
am
your friend,’ I said, feeling like the world’s biggest liar. ‘I am trying to help you right now, even though it doesn’t look much like it.’

‘You should run too,’ Dom said, peering over his shoulder. ‘Bad Daddy gonna come back soon, and he will not be happy to see you here.’

That thought had occurred to me, but I didn’t know what else to do other than try to coax the children outside.

‘Why don’t you come with me and we can talk about exactly what’s going to happen?’ I said.

‘We goin’ away?’ Emma asked, tears welling in her blue eyes. ‘ ’Way to jail?’

‘Not to jail, I already said that,’ I said gently. ‘To another home. I don’t know yet, but I’ll ask as soon as we go outside, and we can find out all about it.’

‘Will you stay with us?’ Winnie asked, crying now too.

‘Of course I will,’ I said, the tears streaming down my cheeks too. ‘As long as you want.’

The three kids unwrapped themselves from one another and, hand in hand, we all walked slowly down the hall. I could hear the muffled shouting of Tom, and the sound of Josephine Welch giving orders, but other than that all seemed peaceful. When we got outside we were greeted by the sight of Tom splayed out on the ground with three guards sitting on him. When he saw me leading the children out, he renewed his efforts, shouting at me for all he was worth.

‘You fucking good-for-nothing
traitor!
I let you into my home! I broke bread with you, you faithless
bastard!’

‘He is gonna hurt you
bad
when he gets loose,’ Dom said.

I walked the children past their father and opened the door of the paddy wagon. Jim lurched out at me, but when he saw his brother and sisters he settled back down.

‘Would you like me to see if I can have the radio turned on?’ I asked.

All four heads nodded in unison.

I was walking around to the front of the van to do just that when Josephine’s mobile rang. I paid little heed – I would have expected that she was liaising with the venue we were about to bring the children to.

‘Can we pipe the radio through to the back?’ I asked the guard in the front of the van. ‘The kids like music.’

The man nodded and switched on the stereo. The vehicle filled with the sound of loud Top 40 dance music.

‘Okay everyone,’ Josephine suddenly said, raising her hands and calling for our attention. ‘There has been a change of plan. Stand down, let Mr Blaney loose and bring his children out.’

I snapped around.

‘What are you talking about?’ I asked. ‘You can’t do this!’

‘I haven’t done anything,’ Josephine barked at me. ‘Someone has brought a court injunction against us. We cannot take the children into care. Let them go.’

The men restraining Tom let him go and, in huge lurching steps he rushed to the paddy wagon and wrenched open the door, taking the four children into his beefy embrace.

‘I don’t fucking believe this,’ I said.

Sid Doran stood a little apart from it all, watching without expression.

‘I better never see your face again,’ Tom hissed at me.

I turned on my heel and left him to it. I wanted to throw up.

‘What the fuck happened?’ I shouted at Sid Doran.

We were in his office, which was marginally bigger than my broom cupboard.

‘As you heard, someone applied for – and got – an injunction. An injunction is a legal writ preventing us taking these children into care.’

‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ I asked, realizing as the words came out of my mouth that I already knew the answer. ‘Gerry Blaney. The evil little prick.’

‘Your assessment of him is most certainly correct,’ said Sid, who was sitting back with his feet up on his desk. He was wearing brown suede Vans. They looked comfortable. ‘But in this case he is not the culprit.’

‘That doesn’t mean he isn’t behind it in some way,’ I said.

‘I don’t know. Maybe you can dig around and find some kind of connection.’

‘You’re killing me with the suspense, Sid. Who did it?’

‘Father Eli Loughrey.’

‘Father
Eli Loughrey?’

‘The same.’

‘It makes no sense,’ I said, pacing the tiny room. ‘The Blaneys don’t even go to Mass. Why would the church step in?’

‘Well, it’s actually more complicated than just the church jumping in to save the day. Loughrey is retired – he’s like ninety-eight or something. His main business these days is heading up the local chapter of an organization called The Knights of the Crucified Emperor. They’re an extreme faction within the Catholic Church. Believed to be very rich and very powerful.’

‘I’ve never heard of them.’

‘Most people haven’t. They’re one of those behind-the-scenes groups that have allegedly been pulling the strings of politicians, big businessmen and even the media for years. It’s probably mostly bullshit – they’re meant to be in there with the Illuminati. I’ve met Loughrey. He’s an old toad who thinks he should still be top dog.’

‘Doesn’t help us.’

‘No.’

‘So what can we do?’

‘The injunction means that, not only can we not take the Blaney kids into care on the issues currently on the table, but neither can we pursue other issues to achieve the same end. It basically supersedes all other childcare legislation.’

I gawped at that.

‘That’s ridiculous. You can’t go to court to stop the law applying to your children!’

