The Lost (21 page)

Then
she carefully hid the print-outs under the mess on her desk and went out to see who was ringing her.

That bloody hospital again. The sweet smell of bleach. Your feet on squeaky floors. She remembered how the lights had flickered and faded as they brought her in, flat on her back. None of that. That was all gone, and she was a grown up, with an important job, walking to see wee Saoirse McLoughlin, now transformed into a doctor, an expert.

But when she got to the office it seemed to be locked. Paula rattled the metal handle. ‘Hello? It’s Paula – I came like you said.’

Saoirse’s call had said to come right away. Where was she? Paula had just fished out her phone when the door shook in its cheap wooden frame, and Saoirse opened it.

‘Christ! What’s wrong?’

Saoirse’s face was shining with tears. She’d taken off her glasses and behind them the skin was pink and swollen. ‘I’m sorry.’ She shut the door firmly behind them and wiped her lab-coat sleeve over her face. ‘Something’s just happened, after I rang, and then you’d already gone, and—’

‘Well, Jesus, what is it? It’s not Dave?’ Paula recalled the odd end to dinner.

‘No. Well, sort of.’ Saoirse stood for a moment with her arm over her face, like a child. ‘Oh, crap. I just got my period, that’s all.’

‘Oh. And—’ Paula stopped. Of course, they were trying for a baby. They’d have been married for what, five years? The wedding invite Paula had ignored, and would always feel bad about. Yet another stone to sink in the waters of the past.

‘We thought, maybe . . . I was a week late. But no.’ She wasn’t crying now, just shaking her head with a bleak finality. ‘I should have known. It was daft to get my hopes up. And Dave – God, he’ll be in bits.’

Paula
tried to say it delicately. ‘Last night, I thought you were having wine.’

Saoirse gave a twisted smile. ‘You and your detecting ways. No, it was grape juice. We really thought that this time . . . I shouldn’t have told him.’

‘How long?’ said Paula quietly. She hadn’t reached out for her former best friend. They’d never been huggy, and she still wasn’t sure what they were now.

‘Five years.’ Saoirse wiped her glasses on her coat. ‘We’ve been trying since the wedding. We wanted loads – a big Catholic brood.’ The crooked smile was back again. Saoirse herself was one of six children.

‘Oh.’

‘Now you’ll say I’m young, we’ve plenty of time.’

‘I wasn’t going to.’

‘Well, everyone else does. Too young for IVF yet. Keep on trying, wink wink. Christ, I want to scream at them sometimes. I am a doctor, I know how these things work.’

‘I’m so sorry. That’s awful.’

‘It is. Poor Dave.’

Poor Saoirse. She watched her friend.

‘Well, that’s not why you came here. Sorry.’ Visibly, Saoirse got herself under control. ‘All this is on my mind – obviously. Last night something about it made me uneasy – about Cathy being pregnant, I mean. Then when you went, it came to me what it was. I’m sorry about Dave, by the way. The thought of dead kids doesn’t sit well with him now. It’s not great for a social worker.’

‘S’OK. What did you realise?’

‘Well, I remembered it wasn’t the first time I’d seen it. Young girl, early stages of pregnancy, St Bridget’s uniform. She came up to A&E and I diagnosed her – I tried to offer support but she just got up and sort of nodded, then she went out. I remember because – well, the next time I heard her name it was on the news. She’d died. I don’t like to say her name but—’

The
air in the room contracted around Paula. ‘It’s not Louise McCourt?’

Saoirse’s swollen face was surprised. ‘You know about her?’

‘Would you stop pacing? You’re doing my head in.’

‘Sorry.’ Paula made a conscious effort to stop walking up and down on the floor tiles of Saoirse’s office. On the other side of the door was the constant buzz of A&E, its antiseptic smell. A place of certainties, of flesh and fluid. Not this morass of unanswered questions. ‘It was definitely suicide, was it? I mean, no one else was involved?’

Saoirse screwed up her face, trying to remember. ‘I went to the inquest. I think they ruled it inconclusive, but you can tell from the knots, you know, and the body position . . .’ She stopped. ‘I won’t go into it. But you could tell there was no one else behind it. I felt so guilty, that I’d just let her go that day.’

‘Was there a note?’

‘Hmm. I’m not sure. I’ll look into it – I know the family’s GP from med school. But if there was, they’d have ruled it suicide, I’d say.’

Paula nodded slowly. ‘I wish I knew what all this meant. These two girls, both pregnant . . . what are the chances of that being random?’

‘I honestly don’t know. We don’t see many dead teens; we don’t see many dead pregnant women.’ Paula watched her friend’s face closely as she said this but Saoirse was cool, professional. ‘On the other hand, coincidences happen all the time.’

