The Godforsaken Daughter (33 page)

Father Kelly gently freed her hand, laid it back on the covers with reverence. Her breathing was getting weaker and weaker.

Quietly, he left the room and went downstairs.

At the sound of his footfall, the twins turned their despairing faces toward him and got up.

“I’m sorry,” he said, going to them and taking their hands. “You have to be strong now, girls. It’s time
. . .
time to say good-bye.”

Slope O’Shea took the call. He left his help to tend the bar and went directly upstairs.

Jamie, having finished his stint, had joined Ruby and Rose.

Paddy ordered another round.

“You play very well, Jamie,” Ruby said, as Jamie took a seat beside her.

“Aye
. . .
thank you, Ruby. Been playin’ that accordjin since I was ten, so I have.”

“God, Jamie, that was lovely!” enthused Rose. “Never heard the like of it.”

“Thank you, Rose.” He sipped his pint. “It’s very warm work.” He caught Slope’s eye. “Paddy, I think Slope wants a word with you.”

Paddy got up. “Be back in a minute.”

“Wonder what he wants,” said Rose. “Hope there’s nothing wrong.”

Soon, Paddy returned to the table. He looked sad.

“We
. . .
we have to take you home, Ruby,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s
. . .
it’s your mother.”

Chapter forty

T
here’s a Mrs. Hanson to see you, Dr. Shevlin.”

Edie hadn’t bothered to knock. Or, if she had done, she’d been unusually quiet about it. He frowned. He’d been trying to concentrate on the notes he was making.

“Hanson? I don’t recall seeing that name on our client list.”

Edie shot a furtive glance out into the corridor and shut the door behind her. She came round his desk and stood beside him. She seemed uncharacteristically nervous. Something was up.

Then he remembered. He left his chair.

“Mrs. Hanson? A middle-aged lady? Short hair?”

“Yes, that’s her. Nicely dressed. She has . . .”

Disconcerted, Henry stood staring at his secretary.

“Are you all right, Henry?”

His thoughts had returned to his home in Belfast, to a morning close on the heels of his wife’s disappearance. He was reliving an unsettling—and highly intrusive—interview, conducted by a no-nonsense RUC sergeant who wore perfume that did not fit with her demeanor.

“Sorry, Edie. Please . . . please show her—”

“I was just going to say: she has a man with her.”

“A man?”

“Yes . . .”

His mind raced. His heart sank.

“Is he . . . is he wearing a hat?”

“Yes. Shall I show them in?”

The nameless one. Who else would it be?

His presence alongside Hanson could only mean one of two things. One: Connie was safe and they could be at last reunited. Two . . . No, two didn’t bear thinking about.

“Henry . . . Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve gone a bit pale. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?”

He nodded gratefully. Hardly had Ms. King shut the door than she opened it again, admitting the two visitors.

Henry had sat down behind his desk, not only because he had, quite literally, gone weak at the knees, but also because he was obeying a cardinal rule of one-upmanship: he that is seated has a psychological advantage over he who is standing. Hence the age-old tradition of a king or emperor remaining enthroned while others are brought before him and made to stand.

As Edie had said, the sergeant was dressed in civilian clothes: a rather dull blue suit worn with a white blouse and a thin string of pearls. She carried a black clutch bag that matched her “sensible” shoes.

“Hello, Sergeant,” Henry said carefully. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Please, take a seat.”

And the man? Yes, the sinister man was back. Not much
changed from thirteen months before, in that dimly lit room of an army barracks. Except the hat was of a different color. He took it off. The reason for his wearing it evident now in his bald head, which made him look much older than before. The eyes, though! Those soulless eyes were unmistakable.

“I’m sorry that we had to come unannounced, Dr. Shevlin,” Hanson said.

Her voice was somewhat kinder than he’d remembered it. That unnerved him. It was a well-known fact that police officers adopted a kindly tone when imparting sad news to
. . .
to
. . .
the next of kin. The phrase came unbidden, unwelcomed.

