 
### The Body Coat

### By

### Maighread Medbh

This is a story set in 1990s Ireland by Irish poet, Maighread Medbh, who is the author of five published poetry collections and a literary study of solitude, Savage Solitude: Reflections of a Reluctant Loner. Find out more about Maighread at http://www.maighreadmedbh.ie

The Body Coat is a novel in the fantasy realist genre, combining prostitution, murder, family abuse and community hysteria with New Age philosophies and traditional beliefs. Set during the economic recession of early 1990s Ireland, the atmosphere pulses with the controversies of the time: reproductive rights; teenage pregnancy; unemployment; political corruption; abuse within religious institutions. In the tension between realities we experience the transition from the traditional to the modern.

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright Maighread Medbh 2013

License Notes

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**Pronunciation Key:  
** Sí: pronounced 'shee'  
Tír na Sí: pronounced 'Teer na Shee'  
Cascorach: pronounced 'Kaskorok'  
Aine: pronounced 'Awnya'  
Busaras: pronounced 'Busawras'  
Ó Murchú: prounced 'oh murrakoo'

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Part One: Jacqui Byrnes

"The spirit wanders, comes now here, now there, and occupies whatever frame it pleases. From beasts it passes into human bodies, and from our bodies into beasts, but never perishes."

Ovid

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Chapter 1: Jacqui Byrnes' Diary  
(1993)

Monday 1st February:  
It's watching me. I know it is. That's why I'm writing this down. It'll help me keep a grip on things and maybe I'll be laughing at myself after a while. I can feel it all the time, but especially around dusk. Outside that window, like a monster waiting for the right time to attack. I know I sound mad but I'm not.

Tuesday 2nd February:  
I'm in Drumnashee four days now. On Saturday when we got here I thought, what a beautiful house. The space in it compared to what I had in Dublin! Three bedrooms, a front room, a living room, big kitchen, bathroom and two small spare rooms as well. Liam has already turned one of the spare rooms into a studio and he's putting equipment and videos into the other one. Compared with two rooms and a shower-cum-toilet, this is pure luxury. A garden out the back as well.

"You can plant flowers and vegetables," Liam said, smirking. Sure I wouldn't have a clue. Wish I did. Anyway, my hands are full with the boys. I can just picture David smashing something with a spade.

Liam aggravates me something terrible. I don't know what mood he's going to be in from one minute to the next. He gives this speech on Saturday when I'm trying to unpack. He starts on about having to watch the money and conserve his resources now that he's after spending so much on the business. He wants me to do this weekly budget to manage my money. He sat down to explain it there and then. Sure, Christ, I was up to my eyes. We hadn't eaten for hours and I couldn't find the bag of food I brought, I was exhausted from all the packing and the thought of the unpacking. Then I was trying to watch the boys too. David was running all over the place. I think he's hyper. Brian was bawling because he had diarrhoea and I had to change him every fifteen minutes.

"Can't we talk about it later? I'm up to my eyes."  
"There's no such time as later," he said. "We'll do it now." So my fool sits down and listens, or rather tries to listen to this stuff he's going on with. He's talking about itemised expenditure and income and keeping receipts and he's making it all sound so fucking complicated.

"You want me to write down everything I buy as well every pound I get," I said in the end, exasperated beyond belief.  
"Including the Children's Allowance of course," he said. "You should be able to run the house out of your Lone Parent's. I'll pay the rent."  
"What about the ESB?" He shoved his face up close to mine, and his eyes were glistening. "Keep it down," he said. I suppose he meant he's leaving that to me too.

I don't know why I don't say more to him. He'd hit me alright, but I must have no guts at all. I used to say a few things, but it's like I'm getting more afraid of him as time goes on. He gets so pale when he's telling me to do stuff. Oh and then he started giving me instructions about how to unpack the boxes, which one to tackle first. I was thanking my lucky stars he came down six weeks ahead of me so I didn't have to cope with his unpacking too. My nerves were really racing. Still are. That's why I'm sitting here when I should be doing a million things. Speaking of nerves, I'm going to try cutting down on the valium. Being in the country should help me. Doesn't look too good at the moment though. We'll see.

Friday 5th February:  
We went to Dublin yesterday for my Lone Parent's Allowance. When I came out of the post office, Liam out of the blue said he was going to handle all the money coming into the house.

"I'll give you a housekeeping allowance," he said. "Your record when it comes to money is abyssmal."  
"But this is my money." My voice was weak when I said it.  
I wanted to remind him about what he said on Tuesday, but nothing would come out  
He looked at me as if he was going to give me a slap in the mouth.  
"You seem to have forgotten we're living together as of last Saturday. That means any money coming into the house is ours. Ours! And I'm a better manager. So I'll handle it."

His voice had gone low and hard. It gets like that when he's going to be vicious, so I kept quiet. The boys were in the back too. I felt like crying, but as the day went on I thought maybe it'd work out. He might be right. I'm always blowing my money and ending up robbing things. I want to stop all that and be respectable. And anyway, I pleaded with him to let us come to Drumnashee, so I can't say much. I thought getting out of the city would help us all. He never liked working in Taxes. Now that he's doing something he likes maybe he'll be better. He does seem to love taking pictures. Those cameras are like parts of his body.

He rang up Arthur to talk about the videos and stuff, and found out he had been killed in a car accident on Tuesday. Well, he really went down over it. I never saw him like that before. He was still in terrible form when he came home after work.

I don't care really. Well, Arthur and myself weren't exactly close. He was a sleasebag to be blunt about it. His wife never knew half the stuff he got up to. Liam respected him though. I think he was the only person he'd stop and listen to and he never belittled him or gave him the cold treatment. He was the main supplier too, and he did the copying. I don't know what Liam will do without him.

So anyway, Liam came in about nine and he told me to sit down and talk to him. I couldn't very well refuse. It wasn't talking he wanted me to do at all but listening. Per usual. My wifely duty or whatever you'd call it when you're not married. He went on about how it had been so hard growing up the way he did, his father being that strict and his mother sick all the time. I don't know what that had to do with anything. How he was a poor green country boy when he came to Dublin first. All about the first time he met Arthur. Jesus, his voice grates on me. I hadn't much sympathy but I sat there anyway. I wish I didn't feel like this.

It's only the past while I'm getting this aggravated by him. I'm thinking, why does he have the right to wear the ears off me and boss me around and use me for what he wants? How did he get to be in that position and me in this one? I'm dwelling on everything he does, little things and big things. They say you have to forgive and forget to make a relationship work. Could you call what we have a 'relationship', I wonder?

Here I am—started the diary because I wanted to write about the hill and I haven't got round to it yet. I used to keep a diary before, when I was at home, and I realise now how good it is to write. It seems to make things a bit better, especially when there's no-one you can talk to. I was always good at writing in school too. Anyway, the hill. Nothing strange happened since Sunday. Maybe I was imagining things, but it was so real. I know I hallucinated before, but it was nothing like this. I mean, I was in a panic then and everything felt unreal to me. I think I just convinced myself I saw things to... I don't know... let off steam, get attention or something. I hope that's why.

The hill must be two hundred feet high. It doesn't look like there are any paths up it, just grass and stray bushes, and a big clump of trees at the top. In the daytime I feel a pull to walk up it, but at night I wish I was a thousand miles away.

I shouldn't be interrupted tonight because Liam is gone to Dublin for the funeral, so I'll put down what happened on Sunday evening. I was washing up after the dinner, Liam was gone out to talk to the fella he bought the Photographer's from—Michael O'Connell. Or so he said anyway. I was kind of happy. At least I was out of that hole of a flat. I was thinking how nice it was to be in the country again. And to have a bit of space for the boys. I was thinking maybe Liam'd be happier here and we wouldn't have as many problems. Maybe I'd get myself together and be a decent housewife or something. I was singing away to myself while I was washing the dishes. There I was, with my two hands in the water. David was beside me standing up on his little chair scooping up the suds and letting them fall back slowly into the sink. Brian was sitting at the door with his soft ball.

"Four o'clock in the mornin' and it looks like it's gonna be another sleepless night...."  
David loves that one. He gave a great big grin and looked up at me, as if he saw the words coming out of my mouth as well as hearing them. As I was singing, I lost interest in the dishes and I was imagining myself on stage—per usual. I was looking out the window in a half-dream, staring at the hill without thinking much about it. Dusk was just beginning to fall. Suddenly it seemed that the night had come down already and it was pitch dark. Through the darkness I could see the hill again, lit up by a blue glow. First it looked like it was melting and going to spread out all over the fields, but instead it slowly pulled itself up into a different shape, a bit like a person squatting down. Eyes appeared on it, tons of them, all over its body. Big, huge evil eyes with ten layers to each one, and each layer coloured different. Then I saw it more clearly, and it was a hulking giant of a creature that seemed like it was breathing through the eyes, because the colours were moving in and out to a rhythm.

The monster had a big, flat-topped head and its arms were like an ape's, except they had claws that looked set to grab something. It opened its mouth and all I could see was a huge cave and vicious looking brown teeth. The skin of the body looked to be covered in hard scales, and it had turned pale green. It moved a bit. I didn't notice myself dropping the glass till David let out a roar. I looked down then.

However Brian moved so fast I don't know. He had picked up a bit of broken glass and straight into his mouth with it. I grabbed him and took it out, but his mouth was full of blood and he was screaming like no-body's business.

I was afraid of my life he was after swallowing a piece I hadn't seen, so I turned him upside down and slapped his back. Then I washed his mouth out with water, which wasn't easy and I wasn't sure I did it properly. I didn't know any doctor, only after arriving in the town. Anyway, my medical card doctor is in Dublin. I was shaking with worry. Brian was hysterical. It took ages to calm him down. I put him over my shoulder and looked out the window again. It was still dusk and there was the hill as innocent as you please, no sign of the vision.

Brian calmed down and he stopped bleeding, so I thought he must be alright but I wasn't in the better of it. Jesus if anything happened one of them again I'd be in right trouble. I don't want to lose them. That'd finish me altogether, if I couldn't mind them. I didn't tell Liam. He'd only think I was going crazy and look down on me more than he already does.

Maybe I am crazy. I thought I heard sounds of music just now. I looked out the windows and couldn't see anything. I'm scared on my own. I wish Liam was here, bad and all as he is.

Saturday 6th February:  
I don't know what to make of your man at all. There I was last night, about half ten, trying to unpack the last few things and get them in order, and this loud knock came on the door, more like a rap. I was between two minds whether to open it or not. My heart was choking me it was beating that fast. I said to myself, I might as well know as not know. I was shaking when I opened the door and I had the kitchen knife in my hand, hiding it behind my back. There was no-one there. There's no bulb for the outside lamp yet so I couldn't see much. I went out to look around the porch and as good as bumped into this big man. I nearly fainted. I screamed and started backing away towards the door, holding the knife in front of me.

"Hold on," says this sweet Donegal accent. "Steady up. I didn't mean to frighten you. Would you be Mrs O'Malley?"  
I held onto the door and closed it out a bit.  
"What do you want?" I could hardly talk I'd got such a shock.  
"Malachy Gallagher is the name. I'm sorry for calling at this time of night, but I was on my way home and I wondered if you were settling in alright."  
I hadn't a clue what he was on about. He looked a bit amused by the knife, not frightened at all. But then my hand was shaking like someone with Parkinson's.  
"Are you a neighbour?"  
"Well, in a manner of speaking. I live in the farmhouse a few fields over. I'm your landlord, although the word isn't one of my favourites. Of course, I didn't deal with yourself. It was your husband I talked to."  
"Oh. My husband isn't in."  
"Ach, that's alright. It doesn't matter which of you I see. I just wanted to check that you were settling in. Maybe I'll come back tomorrow, if that'd be more convenient."  
He looked at the knife again and made to go.  
"Hold on," I said. "Will you come in for a minute?"  
"Well, I don't want to impose if it's a bad time."  
"No, it's alright. You just gave me a fright."  
"Sorry about that, lass. I was just going round to knock at the back door. That's what we usually do around here."  
He smiled then and looked straight at me. He seemed okay.

I moved back and opened the door for him. He's quite good-looking, fair hair just turning grey, soft grey-blue eyes and a strong chin and cheekbones. He looks like he's seen a bit of life. His skin is leathery, a bit weather beaten, but he's not in any way rough looking. Good muscular body but he's no hulk.

"There's something I'm not too happy about alright."  
"Is there? I'll do my best to sort it out for you, lass."  
I went ahead of him into the kitchen and put away the knife.  
"Would you like a cup of tea?"  
I was hoping he'd say no. I felt a bit uncomfortable with him.  
"I would, if it's no trouble. I'm sure you're up to your eyes. It's a divil moving house."  
I nodded my head. "Yeah, with children especially, you've so much to carry."  
"I wouldn't know."  
I hadn't expected him to answer like that, but I was curious then.  
"You've no children?"  
"No. And my wife died last year."  
"Oh."

I never know what to say to sympathise with someone. And I didn't know him from Adam, which made it even harder.  
"Was she young?"  
"Only forty."  
He looked at me dead on when he said that, like he wasn't a bit ashamed of me seeing the sadness in his eyes.  
"That's young," I said, turning away to do something.  
"Is himself out working?"  
"No. He had to go to a funeral in Dublin. He'll be gone for the night."  
I was sorry after I said that. Suppose he wasn't genuine? There's no other house for a few hundred yards.

He was looking at me so straight I had to keep doing things, fussing really, and my hands were still shaking.  
"Well", he said, going to lean against the sink, "Are you having a few problems with the house?"  
"Oh yeah. Well, there are two windows that won't close. I mean, I close them, but they open again. They're always open in the morning. Just slightly, but you'd be afraid of robbers, like."  
He grinned.  
"There's no robbers in Drumnashee, lass."  
He sounded like he was making fun of me or something, as if he knew I was one.  
"There's robbers and gougers everywhere," I said, kind of implying he might be one himself.  
"Well," and he said this in a real suave sort of a way, "the last time there was a robbery here was five years ago and that was a young lad who robbed his father of a farm of land." He got more sincere then. "You're safe enough here, lass."  
I was getting pissed off with this 'lass' craic.  
"That doesn't keep my windows closed," I said sharp-like.  
"You're right there."  
I could tell he was trying to suss me out. He was having a good look at my body too and he thought I didn't know.  
"The boys are sleeping in those rooms. I'd be afraid they'd catch a cold."  
"Is that right? Tell you what, I'll come back in the daylight and see what I can do with them."  
He was finished the cup of tea by then.

He was forward and a bit sarcastic but there was something nice about him at the same time. He seemed to be intelligent too, but sure what difference does that make? Look at Liam. Anyway, then he started asking me where I was from and when I said County Limerick, he said, "Oh I used to travel around there years ago when I was a young lad. That was long before your time, girl." He stopped and then, "Not that I'm old, mind."  
He has a habit of giving a kind of wink when he's trying to be funny. It could look silly but the way he does it it's nice.  
"Oh I'd say there's another clean shirt in you."  
"Thanks Missus".

He put on his cap, a navy blue one with a peak that made him look arty.  
"Thanks for the tea. It's all I drink now. Gave up the Guinness last night."  
He grinned, thought he was funny I suppose. He strolled over to the window and jerked his head sideways like he was going to talk about the hill. My heart jumped.  
"Any interest in doing a bit of cultivating?" he said.  
"What?" I couldn't tune in to what he meant.  
"The garden. You don't have to, mind, but you can plant it if you like."  
"Oh, no. I might as well plant a bomb as a vegetable."  
After it was out I realised it mightn't be the best sort of thing to say, him being from up north. But he laughed at it.  
"Everything I ever laid a hand on died."  
"That surprises me", he said in a flirtatious way. If he only knew the half of it.

"That hill," I wasn't too sure how to ask him, but he came in straight away.  
"Yes, what about it?"  
"What's it... I mean.... Does anyone live there or.... Has it a name?"  
He didn't say anything for a minute.  
"It's called Drumnashee, same as the town. The Ridge of the Fairies. People just call it the hill. The fairies live around about it and they like to have free rein. Don't ever interfere with their trees and bushes."

He sounded sarcastic when he said 'their' as if he didn't think they had a right to 'their' trees and bushes. He seemed to believe what he was saying. I think he's a bit loopers, but look who's talking.  
"Is that so?" I said. If he was crazy I thought I'd better humour him.  
"Anyway," he said after a minute, "I'll give you a shout about those windows."  
As he was strolling out the door he turned and said, "Will you tell himself I'll collect the rent on the last Saturday of every month if that's suitable? And be sure and let me know if there's anything wanted."

Monday 8th February: _  
_David was something else this morning. _  
_"Come on, get up," I said, "We have to go down to the school. Your daddy made an appointment with the principal and we'll be killed if we don't keep it. Come on."  
But he just lay there staring at the ceiling with a silly smile on him.  
"David, I'm not going to stand here like a half-eejit. This is your last chance. I'm warning you. Get up now."  
I didn't want to shout or Liam would come in and kill him.

It was as if he didn't even hear me. He kept looking at the ceiling like it was his favourite tv programme. He gave a huge smile and started to mouth words at the air. I stood there with my heart pounding for a few seconds. Then I made a lunge at the bed, but when I was about a foot away from it something stopped me. It was like an invisible wall and I couldn't get through it. It was probably only for a second or two and then I fell on top of him. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.  
"That's enough! Get up! NOW!"

He got out of the bed, grumbling and moaning, and I had an almighty job getting his clothes on because he didn't help one bit. Even at the school he was fierce sullen, sat lolling back in the chair with his hands in his pockets. No way would he sit up straight for me. A boy that loves school, that's usually well-behaved—I don't understand it. I don't know what the principal thought of us at all, with Brian grabbing at everything and swinging every which way out of my arms. God, it was a nightmare.

My nerves are bad today. I'm yelling at them all the time. My head is aching. I wish I had someone to talk to. I suppose Liam should be my friend but that's not the way it turned out. I can't talk to him at all. He's always making out that I'm stupid. I know I'm not exactly a genius, but I'm no dumbo either. He says I should be able to handle the kids myself, that's my job, but half the time I haven't a bull's notion. Sometimes I'm just terrified. I can't tell him that though. Jesus, I'd be afraid he'd have me locked up and I'd never survive that again. I'm bawling my eyes out now at the thought of the hospital.

Wednesday 10th February:  
I wish I had some dope. I'm pulling on these Rothmans for a kick but no dice. I'd love to go out and get plastered but Liam wouldn't let me. I might get around him to buy some stuff tomorrow when we go up for the allowance. I suppose in one way he's good because he keeps me out of trouble. And the kids too. Jesus, when I met him first I couldn't even think of having a family of my own. Not in a million years. But here I am. Not that it's all plain sailing. And I'm not exactly the best mother in the world. But they're healthy. If he wasn't so strict I'd probably go wild. I'd probably leave them. I'd be a junkie or something. I miss Cora and the girls. Lately especially. We used to have some craic! I loved Cora so much. She didn't have to be as good as she was to me. I look so much like her sister that died, it's uncanny. I suppose it made her happy having me around to look at.

"No-one gives a fiddler's fart about prostitutes," she used to say. "We could be lying in the gutter mangy with disease and you wouldn't find one good Samaritan in this Christian country to pick us up. Not one. Three girls dead in three years and poor little Breda one of them."  
She'd cry then because she loved Breda so much and she blamed herself for her going on the game.

"Tisn't the sex gives them AIDS. They're wise enough about that. They go on the streets because they have a drug habit, and then all that happens is they're shat on again. There's no let up, no opportunity for them. Like, we keep the respectable families ticking over nicely. We're a dumping ground for men's fantasies and men's violence. Look at it this way—we're like Christ, taking on the sins of the world. And we suffer for it. By god, we suffer for it. And who comes to our aid? No-one. No matter what happens to us, people just turn away. We don't exist. By Jaysus if we were gone in the morning, they'd feel it."

She was pretty intelligent, Cora. We read lots of books—biographies and stuff. I'll never forget the night she took me in. It was only supposed to be that one night and then I'd have to find a hostel or something. I was so green I didn't even cop what they were doing there beside the canal, herself and Babs. I was in a kind of dream-state, just after running away. I had walked a good bit after getting off the train, wondering what I was going to do next. I was hoping I might meet someone who'd give me a place to sleep for the night. I'd have gone with a man if he'd offered me a roof over my head. I suppose I had some vision of a kind fatherly type who'd take me home to his mansion and mind me without wanting anything back. The kind of thing that happens in films. I hadn't a clue where I was. Dublin seemed huge to me. I was very confused. It makes me shiver to think of it again.

The two of them came out of nowhere, strolling along as if they were in no hurry at all. When they saw me they exchanged looks. Babs came over. She's a big strong woman. I thought she was going to clock me.  
"Hiya," she said, and stood there staring at me. "Are you out for a walk?"  
"Yeah," I whispered.  
I was terrified she'd take me to the Guards or something. I thought they were just out for the night. It never occurred to me they were hustling. I should have guessed, but you didn't get that sort of thing down home. Not on the streets anyway. I could tell she didn't believe me, the way she was staring. I found out after how violent she was, but I had a fair idea at the time that she was dangerous. She was one of the women who used to beat up new girls moving in on the territory. I tried to look cool.

"I was here earlier on and I lost something," I said.  
They just kept staring.  
"She's from the country," said Babs.  
"It's late to be out looking for something, love," said Cora. "You're shivering. Go on home to your Mammy and Daddy or wherever you're stopping or they'll have the guards out looking for you. This is no place for you."  
There was something so kind about the way she looked at me and what she said, I went to pieces. It all came down on me like a ton of bricks, that I had no father, my mother didn't give a damn, no-one loved me, I had nowhere warm to go to, I was in second-hand clothes that were too big for me and the thing I was after doing stuck in my belly like a stone. On top of that I was bleeding heavy and the guards were probably after me because I stole £40 from Patcho's wallet for the train fare. I started to cry and I couldn't stop.

"What's wrong?" said Cora.  
She sounded genuinely worried, like. Just then a car drew up. I started to walk away. I wasn't too fast, the state I was in, bleeding, and I was barely over the stage of being self-conscious about my periods. Cora caught me and said, "Hold on, love. Babs, that's yours. Go on."  
Babs went to the car window and started talking real fast. Cora linked me and we started walking. Babs was into the car in a flash and off it went. I was still crying.

"Do you have a home to go to?" Cora asked me.  
I shook my head. Then I made a huge effort. I took my arm away from her, wiped my eyes with my sleeve and made to go.  
"Hey, come here a minute. After me missing a job to talk to you, the least you could do is hang around for a bit. I won't do you any harm, but someone else might."  
I stopped, mostly because I was so tired and lost. I really didn't have a clue what to do next. As well as that, I felt drawn to her. I kind of felt I could trust her.

"Are you running away?"  
I nodded.  
"From home?"  
"From the Orphanage." I barely got the words out.  
"The what?"  
I said it louder and spluttered a few things about how I'd got out because I wasn't being treated well. I was too ashamed to tell her the truth I suppose. I never told her the full story actually.  
"Where are you going now?"  
She saw a car coming. I could see her making a quick decision and she drew me across the road and down another street.  
"I don't know," I said. I was so tired I didn't care. "Maybe I'll jump into the nearest river."  
"You'll not do that anyway, so you can get that outa your head," she said, "I seen enough of that and I'll see no more if I can help it. There's places you could go alright, but it's too late. Come on."

She got a taxi and brought me to her place, that lovely little flat in Ballymun, very tidy and clean with pictures and drapes. I hadn't ever seen drapes before, didn't know what they were called till she told me. She gave me a cup of tea and a sandwich and told me to get into bed. It was like heaven. I was so exhausted all the fear in the world wouldn't keep me awake.

When I woke up, she was sleeping in the other bed. I wasn't sure what to do so I lay there planning. I couldn't stay with her anyway, I thought. I didn't have a clue who or what she was. I got up and went to take off the nightdress she'd given me. It was then I realised it was all blood and so was the sheet. I panicked. I puckered the nightdress under me, got the pads and a knickers out of my shoulder bag and waddled to the bathroom. It took me ages to get cleaned up I was shaking so much, but eventually I was sorted out. I was terrified, I'll never forget it. Big clots, there were. I thought I was dying. When I went back in she was awake and looking at me, real cool-like.

"My period...."  
I started to cry again. Me that hadn't cried in front of anyone for years.  
"You get them heavy, don't you? Have you pains? There's panadol and stuff in the kitchen."  
Her voice was hoarse. She was only barely awake.  
"I just feel weak. I'm sorry."  
"You'll get another sheet on the top shelf of the wardrobe there. You can put that one soaking in the bath. And the nightdress, soak that as well. Take a couple of panadol and go back to bed."  
She turned over and pulled the bedclothes over her head.

When I had all that done I got into bed but I couldn't sleep. I thought the best thing I could do was keep moving. If I could find the Social Welfare office, I thought maybe they'd give me some money and somewhere to stay. I was thinking maybe I could tell them I was thrown out of home. Then I was afraid they'd contact Mammy and I didn't want that. They might go and talk to Patcho. Of course they'd stop her allowance anyway when they found out I wasn't living there anymore. I didn't want that in case I was going to go back. Finally I decided I'd tell them I had to run away, and not to contact my family or my father'd come looking for me. I wouldn't give them any names or addresses or anything, see how I got on.

So when Cora was asleep and snoring, I sneaked out of the bedroom, I put on my clothes and I tried the door of the flat. It was locked and I couldn't find the keys anywhere. It had three locks, a chubb that you locked from inside and outside, a Yale that you opened with a big key, and a heavy chain with a padlock on the end of it for looking to see who was there. The windows all had locks too. When I realised I couldn't get out, I started to get an awful shaking in my heart and everything went fuzzy. The panic got worse and worse. I walked up and down, up and down. Finally I went and lay on the bed again, trying to get a grip on myself.  
Eventually, because I couldn't do anything else, I fell asleep.

That was it. The next day Cora told me her sister had died six months before and she was only nineteen. She showed me pictures of her when she was my age, fifteen. I swear to God, she was the image of me. The high cheekbones, the dreamy look in the eyes. She was blond though. She looked lovely then, but Cora said she fell away to nothing towards the end. She thought she must have got the virus when she was ten or twelve. After she died, Cora went on a kind of crusade. She made a promise to herself at Breda's funeral that she'd do all in her power to save other girls from the streets, and if not from the streets, then from the pimps and infection of all kinds. She became kind of the Big Mammy on the street. It was easier for her because she didn't have a pimp anymore. She was her own boss. Anyway, she really took a liking to me and told me I could stay with her till I sorted myself out. The way I'd been thinking about Social Welfare just wasn't on. I was under the age for any money anyway.

She gave me the lowdown on where to go and where not to go and told me her work schedule, and not to answer the door except to friends that she gave me the names of. We got attached to each other. She was like the big sister I never had. And I haven't even seen her for three years. I just walked away from her. How could I do that? What's in me that could do that? I can't write to her now, I'd be too ashamed. I've left it too long. I'm starting to cry again.

Friday 12th February: _  
_I was having a dream. David was in it, running across the field between the house and the hill. I was running after him and—the way in dreams you're moving but you're getting nowhere—that's how it was. _  
_"David, David." _  
_I was trying to call him but no sound was coming out. Suddenly he turned and faced me and his eyes had gone all strange, full of different coloured circles moving into each other and out again, like that thing I saw on the hill. I woke up and there he was, a few feet from the bed. His eyes were just like in the dream, with the colours circling in and out. I was paralysed with fright. I tried to say something but nothing came. I forced myself. I whispered, "What's wrong?" _  
_"I'm cold, Mammy."

His voice and the normal way he said it brought me round. I shook my head and looked at his eyes again. They were the same as normal. But he was tired. Liam doesn't allow the boys in the bed with us. He doesn't even allow them in the bedroom, so I couldn't understand how David risked coming in. He must have been very cold or a lot more frightened of something else than he was of his father. So anyway, I picked him up and started off back to his own room. He put his arms around my neck and laid his head on my shoulder. It was then I realised he was soaking wet, his feet too. I put him standing by his bed and started to take the sheets off, but they were bone dry. I couldn't understand it. The room was freezing. I realised the window beside his bed was wide open and there was a Siberian breeze sweeping through. I closed it and drew the curtains. They had been pulled right back and they were swaying to and fro.

"Did you open this?"  
He didn't answer. He looked so miserable I couldn't give out to him. I ran to the kitchen for the electric fire—I didn't care what Liam would say about using too much electricity—and I got another pyjamas out of the hot press on the way back.  
"How did you get so damp, David?"  
He didn't answer that either, just shook his head real miserable-like. I changed his pyjamas and lay down with him for a while. The poor thing was exhausted and sort of dazed. He fell asleep cuddled up in my arms. It was nice to be that close to him again because I thought he had been turning against me lately. But he had an odd look about him. I asked him the following morning was he out and he said no. He must be telling lies. There's no other explanation. It was like he'd been rolling in dewy grass.

The hill is staring in at us all the time, big and beastly. This is really getting to me. Malachy Gallagher must have forgotten all about the windows. I'll maybe go to a hardware shop in town and ask them if I can get good locks. Then I'll have to come back and ask Liam for the money. I can't tell him about last night because he'd only come down on the child.

Saturday 13th February: _  
_Liam isn't home tonight either. Today I was out the back hanging up clothes. It was a nice day, cold but bright. Brian was dressed up all warm in his playpen beside me, happy out, and David was kicking his ball round the front. I was thinking about what Malachy Gallagher said about the fairies. I thought maybe living by himself was driving him bonkers. As I thought that, I suddenly felt funny, like there was a hand creeping up my spine. I shivered and turned around. There was this big black thing pouncing at my face with terrible red eyes and an open mouth full of sharp teeth. I thought it was a giant beetle—the kind you'd find out foreign. I screamed, I fell back, I tripped over the clothes basket and hit my head off the concrete path. Next thing I knew I was being carried into the house. I was dazed and all that worried me was that Liam might think I was headed for another breakdown and phone the psychiatrist. I was put on the old sofa in the kitchen and whoever it was moved away. I lay there for a minute before looking up.

There was Malachy Gallagher tearing out the back-door. I was dizzy but I pulled myself up to see what was going on. I dragged myself to the window and saw David careering like a wild dog across the field beyond the garden, and your man after him like a mad detective. I straightened myself up and I went out after them. My head was spinning. Brian was fine, kind of amused at the activity. There was a dead rat lying about two feet from his playpen.

Malachy Gallagher caught David and started shaking the life out of him.  
Merciful Jesus, I thought to myself, he's a big man. He'd murder him if he hit him. What the fuck was he at? So I yelled.  
"Hey, leave him alone. Come here David." My head hurt when I roared. Pity I'm not so brave when Liam goes for him.  
Malachy Gallagher turned and looked at me, keeping his hands on David's shoulders. There was a thunderous look on his face. David broke free and backed away a bit.  
"I'm telling you, son," said Malachy Gallagher, "don't trespass on my property or you'll hear all about it."  
"What do you mean?" I said, walking up to him, rubbing my head. "If you hadn't chased him he'd never have gone into your field. Anyway you could have put up a proper fence at the bottom of the garden."  
He looked as if he was already thinking of something else altogether.

"Be careful David," he told him more softly. "He who loves the danger perishes by it."  
"What are you talking about?" said David. Then he said in a singsong voice, "You talk bullshit." Off with him like the hammers of hell back down the field and in home, throwing a handful of grass onto Brian's face as he passed him.  
Brian started bawling. Malachy Gallagher stood looking after David. I was just going to tell him that he was never to lay a hand on my son again when he came out with, "I'm sorry Mrs O'Malley. I forgot myself. I lost the rag when I saw him doing that to you. Sometimes young lads like that need a firm hand. I know from the football club."  
I said nothing. Coward as usual. There was a short silence between us.  
"Do you mind my asking how he got that mark on his neck?"  
I didn't answer him.  
"I mean, did he get it here?"  
"No," I said, and I started down to the house. Liam was due home any minute.  
"Are you alright?" he said and put out his hand.  
"I'll manage on my own thanks."  
He followed me though.

I picked up Brian. Your man lifted the playpen. I didn't like that. The way he did it as if we were friends or something.  
"It's alright," I said, but he carried it in anyway.  
When we got inside, Liam was just turning his key in the front door. No vegetables done for the dinner. When he saw Malachy Gallagher he was all smiles.  
"Well hello Mr Gallagher. Sorry I wasn't here when you called. It's good of you to drop back."

Liam always does that with people who have money, puts on an accent and licks them up to their eyeballs. He sounds stupid. Malachy Gallagher seemed to be humouring him.  
"Don't mention it. In fact, I was worried about those windows that keep opening. I brought a couple of locks that might do the trick."  
"What windows?" Liam looked at me.  
"The first time he called I told him about a couple of windows that keep opening."  
"You didn't tell me about them. I could have fixed them myself and," he looked at Malachy Gallagher, "not put this man to the trouble."  
"No trouble Liam. Sure it's my responsibility to have the house right for you."  
"Would you care for a cup of tea?" Soooo sweet.  
"Aye, I would," said Malachy Gallagher slowly, looking straight at him. Liam only half-looked at me and said, "Get a cup of tea for Mr Gallagher. I'll be having my dinner."  
"Dinner isn't ready yet," I said, turning away. "I have to do the vegetables." I could tell he was annoyed, even with my back turned.  
"What? You know I only have an hour."  
"I didn't judge the time properly. The meat will be ready in a few minutes...."  
"Jesus," said Liam. "You work your arse off and you don't even get a dinner when you come home. What do you think of that, Mister Gallagher?"  
"I think most of us are lucky to have a woman to put up with us, Mister O'Malley."

Liam scowled and stared at him. He can never understand when someone sticks up for women. I could have gone through the ground. Liam always belittles me but I mustn't be used to it yet. Seems like it hurts me more now, instead of less. It was the way Malachy Gallagher looked at him when he said it that really brought home to me how this is something he shouldn't do.

"Come on into the sitting-room and rest yourself while you're waiting," said Liam.  
"No," said Malachy Gallagher, "I don't like resting when others are working. I'll take a look at those windows if you don't mind."  
You'd know by Liam he hadn't a clue what the man was on about, but he knew he was being put in his place. Anyway, Malachy G went and got his stuff from the car. He changed the locks on the two windows and drank his tea while he was working. Liam didn't like it at all but he kept talking to him, asking him loads of questions. Malachy G kept putting him off. He was asking things about the land, what he was doing with it and so on. He didn't get one straight answer. I don't know whether it's that Malachy G doesn't like him or he doesn't like being asked questions or what. One thing is sure, Liam won't walk on him. I love to see Liam being put down because I haven't the guts to do it myself.

When Malachy G was finished he washed his hands and his cup (Liam was fuming) and then he said, "Right. Well, I'll be off. I'll call next week for the rent if that's alright with the two of you."  
I forgot he was asking me too until I saw him looking at me for an answer. I nodded and Liam said, "Yes that's fine."  
"Any problems let me know," he said, and off he went.

Monday 15th February:  
I get nothing out of mass but Liam says we must go every week now to make a good impression in the town. He knows a fair few people already, judging by the 'hellos' we got when we were coming out of the church. That's what comes of being a man and being able to go where you like. I know no-one yet. This fella came up to him, a big fat guy with a brown tweed suit and small eyes. Money hanging off him. He gave a big smile. All I could see was a mouthful of huge yellow teeth and a gold crown at the side, like the sun glinting on a row of headstones.

"Liam," he says, "Put it there."  
Then he looks at me and the boys, and he stays looking at me, giving me a right good once-over.  
"Mrs O'Malley," he says with this disgusting false smile, "I'm delighted to meet you." Horny bastard.  
"You've a fine one there," he says to Liam, and the two of them sniggered.

I felt like I was being sold. Maybe I was. He'd hardly do that to me here, would he? He'd hardly have shown that fella the photos and videos. I suppose he could have. It's one thing to sell them in Dublin and England where no-one knows you. There's no way I want to get a name here. The boys'd suffer too.

When the dinner was finished I took the boys out for a walk. I was really depressed. Couldn't stop thinking about that fucker at the church. Story of my life. Jim O'Donoghue, Liam said his name is. He's a County Councillor. Wouldn't you know! His wife and kids in the car. She's a tiny, fragile looking woman. The kids didn't look too happy either. I'm dwelling on things too much these times. Everything upsets me. It's like life was some kind of tunnel and you just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, not knowing where you're going or what's at the end of it or whether there's still worse waiting for you at the other end. I can't see any point to it at all. Everyone's out for themselves. Don't give a fuck who they hurt. If you're like me and you have nothing, you might as well be a rubbish heap.

Anyway we walked down to the town, me and the boys. It's not that far, and we went off the main street up to this estate they call Conception Park. Whoever gave it that name knew what they were doing alright because I saw three young ones, must have been only fifteen or so, and they were all expecting. That frightened the living daylights out of me. It was like an omen. Well, I'm taking the pill so I couldn't be, but every so often I get worried. When you're not actually doing something, like putting a condom on him, you always have doubts. But that's silly. Of course it works. For the number of times Liam does it straight anyway! All the same, there's always a risk.

David was fine until we were on our way back. He was chattering away like mad, not a bother on him, but then he got tired and kept wanting me to pick him up. The size of him! There's no problem him standing on the back of the buggy, but no way would he. I got fierce annoyed. I took his arm and shook him. This couple passing by gave me a filthy look and I realised I was shouting. It must have looked terrible. Sometimes I wish the two of them would just disappear.

I finally got him to stand on the back of the buggy, and by that time I was nearly in tears. He started bouncing up and down and driving me insane. We finally got to the turn off the main road and we were near home. As we were walking up the road I looked over at the little house nearest us. It has a weird appearance, painted that glaring pink country people like. It looks ancient and the lane up to it has grass growing down the middle. There'd only be enough room for one car on it at a time, I'd say. There was an old woman standing at the bottom of the lane as we came up. What did David do but wriggle down off the buggy and throw himself on the grass at the side of the road that was wet and mucky after the rain.

"Will you get up," I yelled at him. "It's filthy there."  
But he only starts pushing right down into the muck, lying on his belly and wriggling like a worm.  
"Will you get up!" I was really yelling at this stage.  
He stuck out his tongue at me. I couldn't believe it. I was so humiliated and hurt it was all I could do to hold back the tears. I couldn't cry in front of the woman. I wanted to look up at her and smile and shrug my shoulders like other women do—as much as to say, "Children again!" but I didn't think I could carry it off. So I stood there like a dope, trying to compose myself.

Next thing she says, "They all go through stages like that, God help us."  
That was a nice thing to say so I made an effort and nodded my head. I was wishing she'd go away.  
"Come on David," I said to him, trying to control my voice.  
With that he slapped his other hand down in the muck and I got a splash in the eye. I freaked. I pulled him up and gave him a few slaps across the head. He was screaming like no-body's business.  
"Aren't yee the people in Malachy's bungalow?" said the old woman in the middle of all this, as if we were at a picnic or something.  
I could have strangled her. How I didn't tell her to fuck off I'll never know.

She has this odd way of looking at you, as if she was studying every inch of your face and her green eyes getting wider and wider all the time.  
"Yeah," I said. I was in no state for meeting neighbours.  
"We all went through it," she said with a little smile. " 'Tisn't easy bringing up children. But I'll tell you, sometimes it's harder when they're grown, because you worry then but there isn't a thing you can do about them."  
Some women have a strange way of trying to make you feel better. She leaned over towards David.  
"What'll your Daddy say when he sees you like that? You should be good for your Mammy and all she does for you. God loves good little boys."

David didn't know what to make of her, I think, because he just stood there, looking down. I think the remark about his Daddy scared him. He'd be hoping I wouldn't tell his Daddy. Well, I never would anymore. He's too hard on him.  
She looked straight at me then and said, "My name is Hannah Brennan. If you ever need anything, you're more than welcome to drop in. We all need good neighbours. Sure no-one is an island, isn't that true?"  
She was still looking at me curiously, but I suppose she meant what she said.  
''Thanks a lot," I said. "I'm Jacqui (I nearly said Byrnes) O'Malley. He's David and that's Brian."  
"The baby is sound asleep, God Bless him," she said, sticking her face right down, close enough to rub noses with him. "Would you like to come up for a cup of tea?"  
I wasn't too sure.  
"Sure you might as well. I know for a fact David'd love one of my scones. Would you like a scone with lovely strawberry jam on it, Pet?" David nodded slowly.  
"He has lovely eyes, God bless him. He's the image of you."  
"Well, if it's no trouble? He's filthy enough to frighten a pig."  
"No trouble at all. The kettle is always boiling for a neighbour. And a bit of mud never harmed anyone."

So up we went. I was afraid the shaking on the old lane would wake Brian up, but no. He sleeps well, thanks be to Jesus. It took us a good few minutes to walk up to the house. I wouldn't like to be going up that lane in the dark. I could hear a dog barking all the time, and when we turned the corner just before the house, I saw him. He was tied to the barn on the right hand side of the lane and he was straining at the rope, yelping like mad. He quietened down when she petted him and started smelling towards me as if he wanted to get up my skirt or something. I hate dogs.

There was a Sierra Estate in the yard and it took me by surprise so I was staring at it and, of course, wouldn't you know, the heel of my shoe got stuck in a hole and I went splashing into a puddle.  
"The lane is a bit rough," she said.  
A bit rough? More like the face of the moon.  
"Would you walk far in them shoes?" she asked me. I'd say she thought I was a clumsy eejit.  
"I don't walk much really, but yeah, I don't mind them at all."  
She was eyeing my legs. I suppose she didn't like the mini either. I was beginning to regret saying I'd have tea.  
"I always wished I could wear high heels, but I have threatened fallen arches so I'm wearing low shoes ever since I was twenty."  
She said it like she was proud of it. I suppose it makes her feel important, having an ailment that sounds grandiose. 'Threatened fallen arches'. Like a temple about to collapse or something.  
"They say people born under the sign of the fish often have foot trouble. Do you follow the stars?"  
"I do, a bit"

That made me relax. We went in then and had a cup of tea and a scone. She took ages to make the tea. It must have been drawing for half an hour. It was very nice though. The house is tidy but it must be a couple of hundred years old. The walls are uneven and they look like they're falling in on each other, and she has these ropey chairs and a prehistoric range. We started on Astrology. She's a real Pisces, she says, romantic and all that, married for true love, mad about the bit of poetry. I told her I was Libra, 25th September. We're romantic too, but not as dreamy as Pisces people. I think we get into more trouble than they do. Being an air sign, we're always trying things out and getting knotted. Then she asked me where I came from and all about my family. I just told her the usual lies, that my mother and father were dead. Well, my father could be dead for all I know. Seeing as how I never met him, he might as well be dead. Then she asked me would I not like to go back and live in Limerick and I said no, the house had gone to my brother. She stared at me while I was talking, but I think it's just her way, as if she was storing everything I said in her mind.