‘Yes.’ But it pulled at her like the depths of water. Two dead. Two pregnant. Not to mention Majella missing. ‘But I just can’t believe it is.’

Saoirse
took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. ‘All I can tell you is the facts.’

‘Right. Thank you. I better be getting back. Thank you for dinner, by the way – I really appreciate it. Even Aidan wasn’t so bad.’

‘I told you. He’s not such a bad bollox, is he.’

‘Not entirely.’ Before her friend could move Paula stooped and pressed a quick kiss to her cool cheek. She couldn’t recall ever doing that before.

‘What was that for?’

‘Just for you. To say thanks. And that I’m sorry.’

Maeve Cooley was a fast worker. Paula had barely sat down at her desk after seeing Saoirse when Avril came over, voice lowered conspiratorially. ‘Phone call for you.’ A pause. ‘I think it’s from the
South
.’

‘Paula?’ A husky Dublin voice on the line. ‘Howya. Maeve here.’

‘Oh! That was quick.’

Maeve laughed; throaty, seductive. ‘Paula, I’ll cut to the chase. You asked about the Mission. Any chance you can come to Dublin tomorrow?’

It was less than two hours away, with the bypass. ‘I suppose I could . . .’

‘You were wanting to be in touch with Paddy Boyle. I can go one better – I’ll bring you to see him.’

Chapter Twenty

‘You’re
sure you want to drive yourself, pet?’

‘I’m sure, Dad.’ Paula was racing round filling her bag with papers, pens, notebooks. ‘I need to get back as soon as I can, and the buses don’t go often enough.’

‘There’s some terrible bad driving down there. And they’d steal your hubcaps as soon as look as you, those Dubliners. They’ll charge you a fortune if you damage that hire car.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘You could take my Volvo, you know.’

‘I’ll be
fine
. You make sure and do your physio now. Pat’s coming in to look after you.’

PJ grumbled as he spread jam on his third piece of toast. ‘Nothing but women fussing round me morning, noon, and night.’

‘See you later, Dad.’

‘Keep an eye on those hubcaps!’

Soon Paula was taking the car out of town and down the new motorway. As she passed by the old mill on her way out, she could see a tide of flowers and teddy bears, marking out Cathy’s last resting-place. The town hadn’t forgotten the girl who’d lived, and grown, and died within its borders. If only she could find something in Dublin, anything that would help get the answers.

The traffic in Dublin was indeed fearsome. A shortage of driving examiners and some archaic laws meant that as many as one in six drivers was on the road without a full licence, and it showed. But Paula had ignored PJ’s dire prognostications, and after two hours she was parking in an exorbitantly priced multi-storey and exiting onto the banks of the Liffey, sparkling under cold sun.

She’d
planned the trip carefully. Told Guy she’d be following up some leads. Dropped hints that she’d have to switch her phone off, interview policy, etc., so don’t ring. She tried not to remind herself that this was what had gotten her in trouble in London, going off on her own. But it could be nothing – she’d tell him if she found something. It would be OK.

Maeve Cooley was where she said she’d be, waiting on double yellow lines outside the car park. Inside, the small Polo made Aidan’s car look tidy, as the back seat was lost under coats, files, handbags, shopping, and books. Maeve waved Paula in, all the while shouting into her mobile: ‘Don’t fecking give me that, Jonny, I’m doing my best. No.
No!
You want to know where the story is? Try looking up your hole for a start, it might be there.
Jesus
.’ She hung up. ‘Bloody editor, what a shitehawk. Hello, Paula, welcome to my skip on wheels.’

Paula was trying to fit her legs in over what appeared to be an animal cage in the passenger footwell, and to ignore the furry rustlings within. ‘Thanks for this, Maeve.’

‘No bother. And how is young Aidan?’ Maeve was squinting at her in the mirror as she reversed out.

‘Oh, he’s all right. I’ve only seen him a few times.’

‘I’ll have to tell all the DCU lot I finally met the famous Paula Maguire.’

‘Oh – what?’

Simply, Maeve said, ‘He used to talk about you all the time. Every time he’d had a jar – that’s pretty often, as you’ll probably know – it was all Paula this, Paula that.’

‘Oh.’ She’d never told any of her London uni friends about Aidan. Hadn’t been able to. She changed the subject. ‘Thanks for taking me, it’s very good of you.’

‘Are
you having me on? I’ve been trying to nail those Holy Joe feckers for years. They’re as bad as the Catholics, you know? One word against them and there’s lawyers coming out of your arse. So the papers won’t touch them now.’ Maeve swerved out onto the busy street, causing Paula to inhale sharply and the contents of the cage to emit a low growl. ‘I suppose Aidan showed you the numbers involved – these boys are part of a big American business. Plenty of readies in spreading God’s holy word.’

