A Swift Pure Cry (25 page)

Then Mrs Duggan. She strapped baby Padraig into his car seat, came around to the front and got in. 'There you are.' She patted Shell's arm. 'Are you all right?'

'Yes, Mrs Duggan. Fine.'
You don't have to die to go to hell, Shell. Any fool will take you there.

Mrs Duggan sighed and turned on the ignition. 'Was that a Mass, Shell?' she said in a low voice. 'Or feeding time at the zoo?'

Forty-six

Shell visited Dad the next day, one more time, in hopes of relieving the torment in his mind. Maybe that way he'd retract. He shuffled into the room of frosted glass, taut and fidgety, and sat opposite her, glowering. The guard left them.

'The night of Holy Saturday, Dad,' she whispered.

'Shut it, Shell.'

'
Dad
.'

He grabbed her cuff. 'Couldn't you have brought a miniature. Just a drop. Like last time? Couldn't you?'

He was in a desperate mood. His eyes were like dirty coins, his lips had yellow cracks in them, his hair was dark with grease.

'You didn't want it last time, Dad. Remember?'

He snarled.

'You threw it at the wall.'

He drummed his fingers on the table. 'Don't remember. Don't remember anything. Christ, I'd murder one.'

'Dad. You must remember. You told me about it yourself. The night of Holy Saturday. You woke up in an empty house, you said. Trix, Jimmy and me. We were gone, you said.'

He stood up, twitching. His fingers on the right hand scratched his left upper arm. He went to the window of frosted glass. He stood there going
scratch-scratch
as if he'd fleas. He stared at the milk-white glass as if he could see through.

'Remember, Dad? D'you remember?'

'Shut it, Shell. You're a broken record.'

She got up and walked towards him. '
Dad
.'

'Get away from me, Shell. I'm in no mood for talking.'

'D'you remember the pink dress?'

His toes were tapping now, like he'd a case of magic dancing powder in his shoes. 'Jesus. Would you ever stop?'

'The pink dress, Dad. The one you didn't burn.'

'Stop it, Shell.'

She put a hand out to stop the scratching. 'It wasn't you, Dad.'

He'd shaken her off. His hands were over his ears.

'It wasn't you,' she said louder. 'The night of Holy Saturday. It wasn't you.'

His eyes were screwed up tight, his head was jerking. He'd be speaking in tongues next. He'd be writhing on the floor.

'Dad.' He opened his eyes and she thought he was going to scream. But he didn't. The toes stopped tapping. The fingers stopped scratching. The head stopped jerking.

'What did you just say?' he whispered.

'It wasn't you, Dad.'

'The night of Holy Saturday?'

She shook her head.
The tomb was sealed, the world was quiet.
'Nothing happened.' Mam's fingers fluttered past her face as she reached the high note of her song, the swift, pure cry. His eyes half shut, half open. His appalling nakedness.
Moira. Don't turn away, lovey, turn back to me.
'You thought I was her, didn't you?'

His hands were at his throat. 'Her eyes, Shell. Following me everywhere.'

'You came in, Dad. Confused with the drink.
Moira
, you kept saying. You remember?'

He shook his head. 'It's a closed book.'

'It was the dress confused you, Dad.'

'The dress?'

'I'd fallen asleep in it. The pink dress.'

'God forgive me,' he whispered.

'You were like a blind man, walking in your sleep, at the foot of the bed, feeling around. But Mam woke me up. She came in a dream and woke me up. So I rolled out of bed. And you fell in. You passed out. I left you there. And that was all.'

He kneaded the skin on his gullet. 'All?'

'All.'

'Nothing-nothing more?' His fingers rose and plucked at his lips. She saw the words drifting across his eyes.
All. Nothing. All
.

'Nothing.'

'You mean it?'

'Nothing. Honest to God.'

'I didn't-touch you?'

'You were too far gone, Dad.'

