Wednesday's Child (30 page)

‘You’re due some leave. Take it. You’re going to collapse if you don’t.’

‘Yeah, I will. There are just a few things I need to wind up. A few loose ends, y’know?’

‘If you don’t give me a list of days you’re taking within the next week, I’ll give them to you myself. You’re going to be a liability if you don’t sort yourself out.’

‘Point taken.’

‘How are things going with the McCoys?’

‘Good, I think. They’ve been visiting the Kenneallys a couple of times a week. Zara has been supervising. She tells me that there’s a kind of …
tentative
bonding going on. Ibar thinks he’s died and gone to heaven out on the farm. Victor seems to have come out of himself a bit. Jim has a nice way about him. He’s safe, y’know. Gentle. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke. He’s firm but quietly so. Victor responds to that. He’s been craving a male role-model that he can feel secure with. And Cordelia – we’ll see. She seems to have reserved judgement, for the moment. Harriet is spending a lot of time with her … more than that, I can’t say. Cordy is keeping her own counsel. All she’ll tell me is that she thinks they’re very nice. Not much of an analysis, but that’s as much as she’ll give.’

‘Ah, you can’t rush these things,’ Josephine said. ‘We’ve kind of pushed the two families together. They’re doing remarkably well, under the circumstances.’

‘I suppose they are.’

‘Keep me informed.’

‘Will do.’

I lit a cigarette and watched as Geraldine Kelly left the Post Office pushing baby Christine in her pram. It was the day the Children’s Allowance was collected, so I knew she’d be there. I let her get one hundred yards or so down the street and then followed. A light rain had started to fall and she was hurrying to get into the shelter of a nearby shopping centre, so I broke into a
brisk jog. I reached her just as she was wrestling to get the pram through the doorway of the complex.

‘Let me give you a hand with that.’

‘Thanks very much – oh. It’s you.’

She glowered, but accepted my assistance. I held the heavy door for her and she pushed the buggy through.

‘I’ll be seein’ you,’ she said, moving away as soon as she was inside.

‘Hold on a minute. Can I buy you a cup of coffee or something?’

She stopped and looked at me, agog.

‘Are you comin’ on to me?’

‘No! No, it’s not like that. I need to talk to you. Just let me buy you a cup of tea and a bun and listen to what I have to say. Ten minutes.’

‘I don’t know. You’re kind of an eejit.’

‘Look, there’s a cafeé over there. Just a few minutes, that’s all I ask.’

Begrudgingly she followed me to the coffee shop. The term ‘coffee’ appeared to have been applied in its loosest possible definition, because what arrived in my cup bore almost no resemblance to the beverage I had ordered. I pushed it aside.

‘So what do you want?’ Geraldine asked me around a mouthful of cream doughnut.

‘I think we can help each other. And by helping each other we can help little Christine there’ – the baby was asleep in her pram – ‘and Connie.’

‘What are you goin’ on about?’

‘What would you say if I told you that I had a flat organised for you to move into with Christine?’

‘I can’t afford to move into a flat!’

‘I have spoken to Social Welfare about rent allowance, and I can go through any other entitlements you may be due. You’ll be well able to afford it.’

‘But … but I don’t want to move anywhere.’

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. Why was it never easy? Could it not just go smoothly, just the once? I hadn’t wanted to bring out the big guns, but she was giving me no choice.

‘I know about Mick. And the “visitors”.’

She stopped chewing, and for a moment she turned such a violent shade of green, I thought she would be sick. ‘Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You’re just bullshittin’ me.’

‘You don’t need to say anything, Geraldine. Just listen to me. It doesn’t happen to you any more, because you’re too old. They don’t like women, just children. Denise is safe from it too, she’s just the wrong side of adolescence for them. But Connie, she’s still mostly a kid. And Christine … well, she’s a baby. When did it start for you, Geraldine? When did they come for you first? I’d guess that Christine sleeps in the same room as you, yeah?’

She nodded.

‘The night will come when you’ll wake up and they’ll be taking her. Will you be able to protect her? Will you be able to fight them off?’

She had turned as white as a ghost and tears welled
in her eyes. The doughnut, half-eaten, dropped to the tabletop.

‘You shouldn’t say stuff like that to me. You’ve no right.’

‘It’s true. You’ve thought it too, if you’re honest with yourself. I’m showing you a way out. I know it’s scary, but there will be people to help you and you will be safe. I just want you to do one thing for me.’

‘What?’

‘Take Connie with you.’

‘Connie?’

‘I want her to be safe too. You can help each other out. She needs someone to look after her. She’s still a kid. You’ll need help with Christine, and well, it’s easier with two, isn’t it?’

She used the paper napkin to dab her eyes.

‘What d’you think?’ I asked.

‘When can I see the flat?’

‘Right now.’

‘All right. Show me, then.’

The flat had two bedrooms and was fully furnished and newly decorated. Marjorie, the Family Support Worker, had agreed to work with the girls intensively over the initial period, and to keep an eye on them for as long as necessary after that. Geraldine agreed that her parents and Mick should know nothing about the move until the day arrived. They had huge potential for creating mayhem, and I wanted the transition to be as stress-free as possible.