There was a framed photograph on the wall, an old black and white one, carefully posed, of a woman with her hair swept back and tied with a big bow. She had a perfect face, long and elegant, with strong cheeks and proud, deep-set eyes. A bit like Meryl Streep actually.  
"Who's that?" I asked her, and of course, I realised then. "Oh. It's you."  
I was shocked. How can you change that much? Hannah is about my height, five eight, but her shoulders are hunched over, so she always seems to be coming at you. Her eyes are gone pale, although they're still an attractive green. In the photo it looked like she was blond, but she's snow-white now. Mind you, her hair is still thick and long. She wears it in a bun. Her face has sagged around the mouth and there's this permanent line between her eyebrows as if she did a fair bit of frowning in her time.

Her husband died last year. While she was telling me that she was studying my face like it was a map or something.  
"And the day after Dinjo died, God rest him, was when poor Aine Kelly—or Aine Gallagher I mean—passed away too, God love her."  
I hadn't a notion who she was talking about first and I showed it on my face because she said, "Your landlord's wife. Malachy Gallagher's wife."  
"Oh yeah," I says, "He told me that alright."  
"Did he tell you?" She seemed surprised. "That was a sad week in this house. Dinjo went on Friday, the first of May, and poor little Aine, she passed away on the Thursday. I always call her little, because that's the way I remember her. She was always and ever in this house when she was growing up."

She started to cry, not sobbing, just letting the tears run down her cheeks as she was looking at me. David was getting restless after finishing every last crumb of the scone, so I told him to go out and play in the yard. I wanted him out of my sight anyway.  
I waited for her to pull herself together. I can't stand people crying in front of me.  
"She was like another daughter to me, the poor thing."  
She thought for a minute and gave me an odd kind of look, as if she was testing me.  
"It's depression you know, makes them do it. Or a brainstorm, they say. The creatures. God and His Blessed Mother protect us."  
"Did she kill herself?"  
She looked as if she had assumed I knew and was sorry now for telling me. She nodded slowly.  
"That's sad," I said.

I think she wasn't too sure whether to tell me more, but she'd got herself so upset she had to go on.  
"They found her coat and shoes in the river." She looked into the distance. "And she left the note of course, saying she couldn't stay any longer, that she was going to a better place. The creature. She was so nice before she went away to England. I always remember her for it. She'd be going into town there for a message and she'd always call to see did I want anything. A nicer little girl to have a conversation with you'd not find anywhere. Full of chat. Full of fun."  
"She went to England?"  
"She did, after she left school, for a while. That's where she met Malachy."

She stopped and looked down, straightening her glasses as if she was thinking of something. After a minute she got up, she excused herself and went into another room that looked like her bedroom. She was gone a longish time and I thought I'd head off, so I started putting on my jacket. Next thing up she came from the room, nearly tripping over herself with speed, and she ran out the front door like something demented.  
"David!" she screeched.  
I ran after her, thinking he was after getting injured or something. She ran out around the back of the house and there he was, just looking across the fields and the road towards the hill. He jumped when he heard her. She stood with her hands on her wiry hips like a witch.  
"Come here to me David."  
"What'd he do?"  
I thought she must have caught him doing a peeping tom act. She didn't answer me, just stood there till he came a bit nearer. He didn't come right up to her though. Terrified, I'd say.

"Don't you ever stand looking at that hill again, d'you hear me? If you look at that hill too long it'll eat you up like a monster eating a fly for its breakfast." Her voice had changed to being sharp and high-pitched. I was afraid of her. She turned around to me.  
"Don't ever let him up there. No child plays up there. And he's not to stand looking at it or he might attract their attention. I'm telling you now."  
She collected herself a bit and bent down towards David.  
"There's a lot of strange things in the world, son, things you're better off staying away from. I know, because I'm older than you, and wiser."  
She put her hand on my arm.  
"That's the Hill of The Good People," she whispered, and she went towards the house. I went in after her to get the buggy. Brian was just waking up.  
"We're heading off now," I said sharp-like.  
She stood stock still, staring at me as I manoeuvred the buggy out the door. Then she made a sudden dive to the holy water font beside the door and she gave us a shower from it.  
"God and his Blessed Mother be with yee," she said as if we were going to war.

I don't think I'll ever call there again. She gives me the creeps. All the way down the lane I could feel her watching from the yard, standing there with her hands in the pockets of her housecoat and those queer cameras of eyes searing into my back.

Tuesday 16th February: _  
_How am I supposed to go on? I didn't realise how little sleep I was getting till I went over it today in my head. The boys have me up every morning at half seven and David doesn't get properly settled till half nine or so at night. By the time I get finished sorting out the house it's half ten or eleven. Is it the same for everyone? Liam doesn't get in till late most nights. I don't know what he does be doing. Whatever it is, he's always up to ninety. He's all worked up about the new business. He doesn't have much patience with the general run of people so it's going to be harder for him down here. You have to be chatty when you're taking someone's photograph. When you're collecting taxes you can have the manner of a pig. The people he likes to be with are bankers, businessmen, politicians, that sort. Plenty of time for them. me? I stay up every night to make a snack for him when he comes in.

Last night he told me to go off to bed and then, when I was just about to drop off, he dragged me up to pose for pictures. He wasn't doing much for a while after I got out of the hospital, but it looks like he's back on form again. It's funny though—in a way I feel I must still have something if he's taking photos of me. I was beginning to give up on myself.

Something's puzzling me about him and I only started thinking of it lately. Why did he let me have the kids? He never talks to them except to give out. He's always yelling at them. I think they drive him crazy. He's so careful about everything else, it's a wonder he didn't use condoms, or make me use something, or tell me to have an abortion. I mean, as soon as Brian was born, he wouldn't touch me till he was sure I was on the pill. And he's more into watching—and abusing me—than straight sex anyway. Thanks be to Jesus they're not girls. Boys are safer. He'd hardly do anything to boys. If they were girls they might be in front of the camera already. He couldn't be doing anything to the boys because I'm with them all the time. No. He's not that way inclined at all.

The way he's going on you'd swear he hated us. We're like a millstone around his neck. He's never here, or if he is, he's brooding or locked up in the studio. He never stops talking about money either. I asked him what he was going to do with the new photos. He sniggered and said, "Look at them when I feel low."  
"Are you going to sell them?" I tried to talk gently so's not to get his back up. "I mean, it'll be harder now you're not in Dublin, won't it?"  
He looked at me for a long time, not saying anything.  
"It makes no difference. It's only twenty-five miles away. And there's always the post. There could be some customers around here too."  
He looked up from the light metre he was holding at my vagina and smirked at me from under his eyebrows.  
"Are you getting coy, my dear?"  
As if coyness and me could never go together. As if I was Madam Slut.

Then, when I was putting on my nightdress, he got another idea and called me back.  
"I want you to do a tumble."  
"What?"  
"Do a forward tumble. I want to catch you in motion."

I'm unbelievably shattered today. Hardly said a civil word to the boys. Thank God for television, it keeps David quiet. He was happy with me last night though. This morning, rather. Said I was as good as any model, face, pose, body, everything. Of course, he said it like he was praising himself for finding me, but I took it as a compliment. He threw me twenty pounds.

Thursday 18th February:  
Liam has decided we'll sleep in separate rooms. Of course we never really slept together that much. But it means I'll have a worse job getting the boys to sleep, because they'll be in the same room like they were in Dublin.

A room of my own will be nice all the same. And he said I need to get to bed early a few nights a week if I'm going to keep my looks. I'm afraid he has some plan in his head. He's very quiet and sullen. He never wanted me every night anyway, but now he's getting fierce organised. I'll be getting to bed early—guaranteed—Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I can't figure it out.

I might get some time to read. I have to try and make a friend too. But the mothers at the school—they're so old and dull looking. All those drooping eyes and country cheeks. And the clothes! Jesus! Out of the last century. They look at me like I have two heads, like they're superior, like they have their little club and I have to fill out a form to get in. The conversation is so boring. "Nice day, isn't it? Bitter cold, isn't it?"

All the time looking me up and down out of the corner of their eyes. I've a good mind to put the wind up one of them someday and say something like, "Did you ever try it with a carrot?" I'd love to see the look on their saintly, little smug faces if I said that. You'd swear they never shat.

One way or the other, I'd be afraid to bring anyone to the house for fear Liam'd play up. Although I don't know. He might be nice to keep up appearances. It's just—I don't have much energy. I haven't had the heart for making friends—or keeping them—since Cora. And even though he's out so much I feel his presence around all the time. He's inside my head, stopping me doing things for myself. Just like that hill out there, a great brooding spider, watching its prey.

Monday 22nd February:  
A freak wind. That's what Liam said it was. A freak wind! This whole place is a freak wind if you ask me. He got ativan for me yesterday morning when he saw I could do nothing but lie there shaking and crying. Imagine! He went and got them in a chemist, I presume, without a prescription. He's some operator, probably spun them some story. Or maybe he's well in with a doctor. The couple I took really zonked me on top of the valium, but it sent me past caring. I think David must have looked after Brian yesterday.

What happened was—Saturday night, Liam was doing this thing using mirrors and the video camera. He's into fruit now. I was lying there like one of those stuffed pigs that kings used to eat in the old days. All of a sudden there was a wild, roaring sound, like wind and thunder together. I thought first it was a low-flying aeroplane. Next thing, there was an almighty crash and it sounded like some large object had smashed right through the house. I froze for a second, then yelled, "The boys!" I could hear them screaming. Liam was slower than me. That way he has of considering everything with his eyes narrowed so they look small and cold. He stood there listening. He was still contemplating by the time I had dragged myself out of the fruit stall and had my dressing gown on.

I went to the door but I'd forgotten it was locked. He finally decided to move and he unlocked it. The boys were frantic. The door of their room was off one of the hinges, David was sitting up in bed and Brian was bawling his head off, with a face like a tomato. The two window panes were completely shattered and they were literally surrounded by a massive scatter of glass pieces. I took Brian out of his cot and went to give him to Liam. He was standing at the bedroom door by this stage. He shrugged his shoulders and turned away towards my room, so I put Brian down on the hall floor. David's blanket was covered in glass. I rolled it back and helped him out. I thought of putting them into my bed, but when I looked at it, it was all glass too and my window was smashed. My door was swinging off a hinge as well. Liam went to look around outside, making sure he got the hammer from the kitchen first. He came back in after a short while. No-one there, he said, no sign of an explosion or anything.

"Shit. Fucking problems. You'll have to sleep on the floor in the sitting room."  
Me and the boys, he meant. He pounded off into the bathroom. Why didn't I say something to him? I was so shocked—but I never go against him anyway. Coward. I'm so disgusted over it now. His bed would have done all of us, but no, his comfort couldn't be disturbed.

I got some warm clothes from the hot press. Thanks be to Jesus there were some blankets Malachy G had supplied. I put the cushions from the sofa on the floor and the boys slept there. David put his arm around Brian, he was so tired. Normally he'd never do that. They looked lovely lying together. I suppose I do love them. They're all I have.

They went back to sleep fairly fast. I went and shook the glass out of the blankets. I put on my coat and hung them out on the line. If anyone saw me they would have thought I was a madwoman, beating blankets with the handle of a brush at half past one in the morning. Liam put a couple of pieces of cardboard over the window-frames. That's when he said it was a freak wind. He had come to that conclusion. He always has to have a conclusion, something to make him feel he knows it all. They were the same two windows Malachy G had fixed too.

"The wind went straight through your window, bee-lined across the hall and out through theirs."  
There was no damage done outside, that's what I couldn't understand.  
"I never heard of anything like that before."  
"There have been numerous documented cases in history. Look them up sometime."  
He gave me that sneering grin as much as to say, "Stupid, Stupid, Stupid." The usual. Like, what would I know about anything? He loves making me feel small and idiotic. But that was the least of my troubles because I was shaking and I couldn't stop.  
"Take a valium and we'll finish this off, fruit-pie. The food will be gone off by tomorrow night."

I don't know how I went back and finished off the session. It was after half two by the time I got as far as the sitting-room to try and sleep. Brian was rolling all over the place, messing up the blankets. David was twisting and turning. I couldn't get comfortable so I dragged in my own mattress. I was past caring about injury at that stage. Anyway I couldn't see any glass in it. I took Brian in with me and held on to him but there was no chance of sleep. He kept spluttering and rolling off. I probably wouldn't have slept anyway because my heart was pounding like mad. I thought at one stage I was going to explode. I'd come near to dropping off and I'd start shuddering. And that face that always comes down at me before I go to sleep—I couldn't let it come. I kept thinking about how horrible it was, and I kept my eyes wide open. But it was pointless because I saw faces anyway. Old men, men like soldiers, one like Napoleon, a Cleopatra face and old women with long, dirty, grey hair. I'd blink my eyes and they'd still be there. I'd rub my eyes and they'd still be there. They were everywhere I looked.

Eventually I slept for a small while, but when I woke up every muscle of my body was as stiff as a plank. I lay there crying and shaking. My heart was beating so loud I thought I was going to die. My head felt like it was going to split. It was morning at that stage. David started doing tumbles and poking Brian. Brian was bawling for his bottle. I couldn't stir. Liam came storming in and gave David a clout on the head. He was looking for his breakfast but I was literally stuck to the mattress. He could see how bad I was. I could hardly get a sensible word out, only gibberish, and I was talking non-stop. No hope he'd mind the kids of course, but he helped me up, gave me a cup of tea and a valium and went out to get the ativan. He must have heard something about them, that they were good, because I could have just taken extra valium. They calmed me down anyway and I slept last night. Liam even cleaned up the glass, which was amazing.

I feel better now, just a bit dopey. I took my usual valium today. I put the ativan away. I don't want to get into the habit of taking tablets. Next week I'll cut down to five mg a day, see how it goes.

Tuesday 23rd February:  
David didn't talk much about what happened Saturday night. I thought that was odd. He just asked me were we getting new windows. He's playing up though, being deliberately bold. Brian has diarrhoea again. Liam went up to Malachy G to see would he put in new windows, but I don't know if that's up to him. It wasn't his fault the wind blew them in.

It's shitty having no money. I can do nothing myself. At least in Dublin I had my own. I have to produce receipts now. And it's so hard to nick anything when you have two kids hanging out of you. That £20 I got from him last week hardly touched my fingers. I got a jumper for £12. Chips for David on the way home from school, a matchbox car for him and a plastic one for Brian. Two seven ups, tea, chocolate bars, and that was it. I needed the jumper—and it was cheap. Like, if I didn't buy something to wear, he wouldn't give me any more. He likes his woman to be well dressed. And I am. Thing is, he wants me to look well no matter how I feel or what money I have to do it. I'm good at it though. It's automatic with me. Even when I'm wrecked I put on make-up and do my hair, I shape it, jazz it up. I should have been a model. I live in hope.

I suppose it could be worse. If only he didn't make me beg for everything. He said I should count myself lucky because I'm being supported and so are the kids. If he could make a go of the Photography business he might feel better. Maybe we could get things together and be well off. Respectability isn't looking easy.

Thursday 25th February:  
Malachy G isn't half taking his time over the windows. When I asked Liam about it he said, "That's under control." So I presume he meant the big man was going to put in new ones. I have them completely blocked up now with strong cardboard. It's a good thing the weather is mild. And what about burglars? Liam says the same as Malachy G. "There are no gougers here." Men! They drive me bonkers.

I talked to Geraldine—that boy Gavin's mother—today when we were picking them up from school.  
"Gavin is great pals with David," she said. "It's lovely to see them making friends, isn't it?"  
I think Gavin is a right little shit, but she seems alright herself. Like, she admits he's wild.  
"Have you any interest in set dancing?"  
"Is that the Irish stuff? No."  
"Oh, it's great fun. We have sessions every Friday in the GAA clubhouse. They're great crack. Even if you don't know how. The beginners go an hour earlier and there's a class for them. We have a few drinks as well of course." She gave a tinkly little laugh. "It's a great social thing. My husband is mad into it. He speaks Irish. You should drag himself out to it some night, just to see for yourselves."

Well, I'd need to pump him full of drugs and prop him up before I'd get him within an ass's roar of a thing like that. Liam doing Irish dancing! The thought of it! The thought of me doing Irish dancing! I didn't let on anything to her though. I'm not sure how straight I can be with her. I just don't understand normal people.

"I don't know any Irish."  
"Oh, you don't have to know Irish. You get Gaeilgoirs there alright, but they natter away among themselves. I have my own bunch there and I needn't tell you, we don't talk a word of Irish. Tony and myself usually end up on opposite sides of the room at the end of the night."  
Another tinkly laugh, as if that was sort of funny and sort of nice.

I suppose I'll never have a life like that. She does seem happy. There are other women too, that ring up Gay Byrne and Gerry Ryan and those. They talk away about their marriages as if there was no more to them than eating a banana sandwich. They love their husbands and they're not afraid of them or anything. I don't think Geraldine will ever ask me up to her house. Like, we talk alright, but there's a strain. I don't think she knows what to make of me. This is a very odd town. Everyone's either very strange or very ordinary.

Friday 26th February:  
Hannah Brennan called me in today when I was coming back from the school. I didn't want to go in but she was looking so serious and beckoning with her head so there was no way I could refuse. For all I knew, she'd put a curse on me if I didn't talk to her.

"I just have a cup of tea made," she said. I'm sure! "You must be dying for a rest after that walk." I said nothing. "These are the best years," she said looking sentimentally at David. "When you don't have them anymore, you'll be looking back, wishing you had to walk them to school again."  
"I never think about the future."  
"Don't you?" She examined my face. "Do you live from day to day?"  
"I suppose I do." If you'd call what I do living. What goes on in that mind of hers? She seems to be summing you up all the time.  
There was a silence and then she said, "How are you settling into the house above?"  
"Fine. It's great really, compared to what we had in Dublin."  
"And, if you don't mind me asking now—it's not that I'm curious, I'm interested—does Malachy help yee out if yee need repairs done or anything?"  
"Well, he changed the locks on the windows. But sure, they're broken since last Saturday and he hasn't come to put in new ones yet. He said he would, like."  
I was wondering how much she knew about him.  
"Are the windows broke? God help us, it must be draughty for yee."

She didn't seem surprised. Sure she can see our house from her place no problem. With that stretch of fence instead of a hedge, we're completely exposed. She was just nosing. It must have killed her to hold out for nearly a week without asking me about it. I reckoned she thought we had a fight and I didn't want her spreading that around the town so I said, "It was that freak wind on Saturday night. It went right through the house. It smashed my window and the boys' window."

I slipped up by saying 'my window'. Although lots of women say that about their houses when they mean 'our'. I don't think it got past her all the same. Her eyes were widening by the minute. She crossed herself.  
"Merciful Jesus and His Blessed Mother save us."  
It gave me a chill the way she said it. You'd swear all Hell's Gates had opened  
"Did it do any damage here?" I was trying to keep things kind of sane.  
"No," she said slowly like she was announcing a death or something. "There was no wind here."  
"Didn't anyone else in the town hear it or see it?"  
She shook her head.  
"No. It was just your house." She looked upset.

How was she so sure it was just our house? She was really beginning to freak me out.  
"I'm on tablets since." I could have done with one right then. I don't know why I said that. It's probably all over town by now. I'm only taking the same amount as before. I think I wanted to give her a reason in case she ever saw me with them. Maybe I felt guilty. She reacted well, though.  
"You poor creature," she said. "It must be hard for you, moving to a strange place and knowing no-one. Sure of course you'd be upset. And not having your Mam to come and help you."  
That made me want to cry so I had to put my head down for a minute. She got all motherly.  
"You remind me of my own Patricia. She used to dress the same way as yourself, the short skirts and all that." She ran her fingers through her hair—that's a habit of hers. "I'm not saying anything against that at all now, I wouldn't dream of telling anyone what they should or shouldn't wear, but it wasn't how we were brought up. Our mother, God rest her, she'd think nothing of giving us a clout if she thought we were even the slightest bit immodest at all. That low even," she was drawing a line with her finger between her neck and her chest, "was considered too much. It's different now. And it's better now."

She stopped and contemplated for a while. I'm getting used to the stops and starts in her conversation.  
"But my little girl, she's a woman now of course, she went away to America to get work." She thought again. "Life is hard."  
She looked away into the distance, as if she thought she could see Patricia if only she stared long enough. Then she suddenly turned back to me again. "I suppose no-one escapes, do they I wonder?"  
There's something sad about her, or deep, bordering on sad.  
"Is she alright? Patricia, like?"  
She took so long answering I thought she wasn't going to.  
"Oh, she is I think. She writes and all that. But it's not a good way of life there you know. It's all running around and violence and divorce and God knows what." She shook her head as much as to say the States was halfway through the doors of hell and her daughter with it. "I've another daughter. Anne." She smiled at that. Anne must be her favourite. "She's in Dublin. And a son, Joe. He lives over in the mobile home with his wife. He's not long married."  
She sighed and stared out the window again.  
"Sensitive people find it hard going through life. I'm very sensitive. And you're sensitive yourself, I'd say."

She was being so kind again I found it hard to take. I'm really more at home when people are treating me rough. No-one ever called me sensitive before, but when she said it I thought yeah, maybe yeah, I suppose I am sensitive. There was another silence. Brian was pulling away from me, reaching for the breadbin and things on the table. He stood up on my lap and lashed out with his hands. He nearly knocked the artificial flowers off the shelf above the table.

"They're tiring at that age. Boys are tiring. But sure then they're so innocent. Little angels, God help us. You have to love them and mind them. Don't you?" she said in a baby voice to Brian and gave him a Rich Tea biscuit. She went to the door and gave David a couple of biscuits too. She stood there, looking at him sitting in an old cart, pretending he was driving a car.

"I was wondering whether to tell you or not," she said, coming back in. She sat down and smoothed out her skirt. "But they say it's better to know what's against you than do battle in ignorance. A lot of people don't believe in the things I'm going to talk about now." She stopped. "It's up to you to decide for yourself what you believe. I can only tell you what I see and what I have come to take as truth."  
Her voice changed, or rather, her accent changed. It was as if she had all this off like a cant, like a fortune-teller with a particular way of stringing words together and it's the same spiel every time.

"I mentioned the Good People to you the last time didn't I?"  
I said yeah, thinking here we go again.  
"Maybe you heard them called the Beautiful People?"  
"Hah?"  
"The Fairies," she whispered.  
"Oh, yeah."  
"There are such things as Forts where the Beautiful People, or the Good People, whatever you like to call them, where they live. And that hill over there, Drumnashee, is one of them."  
"Malachy Gallagher said that too."  
She stopped and studied me for a bit.  
"Yes. Malachy knows a lot about the Beautiful People. In the old days we knew to leave them alone and they'd leave us alone. We knew what we should and shouldn't do. But there were still people they put curses on. Strange things used to happen. A neighbour of mine one time—this is when I lived in Porta, when I was young—this neighbour was coming home one night along a dark road. Of course all the roads were dark in those times. Next thing, didn't he hear music coming from inside the hedge. He looked over and what did he see but a crowd of tall, ghostly people, dancing around in a circle and singing and playing music, and there was what he took to be a wedding going on. That was fine till they caught sight of him. In a flash they had him captured and they brought him into the middle of them. Well, they started to dance with him and he was a great dancer, so that went fine. He danced as long as they danced, and they danced until the dawn began to break. The music stopped and the people started to go down into the ground. They just walked into the ground as if they were going down a flight of stairs. Their clothes didn't even wrinkle. Some of them came up to him and they started to turn him round and round. He knew no more until he woke up in his bed."  
Too many pints, I thought to myself, but I let her off.

"From that day to this he hasn't spoken a word. Not one syllable has he uttered. But the strangest thing of all is, he was always trying to play the fiddle and could make no hand of it. Well, after being with the Good People, he picked up the fiddle off the dresser at home and played it like a master. To this day, musicians come to listen to him and study his style. And he's nearly seventy now. Like myself."

"How did people find out what happened? Did he write it down?"  
"Yes. He put pen to paper and wrote it all down."  
I wasn't too sure about that story. I still think it was probably the drink.  
"You know what I thought about that?" said Hannah, and she was waiting for me to say "What?" so I said it.  
"I thought, well, they took something and they gave something. They gave him something he really wanted and they took something he didn't need. He was always and ever a quiet man."

It was making my skin crawl listening to her. I was trying to hold Brian too, but I thought I'd get as much information as I could now I was there.  
"Did you ever see anything on the hill?"  
She looked at me in that slow, cautious way. Then she decided to tell me.  
"I hear music every month, on the first day of the new moon. And I've seen shapes, white and blue shapes, as if they were dancing up on top there."  
"Have you seen the People themselves?"  
"The music and the shapes, that's all I'm a hundred per cent sure of. But you know, I don't look there too often. I have a notion it's best to leave them to themselves."  
I didn't say anything for a minute. I felt confused, and a bit frightened too I suppose. It came to me then what she was on about.  
"Do you think the Fairies might have had something to do with the wind that broke the windows?"  
The silence again. And the look.  
"There's been stranger things known."  
"I don't know. I never heard stories like that. I heard about the banshee alright. She's supposed to follow the Macs and the O's. She'd probably follow Liam's family."  
Cora told me about that. Her surname was MacMahon.

"This isn't the banshee. The Banshee does nothing but cry and moan. She lets you know when there's going to be a death, that's all. The Fairies'd try and get their own back if they were disturbed."  
"Well I did nothing to them."  
"It doesn't have to be you they're unhappy with. The harm might have been done before you ever came here."  
"How do you mean?"  
"Maybe they don't want that house there. Maybe it's in their way."  
Brian was beginning to drive me mad. Hannah was annoying me too because I was as wise now as when she started talking.  
"I'd better go," I said, and I stood up.

"I'll tell you what you'll do now," she said, as if I hadn't said anything. "Before you go to bed tonight, leave a glass of milk and a slice of bread outside your back-door."  
I was flabbergasted.  
"That'll let them know you mean them no harm. And put two small branches from an ash tree in the shape of a cross over your front and back doors." She must have guessed I didn't know one tree from another, because she added, "That tree out there, leaning into the yard, that's an ash." She got all motherly again. "Will I break the branches for you? I will." And off she went.  
She came back in with her arms full of tree.  
"On no account are you ever to cut the twigs. You just break them and tie them. Use no steel or iron."

I felt like a right spare going home with a heap of branches in the basket under the buggy. Sometimes I wonder if I'm still in the madhouse, having some sort of dream or nightmare. I threw them in the bin in case Liam would see them and think I was going off the rails.

Saturday 27th February:  
Liam didn't come home at all last night. Said he went to Dublin and stayed there. None of my business what he does, according to himself. _  
_When we met first we used to have a few laughs. I suppose the children changed that. But it feels like I saw more of him in Dublin when we had two separate places. He seems to know loads of people down here. That's what he's doing out I suppose, meeting people. But there's no way he'd bring me with him. I'm thinking of Cora a lot. I'm sorry now I let him influence me so much. I should have kept in touch with her no matter what he said, but I thought he was right. After her brother got lifted for being in the INLA, he said I shouldn't be seen with her. I had visions of being lifted myself and taken away from David. That was stupid. I'm not much of a friend if I can't stick by someone when they're in trouble. No guts. And I miss Caroline, who was in the flat next to me. At least we could have an old chat. She was lonely like myself. We could babysit for each other the odd time too.

Whether it's moving house or what, I keep thinking back over things. Nothing is right. This isn't really a life at all. More like a bad dream. I've always been alone. No matter what I do, I end up alone. I don't know should I have waited and not got so involved with him. Maybe alone is how I was meant to be. But Cora thought it was the best thing when he asked me to move in with him first. A girl like me, it was either that or end up on the streets for the rest of my life, wrecked, beaten, dying young maybe. And the baby was coming. I wanted to do right by that one. As it turned out, we didn't live together too long anyway. He said it was because the house in The Liberties was so small. I wonder if this house is going to be big enough for us either.

Sunday 28th February:  
I can't believe we're only here a month. It feels like ages. I was fuming at Malachy G this morning, strolling in real casual, ready to fit the windows and us in danger of freezing all week, terrified the bits of cardboard would blow in and expose us to the elements. Half ten he arrived. Sure I mightn't even have been dressed. Sunday morning!

"There you are Mrs O'Malley," he says with a big grin. "I had a job figuring out what to do about those windows, what way to fix them."  
"Did you?" I said, sarcastic-like.  
"Now what I'm going to do is this. I'm replacing the frame so there'll be three wee windows at the side that you can open, and a fixed pane for the main piece. Thing about these places is you have funny electro-magnetic fields, so you'll just have to leave one of the wee ones open all the time to let the energy through. There are special latches on them so you can leave them very slightly open and still lock them in place. That should do the trick."  
He said all this while he was looking at the windows, taking off the cardboard and running his hand along the wood.  
"I'd better get started," he says and off he goes for his tools and whatever he had with him.

I thought he'd probably want his dinner with us so I was in a panic. I had three chops that I was going to do, but my cooking is real basic. I never cook for anyone except Liam. Malachy G looks like someone who might have had some fancy food in his time. Shit, I said to myself, he'll have to take me as he finds me.  
Liam likes his dinner at one. Brian was looking to get out of the playpen all the time, reaching for me and crying whenever I passed. David was mostly watching the putting in of the windows, but every so often he came into the kitchen and gave Brian a dig. I didn't feel one bit like eating when dinner was ready and Liam arrived. At least Brian went off to sleep then.

"Ah, Malachy,"—so he's on first name terms with him now—"You're on the job."  
"I am that," said Malachy G. "I was telling Mrs O'Malley that I'm changing the style of the window."  
And he gave him the spiel about the electro-magnetic forces and all that stuff.  
Liam nodded his head.  
"Did you hear that, Missus? Keep the top window open." As if it hadn't sunk in like.  
They sat down to dinner.  
"Thanks a lot, Mrs O'Malley. Are you sure it's no trouble now?"  
"Not a bit of it," I said, sweating.

He waited till I sat down before he started eating. I don't know if he's playing some game or what. Usually men just look at me as if they'd prefer me with no clothes on. Liam used to say I was a male excitement machine, I just couldn't help it. I was embarrassed all through the dinner, sitting next to him. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up and I could see his muscular arms with fine hair all over them and very light freckles. Smooth skin, not too rough and not too namby-pamby either. I found it hard to stop looking at them. He had his shirt opened down a bit and his chest-hair was peeping out. He wears this gold Claddagh pendant.

"That was lovely," he said when he was finished.  
"My wife is a very basic cook, Malachy," said Liam. "Plain food is what we eat in this house."  
Malachy G didn't answer him. I don't think he'd ever be a pal of Liam's. The way he looked at him was like he'd love to hit him a box. I'd like to be there if that happened.

Liam had to go back to work, so he handed your man the rent, slipping it to him like there was some sort of secret deal going on. Malachy wasn't having that though. He took the wad and counted it out on the table. I knew by Liam he was fuming because he doesn't like me to know anything about financial matters. Two hundred pounds.

"How's business, Liam?"  
"We're struggling at the moment, Malachy, but we should get by alright."  
"I heard you did a good wedding album for the Creedons. And you're no slowcoach either by all accounts."  
"Efficiency means sufficiency," said Liam.  
He loves these little sayings.  
"Aye," said Malachy G, real slow, looking at him suspiciously. "I suppose it does."  
"Well," says Liam, "I've a job at three. Will you be finished those today?"  
"Oh aye. I'm almost done. Can't have your family freezing any longer."

When Liam was gone he started working again straight away. He seemed to be getting on well with David, because he let him hang around while he was working and he was showing him the nails and the hammer and the putty and everything. Liam never talks to him hardly. I went in to see if he wanted a cup of tea but he said no, the work was finished.

"I used to do this sort of thing for a living," he said. "I employ other people to do it now."  
"Do you build houses and stuff?"  
"Aye. Mostly in Dublin at present. I built this house."  
"By yourself?"  
"More or less. I had help of course. I'm not Cuchulainn—almost but not quite." He winked at me. He seems to be in good humour all the time. My cheeks got hot.  
"Are you settling in alright, lass?"  
"Yeah, it's fine. I like the house."  
"Do you?" He gave me that straight, asking look.  
"Yeah. I mean, we have had the window problems, but... like, it's comfortable, you know. With the children and all. There's a bit of space."  
"Aye, and the wide open spaces as well. Can't beat them, can you? Good for the body and the soul. Have you met the neighbours?"  
"I met Hannah Brennan down the road."  
"Oh Hannah? She's the best. Great woman for stories. Her son Joe helped me a bit with the building here. Hannah'd be a good friend to you if she took a liking to you. Of course she's nearly seventy, though you'd never think it."  
"I don't know. I think she looks old enough."  
"Ach, when you're young and pretty, you think anyone with a grey hair is an old fogie. What age are you yourself, twenty-two?"  
"Twenty-three."  
"Not far out. What age would you put me at?"  
"I donno. Forty-five?"  
"Close enough. Forty-six. Old enough to be your father."

We said nothing for a minute.  
"Are your parents alive?"  
"No. They're both dead."  
"Did they die young?"  
"Yeah. A car crash. The farm went to my brother."  
"What part of County Limerick are you from?"  
"West Limerick."  
"Whereabouts?"  
I'm getting sick answering these questions.  
"Castleduff," I said. "You probably never heard of it."  
"I know it well," he said. "I drove a truck for my uncle for a year before I went to England. Yeah," he smiled. "Castleduff is a good town."  
I shrugged. Nothing good about it as far as I'm concerned.  
"What part of Donegal do you come from?" I asked him to stop him looking at me.  
"Glenties. Ever heard of it?"  
"No."  
"A little place near the Blue Stack mountains. Did you learn about them in school?"  
"No."  
"Ach you must have. Maybe you've forgotten."  
"Would you ever go back there?"  
I didn't care whether he would or he wouldn't. I just ask people the questions they ask me because that seems to keep them happy.  
"No. There's nothing there for me now. I was in England for nineteen years. My Mother and Father are dead and there's no love lost between myself and my brother. My sister is over in Manchester. I suppose we're in the same boat, yourself and myself."  
"How do you mean?"  
"Well, we're both blow-ins and neither of us has a family to speak of. Of course you have a husband to look after you." I snorted before I remembered myself. "Or maybe it's you do the looking after?"  
"Oh he's not the worst." I felt myself redden. At that moment I was so unhappy and lonely I could have talked away and told him everything. But I think he was just flirting with me.

He was cleaning his putty knife in the kitchen and he says, "Maybe you'd like to drop up to the house sometime?"  
"Your house?" I was shocked, although I kind of guessed he liked me alright.  
"Aye. You might like to see it. I'd make you a cup of tea for a change."  
He grinned and widened his eyes. I just looked at him.  
"I grow vegetables and herbs. I can give you a few plants if you like or give you a few instructions if you want to sow seeds."  
I didn't know what to say. I didn't believe him, that he just wanted to be nice.  
"That chimney over there, is that your house?" I was talking very low and trying not to cry. He unsettles me.  
"Aye, that's it. It was my wife's parents' house. We came home to look after them, and they left her the place. We thought they'd live here in the new house. It would have been more manageable for them, but they never did. And neither did we. They died three years ago, within two months of each other. And then Aine... as well."

He took a breath before he went on.  
"The farmhouse is a hundred years old. We did a lot of work on it and it's looking good now. I'm hoping to start a healing centre there as soon as I can sort out the financial details. Aine and myself were planning that before she went."  
He looked out the kitchen window at the hill as if he saw something on it. Then he turned and had a dekko around the kitchen.  
"Have you any other problems? Anything else besides the windows giving trouble?"  
"No. Not really."

What could I say like? That I was seeing faces in the hill and David was getting up in the middle of the night with coloured spirals in his eyes? I didn't want another spiel about the Fairies.  
"No?"  
I shook my head.  
"How's the young lad? Is he settling in?"  
"Yeah. I think he's getting used to it now. I suppose it's a big change for him after Dublin."  
"Just a word of advice," he said. "Don't let him go next or near that hill there, sure you won't? It's wicked tricky to climb, with the brambles and furze. And you wouldn't know who'd be up there."  
"Like the fairies?"  
"Aye," he said, slow and serious, "the fairies."

Monday 1st March:  
I've been thinking about Castleduff and Patcho. Nothing since then ever hurt so much, in any way, physically or mentally. I was thirteen when it started. I was with Cora six months before I told her about it—the bit I told her. She said something like it happened to most of the women she knew. I thought, what a world. Is that what we have to go through? That's another reason why I hung onto Liam.

When I told Liam I was pregnant the first time, I fully expected him to want me to get an abortion. I was prepared for a break-up because no way was I getting rid of the baby. I had to face it this time. But instead he just thought for a few seconds and said, "Will you marry me, then?" I was feeling so emotional at the time, I was thrilled. Only the next day I had doubts. I went to Cora with my troubles. Who else? Whatever she told me to do, I did.

"He's a good catch, Jacqui," she said. I remember it well. She was sitting on that big old armchair she had with the goldy-brown velvet covering. It was the middle of the day and we were having coffee. She wasn't long up. She had her dressing-gown on and her hair was down around her shoulders. The sun came in and made her red highlights sparkle like jewels.

"He's not dirty. He doesn't hang around with dirty women, he just takes photos. He pays what he promises. He has a good job in the Taxes. He works, for Chrissake. He's a cold fish alright, but he has a bit of class. He treats you well, doesn't he? He doesn't hurt you?"  
"Not really. But...."  
"But what? He doesn't hurt you?"  
"He doesn't just take photos. He does things, lots of things besides sex. It doesn't make me feel good. I feel like a... I don't mean to say anything against you, Cora but... I'm his whore.... Like, I don't want to be a whore but that's what it is. I give him sex, and he buys me drink and drugs and clothes."

"Look, love, come here." She went to the window and I stood beside her. "D'you know all them women out there? Not just the Ballymun women like, the uptown ones, the women shopping on Grafton Street, the women in good houses, the women in offices—all of them, every last one of them is a prostitute one way or another. Why d'you think they spend all their money on clothes and make-up? So's they'll please men. So's they'll catch a man who'll reward their efforts and keep them in style for the rest of their lives.

"You get these respectable married women, they have a headache every night for weeks and then when they want something they turn into the sexiest thing since Marilyn Monroe. Any woman says she never sold her body is a liar. Men have their muscles and their money. We have sex and our heads. You do the best deal with what you've got."

I couldn't think of anything to say. It sounded true. Still does, although I'd like to believe there was something else. Like, lots of women have real jobs and they don't need to give sex for money. It must be different for them.

"You're going to have his baby, Jacqui, and he's prepared to stand by you. He didn't ask you to have an abortion. He didn't dump you. He wants to marry you. There's not many women, whether they're on the game or not, have a man like that."  
"I think he wants to own me, Cora, kind of like a trophy or something. His own pet whore."  
"Have you been listening to me at all for the past ten minutes? Princess Diana is a pet whore. Cut your losses, child."

She got all soft then and she said, "Look, Jacqui, I don't want to upset you. I only want the best for you, you know that, don't you? Don't you know that? Don't you know I love you? You're like another little sister to me. I couldn't bear to see you going the same way as Breda. What's going to happen to you? You haven't the education to get a decent job. You've no money. You've no sense. And you're going to have a child. You can't have life every way. You get some things good and some things bad. Liam O'Malley is the child's father and he's prepared to support it. Life is no fairy-tale, love. You can read books and watch TV to your heart's content, but never expect life to be the same. That's from an old girl who knows what's what more than most."

There's been no talk of marriage since we checked with the Registry Office and found out I'd need my parents' consent because I was under twenty-one. Then Liam reckoned it'd make more sense for me to claim the Lone Parent's Allowance and that was that. Maybe we should get married. It might help us. Oh I don't know.

I suppose Cora was right. There's always something lost and something gained. Still, I'm not satisfied at all.

I love holding Brian close and kissing him, and when he puts his hands up and feels my face, or when he's snuggled into me, it's really nice. I know he just loves me and needs me. David the same, but he's not as affectionate now as he used to be. He still cuddles up to me though, whenever I'm telling him a story or we're watching tv. I suppose I have that. And I'm lucky they're healthy, because I'm not into watching them for every sign of infection or every tiny germ. But they still don't make me happy. I feel drained all the time, dragged down with them. It's an effort getting my legs to move sometimes. I actually have to think about walking. I have to think myself out of bed in the morning. I'm counting the days to when they'll be able to look after themselves, wondering will I last it. I even thought of giving them up for adoption, but I don't think I could live with that.

What I want is for Liam, or some man, to really love me. And for me to love him. And not to be afraid. To be treated well. To be respected. Not to have to account for everything all the time. To be able to hold my head up. Not to have men looking at my body and thinking, that's all she is, a body. And Liam thinking that's all I am. But the truth is if I was much more, wouldn't I have done something by now? Wouldn't someone see something different in me? What can I do? All I'm qualified for is having kids and selling my body. I won't say bringing up kids, because of my history. What happened with David, a good mother wouldn't have let that happen. He'll always have that mark on his neck.

Wednesday 3rd March:  
David doesn't seem to be friends with anyone at school. What Geraldine said, that himself and Gavin were pals—they're not really. On the way to school and coming home Gavin races after David but David takes no notice at all. He actually pushed him away today. He told me he plays by himself in the yard. I think he's turning into a loner. That can't be good.

I had this dream last night—after the session with Liam. I dreamt I was back home and I was going upstairs to bed. I was wearing my pink nightdress, the one Mrs Farrell gave me because Miriam had got it for a present and it was too small around the shoulders for her.

I was going up the stairs wearing this and Patcho came in the front door.  
"Where d'you think you're going? To your pretty bed is it? I can see your arse from here and you're stinking. Come down here till I clean you up."  
I tried to say no and the sound didn't come out. I started crying and he said, "Stop whinging, you stupid bitch. Come down here now or you won't be able to lie down for a year."  
He grabbed my hair and pulled me down. He slapped me across the face. He tore off my lovely nightdress and threw me against the wall. He turned me around and stuck himself into me. I felt the pain. I actually felt the pain in the dream.