‘Yeah. I was surprised.’

As they drove, Paula surveyed her driver. Maeve Cooley was indeed beautiful – blond-haired, full-lipped. She wore torn jeans and her nail polish was chipped, notes scrawled on her hands in smudged ink. As she negotiated Dublin’s crammed streets, veering from lane to lane, Maeve explained her theories to Paula, who nodded firmly and tried not to think about dying in a car accident.

‘Your article said they had links to the Safe Harbour homes?’

‘Yeah, the ones with the baby-selling scandal.’ Maeve revved at a traffic-light. ‘When Safe Harbour had to close in the nineties, they didn’t go away. Just waited a few years, then made all the buildings over to their American counterparts.’

‘The Mission’s in the old Safe Harbour building in Ballyterrin. I couldn’t work out if they’d leased it or if it was just a coincidence.’

‘It’ll all be secret, with those boys. But it was exactly the same with that God’s Shepherd lot – they opened up in old Safe Harbour homes, sometimes even ones that were still running. They were a bad bunch – Paddy’ll tell you how bad. But this Mission, it’s all just surface happy-clapping and self-esteem. It’s the same underneath, same people, same carry-on, same bloody brainwashing. And now the schools are backing it! Jesus.’ She made a sharp left turn down a side street. ‘It’s what they do, get them in young – music, drama. Propaganda, basically.’

Paula
frowned. ‘There’s some big concert in Ballyterrin at Hallowe’en.’

Maeve screeched to a halt. ‘I know. That’s why you need to talk to Paddy right now.’

The first thing that shocked Paula was that Paddy Boyle was old; much older than she’d imagined. In the overheated sitting room of his small terraced house, he struggled to the door with a metal-framed walker.

‘Howya, Paddy.’ Maeve seemed unfazed at his decrepitude, or by the stifling smell of boiled food that filled the house. He looked like an old mushroom, Paula thought: face sprouting, clothes in shades of beige and grey.

‘This is the wee police girl?’ he quavered, sinking back into the armchair.

‘Hello, Mr Boyle. I’m Paula. I’m working with the PSNI and Gardaí on a missing persons project.’ She knew how most people distrusted the word ‘psychologist’, and tried where possible not to use it.

The second thing that shocked her was the pictures. They were crowded on small tables, covering the walls, and all along the mantelpiece jostling with pill bottles. All of the same person – a pink-faced, wholesome Irish girl. They went up to what looked like her late teens, then stopped.

‘Paddy,’ prompted Maeve. ‘Would you tell Paula here what happened to Dympna?’

Dympna Boyle, the girl in the photos, had been Paddy’s only child, his wife Collette having died shortly after the girl’s birth. ‘She was laughing away, and then she dropped like a stone, her skirts all dripping with blood.’ Post-partum haemorrhage, still common in 1960.

‘You
brought Dympna up all by yourself?’ Paula was perched on an uncomfortable chair.

‘Aye, I did. I’d a good living as a book-keeper.’ He nodded his mushroomy head. ‘The nuns said they’d take her for adoption, for all I was still living, but I said no.’

Fair play. Paula knew a bit about how it was for an Irish man to raise a child alone.

‘I had the rearing of her myself. And she was a good girl, my Dympna, a good, quiet wee thing. After her schooling she started working at a department store. I’d be on at her to go out and have a bit of life, but she never wanted to leave me, God love her. A shy wee thing. Never any fellas round her nor nothing, for all she was pretty.’

Maeve was nodding along. ‘Tell her what happened in 1978.’

Paddy’s story had a well-worn air, that allowed Paula to slot him into her mental register of victims. He was the type who grew hard round whatever it was that had wounded them, polished it smooth with re-telling.

‘She comes home one day and says, “Da, I’m away to church group the night. These people come round to the door this morning and they seemed awful nice, so I’ll go down and see what’s what”.’

‘And was it—’

‘The God’s Shepherd crowd, aye. They were all over Ireland by then. Seemed like a Proddy church to me, but I let her tear away. Well, Dympna took to it, and she was there all the hours God sent, making new friends. I was happy, pet, you see. No harm in it, I thought. This goes on about a month, then one day the phone rings and it’s her boss at the shop. Where would she send Dympna’s back pay? Turned out she’s never been back to work since the first day she was at that church. “We have to give up material things,” she says, when I ask her. “I’m sick of selling tights to rich ould women.” That’s about as fierce as my Dympna ever got since the day she was born. Then she up and says, “I’m going away, Daddy. They want to send me on mission work. To Liverpool.” Glowing, she was.’