The next of kin.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Henry said. “Constance. That’s why you’re here.”

Hanson exchanged a look with the man. He nodded slowly.

“Yes and no,” she said. “It would depend on the course of action
you
choose to take, Doctor.”

“I
. . .
I
. . .
don’t understand. What . . . what are you saying?”

The door opened and Edie entered with a tray laden with tea things. All went quiet as she set them down before Henry and his visitors, and exited. He found himself wishing that Edie had brought something stronger.

But the man was pointing to the intercom on the desk in front of him.

“Would you mind switching that off, please, Doctor?”

The voice was precisely as Henry remembered it. It brooked no refusal. Henry did as he was bidden.

“Good,” Hanson said. “What we’re about to tell you must not go beyond this room, Doctor. Is that understood?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“This is Mr. Webb. He’s a member of the Intelligence Service.”

“You mean MI5.”

“Yes. He’s been working closely with the authorities in Belfast these past couple of years. I should tell you that myself and Constable Lyle have been liaising with Mr. Webb and his colleagues. You might say it’s a joint effort. Counterterrorism. I’m sure you’re familiar with the term.”

Henry nodded, studying the man as he sipped his tea. MI5. Her Majesty’s Secret Service. A real-life James Bond. But he knew that there was nothing glamorous about MI5. Not in Northern Ireland at any rate. He read the papers; he followed the news. The “dogs in the street” knew that MI5 had infiltrated the terror gangs of Ulster. To be sure, their efforts had brought several dangerous killers to justice, yet theirs was a murky world of vicious double crosses. A world wherein it was often hard to tell who the good guys were.

Webb set his teacup down and mopped his lips with a handkerchief. He fixed Henry with a steady look.

“Your wife—Constance—had got herself mixed up with some very dangerous people, Doctor,” he began. “I explained some of this last year. L
et me recap. One of our American associates, Harris Halligan, was passing on valuable information concerning the
movements of the Irish Republican Army. Constance was unaware of Mr. Halligan’s true identity and motives. While in his company she witnessed a murder.”

“Oh my God!”

“It was plain bad luck that your wife got mixed up with Halligan when she did. It appears that he liked her paintings and saw th
em as another way to curry favor with the Republicans. But, alas, he overplayed his hand. We had to get him out very quickly to a place of safety. And as a consequence, Constance, too. Their lives were at risk. Anyone associated with her was also in grave danger.”

Henry could barely take it all in.

“So that was why you planted those drugs in my car.”

“Quite so. You understand now that we could not have you pursuing your search for Constance. There was the clear risk that you’d be putting at least three lives in danger: Halligan’s, your wife’s, and your own. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand, Mr. Webb, I think.”

“We planted the drugs in your car in order to threaten you with imprisonment. You were what we call a loose cannon, Dr. Shevlin. You could have gone off at any moment, and blown a hole right through our operation.”

Henry grimaced at the man’s choice of language. He was in little doubt that the cannon metaphor was one in frequent use in the London offices of MI5.

“A
m I to take it then that I’m no longer a risk to your, er, operation?” Henry asked cautiously. “That Connie is safe.”

“The operation has been terminated, yes . . .”

Terminated. He groaned inwardly. Despite himself, despite his medical training and his years of applying that training, he was quickly developing a healthy contempt for the man sitting opposite. He was seeing Webb for what he was: an individual engaged in an unnatural business. Spying. Working behind the scenes, flouting the laws of the land on a whim. In Webb’s twilight world operations were “terminated.” But so, too, were human beings. When they posed a threat, or when they’d outlived their usefulness.

“.
 . .
the risk factor for you, however, remains.”

“Is Constance
alive
?” He was looking at Hanson.

“Yes. She is.”

Oh, the relief of hearing that! He put his head in his hands, took a deep breath, summoning the courage to ask the next vital question.

“Where is she? Where
was
she?”

“For the first three months, on Innisfree, until her cover was blown.”

“Wha—”

Hanson looked at Webb.

“We had to move her around several safe houses after that.”