Mammy came in and she looked at me all bleeding and there was... stuff... on the floor, and she said to me, "Oh you filthy thing. You stink." The two of them kept saying it. "You stink. You stink. You stink."

When I woke I was sitting up in bed and I was pouring sweat. It was so real it took me a while to realise I'd only been dreaming. I turned on the light and sat on the edge of the bed for a while. I started shivering so I put on a t-shirt and lay down again with the small lamp on. Suddenly the door of my room shook and opened, just a bit, but more than it would if it was just something wrong with the catch. I sat up, expecting David, but no-one came in. I was still terrified after the dream, so my heart was thumping loud enough to wake two nations. I had to get up. I couldn't rest till I made sure there was no-one there. I pulled open the door real fast. No-one outside. I looked up and down the hall. No-one. Then I ran and turned on the hall-light. I checked all the rooms, first the boys' room, then the bathroom, the sitting-room, the kitchen. I checked the front and back doors and looked out the windows. There was nothing unusual. The top windows of the three little ones in my room and the boys' room were off the catch like Malachy G had told me, so there shouldn't have been another 'freak wind'.

Finding nothing didn't make me feel any better. I lay into bed, but every little creak sent a convulsion through me. I took another sleeping tablet. The one I had taken earlier hadn't done much good. I had some job getting out of the bed this morning, but at least I got some sleep. I'm terrified now tonight after that so I'm taking two sleeping tablets first off. I was trying to stop taking them but sure if it makes life easier....

Would Liam be trying to frighten me? Or checking I was here? It's not his style though. He knows I'm here. Where would I go?

Thursday 4th March:  
No dream last night but I woke up thinking I saw my dead baby's face flying around the room. I kept looking away but I'd see it again no matter what I looked at, the door, the wardrobe, every corner. I don't know how long that went on for. I turned on the light, went out to the kitchen, pure dopey, and got a drink of water. I was trying not to think of the face but my mind was dwelling on it, especially the colour, that icy blue colour it had. I looked out the window and thought the hill was staring in at me. It seemed closer than ever. I was so freaked out I got a piece of bread and a cup of milk and put them outside the back door. The bread was gone this morning. I nearly lost my life first, but then I thought, sure a bird could have taken it, or a dog. Because the milk was left.

I'm hitting David a lot. I called him names today too. I always cry my heart out after. I know I shouldn't lose my temper. I feel so guilty when I hear all these people on the radio and telly going on about child abuse and how wrong it is to hit children and everything. I was abused and they say most people who abuse children were abused themselves. I suppose when I yell at them or hit them it affects them, but what am I supposed to do? David kicks Brian whenever he gets out of the playpen. The only thing to make him stop is a slap. I can't cope at all. I'm going from morning till night and I'm strung out from watching them all the time.

David keeps wandering off. I found him down the town today. Yesterday he was nearly over at Malachy G's place. If he's not wandering, he's clinging to me and whinging like a hurt pup. That whinging drives me insane. My nerves go berserk. I start to shake inside. What I'd like to know is does every woman find it this hard? They never talk about it on Live Line or Gay Byrne. They just go on about how they love their children and what they'd like to do for them. They never say they'd like to kill them. That's how I feel right now. Oh God, if you're up there, forgive me for what I think, and for what I say without thinking. Forgive me for what I did. It was one bad thing. One evil I did because there was evil done to me. I would never do it again. Dear God, believe me. I would never ever hurt them like that.

Monday 8th March:  
I feel better today than I have for a while, thanks to Malachy I suppose. Yesterday I was so down, I took the boys up the road after dinner and called in to the big house. Liam was covering a match for the Leader. It was a nice walk, and I'm not exactly one to appreciate nature, like. There was something uplifting about the quietness and the smell of the hedges and grass. We stopped to look at some cows grazing in one of the fields near the hill. A few of them came right over as far as the gate and I was afraid of them, but I pretended I wasn't for the boys' sake. I reckoned it must be the same as with dogs; if you don't show them you're frightened they won't mind you. Later on, fool that I am, I let it drop to Malachy that I was afraid of cows.

"Didn't you tell me you were brought up on a farm? Did you never have to drive them or milk them?"  
I went blank. I couldn't remember when I told him that story  
"No, I never did the milking. I didn't like it."

He was inside reading the paper and watching the match when we arrived. He saw us from the window and came to the front door.  
"There's a grand day, Mrs O'Malley. Out for a stroll are you? And how's David?" He bent down to him. "Put it there, son." David shook hands with him. "Are you looking after your Mammy, son?" David nodded. "Those windows didn't come in on top of you again, did they?"  
"No," said David.

He patted Brian's head and said to David, "Bet you can't guess what I have in my house for you and your brother?" David shook his head. "Chocolate biscuits. Would you like a few?"  
David nodded furiously and we went in. It's a big house, two-storey, painted white. The doors and windows are dark red and it's really attractive looking. He has a big lawn at the front with flowers along the sides and shrubs and two funny looking young trees. Monkey Puzzles he told me they were. I don't usually take much interest in these things, but his place is so nice I took a bit of notice. He's so full of it himself, you'd have to say something.

Inside the house is real comfortable too. It's cluttered with plants, ornaments, weird looking statuettes that look African or something, chimes hanging from the ceiling (I only ever saw them in films). Then in one room he has wall to wall bookshelves with loads upon loads of books. The vast majority of them are about healing as far as I could see. Heal your Soul, Spiral of Healing, Fields of Life, White Lands, Hands of Light. Stuff like that. Then there was Gray's Anatomy and a Herbal Encyclopaedia. I was looking at them, wondering if he had read them all, when he said, "Do you read much?"

"Yeah," I said, "I read a good bit. Novels and biographies. I like biographies a lot."  
"If you want to take one down to look at, you can. But I don't lend them, no offence to yourself or anyone else. If you lend books, you find you never have them when you want them. I'll go and make the tea. Come on David, will we look for those biscuits?"

I was looking through Hands of Light when he came to tell me the tea was ready. I didn't really want to put it back up. I think I could do with a bit of healing myself. He gave us scones and chocolate biscuits, the digestive ones with dark chocolate on top. I can never afford them.

After David had stuffed himself, Malachy said, "If I gave you a spade and a wee bucket would you play in a corner of the back garden there? As long as you stay where I tell you now!" David nodded. "I'm going to plant vegetables out there and I have to have the earth just right for them. If there are any stones you can put them in this bucket for me, alright son?"

He seems genuine, but I started getting a bit nervous. Maybe I shouldn't be there at all like. Him being so nice was a bit fishy. As Cora says, there's no such thing as a free cup of coffee.

Anyway, David went off with the spade and bucket, and they weren't that 'wee' at all. Of course he was delighted to have men's things to play with. I could see him from the kitchen window. Malachy seemed to be watching him carefully too.

Brian nodded off in the buggy. Malachy came back in after showing David what to do and settled himself in the armchair opposite mine, beside the range. It was cosy in one way and uncomfortable in another because I knew he was going to say something and I was afraid what it might be. Afraid of myself as much as him.

"You have a dreamy face, lass. Do you be thinking all the time, or daydreaming?"  
"I don't know. I suppose I think a fair bit. Everybody does, don't they?"  
"No. Everybody doesn't. People have different gifts, but most people don't think all the time, not deeply anyway. I don't think all the time myself. Not like you do, I'd say."  
I was a bit put out that he was analysing me.  
"I mean, if something happened me today, I'd sort it out as well as I could today, and if I had to, I'd do something about it tomorrow, but I'd sleep the night in between. I don't think you'd do that."  
"Is that why you always look happy?"  
"And you always look sad?"

That riled me. How could I always look sad? My picture has been in Liam's stupid porn mags for five years and it makes men happy to look at me. I'm always smiling, unless my brain is giving my face the wrong message. But I was too fed up to get mad, so it made me feel like a failure. Like, I'm letting the world see through me too much.

"I'd say you wouldn't forget things in a hurry. Mind you, there are some things I don't forget either."  
"I'm hurting no-one but myself." What he said wasn't an insult but I kind of felt it was none of his business.  
"Why should you hurt yourself?" he asked softly.  
I was taken aback. Then I saw he was looking at me for an answer.  
"I never looked at it like that."  
"Did you not?"I felt like we were playing cat and mouse or something. Maybe I shouldn't have come. I got up.  
"I'll be going now in a minute. Liam might be wondering where I am."  
"Liam is covering the local match. He won't be back for a while yet. Take your ease, lass."  
How did he know Liam was covering a match? Maybe he had met him earlier on?

"Look, I want to tell you a few things that maybe you haven't heard before, Mrs O'Malley. Can you spare a few more minutes?"  
I sat down.  
"You can call me Jacqui. I don't like 'Mrs O'Malley'."  
"Right enough, you're too wee to be a Missus. You can call me Malachy—when you call me."  
And he gave one of his flirtatious winks. I couldn't be attracted to him, could I? He's twice my age. It only struck me then I haven't ever really been attracted to a man. I only took what was on offer, or was forced to take it.

"I've mentioned the Fairies to you, but I'm not sure you know what they really are.  
I cringed. Not this again. I don't understand any of it. Was this going to be like another session with Hannah Brennan? I was tired of all this superstition.  
He settled himself to speechify.  
"Calling them Fairies makes them sound silly and fanciful. They're actually spirits, or elemental beings. Some of them definitely used to live in human bodies but some of them seem to belong to the spirit world only."  
He should have had a pipe in his mouth, like a storyteller.

"There's a lot to tell about them, and there's a lot I don't know. Basically, I just want to tell you that, unlikely as it seems, they're real. They're individuals, personalities like you and me, but they can unite together into one force. That's energy force mind you, not armies like in the old tales. They can move from place to place in a split second. They call themselves the Sí. That means the Hill People. But we call them a few other things, like the Beautiful People. They're beautiful in the sense that they're in what I call the celestial state."  
I gave him a blank look.  
"That's when all the energies in your body have transcended the form of your body itself." Now I was blankety-blank. "Are you with me?" I shook my head. "You're acquainted with the soul?"  
"The soul? Of course, yeah."  
"Well, that's what the Sí are like. They're like the souls of people, without the bodies. Mostly they're invisible, but when they want to they can appear in human form. It's like having a body coat hanging up somewhere that you can put on or take off as it suits you. The thing is—the Sí can take whatever shape they want. They can be dogs or cats or rats or flies even."

I don't know why I said it.  
"Did you tell Liam all this as well?"  
He seemed surprised. "No I didn't." He stopped up for a second. "Will you be telling him?"  
"I don't know." I think maybe I wanted to test him. "He'd think it was bullshit."  
He looked at me for a few seconds, tilting his head back and looking from under his eyelids. "Don't throw pearls to swine," he said.  
"Hah?"  
"If your husband would think it's a load of fiddlers', I don't see any point in telling him."  
"Why are you telling me? I'm not sure I believe it either."

He got up and walked over to the window. He was very serious now. It was like he had a lot on his mind and didn't know how to weed through it all and say the best thing.  
"The young lad, has he been straying a bit?"  
I wasn't sure what to say first, then I said, "Yeah."  
"At night or in the daytime?"  
"Daytime." I let on I was shocked by the suggestion that he might have been out at night.  
"The hill has a mighty pull on some people. Especially children and young women. They're more attracted to the other world, I think."  
He turned and looked straight at me. I avoided eye contact.  
"I'm worried about him, Jacqui. I'm worried about David." He stopped for a second. "If I'm honest with you, can I trust you not to repeat what I tell you?"  
"Yeah, I suppose."  
"More definite than that."  
"I'll keep the secret."

I was intrigued now, and I didn't want to go without hearing what he had to say.  
"My wife, Aine, I told you she died last year."  
"Yeah."  
"Well, she didn't die in the normal way."  
He seemed to find it hard to get it said, so the fool jumps in to help him.  
"Yeah, I know."  
"You know?"  
"Hannah Brennan told me."  
"What did she tell you?"  
"That she... committed suicide."  
He shook his head.  
"We found her coat and shoes in the river, but she didn't kill herself. Well in a way you could say she did, but the truth is she went to a better life than this one, or a life she preferred anyway."  
"That's what people say." He seemed so upset, I was just saying anything so he wouldn't cry in front of me. I couldn't handle that.

"What? What people?"  
I was confused then.  
"I mean, people believe in Heaven like."  
"No." He sat down and gathered his shoulders up." Aine was taken by the Sí." I like the careful way he pronounces her name.  
"Taken by who?"  
"The Sí, the Fairies, the Beautiful People; sure aren't we talking about them?"  
He must think I'm a right dope.  
"Oh. Yeah."  
"Have you heard of people being taken? In the old stories? Changelings? No? Well that's what happened. The way they do it, they more or less hypnotise people. They lead them away in an entranced state. You hear the music and you dance."

He got up again and went to the window. Then he paced up and down a bit. He was making me nervous.  
"Once you get interested in them, they don't let you go."  
He stopped and leaned up against the table with his arms folded, looking at me.  
"So... what... I mean... where did they take her?"  
"They kept her with them. She's one of them now. She does what they do. She's in the hill up there."  
He turned and gazed out the window as if he could see her in the distance. It wasn't just sad he was, he seemed to be boiling inside. The same kind of temper he was in when he ran after David that time.  
"In the hill?"  
"Yes. In the hill. Or on it. Either under the earth or on the earth. I'm not sure how they do it, but they're there alright. Look," he says. "Come here."

I went over to him. His garden is very big, more like a small field really. David was standing at the other end of it, facing the hill and swaying from side to side. Malachy looked at me. "That's the kind of thing I'd worry about."  
He was heaping problems on me that I couldn't understand. I forced myself to talk.  
"What's happening? Is he listening to their music?"  
"Exactly."  
Our eyes met dead on. I felt tears coming.  
"Then why can't we hear it?" I almost shouted at him.  
"Maybe it's a private show. You hear them inside your head, not with your physical ear."  
"What am I supposed to do?"  
"I'll tell you what you'll do. First and foremost, sit down there and have a good cry if you want to. Tears never drowned anyone yet."

I did cry a bit. I was surprised at myself because I never cry in front of anyone. I'm too used to holding things in.  
"I'll do all I can to help you, but you must do exactly what I say. There are a few simple instructions. Are you listening?"  
I nodded. My heart was thumping like mad and I couldn't focus. I was starting to feel sick too, but I tried to listen as best I could.  
"Alright," he said. "Now, you watch him all the time. Never let him out of your sight. I know that's hard with a young lad, but if he strays he's in trouble."  
I knew he meant that if he strayed that would be it.  
"At night, before you go to bed, put a cross made of two ash twigs over the doors, front and back. Or lay them on the ground in front of the doors. When the leaves begin to wither, get fresh branches. Always have them looking bright and beautiful. There's a fuchsia bush growing at the bottom of the garden, where the fence should be. I'll put up a fence next week. I'm busy at the moment with sowing, but I'll find time. Put a glass of milk and a plate with two slices of bread and butter on it under the fuchsia bush every night. The glass and plate should be clean in the morning." He stopped and looked at the range for a minute. "And those windows—be sure and leave them open just a wee bit."

Almost exactly what Hannah Brennan had told me.  
"How long will I have to do all that for?"  
"I don't know." He looked like he was thinking of something else, maybe making a plan or sorting other problems. "After a while they might realise you mean them no harm. Come on, we'd better go and interrupt David's dreaming."  
He went out and called David. He started laughing and joking, showing David how to hoe the soil, talking about all the vegetables he was growing. He told me about his potato drills and his herb garden and all. He has a section of the garden marked off just for herbs. He says he uses them to heal sickness. He wants to get into healing full-time.

"You're certainly not like someone who grew up on a farm," he says, in the middle of showing us the mushroom boxes in the barn.  
It took me by surprise. I could feel myself blushing. I hope my make-up hid the red.  
"Oh I just took no interest in it."  
He was looking at me with a smile in his eyes and his arms folded. It embarrassed me.  
"I'd better be going," I said, and I started walking back to the house with David in tow.

Brian was just waking up. I said thanks and Malachy let me out by the front door. He walked down as far as the gate with me and then we both stopped. He was so close I could smell his skin, a musty, gravelly kind of scent, a bit like the smell of a clean woollen rug. I wanted to kiss him. My stomach was in a knot.  
"Call soon again, Jacqui." My name sounded precious when he said it.  
"Yeah, if I can."  
"Next time maybe you'll get a chance to talk more about yourself and not be listening to me rabbitting on." He smiled. Made me feel like crying again.  
"Maybe," I said.  
Yeah. Maybe.

Tuesday 9th March:  
We weren't long in before L yesterday evening. We'd been out for a walk again. I'm making a bit of an effort with them, trying to keep David occupied. He kept stopping and looking at fields and houses and dogs. And that horse farm, as he calls it, on the main road. He's really taken by that. He was in better form than I've seen him for a while.

Everything fell to pieces when we got home. When he saw the supper wasn't ready, he went bananas. Poor Brian actually rolled over to him and put out his hand to touch him, but he pushed him away, he picked the tea-pot up off the table and flung it at my head. Brian banged his head on the floor and started bawling. Of course he had forgotten the last time he had pushed him. The tea-pot hit me over my left eyebrow and the cold tea spilled all over me. I was lucky it wasn't the porcelain pot or hot brew that was in it. Then he came over with his fist ready, aimed at my face, but changed his mind and went for my stomach instead. David started crying and screamed at him.

"Stop. Stop. Don't hit my Mammy."  
I doubled up from the blow and he gave me a clatter across the back of the head with his other hand so I fell on my face. Then he turned on David.  
"What, brat? What did you say?"  
That nervous, crazed, dangerous voice.  
David was sobbing so much he could hardly get the words out. He hasn't stood up for me like that since before I was in the madhouse.  
"You shouldn't hit my Mammy," he choked out. "Making my Mammy cry."  
"Don't you fucking give me orders, boy. Who the fuck do you think you are?"  
David was trying to catch his breath. He picked him up by the front of his jumper and he must have got some skin as well because David really screamed.

"You're damn lucky (slap across the head) I feed you (back-hand across the head) at all, you little bastard."  
He put both hands on him and threw him back. His poor little head whopped the wall with an unmerciful crack. I was sure something was broken. All I could think of was trying to calm him down.  
"What's wrong? I was just getting the supper."  
"Just getting. Just getting. I'm out all fucking day slaving my arse off and all you're doing is 'just getting'. Just fucking getting. What are you at all day, sitting on your fat frying gee?"  
He grabbed me by the hair and held me on the draining part of the sink unit. The side of my head barely missed the cooker where I had a few eggs boiling for a salad.  
"Don't make me damage you, you cunt. You fucking cunt."

He threw me on the floor and kicked the table. That wasn't enough so he turned it right over and it barely missed Brian. Thanks be to Jesus it didn't fall on him. When I think of it—we could all be in hospital today. It's almost as if he was calculating where everything and everyone would fall even though he was so mad. He always seems to have that cold scheming mind behind it all.

He went out of the room then. My head was spinning. I forced myself to my feet and picked Brian up. He didn't have a cut. His skull must be as hard as iron. I went over to David. He was out cold or else he was faking. Brian was red in the face, choking almost, then he burst into a pitiful wail. I patted David's face and he opened his eyes.  
"Come on David, come on to the bedroom and lie down."

I helped him down to the room with Brian on my other arm. I put Brian in the cot. He was hysterical. I took off David's shoes and laid him into the bed. His eyes were vacant. Brian's bawling was deafening. There was going to be a big lump on the back of David's head. He yelled from the sitting-room.  
"If my supper isn't on the table in five minutes, no-one is going to know you by your face again, Bitch."  
"I have to get Daddy's supper. I'll be back later. Stay there. Yee'll be alright."

Not that Brian understood of course but David said in a weak voice, "It's alright, Brian. Mammy'll be back soon. Don't cry."  
I can't get over it. Since the accident with the frying pan, David has been very distant. I don't think it was the accident as such, it was him being put into care for the few weeks when I cracked up. Since then, if ever he attacked me, David would get at me after, saying it was all my fault and stuff like that. Maybe he's beginning to trust me again.

I went back to the kitchen and finished washing the lettuce and scallions. I don't know how I got the meal ready, my hands were shaking so much, but I managed somehow. He came in and stared at me. I met his eye for a second.  
"Why are you looking at me like that?"  
"Your supper is ready now. Will I pour your tea?"  
"I want to make one thing clear."  
He started moving towards me slowly. I didn't know what he was going to do. I kept my head down.  
"You work for me. Do you understand? You work for me. I don't need some useless gee hanging off my arm. Do you know how much I've made on you in the past four months? Hah? Do you know, Queen Cunt?"  
He was right up close to me at this stage.  
"No."  
"Nothing. Zilch. Sweet fucking nothing."  
I could feel his breath. He was only short of breathing fire.  
"I'm sorry...." I couldn't think of anything to say. I just couldn't think.

He stopped and looked at me for a while, seemed like ages. His eyes were boring into me cold as ice. I knew it was the beginning of something terrible. I just knew it. All I wanted was for him to stop staring at me, to move away, get his face out of mine in case he saw something he didn't like; maybe a flicker of an eyelash that he thought was flirtatious, maybe a look of bitterness in my eyes, something he'd take as cheek or ingratitude.

Please God I was saying to myself, please God don't let him stand there much longer. Let him calm down and eat his supper and be in better humour.  
I don't know why I pray. It never makes my life better.  
Finish this. Write it down. I have to.  
He finally moved away. He sat down and beckoned towards the tea-pot like a master. Well, I suppose he is my master. Jesus!  
"Sit down," he said. "Where are the boys? Are they not having supper?"  
He always does this after a row and I'm surprised every time. He never asks about them any other time.  
"They're very tired."

I wanted to spare them. There's no way they could eat after what happened. He probably just wanted them there so he could pretend what he did was okay. Back to normal, like. Although normally he never asks for them. I had my head down but I knew he was looking at me. Finally he said, "Alright. Eat your own supper."  
I no more felt like it than I felt like climbing Mount Everest, but that was an order. I was still trying to get the second mouthful down when he started.

He sat back in the chair with his hands holding the two edges of the table in front of him.  
"Now, Missus. Business."  
I looked up at him but remembered to lower my eyes again.  
"As I've already pointed out to you, you're not bringing in enough money. I can't afford to invest in the Studio and keep you and the brats going as well. You're not exactly thrifty. Living together means sacrifice. So you'll have to get the shoulder behind the wheel, Madam."

He went on about the problems caused by Arthur's death, how it'd be harder to keep getting outlets for the slide shows and party videos and he wasn't getting on too well with Arthur's brother when it came to the pirates. The brother isn't too interested in spending time doing copies, even for the money involved. And the wife is talking of getting in on it. He'd never work with her, certainly not on his own stuff. He's running up and down to Dublin trying to sort things out, he said. (That accounts for the late nights and the nights away.) All that as well as working at the Studio, negotiating with people, trying to be polite, doing Mickey Mouse work, that sort of thing. It's putting him in bad humour.

"It's all very well, working for yourself, but the initial outlay is crippling."  
"It'll probably all come together in time."  
He gave me that sudden, glaring look and made a little move as if he was going to hit me again. I shut up.  
He carried on talking with his chin up a bit, never taking his eyes off me.  
"I'm spending a lot of time and money making contacts, planning my work, trying to build up a reputation and I've nothing to show for it yet. You're going to have to pay your way. Particularly if you want to keep that flat in Dublin."  
I automatically opened my mouth. What was he talking about? Amn't I bringing in the Lone Parent's? The rent allowance is paying for the flat. But I thought better of saying anything.

"So the solution is obvious. You have a vacant flat in Rathmines. The only way to pay for it is to use it."  
I hadn't a clue what he was on about.  
"I've slipped our phone number to some of the big shots I know and they'll no doubt pass it on to their friends. They'll ring here, make a date and you'll meet them in a hotel or in your flat. They could be from around here or from Dublin. Either way travel isn't a problem. If they want you in a hotel they can pay your travel expenses. If it's in Dublin just load on bus fares or petrol costs. If you don't get much work that way I'll drive you up to the flat anyway at the weekends and we'll see how much business we can drum up. I'll plant some cards in strategic places and spread the word. This will be a high class operation. Designed for professional men. I hope you won't be found wanting, Jacqui."

He took a photograph out of his pocket and handed it to me with a snigger. It was my flat, decked out with red satin and underwear and bondage stuff. I was stunned that he'd actually gone and done this. I couldn't take it all in.  
"You'll start when the first man rings. We'll see how it goes this week. It'll mean a change of routine of course. The holiday has come to an end."  
He never even asked me to agree, not even as a formality.  
"These are the rules. As I've said, your clients can hire a room in a hotel or they can go to the flat...."  
"What about the boys?"  
He stopped and looked around, pretending he couldn't make out where the voice had come from. He was seething at the very mention of them. It was as if he was deciding how to react. Finally he just carried on where he'd left off.  
"You'll have to be discreet and refined. You'll be dealing with important men. Some of them have already seen what you can do. They like you already."  
I gave a kind of snort to myself. That sort of bastard. The rich pervert. He was making it sound like romance. He kept staring at me, keeping me in line, his merchandise.  
"We'll charge them a high price. You're worth a high price my dear."  
He leaned over close and stuck his sarcastic twisted string of a face right up to me. I actually used to think he was attractive.

He changed his tone a bit then, tried to soften me up a bit.  
"You'll have full intercourse with them, using a condom of course. You'll kiss them and suck them. You'll do strips and costumes. You'll do S and M as long as it doesn't injure anybody unduly." He sniggered. "We wouldn't want that."  
"The session time will normally be an hour. If they want longer, they book in advance and the price goes up. All the calls coming through on that phone will be for you. I'll be using my mobile and the Studio phone. Talk sweetly to them, charge them sixty pounds for any length of time up to one hour and a hundred for up to two hours. A date is two hundred and fifty. An overnight is five hundred."  
He stopped and looked towards the window.  
"You should get some phone calls during the week. When the cards are printed I'll plant them around the city. Clubs and such like."

Brian had stopped crying, but the silence only struck me when he stopped talking. I couldn't believe my ears. It sounded impossible. I got up and went to the press for a valium, feeling his eyes on me all the time. When I had taken the tablet I sat down opposite him again, facing sideways.  
"Who'll mind the boys?" I said, as gently as I could. I was trying to think of some way to put him off this mad plan.  
"What?"  
Wrong thing to say.  
"I can't leave them alone."  
He gritted his teeth.  
"Take them with you to Dublin. Your pal next door will oblige, no doubt. When you're working around here I'll be in the house. And if neither of us are in the house we'll lock the doors so they can't escape."

Why did I keep on? I couldn't believe he didn't care what happened to his own flesh and blood.  
"But if Brian wakes up or if there's a fire or anything...."  
"Look," he roared. He got up suddenly and threw the table over again with an almighty crash. He pushed it sideways this time, but I still had to get off my chair. We stood facing each other for a second. Then he turned as if to go out the door.  
"Liam...."  
"I don't give a fuck about your children. And if you care what happens to them, you'd better SHUT UP about them."  
"But they're your children too."  
I was barely loud enough to be heard.

By the way his back stiffened, I thought he was either going to attack me again or take the door off the hinges, but he just stood totally still. His shoulders began to shake. He was chuckling. He was actually laughing!  
"My children?" He turned around and smiled like a maniac. "They were a gift from me to you, dear." He strolled over and kissed me. Kissed me! "Two reasons I let you procreate. The first time to keep you happy, the second to keep you tied. There won't be a third."  
He raised his eyebrows and turned to go into the hall.  
"Put ice on those bruises. We'll see how you look in half an hour."

My heart was thumping. That was the greatest blow of all. Part of me always believed he had some love for me and if not for me, then definitely for his children. I'm finished with him now. I'll never try to understand him again. At least now I see him for exactly what he is and that means I can despise him from start to finish. He deserves no loyalty from me anymore. His name is struck from my mind. That makes me feel a bit better.

I went in to have a look at the boys. They were still awake or else they had woken up at the sound of the table going again. Brian's breath sounded like it was climbing a mountain to get into him. He was chewing on his blanket like crazy. David was under the bedclothes, biting his nails and crying away quietly. I stroked Brian's head. He had a lump from the fall, a big ugly one. After a while he settled down and I went over to David. I gave him a kiss and told him everything was alright now. Then I saw the blood. One cheek had a stream of blood running off it and the pillow was red. It was his nose. He was wiping it with his sleeve, getting the tears and the blood all mixed up. God forgive me, I felt mad at him. This was all I needed, like. I controlled myself though, and went and got his sponge from the bathroom to clean him.

I sat him up for a minute and put him holding his nose. Then I told him to lie down again on his side. I had to get ice for his head, and ice for my bruises. The bleeding eased off. Brian was asleep by then—from pure nervous exhaustion I'd say.

I don't know how I got through the photo session. Flagellation—faked, thankfully. How could he put me through that after everything else? It was like he was really bleeding the spirit out of me, making me pretend so much. He set up the video camera and dressed up himself, with a mask. He's trying all sorts of ways to carry on without Arthur but I know it's bugging him. He can't leave the camera unattended all the time. He'll have to find someone else.

As soon as I thought it was safe I asked him questions. He's usually fairly okay after a session.  
"Why can't I get an ordinary job, like in a shop or something?"  
He just smirked. I asked him wouldn't he be embarrassed if the local people found out I was a prostitute. Wouldn't the Guards cop it? He said it wouldn't be him doing it, it'd be me. He could say he knew nothing at all about it and everyone'd have such pity for him. Poor man, betrayed by his own wife. As for anyone who knew him through the videos and stuff, they had too much to hide themselves. And then again, we could always deny it point blank. That's what we were going to do, wasn't it? Sex isn't illegal. No-one needs to know I'm getting paid for it.

The other thing on my mind was—would I be able to do it? I didn't say that to him though. I mean, I can pose and I can talk dirty and I can do the harmless bit of acting you need for the videos, but that's not the same as going the whole way with a load of strangers. Arthur, yeah, I did it with Arthur, but that was—acting. And he was telling me what to do. Maybe prostitution is acting. Maybe I'll meet someone nice, and rich. That's a thought.

My first job is in Wicklow tonight. The taxi is due at ten. The boys'll be asleep. Of course he won't mind them but they should be alright for a couple of hours.

Wednesday 10th March:  
It was worse than I thought. I got through it alright, talked away, stuff I heard from Cora and the girls, but I felt awful after. I still do. I've never felt so completely alone. The bruising from Monday isn't as bad as it could have been. How does he manage that? I could cover it with make-up no problem.

I forgot to take David to school again today. He wasn't up too early anyway and he never even mentioned it. He's not feeling the best so it won't hurt him to have a break for a week. It's raining heavy. Feels like I'm trapped in a dream. I dread the longer days. I want the winter and the darkness. L is being nice as pie to me. Judas.

Thursday 11th March:  
I took two Normison after coming home because I was hyper. The money passing through my hands. Cora didn't save me after all. No-one ever saved me from anything. Can't think.

Friday 12th March:  
My dead baby. Every morning this week I saw it when I opened my eyes. The scrunched-up, desperate little face. I think the boys will get by. They'll survive, even if I don't. Boys are strong.

I only just remembered I never put out the crosses of ash like Malachy told me. Or the bread and milk. Did he tell me anything else? I can't think straight. He got someone to put up the fence. I wonder is he avoiding me. Jesus Christ, how did I believe all that stuff about the Fairies? If David survives his father, he'll survive anything. He had a couple of more nosebleeds but they stopped fairly fast. He vomited a lot of the day on Tuesday, but he seems alright now. Every time L comes in he goes pale and runs down to the bedroom. I hardly care anymore. Two jobs this week already and one tonight. I can't fathom how it all happened so fast, how my life has turned completely upside-down in a few days. Oh come on, my life has always been upside-down.

The two I've had want to see me again. That fella Ronnie wants me for a visiting businessman in Dublin next week. I suppose I should take it as a compliment. I dread tonight, I'm so tired. How did he get them lined up so quick? I'm not worrying about the boys anymore. More than likely they'll grow up to be like all the others.

Saturday 13th March:  
Last night was pure Hell. The fat fucker got too rough. I told him to stop and he wouldn't. I only barely escaped and I had to ring L to bring me home. I was waiting an hour out in the freezing cold because I had to run out of the hotel and I couldn't go into a pub—his instructions. At least it didn't happen in the flat or the guy would know where to find me again. I'm all choked up with a cold. My head is fuzzy. David is gone out the back to play. He's wearing his school uniform because I couldn't see any of his other clothes. His hands are very cold and his eyes are distant, but he seems alright. He was determined to go out. I gave him a disprin because he had a pain in his head. I haven't the heart to do anything around the house. L'll probably go ape-shite but I don't care.

I've dumped Brian in the playpen and I'm yelling at him if he cries to get out. I'm afraid I won't be able to work with this cold. Maybe L'd get me some uppers from the doctor. He never refuses me pills. I should've got them in Dublin on Thursday, save a doctor knowing my business. Jesus, if I was living in Dublin now I'd go on the hard stuff.

I'm in a daze all week but I can't sleep. I have to take sleeping tablets and I'm still awake at half seven every morning. Can you be hyper and depressed at the same time?

DIARY STOPS

* * * * *
Chapter 2: Saturday 13th, Later

L isn't coming home for dinner because he's covering a wedding in Blessington and he's eating there. When Brian goes for his nap at twelve o'clock I look out the kitchen window and David is kicking his ball around. I reckon I can go into the sitting-room and lie down for a few minutes. I feel totally wretched. Next thing Brian is crying to get up. It's all I can do to drag myself off the couch. I get a bottle for him to keep him quiet. It seems to have gone dark but it's only three by the clock. Three? I go to the kitchen window. The rain is coming down in buckets and I can hardly see a thing. I run to the back door.

"David!"  
I shout his name a few times but there's no answer. The phone rings. I'm not going to answer it first but I think I'd better in case it's L.  
"Hello."  
There's a dirty chuckle at the other end.  
"Is that Georgette?"  
"Yes."

I soften my voice.  
"Well hello Georgette, are you... ahm, are you... doing business?"  
I'm half thinking of putting him off, but if L gets wind of it I'm dead.  
"Yes. Where would you like to meet me?"  
"I was thinking of booking into the Forest Motel. D'you know it?"  
I've seen it, a few miles out, on the main Dublin road.  
"Yes. What time would suit you?"  
"About ten o'clock, Georgette, ten o'clock, yeah. How much d'you charge?"  
"Seventy pounds for an hour plus taxi fares." Might as well get what I can.  
"An hour should be fine, Georgette."  
"I'll meet you in the bar. I'll be wearing a white gaberdine overcoat and if I can, I'll be sitting in a corner. I'll be reading a book."  
He gives a loud laugh at that.  
"Just so you'll know me and they don't cotton on to what's happening. They don't normally allow these things. Come up and talk to me as if we were old friends. What's your first name?"  
"Pat."  
"Pat. When we meet, give me your room number."  
"They're chalets, Georgette."  
"The number of your chalet, so. Then you go on down to it and I'll follow you five minutes later. Is that alright?"  
"I think I have all that, Georgette. You're a cute woman."  
"Alright so?"  
I'm ready to put the phone down.  
"Do you wear suspenders?"  
"Yes."  
"Have you good legs?" He sniggers.  
"You can see for yourself."  
"Jaysus, I hope you're worth it."  
"I am. That's guaranteed. See you at ten. Oh, I've got auburn hair."

I surprise myself how cool I can be, despite everything. I suppose I'm used to pretending. It does give me a kind of thrill to be doing something illegal and to be acting out a part, but then in another way I'd prefer to be doing anything else. I wonder if this is what I was always meant to do. My whole life seems to have led up to it. Oh, I don't understand myself at all.

Just as I put down the phone the door bell goes. I jump. There's Malachy in a big yellow oilskin. There's a wild look in his eyes. He frowns at me like a schoolteacher and looks past me into the house.  
"Himself is out, is he?"  
"Yeah."  
"I have David in the car."  
"Oh." I'm puzzled. "Did he go up to your house?"  
"No. "I found him halfway up the hill—in this rain." He sounds so accusing I could go through the floor. "Do you want a lift over to Doctor Galvin's? He might need an antibiotic for that 'flu he has, especially after getting wet. How long has he been out?"  
"I'm sure he'll be okay. I'll put him to bed and give him some hot lemon or something."  
"He has a fever, Jacqui. I know by him. I could give you a herbal remedy no problem, but it wouldn't act quickly enough. You need a doctor. I'd take him but Liam would probably sue me. You'd need to be there yourself."

He brings David in. He looks zonked alright. I find some dry clothes and put them on him. They're his worst clothes, but I can't see anything else. Malachy picks Brian up.  
"Has this fella got a coat or something?"  
Then it just comes out.  
"I have no money to take him to the doctor."  
"Get this lad's coat and your own and come on. Don't ever let money come between you and your child's health. We'll sort it out. Come on now, don't worry. Sure you can owe it to him."

David has a temperature of 102 degrees. He's trembling and crying. The doctor isn't too happy because it's outside surgery hours. He seems to have it in for Malachy too. He's passing comments like, "Well, you can't solve everything, can you, Malachy? Had you no magic potion to bring the temperature down?"  
Malachy says nothing. He waits outside while David is being examined. He has an infection, the doctor says, and he tells me to give him Junior Disprin every four hours until his temperature goes down.  
"Watch him all night. You do have a thermometer, don't you?" I nod, even though I don't. "Take his temperature every two hours. If it goes over 103 degrees, do everything to keep him cool. Take off his clothes, sponge him with warm water and don't dry him. Any sign of delirium?"  
"Ah... no." I want all this to be over. I want to run away.  
"Well if he does start raving, do what you would for high fever, as I told you—wait half an hour, take his temperature again and if it hasn't lowered, phone me. Only phone me if you absolutely have to, do you understand? Alright so, David. That's it."

He sits down to write the prescription. Then he writes the bill and hands me the two. He never notices the bump on David's head.  
"Is there any chance I can pay you later on in the week? I had to come out in a rush. My husband is out on a job and I can't contact him."  
He frowns, but then he says he knows my husband is the new photographer, so he knows where to find us. I wonder is that where L got the ativan. Malachy takes me to the chemist's and loans me the money for the prescription and a thermometer. When we get back he asks if I need any help. I can't get over how good he is.

"No, I'm fine."  
"Will you give me a ring later and let me know how he is?"  
"Yeah, I will."  
He obviously hasn't noticed the lock on the phone. Or he thinks it's for the kids.  
"I'll get the money back to you as soon as I can."  
"The devil with the money. It won't break me. Just don't let anything happen the child."  
His tone of voice shocks me, he's so serious.  
I give David the disprin and put him to bed. I'm just figuring out how to use the thermometer when L comes in. I tell him David has a fever, but I don't tell him I took him to the doctor. I miss the moment and now I don't know how I'm going to get the money. He's not sympathetic of course, but otherwise he's in good form, especially since I have a client.  
"Don't worry," he says, "I'll keep an eye on him. You do a good job now."  
He slaps my bottom as he strolls out of the kitchen.

* * * * *

I'm ready to go out. David is sweating a lot so I give him more Disprin. I take everything off him except his underpants, I open the windows a bit more and move Brian's cot away from them. It isn't the worst at the Motel. He's a farmer. A bit of a dope, but not rough. He tells me he's twenty-six and still a virgin. I don't know whether to believe him or not. He says he'll ring me again in a month's time.

L comes to collect me after. He's in the shadows beside the main door as I come up to it. He puts one arm around me and holds out the other hand for the money. He stays in the shadows and counts it. He gives a little laugh. We get into the car and he drives off, but he pulls up at this pub on the outskirts of the town, The Journeyman.

"Come on, I'll buy you a drink."  
"A drink?"  
"A drink. You know, alcohol. Put it to your lips and ease it back. A bit like a blow job, you know?"  
"But David...." I stop because he has frozen at the name.  
"What?"  
"Oh," I say, "It's just habit. I'm so used to being at home with the kids all the time, I don't even think of going out. Except to work now of course."  
That's such a load of shite I don't think he'll buy it, but he does. He jerks his head and we get out and go into the pub. It's really buzzing. We sit up at the bar and he buys me a vodka and coke, my favourite. I can't enjoy it though, because I'm too worried about David. And about myself if anything happened him.

"You know," he says, "maybe I was wrong. Maybe we could have a good life if we just pulled together a bit more. It's only natural I'd be jealous of the boys. After all, they do have the lion's share of your attention."  
He's leaning towards me so his face is right up to mine.  
"You have to be reasonable. A man doesn't like his wife always going on about the children. It's what they call a passion killer. Will you try a bit harder, Jacqui? For me? For us?"

Me try harder? He's confusing me. I think he's a bit insane. I just say yes, yes, yes, to keep him quiet. I feel sick. I know he'll want sex when we get home. That's going to be worse than any client at this stage.

We get home about half twelve. The house is quiet, but I have a feeling something is wrong. I can't go and see David till he's finished with me. When he goes to bed I creep into the boys' room.

David is gone.

* * * * *

Part Two: The Town

"...so great was their knowledge that there was no discourse over the face of the Island, however low it might be spoken, that they did not know about if the wind met it."

Of the Coraniaid, from the tale, Lludd and Llefelys

* * * * *
Chapter 3

The picture. She walked through the door and straight into the gaping breast of the Lord. For some reason, her mother had taken it down from its place above the range and hung it in the tiny hall, just as you came in. Two large electric candles were quietly adoring on either side, apparently Hannah's attempt to add a bit of technology to her devotion. The red of the sacred heart made Anne's stomach attack itself. She had known this picture all her life; why was it only now affecting her like this? As a child she had loved it. Or so she had thought. You had to love it. It was a picture of God. On this Friday, 13th March, she looked at it for a few seconds and her body realised that she hated it. The message was received in the brain and translated into stomach-ache so that she could call it whatever she wished.

Anne Brennan never used the word 'hate'. It was too strong, too negative; it cancelled too much. She never used the word 'rubbish', although anybody who had concluded what she had about the Catholic Church and its dogma could have used the word quite a lot. No. She had a softness—some would call it a weakness—either of intellect or emotion, that didn't allow her to dismiss a possibility. Despite the fact that her reasoning wouldn't hold the belief anymore, she still couldn't find it in herself to discard the symbols. She could no more smash up a 'holy picture' than a newly hatched chicken could fly. The long series of blessed keepsakes and prayers her mother kept sending her were stored in a box at the bottom of the wardrobe, like lesser skeletons.

