The Nameless Dead (31 page)

I had not been at Sadie Cashell’s house in Clipton Place since the death of her child, Angela, in 2002. The house had not changed much. The last of the summer’s roses hung heavy on
their stems in the narrow flower bed to the front of the house, their heads weeping their final few petals onto the soil.

Sadie came to the door when I knocked, but would not, at first, let me in.

‘She’s not here,’ she said, folding her arms across her chest.

‘I know she is,’ I said. ‘I know she has a child that’s not hers, too.’

Sadie said nothing, though I could see the muscles in her jaw working beneath the skin.

Suddenly, from above, we heard the sharp, colicky cry of an infant, just for a second or two, then it went quiet.

‘How long did you think she could keep it up, Sadie?’ I asked. ‘She has to start her life again, eventually.’

Sadie waited a beat, then stepped back, allowing me past into the hallway.

‘She’s in Angela’s old room,’ she said softly. ‘Be easy on her.’

I mounted the stairs feeling a weight of dread settling in my gut, not in fear of what I might find, but in the certain knowledge of what I must do.

I knocked gently on the bedroom door, then opened it.

The room had changed little since last I had stood here, almost a decade ago. The window still dominated the back wall, facing out towards the rear yard. The carpet was still a shade of green,
though the walls were painted cream now instead of the lilac they had been when Angela died.

Christine sat on the bed, bottle-feeding the infant. He was a little longer than her forearm, his head nuzzled against her breast, his mouth moving rhythmically as he drank.

‘Christine,’ I said.

She looked up, her smile bright, her eyes glinting.

‘He’s beautiful, isn’t he?’

I looked at the baby. His fine fingers played at the edges of the rubber teat on the bottle, his legs kicking the air slightly as he drank.

‘He is, Christine.’

‘I found him,’ she said. ‘I lost him and then I found him again.’

‘Where did you find him? In the car at the house across from you and Andrew?’

She nodded, smiling a little uncertainly.

‘He was crying in the car. No one was taking care of him. He’d been crying for me all that time, all the time I’d heard him. He’d been waiting for me to come for
him.’

‘You can’t keep him, Christine,’ I said.

‘Of course I can,’ she replied quickly. ‘No one will miss him.’

I tried to argue with that, but could not. She was right. No one would miss him. He had no family; no one who would love him the way Christine would. I realized, too, that I still had the birth
certificate for the child, in Christine’s son’s name. She could give him the child’s identity and no one would ever know.

As if aware of my thoughts, she said, ‘We’d just disappear. It would be as if we had never existed.’

I recalled Sheila Clark’s justification for the very same behaviour. And Harry Patterson’s. Perhaps they were right. I wanted to convince myself that they were.

But I couldn’t.

‘I’m sorry, Christine,’ I said. ‘I’d love to, but I can’t do that. It’s not my place to make that kind of decision.’

‘He’s my child,’ she said tearfully, wrapping her arms around the infant tightly enough that he mewed in response, kicking out with his legs.

‘You can’t stay in here forever, Christine,’ I said. ‘What about Andrew? And your son, Tony? He can’t put his life on hold permanently. He’s waiting for you,
at home, to start living again. You can’t do that if you’ve kept the child in this way. You know that.’

She began to cry suddenly, heavy tears that rolled down her cheeks with little effort on her part.

‘It’s not fair. Why can’t I have my child? I didn’t do anything wrong. I tried my best.’

I moved towards her. ‘I know, Christine.’

‘I’m a good mum,’ she said, as much to herself as to me.

‘I know,’ I repeated. ‘I know you are.’

‘He’s my son.’

‘Let me hold him,’ I said.

I heard the door creaking behind me, heard the heavy step of Sadie Cashell as she entered the room.

‘Best let him have the baby, Chrissie,’ she said. ‘It’s over now.’

‘I deserve to be happy,’ Christine sobbed.

‘Not like this,’ I said. ‘You deserve to be properly happy. And you will be again.’

I reached out to her. ‘Can I see the child?’

Sadie moved in beside me.

‘Come on, Chrissie,’ she said. ‘It’s time to go now.’

I reached out for the child, felt the coarse wool of the blanket which she had wrapped around him.

Stretching out her arm to me, she offered me the child. I took him, let him settle in the crook of my own arm and took the proffered bottle from her.

She sobbed as her mother put her arm around her shoulders and took her out of the room.

The baby nestled in my arm, nudged his head against my chest and nuzzled in further, twisting slightly. His fingers, fine and tapered, moved across my shirt front, then gripped the material at
the gap where it buttoned.

I was reminded of Penny and Shane when they were infants and I had sat at night feeding them. At the time, I had complained of broken sleep, and had been constantly tetchy. Yet even then I had
known that those moments were passing irrecoverably. The relationships I had enjoyed with them then had been simple, instinctive, free of guilt or remorse, free of judgement. Our relationships had
been unconditional then; I could not help feeling that it was not the case now and that, despite my best efforts, I had failed in being the father they deserved.

As I considered the child, considered the vulnerability of its tiny bones, the simple need it had for someone to give it complete love and attention, I questioned what I had done. Christine
Cashell would be a good mother to him, I had no doubt. But I could not make that decision alone.

I took him downstairs and asked Sadie to hold him while I reported his discovery to the Social Services team in the HSE. I explained that the child was at the centre of an illegal-adoption scam
and had been found and taken care of by a member of the public.

As I had expected, they told me that their first action would be to locate a suitable emergency foster carer to look after the child.