'Praise be to God.' His nostrils quivered. He shut his eyes, nodded. He made the sign of the cross. Then one eye opened. 'I've only your word for it,' he said.

'It's true, Dad. Would I lie about a thing like that?'

'Thanks be. You're certain, Shell?'

'Certain, Dad. As God is my witness.'

A long silence fell. Shell went back to her chair.

'I loved your mam, Shell.' It was almost a squeak.

'I know, Dad.'

'The pink dress wasn't the only thing I kept.'

'No?'

'No. There was this too.' He reached into his jacket pocket. 'They tried to take it from me, but I wouldn't let them.' He held out the golden wedding band, the one Shell had seen him take from Mam's hand at the laying-out. 'They said I should leave it on her, bury her with it. But I couldn't. I took it off her before they covered her over. It wouldn't go on my littlest finger, Shell. So dainty were her hands. Slim, from all the piano-playing. The way she'd fly over the notes, up and down, like tiny birds. So I kept it in my pocket. All this time, the same pocket, by the breast. Everywhere I went. Even in here. They tried to take it from me. But I wouldn't let them.'

She stared. She thought he'd pawned it for a drink and she'd been wrong. 'Has she haunted you, Dad? Like she's haunted me?'

He nodded. 'Every second of every day, Shell. The eyes reproaching me. Telling me to pack in the drink.'

He retook his seat and put the ring down on the knot of wood. He folded his arms, grabbing the elbows straitjacket-wise. 'The moment they let me out, Shell, I'll be down the pub. I know it. I'd sooner go to jail for the rest of my life. If it's the same to you. I've been a wretched father to you all.'

'But Dad. The baby on the strand. 'S nothing to do with us.'

'So you say.'

'Don't you believe me, Dad?'

'Dunno. Dunno any more what's true.'

'Dad, it's true. I swear it. On Mam's ring.' She put her hand briefly down on it. 'See.'

He grunted. 'So you say.'

'Will you retract, Dad? For my sake, if not yours?'

He shrugged.

'Will you? Please?'

He picked up the ring and looked through it, straight at Shell. His pupils dilated. He put it back in his pocket with a strange smile. 'Maybe. If.'

'If?'

'If you tell me. Who the
real
father is.'

On the word 'real' he thumped the table. Shell jumped. The Detox Terrors were back. A fury was in his face.

'Dad! Does it matter?'

He thumped the table again. 'Of course it matters. I'll punch him to pulp. I'll thrash him to pigsmeat. I'll--' His fingers crackled. His eyes squeezed up hard. 'Tell-me-who-he-is,' he minced.

'Dad!'

'Tell me the name of that blackguard and I'll--'

'Dad. You can't thrash him. He's miles away. Gone.'

'I'll follow him. I'll shred him. The bastard.'

'You won't.'

'I'll have his hide.'

'I won't tell you, so.'

'You'd better.' He spat the words out like lava from a volcano. But a sly glint was in his eye.

She flopped back in her chair. His eyes narrowed.
Declan. Time's up. Toodlepip
. 'OK, Dad. I'll tell you,' she sighed. 'On one condition.'

'Jesus. Women. I'm the one driving this bargain. What condition?'

'You retract. And tell no one who the father is.'

He cursed again. 'That's two conditions. You'd drive a sane man to distraction.' He snorted. 'All right. I promise. I'll tell no one. But I'll have his hide, you'll see.'

'And you'll retract?'

He snarled, then nodded.

'It was Declan, Dad. Declan Ronan.'
Your secret's out now, Declan
. The words fell out like a suit of old clothes. Dad would tell nobody at first. But then, as soon as he'd a few pints down him, he'd tell Tom Stack, who'd tell Mr McGrath, who'd tell Mrs McGrath, who'd tell everybody in Coolbar. Mr and Mrs Ronan would be the last to know.

'Declan Ronan?' Dad gasped.

She nodded.

'The
altar
boy?'

She nodded again.

'The la-di-dah Ronans? Declan?'