The day the priest had called to her flat in Harold's Cross in the course of his ministrations, she had stepped back meekly to let him in. Siobhan had glared at his proffered hand, then at his semolina face, and stalked into the kitchen. When Anne had gone in to make the tea, her friend had been hair-deep in the _Sunday Tribune_. Anne had crept past her and put on the kettle, quietly getting out the cups and plates, not sure whether to offer her some. Siobhan had looked up in horror.

"Are you making him tea?" she had whispered.

Anne had blushed and shrugged. Then, in the same don't-let-your-father-hear whisper that Siobhan had used, she had said, "He seems alright. He's not pushy or anything."

"Not pushy? You mean he hasn't shoved the host in your mouth yet?"

They had looked at each other for a split second, then burst out laughing, Siobhan with her head thrown back, Anne with hers down almost to the work-top. That silent laughter women are so skilled at. The subversive, kitchen laughter that used to be so necessary. The laughter that always reminded Anne of her mother.

She had made the tea while Siobhan had whipped through the newspaper, turning up headline after headline. It had been a particularly damning week for the Church.

FAMILY SOLIDARITY MARCH AGAINST ABORTION  
PRIESTS FOR REMOVING RIGHT TO INFORMATION  
BISHOP ATTACKS 'AGGRESSIVE FEMINISTS' IN PASTORAL  
ALLEGED ABUSE BY CHRISTIAN BROTHER

After each headline, Siobhan had mouthed 'Fuckers' comically, her eyes wild and her teeth pressing viciously on her lower lip with each 'F'. Anne had kept miming, 'Stop', 'Stop', trying to control her giggles, but Siobhan had carried on.

"Tell him to _Fuck off_ ," she had said, meaning every word of it.

Anne had collected herself. She had never told anyone to fuck off in her life. It just wasn't her style.

"He'll be gone in a few minutes," she had whispered.

That hadn't been the case. With tea and the last piece of the apple tart she had brought, Siobhan had estimated it would be at least half an hour, but Anne had a way of measuring time that was all her own. As it turned out, Siobhan had left a quarter of an hour later, while the priest was only getting into his stride, talking about his native Kerry and telling a few weak, well-rehearsed jokes about Social Workers calling to old paranoid recluses near Cahirciveen. Anne had discovered that he had some valuable information on her latest case. That was the thing. You could never write anyone off. You never knew what was in their heads, or when they might be useful. Her slight tendency towards manipulation wasn't a conscious one, only something she needed in order to stay safe. Safety was of paramount importance, although she would have denied that. She was only conscious of wanting everything to be alright, peaceful, nice. If there were rough edges, she tried to smooth them over. If there was conflict, her first instinct was to slink away into a corner. She liked Siobhan, because Siobhan said all the things her paralyzed id would have liked to say. Siobhan allowed her to be profane by proxy.

Now, confronted by the spectacle of Christ's bleeding heart and her mother's blazingly fervent eyes, she pushed down the gut revulsion and replaced it with a glib thought. My goodness, she told herself, don't old habits die hard.

She fussed over her mother, whom she loved a lot. She hugged her and looked closely at her face for signs of ageing, which she found and then regretted looking.

"Are you feeling alright, Mammy? Are you keeping warm?"

She opened the range and found the fire blazing.

"I hope you keep the fire going well every day these times, Mammy. The weather is still quite cold."

"I wear three vests and two jumpers, pet. There's no fear of me."

"Will I get the tea?"

"Sit down there and rest yourself after the journey."

Anne's solicitude was par for the course and Hannah was well-prepared for it. Even so, it made her feel helpless and she was far from the scrap-heap yet, an affirmation which grew more and more important to her with the increased stiffness of her morning muscles. Anne realised that her mother had been looking forward to giving her meals, so she contented herself with laying the table. But sitting and resting was not something she was particularly good at, especially when she was so uptight. She unpacked and walked through the house, assessing the renovations that needed to be done. She had to make sure Joe would carry them out when he had his own house built. Thanks to her thoughtfulness and his work, the third bedroom had been converted into a bathroom, but it was still an unsatisfactory house for an old person. A gale-force draught came in under the front door, there was no door to separate the hall from the living area, and the bedrooms were freezing. She went to the window in Hannah's room, leaned on the sill and tried to make out familiar objects through the gloom of the evening.

"What are their names again, Mammy, the people in Malachy Gallagher's house?" She came back into the kitchen.

Hannah stopped with the kettle poised to fill up the tea-pot.

"O'Malley."

"You didn't say much about her in the letter. Is she nice?"

Hannah went into one of her contemplations.

"Yes," she said, as if making a huge decision. "Yes, she is nice. She's young."

"She must be very young, you said it in the letter too."

"She looks about twenty."

"That's young—to be married with two children. Two, isn't it?"

"Two." Hannah ruminated again. "She looks young, but there's something worldly-wise about her."

"Worldly-wise?"

Hannah looked up from the knitted tea-cosy she had carefully put in place.

"She looks troubled."

When they had taken some bites out of the sausages and rashers, Hannah, obviously full to the brim with the subject, slowly said, "She had some trouble with the people on the hill."

Anne had been practising introductory lines in her mind. Mammy, I have good news for you. I've met this man and I'd like to marry him. Mammy, I'm getting engaged on Wednesday. He's coming down on Monday. He's lovely, Mammy, really easy-going. Graham. No, we'll be doing it differently. You see, he's a Protestant—no that's not the reason. Because I don't believe in the church anymore. Yes, I do believe in God, but a God of nature. We're getting married in a Registry Office and we'll have a small reception afterwards. Nothing too fancy. Not in white, no... Her mother's words parted the tangle.

"What? Who?"

"The little girl in Malachy's house. Jacqui. She had trouble with the People above, but you're not to repeat this for love or money."

Anne's eyes widened, a look Hannah took for belief.

"Her windows blew in, the Lord save us." She blessed herself.

"Are you talking about the Fairies, Mammy?"

Her mother nodded reverently.

Anne didn't know how to take this. It struck her that there was no essential difference, God or the Fairies, bleeding hearts or breeding trees. It was all a desperate attempt to explain the inexplicable. But she wasn't going to contradict before Hannah had even started to tell. That would have been bad practice. So she slipped into information-finding mode.

"What exactly happened to her windows?"

"She said it was a freak wind." Hannah gave one slow, suspicious nod. " 'Twas an almighty gale that swept in through one window and out the other. The two of them were smashed to smithereens."

Hannah fastened a look on her, that look Anne was so used to, that she had never got from anybody else. Hannah wanted the truth, but it had to be filtered through that special understanding of hers. She was a physical and psychical barometer. She always knew when something was wrong, but she knew it with her body and her subconscious, not with her reasoning powers. Anne's experience made her smell a rat.

"What's her husband like?"

Hannah pushed back her hair and took a sup of tea. Thumbs down, Anne told herself.

"Is he violent do you think?"

Hannah was still slow to answer. Finally she said, "I've heard sounds coming from the house, God help us." Pause. "And I've seen movements too."

"What kind of movements, Mammy?"

"Ah sure, people these days, they live different." Anne waited. "But I think they leave the children alone in the house sometimes, the poor little things."

This was beginning to sound like work.

"One night this week," now she was loosening up, "half past twelve on Wednesday night—I remember because Mary-Pat and Gerry came down to see me that night—I was just going to bed and I chanced to look out the room window. The car wasn't there. I didn't take much notice of that; I often see him arriving home late. But next thing, there was the little boy, the five-year-old, coming over the fields and going in the back way. God help us, he looked around the front first to see if the car was there and then he went in." She let that sink in.

"If it wasn't for him doing that, looking for the car, like, I'd have said he was sleep-walking."

"Was she in?"

"That's what I was going to tell you. Very shortly after, the car came along the road and pulled up to the house. The two of them were in it."

"Did you say anything to her?"

Hannah put on the considering look again. Then, when a stranger might have expected a long, philosophical answer, she simply said, "No."

"Were you afraid they'd think you spent your nights watching them?"

Anne immediately regretted saying it. Hannah was offended.

"I don't think other people's lives are any of my business."

Anne took a deep breath.

"Mammy, I know you mean well. But you know that case in Cork? If someone, a neighbour, anyone, had just made a phone call or written a letter to a Social Worker in the early days, something could have been done. The family isn't sacrosanct, Mammy. The family shouldn't be a secret society."

The Sacred Heart loomed again.

"Look what happened to us. I wish someone had stepped in and helped us."  
Hannah's eyes sparked and her voice came out sharply.  
"Nothing bad happened yee. I minded yee well."  
"Yes, Mammy, I know you minded us, but Daddy had serious problems. He was an alcoholic, he was severely paranoid and he was violent. He needed help. You needed help. We all needed help."  
"You're always saying things against your father. I won't have it. You shouldn't speak ill of the dead."  
"You have to admit the truth, Mammy," said Anne gently, a wave of unease hitting her on the word 'truth'.

Nothing she said was sounding right. She wasn't in control. Hannah started to cry.  
"A child should be with its mother. A mother should never have her little child taken off her. There's no greater sadness. No greater sadness."  
Anne went to the other side of the table and put her hands on her mother's shoulders.  
"I'm sorry, Mammy. It's alright. I love you."  
"I did my best for yee. And didn't you get an education? He didn't stop you studying and he didn't stop you going to University. Joe had no interest in school, but he has a trade and he got the place."  
"I know that, Mammy. I know."

If her mother were to change her world view, too much of her life would look like failure. That was what Anne told herself as she scurried away from the subject, lit a cigarette and opened the bottle of brandy she'd brought. Since her father had died, Anne had often brought a bottle of wine and Hannah enjoyed a glass with the pleasure of a mischievous child. The brandy was even better, and after a liberal glass each, they were cracking jokes about all the characters in the village, before moving on to their favourite soap personalities.

* * * * *
Chapter 4

At half past nine Joe Brennan gave a cursory knock and walked in, Valerie on his heels. Joe was a man of average height, well built, beginning to go stocky from drink and manual work. A simmering self-consciousness gave him an aggressive air. He and Anne were so different in speech and demeanour that no-one would guess they were from the same family. Their roads had diverged and were getting further and further apart all the time. He looked at her distrustfully and took stock of the bottle of brandy.

"Hello, Joe," said Anne, mostly looking at Valerie, who was small and frail beside him, her burgeoning stomach more like a cancerous growth than a pregnancy.

"How are you, Valerie? Come and sit down by the fire."

"We're not staying," said Joe.

"Are you going out?"

"Thanks for asking us to the party," he said, picking up the bottle and studying the _Napoleon_ label.

Paranoid, Anne thought. But in good form. Probably just after making love. Shudder.

"Well, as a matter of fact," she said, "I brought the two of you a bottle of whiskey all of your very own."

With a little bow, she handed over the brown paper bag which had been standing on the sideboard. She rarely brought Joe drink, but it was the weekend before St Patrick's Day and she didn't think he'd inherited his father's alcoholism. He seemed able to handle it.

"Thanks," said Joe, a little abashed.

Valerie nodded her thanks.

"Drop up tomorrow to the mobile home," said Joe. "You and Val can have a bit of a chin-wag."

"Well, the only thing is, I have to go down to Kilkenny to see my Auntie Katie tomorrow morning. I won't be back till after dinner Sunday."

There followed enquiries from Hannah and Anne about Valerie's auntie, who, it turned out, was dying and wasn't expected to last the week.

"I'd like to spend time with you too, Joe," Anne said sweetly. "It's a while since we had a talk."

That was too perfect a speech for Joe to take in. He didn't even stop to wonder if it was genuine. He wrote off everything Anne said as bullshit. No-one talked like that in Drumnashee except the priest and the teacher and that was snob city. He gave an impatient snort of a laugh.

"Yeah, well, don't worry, we're bound to rub shoulders at some stage. I'll drop this up. See you in the car, Val."

There was general relief when he had closed the door behind him.

"How are you, Valerie? Are you feeling well?"

"Oh yeah, I'm fine. A bit tired alright."

"You'll be getting more tired from now on. Be sure to get plenty of rest. Put your feet up. When the baby comes you'll be busy."

"Yeah, I know. I'm only going up to my Mam's for half an hour now and then I'll be off to bed." She looked awkward. "I'd better go. I'll see yee."

Valerie was twenty-three, with large brown eyes and long pine-wood hair that she scrunched-dried so it came up in baby waves, sometimes tickling the tiny mouth that looked liked a failed fruit. She worked as a typist in the Joinery and she was innocent. Innocent enough to be part sweet-talked, part bullied into having sex with Joe in the back of his Ford Sierra Estate on a dark November night with the heat whirring and Michael Bolton painfully chanting, "You don't know what it's like to love somebody...." She'd never forget that song, the song Joe always wanted to dance to with his woman, the song that had got her pregnant and given her a husband. She had gone out with Joe for six months before it happened. Her parents being in their sixties and highly respected in the town (both Ministers of the Eucharist and her father, Paki Sullivan, the postman), everybody thought that, all things being equal, marriage wasn't a bad idea. Joe was a decent catch with his job as a mechanic in Shanley's Garage and his 30 acres. What more did they want?

Valerie had been watching Joe for two years before he had asked her out. There was something about him that drew her in. It felt like the right place to be when she was with him. He wanted to know everything about her, wanted her to talk to no-body but him. It fairly set her heart beating, the way his eyes would faint a bit, then wander shamelessly on her body, lingering on her breasts before landing their lights like hungry birds in her lap. He seemed to want every bit of her for himself. He always knew what to do next, always had plans, which made her feel he'd never be short of money. And the pain he sometimes made her feel when he went into his jealous tirades, well, that was all part of love wasn't it? No-one, nothing is perfect.

* * * * *

Anne went to her bedroom with a deep feeling of doom. The second brandy hadn't made her mellow at all but tense. She didn't feel like sleeping. Outside, the rain had begun to come down in an insidious drizzle. More was forecast for Saturday.

Coming home was no break for her. At least in her flat in Drumcondra she had created a relaxed environment, things to look at which uplifted her, pictures of soaring birds and leaping dolphins, a woollen patchwork bedspread, curtains made from material she had bought in a _Comhlamh_ Third World products promotion. When she got up on a Saturday she could relax with a book over breakfast beside the garden window and quaff the orderly beauty of the landlady's well-kept grass, shrubs and, at the moment, daffodils.

Here in Drumnashee everything seemed to be falling in at the sides. The hedges leaned over the road. The family home was every way askew with its walls nodding towards each other and a slope on every floor. Natureopolis it might be, but Anne experienced it as colourless, her most abiding memory of home being one of drizzle and daze. And discomfort. Always discomfort in this house. No easy chairs. No deep-based, solid, embracing beds. Makeshift things. Two second-hand armchairs that sagged, one in the middle, one at the side, a simple single bed in her room, bought to fill a gap when the fifty-year-old one collapsed under Uncle Charlie while he was home on a visit from America. The mattress was thin and the base a web of metal. Hannah's bed was as old as her marriage, 40 years, and the patched-up mattress gave no more support than a cushion, much less in fact.

Here was the poverty she had always thought she didn't despise. It was dawning on her now that she passionately wanted to be away from all this bleakness, the kind of reality she saw every day in inner city Dublin, the kind of reality that tore energy out of her, drained it palpably down through her legs and out of her toes so that each step became an effort. Another dismal story. Another bureaucratic block. Nowhere to put them, the hostels are full. Yes, we will get you out, but it will take three weeks. Yes, I know that in three weeks you might be dead. I'm so sorry, Mrs Carey, but I had no idea, no-body had any idea, that she was so far gone. You're right Jason, it looks like your Mam doesn't want you.

It suddenly occurred to her that she had had no childhood. She had been too preoccupied with survival, with the business of trying to understand why her father drank so much, why he caused so many rows, why nothing was right. Trying to patch things up, trying to cook nice meals, trying to clean up, set standards, trying for peace, trying to make her mother smile, always that. It was as if she were responsible for it all, the way she carried the sadness of the world around with her all the time.

She put on her pyjamas, a floral-print blue lawn cotton, turned off the light and went to the window. The room where she was sleeping opened into her mother's. Both rooms had a window set in the side wall of the house, so when Anne looked out her field of vision took in the road, Malachy Gallagher's rented bungalow, and the hill which was about five hundred metres to the south of it. The rain was making visibility poor and the hill was no more than a dark bulk. She had a sudden recollection of Malachy as he had looked when he was piling brick upon brick over there at that house, working manically to get the job done. He had been so uptight all that time, frustrated with the job. Everything had gone wrong. One time he had had to dismantle the walls again when they were a third of the way up, because the whole structure was lop-sided. Not the ground, he had said. Something else. He was sure about that. Not the ground. She supposed he knew what he was talking about. But later on, after Aine had disappeared, he came up with this theory that the Fairies had been thwarting him. Jesus, he should have been Hannah's son. Joe believed in the Beautiful People. And so did Anne, but only as some sort of projected psychic phenomena.

Aine dying the way she did, that was an extraordinary tragedy. There had been some conflict between herself and Malachy alright, but you'd never have expected suicide. People never do expect it, do they?

A car droned and rumbled. She looked in the direction, but it wasn't the car that held her attention. There was a woman standing inside the hedge that bordered the road. Her hair was long and appeared to be black. As far as Anne could make out, her features were strong and her face fine-boned. She stood tautly curved, arms back, face towards the sky, as if preparing to fly. There were what appeared to be grey strands of cloud spiralling around her, her whole figure exuding a power that sent a jolt through Anne's body. The vision disappeared.

* * * * *

Joe pushed clumsily through the narrow doorway of the mobile home, cursing at the unsteady feel of it. He went straight to the bedroom, yanked open the door and stared down at the sleeping shape. Valerie's hair was spread like tentacles over the pillows and her forehead was the only visible piece of skin. Her oblivion unnerved him. He heavily plodded the few steps to the bed and shook her blanketed shoulder. She turned onto her back and extended her arms like a Virgin Mary statue.

"Val," said Joe, "Answer me straight. Did you get pregnant so's I'd marry you?"

Valerie gave a short sigh through her nose, as if to say that wasn't even worth listening to, let alone answering, and turned sideways again to continue her sleep.

"I like an answer when I ask someone a question, particularly when I'm talking to my wife."

He had raised his voice, but Valerie was in that dead-tired state that only comes during pregnancy, blissfully lost in the Darklands.

"Am I talking to myself? Jesus Christ, only two months married and she's fucking ignoring me already."

He picked her up by the shoulders and shook her roughly. She opened her eyes.

"Hah?"

"I said, am I talking to my fucking self? Since when did you decide you could ignore me? Who the fuck do you think you are? I come home wanting to talk and all you can do is lie there. It's not even half past fucking twelve."

"What's wrong, Joe? I'm really tired."

"Tired. Tired. Tired. That's all you can fucking say. What d'you think I am? A lapdog? Come here, Joe. Sit down, Joe. That's a good boy, Joe. Off you go, Joe. Don't bother me now, Joe. Fuck you, Joe."

She was awake now.

"What's wrong, Joe?"

His arm shot out and pitched the bedside locker onto the floor. The clock-radio crashed and disconnected.

Valerie sat up, heart thumping, and put her feet on the floor.

"What are you doing?" she said indignantly.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm trying to get my wife to answer a simple fucking question. That's what I'm doing."

"What question?"

Wham! It was an open-handed slap and brought spontaneous tears streaming down her face. Joe looked at his hand as if it had done that all by itself. He hadn't intended to hit her. He hadn't thought he was so worked up in the first place. It was just a question that had entered his mind, that's all. Did she or did she not trick him into marriage? He just wanted to get the facts straight because he couldn't remember how it had happened. And Razor O'Donoghue had happened to mention that night, in the course of a very interesting conversation, that women always knew their fertile time. Had she led him on? He could live with the answer, he just wanted to know. How had he ended up hitting her? The sight of her sitting there, cowering and wet-faced, confused and embarrassed him. He turned towards the door, rubbed his forehead, tugged at his hair and knew he should say something, but nothing would come. He tottered out of the bedroom mumbling, "Going for a walk."

* * * * *

Anne knocked tentatively at Hannah's door. When their eyes connected, it seemed natural to say that she was a bit lonely and to ask if Hannah would mind her sleeping with her. She didn't tell her what she had seen, not because she wouldn't be believed, but because she would, and then it would become an event, a reality. It would go down in folk history even. Better to leave it be. Such phenomena might exist but they could easily be products of our anxieties and preoccupations. No point in creating fears or panicky superstitions. No point at all. Rationalising was always a great comfort to Anne. It didn't fully work this time though, and she was distressed by her heart's twisting at every creak and breath of wood.

She eventually slept and found herself in a dream of childhood. She was in the kitchen, looking straight at the picture of the Sacred Heart, which was back in its old position over the range. She was standing in a small, pink, plastic bath and there was somebody behind her, washing her. She was conscious of her naked body. The heart of Jesus, with its dripping stream of crimson, had captured her eyes. It was getting bigger and bigger. Fascination grew into terror as the dark hole in the centre of the heart spread out to reveal a tunnel that seemed to be inviting her in. As she stared, she became aware of a hand touching the inside of her thigh and moving up. Her stomach began to tingle, sending a shimmy across the skin that spanned her hip bones. There was a rush of heat and wet between her legs, and simultaneously she was filled with an enormous revulsion, a desperate, disgusted sense that she had to stop this, but she couldn't move. The top half of her body was now inside the Sacred Heart picture and the lower half was disconnecting. There was a severe jab of pain, then sustained pain. She screamed, but no sound came. The scream turned into a line of grey smoke that spiralled up and around the fleshy inner walls of the tunnel beyond the heart.

She pulled herself awake and at first didn't know where she was. This room was darker than her flat's, and the big shadow in the corner was unfamiliar. After a few seconds she remembered where she was, made out the shape of the wardrobe and became aware that she was sweating. The overwhelming feeling of arousal and disgust still had its hold on her, and she could still feel the pain.

No. No. It hadn't happened. She wasn't the repressed-memory type. She had examined her childhood. Granted she never wanted to read those books about sexual abuse. It nearly made her faint when she had to listen to the things that were happening to children in the inner city. No. That wasn't the reason. It was hard for every woman to listen to those things. It was an atavistic fear. Then she recalled a few days earlier, when a colleague had described yet another case. The woman had forgotten all about the abuse until she was thirty-four. If Anne recalled something like that, she was sure she'd be destroyed. She'd lie in bed and never want to get up again, never want to face anybody. It made her weak in the stomach to think of it; dissolved her; dispersed her. Stay calm. Keep control. It felt as if there were a presence in the room wanting to move closer, but her whole consciousness said _No_. She started to tremble and couldn't stop. She moved closer to her mother, curled into her back, covered her head with blankets and tried to imagine herself back in the womb. No troubles there. Just warm, velvety oblivion.

Her eyes wouldn't stay closed. She'd get them shut, then hear a sound or remember some story of a break-in or rape, and they'd shoot open again. Her sexuality wasn't absolutely right, but neither was Graham's. They were both shy and clumsy. He had only had two other lovers and he was thirty. She had only had three, one very briefly. Why was she so reluctant to deal with it? The Social Worker syndrome—help everyone else except yourself? It's alright for other people to have weaknesses but not you? It didn't matter that much, not having orgasms. She enjoyed sex well enough. Well enough? She enjoyed it. She loved it as a matter of fact. Why do you have to be a sex maniac to be liberated? It was all a myth anyway, the satisfaction thing. It never worked just right. Maybe for some women. She didn't know. _The Hite Report_. She had recommended it to people, but she'd only skimmed it herself. Maybe other women related to it better. If not having orgasms got to be a problem, yes she would do something about it. A sex therapist. Oh God! Anxiety cramps were starting in her stomach. They were very well-suited, everyone said it. Anne and Graham. Graham and Anne. Anne the Social Worker, Graham the teacher. A great team at bowling, at forty-five, at cooking meals, at organising parties, at sharing notes, at consoling each other. She wished he were here now, with his musky smell and his rounded chest with the wiry red hair on it. The beginning of an ache in her head made her crave an aspirin, but no way was she getting out of that bed and into the unknown. At last, as the sky began to turn pale, the healing wheel of nature shifted and carried her away on the track of an exhausted, forgetful sleep.

* * * * *

When Joe came back, Valerie was fully dressed. She had packed a small case and hidden it in the bottom of the wardrobe. She had no desire to knock on her parents' door at this time of night, but neither would she take a beating, especially not now, with her baby just beginning to stir.

Joe looked at her from under a hanging forehead and held out his arms. Valerie swayed into them and he muttered _Sorrys_ to her hair. He held her for a long time, and she tried to turn her fear and suspicion into reason. There was the sense of having experienced something deep; he had hurt her and now he was healing her. This, in some strange way, was communication, honest contact. She believed he was sorry. And he was. Because a struggling part of him badly wanted to smash the mirrors that told him by the stare of his eyes, by the squareness of his jaw, by the slight stoop of his shoulders, and by the way he ambled slowly, warily through the pub door, that his father was walking still.

* * * * *
Chapter 5

Anne was dazed. Her eventual sleep from six to eleven had saved her from complete exhaustion, but hadn't refreshed. At half-past twelve she stared out the window into a thick film of rain.

"Wouldn't you know it," she muttered, with all the cheerfulness she could muster, "the very weekend I don't bring the car!" She stretched herself.

There was so much to do. She had to get food for Graham's visit, she had to visit the O'Connells, the Doyles and Mrs. Burke, the poor thing. Tommy had gone so quickly and she hadn't been at the funeral. She'd like to see Malachy too. She had to ask him about vegetables and maybe book one of his massages; though massage was ironic when you were smoking like a chimney.

"Did you want to go anywhere, Mammy?"

Hannah widened her eyes, smiled and shook her head. When Anne was gone she'd go back to bed for an hour. She hadn't slept a wink, wondering why her daughter was so restless and disturbed. Maybe it was the travelling. Maybe there was something wrong, since she hadn't brought the car. Hannah never pried, but she was watching like a cat for the opportunity to find out more, for the time when it would be right to move in with sympathy and understanding.

* * * * *

"That's no day for courtin' in the long grass," said Bill O'Connell.  
He stopped at the door of the kitchen and gave Anne a shrewd, openly affectionate look.  
"Did you drive down or were you beamed down?"  
"A bit of both, I think, Bill."

She had known he'd make her smile, that's why she'd come here first.

Bill's eyes were smiling, but his mouth was pursed. He kept his hands in his pockets, jingling what small change he had there. He was seventy, but his face had surprisingly few lines. His stomach had expanded substantially with good feeding and decreased physical activity, but he carried it more gracefully than most with his six feet two inches. He still had a strong sexual potency about him. He nurtured everything: roses, vegetables, animals, his dog Shep, but chiefly his wife, Liz. And Anne.

"Is there any chance of an oul squeeze, good-lookin'?" he said in his playful tone.  
"I thought you'd never ask."  
Anne got up from her fireside seat and branched her arms around his body where his waist should have been. She buried herself in the history of his smell, a smell that seemed richer to her than that of a young man, speaking its lifetime of experience. Here was the soft mulch of shifted earth, the grit of cement, the dark grease of machines. Here, also, the things that protect: the spell of hand-knit wool, the armour of flannel, the knowledge a body gains from having loved.

"Get away out of that or Liz'll be jealous."  
Anne stood back and let him amble over to his easy-chair beside the range.  
"If I was like that, I'd have a hard life," Liz remarked good-humouredly, as she put biscuits from a tin onto a plate.

Liz was tall too, five foot eight, but the main impression she made was one of roundness. Her body was generous but not fat, her face merry and intelligent, her small blue eyes alert and perceptive.

"Well? What's going on in Sin City?"  
"Cincinatti? That's in America, isn't it? Anne's in Dublin."  
Bill looked from Anne to Liz and back again. Liz had always been a little dreamy, but now her hearing was going slightly.  
"Hold the horses a minute, there's a woman left behind," he told the door.

Anne smirked. This banter went on between them all the time and it relaxed her indescribably.  
"Sometimes I'm not sure where I am."  
"Especially on Friday nights, I'd say. Would I be right?"  
"How did you know, Bill? I thought that was my little secret."  
"Ah now, I'm not as green as I'm cabbage-looking. I was young myself once, but I acquired a few virtues as I grew older, didn't I, my love?"  
"Yeah, you're at it every night now."  
Bill raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes.  
"I won't even comment on that!"

Liz gave them tea in white china cups decorated with gold flowers. Bill feigned surprise, but threw her an admiring wink over the serrated gold rim. He delighted in any job well done and he had never found her wanting. Her philosophy was simple: do things right.

"It must be tough enough up there now, is it?"  
"Yes, in places it is. But no more than most cities I'd say. Congested living and poverty are the main causes of the violence. But I must say, I haven't personally experienced anything really bad in the years I've been there. It's at work I see it and hear about it."  
"Still helping people, are you? A fool's errand, helping people."  
"Bill!"  
"Well, it's true. Anne knows I'm saying nothing about her or what she does. I know she has the best of intentions, but people—a lot of people—don't want to do anything about their own lives. They want someone else to come in and do it all for them. And then—they just drag you down with them. If they get the opportunity at all, they drag you down. People like her," pointing to Anne, "waste their lives trying to change them. You'd be better off running a hairdresser's or a restaurant or something. Give people work and you give them something to live for."

"Brendan was let go from Seerex last Tuesday week," said Liz sombrely.  
"Was he? I'm sorry to hear that, Liz. I heard about the redundancies in the news alright."  
"Another nine day wonder, that's what it'll be." Bill became suddenly vehement. "Big panic for a week. Last minute con job trying to save the factory, and then nothing. There's nothing else here for them. And there's not a screed in the city either. It's a bucking disaster and they're taking it. The young fellas—they're just hanging around doing nothing. No fight in them at all. I'll never understand the human being."

"I heard someone took over Michael's studio, the fellow renting Malachy Gallagher's house?"  
Bill reached impulsively for his pipe, tearing tobacco out of its packet and pounding it into the chamber. Liz put down her cup and pushed back her thick, white hair, letting her hand linger on her cheek before it came back to rest in her lap.  
"Michael's only working three days a week there now," she said.  
"He'd be better off out of it altogether."

"Aren't you just after saying they need to be working!" she snapped at him.  
He 'humphed' and took several short puffs on the pipe.

"I hear the O'Malley fellow is a good photographer."  
Bill snorted.  
"Not a job to be got in the town and the young ones are still having big weddings and paying out for photos of themselves. Breeding like rabbits and no way of supporting them. It was different in our time. We had no choice."

Liz shrugged. He continued.  
"They'd buy a framed photo before they'd buy a loaf of bread, half of them."  
"He's good alright, Liam O'Malley. He takes a nice picture," Liz cut in.  
"He's no better than Michael. Not one bit better." He leaned towards Anne. "There's something crafty about him."  
"Ah, it's just his manner, Bill," Liz was getting impatient. She spoke earnestly to Anne.  
"I heard if you paid no mind to his manner, he was very fast and you got a lovely album out of him. Of course, he's not here long, but I know two people who got albums already and they're very satisfied."

"Yeah, well, I still think Michael would have been better going it alone."  
Liz gave a weary shrug.  
"Did he have to sell?" Anne asked, after a deep pull of a cigarette.  
"When Shay Gannon died—Shay, the accountant, you know—Michael discovered there were a lot of debts outstanding. The rent was in arrears, there was equipment had to be paid for, not to mention VAT and all that stuff. Shay was sicker than anyone realised. He let everything slip."  
Liz shook her head and stared out the window without focusing.  
"Then that fella came along from the Tax Office."  
"The Tax Office?"  
"Yeah. The O'Malley fella used be a Tax Inspector. Michael was in big trouble. Anyway, next thing, didn't this O'Malley fella talk to Michael, said he was an expert photographer himself and always wanted to set up in business, but he was looking for the right opportunity. Said he'd move down here and invest a lump sum in the business. Said he'd expand, do all sorts of work. I think he, will we say, did a favourable audit on the books for Revenue. But he owns the business now, and Michael is working for him. He doesn't want to be there all the time for some reason, so he needs someone to keep things ticking over."

Liz fidgeted.  
"Michael was always terrible with money. Not a screed of sense in his head when it comes to keeping accounts or anything."  
"I don't like it. After all the work he put in."

"But everything's working out fine." Liz nodded like a toy with its head suspended.  
Bill turned a quizzical eyebrow towards her.  
"Well, it is, isn't it? There's no trouble between them. They haven't had any falling out."  
"Give it time."

"Ach," said Liz in disgust. She gathered up the tea things, waving away Anne's offer to help.

Bill looked at Anne.  
"I don't like him. And neither does she, only she's trying to keep an open mind."  
He paused to think.  
"It's nothing he's done, it's just a feeling here." He pointed to his stomach. "That's where it gets me. It never lies."

"Have you met his family?"  
He took his time answering.  
"No," he said. "I've seen herself alright—and the two boys."  
"She's a lovely looking girl," said Liz, sitting down again.  
"Do you know what she puts me in mind of?" Bill had been looking for the right description. "I don't mean to be insulting to the girl by saying this, but—did you ever see a pet heifer being driven into the jobber's lorry, going to market? The big eyes looking back at the children that used to pat her and talk to her. That's the look in her eyes. I'm telling you. She's a long way from home."

* * * * *

Mrs Burke cried from the moment Anne arrived, and had to be hugged and soothed through the half hour that followed. She had to describe in detail how poor Tommy had passed away, how he had looked that morning when she had woken up and found him dead beside her. She had to recount how she had got through the day, who had helped her, who had come to the funeral, who had sent wreaths, which of the relatives hadn't been able to make it, and so on. After that she had to recall old times, things that were coming back to her in slowly building piles, day by day. And the regrets. They had had a row the night before he died about him going to the pub every evening for the few pints. She wondered now why she had begrudged the poor man. Sure, hadn't he worked hard all his life. And so forth, until Anne looked up at the big wooden clock and saw that it was twenty to five. The shops would be closing at half past. Mrs Burke was still talking while Anne made her mild excuses and embraced her. She left in a shower of holy water and blessings.

She hurried towards Bridge Street and _Spar_. As she approached Doctor Galvin's corner house, Malachy Gallagher was on his way in, carrying a little boy wrapped in a blanket, with a yellow oilskin thrown over that. In the haze of the drizzle, it took Malachy a second or two to acknowledge her after she had said hello.

"Ah, there you are, Anne. I can't talk now, lass. Give me a shout over the week-end."

Close on Malachy's heels was a young woman with the hood of a white raincoat casting a shadow on her face. The baby in her arms was only discernible as a bundle. Her profile, all that Anne could see, was familiar, but she didn't get a chance to place her before she vanished into the Doctor's hallway.

* * * * *
Chapter 6

Sunday morning, 14th March. 00.30am and the town of Drumnashee was by no means asleep. Hannah Brennan was watching the late film on RTE 1. It was called _The Colour of Money_ and she thought that young snooker champion was a right dote. There was no point going to bed early these times, because she'd only be lying sleepless and lonely for hours. As well as that, the drizzle hadn't lifted all day and she was worried about Anne, who had gone to a dance. Anne was well capable of minding herself, but old habits die hard. Then again, there was something in the air tonight. Something that, earlier, had made Hannah break a couple of ash branches and tie them into a cross, which she had hung on a nail above the front door. That had settled her anxieties with regard to superhuman things and allowed her to direct her solicitude to the visibly alive.

Anne was looking a bit thin. Young girls, as Hannah named all unmarried women under 40, should be nicely rounded, with clear ruddy skin and bright eyes. Instead of that, Anne was quite pale and very slight, not a pick on her for a girl of twenty-six, under that long, shapeless dress and red openwork cardigan. All the coaxing in the world wouldn't get her to eat more of that cream sponge Hannah had bought specially and now hoped wouldn't go to waste. She had eaten her dinner alright, but never bothered with as much as a cup of tea between meals, running around seeing people, going into town buying things Hannah didn't need, stuff for a salad, new towels and a table cloth. That Social Working was probably having too much of an effect on her. Too much listening to other people's problems really wasn't good for you. Hannah concluded that Anne didn't enjoy herself enough, and that she worried far too much. A good, hard-working boy was the thing for her, and a few children. Problems of her own—nice, long-term, constructive problems, a decent house and plenty of security. It was high time she found someone anyway or she'd be left on the shelf. She couldn't look girlish forever, which is what Hannah thought she was trying to do with those gypsy or Indian or whatever you called those strange clothes she wore.

If you took the first turn left off the main road south after leaving the town of Drumnashee, you'd be in the townland of Kilnalacka. This townland incorporated Hannah's and her late husband Dinjo's small holding of thirty acres, three small holdings further up the road—Magners', Doyles' and McCarthys', and, on the other side, the sixty acres of what used to be the Kelly farm. Aine Gallagher had sold all but ten acres of that before she went missing, presumed dead.

After that, the road stretched in a steady rise up to St. Brigid's well, which was at a T junction, and then you were into Tubbercreeve. Hannah's house was only a mile from the square in Drumnashee but it might have been twenty years away as far as her thinking went. There was not even a hint of town about her and, although she went about her shopping quite enthusiastically, she would never dream of going in there for company at night. She certainly would never enter a licensed premises. She preferred to rely on the erratic, but fairly frequent, visits of her relations from Aughnatochar, ten miles out the main road.

Dinjo Brennan's death had been a blessing to everyone, but in particular to Joe, because he now had free rein to do as he wished, no longer obliged to bow to his father's moods and demands. And bow is what he had had to do—over twenty-one or not. That had left its mark. Hannah understood, or rather, would try to understand, not one word of the analytic lingo Anne used to describe their family. If Anne had said, "Mammy, I was so hurt and sad that day when Daddy slapped me in front of Uncle Tom", Hannah would have put her arms around her and held her baby close. But that wasn't Anne. Anne helped people to solve their problems. She had no major problems of her own. So whenever she launched into an assessment of Joe's aggressive behaviour, Hannah padded herself with her own understanding of her son's temper and with the rationalisation that the shouting which came from the mobile home he shared with his new wife was simply one of love's teething pains. Joe had selected a site for a house and was to start building shortly. At least when that was finished, they'd be a little further away, down beside the road. Hannah sometimes prayed for deafness to come so that the burial of her knowledge could be more complete. She doubted she'd ever fully block it out though, because she knew she'd have much more to do with them when the baby was born in July.

Not long after twelve, she heard a car turning into Kilnalacka. Hannah liked to watch all the cars that passed her house. This one might even be Anne, getting a lift home. She went quickly to her bedroom, where the light was off and the blinds open. It was Liam O'Malley as far as she could see. The rain wasn't as heavy as it had been, but visibility was still poor. Right enough, the car pulled into the O'Malley's drive and halted in front of the bungalow. There had been a few comings and goings at the house earlier on. He had made a few trips in and out, and Jacqui had been with him on one occasion. But surely they had left someone with the children? They'd hardly leave them alone that much? There was something really odd about them.

Liam got out after Jacqui, slammed the door, locked it, then went around and made sure all the other doors were locked as well. Real city carry-on, Hannah thought. Of course, things were different these days. They went into the house and he closed the door. Hannah detected a sudden movement in the hall before they moved out of sight. She became a little ashamed for watching, but before she drew away from the window she noticed something else—a sudden bluish flash that seemed to have come from around the Hill of the Fairies. It whirled and was gone in a split second—so fast in fact, that after five more minutes of _The Colour of Money_ it had settled comfortably into the back of her mind.

* * * * *

Sunday morning 14th March. 1.00am and the town of Drumnashee was not asleep. The disco in The Grapevine was humming. If you had passed, maybe going home from an after-hours session in one of the pubs, or a game of forty-five, having skipped the dance at the annual parish fund-raising event, you would see the energy pulsing through the changing waves of light that burst defiantly through the well-curtained windows of The Plains, an establishment which did everything a hotel did except keep guests. You would hear the heavy, repetitive beat of a sampled drum and the ravings of Two Unlimited going, "No, No, Nononono... No no nono nono...."

If you were over fifteen and under twenty-five, you would not be passing by, you would already be there. Unless, of course, you had embraced your parents' Country & Western tastes. Or your father wouldn't let you go. Or you simply didn't have the money. Because The Grapevine was the place to be on a Friday, Saturday and Sunday night. This was the coolest joint in town, where they at least played some Rave and hip-hop, as well as Nirvana and Bon Jovi. In typical rustic fashion, the people, like the music, were mixed and ill-matched. This was where the desperate young ones went with their oversized check shirts, jeans, black bomber jackets and _Doc Martens_ , or with their sweatshirts, baggies and peaked caps if they were ravers. There was, in fact, nowhere else for any of them to go.

Look here also for the University students home for the week-end, trying to seem intelligent or bored, or both, and for the migrant workers, some of whom, like Anne Brennan, were making a mini-holiday of it until Wednesday evening, or for the whole week. This was the only reasonably satisfying venue for those who couldn't stand the farm anymore after their taste of the smoke. Most of them were over twenty-five and they were shocked into remembering their age when they saw the lanky, barely-weaned young lads leaning against the bar or looking at them lecherously, actually working up to an approach. For Christ's sake, you remember him—he's one of the Sheridans from back the road; you used to mind him when he was still in nappies. That fella is O'Connor from the Crooked Bridge. They all look alike, but he's a very young one of the O'Connors, because there's the one you started school with and he had no brother at that stage.

At least you had some sort of safety here, Anne thought. You knew the families, so the men generally wouldn't harass you. Of course you only needed the one to follow you home, back up the road to Kilnalacka. It was near the town, but dark enough and quiet enough for someone to put his hand over your mouth and... Christ, why was she frightening herself like this? Work was hard enough besides bringing fears home with her. Maria would drive her tonight. Maria ran a local boutique, in a premises rented from one of the cattle-jobber O'Deas. She didn't frequent The Grapevine, but it had just been done up and she was curious. Besides, Anne hadn't been there for two years and they both thought that tonight would bring an older crowd. They were right. But the older crowd was sardined in with the regular young crowd and the place was unbearable. That is, unless you were plastered or really desperate to get shifted. Anne and Maria were near enough to plastered.