I had a recommendation on that count.

On 24 January, Declan Cleary was finally laid to rest. Following Requiem Mass, his remains were taken to the local graveyard and buried in the same plot as his son. Lennie
Millar attended the service, as did all the other diggers who had helped locate his remains.

Afterwards I lit seven candles beneath the statue of the Blessed Virgin, for the seven children we had recovered. Despite my best efforts, the DPP in the south had decided that no criminal
charges could be made against Martin. A civil charge, however, was a different matter. Christopher Hillen and his mother had started proceedings against Martin’s company for compensation for
Christopher for the disfigurement he suffered due to the drugs testing.

That afternoon, we attended the christening of David McCready. Joe McCready’s wife Ellen had given birth to a healthy baby boy just after Christmas. Despite Joe’s fears, the boy was
thriving, although, if the state of his parents were anything to go by, he was not sleeping much.

Following the service, I went outside the church for a smoke. Debbie and Penny stood in the vestibule with Ellen, admiring the baby. Shane stood to one side, trying not to look out of place.
When he saw I was looking at him, he smiled shyly. I noticed that Debbie slipped her hand through the crook of Penny’s arm and pulled her closer to her. For a moment, I thought Penny would
resist. Then she leaned her head towards Debbie’s, until she was resting it against her shoulder. From behind, the two of them with their hair cropped short, it was almost impossible to tell
them apart.

After dinner, I drove out to Islandview. Andrew Dunne answered the door when I knocked.

‘Christine’s in the living room,’ he said.

In one corner sat a large pram, a blue blanket hanging from it onto the floor. Christine sat on the sofa, her son, Tony, sat next to her with the baby in his arms as he fed him.

‘Inspector Devlin,’ she said.

‘Christine,’ I said. ‘I just thought I’d call and see how things are going.’

She smiled brightly. ‘Great.’

‘Your mum was all right with my suggesting her as an emergency foster carer, then.’

Christine nodded. ‘She’s not had much to do.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

Andrew stood in the doorway, watching the child as it mewed for more milk.

‘We’ve applied to be foster parents,’ he said. ‘Things are looking hopeful.’

I nodded. ‘I brought this.’ I handed him a small teddy bear which Debbie had bought for the child at the same time she’d been buying a gift for McCready’s son.

‘You’re very kind,’ Christine said, reaching up and taking the toy from Andrew and waving it in front of the infant.

‘Michael, is it, then?’

Christine shook her head. ‘We thought we’d call him Andrew, after, you know.’ She gestured towards where Dunne stood, smiling sheepishly. ‘We lost Michael. It
wouldn’t be right to either of them to give his name to this wee man.’

‘That sounds just right, Christine,’ I said. ‘Whatever you do, just be sure to spoil him now. And this man,’ I added, nodding to the boy by her side. ‘I
haven’t seen this man since he was a baby Andrew’s size.’

Tony beamed at me, holding the child with fraternal pride.

As I left their house, before getting into my car, I stared across the fields at where Islandmore loomed out of the darkness, its outline just visible against the darkening
sky.

Sheila Clark had never been found. If, as Callan suggested, she was buried on the island, Lennie Millar had claimed that the recovery of her remains would be almost impossible. Ironically, the
dig for the Disappeared had created perfect conditions for the disposal of further bodies, for the recent disruption of the earth would make geophysical tests unreliable.

The island was quiet now, those nameless dead that still rested there seemingly content that one more had joined them in their eternal sleep, taking her rightful place on the Isle of Bones.

While this novel is fictitious, it is inspired, in part, by real events.

Two hundred and eleven girls in Mother and Baby homes in Ireland were used, without parental consent, to test trial vaccines during the sixties and seventies. This was to be investigated as part
of the Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse in state institutions headed by Justice Laffoy. However, in 2003, following court action from doctors involved in the trials, the Commission’s
investigation in this regard ended.

Isotretinoin, used in the treatment of acne, does cause birth defects in the children of pregnant women using the drug. In the US, it is estimated over 2000 pregnant women who used the drug in
the past thirty years lost their babies through miscarriage. At least 160 survived and were born with severe facial disfigurements.

The commission for the Location of Victims’ Remains have, to date, recovered nine of the sixteen ‘Disappeared’. For further information on their work, visit www.iclvr.ie

Thanks as always to my friends and colleagues in St Columb’s College for their continued support.

Particular thanks to Bob McKimm; Geoff Knupfer of the Commission for the Location of Victims’ Remains; Helen Guthrie, David Adamson, Eli Dryden, Jeremy Trevathan, Trisha Jackson, Will
Atkins and Susan Opie at Pan Macmillan; Peter Straus and Jennifer Hewson at RCW; and Emily Hickman at The Agency.

As always, the McGilloways, Dohertys, O’Neills and Kerlins have supported my writing in innumerable ways. Thanks to all and, in particular, to Carmel, Joe and Dermot and to my parents,
Laurence and Katrina, for all that they have done and continue to do. Finally, my love and gratitude to my wife, Tanya, and our children, Ben, Tom, David and Lucy, for their tolerance and
support.

Also by Brian McGilloway

The Inspector Devlin series

BORDERLANDS

GALLOWS LANE

BLEED A RIVER DEEP

THE RISING

Other Novels

LITTLE GIRL LOST

First published 2012 by Macmillan

This electronic edition published 2012 by Macmillan
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ISBN 978-1-4472-19392- EPUB

Copyright © Brian McGilloway 2012

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