'Yes.'

'So that's why he shot off to America. The monkey. I'll kill him.'

'No! He didn't know then. About me. About the-baby.'

'The baby?' His voice changed. 'Wasn't it twins then, like they said?'

'No, Dad. Course not.'

'A boy so. Like they said?'

'No, Dad. A girl. Like I said.'

'A girl?'

'A little girl. Tiny. With blue eyes, Dad. And she came out dead.'

'Dead?'

'Trix, Jimmy and me. We buried her in the field.'

His hands covered his eyes. His shoulders shook.
My God. The old fool's crying
. 'Ah, Shell. Forgive me. I
did
do this to you. I knew all along and I pretended not to know.'

'You'll retract now, Dad?'

He nodded. 'Anything, Shell. Anything you say.' His head went back down on the table. 'Your mam's own grandchild, Shell. A girl, you say? Was she like her, Shell? Was she?'

Shell got to her feet. 'She was, Dad. A little.' Her chair screeched across the floor. Dead with the blue eyes shining. Like suns, beaming. She grabbed the edge of the table, hard. The room was filming over. She didn't trust him. She'd better get him to retract fast while the going was good. She called out for the guard.

The guard came in and sent for Molloy. Molloy was out. Sergeant Cochran arrived instead. She put on the tape and the ghost-hiss filled the room. He stumbled and floundered, then got out the words.
I, Joseph Mortimer Talent, of Coolbar Road...
In two more minutes, his confession was retracted.

Forty-seven

Shell thought that once he'd retracted the case would be closed. But a day passed and nothing happened. Then another and another. Dad was still detained.

Father Rose called one evening later that week. The boys and Trix were playing the card game Forty-five at the kitchen table.

'Hearts are up,' Liam called.

Shell, Mrs Duggan and Father Rose watched as the others played.

'You reneged,' Jimmy shouted at Trix.

'Did not.'

'You did. You should've put the ace down last time.'

''S my ace. I can put it down when I like. Isn't that right, Father Rose?'

'Don't ask me. I'm not familiar with the rules. We don't play Forty-five where I come from. What do you say, Shell?'

'If Liam led with a heart and you had one, Trix, you should have put it down.'

Trix pretended she didn't hear. Jimmy made a face like a demented gorilla, then he rolled his eyes. Shell winked at him. The game went on.

Father Rose touched Mrs Duggan's arm, indicating the fireplace at the other end of the room. 'Can we three talk?' he said in a low voice. She nodded. They removed themselves out of earshot. Mrs Duggan fetched Father Rose a whiskey and ushered him and Shell onto two chairs.

'Any news? Will they let Joe out soon?' Mrs Duggan asked.

'No sign of it. I saw Molloy today. He insists the original confession stands.'

'That man. He's a dog with a bone.'

'He says he's waiting for the pathologists' report.'

'Is it due out soon?'

'Any day.' He dropped his voice. 'Don't tell anyone, but Sergeant Cochran slipped me something in advance.' He looked from one to the other. 'Apparently the babies have different blood groups.'

Shell's hand was on her throat. She could hardly breathe.

'One's an A. The other's an O,' Father Rose said.

'What-does that mean?' Shell faltered.

'I'm not sure. But maybe good news.'

'You'd think twins would be the same blood group,' Mrs Duggan mused. 'I'm an O. So are we all in this house. D'you know what you are, Shell?'

Shell shrugged. 'Dunno. Dunno what a blood group is.' She watched Father Rose as he took a sip of his whiskey. 'Did they find out why my baby died?' she whispered.

He shook his head. 'Sorry, Shell. Sergeant Cochran said that was all she knew.' He jerked his head towards the drawn curtains. 'It's a circus out there,' he said. 'There's press everywhere. Stack's pub is buzzing. And the gardai are going round door-to-door. Father Carroll's announced a special Mass.'

'What for?'

'For the repose the two babies' souls.'