"Look, I said to her, don't give me that shite. This is a new age. You're liberated now. There's no need for any woman to let a man tell her what to do. No reason whatsoever. Unless you're a total moron altogether and you can't do anything for yourself. She's not even married to him. Tell him to fuck off, I said. If he puts pressure on you, tell him to fuck off. She's spending money on him too, heaps of money. Do you know what she got him for his birthday?"  
Anne shook her head.  
"A camera. A fucking camera. £80 worth! The girl needs her head examined. No woman should spend that kind of money on a boyfriend. Sure he could be gone with the wind tomorrow. I don't know, sometimes I think women are stupid bitches."

Anne wasn't into this, not this week-end, not this time of night, not at this stage of drunkenness.  
"Maybe she wants to do it," she said wearily.  
Maria raised her eyebrows with a look of superior knowledge on her face.  
"Yeah!" she said, and reached for another cigarette.

To cover the disagreement they both started to scan their surroundings. Suddenly, Maria burst out laughing. Anne relaxed.  
"What's the joke?"  
Maria leaned closer.

"Do you see that fella over there, the one with the white trousers?"

Anne looked around and saw the man in question. He was fairly tall, wearing a black shirt and white trousers. He had made an attempt to oil his hair back, which had failed to make it smooth, a formless clump having lodged at the right-hand side. He had a broad, slightly plump face and was narrowing his eyes, trying to look cool. His mouth was twisted into a side-winding smile that stretched the skin of his lips obscenely. His thumbs were hooked into the belt loops of his trousers and his fingers framed a big, incongruous cowboy buckle over which his burgeoning paunch peeped like a tourist over the Cliffs of Moher. Peeped and saw the pointed toes of a pair of tan cowboy boots.

"He can't make up his mind whether he wants to be Elvis or Clint Eastwood," said Maria. She looked back at him. "Oh Christ, he's looking over." She burst into uncontrollable giggles. "Why do I always attract weirdos?"  
"I think he's looking at me, not you," said Anne, and Maria was off again.  
"You'd imagine we'd have grown up a bit, wouldn't you?" she said when her convulsions had died down.

Anne hated that—Maria including both of them in her behaviour. Total egocentric. She normally said nothing. After all, maybe she was doing it too—but tonight....  
"Speak for yourself."  
"Of course, you'll be an old married woman soon. Jesus, Anne, I suppose I'm on the shelf."  
"What do you mean, shelf?"  
More of it. Speak liberation, accept the status quo.

"I'm only joking, Anne. I don't really want to get married, you know, I've come to that conclusion in the past few weeks. I have a great time really. I have my own business and I know loads of people. I can have a man whenever I want one, without all this hassle of accounting to someone over what you eat for breakfast."  
"But you're going out with Stephen, aren't you?"  
"Yeah, but we're mature enough not to crowd each other. I think you have to be like that. That's what being adult is all about. I'm not saying I sleep with different men every night of the week, far from it actually, but if a nice man asks me out to dinner, I'll go with him. I'm not putting myself in a glass case for anyone. Stephen could be gone tomorrow. Anyway, I think sexuality is too beautiful a thing to be placed in a box, don't you?"  
She waited for an answer.  
"Yes," said Anne, wishing she meant it.

Maria was on one of her favourite subjects.  
"You can't be confined when it comes to self-expression. That's the greediest thing you could do, lock someone up so that only you can have them. I'd never confine anyone like that. Sex and money. They're the two things that cause the most evil in the world. I'm very conscious of that. I guard against greed all the time. These places, they feed on people's greed. I don't know why I came here at all."

The two seconds that followed seemed like a cave in time. Anne felt as if she had hit the back of that cave at 60 miles an hour and had come rushing back out at the same speed. She was trembling inside and out. The complexion of the world had changed.  
"You're full of shit," she said.  
"What?"

Maria couldn't believe her ears. Maybe it was the music distorting the words. She gave a little laugh.  
"You're full of shit," said Anne, looking straight at her, still trembling.

Those two whiskeys, on top of all the _Heineken_ , had started a throb at the back of her skull. The world seemed full of dark waving things, a jungle of improbability. Maria stared at her as if she had mutated.

"You talk about materialism and you'd screw your own mother for a few bob. You go on about independence and you've deliberately got Stephen on a string, the best catch in Drumnashee. There's only him for the Motel and that's a gold mine, whatever way you look at it. And the _Spar_ , his family own that too. Christ!"  
"What harm is there in being comfortable? I'd be some eejit to marry a dustman, wouldn't I?"  
"And now you _do_ want to get married!" Anne stood up. "I'm going."  
"Anne, hold on. What's wrong with you? We can disagree without falling out. Don't go."  
Anne roughly pulled her arm away and struggled to the cloakroom. There was no queue as yet, so she got her coat and shawl straight away. She all but ran out the door into the courtyard and then onto the street. The rain made the streetlamps send out vivid auras, as if they were watching presences. She was hurrying for no particular reason. She hardly felt the rain and, if anything, wanted to be out in it rather than in any enclosed space. Down Strokes Street, into Market Square, across onto Priest's Walk, Bridge Street, Daly's Quay and she was on the main road out of town. Walking fast had become natural to her, especially in the city, where, as her mother had once advised, you should always look like you have somewhere to go.

At the moment she didn't feel like she had anywhere to go. She wanted to get lost in the dark, be lifted up, borne away on some cancelling cloud. She was drunk enough to stagger, but not drunk enough to need the assistance of wall, bar or railing. She walked in inconsolable anger, the chaotic thoughts coming furiously, in gusts as frequent as the raindrops. She couldn't fathom what she had just done, couldn't get to the rationality of it. Her friendship with Maria had reached a crisis point. Anne didn't talk to her friends like that. She had often criticised Maria before, they had criticised each other, but it had been sensitively done, or it hadn't been deep and had turned into a laugh. This was different. There was a chasm opening between them that she didn't understand. She was aware of a vague terror that came at her like a demonic accordion, squeezing and droning. She had forgotten Graham's face, that was another thing. She searched and searched in her memory, but couldn't find him. When she thought about Monday and his coming down to Drumnashee, there was an emotional blank. He didn't fit into this part of her life, and this part was beginning to feel like a vortex that was sucking her down and would never let her go.

A car slowed behind her. She kept walking. She wanted to speak to nobody, look at nobody. At any rate, you never looked into a car that pulled up beside you at night-time. It occurred to her that she should be walking on the other side of the road. The front passenger window was rolled down and, just as the man was trying to make out who she was and had barely said, "D'you want a lift?", she snapped, "Fuck off," and crossed to the other side. The car lingered for a few seconds, then moved on. They could have been neighbours. Anne was stunned by her indifference to that, but the more she misbehaved, the more her rage rose. She turned into the unrelieved dark of the Kilnalacka road and survival instinct clicked into place. Her senses became more alert, but her mind was still wild. She was beginning to like this capsule she was in. She didn't want it to take her into a tomorrow. But there was always a tomorrow.

A song she had heard earlier was running through her head:  
"And she will always carry on.  
Something is lost, something is found."

Suppose she couldn't carry on? Suppose she kept walking and never turned back, never went back to the job, never went back to her family. Suppose she walked until she came to the sea and then kept walking straight in, gradually sinking, finally disappearing under the waves? Did Linda Brogan walk in like that? Probably. Probably was so blind drunk she didn't have a notion what she was doing. Anne should have called that day. She was supposed to call once a fortnight. Linda had been behaving really badly, wasn't showing up in school, was locking herself in her room, going out at night and coming home late. So her mother said. But their flat was always a shambles. The mother slept during the day and went out on the game at night. The father, oh the father, what a violent looking man.

Linda kept breaking appointments with her counsellor. And she wouldn't give anything away. The problem was plain to be seen. It really was obvious she was being abused one way or another. She was so small, and those bruises on her face. But she'd always have a good story. Lies, must have been. Why didn't she tell?

That day—it was a Friday—Anne had promised she'd call. She had started calling once a week because of Linda's behaviour. Things were looking serious. But five o'clock came after a hectic day and she was called to a case conference. She resented every minute of that meeting. It was Graham's birthday. They were going to _Les Miserables_ at the Gate. She was tired, sweaty and stressed. She took a chance on leaving the visit to Monday. After all, she hadn't heard anything about Linda during the week.

On Monday morning came that she had disappeared. Her body was found on Sandymount beach a few days later. Anne was first of all angry with her for not taking the help that had been offered, then angry with herself, then overwhelmed by a guilty grief that she doubted would ever subside.

"Why didn't you trust us? You could just as easily have gone to one of the houses or a hospital—or the Gardai. Why didn't you go to the Gardai?"  
She was asking the sky and there was no sympathy in its face. Tears mingled with the drizzle on her cheeks.  
"It's my fault. She was waiting for me to call and I let her down. God only knows what was happening to her and I didn't show up. No-one came to rescue her. No-one came, because no-one cared enough. No. I didn't care enough. So she bought a bottle of cider, went down to the beach, got drunk and killed herself. A girl of fourteen. How often does it happen? It should never have happened. Why did it have to happen to me?"  
And the cruel night whispered, "It happened to Linda, not to you."

She started walking quickly, because she fancied she could feel the ghost of Linda on the road. She put her head down and wrapped the two ends of her shawl tightly around her neck.  
"Fuck it," she said. She was sobbing. She was getting accustomed to using the f word by now and it gave her some satisfaction. "Fuck it, she went to one session of counselling and that was it. When she was fostered she wanted to go home. What was anyone supposed to do to help her?"  
She stopped and shouted.  
"WHAT WAS ANYONE SUPPOSED TO DO?"

"What in the name of Jesus are you at?"  
Joe Brennan was standing four metres from his sister, his chest primed as if for a fight, his hands on his hips. Anne was shocked back into her senses. She looked around and realised that she had gone past her mother's laneway. She was beside Malachy Gallagher's rented house and all the lights were on. As she watched, they all went off quickly, one by one. She thought maybe they had been listening to her and felt ashamed. She was also a bit sick in the stomach, but didn't want to vomit in front of Joe, who seemed vaguely pleased that she wasn't the full shilling. She sensed that he was angry too. He probably didn't think much of women who did this kind of thing. She turned on her heels and walked back towards the house as steadily as she could. He was close behind her.

"What are you doing out at this time of night?" she asked him.  
"Just as well I was," he grunted, "or you'd have ended up the other side of Tubbercreeve."  
"Oh I knew where I was."  
"Like fuck you did."

That was addressed to himself, as if he were adding to a dossier he was compiling on her. The malice in him sent a pang of fear and loneliness through her. But maybe that was just his way? She reckoned he had been embarrassed by her and decided to leave it at that. Any attempt at argument now and she'd probably lose. She was beginning to long for sleep anyway. He stalked up to the mobile home with a quick "Goodnight", leaving her to fumble through the keys. She wasn't long in bed before she sank into a semi-coma with all the saving abandon of the drunk.

* * * * *
Chapter 7

Jacqui sat on the edge of David's bed and stared straight ahead. She should have been seeing Brian through the white wooden bars of his cot. She should have noticed that he was, as usual, lying in the opposite direction from earlier. She should have taken in the fact that he now had no blankets over him, that he was lying on them. She should have heard the slight chestiness of his breathing and seen the odd shudder that ran down the length of his little body as he lay there on his stomach, head to one side, the little, rounded hands on either side of his face and his bottom stuck up in the air.

She saw none of these things. It struck her that she might be dreaming, so she closed her eyes tightly for a second, opened them again, shook her head and looked back at the bed where David should have been. It was still empty. The quilt and top sheet were thrown back. All three of the small windows were wide open and their latches hanging free. Slowly, with an unthinking action, she went towards them, pushed one out as far as it would go, and peered into the night. All she saw was a drizzled darkness, the lights of the main road and some red flying stars caused by the maladjusting of her pupils. She closed the window and pulled the other two in until there were only small apertures. There were three words in her head: _David is gone_. The sentence shouted itself out from corner to corner of her mind and filled her up so completely that all other words, all other understandings were evicted.

She stood looking at the window for a while, then drew the curtains and stared at them, though she wasn't registering anything about them. She looked at the cot and again at David's bed. She sat on the bed with her back against the headboard and gazed down at the indented, askew pillow. She became aware of a throbbing in her head and chest, her heart beating so hard it was starting to hurt. The sentence in her head was travelling.

David is gone, her stomach said.  
He's gone, her heart said.  
He's gone, her throat said.  
He's gone, her tongue said.  
He's gone, her lips formed, but never said. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. HE'S GONE. HE'S GONE. HE'S GONE.

The words ran soundlessly back down through her respiratory passage, bounced off all her inner walls and sent waves out through her pores. Her inners were repeating it over and over in order to make her accustomed to the idea, the reality. They were trying to push _her_ , that other entity beyond the brain and body, _her_ , Jacqui; her body and brain were trying to push Jacqui into doing something. Do something, they said. Do something. David is gone. Your son is gone. He's only five years old. This is night-time. He's not in his bed.

She got up, but her legs softened under her and made her sit back down. They started shaking then, a fearsome, persistent convulsing that sent tremors to the rest of her body. She brought her hands towards her face but they trembled so much the journey seemed eternal. When her fingers were touching either cheek, she realised that her mouth was open and her lips were twitching too. Pull yourself together. Normal things. Pick out familiar objects. Move. Do something. She reached down and grabbed the underside of the bed. The feel of the hard, cloth-covered wood steadied her a little. She began to rock back and forth. That helped.

Maybe he's somewhere in the house. Leaning heavily on her hands, she pushed herself to her feet. She walked bent, supporting herself with her hands, until she got to the end of the bed. She reached for the door, which was still open, and leaned against it as she left the room. She sidled along the wall, got to the bathroom door and looked in. The light was on. No-body there. She took the half dozen shaky steps across the hall to the sitting-room, grabbed hold of the door jamb, felt around it and turned on the light switch. She swung the door in on its hinges and looked. Went into the room, holding onto furniture. No-one. Her legs were still weak. She struggled to the kitchen and turned on the light there. She bumped against one of the floor cupboards and the sharp corner of its door dug into her hip. The pain had the welcome effect of making her more alert, but as she stumbled she knocked over the stainless steel tea-pot that had been sitting on top of the cupboard. There was a loud metallic bang on the tiles as its lid fell open and the stale contents emptied out in a brown ugly stream. She went back out to the hall. Her movements were becoming swifter and her panic abating.

She stood facing the front door, uncertain of what to do. At this stage she felt she could be constructive, but didn't know how. The locked phone loomed beside her. If she went out in the rain now would she find him, maybe wandering the fields? If only she had done something after the first time. He must have been sleep-walking. Maybe there was something you could get for it. He'd hardly have been able to get out through those small windows, but he might have gone through a window in one of the other rooms. She realised then that he could just as easily have gone out the front or back door. Yes. There was only a Yale lock on the front and they never took the key out of the back. They were negligent. He could be anywhere. There was a sound behind her. She spun round.

He stood there in his pyjamas, still and eerie as a vision. His appearance made her heart beat even harder until her head was going to burst with the force of it. After a few seconds she noticed the knife. The blade was long, dark-grey and looked sharp, with a pointed tip. It had a small serration on one edge, near the plain, heavy hilt. She was doubly shocked by the fact that she had never seen it before.

Starting with the top of her head, He stared coldly at her body, lingering on each part like a butcher assessing the necessary cuts. While he looked, he held the knife tightly at an angle by his side, so that the point was slightly up and towards her. If he had thrust it at that angle, it would have lodged in the dimple of her throat. He flexed his fingers around the staunch unyielding hilt, contracting and relaxing the muscles so that at intervals she could see the white of his knuckle bones. His head was tilted slightly forward in that habitual way and his eyes were glittering and dangerous. His gaze swept down to the dagger and back up in a sideways motion, to rest for seconds on her stomach, then on the inescapable flesh of her breasts.

Jacqui stood as if before a threatening dog, knowing that a sudden move might mean serious injury, trying to conceal her fear. She glanced to each side and then back at him, checking out a means of escape or protection. She was conscious of the open sitting-room door and again of the locked phone on the table at her right hand. For almost two minutes they stood like that, in total silence. Then, like a pacified lion, he turned and went to the door of his room.

"Turn off the lights and go to bed," he said slowly, his voice hollow as a door that closes on an empty church.

* * * * *

Jacqui thought she'd never move again, but habit and necessity snapped her into action. She had to at least pretend to do what he'd told her. In half the time it had taken her to get to the hall, she had cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, turned off all the lights and was back in the boys' room, covering Brian up. She went again to David's bed, quickly felt all along it from bottom to top and pulled the quilt up into its normal position. She turned off the light in the hall and switched on the one in her own room as she went softly in. She leaned against the door as her body, sensing a temporary safety, began to weaken again. Pull yourself together. This can't be happening. Maybe he ran away. Maybe he went up the hill again. Maybe Malachy will find him. Maybe he'll just come back by himself. What in the name of all that's holy was he doing with a knife?

She heard him go back into him own room and stood, barely breathing, through the sounds of him getting into bed. She would be able to tell when he was asleep. She knew the sound of his sleep-breathing by now and he had a slight tendency to snore. The bed creaked, as if he were turning and then settling down again. She scanned the room for something she could defend herself with. The chair in the corner was the first thing. She put it carefully and silently in front of the door. She should have grabbed a knife from the kitchen, but maybe she wouldn't have been able to use it. The bedside locker. Maybe she could push that at him. She wasn't going to sleep, but if she did, the chair would fall and wake her if he opened the door. Then she could get up, stand behind the locker, and when he got close enough she could push it at him. She started to take her books out of it. She'd throw them if necessary.

The more she visualised the knife, the more she felt that her life was in danger. Would he attack Brian? She couldn't leave the room or he'd probably hear her and attack her. He had never been this bad. What was she going to do if David didn't come back before morning? She suddenly remembered that he had put the latch and the second lock on the front door when they had come in. She had secured the small windows in David's room, so he wouldn't be able to get in that way. The back door was the only hope, but unless he had used it to get out, it was probably locked. She stopped emptying the locker, sat on the bed and started to cry. The dull pit of her stomach told her how useless she was. She couldn't cope at all. She wished someone would appear and just sort it all out—kill L, take care of Brian and find David. Then let her go—anywhere, nowhere. Just to be alone. For once not to have anyone on her back, bleeding her life from her. She lay on the bed, her tear-blinded eyes gaping at the dim spread of the ceiling.

Could L have killed David? That knife is a killing instrument. A low white sensation. If he killed him... if he killed him... I'll cut him open and feed his guts to the birds. I'd feel no guilt whatsoever about shooting him. The fucker. If he did this.... I know what I did but I was only fifteen. I did the best I could with the boys.... Well, I have tried... maybe not my best.... Why can't I do something now? What's stopping me?

She sat up.  
It was my best. I minded him, didn't I? I told him I loved him, didn't I? That was hard because it was never said to me. Mammy just ignored me. I was kind to him most of the time. I know I've been hitting him a lot lately, but.... Everything is in pieces again. I should never have got involved with L. He turned out to be no good at all. But how was I to judge him when I was only seventeen? I thought he was alright. Oh, maybe I knew he wasn't alright. I kind of knew. I didn't do the right thing. But I hadn't a clue. I still don't have a clue. And there's no-one. I have no-one.

There might as well have been a desert beyond the walls of the house. She longed for a valium but didn't dare go to the kitchen. She would have taken as many tablets as possible at that point, but couldn't face being killed by his hand. She did have sleeping pills on the locker. Move the locker out in case he comes in. She picked up the strip of tablets. Three left. Enough to sleep, not enough to die. He'd hardly kill her in her sleep. He'd come in, find me asleep and go out again. I'd feel better in the morning. Maybe in the morning she'd be able to figure out what to do. Why don't I want him to kill me if I'd kill myself? Maybe it would be better if he killed her. Then he'd be up for murder and she'd be rid of the world as well. If he did it in her sleep, that wouldn't hurt. He wouldn't do it while I was asleep.

It struck her that if he tried to come in and found the chair behind the door, that would make him more aggressive. She'd be thwarting him, defying him. There's no knowing what he'd do to her. She moved the chair into the corner to the left of the door. Then she figured she'd better take off her clothes and get into bed, just in case. He hadn't come into her room since they had started sleeping separately. But he was different tonight. If he had killed David....

She swallowed all three sleeping tablets, washing them down with the remains of the water from the previous night. Immediately she had done it, she began to panic. Christ, I'll never wake up. Maybe he'll kill Brian. There was nothing she could do to stop him killing anyone. And would it be so bad? Dead people don't feel. They don't feel a thing. She repeated that to herself as she drifted downwards towards the black, every so often jerking with anxiety at an imagined footstep or touch. After a while, things began to fade. When it was morning she would think.

* * * * *
Chapter 8

Liam woke up feeling lousy. He had slept the sleep of the chronically paranoid, deep, then disturbed, then light, then disturbed, then wide awake and worried. He couldn't understand why she had been wandering around the house the previous night with a faraway look on her face. She looked like she might be losing her marbles. She always looked a bit vacant, but you couldn't be up to them. Women. You never knew what they were thinking. She might even be having it off with someone. Liam scanned for a possible stud and drew a blank. He wondered why she had turned on all the lights. She was hardly trying to sneak out with the place bright as a lighthouse. Unless it was a signal of some sort. But he had ruled out a stud so that didn't make any sense. She might try to run off and leave him. Not with the brats, unless she went to some battered women's refuge and she'd hardly do that. Likes her comfort too much. The thought of her running away made Liam's ulcer twist and his head ache slightly.

Liam thought himself pretty much in control. His house had no loose ends. Apart from the occasional petty mutiny, everybody did as he said and stayed out of his way until he needed them. That's the way a man should have his house. His taste in sex was imaginative. So was his taste in women. She was a fine looking whore and she was good at it. Born to it. Might have been bred for it, in fact. Of course, he had given her some training himself. And he made sure she was well groomed and adequately fed. He chuckled. Visualising her as a showhorse amused him. Just make sure she doesn't bolt. Last night? She wasn't bolting. She had all the lights on.

One of the brats started crying in the middle of his stream of thought. She'd better pick him up soon or he'd clock him. All the lights on. What the fuck was she at? Wasting electricity for a start. Looking for something. Must have been looking for something. The cunt was simple, She'd never be able to plan an escape. Not a hope. Wasting electricity. She was bringing in money now of course. Doesn't matter; you can't let things slip at all or they'll walk all over you. Give her another chance. If it happens again, give her a hiding. Just so she knows who's boss.

Liam had his rooms just the way he liked them, good for work and for the little rest he needed. The bed he slept in was a comfortable, hard single. He stored various videos in alphabetical order, and had lenses and cameras on carefully constructed shelving along the walls. What should have been the master bedoom he now used as a studio, had bedecked the bed with satin-covered cushions and a choice of coverlets. Here he had the necessary lighting system—fill, main, spots with their attachments, and reflectors. A TV and two video machines were kept in the other small room.

He wanted his life to himself. But if he couldn't live completely alone, things had to be made as convenient as possible. He liked his privacy. That was why he wouldn't have her in his bed anymore. He couldn't watch her as closely, of course, but even with her own flat in Dublin she had still been completely his. Not a bad arrangement this. Cleanliness. Space. Also, he knew that she was terrified, that she had nowhere to go and that, in her own way, she adored him. He had her in the palm of his hand. If she slipped a bit he could always teach her a lesson.

His heart fluttered. He was very nervous this morning. Bitch. Upsetting him like that last night after he had been so good to her, after he had kindly taken her for a drink and screwed her. No cameras. No aids. No rough stuff. Nothing. Just straight sex. Maybe that was what had upset his system. Loss of control, that's what caused the rot. The old church teaching was there for a good reason. You had to control your physical desires or you'd weaken and they'd walk all over you. That was it. That was why she misbehaved. She thought she was the Queen Bee because he had screwed her straight. He'd show her Queen fucking Bee.

He threw back the bedclothes and swung his legs onto the floor. Sunday morning. The brat was still crying. What the fuck was she doing? He looked at his watch and it showed half past eight. He threw the bedroom door open and marched into the hall. He hammered on her door.

"Hey! Hey in there! It's not a fucking hotel you live in. Get out here and shut that racket up or I'll shut it for you."  
There was a sound in her room, but nothing definite. The brat was still bawling.

"Do you hear me?"

He was yelling nervously now. Some restraint stopped him turning the handle and walking right in. He kicked the door, but it held.  
A faint voice said, "Yeah. I'm coming."

Liam kicked the door of the boys' room and shouted, "Shut up, you little bastard!"  
The crying died down to a whimper, then started again. He stomped to the bathroom and closed the door. He turned on the shower so it would heat up while he urinated. He turned it on high, fussing at everything energetically in order to forget the irrational hesitation he had felt at those closed doors.

Liam was a tall man, six foot one, and he was very thin. Thin, not because of his eating habits, more because of the nervous tension that devoured and wasted everything he ate. It looked as if he had a gap between his shoulder blades and he walked with his head stretched out in front, a little like a gander. He hardly remembered his childhood now, except in his recurring nightmares, which he wiped from his consciousness the moment he woke up. His nightmares would have explained to him, if he had ever had faith enough to ask, why he had found it impossible to open those closed bedroom doors this morning. He'd order them to keep their doors open.

* * * * *

A six year-old boy pattered along the landing of a large semi-detached in South Dublin. He had just been to the bathroom. There was a light under the door of his father's study. The study was out of bounds, so he was about to hurry past when the door opened with a slow creak. His father stood there in his dressing-gown, large-bellied, his eyes sinking inscrutably into the folds of their lids.  
"Liam. You're up."  
"Going to toilet, Dad."  
His father stared at him, and Liam knew he couldn't move until the silent scrutiny was over.  
"Come in here for a minute."

Enter the forbidden zone? For all Liam knew, his father might have been keeping tigers in there. There might have been long-tongued lizards and rampant creepers, long grass and hissing snakes.

This wasn't so far from the truth. The veneer, though, was dark red leather pressed into soft squares by mathematically placed buttons. Even at six, Liam had the germ of his father's liking for geometry and calculations. He was overwhelmed by the order, the dark oak desk, the rows of bookshelves, the chess set with its courtly teams and dichromatic battlefield. His father hadn't taught him to play, would never teach him.

Then there were the smells of all those stolid things, mingling headily like old red wine. He might have stepped into a vat where convention, power and cut-throat business were distilled into a viscosity of sense impression. His father sat in the huge red chair, slowly rotating a glass of brandy.  
"Come," he said, patting his knee. "Sit here."

Sit there? Never. His father's smell was as overwhelming as all the rest put together. Cigar smoke, indulged skin, newly ironed shirts, tweed or wool suits—Liam knew the smell from a foot's distance and was wary. But he couldn't disobey. You didn't disobey Father. He approached slowly.  
"Your mother never sits on my knee. Isn't that tragic? I need someone to sit on my knee."

His father touched him oddly, took off his pyjamas and stroked him, then stroked himself. Liam felt odd going back to bed, bearing a question he had no knowledge to ask.

That night started a new life. A life that intensified in pain and fear.  
"Don't think of telling anyone what we do," his father had said. "No-one needs to know. This is between father and son. Everything is alright between a father and his son."

Sometimes the child left a trail of blood in the landing when he went back to bed. His nights swirled with fervent aspirations.  
"Please God, let it be alright. Please God, make it go away. Please God, make this be a bad dream."

But it hadn't gone away, and Liam had stopped praying. What Liam's mother thought when she saw the bloodstains was never known, nor what she thought when Liam continued to wet the bed because he was afraid to leave his room at night, nor what the doctor thought when he developed a serious collection of haemorrhoids. Regularly, after midnight, the harsh summons would come. It didn't even need to be articulate; Liam knew it was his name, the name of his parents' only son, the birth of whom had left his mother semi-incontinent and broken.

After a while, all that filled Liam's mind was escape. A world picture had formed that was fundamentally cynical, a picture of the nature of power. The strongest survive; the weak swallow their fate or choke on it. That was the order, the only morality. His body also spoke, a body that was so used to pain and emotional deprivation that those things became its way of being, drugs it couldn't do without. It would become necessary for Liam to see that pain and that deprivation constantly made flesh. But he would have to be aloof. He was the Escapee, the Freeman, the Boss. In a world where everyone minded only themselves, Boss was the thing to be.

In the core of horror there are always spaces, however small, for recuperation. There is usually some limited way of living a life. Liam got Christmas presents from his parents. He might have been raped on Christmas Eve, but there was always an expensive present for him under the tree. On his thirteenth Christmas, a month before his father stopped abusing him, he got a camera. A good one, a Kodak single-lens reflex. It had an instruction leaflet which he studied carefully. With his pocket money he bought film upon film, different lenses, experimented anywhere and whenever he could with apertures, shutter speeds, flashes, filters, different effects. He got books on photography from the library and immersed himself in the whole process. It put him in control—observing people and then mechanically freezing their images. He was fascinated by the equal potential of the camera for truth and lies. So he took hundreds of photographs of his father, who didn't care much as long as he didn't have to pose for too long, wasn't in an incriminating position and it didn't interfere with work or lust.

Before he left home, Liam burnt all the photographs and the albums. He didn't ask himself why; perhaps it was an attempt to destroy the essence of his childhood. Either way, he never did get to sleep easy at night again, and retained an unacknowledged terror of closed doors.

* * * * *

The water was changing temperature. He hated that. It didn't usually happen in this shower. Was every fucking thing going wrong? He wrenched at the taps and got stung first by the hot, then by the cold.  
"Fuck," he said, belting the tap with his fist.

He reached for a towel and found a damp one on the cold radiator.  
"Bitch!" he muttered. "Fucking cunt of a bitch. Thinks she's the Queen fucking Bee."

He muttered that over and over to himself, half afraid of himself this morning because he was panicky. His anger was usually cold, not all over the place like this. Never, never, never, his mind told him, never fuck her again like that. It's not good for you. She has some evil power she works when she's too close. Keep her away. She's getting at you.

He threw cold water on his face and began to feel more in control, despite the fact that his ulcer was painful and his headache persisting. He brushed his teeth. Cleanliness always made him feel better. He despised smells. Like the smell of the brats after they went to the toilet. The smell of the bathroom after. He had had to tell her off about that. They never notice these things. They're dirty.

He considered what he had to do that day. Keep moving. Never let things slip. Orange juice and cereal. Then get dressed and off to Dublin. He'd wear his tracksuit, meet Slattery in Jury's for a swim and jacuzzi. Bring his grey suit for after. The meeting was another reason for Liam's nervousness this morning. Slattery was one of the biggest dealers in Dublin. The Guards knew him but could never pin him down. Into drugs, high class prostitution and any other racket that was lucrative. Arthur used to deal with him. This was big for Liam, would be big for anyone. He had to handle it well, and her too, he had to handle her. But she was a cinch. She even enjoyed most of the posing. He had the videos in the back of the car. Masturbation, flagellation, fruit. Short, but slow and sexy. Slattery knew the people. Get tips, see about more stuff. Plenty of showings at stags and rugby parties. Make more videos, with more people, teams.

He didn't feel like smiling but he would have to. This could be big-time if Slattery liked him. He splashed cold water on his hair and smoothed it back. He opened the door.  
"Hey! There's no dry towel. Hey! Are you fucking ignoring me? Bitch!"

The brats' door was open. He looked in. They were gone. He heard a stirring in her room. She must have them in there with her. He was furious. He kicked her door again. A weary voice muttered something.  
"If you don't open this door you'll regret it."

He stopped, aware that he didn't sound very strong. Where had his cool gone to? He kicked the door again and pounded back to his room. He could do serious damage to her. A good kick in the stomach, that'd teach her. He started to put on his clothes. At least there was a clean, ironed shirt there. Just one, mind you, no choice. By Christ, there was going to be a different regime around here. Just because she was earning a few quid didn't give her the right to spit in his face. She was still his wife. She wouldn't have anything if it wasn't for him. Christ, how quickly things can deteriorate. Only working for a week and she was getting ideas. No more shouting now. He had to consider this one. This called for a planned course of action.

He put on his white adidas t-shirt and grey track suit. He combed his hair back from his face into a tidy stream of black. He would take the Brylcreem and wax it after his swim. He put his white shirt on the hanger with his suit and lay them on the bed. He paused to assess his image and approved, went to the kitchen to squeeze two oranges. At least there was some food here. Because he had organised the shopping. Just as well she wasn't in the kitchen. Or the brats. He'd have knocked their brains out. He never liked them around in the morning anyway. He liked to sit at the breakfast table alone, so she had to keep them out of his way until he was finished. Most days he went out straight after breakfast. He always had something to do. When he had slugged his orange juice and downed his cereal, he went in search of his sports bag. He found it in a corner of his bedroom, a discreet black and grey. He opened it and there were his togs. Fine. And a towel. Grand. He picked it up, got his suit and went out to the car. There he paused, remembering something.

Back in his room, he looked around. It was lying on the bedside locker where he had placed it last night. He lifted it carefully, stroked the cool leather scabbard and savoured the power at the hilt. He liked owning impressive things. This was a Kalashnikov bayonet from the Vietnam war, had been used in battle. Imagine the way it would have gone squelching into flesh, then been yanked out and rushed on for more prey. Neat, clean and complete. He lifted the mattress and slid it lovingly underneath, near where he would lay his head. He locked the bedroom door when he left.

* * * * *
Chapter 9

Jacqui's head ached. She looked at her watch and vaguely registered that it was half past nine. David. Why had she gone to sleep? She should have stayed awake and gone out to look for him in the early hours, before Liam got up. Her heart started to pound. Was she paralysed? Why wasn't she moving? Think. Was he still in the house? She listened through the fuzz in her head. He was doing something today, wasn't he? She forced herself to focus. He was going to Dublin, yes. He was going to Dublin for the day. Business. He was going to leave early. He'd be gone by now. Maybe David was back. Maybe she'd go into his room and find him there as if nothing had happened. She tried to get up and only managed a stir. The house was utterly silent. David wasn't here. She'd have to go out looking for him, but he'd been gone all night so he could be anywhere by now. Tears of frustration started. She was useless. She should try the hill. Her thinking degenerated to fuzz again. Going up the hill with Brian would be such a drudge even the thought of it drained all her motivation. She couldn't ring anyone. Who would she ring anyway? Certainly not the cops. Her heart jerked at the thought. The police had been her natural enemies ever since she was a child and watched her mother regularly accosted and questioned about her 'men friends'. She sank further into paralysis, remembering the other thing the cops would like to know about, that invaded her now like a tidal wave.

* * * * *

She hadn't planned to be in the bath for the birth; she had just been soaking in an attempt to calm herself and lessen the pain. The baby's head peeped out and her mouth opened for a scream. Since screaming was out of the question, what she emitted was a low whine. She started to cry. She had to push again, felt she had to push, even against that desperate pain, and the baby slid into the light. She didn't know much about childbirth, but what she did know hadn't prepared her for the incredible sight of a full human body emerging from hers. The child was perfect, as far as she could bear to look. There was a long fleshy string attached to its navel and extending up inside her. The baby was inclined to float up in the bath. She quickly put her hand on its face and pushed it down. The face felt soft, and the little features tickled her palm in a startlingly pleasant way. She put her other hand over the first. The memory of that contact would never leave her. It came back whenever she saw a small baby. How many other mothers knew how it felt to touch their baby's face like that, the first touch the touch of death? It was an act she knew would separate her forever from other women and normal society.

She held the baby under the water until it had stopped moving and the bubbles had petered out. Its face was bluish. Jacqui looked at it for a long time. She couldn't fathom it as a human being or anything close to her. A fleeting thought suggested that the baby was beautiful, and then she shook herself into action.

She stood up, but the cord was still in place and it pulled the baby up a little as she moved. She was revolted by this and sat down again, trying not to look at the baby. After a minute she began to study the umbilical cord. She didn't have a clue what it was, but she hated anything so fleshy and worm-like. She lowered her hand to pull, but couldn't bring herself to touch it. There was a face-towel on the side of the bath. She grabbed it and got set to try again. She put her hands, covered by the face-towel, around the cord and pulled. There was a slightly disturbing sensation but no pain. She was crying continuously, so she paused to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. As she did, something loosened inside her and a huge lump of bloody flesh came out. She had retched every ounce of food out of her stomach before the birth, but she dry-retched again with shock and disgust at the sight of that red mess.

When she had recovered a little, she realised that at least now she was free to move. She raised herself slowly and got out of the bath. For a while she stood there, shaking and confused, then started to put on her clothes, forgetting that she was wet. When her t-shirt stuck to her skin, she got the towel and dried herself. When it came to the area around her vagina, she dabbed and found that she was still bleeding. The blood had been dripping steadily onto the floor without her noticing. She had heard various snippets of information about having babies, but hadn't had the presence of mind to piece together a coherent picture. It came back to her now that you bled for weeks after. She went panicky again. It took her some minutes to manage a trip to her bedroom for pads and back to the bathroom, which, for the time being, she had to inhabit as a spider did its web.

She sat down on the closed toilet lid to think. It was six o'clock in the morning. Her mother was fast asleep with Patcho, both of them probably in a drunken stupor. They never got up before eleven. Although she had known she was pregnant, she had been unable to make a plan. All she had known was that she wasn't going to care for the child. She hadn't intended to kill it. That had been an instinctive action, like squashing an insect that had intruded on your space or into your food. The baby was an alien body forced upon her and there was no question that she would have anything to do with it.

She had to dispose of the body. With the illumination of the desperate, she went downstairs, took a black plastic refuse sack, two on second thoughts, and brought them up to the bathroom. When she had finally managed to get the baby and the bloody mess into one bag, and had placed that bag in the other for security, she tied a knot at the top and took the load downstairs. It was bin day. By nine o'clock it would be gone. But she'd have to wait until about half past eight to put it out or the dogs would be at it. She went upstairs again and gave the bathroom a good clean-up. She was sleepy beyond belief. In order to stay awake she went to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea, then another and another.

When half-past eight came, she lifted the bag to put it out with the rubbish and found the bottom soggy. She might have been imagining things, but she thought there was a strange smell off it. Hurriedly, she got two more bags and put the soft bundle into them. She decided to wait until the disposal lorry drove into the street. It came late. It was a quarter past nine before she saw the bag hoisted into the big churn and chewed. No-one would ever be the wiser. She was safe. It was only as the lorry rumbled off over the bridge and went out of sight that she realised she didn't know what sex her baby had been.

As she thought of them again this Sunday morning, those few hours remained the most desolate in her life. It was during those hours that she decided she had to leave. She could never have allowed Patcho to come near her again, and if she stayed he might even have been at her that night.

She was so far into the memory that she didn't hear the doorbell at first. Then it came to her as a faint intrusive sound. At last she realised what it was. Help. She put her hands to her face, drying her eyes and willing herself into the present. She forced herself up, gathered her dressing gown clumsily around her and stumbled to the door, Brian making manic efforts to crawl at her heels.

* * * * *
Chapter 10

Malachy was worried about the boy. That was one sick child. He was worried about the mother too. She was only a girl and it looked like she was having a very tough time. That husband of hers was an ignorant git. There were other things wrong too. Rumours were never far out.

Malachy was also raging. He paused beside his car door to stare up at the hill with that mixture of awe and disgust you feel for a powerful enemy. What right did they have to do these things to him? He had learned the explanation but wouldn't accept it, never could accept the right of those spirits to dominion over parts of the earth. That's why they have it in for me. They know I won't bow.

He had kept working on the house in spite of all the signs, in spite of his mysterious headaches and the series of 'flus, even after the plank had fallen on Marty Donoghue. Marty, trying to make a few bob doing the double, had ended up with a broken nose and a weakened back. Well, how was he to know it was the Sí? Aine was always going on about the paranormal, but most of it can't be proved.

It had been the best site for the house, near the road, good level ground, plenty of light and a bit of shade from the trees behind. Maybe he should have stopped building, knocked it down even. The thought was chased by another—What right did they have? If we couldn't guide our destiny, if we couldn't fight the odds, what was the point? The whole idea of self-development was to be able to control your life. If you were sick, you should be able to heal yourself. What holistic medicine offered Malachy was the reins. Obviously the healing energy didn't come entirely from yourself, but when you opened yourself to the possibilities, it gave you personal power against the odds. That, as he saw it, was hope. But these beings, with their violent malicious side, confounded his view. He wondered how earth-friendly they were at all, or whether they simply ploughed their own furrow regardless. He had examined his motives and refused to find them wanting. He accepted that the house was on an approach path, but there were other paths they could use, at least one other that he himself knew of. And it was just a path after all, not a dwelling place. If they had been straight about it! If they had come to him instead of sending cryptic messages through Aine and those dreams. If they had let him into their world to see them, he would have been sure what to do. All that time they explained nothing, until Aine started going to visit them and then it had been too late. The house had been built, everything had settled down.

"The channel of approach could be moved," Cascorach had said.  
"Then why not move it?"  
"Three reasons," said the shimmering being. "First, this ley line will always carry the highest content of energy in the area and it would be wasteful not to use it. Secondly, the Host have travelled by the path for thousands of years. It fulfills a pattern to use it." He had paused, slanting his gaze slightly. "And then too, there is a lesson that must be taught."  
"What lesson?" Malachy had marvelled at the arrogance.  
"I cannot reveal that."  
"Meanwhile your secret aims are more important than mine?"  
"Not our aims. Our compulsions. There is no hierarchy of desire, simply a conflict of compulsions between you and us."  
"I'm building a house, not following a blasted compulsion."

Cascorach had looked silently through Malachy, as much as to say, "I'm right, and if you don't know that now, you soon will."

The disasters had stopped suddenly, just when Malachy was having second thoughts about the location of the house. For weeks he had worked with bated breath, relaxing little by little as everything began to go according to plan. He discounted all the old stories, some odd dreams, and Aine's speculations. Then, six months after the house was finished, they swooped down in the ultimate revenge and took her. What right had they? What right? Cascorach's words boomed behind his eyes as he opened the car door and seated himself.  
"She came to us. We could not have taken her if she hadn't wanted to come."

Rubbish. And now this trouble with the O'Malleys. Would they never be satisfied?

* * * * *

He rang the bell at O'Malleys' for some minutes and thought of giving up. They must have gone out. It struck him that David might have got worse and been taken to hospital. He was turning away when the door opened to reveal Jacqui in a short, baby-pink, towelling dressing-gown, pulled tight at the waist but falling away from the shoulders. The impact of her sleepy presence was overwhelming. Her bare legs were taut and smooth and he found it hard to drag his eyes away from them. Her hair was magnificently dishevelled, crumpled from the bed, like a washed sheet. He pictured how she would have looked in her sleep, how warm her skin would have been to the touch. He imagined the smell of her. Her unmade-up, tired face, eyes fainting and vulnerable, was finer to him than her usual lustre. The swell of sensations in his lower stomach made him look aside while he steadied himself.