“Safe houses? Safe houses
where,
exactly?”

“We’re not at liberty to say, for the simple reason that they would no longer
be
safe houses, Doctor. That is classified information.”

“Oh yes, that old chestnut. When a question doesn’t SUIT YOU, it’s suddenly classified information. Where is she
now
?”

They didn’t answer him.

“WHERE IS SHE NOW?”

“Keep calm, Doctor.” It was Webb.

“No, I bloody-well
won’t
keep calm! This is my wife we’re talking about, not some statistic in some dreadful operation of yours. So tell me where she is.”

“If I tell you that, Doctor,” the man said evenly, “your life will no longer be the same. Everything you hold dear will be gone. You will have left it behind—as Constance had to.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I—”

“When you visited Innisfree—”

“Oh, so that’s what’s brought you here? How did you know I went there? Were you following me?”

“No, Doctor. You weren’t followed. But one of our operatives in the area informed us of your movements.”

Henry shut his eyes and raised a hand to his brow. A name came unbidden.

Max. Mad Max, the latter-day hippie, the Screamer.

It had to be. He thought back. Max was the last person he’d have suspected of being an agent for Her Majesty’s Government. The clothing, the drinking, the alternate lifestyle.

And that cryptic answer to his question:

“
Are you local?
”

“
I get around
.”

But wasn’t that how the operatives worked? They blended in. No one would suspect them.

“Mad Max,” he said, eyes open again. “You people have no morals.”

“When it comes to saving lives, morals take second place,” said Webb.

“Tell me what I have to do. Tell me how I can get to Connie.”

“Go back home,” Hanson said. “Leave here as quickly as possible. We’ll alert the health service, have them send a replacement. Go home, Doctor. Say good-bye to your father, your friends, and colleagues. Tell them you’re going abroad.” She smiled. “And that won’t be a lie.”

“You will hear from us in two weeks’ time,” said Webb. “When you do, we’ll escort you to your wife’s location. You and she will be reunited. You and she will also share this: you will be exiles. You will no longer be Dr. Henry Shevlin. You will, like your wife, be given a new identity. That is the choice you must make. You will be in witness protection for the rest of your lives.”

“Think it over, Doctor,” Hanson said, getting up. “It’s a big decision to make.”

“I’ve already made it,” Henry said without hesitation.

She smiled. “I guessed you would say that. I’m glad.”

Chapter forty-one

T
he heavens opened on the morning of Martha Clare’s funeral; a fitting metaphor for Ruby’s grief. The daughters could never have guessed that their mother would follow so quickly in their father’s wake. A wound beginning to heal over, torn open again like the grave in the cemetery itself. Father Kelly conducted the Requiem Mass.

Ruby stood at the graveside, supported by Rose and Jamie, experiencing the raw closure of another parent’s life. The heaped wet soil waiting to refill its weight under the granite headstone. The rain battering the lid of the descending coffin, the priest hastening through the prayers for the dead with the gathered mourners, brought back recent memories she could hardly bear to face.

Several nights after the funeral, her mother invaded her dreams. Always the same image: her face imploring, her arms spread wide for the hugs Ruby never received in life.

And Ruby would see herself as a little girl, running through the fields toward the gift of that embrace. But, at the point of blissful union, at the moment their fingers touched, the vision would retreat—like the vision of herself she’d seen over Beldam—and move farther and farther away. Ruby would run faster and faster, her feet flying over the grass, arms outstretched, but it was useless. She could never catch up. As in life, her mother was forever out of reach. And the cries she heard as she collapsed on the grass were the cries of a love long lost, that never was and never now would be.

She’d awaken, breathless, and weeping into the aftermath of those dreams to the loneliness of Oaktree, where the only sound was her heartbeat and the darkness stood like heat.

The daylight hours brought fresh assaults with all the power that being changed can bring. She was intensely aware of herself as a lone figure in an isolated space. The house that was Martha’s domain, shaped to how she’d lived, mocked her. There was no one now to please. No setting tables or trays for two. No climbing stairs with gifts or news. The room: lifeless. The bed: empty. Plants wilting on the windowsill. She missed the edge of that sharpened voice razoring the quiet; the voice, which in her final days had faded to a rasping sigh.