I wasn’t innocent enough to believe that they would be completely safe, but they were saf
er
. There was a buzzer and intercom system, they were on the third floor – they were as secure as it was possible to make them. The real danger was that they would actually let Mick and a gang of strange men in. That may sound unlikely, but the psychological stranglehold the abuser has over the victim is preternaturally strong, and never to be underestimated. I could only trust in their desire to protect Christine, and in the fact that, with Mrs Jones’s help, Connie had already made a move away from her home and its horrors. Marjorie would also work with them on developing ways of avoiding falling back into old, dangerous patterns of behaviour. I simply had to believe in them. They
could
do it. It was time to let go.

They brought clothes, soft toys, Connie’s schoolbooks and that was all. Marjorie and I had stocked up the kitchen with food, any cooking utensils that were absent and bought some fresh flowers as a house-warming gift. I left Marjorie in the flat with Geraldine and the baby, and Connie walked me down to my car. She had been quiet throughout the whole process of the move. She had seemed neither elated nor frightened when I told her about my and Geraldine’s plan (Geraldine and I had decided to tell her we had come up with the idea together), and had gone about her business quietly and calmly, never mentioning it to either of us until that morning, when
she had come out to the car with her bags packed and ready to go, a determined look on her face. As we walked to the car she was subdued and thoughtful, chewing her lower lip and lagging behind. I opened the driver’s door and turned to her. I reckoned that she wanted to get the goodbye over with as quickly as possible, so I determined not to prolong it for her. I extended my hand and we shook.

‘Well, that’s that. Marjorie will be visiting you every day for the next while, until you’re properly settled in. I’ll pop in and out, make sure you’re okay, but we won’t be seeing each other as much as we have been. You know you can call me if you need anything.’

She still said nothing, looking at me from under her eyes. I patted her on the shoulder.

‘I’d better be going,’ I said, moving to sit in.

‘Shane,’ she suddenly said, and grabbed me in a fierce hug.

I almost jumped. She had never made any attempt to touch me before. I put my arms around her and hugged her back.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for believing me. Thank you for helping us.’

She held me for a while longer, then turned and without a word ran back into the building. I watched her through a haze of unexpected tears and started the engine, anxious for the monotonous anonymity of the road.

They took me off the O’Gorman case.

I didn’t want to leave it, not in its state of desperate confusion and lack of resolution. But Gillian didn’t want to see me or speak to me, and it seemed that the case would lapse back into the fugue state it had been in before I had been appointed.

It gnawed at me. Another worker had been sent out to try to re-establish some links between the department and the family, but to no avail. As I had suspected, the rejection that day, when Gillian had actually
asked
for help, had been too much. I had let her down, despite the fact that I had always told her I would not. I had done what everyone else in her life had done. It sickened me to think that I had been instrumental in killing any last vestiges of trust and confidence in this child.

I would not abandon Gillian without one last try. We had a year behind us – much of it good. I just hoped that this would stand me in good stead, that somewhere in among the hurt and damage was a sense that, even if I could not always deliver, I had her best interests at heart and would not purposely set out to hurt her.

I don’t remember the drive out to her house, but I know it was mid-afternoon when I got there. I grabbed the dog-deterrent from the back seat and had the button pressed before I opened the door. I didn’t even look at where the animals were. I felt a sense of urgency for some reason, a deep-rooted need to see her, to know she was all right. I knocked loudly
on the door. There was no answer; I hadn’t expected one. I walked to the nearest window and peered through. I could dimly see a shape curled up on the beaten up old couch. Was it she?

I knocked loudly on the glass. There was no movement. I abandoned all semblance of cleanliness and used the sleeve of my beloved coat to clear some of the gunk so I could see more clearly. It was Gillian. I banged again, louder this time. Then I noticed something: a stain of red on the arm of the couch upon which she lay. I squinted to get a better look. There seemed to be some of it on the carpet also, and I thought I could see more on the wall nearby. Fear gripped me, and I ran to the door, using the machine to smash the glass panel so I could get my arm through to reach the handle. Then I was in and it was so much worse than I had thought.

A Stanley knife lay on the floor among the blood that had seeped there. She had cut deep grooves into her flesh, all down both arms. She seemed to be catatonic or semi-conscious from loss of blood – the air was rich with its coppery stench, the cushions upon which she was sprawled were sodden with it, and she was deathly pale. I frantically called for the emergency services and used some tea-towels, the only bindings I could find, to bandage her wounds. Then I held her, rocking her in my arms and talking to her, telling her that it was okay, I was here now, she would be all right. Time became a crazy drip, drip, drip. All that was real was me and the girl.
I seemed to drift in and out of awareness with her.

I heard voices and the ambulance crew were there. I answered their questions and let them take her from me, watched as they did their work with sure hands and a calmness that I could not feel.

‘She’ll be fine, Mr Dunphy,’ one of them told me. ‘She’s lost a lot of blood, but the cuts were mostly superficial. You called us just in time.’

She was put on a trolley and brought to the ambulance. As they were lifting her in, she snapped into consciousness, eyes wide open. I saw her start to panic. She did not know what was happening. She was tied down to stop her falling from the stretcher, and a drip had been attached to her arm.

‘Gillian, it’s okay, it’s me, Shane. We’re just taking you over to the hospital. You hurt yourself.’

‘Shane?’

‘Yes, honey. I’m here.’