"Good morning," he said. "I came to enquire after David. How's he getting on?"  
Jacqui's eyes widened but she didn't answer. She was wondering what to tell him, and whether she would ever get another word out of her mouth.

"Is there something wrong?"  
Her throat snagged and wouldn't open. She moved back to let him in, turning to pick up Brian from the floor behind her. Tears squeezed smoothly out and tumbled off her chin.  
"Take it easy now. Is himself in?"  
She shook her head. He put an arm round her shoulder and guided her to the sitting-room and a chair. Brian could no longer ignore his empty stomach and began to bawl.  
"There, there," soothed Malachy, not sure which of them he was talking to. "Let's get this little man sorted out. Does he need a bottle?"

Jacqui nodded, propped Brian on the sofa and went stumbling to the kitchen. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing-gown, but there wasn't much point because the tears kept coming anyway. She took a bottle from the draining tray, then remembered something. She tried the back door. It was unlocked. She gave a deep sigh of relief and recovered a little composure. She rinsed the bottle and put some milk in it. Brian grabbed it gratefully.

"I'll hold him," said Malachy. "You sit down there."  
He settled himself in an armchair opposite the sofa and made a cradle for Brian with his left arm. He strained for sounds that might indicate David's presence in the house. Jacqui had her elbows on her knees and her head in the vase of her hands. She shivered intensely. Malachy strapped Brian into the buggy and went over to her. He knelt on one knee and put his hands on her head. Her thick hair yielded like fur.  
"Sssh. It'll be alright. Sssh, it's okay."

Her breathing relaxed slightly. She looked up at him. He actually looked like he cared.  
"David's gone," she whispered.  
"Christ, I'm sorry, Jacqui. When did it happen?"  
"Last night. When I came.... About half one I discovered he was gone."  
"Did you take him to the hospital?"  
She shook her head.  
"Is he still here so?"  
"He's gone."  
"How do you mean?"  
"Gone. Gone. He's not here. He wasn't there when I went into his bedroom last night."

It felt like a heavy rock had just made contact with Malachy's chest. Cruachawn's contorted, mud-plastered face came tumbling into his mind. The grin, the tattered green and gold clown-gown scorned his predicament.  
Fool of the Fairies, Fool of the Fairies. Hahahahahahaha...

He stared at Jacqui for a moment, then stood up and let out a low blow of breath. He closed his eyes and tried to gather his thoughts. Was she was fit to deal with this? He sat down beside her on the sofa.  
"Have you called the Guards?"  
She didn't answer. It obviously hadn't occurred to her at all.  
"Himself—is he out looking?"  
"He doesn't know."

Malachy raised his eyebrows and she made a dismissive gesture.  
"He went out early. He's gone to Dublin."

She didn't tell him last night. What's going on? He ran his hands through his hair.  
"Now, even.... whatever happened..." Jacqui jerked her head up. His voice became more firm as he talked, "...you have to call the Guards. He had a fever. He might have wandered out in a delirious state."

He didn't believe that. The mocking tones in his head were enough.  
"Have you been out to look for him at all?"  
She hadn't. She hadn't done a thing. What was wrong with her? Depression? Irresponsibility? He stood up.  
"I'll take a scout around and see if I can find him. Will you wait here?"  
She stared at him without expression.  
"Will you be able to mind the child? Will you be alright?"

She nodded and the tears started falling carelessly again. She stared at the floor. Brian had upturned his bottle and was letting the milk drip steadily onto the carpet.  
"Listen, Jacqui, will you be able to manage? Tell me. Look at me."  
A distraught, paddled face turned towards him. It was as if she were alone in a foreign land where she recognised nothing, understood nothing. Impulsively he ran his fingertips down the side of her face, lingering on her chin. Childlike.  
"Liam is no good to you, is he?"

She turned her face from side to side like a little girl afraid to talk.  
"Okay. I tell you what—can you get some clothes on?"  
She stood up, glad to be told what to do.  
"I'll dress this fella if you show me where his clothes are. Needs a nappy change too I'll bet."  
"I'll do it...."  
"You're alright. You sort yourself out. Don't worry. I've had lots of experience with my sister's young ones."

Jacqui dazedly pointed him in the direction of nappies and clothes. He stopped to figure for a moment, then put Brian on the floor, soothing him with soft talk. Twenty minutes later, Brian and Jacqui were both dressed and Malachy had packed a bag for the baby.  
"I'll take you to Hannah Brennan's. She'll look after you while I'm out searching.

Jacqui hardly understood a word because every sound was echoing and bouncing inside her head so that she could barely distinguish one from the other. She probably needed another valium. She was seeing nothing. She didn't want to go to Hannah's, but her will was mute. Malachy guided her to the car, carrying Brian in one arm.  
He motored carefully up the pot-holed lane and swung to a halt in front of Hannah's.  
"Stay there. I'll go and talk to her, see how she's fixed."

As he stepped out of the car, Hannah opened the door. A few words of explanation and she was all fuss and sympathy. Jacqui forced herself out of the passenger seat, Brian clinging to her.  
"You poor creature," Hannah said. "You must be sick with worry. Is he long gone?"  
"Earlier this morning."  
"Oh, God help us. Here, give me the baby. The poor little thing."  
She gave him a hug so tight he seemed shocked.  
"Come on in and sit down, Jacqui. You're welcome for as long as you want. Sure you'd be driven out of your mind on your own."

Malachy nodded approvingly.  
"I'll be back as soon as I can. If I don't find him, we'll have to call the Guards." To Jacqui he said, "You're in good hands here. Hannah will take care of you."  
Two friendly pats on her arm and he was gone. She wished he wasn't.

At the sounds of Malachy's coming and going, Anne dragged herself out of bed. When Jacqui saw her at the bedroom door, she couldn't believe her eyes. But it was her alright. The hair was better-styled, wavy now, but she recognised the tall, slim frame, the small, mobile mouth and the unmistakable, earnestly questioning eyes. Retrieving Brian from Hannah gave her a breathing space while she collected herself.

* * * * *
Chapter 11

For a while before Anne had called to the flat in Rathmines, Jacqui had been in a desperate state. She would cry for hours, feed, mop up spills, change a nappy, cry again, feed again. Liam had lost all interest in her since the sixth month of the pregnancy and now he wanted her posing again. She was exhausted, hanging on by a thread, barely able to function. In the meantime he had been using other girls for the videos. That hurt. He was probably screwing them too.

Brian was twelve weeks old, still waking in the middle of the night with bad wind pains. Sometimes she let him cry, but mostly she went to him. One time he had fallen out of her arms because she was drunk, but his fall had been broken by an armchair. She could never catch up with sleep because there was no-one to relieve her, and she did want to be a good mother, wouldn't leave them alone, tried not to think of leaving them alone.

The Public Health nurse had recommended a trip to the Doctor for her and a playschool for David. The playschool took a bit of pressure off and the valium made problems look further away, but when alone, which was most of the time, she was in a compulsive state. She would see pieces of excrement everywhere on the walls and floor. She'd grab a cloth, soak it in water and scrub the spot. Then she'd wash her hands, look at the sleeping Brian, sit down, smoke a cigarette and start all over again.

When the two boys were there it was worse. She checked David's clothes continuously because he was at the 'accident' stage, ran after him with a face cloth to wipe his face and hands, slapped him for picking his nose or scratching his head. She hardly ever went out except to go to the local shops. When Brian was awake she held him as much as she could, whispering, "Please God, please God don't let me kill this child." Because that's what she felt like doing, choking him, punching him, flinging him at the wall, leaving him crying and hungry in his cot. Except that she had to prove she could get through this, had to prove she could mind her babies.

When the main doorbell went that day, she took no notice. The local kids were always messing. There were voices, footsteps and a knock on the door of the flat. A slim young woman in a floral Indian skirt, rose-pink blouse and black cape stood there smiling.  
"Hello. Jacqueline, is it?" she chirped.  
"Yeah."  
"I'm Anne Brennan, Jacqueline. I'm a Social Worker from the clinic. Just calling to see how you're getting on. Can I come in for a minute?"  
Jacqui didn't feel she had a choice. She let Anne in and closed the door. David clung to her leg.  
"Sit dow...." She saw a giant piece of filth on each of the easy chairs. "Oh, mind!" she shouted as Anne made to sit.  
Anne looked behind her and saw nothing amiss.  
"Oh, sorry, is this your chair?" She promptly sat on the other.

Jacqui saw her squelch into the putrid heap and closed her eyes in an effort to steady herself, repeating inwardly, "I'm imagining things. I'm imagining things."  
"Will you sit down yourself, Jacqueline?" Anne sounded concerned.

Jacqui sidled to the straight-backed chair by the wall and took David on her lap.  
"Is everything alright?"  
No point telling these people anything. They're just looking for the chance to get you.  
"Yeah, I'm fine."  
"How's the baby? Is she sleeping okay for you, Jacqueline?"  
"He's still waking up a fair bit during the night. He has colic, you know."  
"Oh it's a boy. Of course. I'm sorry. I got you mixed up with the next person I have to call to. And he's three months old, is that right, Jacqueline?"

She was looking through the file. Jacqui was getting annoyed at the number of times she was using her name. She was also watching an enormous cockroach that was ambling down the wall above Anne's head, beside the fireplace. She moved quietly, shifted David off her lap and onto the chair, lifted a newspaper from the other side of the fire and folded it into a weapon. She was stealthy and Anne only realised what was happening when there was a sudden _whizz-smack_ and the young woman stood before her wearing a manic look of triumph. Jacqui surveyed her battleground and, finding no body, went in search of one. Anne maintained her cool.

"What was it, a fly?"  
"A cockroach."  
"Really? Are you sure?"  
Jacqui was scanning the cluttered mantelpiece and the redundant coal-skuttle that was stuffed with everything from magazines to cigarette butts.  
"I can't see anything," Anne said as helpfully as she could, studying the area.  
She looked apprehensively in the direction of the little kitchenette. It looked very clean. The whole flat looked clean and neat.  
"They're clever bastards."

Jacqui suddenly stomped on something, took it up with a piece of paper, rushed it into the bin and tied up the black bag. She put the bag in the corner nearest the door, went to the sink and vigorously washed her hands.  
"Do you have a hygiene problem here?"

She was too focused on washing to answer. When she had finished she came back in, studied Brian in the pram for a minute and sat down again. She lit up a Rothman's and wondered why she was behaving like this. David climbed back onto her lap, resting one leg on the floor.

Anne decided she'd better get down to business.  
"Jacqueline, you know don't you, that if you ever need any help, even someone to talk to, we're always there?  
Jacqui nodded brusquely, vaguely wondering why the Social Worker had called in the first place, but not pursuing the thought.  
"Would you like a cup of tea?"  
"No thanks. Do you have any contact with the boys' father at all, Jacqueline?"

Jacqui went to look at Brian again, causing David to stumble from her lap. Anne reached across and stroked his head.  
"Now and then."  
"Does he take them for walks or anything?"  
Jacqui had to adjust to this bizarre question. Did he help her? Do pigs fly?  
"Sometimes."  
"Jacqueline, you know it's important to get some time for yourself, don't you? Have you any relatives to help you out from time to time so you can relax?"  
"Jacqui."  
"Sorry?"  
"I'm called Jacqui." She got up and stood with her back to the pram, watching David this time, who had turned on the television so that it blared. "Turn it down," she snapped.

Brian stirred and coughed, but didn't wake. Jacqui had stretched out her hands to take him up, and they remained suspended as if she were a murderess preparing for the act.  
"Is David going to playschool?"  
"Yeah. It's seven pounds a week."  
"Do you find that hard to pay?"  
"Yeah. Out of the Lone Parent's you know."  
"Does their father give you anything?"  
Jacqui shook her head slightly.

"Well, maybe we can get him into the Family Resource Centre for a few hours. Would that help, Jacqui?"  
"Yeah, I suppose. But I'm managing fine, like. Just money is tight."  
"You're probably very tired, are you, Jacqui?"  
Jacqui had tuned out.  
"He only went to sleep just before she arrived," she murmured to herself. "I suppose that's why he didn't wake with the noise of the telly."

Anne considered the situation for a few moments.  
"There's my name and telephone number. I've written down the times I'm usually in the office—most mornings between nine and ten. If there's anything I can help you with, just ring me. You have a phone here, do you? Right. If I'm not there, just leave your name and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. You did apply for the increase in your Lone Parent's for the baby?"  
"Yeah."  
Liam had reminded her about the allowance. Great at that sort of thing, getting her money from anywhere other than his own pocket.

Anne left, looking a bit doubtful.

Three hours later the accident had happened. She had fried sausages, left the pan on the ring and forgotten to turn it off. David wouldn't eat, kept refusing, leaned back on his chair, spilled his milk on the floor, saying, "I want coke. I want coke."

Finally, he threw one of the sausages at her. She dived at him. He ran and got as far as the cooker, where he banged his head and the frying pan fell. Luckily there wasn't much fat in it, but what there was landed on the back of his neck and he screamed. She didn't realise what had happened. She grabbed him and slapped him across the head, then returned to the table, afraid she'd murder him. She couldn't care less what pain he was in; she had had enough. It was a full ten minutes before she did anything about the burn. By then the damage had been done and she panicked. She sat and cried with him and Brian, the flat sounding somewhat like a torture chamber. The following day she admitted herself to the hospital on the doctor's and Liam's advice. For a rest, they said. The boys were placed in care for the month it took her to pull herself into some sort of shape. If that hadn't happened, she might never have seen Drumnashee, might have been glad to see the back of Liam in fact, but the whole experience had frightened the living daylights out of her and she would cling to every strand of stability.

* * * * *

She twisted her mouth at the irony of it all and appraised Anne through opaque eyes. Anne had recognised her. She always thought people would forget her, but they never did. Her looks, of course.  
"So you're living here now?" Anne said. "I saw you yesterday in town but I didn't recognise you straight off. Out of context I suppose."  
Jacqui said nothing. Anne had to know about the accident. She would have called back to the flat, wouldn't she? What would she have reported when she found it empty?

Anne took Brian onto her lap and amused him with a set of keys, hiding them in her cupped hand, shaking them behind her back, throwing them up, catching them and hiding them, finally giving them to him to shake and examine. Jacqui re-told her story, saying it was eight o'clock when she had discovered that David was missing, and that L had left for Dublin at that stage. Hannah gazed at her thoughtfully, wondering whether she was making a mistake or telling a lie. Sunday Miscellany had been over by the time she had seen the car sweeping down towards the main road.  
"He's probably out wandering," she said slowly, as she handed Jacqui a huge glass of brandy.

The drink did a pleasant scorching act on the back of Jacqui's throat. Her eyes watered. She had never been so grateful for a drink.  
"I can remember one time you wandered off," said Hannah to Anne unexpectedly.  
"Me?" Anne was shaken out of her self-castigations.  
"Yes. I looked everywhere for you. I was up to the high field and back. I went down town an' all. I was frantic. I had Joe as well. He was only four and he was as wild as a buck calf."  
"Where did you find me?"  
"Your daddy had you under a hedge in the low field there, playing away with you. I never saw yee. My God, such a shock as I got, I'll never forget it. The thoughts that went through my head."

She chose not to reveal those thoughts, but her tone and expression made Jacqui wonder what she thought about David's disappearance.

Anne's throat went dry.  
"What... what were we doing? Daddy and myself—what were we playing?"  
"I don't know. Hiding, I suppose. I don't know if yee meant to play a trick on me or what. You cried when you saw me and threw your arms around me. He might have been frightening you, telling you stories about the bogie man or something. He used to think that was great fun, when he'd have yee scared. I never agreed with that."

Brian decided to do a taste test on the keys. Anne went vacant-eyed. Jacqui looked sideways at her. It wasn't difficult to intuit the hidden story. She couldn't believe it might happen to someone like Anne, to a social worker! How had she got on so well in life, if it had happened? It probably hadn't been too bad, just a few feel-ups. She was so controlled, so together. If she'd been raped she'd never have got to be a Social Worker. No way. Or else Jacqui was a total failure. She didn't even finish school.

The silence was solid.  
"What about Mass?" said Hannah, to no-one in particular.  
"Which one are you going to?" Anne asked after a few seconds. Her voice was flat.  
"The eleven o'clock."  
"Jacqui would hardly be in any state for Mass, would you?"  
Jacqui shook her head.

Anne took a deep breath. She was struggling with tears.  
"I'll tell you what, Mammy. I'll just walk as far as the church with you and take Brian in the buggy for a bit of air—if Jacqui will trust me with him." She shot a badly feigned smile in Jacqui's direction. "It won't matter if I don't get Mass this once."  
"We can't leave Jacqui on her own," Hannah said.  
"It's alright," Jacqui said. "I'm not in much form for talking anyway. If you took Brian for a walk, that'd be great."

Hannah looked doubtful. Anne got up.  
"Yes, you can relax here for a bit, Jacqui. I'll have a look around the town as I'm walking, just in case. I'll be back within the hour. Would you like to lie down?"  
"Yeah. That'd be good."  
"You can use my bed."

* * * * *

She ran away before, she could run away again. England this time. Brian would be alright, and David too, if he was found. Now that Anne Brennan was there, she wouldn't let L have them. They'd be fostered and well looked after. Jacqui tapped the crotch of her white denims, studied herself in the mirror and reckoned the money was well hidden. Just like an oul wan to keep three hundred pounds under her mattress. They'd never learn. Maybe she'd send it back sometime if she got a job in England. Probably wouldn't. Be honest. She looked okay in spite of everything, she told herself.

David was dead. The thought only touched the edges of her mind, didn't become fully ensconced. She thought she was going to cry again, but was suddenly overtaken by a feeling of calm. She felt that somehow he'd be alright. She had no sense of major disaster. She figured it might be time to bow out. Everything was pointing in that direction. She couldn't go on as she was. And this money being here seemed like a sign. She sat on Anne's bed. But how was she to leave undetected? It took a supreme effort, but she finally forced a plan out of the tangle.

* * * * *

"No sign," said Malachy, as he plodded through the doorway.  
Jacqui's heart pressed on her breastbone.  
"Did you look everywhere?"  
"I was all over Kilnalacka, Tubbercreeve, up the hill." He pushed back the navy peaked cap. "We'd better call the Guards."  
"No luck in town either," Anne said. "I asked a good few people if they'd seen him. It's time to call the Gardai. Pity you don't have a phone, Mammy. You'll have to get one in."

* * * * *

The Gardai were two large, muscular men who seemed to fill up the whole of Hannah's kitchen. The ceiling was low anyway, but their heads nearly brushed it. They were solemn and had a threatening solicitude about their manner. One looked around or stared at everyone while the other took the details. The one who talked was Sergeant Kevin O'Leary. He had a wife and three children of his own and some strong ideas on family life. Even stronger ideas on family safety. Safety was his first, and, it often seemed, only, thought when it came to children. He couldn't understand anybody being careless about security. All his children had learned off their phone numbers by the age of three and, at least when he was around, they never went anywhere unsupervised. He suspected that his wife might not be as fastidious as himself, but he had to live with that.

He had been expecting a run-in with the O'Malleys. A domestic dispute or a money fiddle. Earlier, when he had taken Jacqui's call, he had slowly replaced the receiver and looked across the table at Garda Pat Cassidy.

"They're only here a month and a half," he had said thoughtfully. "I suppose the young lad wouldn't know his way around too well. We'll have a quick look at the river on the way. Young lads love the water. They're forever fishing for tadpoles and paddling and building dams." He had put on his cap. "That boyo Gallagher again."

Pat Cassidy had been puzzled.  
"What has he got to do with it?"  
"He's their landlord."  
"Sure that's neither here nor there."  
Kevin O'Leary's sixth sense had been working overtime.  
"Looks like he's not the luckiest man to be around."

They had looked at the river and seen nobody except Micky 'The Head' Delap starting down the grass verge, stopping every so often to thrust his head out and monologue fiercely at a water hen.  
"How's it going Micky?" Pat Cassidy hadn't waited for an answer.  
By the time Micky had re-focused, the Garda had been halfway up the steps that led to the footpath, and the poor forlorn man was left talking to the handrail.

* * * * *

"Eight o'clock."  
Malachy wasn't going to butt in while she answered the questions, but he wasn't happy. She was a good liar, but whether she was lying to him or the Guards he couldn't tell.  
"Have you any idea where he might have gone?"  
Jacqui shook her head. Kevin O'Leary was beginning to regret not taking her up to her own house for the questioning. He resolved to get her on her own as soon as possible.  
"What was he wearing?"  
"I... his pyjamas."  
"Did you go through his things to see if there was anything missing?"  
She gave him a shocked look.  
"No. I didn't think of doing that."  
This was the opportunity.

"Maybe we'd better go up and have a look."

She wasn't too happy about that, but she stood up to go, and made a move towards Hannah's room where Brian was having a nap.  
"Leave Brian with us," Anne piped up. "He's no trouble."  
"No trouble in the world," added Hannah, laying an affectionate hand on Jacqui's arm. "He's good as gold."  
"Thanks very much," said Jacqui. "I'll be back for him as soon as I can."

Malachy watched her getting into the squad car and stayed watching until the door of her house had closed behind her. How could anyone appear so superficial and so mysterious at the same time; so unsure and still so full of humour; girlish, but with all that woman's power underneath? Her face was strong and well-defined, but if you weren't totally seduced by the deep cobalt of her eyes, you saw that they were somewhat bewildered. She hardly ever expressed herself without stops and starts. He was trying to think through the sensuous impact of her body, but found himself returning to its perfect, inviting form, as if everything in it would yield easily, from the petal-soft cheeks and mouth to the certainly shapely big toe. Her hair was a genuine autumn auburn. For a while he could think no further.

* * * * *

"So he must be wearing only his pyjamas?"  
The thought of David out in the night cold wearing nothing but pyjamas made Jacqui remember with brutal suddenness a night when Patcho had locked her out. She remembered too that David hadn't had pyjamas on when she had left him, because she had been keeping his temperature down. She sat on the side of the bed and lowered her head so the Guards could see nothing but hair. They waited. She cried passively, without sob or sniff.  
"I know this is very upsetting for you, Mrs O'Malley, but we must ask all the questions if we're going to find him."

The mass of hair nodded. Pat Casssidy handed her a tissue and they waited.  
"Is your husband away today?" asked Kevin O'Leary after a few minutes.  
"Yeah. He had to go to Dublin on business."  
"Was he gone before you discovered David was missing?"  
"Yeah."  
"Is there any possibility he might have taken the child with him?"  
Jacqui stared at him, forgetting for a moment why he was there.  
"No."  
"Are you sure of that?"  
"Yes."

Maybe she shouldn't have sounded so certain. The Gardai were studying her every move.  
"Do you know where he is in Dublin? Could you ring him up and tell him the situation? Does he have a mobile phone?"  
She shook her head. The two men exchanged looks.  
"Right so. We'll put the details on the computer and circulate David's description around the country. Can you give us a photo? I'm sure yee have loads."

Jacqui felt all the colour leaving her face. She had no photographs of David or Brian. He never took any and she was always under too much pressure. She didn't even own a camera. The picture taken in the hospital when he was born, yes, but that wouldn't do.  
"Ahm, no, actually, we ahm, we left all our albums in Dublin with a friend."  
There was an awkward pause, then she brightened up. "But I do have a picture. Yeah, I do." She hurried to her bedroom, scrimmaged in her bag and brought out a folded card.

Inside was a photograph of David, looking bewildered beside a smiling Santa Claus whose beard had slipped to one side of his chin. David had said, "Santie's hair is walking."  
"That was taken last Christmas," she said, handing it to Pat Cassidy. "The ILAC centre," she added unnecessarily, unnerved by the Garda's silent study of the picture. At least it would show that she gave the kids some sort of a good time.  
"Pardon?"  
"The ILAC. It was taken in the ILAC centre in Dublin."  
Jesus, what did they think of her?

Pat Cassidy handed the photograph to the sergeant, who buttoned it carefully with his notebook in his breast pocket.  
"Do you know of any reason at all why he might have left the house at that hour? Could he have been upset about anything?"  
"Well, he did have a cold. He might have been raving. Or... he sleepwalked a couple of times recently."

She was frightening herself, but at least they were steering away from strictly family matters.  
"Were you in all night?"  
Her stomach gave a jump, but her face was impassive. Apart from her eyes, which got a little dreamier. She nodded.  
"And you didn't hear anything?"  
She shook her head.

Something. There was something. Kevin O'Leary couldn't put his finger on it. The house was clean and generally tidy except for the children's room, which was a bit messy. Clothes piled up in the corner. Not unusual, he supposed. It was only when he stood at the door of the room and looked back that it came to him. There was nothing on the walls in any of the rooms. Nothing on the mantelpieces, no photographs, no pictures, no children's posters or paintings. And very few toys. It was more like a temporary stopover than someone's home. Of course they had only been here for a month or so.

Jacqui was searching David's bed. She rummaged in the drawers and went through the pile of dirty clothes. She turned round excitedly.  
"His football pyjamas. He must have put them on him. They were on the bed last night before I went... to bed. He must have put them on him."  
They took a description.  
"Alright, Mrs O'Malley, we'll get to work. You can rest assured we'll leave no stone unturned."

In the hall, the sergeant stopped to take the number of the phone.  
"We'll give you a ring later and let you know how we're progressing. Here's the number at the station."  
He handed her a piece of paper from his notebook.  
"Call us if you remember anything else, or if there's anything we can help you with. Be sure now."

* * * * *

He didn't drive away at once. He sat in the squad car thinking, now looking up at the hill, now looking down the road towards the town.

"Another mysterious disappearance in Drumnashee. You know what people are saying, don't you, Pat?"  
"The Fairies, yeah." Pat threw his eyes up to the roof of the car and gave a disdainful swagger to impress the sergeant.  
"You never know," Kevin O'Leary said slowly, taking the photograph out of his pocket. "A lot of people go missing every year, and a sizeable number of them are never found again. They didn't all decide to take a hike in the Himalayas, and they're not all dead. I grew up beside the hill, you know."

The younger man was nonplussed. The sergeant couldn't be serious.  
"I'm not saying the Fairies actually take people. I'm just saying there could be more to the world than we imagine. What's the phrase? More things in heaven and earth..."  
"...Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," said Pat, who had done Hamlet for the Leaving Cert.  
"Right." He handed the photograph to Pat. "Imagine a photographer having no photo of his sons, or a young mother having no photos of her sons."  
"Odd alright." Pat looked more closely at the photograph. "Nice looking young fella."  
"Nice looking mother."

Pat could have agreed enthusiastically with that, but didn't consider it appropriate.

* * * * *
Chapter 12

"Malachy, it's good to have you sit down with me for a while. Seldom enough you call these days. It's just a pity it has to be on a sad occasion. But we hope it'll turn out well. Please God."

Hannah's eyes shone. Malachy was a ray of sunlight to her. He talked and joked and related to all her mystical speculations. He respected her and treated her as an interesting acquaintance in a time when old people were beginning to be regarded as disposable. And he was a fine-looking man. That always counted for a lot in Hannah's eyes.

"Aye. I'm up to my eyes these days, Hannah, trying to keep things going. At least I'm working. For a while there after Aine went, I wasn't the best."  
"Sure I know you weren't. You're great to keep up. Many's a man wouldn't, Malachy."

There was silence. Malachy stared into the fire, cradling his brandy glass. Finally, he smoothed back his hair and said, "Hannah, did Jacqui ever say anything to you about the young lad?"  
Hannah looked at him with eyes wide, as if she were reading behind his face and listening for sound beyond his words. She looked into the fire and spoke slowly.  
"They called one day and, I don't know what it was, but David was outside looking up at the hill and I got a strange feeling, here." She landed a fist on her chest and her face hardened. "He seemed a bit too wrapped up in it, a bit too fascinated, do you understand?"  
Malachy nodded. His bulk was leaning towards the fire as if something had cowed him.  
"That's what I thought too," he said.

Hannah stared at him.  
"In the name of God, Malachy, what could we do if they took him?"  
"I don't know." He knocked back the last of the brandy, put the glass on the table and stood looking out the window. "You'd think they'd done enough."  
"Malachy," Hannah went over to him, "I hope you don't mind me saying this, but it took a lot out of you the last time you went up to them. I thought you were very shook for months after."  
"I suppose the whole thing got to me at that stage, Hannah."  
"Of course it did. But, like," she hesitated and then whispered, "as well as that, you don't know what's going on in that house up there."  
"What do you mean?"  
Hannah drew closer.  
"You know the way she said himself left the house before eight?"  
Malachy narrowed his eyes.  
"She said she discovered David was gone at eight o'clock this morning. And she said himself was gone off to Dublin at that stage." Malachy opened his mouth and shut it again, folding his forehead into a frown. "Well, I was listening to Sunday Miscellany and it was nearly over when I saw the car going off. That would have been nearer ten."

At that point Anne came up from her room.  
"Malachy, if you have time, maybe tomorrow or the next day, could I have a massage session with you please?"  
"Now I'd only say that to you, Malachy," Hannah whispered. "I know you won't breathe a word."  
She withdrew, patting her hair with an absent-minded right hand.  
"Oh, aye, I suppose. What about tomorrow evening?"  
He was still looking at Hannah.  
"That'd be grand. About what time?"  
"Hah? Oh, eight, I suppose."  
"Perfect. I'll look forward to that. Are you getting many customers?"  
"A few. Look, the Guards are leaving. I'll head up and see how things are. I might bring her back down if she wants."

"Tell her there's no hurry," said Hannah, putting her hand on Malachy's arm. "May God and his Blessed Mother protect you." And she showered him with enough holy water to fill a kettle.

* * * * *

Jacqui took down her large shoulder bag, a royal-blue, leather one, threw it on the bed and started to pack things into it. Essentials. Underwear first—a few serviceable sets and two erotic ones in case of necessity. She wasn't going to fit much into the bag, so she decided to wear two blouses and her heavy jumper with her jeans. She shoved in two mini skirts, tops and a few pairs of tights and stockings. Then there were toilet things: toothbrush, toothpaste, cleanser, moisturiser, deodorant; make-up. She gathered from her bedside locker her red _Kotex_ moisturing lipstick, her foundation, the bottle of _Chanel 5_ she had stolen from Arnotts the Christmas before, eye-liner, black and blue mascara, her array of eye-shadows nicked from Clery's, her blusher and powder, and stuffed them all into her make-up purse. The bag was almost full to capacity as she tried to push her A4 hardbacked diary in. She had nearly got it right when the doorbell made her jump.

Malachy was standing sideways on the doorstep. He looked at her over his shoulder for a minute without saying a word. She returned the stare.  
"Is everything alright?" he asked curtly.  
She noticed the new tone and steeled herself.  
"Yes, thanks. I'll be down in a minute to collect Brian."

She wanted to go back inside, but he wasn't moving.  
"Can I talk to you for a minute, Jacqui?"  
She was confused, but reckoned she should let him in. They stood in the hall.  
"I don't know you very well. I suppose I don't know you at all." He wasn't sure how to go on. He was getting lost in those cobalt eyes. "Look, I just feel I want to help you."  
She stared at the floor.

"Why did you tell Hannah and the Guards two different stories?"  
"What?"  
"You told Hannah you only discovered David was gone at eight this morning, and she says Liam didn't leave the house until about ten."  
Jacqui didn't answer.  
"What's going on?"  
"Did you tell Hannah what I told you?"  
"No."

Jacqui walked into the kitchen and absent-mindedly reached for a cigarette. Her hand trembled on the Bic lighter. She was beginning to feel very tired. She took a few long pulls, dragging the smoke deeply in, hardly blowing any out. She pushed back her hair.

"I'm sorry," she said. "What I told you—I must have been out of it when I said that. It was eight when I found out he was gone."  
"Jacqui, it's like this: if the Guards don't find him, they'll come back here with more questions. They'll ask the neighbours if they saw anything. I know. I was through it all last year. I had nothing to hide and they put me through hell—the questions and the suspicions. What I'm saying is, they're probably going to talk to Hannah and find out about Liam. And if they ask me, what am I going to say? David was halfway up the Hill yesterday in his school uniform and he was delirious. Where were you?"

The question was aggressive and he regretted the tone, but it was out now. Jacqui was weakening. Her legs trembled. Her one thought was to get away.  
"I was here." She spoke slowly. "I fell asleep. When I woke up he was gone. I haven't been feeling the best lately."  
"I know that. It's obvious you're very low."  
"I want to go now."  
"Hold on a minute. I'm working tomorrow, but today I have time. If there's anything, anything at all you can think of, anywhere he might have gone... will you try and remember?"

She automatically went to the cupboard as she spoke.  
"No. I can't think of anything."  
She took out her _Roche_ and began to fill a glass with water.  
"What are you taking?"  
She snapped.  
"It's none of your fucking business what I'm taking. I've had it up to here with everyone asking me questions, accusing me, getting at me, looking at me like I'm some sort of criminal. Will you fuck off and leave me alone. Just leave me alone."  
She turned away.

"Jacqui," his tone was soft, "I'm here for a few reasons. I'm concerned about the child, I'm concerned about you, and... I'm afraid I might be the cause of all this."  
She opened the bottle of tablets. She told herself to put them in the bag too.  
"If it is my fault, maybe I can do something about it. But it would have to be in strictest confidence. You'd have to swear not to tell a soul."  
He was beside her now with his hands on the draining portion of the sink.  
"What are you talking about?"  
"You don't need those." He put out his hand to take the little plastic bottle.  
"You don't know what I need. You don't live my life."  
Malachy threw his hands apart and bowed his head.  
"Okay. You have a point."

Jacqui swallowed the tablet. She went to the other side of the table and sat down.  
"I'm afraid he might have gone up the hill."  
There was silence for a minute. Jacqui stubbed out her cigarette and reached for another.  
"Yeah." Malachy waited for her to go on. "He probably did."

She glanced at the clock on the wall. Quarter past three.  
"Is that what you think?"  
"I suppose it is, yeah." She paused. "I have a feeling he's alright though. He might have found something better."

Malachy pulled a chair close to her and sat down.  
"You don't have to let him go. You can put up a fight."  
"When people disappear, they don't show up again. It's as simple as that." She lit a cigarette, took a drag and leaned her head on her clouded hand. "I don't mean the Fairies. I know nothing about them. But that's the way it happens. Always. They don't turn up again."  
"He's your son."  
Jacqui nodded and her nod became a tearless sob. Through the shudders she said, "Wha... what do... does tha...t ma...matter?"  
"Don't you want him back?"

She stood up and went to the sink, cigarette still in hand. She could feel Malachy waiting for an answer and she didn't know if she wanted to, or could give him one. There was too much to be said. She just wanted to go. The furze on the hill was brilliant in the afternoon sun. The regular circle of beech trees on the top was having its new leaves combed by the cool breeze. It looked the most peaceful place on earth.  
"I have to go," she said.

Malachy stood up.  
"I want to know what happened."  
They stood eye to eye. The way out was staring her in the face—the kitchen door, the front door, the packed shoulder bag, the three hundred pounds, the five o'clock bus to Dublin, the boat to England. She knew that if she started talking she'd probably tell him the truth.  
"I can't believe you don't care about your child."  
That hurt. She looked away.

"Look," tears now, "I can't stay here tonight. I ca...n't stay i...in th...is ho...house anymore."  
"Can you stay anywhere else?"  
She shrugged. The flat in Dublin. But L could get to her there.  
"I have to go before he gets back."  
She stubbed out the cigarette.

"Why?"  
"I think... he's... going... to... to... ki...ll me."  
"Did he threaten you?"  
She nodded.  
"Did he do something to David?"  
"No. Not really. I should've watched him more. David, I mean. I should've done the things you said."  
"Don't worry about those things. You couldn't have known this was going to happen."  
"I thought it was all a load of superstition."

She got another cigarette, started to light it and didn't, instead began turning the lighter over and over on the table.  
"I didn't really look after David last week. I couldn't. I had to go out every night. He made me do something."  
She looked at him sideways.  
"I wasn't in last night. I was out from about half nine."  
"Was Liam here?"  
"Yeah, I think. But he doesn't mind them, like. He doesn't...."

Silence.  
"Look, I'm going down to the Brennans to collect Brian. Thanks for everything."  
She went to her room for her bag. Malachy followed her.  
"There's something I didn't tell you, Jacqui."  
He waited at the door of her room until she looked round, then pulled a piece of material from his pocket. After a few seconds Jacqui realised what it was.  
"That's from David's pyjamas. Where did you find it?"  
"It was on a bush just outside the ring of trees."  
"On the hill?"

Malachy nodded. A stream of talk came out, the vehemence belying his feeling of guilt.  
"I built this house on a fairy path. That's why they took Aine from me. That's why the windows keep opening. I think they took David for the same reason."  
"But David did nothing to them."  
"I know. I don't understand it. Maybe it's just because he was here. Or maybe they're really playing it dirty against me."

Jacqui rubbed the small piece of cotton over and over between her fingers and thumbs. She put it to her nose and mouth. She could see the pyjamas, white with red and yellow footballers. She could see David in it, small, lamb-eyed. She crushed the remnant in her fist.  
"I should never have brought them down here. I would have done better on my own in Dublin."  
"It's not your fault."

Jacqui shrugged, still clutching the piece of David's pyjamas.  
"I didn't want to tell you about it before you talked to the Guards. Just in case they'd go up there and start searching straightaway." Jacqui looked up at him, puzzled. "If they started searching up there, I'd have no hope of meeting the Sí tonight. They wouldn't come out if there was too much activity around."  
"You're going up there tonight?"  
"I'm going to try and meet them. I think it might be a good idea if you came with me."  
"I won't be able to."  
"When himself is asleep?"

Jacqui shuddered.  
"I'll be gone."  
"Jacqui, please give it a go. We have to try. If they took him, at least you'll know where he is. If they didn't, you'll know that you have to look somewhere else. And if they did take him, they might even bring him back if you ask them."  
"He's probably better off," said Jacqui tonelessly. "I can't give him much."  
"Look, whatever your situation is, it's not hopeless. You love those children. I know it when I see you with them. You're young. Things change."

Jacqui looked at him. His eyes had a circle of lighter grey near the pupils, and the various strands of colour were woven round, like the variegation of colour on the surface of the sea. Why she got snagged in there now, she couldn't fathom. She pulled herself out and went back to the kitchen. She picked up her cigarettes, lit one, and put the packet and lighter into her bag. He was behind her.  
"Well?" he asked, blocking the kitchen door.  
"I don't know."

She stared at the wall, dragging on her cigarette as if it kept her face together. In between drags she chewed on her nails. She looked at the clock. Half-past-three. She had never known time to pass as slowly as it did in Drumnashee. You could wake up in the morning one person and go to bed another. She put her valium in the bag.

Down to the bedroom again to put on her dark brown imitation-fur coat. As she sat on her bed to zip up her boots, she noticed a bulge under the duvet. Odd. She slid her hand under and touched something cold and fleshy. She recoiled at first, then slowly pulled back the quilt.

Malachy's gestating plan was interrupted by a high, piercing, agonised scream. It was the kind of scream you'd expect to hear in a place of torture, the kind that comes just before insanity, leaving the person bereft of whatever strength was necessary for the body and mind to remain upright.

* * * * *
Chapter 13

Near the bottom of the bed, lying in a red, sticky mess, was a tiny baby that looked as if it had been born prematurely. It couldn't have weighed more than five pounds. It was dead, lying stiff and pale on its side, legs curled up to its chin. The umbilical cord was still attached to it and had been clumsily cut, so that the end was ragged. Snuggled up to it was David's favourite teddy, a small, yellow floppy one with eyes made of blue and black felt. Malachy was just in time to catch Jacqui as her knees buckled and she fell into a helpless faint. He lifted her up and brought her to the sitting-room.

Her head was still spinning as she opened her eyes and saw Malachy's bent head. He was rubbing her wrists. She tried to sit up, but her vision started to go dark again and her head went into a sickening roll. She slumped back. Tears poured out of their own accord. She was whispering frantically, as if she were raving. He bent to hear her.  
"The baby... the baby... the baby... I can't believe it... the baby... the baby...."  
"Sssh, it's alright. It's alright."  
He stroked her hair. When she was calmer he got off his knees.  
"You stay there. I'll be back in a minute."

He went to the bedroom and looked closely at the baby. It was definitely dead. The situation was beginning to look too complicated for him and he considered opting out altogether. If she had had this baby and concealed the birth, that was technically against the law, wasn't it? If she had killed it.... She'd never have left it there and then got a shock to find it, unless she was astray in the head. Maybe she had more problems than he could handle. He heard a movement behind him. Jacqui stood at the bedroom door, her whitened face streaming.  
"I didn't... kill... that... ba...aby."  
He embraced her and gently tried to turn her round so that she wouldn't be looking at the body. She broke away and stumbled towards the bed.  
"Jacqui, I don't think you should be looking at it."  
"It's a girl."

Malachy put his hands on his hips and looked around, as if the room would give him a clue what to do next. In a sudden, deft movement, Jacqui gathered up the four edges of the sheet and made a bundle of the baby and the teddy bear. She tied it at the top and laid it on the floor. She pulled the cover from the duvet and rushed it past him into the washing machine in the kitchen. She scurried back to collect other clothes, put them in too and started the wash. He stared speechlessly as she bustled. She stopped and looked directly at him, her face tightened at the cheeks.

"Do you have a shovel?"  
"A shovel? Are you mad? You're not going to bury it in the field?"  
"What else can I do with it? If it's found, they'll think I killed it. Her."  
"Christ almighty! You can't bury a baby just like that."  
Jacqui left the bundle on the bed and moved to go past him.  
"I'll bury her and then I'll go. I don't have much time."  
He grabbed her arm.  
"Where are you thinking of going?"  
"Out of the country. I'm getting the five o'clock bus to Dublin."

She walked past him and into the kitchen, where she started rummaging in the broom cupboard. She hauled out an old spade, rusty, with a small piece broken off the blade. Her hand shook on the handle and she looked hardly able to lift it, let alone dig with it. Malachy followed her and grabbed the implement.  
"Jesus Christ, will you steady on? You can't go out in broad daylight, dig a hole and put a bundle into it. Are you crazy?"  
Jacqui stopped. She weakened all over.  
"Fuck! What am I going to do? Maybe if I just go, they'll never find me."  
Malachy snorted.