Father Kelly visited in the subsequent days. She told him about the dreams.

“It’s because I didn’t get to say good-bye, isn’t it, Father? I was out enjoying meself when
. . .
when I should have been here at her side.”

They sat at the kitchen table, the tea going cold between them. The twins already back at work, because the pain of being in Oaktree without Mummy could not be lightly borne.

“Now, Ruby, you can’t blame yourself. None of us had any idea God was going to take your mother home
. . .
so soon.”

“Did she say anything, Father? Anything about me
. . .
before
. . .
before she
. . 
. ?”

“Yes, Ruby. She said she was sorry
. . .
sorry that she hadn’t been the best mother to you.”

Ruby broke down. “She did?”

“Yes
. . .
she wished things could have been different between you. That she was so hard on you. She regretted that. Yes
. . .
she regretted that, Ruby, very much.”

How could he tell her what
he knew
? The secret he’d taken ownership of was his, and his alone, to carry.

He patted Ruby’s hand, shifted in the chair, the one Martha used to occupy.

“I’ll always be here for you, Ruby. Have no fear of that. Sure I’m only down the road. You can depend on that. Any time you feel like talking, just give me a call.”

“Thanks, Father.” Ruby blotted her eyes.

He stood up. Put on his hat. Gazed out the window at the patch of flowers where Vinny fell.

“She’s at peace with your daddy now, so. Aye
. . .
at peace.”

In the afternoon, Ruby made the first journey of several into Tailorstown.
A journey of despair, and longing for what might have been had she not opened the case, not gone down to the lake, not gone out with the McFaddens and Jamie. Would her mother still be here? Sitting on the faded cushion in the passenger’s seat, maybe giving out about something, but
there,
nonetheless, beside her. In the flesh.

She felt an immense ache in her heart. The courage she’d mustered from Father Kelly’s visit deserting her, thawing into a river of tears as she entered the town’s main street and parked in the same spot, opposite the sale yard. She recalled the last time she’d taken her mother to town.

Saw her clamber out of the vehicle, cane clattering to the ground.

“
Don’t you dare touch me . . . You’ve done it this time.
”

“
Done what?
”

“
You just wait till I get you home.
”

She’d been visiting the solicitor, Mr. Cosgrove, that day. The thought of the lawyer brought on another wave of grief. The twins and she would be meeting him tomorrow for the reading of the will.

She’d no longer be able to live at Oaktree. The house and farm would be sold. Where would she go? What would she do? She could never have believed that the deaths of both parents would cause even greater upheaval in her life, their parting separating her from all she held dear.

Images of Beldam reared up at her. Maybe it was the answer. Just walk in. Let the waters claim her, as they had Edna. She now understood what grief was, and why her grandmother had done what she did. She’d lost her husband and then her child within the same short time period as she, Ruby, had lost her parents. And then, upon the marriage of her only son, she’d lost her home as well. Been driven up above to the bedroom at the top of the stairs. The one Ruby now occupied. No, Edna was never crazy, as Martha had claimed. She was heartbroken, mourning a loss that was unbearable, that she knew she’d never fathom or get the measure of. What was left to her in the hollow afternoons? Nothing but the seasons turning beyond the window and the field where her husband died; and in the brooding darkness of night, the alluring gleam of Beldam under a starlit sky.

Ruby rested her head on the steering wheel, sobbing uncontrollably, paralyzed by fears of a future only the gods could know. The shopping list in her pocket, the errands she had to run—her reasons for making this trip—becoming the most trivial things in her world.

She had no idea how long she’d sat like that, but a gentle tapping on the window brought her back to reality. She looked up—to see Jamie McCloone’s concerned face through the glass. She wound down the window.

“Are you all right, Ruby?”

“Yes
. . . yes, Jamie. I was just . . .”