‘It seems you can,’ Sid said. ‘Look, you don’t know me, but I get the sense we share some qualities. I don’t take stuff like this lightly. I’m going to fight it.’

‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’

‘I’ll let you know when I’ve decided what to do. Right now, I still can’t work out why Loughrey and his Knights want to stop us helping the Blaney brood.’

I sat and thought about it. I had never heard Tom, Dora or any of the children make any reference to God or Jesus or spirituality. The letter Tom had shown me was written in the style of an Old Testament prophet, but I didn’t recall any actual allusion to religion in it. In fact, if I remembered correctly, the text gave me the sense that old man Blaney saw his family and the heritage of his ancestors as the only religion that held any sway over him. Suddenly the answer popped into my head.

‘It
is
Gerry Blaney,’ I said. ‘Just like we had initially thought – he’s behind it.’

Sid waited for me to elaborate. He never seemed to waste words if he didn’t have to. I liked that in him.

‘When I came here first, Robert, my editor, told me that Gerry was involved in every organization there is locally. He mentioned the Masons and the school board – and he said that he had his finger in every pie in town. Makes sense that he would be in these Crucified Knights if they have a local chapter.’

‘Okay, I’ll agree your logic holds up,’ Sid said. ‘But how does the knowledge help us?’

‘It makes us feel accomplished and a little less embarrassed,’ I offered.

‘That is better than nothing,’ Sid agreed.

Neither of us came up with anything else, so it had to do.

The girl was crying. I tried to console her, but she was utterly bereft.

‘What’s wrong, sweetie?’ I asked, stroking her hair and trying to get her to look at me.

‘Go away,’ she sobbed. ‘You leave me now.’

‘Why do you want me to leave you? You’re upset and I want to help you.’

‘You can’t help me. Nobody can help me now.’

‘I’m your friend, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.’

She buried her face in her hands and cried with renewed pain and bitterness.

‘Just tell me why you’re crying,’ I said, trying a different tack. ‘Tell me that, and I’ll go.’

‘Daddy says you want to take me away from him and from this here place! He says you lyin’ to me. You not my friend at all!’

I said nothing for a time. Daddy was right, about my intentions at least.

‘I am your friend, darling,’ I said. ‘No matter what anyone says, I am your friend.’

‘Not if you lie to me,’ the girl said through her tears. ‘I can’ abide people who lie. You tell me a lie an’ I’ll
never never
fergive you.’

I wanted to tell her that I would never do such a thing, but I knew even that was bending the truth. I let her cry, sitting beside her in her hideout in the copse, stroking her blonde hair and wondering how to make it all right.

Days blended into one another.

Garshaigh is a small place, and everywhere I went the people I encountered had a view on the case. Despite the fact that not a single word had been printed about the attempt to place the Blaney children in care, someone had been talking and the entire story (exaggerated beyond belief in some versions) had made the rounds, and the fact that I had been on the scene when it all went down had not escaped notice. The part I had played – and those I had sided with – was also the focus of much conjecture, but I limited my responses to a smile and a wink, accompanied by a ‘now if I told you, I’d have to kill you.’ It didn’t make my interrogators happy, but it gave them something else to talk about, namely what a bastard that new journalist with the
News
was –
he has ideas about himself, that one does
.

I shouldn’t have been surprised by the fact that most of the people I spoke to – in truth, the vast majority – had made up their minds in favour of the Blaney parents.

‘Tom and his people have been farmin’ that land since Celtic times,’ Benjy Dulsk, another big farmer from just outside the town, informed me. I had been hoping for a quiet pint in the pub where I had chatted to Gladys about her reading.

‘The number of Garshaigh people that family has employed down through the years would probably fall somewhere in the region of several thousand,’ Benjy said. ‘They say that, in penal times, it was Jehoshaphat Garshaigh who offered the local priest a hiding place in the old ash grove, and let him say Mass by that shelf of rock there – the old folks here still call it the Mass rock.’

I realized as he spoke that this was where the children had taken me for our picnic the day they had drawn their pictures and first told me about Bad Daddy. I shivered at the thought.

‘In 1916 Samson Blaney, Tom’s grandfather, organized a contingency of men to travel to Dublin to participate in the offensive in the GPO. It is even said, and I, for one, believe it to be the case, that Samson Blaney had a part in the drafting of the Declaration of Independence that was read from the steps that day. The Blaneys are part of the history of this town and the country itself. You don’t disrespect people like that by telling them they don’t know how to raise their own children.’

‘Even if those children are obviously suffering?’ I asked moderately.

‘Now who are we to be the judges of that?’ Benjy asked, and I decided to keep my mouth shut – nothing I said was going to change this man’s mind.