"They'll find you alright. If you leave this trail of desolation behind you, they'll find you."  
"I didn't do it. I told you that. Someone else put that baby there. Maybe he did it."

She was shocked at the thought that maybe somebody L knew had had a baby and he was helping her to conceal it. Or maybe he'd found out about her own baby and was torturing her. Maybe he had done something with David too. That really was the most likely thing, wasn't it? Fairies how are you! Her head went into a spin and she sat down. Up again just as fast. No time for rest.  
"I'll put her in the bin."  
"Sit down for a minute."

She didn't sit, but she did wait to hear what he had to say.  
"Look, I was going to say this to you before that happened. Would you like to come up and stay in my house tonight? We can tell Liam you're too nervous to sleep here and we can tell him I'm giving you some treatment too. I might actually do that, if you want."  
Irrelevantly, Jacqui said, "Oh yeah, the herbal stuff."  
"You can bring Brian, of course." And any dead babies you might have. He visualised dumping the bundle in the boot of the car and burying it at the bottom of the hill after dark. It was the only option. There was no way he could explain this to Kevin O'Leary.

As if she had read his mind, Jacqui looked up and said coyly, "Could you bury the baby after I'm gone? Tonight, like? Or put it out with your rubbish or something?"  
Malachy stared at her, speechless for a minute. Then he slowly shook his head.  
"No. I can't bury it after you're gone and no, I can't put it out with my rubbish. And if you want to know, I don't think much of you for asking me. Christ, I can just see myself: you're gone off and there I am trying to dispose of a dead body. There are people around here who'd be delighted if I was locked up forever. The Murderer Gallagher. There are some call me that already."  
"I didn't kill that baby."  
Malachy brought his face closer to hers.  
"Well, neither did I. And it was in your bed, not mine."

She shrank back. Malachy used his advantage.  
"Now look, Jacqui. You'll come and stay with me tonight and you'll tell me the full story. We'll decide what help you need. We'll go up the hill later and try to contact the Sí. Then you'll know where you stand. Tomorrow you can go to Timbuktu for all I care." Right. "But if you go now, I'm going to tell the Guards everything, and it all looks mighty suspicious. Can you imagine what they'd make out of it?"

He paused to let an image sink in. "Now get your stuff and let's go. Do you want to leave a note for Liam?" She shook her head. Slowly, she got her bag.  
"Have you got a black refuse sack?"  
"In the press."  
He went to the press and took out a roll of plastic refuse sacks. He eased the bundled baby into one of the sacks, tied it at the top and prepared to take it out the back door.  
"Wait," said Jacqui, "putting a refuse sack in the car won't look right."  
He ran his fingers through his hair. The thought of the little dead body in there was unnerving him.  
"An ordinary plastic bag from a shop would be better. People would think I was just bringing food up to your house. It isn't big. It should fit."  
She's good at this. Christ!

They used two large 'Shop Local' plastic bags, one inside the other, with the black sack stuffed in out of sight. Malachy put the lot into the boot.

* * * * *

"I'll tell you now," said Hannah, as they were all finishing the rudimentary but generous dinner, "My first cousin, Kitty's her name, she's coming down tonight and she's leaving Agnes with me for the night. She's a nice little girl, she's thirteen and she adores babies. He'd be well minded if you wanted to leave him with us for the night. You just bring us the nappies and his bottle, and maybe a change of clothes just in case. Sure, he's happy out."

Brian gurgled on the floor as if to confirm this. Jacqui stared at him, wondering why it was that she felt a stranger to him now. She looked up at Hannah, whom she saw through a milky film. How in the name of God can she be so nice? She mustn't have checked under the mattress. Wonder will she guess it was me? I should be gone from here, should have vanished into the sunset in a cloud of dust. Shouldn't have stolen the money. But Jesus, it was there. What do they expect?

Hannah's eyes were deepening, as though the colour came from far below their surface and was rising like a groundswell.  
"Are you sure?" Jacqui said. "It's a lot to ask."  
"You're fit to drop, love. You need a break. He's a dote, so he is. It'll bring back memories. Anne is here too and she's great. He'll be grand. We're well used to children in this house."

* * * * *

He probably thought she was callous. She did faint, but when she got on her feet again all she could think of was getting out. Couldn't imagine how it got there. Just like her own baby. Could be her baby. Back to haunt her. Maybe it'd come to life again. Maybe it'd spring huge ears, long pointed teeth and a big red mouth and reach in through the back seat and grab her and tear her to pieces. She looked over her shoulder just in case. Malachy was looking in the rear view mirror all the time. She was a murderess. Death followed her everywhere. Brian would probably be next. He was kind of distant when she left him. A baby to show up like that in her bed. Would David ever have found it when he was out walking? Her. It was a her. Better off dead. No world for women. In her bed. In her house. Maybe she did kill it. Jesus, she was so out of it all week. Maybe she blanked. There was a serial killer who used to blank. Not complete blanks. He remembered meeting his victims. This other man killed his child. People really hated him for it. They shouted Child Murderer from the Public Gallery when he was walking in and out. Joanne Hayes—what people didn't say about her. Malachy's house. Would she be too nervous to sleep in it? What would L do when he came home and found her gone? She'd not be able to talk to Malachy. She didn't know how. The money. She couldn't give it back now. Missed her chance when she went back down. Didn't want to return it anyway. She needed it more than Hannah. She's never going anywhere. Play it tough if they start looking at her funny. As long as they didn't bring in the Guards. Feeling sort of blank. Ice Queen, that's one of the pictures L did of her. Something drastically wrong with her. Felt like she was going to vomit.

* * * * *

Jacqui half fainted into the armchair beside the range. Malachy's voice cut through the atmospherics in her head.  
"Are you?"  
"What?"  
"Are you alright here for a minute while I get some coal in?"  
"Yeah."

He looked at her doubtfully and went out with the bucket. As he passed by the car in the back yard, he fancied he saw the lid of the boot move, and jumped. He looked again and everything was normal. How in the name of all that's holy am I going to get rid of that baby? I must have been mad to bring it up here. His practised equilibrium was rapidly diminishing.

When he came back in, he carefully emptied some coal into the top of the range.  
"You'd better get some sleep. We can't go up there until it's good and dark and then we might be waiting ages. You'll be tired."  
"I suppose I'd better try to sleep alright. If I took a Normison...."  
"Jesus, you're not on sleeping tablets as well?"  
"No," she lied, "but I find it hard to sleep sometimes."  
"Camomile tea."  
"What?"  
"Camomile tea is good to relax you. I'll get you some. I'll have some myself. Would you like a bite to eat?"  
"No thanks. That dinner the Brennans gave me is stuck to the bottom of my stomach like a slab of cement."  
"You sound like a builder," Malachy remarked, with a slight smile.  
"Hah?"  
"Nothing." They both stared at the range. "You'd never think we had a dead baby outside in the car would you?"

Jacqui went cold.

* * * * *
Chapter 14

Liam slowed to fifty miles an hour when he passed the sign for Drumnashee. He was coming in by Hillview Estate.  
SLOW. CHILDREN AT PLAY.  
"Fuck them," he mouthed silently, chewing on the notion of killing a child and driving off. Everyone would see you here though. You'd have to be on a lonely road, or maybe a main road would be better. He'd have liked to know what it felt like to have the heavy thud of death strike the bonnet of his car. Lately he was thinking quite a lot about killing someone, anyone, just for the experience. The thought of it gave him a pleasant feeling of heat in his stomach. You'd have to be clever. There would be no good doing it if you couldn't get away with it. Such thoughts were a sort of relaxation for his mind, a respite from the whirring demands of business and machinations.

He wouldn't kill her though. She was too valuable. Although, after today, he was beginning to wonder. Slattery was some bastard, not showing up. Who did he think he was dealing with? A green-arsed nobody? His henchman had been there, a muscular little runt with a shaved head and a ponytail.

"It'd have to be something we can't ge' from England an' the continent. Something really ho', you know wha' I mean?"  
"I know what you mean. I can do hot films." Liam was uncomfortable with the sales aspect of the enterprise.  
"This? You call this ho'? How long you been in the business? Gimme a break, man."  
"You want to see her fucking."  
"I want to see her fucking," he leaned across the table, "monkeys."  
Liam recoiled.  
"Are you serious?"  
The man gave him a sharp look.  
"That wouldn't be clean." Liam knew instantly that he had said the worst thing possible.

Slattery's emissary laughed and the five silver ear-studs in his right ear reflected a bit too much of that cold sun that was piercing the window of the hotel room.  
"Tha' wouln' be clean? Tha' wouldn' be clean? I've heard i' fucking all now. Invest in a can o' harpic, sunshine, you'll ge' more returns from i'."

Liam was floored. He hadn't wanted to involve too many people. People were complicated, and a risk to privacy. But there were also limits he'd prefer he didn't have. Animals. He felt nauseous at the thought. He had once throttled a pup until it died, but he had never had any desire to mess around with the thing. Filthy. All stinky hair and shit. Then again, making a proper video with a proper plot and characters, even if just for the sake of titillation, wasn't within his capability. The thought of trying to get people to act in it, let alone setting it up, was enough to make him sweat. It was dawning on him that he was only a small time pervert and that realization made him very mad. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "Sunday night," he addressed the windscreen, "and she's not set up with a client."

He was going to walk into the house and, depending on whether she annoyed him straightaway or not, he was going to give her the hiding of her life. As he slowed through the square, he imagined slashing her face, the blood dripping down those soft pink cheeks of hers, mingling with her mascara and lipstick, getting matted in her hair. He couldn't do that. Couldn't give her a hiding either. But he could do something else, something she'd hate just as much, something even more demeaning. He licked his lips as he swung up towards Kilnalacka and smiled humourlessly when the car eased to a stop outside his front door. No light.

He sat outside for a few minutes, trying to figure where the fuck she could be. She wouldn't have gone out walking this late with the brats. Seven o'clock. A trickle of fear crept through his bones. He thought about the events of the previous night and he knew, as surely as he knew his name, that there was something going on. What was she up to? His first guess was that it had something to do with money. Maybe she had swindled him somehow. But she had only had the agreed amount on her. Even if she was pulling a fast one, she wouldn't get away with charging more than ten or twenty quid extra a night, and that wouldn't make her much. Enough to get out of town alright—just about. She couldn't have swindled him with the Allowance money because he knew the amount that was being paid, and what she gave him always tallied—after that first time when she had tried to take most of it for herself and he had shown her a bit of muscle.

An affair was the only possibility that stuck. Or something to do with the children. Or both. His stomach gave a twist. Maybe she had taken them somewhere. The Bitch never stopped thinking about them. She had to learn that she couldn't treat Liam O'Malley like this. Keeping secrets, making plans, skulking around the house plotting against him. Probably planning to kill him. Maybe it wasn't safe to go in. His heart was jumping a little. He was annoyed at that; he always had to work hard to maintain control when that happened. He was also incensed because it was she who had caused it. And she had no right. She was.... What was she? Nothing. A lap-dog. A body. A cunt. Never said a sensible word in the six years he knew her. A burden to him, a weight around his neck, that's what she was. Bringing her down here, giving her a healthy environment for her and her children. What are you supposed to do? Turn into a doormat? Here, wipe your shitty feet on me, darling. Cunt.

He sat looking around for another few minutes. Then he slowly got out of the car and strolled up to the front door. Cautiously, he turned the key in the lock and pushed the door in. Nothing. He turned on the light in the hall. Nothing. He stepped stealthily along the corridor, threw open the sitting-room door, turned on the light and sidled in. He checked room after room, finishing with hers. While he was examining her bed in search of clues, the phone rang. By this time his eyes were glazed over with the depth of his white anger, an anger past outrage and indignation. This feeling existed of itself and made its own of him. He was anger's robot, insensible to everything but the imperative of destruction. He advanced slowly towards the phone.

"Yes?"  
"Is that Liam?"  
He didn't answer.  
"This is Malachy Gallagher, Liam."  
Silence.  
"Liam?"  
"Yes."  
"I thought you might be worried about Jacqui."  
Silence.  
"She's up here with me."  
Silence.

"There's a bit of bad news, I'm afraid."  
"Bad news?"  
"Your young lad, David, he's gone missing."  
Silence.

"Jacqui wasn't too happy about being in the house on her own, so I asked her up for a wee while. There's no news yet, but the Guards will probably be in touch at some stage."  
Silence.  
"Thing is," Malachy forced a short laugh, "Jacqui was that tired, when I gave her a cup of tea she just felt like sleeping, so she's up in bed." He hurried to add, "It's a big house, so there's acres of room."  
Silence.  
"I don't want to wake her now she's getting a bit of rest. Brian is down with Hannah Brennan. They offered to look after him until tomorrow morning to give her a break."

Jacqui. The Brennans. Malachy Gallagher. The Guards. Liam's head did a spin. So many people involved with her. 'Jacqui', he was calling her. 'Jacqui', not 'Mrs O'Malley' or 'your wife' or 'herself', but 'Jacqui'.  
"Liam? Are you alright?"  
"Yes. Thanks for ringing."

He put down the receiver.

* * * * *

Liam sat for a long time in the sitting-room with his hands together, fingertips touching his mouth. He barely noticed the cold, though the fire had remained unlit all day. Finally he got up, went to the bathroom, turned on the cold tap and splashed some water on his face. He dried himself with the towel on the side of the bath, cursing when he discovered it was the same damp one he had used to dry himself that morning, and it smelt bad.

He went to his room and put on his Aran jumper over his shirt, took the car keys, and motored at a restrained pace down to Brennan's. It was eight o'clock. The dusk was curdling the sky, but a hint of freshness in the air promised summer. Liam was unaware of these things. They were fundamentally irrelevant to him.

* * * * *
Chapter 15

"I can't explain properly, Graham. I've told you the gist of it."  
"There's no reason to be guilty over saying what you feel, Anne. Anger must come out. Anyway, if you're going through some sort of crisis, that's all the more reason why I should go down."  
"It isn't just Maria. Other things have come up as well. A neighbour is in trouble and we're minding her child. And... other stuff...."

Graham was waiting. He'd never interrupt anybody when they were trying to tell him something. But he quickly realised that Anne wasn't going to continue. It was clear that she didn't want to give him any details at all. He dammed the surge of hurt anger with the thought that maybe she was worried her small change would run out. It was hard to talk over a public phone.

"Give me your number and I'll ring you back. We can relax then," he said soothingly, holding the shimmering Cross pen she had given him poised above his note-pad.  
"Graham, I'm really sorry. I just don't want you to come down right now. I need some time on my own to work out personal things I hadn't known about. Do you understand?"  
"Yes, but... well, no really. I should be with you. Or you should tell me more."  
"I can't talk about these things over the phone."  
"I know. It's hard. I could ring you back if you wanted to go to a hotel or somewhere comfortable. Why won't you let me ring you back now?"  
"I have more time left. Look, Graham, I just want to be alone this week-end." She found herself getting a little impatient. "Why can't you understand that?"  
"Because we've been talking about getting engaged for six months now," his tone was strained, "and you still haven't told your family. Anne, we're supposed to be getting married in October and we've made no arrangements. I'm beginning to wonder if you want to marry me at all."

He was trembling. He didn't want to get angry and he certainly didn't want a row. She did seem upset.  
Anne was shocked and a little impressed by his directness.  
"Graham, I don't have any problem about marrying you."  
"Well, then?"  
"It's just that every time I try to tell Mammy, something else comes up."  
"Anne, if you really wanted to tell her, you'd have done it by now."  
"Look, Graham, there are things from my childhood I haven't dealt with."  
"Serious things?"  
"Maybe."  
"I can help you."  
"Not this week-end." She was getting weary and a bit tearful. "Look, I'll just have to ask you to trust me. Will you try to do that for me? Please? Graham?"  
"This isn't easy for me, Anne."  
"Oh, come on Graham, I don't need this. I can't have you in my bloody pocket. God, as if I didn't have enough on my mind, now you're asking me for proofs of my love. For Fuck's sake!"

He started when she said the 'f' word. So did she. She had never said it in his company before.  
"I just feel excluded," he said, deciding to ignore her unwonted vehemence.  
"Graham, I don't mean to hurt you. I'll explain everything when I get back. You know how hard it is to go into anything over the phone. Please take it easy. You're really over-reacting."  
She was fighting the tears back.

There was a pause while Graham collected himself.  
"I don't think I'm the one who's over-reacting, but okay. I hope you're alright, are you?"  
"Yes. I'm alright."  
"Well, give me a ring when you get back." He paused, and then, although it didn't feel natural at all, he whispered the statutory "I love you."  
"I love you," she muttered back, with equal insincerity.

* * * * *

Anne kept her head down all the way home. She hoped no-one would recognise her and expect her to talk to them, because she was crying freely and copiously. Other memories were coming back and she had never felt so alone in her life. It crossed her mind to go up to Malachy, but she had never told him anything really personal and anyway Jacqui was there tonight. There was no-body else to talk to in Drumnashee. Siobhan in Dublin, she was the only person she'd tell. Anne had shared in encounter groups, talked on a counselling course, participated in re-birthing and a few other self-development therapies, but nothing had prepared her for this, the shock of meeting a new person inside her head. Her sense of herself was shattered. How to deal with it? She had no idea. She knew she needed time but didn't know how to take it or for how long. And then there was all this strange stuff going on around her. So many happenings, so many shifts of atmosphere in the space of one week-end. The lights of her home weren't comforting, but she could bury herself in the task of minding Brian. He couldn't intrude on her thoughts.

She was almost at the lane when a car emerged from it and turned up the road away from her. She saw the child in the back and watched until it rolled softly into the O'Malleys' house. Her heart contracted.

"He called for the baby," Hannah told her. "He said Jacqui was asleep up in Malachy's and he'd like to have Brian for company. He said he was so worried about David he wanted to have the other little fella close to him, God help us."

All Anne's instincts told her that Liam was bad news, but she had nothing definite to go on. She had never even met him.  
"He looked very worried, the creature," her mother went on. "Sure he must be going through it alright."  
"And Jacqui is still up in Malachy's?"

"How's that fella Gallagher doing these times?" interjected cousin Kitty, who was clapped up to the range.  
"Oh, he's looking great," said Hannah, "but, you know, he'll never be in the better of what happened."  
"I suppose he won't." Kitty shrugged her shoulders. It's what she did when she didn't mean what she was saying.  
"He was a good husband," said Hannah.  
"I suppose he was," Kitty shrugged.

"He said she'll be going down home later," Hannah answered Anne.  
"When will he be the full owner of the property?" asked Kitty, as she did every time she called.  
"I'd say that's the least of his worries, if he could only have Aine back."  
"True for you," said Kitty, humouring her cousin's soft spot but having made her point yet again.  
"Well, that's all we can do for the moment," sighed Anne. "I think I'll go to my bed, Mammy."  
"Will you not stay for a small while with Kitty and Agnes?"  
The lanky, spider-haired teenager called Agnes didn't stir from her slumped position on the chair in front of the television. She looked as if she had gone catatonic.  
"Oh, I'm sorry, Kitty. I'm just so tired. Maybe I'll have one cup of tea with you."

CRASH. SMASH.

The sounds had come from the mobile home. Anne reached the front door at the same time that Joe came running in, pursued by an airborne frying pan, which, luckily enough, landed short of the door. Valerie was yelling.  
"You filthy rotten liar. You fucking scum. You dirty sinful lying fucker."  
She sobbed between insults and missiles.

Joe came in and locked the door.  
"What's wrong with her?" asked Anne.  
"Ah, she's crazy. That baby is driving her bonkers. It happens all the time to pregnant women."

He went to the mirror over the fire and studied a darkening bruise on his left temple. He muttered something like a curse.  
"Come out here and tell me the truth." Valerie was pounding on the door. "Tell your mother what you did. Did he tell you, Hannah? Tell your sister. Go on. Tell them."  
She sounded hysterical. Anne went to open the door.  
"Don't let her in. Are you mad?"  
"Well, I'm not leaving her out there in the cold when she's as upset as that."

She opened the door. Joe came storming across the room. He pointed his finger at Valerie and pounded at the air.  
"Don't you come down here disturbing my mother. Get back up to the caravan! Have you no respect, and my cousin Kitty sitting there? She'll know what you're made of now and that's for sure. Shouting so the whole town can hear you."  
"Calm down, Joe. Take it easy." Anne went into mollifying mode. "Come on, Valerie, I'll go back up with you."  
"I'm not going back up there. I'm going home to my Mam's. I'm never coming back again either. D'you hear me?" she yelled at Joe, "I'm not coming back."  
"Get the fuck out, so," Joe shouted, stamping his foot in her direction. "Get the fuck out. No-one wants you here. Get out! Get out!"

Anne used her best authoritative voice.  
"Joe, I'm going to go up with Valerie to collect whatever she wants to take. You stay here and calm down. I want no more shouting."  
"It's none of your fucking business, Miss Do-Gooder. Don't think you can come down here and tell us what to do." He moved closer, blocking her way.

"Joe!"

Hannah's voice was shrill. He looked at her, shocked into deference.

"Stop this now! You should be ashamed of yourself, yelling like that in this house. In front of Kitty and Agnes an' all."  
Joe gave Anne an accusing side-look.

"You're no saint yourself," he mumbled.  
"I never said I was."  
Her tone was steady, but her insides were churning.

Joe took another few seconds for emphasis before slowly making his way to the fire. Anne went outside and linked Valerie, who was shaking with temper and cold.  
"Come on, let's get you sorted out."  
"I hate him. I hate him. He's a bastard." Valerie was still loud, but she was sobbing more freely now.  
"Ssssh. Ssssh. Wait till we get up to the mobile home."

When they got there, Valerie said, "I just want to take a small case and go."  
"I'll go with you. You'll need someone."  
"I'm alright. It's not far."  
"I'd like to go with you anyway, just in case, if you don't mind?"  
Valerie conceded.  
"Do you want to tell me what happened?"  
"I'll tell you on the way." She closed the case. "This much'll do me."

She picked up a cuddly Garfield and they left, Anne carrying the case of clothes, which felt quite heavy after a short while. They reached the main road and Valerie still hadn't spilled the beans.  
"Well," said Anne, trying to sound matter-of-fact, "at least it's not raining." Valerie said nothing.  
"Joe has always been difficult, Valerie."  
No response.  
"If there's anything I can do to help, just ask, won't you?"  
Valerie nodded.

Anne decided it would be prying to say any more, but she was desperately curious. At last Valerie started to talk, her voice shaking.  
"Do you remember that one of the O'Connors who won the Talent Competition a couple of years ago?"  
Anne thought for a minute. The local Chamber of Commerce went all out for the Talent Competition every year.  
"O'Connor? Yes. She was only fifteen, I think, was that her?" Valerie stopped dead and looked at her.  
"Fifteen! Are you serious? She'd only be seventeen now. The fucking babysnatcher! What's the age you're supposed to be before you, you know... do it?"  
"Sixteen."  
"Jesus. If she was a year younger, I could have him up for statutory rape." She stared through Anne, then started to walk again.

"I'll murder her. I'll leave her for dead," she said, and started to cry again. She knew well what she was made of and it was not violent stuff. Her temper never lasted long enough to see through any of her malicious plans. As well as that, Michelle O'Connor was very capable of handling herself, with the help of her two older sisters when necessary.

"Did Joe have an affair with her?" asked Anne, with her penchant for stating the obvious.  
"He was seen with her. I thought he was going to a cattle mart that day. Looking for another calf, he told me. He took her to Glendalough. My friend's aunt saw them. He never took me to Glendalough. He's probably going with her ages. He always goes for a pint on his own on Saturdays. He's probably seeing her. The whole town probably knows. Everyone except me. I'll never be able to hold my head up again."  
"Oh Valerie, it's not your fault. He's the one who should be ashamed, not you."  
"There's something else."

In the moonlight, Anne could make out Valerie's harassed face and the streaks the tears had made through her make-up.  
"My friend's aunt thought she looked pregnant."  
"Oh no."  
"I haven't seen her for a while, so I don't know." She stared straight ahead.  
"Look, we'll get you to your Mam's house and get you settled. With a bit of sleep, you'll be better able to cope in the morning."  
"I'll never cope. I'll never get over this, Anne."  
"Of course you will. Time is a great healer. People have gotten over worse. In time you'll be fine. At least you've found out early on."  
Valerie looked at her as if she had three heads.

"I'm pregnant with his child. That's not exactly early on."

* * * * *

When Anne got back she was still smarting from the anguished reception Valerie had got from her mother, and the rage of her father. It had taken at least half an hour to persuade him against going across town with a crowbar and splitting Joe's skull. Anne eventually had to slip away so that Mrs Sullivan could calm him down. Joe had gone to the pub by the time she got home, leaving Hannah and Kitty talking in whispers and young Agnes looking alive for the first time since her arrival.  
Anne flopped down in a chair and Hannah fussed over to her with a glass of Brandy.  
"Mammy, there's a gallon of Brandy in this."  
"It's good for shock, they say."  
Anne rubbed her eyes and cheeks.  
"Did he tell you what happened?"  
"No," said Kitty. "Did she tell you?"  
Anne took a sip of her Brandy and decided this was going to be another sleepless one.

* * * * *

Liam did the only thing he knew with regard to babies, and gave Brian a bottle of milk. That stopped him crying for a while, but when he was finished he started to whimper again. He half-rolled, half-crawled around the floor with a look approaching despair on his face. His father sat watching a video, completely ignoring him. The baby sank into complete wretchedness and started to sob. He was exhausted, missing his warm, soft Mammy, and he had a dirty nappy. When Liam could no longer bear the noise, which was after half a minute, he picked him up under one arm, carried him to his cot and dropped him in. He decided to wait until he was well asleep before he carried out his plan.

* * * * *

By eleven o' clock, Brian had cried himself to sleep amid a solid stench. Liam shuddered when he went towards the cot at midnight. Filthy things children. He raised the pillow he had taken from Jacqui's bed and slowly lowered it over Brian's head. The resistance was weak and brief. He held the pillow firmly in position until the little body was completely still. When he took it away, Brian looked as if he were still sleeping, lying on his side, his rounded, soft face like a toy duck's, his fist loosely made. Behind his tear-weary eyes, he might even have been dreaming of a good day, a day when he had got the kind of special attention only strangers can give, when he had had a surfeit of sweet things and admiration, a day he would not have chosen to die.

Liam pulled the quilt carefully over his dead son's shoulders, tucking him in as he had never done before. He had to look cared for. The dirty nappy was a problem, but he could not bring himself to change it. He closed the bedroom door behind him and went to run a bath.

* * * * *

Part Three: The Sí

"Ascend with great sagacity from the Earth to the heaven, and then again descend to the Earth, and unite together the powers of things superior and inferior."

8th principle of the Emerald Tablet—Egyptian. Quoted in The Occult Connection ed. Peter Brookesmith, P.89

* * * * *
Chapter 16

Disk: Aine Gallagher  
Folder: Drumnashee  
File: The Sí

The following information was compiled in the course of eight visits to the Sí dimension. Three visits took place in the evening, between seven and midnight, and five after midnight. I began my visits two months ago and I now wish to become closer to the beings. I have met several of the Sí, but have mostly communicated with Cascorach, Dechtire, Liban, Scaw and Cruachawn. (In so far as you can get any kind of sense out of Cruachawn!)

I'm sorry Malachy didn't understand the messages with regard to the new house. I didn't fully understand them either or I would certainly have put more pressure on him. I think he's beginning to come round now. Hopefully I can repair some of the damage done by spreading a greater understanding of Sí wisdom.

The Sí

They are incorporeal beings who were once human. They have existed in some form since the island was first inhabited, but they have changed their constitution down through the years by replenishing their number from the people around them. For want of a better term, I'll call them 'spirit beings' or just 'spirits'. They are enduring entities. Each can survive for up to two thousand years, after which his/her presence fades and becomes merged indiscernibly with the general forces of nature. When one of them 'dies' in this way, he or she must be replaced with another spirit, taken from a living person of their own free will. The energy in the physical body is the raw material necessary for the transformation from human to Sí. The living organism is necessary for the process to be carried out, so they do not take the dead. The Sí are not the spirits of the dead.

Tír na Sí is another dimension of being. You enter it through a bluish-grey mist. What you see depends on your needs, but your perceptions are always joyful or positive in some way. There's no need for sadness in Tír na Sí because there is nothing to fear. Although they occasionally have internal conflicts, there is no death, no hunger, no inequality, no poverty. Each Sí being is pure spirit, except for an infinitesimal material fragment, a physical essence, called a 'root', which must remain manifest in some form. This form can be as small as a speck of dust, and might be a type of micro-organism. In this essential form, the being must remain in close proximity to an organic, living object, or one with a high level of natural energy emission. So they live, or rather, base themselves, around trees, rocks, wells and streams.

When they are not moving or performing their function as fates, they attach themselves to a living organism in a resting state called 'soaking'. This organism can be either flora or fauna, although attachment to animals is rare, because they are less peaceful. Alternatively, they might attach themselves to a rock, but soaking on a rock must be interspersed with periods of soaking on an organism. In the soaking state, they are absorbing all the sustenance they need for their continued existence. The name given to individual Sí beings when they take on a form is 'sióg'.

The Sí can be negatively affected by pollution or by the destruction of the natural landscape, not only because it disturbs their energy sources, but also because they are intimately connected with nature and with the fertility of the earth. This connection with the earth's fertility gave rise, in the past, to such practices as the leaving of food and drink as a tribute to them. By sharing the earth's yields with the Sí, people expressed their belief that the beings could control or influence earth matters. This belief was misplaced. The Sí only have a tiny impact on the environment. They reflect the state of the natural world, they don't make it. So while it's true to say that the Sí can cause problems in the physical environment, they can't control larger matters, such as harvests, soil fertility or the weather.

The Sí are seen less frequently today because of our technological orientation, and because fewer people have the openness to look. Their numbers have diminished due to industry and pollution, but in the few places where they exist as a coherent group, their connection with the earth is as strong as ever. Drumnashee may have the strongest Slua Sí (Fairy Host) in Ireland.

Sióga can be made to die by overwhelming forces, e.g. by exposure to severe pollutants for prolonged periods, or by being trapped in an enclosed, sterile space. However, they are extremely powerful because:  
1. they can adopt any shape they wish, from a fly to an elephant, and can travel a long distance in the blinking of an eye  
2. in their essential state, they are infinitesimal, to all intents and purposes invisible  
3. all their energy is concentrated on the etheric level, which means they have all the will and capability of a human being without the burden of a physical body which needs sustenance, and which is subject to sickness, age and the pressures of society  
4. they have knowledge of the past, present and future, and can obtain whatever information they need by the application of their psychic powers.

It appears that Tír na Sí is a kind of Heaven or at least a temporary Heaven. I have read that some of the Sí re-incarnate, but I have not been able to confirm this during my visits.

_Sí Personalities_  
The roots of the Sí are actually essential personalities. That is, each microscopic root encapsulates the essence of a mind and set of emotions, as well as the physical energy which drives them. Being essences, they are not compounded with anything, so when the Sióg takes form, he/she is what we might call a compulsed personality. Some sióga are completely aggressive, some are completely sympathetic, some are absolute healers, some complete derogators and so on. It follows that when people are transformed into members of the Sí, they lose their human individuality and are distilled into their essential characteristics. The strongest driving force and deepest personality traits are what remain.

The major personality types, according to my observations, are:  
1. War-makers. These are in the minority, but they are efficient fighters  
2. Craftspeople. Their entire orientation is construction. They devise systems  
3. Counsellors. Thoughtful, wise, nurturing  
4. Dancers and musicians. These are picture spinners. They only express themselves in a symbolic or metaphorical way, through movement, sound or spectacle  
5. Healers. Their presence is overwhelming. They see every inch of your being at one glance  
6. Entertainers. Light, airy sprites, clowns, jugglers and such circus-type performers  
7. Savants. These store knowledge like squirrels store nuts. They're the equivalent of professors  
8. Sages. A combination of philosopher and priest. They ponder metaphysical and epistemological questions  
9. Mockers, derogaters. The 'Fools of the Fairies'. They are like the court jesters of old, but they can be dreadfully cruel. These are the ones who carry out the well-known 'fairy' pranks.

The collective consciousness of the Sí appears to be indivisible. The Whole acts as a spontaneous check on the One. All members are aware of the thoughts and actions of the others. (Really, it would seem that in the Sí Dimension, thought is action. Everything occurs at lightning speed.) The aggregate of personality compulsions produces a harmonious Whole. So, when necessary, all the members can unite like a swarm and move with one mind. The Host can move in the blink of an eye, each knowing the common purpose of the group and accepting it. I have witnessed conflicts, arguments, even physical fights, but these passed and everything settled into harmony again. There are no long term feuds. I think that may be because of the absence of ego. There is no self-consciousness, no self-analysis. Each being is blissful in his/her own identity. There is no hierarchy, but there is a definite recognition of the gifts of each individual. There are manifest leaders, but they are effectively governed by the collective will. In a way, it's as if the whole group were one person.

There is no decision-making process as such, because The Sí are driven by forces beyond them and by the collective demand of their compulsions. They are subject to a universal will over which they have no control, nor do they wish to control it. In relation to human affairs, they are compelled to carry out certain acts of natural justice, such as the protection of their paths. I think these paths may correspond to what are known as ley lines, which connect areas of high electro-magnetic energy. It would make sense. The Sí usually settle their communities at points where streams of energy intersect. It is not just that they need that energy for survival, they are an actual part of the energy force itself. So when they exact revenge for the disruption of an energy stream, they are simply reacting compulsively, not being malicious. Their will is the will of the Earth. You could say they are the instruments of Fate, not its arbiters.

The gender of a Sí member is entirely random. Sióga can appear in any form, so they can be either male or female at given times as they choose. Some appear to be asexual. However, the Sí with whom I have had most contact always appeared in the same gender form.

When transformed into Sí beings, individuals become disconnected from their families and remember nothing of their human lives. That is their forfeiture for the gift of lengthy, contented consciousness in Tír na Sí. They see time as a seamless moment and they can read the human mind, its memories and aspirations. However, they are not socio-political in any way. They read those things about the personality which are connected with the Universal, for instance: a person's place in the psychic paradigm; their openness to Universal energies; their charisms; the source of their inspirations; blockages within their energy field.

Sióga do not form personal attachments. Although their former human state makes them intimately involved with us, their spirit nature makes their dealings with us distant, even when they are, as is most often, caring.

_Entering the Sí Dimension.  
_ They appear within a light which is about seven feet high and four feet wide. The colour

Malachy heard a sound behind him and swung round to check. When he turned back, the monitor had gone dark.  
"Blast."  
He turned off the computer, waited a few seconds, then turned it back on. It tinkled into action, displayed 'Welcome to Macintosh', the icon, and then ejected the disk. Now came the desktop field, the _Macintosh HD_ , _Word_ and disk windows. He inserted the disk again and went through the folders.

_Accounts, Addresses, Alternative medicine, Diary, English Lit, French class, Letters, Miscellaneous_....  
No sign of the Drumnashee folder. It had to be there somewhere. He searched and searched. Then he tried all the available folders, carefully clicking through the pages of the files. The Sí hadn't been transferred to any of them. Where the Hell could it be? He ran his hand through his hair, pressing down on his head as if that could contain the rising sense of panic. It had to be there somewhere. He had to read it now that he had happened upon it after all this time. On top of the wardrobe for the past year. The thought of it! So much information. She was really thorough and precise.

He tried 'Find File' again and again without success. At the back of his mind a laugh intruded amid a swish of green and gold.

* * * * *
Chapter 17

Jacqui couldn't sleep. She had known she wouldn't. The camomile tea had been no better than water to her. The valium hadn't done much either. She lay in bed trying to bear the ache in her head and the shaking of her limbs. The room was well kept. She viewed it with the help of a bedside lamp which she wouldn't dream of turning off. There was an open book on the locker and one blue sock peeped out of the drawer of an otherwise tidy chest. The blanket on the bed was of some heavy, hard wool and was very brightly coloured. The floor was wooden, relieved by two multi-coloured rugs. There were paintings on the walls—of landscapes, trees, mythic characters and occult signs.

She hadn't realised he was giving her his bed. Maybe he was going to slip in beside her in a few minutes. The way she felt now, she couldn't care less, although if he was rough, that would be the last straw. But he wouldn't be rough. And he wasn't going to slip in beside her. He wasn't that sort. They're all that sort. What was she doing here? Going to see the Fairies. Jesus Christ! She must be out of her mind to even consider going up that hill to meet fairies! She began to push herself up. There was a face. A baby's face. Over the dressing table. A sleeping baby's face. She gave a gasping scream and blinked hard, but the face remained. She looked to the right of the dressing table and the face moved with her. She looked further over, along the wall, and the face was there again and again and again. That baby still out there. She knew she'd never get to sleep unless she could have her pills. Even if he had drink in the house.... A few vodkas wouldn't go astray. The trip to the door felt as daunting as a trek up Everest. The feeling drained from her legs and hands.

She lay in terror until the image eventually disappeared. She tried to block out the thought of the dead baby, but it was impossible. She prayed that Malachy would take care of it. She had come to the end of the road. She was mortally sorry she hadn't collected Brian and left on that bus to Dublin. She would have been in Dun Laoghaire by now. But she could sneak away tomorrow. She had Cora's friend's address in London. She might be able to earn something on the game and then get a decent job after a while. Only thing was, L was surely home at this stage and he'd know something was up. He'd follow her to the ends of the earth. Maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea to bring Brian. He'd be alright with Hannah and Anne. They'd mind him well. They were good at that. Better than her. She was in despair at her uselessness, her crime in bringing children into the world when she couldn't cope with them, her stupidity in being with L, her inability to ask for help, her vulnerability, her selfishness and her blank lonely life that stretched like a grey sea all around her.

The bleakness got so deep that it swept everything away. She found herself staring at the ceiling without sensation. She would get up. As long as she was still alive, she had to move. At least Brian was okay. As for David, she didn't really believe he was suffering—wherever he was. If he was dead, he definitely wasn't suffering. Brian wouldn't miss her, he was too young. She couldn't bring him with her. It would be a noble thing to leave him for someone to foster. She was a terrible mother, panicky and careless. She'd be yelling at him from the minute he got a bit more mobile, just like she was with David. And it wasn't exactly ideal family life, was it? Cora's friend wouldn't want a baby in her place. Anything could be going on there for all she knew. He'd never follow her to England. And he wouldn't go for custody of the boys because he wouldn't want the hassle. Maybe later on she could send for Brian... and David? She couldn't picture ever having David back.

She could let Brian be adopted. He'd have a decent home. She wasn't capable of love, that's just how it was. She put on her clothes and went slowly down the stairs, each step adding to the ache in her head. She was unnerved by the silence, by the dark corners above her and in the hall.

"Malachy?" His name tasted shy in her mouth.

He was slow to answer, because he wanted to collect himself first. He called back that he was coming, turned off the computer and took a few deep breaths. He angled his arms from his sides, brought his thumbs to touch his forefingers, closed his eyes, breathed deeply and repeated, "I am good, I am strong, I am wise," until his limbs and stomach began to relax.

By the time he answered Jacqui's call, she had reached the kitchen and was in the process of making herself a cup of tea. She was pale and awkward.

"Did you sleep?"  
"No, I couldn't. I kept seeing things."  
"Seeing things?"  
She shrugged. It would have been impossible to tell him.  
"You got no sleep at all?"  
She shook her head. She was conscious of him in his at-home mode, with the slippers and baggy cardigan. She made an effort to stop herself feeling close to him.

"Right. Well, it's ten now anyway. We'll go up the hill at half eleven or so. The Guards rang. They said all the stations around the country are on the alert and they're making a lot of local enquiries. They did a bit of a search of the fields but they had to stop when it got dark. They're starting a full-scale search tomorrow, with the Civil Defence probably. They have a notion he might have gone on the main road. They're exploring every possibility." He looked at her cautiously. "They mentioned the river. They wanted you to ring them when you got up. Maybe you'd better do it now."  
Jacqui had no desire to talk to the Guards, but if she didn't they might get ideas.

Sergeant O'Leary was all business.  
"Ah yes, Mrs. O'Malley. I'm glad you caught me. I'm just about to go off duty. Were you talking to your husband?"  
"Sorry?"  
"Your husband? Are you at home?"  
"Ah... no, I'm only just... going home shortly. I'm still at Malachy Gallagher's." Her hand shook as she raised the cigarette to her lips.  
"So you haven't been talking to him?"  
"No."  
Malachy put a saucer on the telephone table to catch the ashes.  
"I gather he's home since around seven o'clock." He paused as if to make a point. "Mr Gallagher had informed him of the situation before we rang him. Unfortunately, David wasn't with him. That had been one of our hopes."  
Jacqui said nothing.  
"Are you still there, Mrs. O'Malley?"  
"Yeah."  
"Can I call to see the two of you tomorrow morning? About ten? Just a few things I'd like to go over with you."  
She couldn't get a word out.  
"Hello?"  
"Ahm... yeah, okay."  
"In the meantime, if there's anything you might have forgotten, anything at all, will you give the station a ring?"  
"Yeah. Yeah, I will."

She wished he'd just go away.  
"There's something else I want to say to you."  
There was a grandfather clock tocking in her brain. What now?  
"I asked the Civil Defence to help us out tomorrow. A number of people from the area have offered their services too. And I'm getting more Gardaí in from other stations. So if he can be found, we'll find him. Whatever needs to be done, we'll do. Try to get a good night's sleep."  
"Thanks," she whispered. The word was hardly recognizable.  
"We'll contact you straight away if there's any breakthrough. Will you be at home later?"  
"Yeah." Her voice was failing. "I'm just on my way down now."  
"Alright. Well, I'll see you there tomorrow morning so."  
"Yeah. Okay."  
When he had said goodbye he slowly replaced the receiver, trying hard to keep an open mind.

* * * * *
Chapter 18

"Maybe I'll go down home."  
"Why?"  
Malachy was clutching a box of camomile tea-bags.  
"If the Guards ring and I'm not there, what'll they think? Suppose they ring and I'm not here either? What happens if they find David and I'm not around to go to him?"  
"We can take the phone off the hook when we go out." He considered that. "It won't look too good. But I thought you said you were afraid of himself?"  
"I am. I can't see myself ever going back to him or that house. I don't know what to do." The tears started to seep. "Have you any drink in the house?"  
"Nothing alcoholic if that's what you mean."