She burst into tears again.

Jamie shifted from foot to foot, adjusted his cap, uncomfortable. “I’m goin’
. . .
I’m goin’
. . .
into Biddy’s for a cuppa tea. Maybe you’d—”

“Don’t know
. . .
don’t
. . .”
Her voice faltered. “Don’t want anybody tae see me like this.”

“It’s
. . .
it’s better
. . .
better, Ruby, to talk tae somebody.” He looked over at the café. “Sure there’s nobody in it at this time of day.”

She knew he was right. The only one she’d talked to in recent days was Father Kelly. She needed to unburden herself. Her mind made up, she fetched her handbag and left the car.

Inside the café, Ruby was relieved to see that the only other customer was Barkin’ Bob, seated in the corner. Bob was a good man because he wasn’t a gossip and didn’t have much time for conversation.

“We’ll take this nice table at the windee,” Jamie said, pulling out a chair.

Ruby halted. He could not have known it, but the table Jamie selected was the one she and her father used to share.

She dissolved again into tears.

“It’s all right, Ruby,” Jamie said gently. He rested a reassuring hand on her arm. “You sit down and I’ll go up and get us a drop of tea and a bun. You’ll be all right in a wee minute, so you will.”

Ruby had no option but to sit down.

In a couple of moments, Jamie was back. He sat down—in her father’s chair.

“Biddy’ll be down in a minute,” he said.

Ruby composed herself. Dried her eyes.

“Thanks, Jamie
. . .
it’s just that
. . . just that . . .”
But she was unable to verbalize how she felt.

Jamie lifted the saltcellar and began toying with it. “Aye
. . .
it’s
. . .
it’s terrible hard when
. . .
when
. . .
somebody goes sudden. I know
. . .
know what you’re goin’ through. When Uncle Mick passed away
. . .
I wanted
. . .
wanted tae die, too.”

“Did you?”

“Aye, so. But there
. . .
there wasn’t much point in doin’ that.”

“Why not?”

“’Cos it wouldn’t of brought Mick back, and I couldn’t let Rose and Paddy down.” He replaced the saltcellar, gazed out the window. “Aye
. . .
and I couldn’t leave Shep on his own
. . .
’cos Mick had give him tae me when he was only a pup—”

“Your dog?”

“Aye.” Jamie averted his eyes.

“You must miss him now, Jamie? Rose tolt me he’d passed away.”

“Oh
. . .
something terrible. Mornin’s be the worst, ’cos
. . .
’cos he used tae wake me up
. . .
jump on the bed
. . .
and lick me face.” Jamie smiled at the memory. “God, he was the greatest wee dog.”

“I’d always wanted a dog, but Mammy never liked them
. . .
said they were smelly.”

“You could get one now.”

Ruby fought back the tears again, wondering if she should share with Jamie her fate with regard to Oaktree.

“Would be good company for you now, so it would.”

“Aye, maybe.”

Biddy soon arrived with a tray. She off-loaded the cakes, and a pot of tea the size of an urn.

“Now, Ruby
. . .
a good cuppa tea will give you a bit of strength. Won’t it, Jamie?”

“It will indeed, Biddy. A bitta whiskey in it, too, would be even better,” he quipped. Ruby smiled.

“Och, away with you, Jamie,” Biddy said. She leaned closer and whispered. “Well, d’ye know, if you have a word with Bob up there, I’m sure he could get yins a drop from that van of his out there. He’s got everything, don’t ye know.”

They all looked Bob’s way, but the traveling “salesman” was too occupied with his food to notice.

Another customer entered and Biddy excused herself.

Ruby tried not to weep by concentrating on Jamie’s words. It was hard to be sitting across from him. He was in her father’s chair. Taking up the space her daddy used to fill, in a place she never thought she’d have the heart to enter again. But here she was in the café for the first time since her daddy’s death. And it wasn’t so bad after all. Because Jamie was there.

“Do you do a bitta farmin’ yourself, Ruby?” he was saying.