He put the camomile tea back in the cupboard and took out Bach's Rescue Remedy and a bottle of calcium tablets from a shelf of the converted dresser.  
"You're not going into town or anything, are you? I can give you some money to get a bottle of vodka."  
She hoped he wouldn't take it. She'd have to go to the bathroom to get it out of her panties.  
"No, Jacqui, I'm not. And you don't need alcohol. Take these. I was going to give you camomile, but I think these are better. They'll give you a boost."

Jacqui stared in disbelief as he poured a small glass of orange juice and dispensed four drops of Rescue Remedy into it. She took a sip. What a dead loss.  
"You wouldn't be able to communicate with the Sí if you had drink taken."  
"The Sí. The Sí! Fairies! I must be out of my mind to think of going up that hill to meet Fairies. Jesus, I should've been on that bus today."  
She looked at her watch as if trying to see through it. Half past ten.  
"There's a bus at eight in the morning. I could get that one."  
"What about Brian?" He said it rather sharply, feeling the sting of her disbelief.  
"I could go down and collect him now."

"Jacqui, listen to me. Calm down. If you really want to go to Dublin, I'll drive you in the morning. But I think you ought to stick around. There's help here too, you know, if you want it. There are Social Workers. And the Guards won't let any harm come to you." Jacqui snorted. "Sure, they'll be all over the place tomorrow."  
"It doesn't take long to be murdered."  
"Ah come on now. He wouldn't do that."  
"I think he would."  
"Well, maybe if you explained things to the Guards, they wouldn't mind you going to Dublin. Have you someone to stay with?"  
"I'm thinking of leaving the country altogether."  
"Look. Look at me for a minute."  
She did.  
"Do I look insane?"  
No. And she saw in his eyes something she couldn't name.  
"I like you, Jacqui. I've liked you since the first time I met you. I wouldn't go through all this for many people."  
He reached across and put his hand on hers.  
"I'm not mad. The Sí do exist. I know because I've been up there. I met Aine up there—after she was taken."  
Jacqui searched for signs of guile in his face, but saw none.  
"You'll have to see for yourself. I guarantee you if you go up the hill tonight, something—I can't say what—but something will happen. I talked to Aine three nights after they took her."

It was a struggle for him to tell it.  
"My mind was full of her. I could think of nothing and nobody else. I knew she'd been going up there a lot. She'd told me all about it, but I didn't really believe her. She told me about the house too in the last few weeks. She said it was on a fairy path and that was why everything was going wrong. I never listened to her properly. She was very clever, but she could get carried away by things, like the romance of all this New Age stuff. I suppose that was one of the reasons I liked her. But I used to slag her about it. I was always looking for the proof. Finally, I asked her to take me up there. Bring them on, I said. She did take me up and as far as I was concerned nothing happened. She said she went into Tír na Sí, but I never did. I just seemed to doze off for a few minutes."

He stared at the wall as if something there had captivated him.  
"After she disappeared, I went to the hill to look for her. I stood in the middle of the circle and focused on her completely. After a while, a mist came down. When Aine had gone into the Sí, the mist had covered her, but this time it never reached me at all, just settled about ten yards away and she came out of it. She looked a bit different, but it was Aine alright, no mistake."

He was distant for a few seconds, back again in that miraculous night, feeling the soft hold of her hands, seeing her bliss, her lightness, the expanse of her intelligence, her energy, her freedom. And then she had disappeared. Absolutely. He had never sensed her presence again in the house or anywhere else, had never even dreamt of her. His eyes watered. He sniffed and wiped them with the heel of his palms.

"So if you go up there tonight, I reckon if he's with them he'll come to you. After all, he's your son. That's as close as a wife. Closer I suppose."  
Jacqui wondered how L would be if she died. He'd probably dance on her grave.  
"So," she said softly, "what happens if they did... what you said... take him?"  
"The Guards won't believe you, but your mind will be at rest."  
"If people are being taken, shouldn't it be stopped?"  
Malachy made slits of his eyes.  
"How do you stop something you can't see?"

_Destroy us and you destroy yourself. We will not vanish in a quiet puff of smoke._ Malachy shook his head to get the thought out. They were on his airwaves all the time and he couldn't decide whether he wanted them there or not. At least this way he knew what they were thinking.

"I'm so confused."  
He pulled himself together, had to for her sake.  
"I know. It's not easy to grasp. Do you remember what I told you about them before?"  
"Some of it."  
"Think of them as spirits. That's what they are, really. Except when people go with them, they take their bodies too."  
"It's very hard to believe."  
"Trust me, they do exist. But we'll need to be careful how we handle all this."  
"You can say that again."  
"I'm sure the Guards half thought I did something to Aine myself. I'm sure they thought I killed her."  
Now that Jacqui thought of it, that made a lot of sense. She felt like asking him if he had.

"The only thing is—some of the Guards are in the hurling team and they come to me for sports massage. They know me well. And my uncle is a priest. He's always on tv and radio mouthing off about religion. They probably reckon I'm respectable. But it doesn't stop them being suspicious. I know they think I'm odd. A bit of a hippie, whatever that means at this stage."  
"It means you sit around drinking and smoking dope and you read books and paint pictures and march against nuclear power."  
"I don't do any of those things, except read books. Used to, right enough."

They were quiet. Jacqui started thinking of vodka again.  
"Has that baby anything to do with you?" Malachy asked, as softly as he could.  
"The one in the car? What d'you mean by that? Jesus!" Her anger rose. "Did you kill your wife?"  
She flung the question straight in his face, almost hoping he'd hit her. She felt like smashing his stupid teetotaller's glass on his head. He answered slowly.  
"No. No I didn't."  
"Well, that baby wasn't mine. Unless I'm gone totally cracked. Maybe I am cracked. For Jesus sake, anyone could see I wasn't pregnant. My youngest child is only ten months old. What do you think I am? A rabbit?"

Neither of them said anything for a minute. Jacqui broke the silence.  
"What are we going to do with it... her?"  
"Well, as I see it, we have two options. Either we tell the Guards about it or we bury it somewhere and hope it's never found."  
"We can't tell the Guards."  
"No. I don't see any point in telling them. The mother obviously didn't want it, and didn't want anyone to know about it either. There's no point causing trouble for some poor wee girl. Besides, we'd have to explain why we removed it from the bed. Have you any idea who might have put it there?"  
She shook her head vehemently.  
"Not the foggiest notion. But the thing is, whoever put it there knows we have it, well, knows I have it. Maybe _he_ did it to get me into trouble."

He was looking at her curiously again. She glared at him.  
"Do you still think I had something to do with it? You think I planned it, don't you?"  
"No, I don't. For Christ's sake, Jacqui, I barely know you. I don't know anything about you."  
"And you think I'm the type to pull some sort of sick scam like this? Maybe you think I murdered David. Maybe you think I'm a murderess."  
"No. No. Of course not."  
He got up and plugged in the kettle.  
"Well, I am." She shook all over. "I did kill a baby. Are you happy now?"

She lit a cigarette to retain some vestige of composure. He sat down again.  
"Do you feel like telling me about it?"  
She told him, had to jump-start the story, but as she went along she found it easier. When she had finished, they were both quiet for a while.  
"Mammy was a prostitute. Looking back on it now, she must have been. In her own way, a country way." She stopped, having shocked herself. "I've never said that before. I've never told anyone this before."  
"It's safe with me, Jacqui."  
"I suppose you think I'm a slut."  
"It's not a word I use. And I certainly don't think badly of you. I just wish I could have Patcho's throat between my two hands. Men like that shouldn't be walking the streets."

He made a cup of black tea and put it in front of her. At least it wasn't camomile, and it was good and strong.  
"I feel like I'm living inside a barrel lately. Do you know what I mean?"  
Malachy nodded. Dead right he knew.  
"I could even imagine that baby was mine, you know? I can't figure out what's real and what's just in my head. Why would someone leave it on my bed? Like, if they wanted to get rid of it, they could've just buried it somewhere, or thrown it in the river. They wouldn't have gone to the trouble of breaking into the house and leaving it there, would they? How would they have got in anyway? Why my house? Why my bed?"  
"I don't know. I just don't know."

She bit the thumbnail of her left hand. Her head ached.  
"I haven't been in touch with my mother since I left. I haven't a clue how she is."  
"Would you like to go and see her?"  
"I don't think I could face it."  
Teardrops glazed her eyes and cheeks. The blockage at her heart was close to pain.

"I never had a childhood really. That place was every bad thing to me. Funny, something like this happens and you start thinking the strangest things. It just came into my mind there.... The one day I remember my mother sober and kind of alright, you know... we went for a walk out the Cork road. We walked for a good while. It was a gorgeous summer's day, not a cloud in the sky. I can still remember the buttercups and the primroses and the Holy Mary flowers, you know those little white ones. She told me the names of things like the dogrose and the hawthorn. We even picked blackberries. At the time it didn't mean much to me, because I was sure there was going to be a pub or a man around the next corner and she'd be off again.

"Anyway, she stopped at this gate and looked in. There was no-one around and there were no cows or anything in the field. The hay was all saved and put up in winds. She climbed over the gate and told me to come on in after her. When we were sitting down she took sandwiches out of her bag. She always carried this huge black leather handbag. I couldn't believe it. She had actually made sandwiches! She never went to any trouble like that, you know. She must have got it into her head to surprise me. I said nothing to her. I couldn't believe she was doing it out of the goodness of her heart, like. It was so different from her usual carry on, I couldn't take it in. We were sitting there for a while, eating the picnic and looking around us. It was nice. She started talking about her family and how she grew up and all that. Her mother was very strict with her when she was young and she ran away. That was a big thing to do in those days. She got work in various towns, and of course, she was so good-looking she always had men after her.

"She told me about when I was born and how she couldn't give me up once she saw me. All the hard times she went through trying to mind me. She said, something that sticks in my mind, she said not to listen to what anyone said, the girls at school or anyone, that sometimes a woman had to do things just to survive. She said no-one knew what she had gone through, and what she was still going through. She said you have to keep on, no matter what people do or say, just keep on. I thought she was really hard. I wished she had given me up for adoption. I wished she was someone else's mother, not mine, I was so ashamed of her."  
She swallowed.  
"I understand her better now. I know now how hard it is with small children, and she was all alone too."

I'm all alone. I drink. I take tablets. I yell. I hit them. I leave them on their own. I'm a prostitute. Jacqui looked up at Malachy, afraid he had heard the thought, afraid that her mother's face was replacing her own, slowly spreading out on either side of her nose. She put her hands to her face and traced it with her fingertips from forehead to chin. She didn't look much like her mother at all, except around the eyes; their colour was almost the same, but the expression wasn't. Yet. She must have carried her father's looks, whoever he was. She lowered her head and her hair fell carelessly over her slightly puffed cheeks.

Malachy was riveted. Her vulnerability sank inside him like an anchor. Such an innocent voice, such a forlorn feel to her. He pictured her in his arms. His penis stirred. He rubbed his thighs vigorously, then rapped them and stood up.  
"We'd better start moving. I have to do something about... our problem."  
"What are you going to do?"  
"I'll bury it, I suppose, put it at the bottom of the hill. There are bushes. I can dig one up and replant it. It'll take a bit of time, though. I'd better do it now."  
He took off his slippers and pulled on wellingtons.  
"Are you okay? Will you be able to come with me and hold a torch? I could probably manage alone if you're not up to it."

Jacqui shivered like a puppy. She looked around the kitchen and towards the hall, picturing the sitting-room next door with its dark red carpet, floral wallpaper and wooden bookcases. The silence of the house was barely broken by the _brrr_ of the fridge and the odd creak of furniture. The nearest neighbour was well out of earshot.  
"I'm fine. I'll go with you." She stood up.  
"I doubt you're up to digging."  
"I'm not that weak. Bring two spades."  
He appraised her and nodded, still doubtful, but pleased at her willingness.  
"Alright so."

He went to the hallstand for his coat and cap.  
"Here. Put these gloves and cap on. I suppose that leather jacket is pretty warm, is it?"  
"Yeah." She couldn't have cared less.

* * * * *
Chapter 19

There was a faint white ring around the moon.  
"It's cold, even for March," Malachy remarked, failing to sound normal. "At least the moon is casting a bit of light."  
He wondered if that was a good thing, considering the task ahead of them. But he didn't halt in his tracks, or his bustlings, more like. In the old barn he picked up implements and put them down again: picks, shovels, spades, hoes, rakes. Finally, he took two spades, handed one to Jacqui and set off towards the car.

"Blast it." His forced cool collapsed. "We'll need something to carry it in." He threw down the spades. "Okay," he said. "Wait here."  
He strode into the house, looking dangerously big. She followed as far as the back door.  
"Why don't we....?"

He emerged with a rucksack and hurried past her with the same long steps, as if he had to do this now or he'd never do it. He put the key to the boot and found it open. He gave an irritated snort, took a torch from his pocket and looked inside.  
"We don't have to bury it," Jacqui said, moving towards him. "We could just throw it in the river."  
Malachy looked over his shoulder, gazing through her as if she were invisible. He straightened up.  
"What's wrong?"

She approached the car slowly. Malachy began to look around as if there might be somebody skulking in the shadows.  
"Have a look," he said, handing her the torch.  
She did. In the boot was a rope, some old newspapers, a jack and a toolbox. No baby. No _Shop Local_ bag. No black plastic bag. She looked up at Malachy.  
"Where could it be?"  
He shrugged his shoulders and threw up his arms.  
"Can I have the torch again?"

He shone it into the boot and felt around, carefully identifying each object. He closed the door and grabbed the spades.  
"I'll put these back. Wait here."  
Jacqui followed him to the barn and waited silently at the door. He was too absorbed to notice her and when he turned she was right in his way.  
"Christ," he gasped, almost colliding with her. "What are you at?"  
"I'm sorry. I'm just... afraid of the dark."  
He glared at her for a moment, then regretted it and softened.  
"I can't understand this, Jacqui."  
"No."  
"We'd better go back in for a minute, collect our thoughts."

He didn't like being jumpy, didn't like it at all. The past year had shaken him to the core. He didn't want to give way to panic and anger ever again. He sat in the kitchen, straightened his back in the chair and closed his eyes. Jacqui was frightened. Malachy had told her that L rang and she wasn't sure whether that was good or bad. She wished yet again that she was on her way to England. Had they been followed? Who'd do such a thing apart from L? Could it have been an enemy of Malachy's? Unless they had been seen leaving her house... but no-one would have guessed there was a baby in the bag. L could hardly have seen them, he hadn't been around. Or had he? Her head was hurting.

"Deny everything anyway," she said.  
Malachy opened his eyes.  
"What did you say?"  
"Deny it all. If anyone comes asking questions, we should both just deny everything. Say we never saw any baby. They need proof and if we keep denying it they can't pin anything on us. The evidence is gone. No-one saw us with a baby."  
Malachy spoke slowly. "Maybe it was someone just robbing. Maybe they thought there was something valuable in the bag."

Jacqui stared at him as if he had lost his mind.  
"What?" She shook her head. "They'd have taken the car. Or the radio. They'd hardly have gone to the trouble of just forcing the lock on the boot. Are you sure you locked it earlier?"  
"I think so."  
He was sure of nothing right now. After a few minutes he shook himself and got up.  
"Alright," he said. "Come on. Let's get up that hill."

* * * * *

There was a fine harvest of stars out as they walked away from the lights of the house and over the fields. Jacqui hadn't been out so late in a field since she was a child. While it brought back sore memories of attempted escapes and lonely times, it also grounded her in a sense of space and possibility. Having second thoughts, Malachy had hesitantly given her a pair of Aine's heavy socks and wellingtons. It was a strange feeling to see her wear them, but she would need them up there. Aine wouldn't have minded.

The ground was still soft after Saturday's rain and the hedges glistened with the moisture of the night. As she grew closer to the hill, Jacqui thought it didn't look very frightening at all now that she could make out the soft, easy slope.  
"Mind you don't slip. The grass is wet and there's no path."

The journey to the top was shorter than she had expected. Still, she wasn't one for walking much and she was glad to lean against one of the beech trees that circled the almost flat summit. She looked around. The trees in a circle like that had an eerie effect. It was as if they were alive when the wind shook them, and the breezes seemed quicker up here than in the fields they had passed. Malachy's torch picked out a large, flat boulder in the middle of the circle. He took two lightweight woollen rugs from his rucksack and spread one on top of the stone. When they were sitting, he put the other across their knees.  
"Now, close your eyes. Clear everything from your mind and think of David. Keep his face in front of you and concentrate on it."  
He closed his own eyes and did the same.

They sat like that for a few minutes. Malachy found he was more inclined to think of Aine than of David, more inclined to remember the last time he had been there on the rock, hoping to see her. Jacqui couldn't concentrate at all. Although David's face was intimately familiar to her, the image broke up every time she heard a rustling of wind in the trees or fancied she felt a presence, or simply opened her eyes to check that they were still safe. She shifted constantly on the rock. Malachy shifted too. They looked at each other.  
"It might take a while. But that's what I did the last time and it worked."

They struck their concentrating poses again. At intervals, Jacqui still twisted and tried to make herself more comfortable. She was conscious of Malachy's body beside her, his warm smell agitating her a little. Finally, she said she had to stretch her legs and started to pace up and down, a few steps to each side, shining the torch around like a sentry. At least when she was standing she didn't worry so much about somebody coming up behind her.

"Hold on," said Malachy. "Stay there." He stood up beside her. "This is the centre, I think. The stone is just slightly off-centre. Don't close your eyes. Almost close them. Let the eyelids just drop down. Give me the torch, you'll be alright." He put his hands in an upturned V over her head. "Think of David's face. Think of his eyes, his forehead, his nose, his mouth. Think of his hair, think of his ears. Keep that image in your head. Keep his face in your head."

The feeling from his hands was warm, but in that setting it frightened her.  
"I'm afraid of the dark."  
"Hold my hand."  
She did, but it didn't make her feel much safer.  
"Okay. Give me your two hands. Forget about closing your eyes. Now say, 'David' over and over. Don't stop, even if you're frightened. They won't attack you."

He started in a low voice.  
"David. David. David. David. David. David. David."  
Jacqui joined in.  
"David. David. David. David. David."  
A shudder ran from the back of her neck down to the end of her spine and she stopped.  
"Keep saying it. You'll come to no harm. Keep saying it."  
She tried to drown the drumming of her heart with the name.  
"David. David. David. David. David. David. David...."

* * * * *
Chapter 20

Jacqui shivered as a bluish mist descended on her, blocking Malachy from view. Before she could call out to him, the mist cleared and she was standing in a strange, metallic daylight. The temperature had dropped so much that all her muscles stiffened. The trees were still there, but they had sprouted many more leaves, and blossoms of blue, yellow and red.

Two figures materialised. One was a tall woman dressed in a long, lime-green gown. She had David by the hand. He was wearing his football pyjamas, the players running and kicking on the white background. He looked the same, except for a pale yellow glow which suffused his body and extended all round him to a width of about eight inches. He seemed warm and happy. Neither he nor the woman were actually standing on the ground, but floating an inch or so above it.

The woman was slender and had a simple, pale beauty. She, too, was surrounded by a yellow glow, such as you might see around a frosty moon, but in her case the glow was larger, extending about two feet beyond her body. Jacqui now noticed that it was, in fact, her glow that surrounded David, that he was basking in it. The colour changed gradually and a stream of white rays began to emanate from around the woman's navel. She reached her free hand towards Jacqui and the white rays changed to a multitude of coloured ones that shot out in all directions, so that her form was barely visible through them. The rays gathered into a sharply defined rainbow that shot down the woman's arm and left Jacqui also glowing, her muscles relaxed and her temperature comfortable.  
"Welcome to Tír na Sí."

Jacqui wasn't sure how she had heard it, because it wasn't exactly sound, but she nodded, unable to force a word out of the throat that seemed buried deep in her mouth.  
"We wish you to be with us in your highest state of awareness, so we will now re-align your energies. Please do not move or speak until it is done."  
The sióg extended her two hands until they almost touched the top of Jacqui's head. It was then that Jacqui noticed how tall she was, but no, she had increased her height and was now about seven feet. She noticed that David, too, had grown taller since she had seen him. And the pure, pink tinge to his face!

In a sudden, swift motion, she found herself one foot off the ground. Before she could protest, there was a rush of air from all sides. She was lifted to a lying position well above the ground and thought herself floating in a warm sea with the sun dispensing heat on her body. Her mind emptied and all she knew was the lapping of the waves, the smell of the salt, and the sheltering blue overhead. She was lighter than air. She closed her eyes.

A new scene began to form. She found herself standing in a silvery room with a very high roof. The silvery effect, she realised after a few seconds, was created by the colour and texture of the walls, which seemed to have an inbuilt radiance. Higher up, the walls sloped in to a glass dome like a tonsure. The sky was an electric blue. It was warm.

"You seek news of your child."  
The sióg's voice was in her head like the lick of sea-waves.  
"Let it be known that no-one ever comes to Tír na Sí without being enhanced in the spirit. No-one stays in Tír na Sí except those who no longer desire their human existence. Eat no food here if you wish to return to your own dimension.  
"Your child is safe amongst us and he will grow in understanding and knowledge. On the next of your nights, we will perform his transformation, and he will come to know a joy impossible for those who are encased in flesh. Once transformed, he will be one with us in all things. He will no longer be your son, but the essence of his individual self."

David materialised before her and smiled. The smile showered her with a strange and powerful love, not the love of a child, something wiser.  
"Look, Mammy," he sent, his voice incorporeal, like the woman's. He ran to one corner of the room where there were a series of tables. "They've taught me to map the sky."  
Jacqui went closer and saw a large chart dotted with stars and planets. Other complex maps lay on adjacent tables.  
"You can't imagine the size of the universe, Mammy, but I can. I could never go back to Life. It's only a prison compared to this. I can be as light as air. Look." He jumped and turned upside down in the air.  
"Jesus," breathed Jacqui, surprising herself with an easy smile.  
"But are you alive or dead, David?"  
"I'm alive in a different way. They say I'll never die here. They say I'll grow into an adult spirit and live for thousands of years."

Jacqui reached towards him.  
"Don't!" He gave her a fright. "You can't touch anyone here. Human beings can't touch the Sí."  
"But you're human, aren't you?"  
"Well, I'm nearly Sí. But look. Stay still."  
He stretched his arms towards her and closed his eyes. Gradually, she felt a close embrace and a warm kiss landed on her lips. They stayed locked for a minute and she shuddered with an unfamiliar happiness that confused her.  
"Listen," she said, when they broke, "how did you get to talk that way? You sound like a professor."  
He looked at her blankly and shook his head. She gathered he hadn't a clue what she was talking about.  
"It's just how I talk, but I'm not complete."  
"What do you mean? Oh, is it what that woman was saying... about... what was it?"  
"Transformation. Her name is Dechtire."  
"Dechtire! Odd name. What would you expect, I suppose."  
"Dechtire says that humour and nurture will cure your life. Your spirit is blithe, she says."  
"My spirit is blithe? I'm not sure I know what that means."

He smiled sweetly and she felt compelled to smile with him.  
"Well, anyway," she said, "what's this they're going to do to you?"  
"They're going to make me a full member of the Sí. Oh, Mammy, I was never meant for the human life. I hope you won't be too sad?"  
He turned on her a look that an adult might have, a look of mingled joy and regret.  
"If you're happy, I won't be sad. I can't give you much anyway, David. I hardly know how to mind myself, let alone children."  
He smiled. "My body is still material, but after tomorrow night I will be all spirit. As a spirit, I will have power, wisdom and happiness. Happiness is something I could not have in the human world."  
Jacqui's eyes filled up.  
"I should never have got pregnant. I was some eejit to bring two children into the world. I could never have made you happy."  
"You cannot teach what you do not know. But remember, the cycle of life has its own wisdom."

That was a deeper voice than Dechtire's. Jacqui looked up. On the other side of the table stood a man dressed in a dark-purple skin-hugging suit. The material in the suit had a shiny quality and at first Jacqui thought it was this that created the impression of a glow. Looking more intently, she saw that the colour surrounded his face and head too, and seemed to be centred, as with Dechtire, in the stomach area. He exuded purple, his pores breathed purple, his eyes glowed purplish.

"Cascorach," sent David, running to him.  
They held hands.  
"Hello," said Jacqui hesitantly.  
His look was so challenging she couldn't meet it.  
"Do you believe the truth of your mind without needing to touch?"  
"The truth of my mind? This?" She thought for a few seconds, looked around and then at David. "Maybe."  
"If you do, you can achieve whatever your mind wishes. And you can know what your mind wishes to know."  
"But I don't know what I wish."  
"Do you wish for what you know?"  
"You mean do I want what I have? I don't have much."  
"You have many gifts."  
She racked her brains for one. Being photogenic, that was a gift. Being a survivor was a gift. She was a survivor, not a success, mind, more of a hanger-on.

Cascorach sent again.  
"David's body is at present in temporary suspension, like yours. On the next night of your world, we will bring his body to the centre of the tree circle. The hosts of the Sí will assemble from all of Ireland. We will become one force and draw David's body out of itself until it becomes an essence, a material thought, a tiny speck with greater power than he could ever have possessed. He will then be able to assume any shape he wishes, depending on the purpose. One of the prayers we use is this: (David began to send with him.) 'With all our wisdom we ascend to the will of the universe beyond the wind. With all our wisdom we return to unite the forces, love and learn.' " He paused for a moment.

"Will you give your son your blessing and allow him to fly in his chosen direction?"  
"It's what you want, isn't it, David?"  
He nodded.  
"Well then I...." She gave a small laugh. "Should I say, 'Happy Transformation!'? I wonder do they have cards for it in Eason's!" Why was she joking? What kind of mother would be happy at her child's departure?

Cascorach and David smiled. Jacqui felt a tug at her shoulders as if someone had placed hands on them and was pulling her back. There was a rush of blue air, like a hundred large birds flapping their wings about her. Then she was in a whirling tunnel of wind, being pulled back and down.

* * * * *
Chapter 21

They were standing in the same position as before. Jacqui felt warmer now and refreshed, as if she had slept for a day. She was hungry. Malachy was sulky.  
"You don't look too happy."  
"They wouldn't let me in. Did you get in?"  
"Yeah."  
"They put me to sleep. Didn't even talk to me. I dreamt of them, dancing and laughing. Laughing at me." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Did you see David?"  
"Yeah." Her face shone. "He's really happy. I'm delighted I saw him, Malachy. Thanks a lot for bringing me up."  
He was still sullen.  
"So he's away with them?"  
"He's having his transformation tomorrow night. Oh, it sounds like confirmation doesn't it?"  
"You seem to be taking it very well."

He gathered up the blankets, rolled them tightly and stuffed them into the rucksack.  
"I've never seen him so happy. He's talking like a genius! And...."  
"Yes?"  
They started to walk.  
"Do you remember that mark on his neck?"  
"Yes."  
"It's gone. He turned his back to show me something and there was no scar."

She stopped to look back at the grove. Her faith wavered.  
"It couldn't have been a dream, could it?"  
"Well, I know what I saw was a dream anyway."  
"There was this woman called Dek... t... something."  
"Dechtire."

"Yeah. And a man called Coss...."  
"Cascorach."  
"He was wearing a purple bodysuit. He was all purple."  
"That's right. Did you see the Fool?"  
"The Fool? No. Just those two and David."  
"You seem to have had a good experience."  
"It was amazing."  
"I don't understand. Are you happy enough to let the young lad go? Do you not want to hold on to him?"

Jacqui thought for a minute.  
"A lot of bad things have been happening. I don't know if I was giving him anything worth having. And Liam is odd. Much worse than odd. Like, if David had grown up with us, I don't know how things would have turned out. He wasn't happy, I knew that in my heart. I suppose I feel he's free now, and better off."  
"What about Brian?"  
"He's just a baby. Maybe something can be done for him. Or maybe I'll bring him up here and give him to them."  
"They say people have to go of their own free will, but I'm not sure about that. The stories say they used to take babies and leave changelings in their place."  
They looked at each other.  
"Maybe they took the baby from the car," said Jacqui eagerly.  
He shrugged.  
"Maybe. Who's to know?"

As they walked on, Jacqui excitedly related all the details. She hadn't felt so alive for years.  
"You found it very hard, didn't you, to let Aine go?"  
"They said she went of her own free will, but I don't think she did. They could have hypnotised her. She loved her life."  
"Did she not seem happy when you met her there?"  
"She did, but once you're there you forget everything."  
"David remembered me."

Malachy stopped. Aine had remembered him too.  
"Maybe they only forget after they're fully transformed. Yes, that must be it." So Aine mustn't have been fully transformed when he had met her. That annoyed him. He might have persuaded her to come back.  
"It looks like a happy place," Jacqui said.  
Malachy gave her a sharp look.  
"She was happy with me," he snapped, feeling the rise of far too much anger.

Jacqui was disturbed by his temper, but her contentment was too great for it to penetrate. They walked on in silence. When they came near the house, she asked tentatively, "You wouldn't have something to make a sandwich with by any chance?"  
Malachy softened.  
"You're hungry. That's a good sign."  
She examined him out of the corner of her eye. He knew much more than her and he seemed to have things better figured out, but it seemed obvious that Aine went of her own free will. Maybe she hadn't loved him. He probably couldn't bear to think that.

* * * * *

Malachy had eaten his sandwich and was looking at her across the table. His hands rested lightly on his thighs and his head was to one side. Jacqui was turning the stone over in her hand.  
"There's a lovely feel to it."  
Since she had left the Sí she had felt a strong sexual urge that was now a persistent ache in her lower regions. She was sure she wouldn't be sleeping alone.  
"It's time for me to hit the sack." Malachy stood up and stretched himself.  
She kept her eyes down.  
"I'm sleeping in your room, amn't I? Where are you going to sleep?"  
"There are plenty of bedrooms in this house, girl."  
"I'm afraid of the dark." She looked up from under her thick brown lashes.  
He regarded her curiously.  
"Yes, you've said. I'll be in the room next to yours. Just turn to the left. Are you ready to go up now?"  
"Yeah. I just want to go to the bathroom first."

As she washed and brushed her teeth, Jacqui thought about how her body felt. This is how it had been whenever she had hoped it might work with L. Always this ache and the strain in her stomach. Each attempt had been a flop and she had ended up disappointed or worse. She had even hoped for satisfaction from the clients, if the truth were known, but of course that hadn't happened. This woman who could turn men on like light switches couldn't be turned on herself, not really, not properly. She had never had an orgasm in her life, couldn't even give herself one. That's what it was like for most prostitutes, wasn't it? Not all. Some of them had a great time. She wasn't a prostitute, she was a model. She looked at herself in the mirror, at her fathomless blue eyes, and for three seconds actually loved them.

She shook herself. Malachy had already gone into his room and she didn't want him falling asleep. She pattered softly along the landing.  
"Malachy?" she called outside the door.  
There was no answer. She knocked.  
"Malachy?" She heard a stir. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"  
Malachy came to the door. He was wearing a wine-red woollen dressing-gown that was pulled casually over a pale blue cotton pyjamas. Jacqui struck a seductive pose, smoothed her hair back, and stroked him lightly from shoulder to chest. He stopped her, holding her hand to him.  
"What are you doing?"  
She shrugged, honestly not sure herself, and put her other hand back on his chest. He held that too. She moved her lips towards his and kissed him. He didn't move, didn't kiss her back.  
"You don't have to do this, you know."  
"I know."

He looked at her for what seemed ages. She tried to look directly back at him, but couldn't meet his eyes for longer than a second. He held her chin gently and raised her face towards him. He stayed like that, looking at her, studying every centimetre of her face, while she de-focused her eyes, self-conscious.  
"Are you sure?"  
She nodded. Still he didn't kiss her, just stroked her face gently. The gesture was so direct and intimate it unnerved her.  
"You're really beautiful, do you know that?"

The words sounded strange, distant, like a language she didn't understand. She presumed he didn't mean them. This was just his style. Nice though. Better than no style at all. Then, when she had almost given up hope of anything else happening, he kissed her, reverently, slowly. Something trembled in her chest. Normally she'd take over at this stage, but the tenderness shocked her into passivity.  
"Come on," he said, taking her hand.

He led her into his own room and lifted off the jumper she had placed over her nightdress. She lay back on the bed, making a purring sound. She craned back her neck for effect and he surprised her by kissing it. The sensation was sweet and slow. She had never been approached with such tentativeness. He was reading the reaction to every touch. That pressurised her. She wanted to speed him up. He looked at her face again, slowly, tenderly. She pushed her lips towards his, but he delayed. It shouldn't be this slow! She didn't want to look away because that might offend him, so she closed her eyes and began to undo his pyjamas buttons. He took her hands and kissed her fingers, taking the full top half of each one into his mouth. She was shocked by the sensation and went a little weak. To regain control she took off her nightdress. His eyes glazed and he kissed her stomach. He kissed her feet, her shins, her knees, her thighs, everywhere, before finally reaching her lips. She held him very close, hoping it would expose her less, but his tongue was deep in her mouth, her vagina damp and tingling as never before.

What he did with his hands then had never been done to her. It was like the discovery of a new place on the map. It was so new it became frightening. She wanted him to stop, but he said, "Ssssh. Enjoy it. Let yourself go. You don't have to do anything."

It felt like she was gaping down there, soaking and voracious. She had forgotten all pretence, her routine wildly interrupted. She wanted, desperately. She took his penis in her hands.  
"Are you safe?" he gasped. She nodded, but he reached to the drawer and took out a condom. She took it from him, lay astride him with her back to his face and licked him while expertly opening the packet. When it was on, she sat on him.  
"Hold on," he said. "You didn't come."  
"I did," she lied.  
Well, she thought she must have nearly come. She wasn't exactly sure. She was certainly enjoying herself for a change.

He put spittle on his fingers and massaged her again. All was confusion and surprise. Too much participation. Too many unexpected moves. He took up the thrust, turned her over onto her back. With his hands under her, he moved in and out so unhurriedly she thought she could hardly bear it. An involuntary moan left her, then something wilder. She forgot that she was trying to please him, just felt her body rising into a vortex of sensation, saw herself zooming across a whirl of skin.... He came, gasping and panting, almost shouting at the end. Her body shuddered and spread out like a jelly, formless and contentedly still.

* * * * *
Chapter 22

Malachy woke, as usual, before the alarm turned the clock-radio on. He turned to see a river of autumn-leaf hair carelessly spread out on the pillow beside him. Aine had had long jet black hair when she was younger. He liked long hair.

What in heaven's name was he doing? The world hadn't felt the same in the last few days. He had a crazy man's wife in his bed and he knew she was with him. Did he have a death wish? O'Malley mightn't suspect, but more than likely he did. Malachy wasn't exactly afraid of rivals. If he were to admit the truth, he was stimulated by the thought of conflict. That's what had led him into the beds of several married women in his younger days, and into the arms of luckless women, involved with violent men likely to knife him as soon as look at him. Obviously old habits died hard. Do we ever really change? Maybe he was afraid to grow old. She turned her face. She was gorgeous. And pretty intelligent, if she could just break away from that gobshite and get a bit of space for herself. There was something familiar about her, as if he had known her for a long time, but that's the feeling you get when things are going to turn out well. He had had a feeling like that about Aine.

She hadn't been the slightest bit perturbed that David was staying with the Sí. That had surprised him. It had taken all his willpower not to grab Aine and shake her as she had stood there telling him about the tremendous amount she was going to learn and the depth of her contentment. All he had known was that he had lost her for no good reason.  
"You don't love me. You love what you can give me," she had said.  
"Talk about being pedantic! We all love what we can do for our lover. You have to like the person you are when you're with them. That's only natural."  
They still wouldn't let him in. Left him outside in the dark with cloudy visions and voices in his head. This was almost unbearable, the burden of being alone in this struggle to be both free and in control.

Jacqui woke with a plan. She would go down to Brennan's, collect Brian and get to the barracks about nine, before the Guards started out for their appointment at the house. She would tell them about L's violence and say she was afraid to go back to the house. Then she'd go up to Dublin and try and get a barring order, not that it'd do much good. She might go to Cora for a few days, she'd have to see. She could get a new flat maybe. Maybe she should tell Anne Brennan and get her to help her. Yeah. Tell as many people as she could. Anything to keep him away from her. For certain he'd kill her if he got anywhere near her. He was completely crazy. She'd have to remember to seem sad over David. Strange how she could accept it all so easily. It was as if she had always known he'd have to go away. Now she wouldn't worry about him turning out bad like his father, or emotionally disturbed. Funny, she didn't fear anything like that when it came to Brian either.

She looked at the other pillow. Malachy wasn't there.  
"Good morning."  
He was in front of the dressing-table at the other end of the room, watching her in the mirror as he straightened his tie.  
Jacqui felt an excited leap in her stomach and immediately quelled it. She sat up and gave him a quick, closed-mouth smile.  
"Good morning."  
"You seemed to sleep well," he said, combing his hair.

He stopped combing and stood looking at her reflection with an expression she couldn't read. He turned towards her with the same look. She focused on the bedspread. Her eyes weren't windows. Her eyes were blinds. Why couldn't she give him an open look? Was she made for bad relationships?

"What time is it?"  
"Half past seven." He sat on the side of the bed, leaned towards her and kissed her on the mouth. "The porridge is made."  
She pulled up her knees and got out. He handed her his dressing gown.  
"You're all dressed up. Are you going to a wedding?"  
He humphed.  
"No, indeed. I'm going to Dublin to meet a few people."  
"Oh."

"I'm finalizing two sales today. Apartments, you know?"  
"You own apartments?"  
"Yeah. Just a few."  
He had owned and sold several, having bought and demolished derelict houses in the inner city in order to build them.  
"Good for you."  
"How are you feeling?"  
"Fine," she said, nodding and giving him a full smile this time, although she looked away immediately after.

At breakfast he caressed her shoulder and neck whenever he passed her. She wasn't sure if this pleased or irritated her. It made her feel vulnerable.  
"What will you do now?" he asked.  
She told him her plan.  
"That sounds good. Do talk to Anne Brennan. She's a good person, very helpful. Maybe she could even go with you to the Guards."  
He made a note of her address in Dublin.  
"I'd wait for you and give you a lift," he said, "but I have to be up there as early as I can. I have a lot to do before lunch and I want to sort out a few things about the Centre I'm planning. But I'll give you a shout at the flat when I'm finished, if that's alright?"  
"Yeah." Alright? "That'd be great."

* * * * *

It was a fresh, warm morning. The sky was a shiny blue, clouds stuck to it like pieces of torn tissue. There was hardly a breeze and everywhere spring was showing its many faces. Buds were springing small, pale leaves, birds chorused, brightly coloured spring flowers dotted the hedgerows. Further down the road and in the fields around the hill, groups of people with anoraks and sticks were walking slowly, spread out at regular intervals from each other.

"The Civil Defence crowd," said Malachy. "They're probably out since seven or so. I wonder where they started off. They're only going up the hill now. They'll search every inch."  
They watched the search for a few minutes before getting into the car.  
"There's a good feel about today, Jacqui," Malachy said, as he drove towards Brennan's. "I hope things work out for you. Remember, go along with the guards and whatever they say about searching. Keep acting distraught, if you can." She was looking a bit too mellow, he thought.

Jacqui's heart contracted as they approached the bungalow. L's car wasn't there. She was surprised that he was out so early.  
Malachy dropped her at the bottom of Brennan's lane.  
"Will you be alright?"  
"Yeah. I'm sure I will."  
She half expected L to jump out from behind a bush, and tried to dismiss the thought. Malachy leaned across before she closed the door.  
"Save your kisses for me," he said with a smile, and wondered briefly if he should stay around.  
She smiled back.  
"See you later."

As she walked up the lane, she thought about what she'd say to the Guards. She was genuinely anxious, especially when she thought about L, but she also wanted to be fairly composed so that she could give them a coherent story. The Brennan house looked very quiet. Brian must have slept late if they weren't up. He was usually awake at about half past seven. She felt a slight twist of panic in her stomach. She knocked. No reply. She tried the windows in turn. Eventually she went back to the door and knocked harder.

* * * * *
Chapter 23

Anne was being chased by a large, fat man with a hatchet in his hand. "You stole my vase," he was saying. "You'll pay. You'll pay." She ran up a small street only to find it was a dead end. She discovered she was at the back of a row of terraced houses, all with wooden garden doors. She tried to climb over a door and couldn't. She started hammering on it instead and thought she screamed HELP! but no sound came out. She kept knocking and knocking.

She opened her eyes and concentrated her hearing. Someone was banging on the windows. She swung her legs out of the bed, took her dressing-gown from the chair and stumbled towards the sound. The knocking had moved to the door. Someone called, "Hello?"  
"Alright, I'm coming."  
Hannah stirred and opened her eyes.

Jacqui stood there, looking much better than she had the day before, fresh-faced, bright-eyed. Malachy must have done some healing. He was very good, really. She hoped he'd do the same for her.  
"Come in, Jacqui. Any news?"  
"No," she said, lowering her head. "I'm sorry for getting you up."  
"That's alright. Would you like a cup of tea?"  
Anne moved towards the range.  
"No thanks, I'm alright. Is he not awake yet?" She looked towards the room.  
"Sorry?"  
"Brian—is he still asleep?"  
"Brian? He's not here."  
"What?"  
"Are you not coming from your own house? Liam called to collect him last night."

Jacqui's mouth fell open.  
"Li... He called to collect him?"  
"Well, yes, we presumed you knew," Anne stood with the kettle in her hand.  
Jacqui had turned ghostly and was holding onto a chair for balance.  
"The car is gone," she said blankly.  
"Have you not been home?"  
Jacqui shook her head. Her shoulders drooped involuntarily. Anne phrased her question carefully.  
"Shouldn't Liam have collected him?"

Jacqui shook her head and started to shiver. She looked towards the bungalow, but could hardly focus.  
"I'm sorry, Jacqui. We just assumed it was alright. He is Brian's father."  
"He took him to get back at me. That's what he did. Oh Jesus!"  
"Maybe he's just gone to the shops."  
Anne was looking out the window now. Jacqui's face broke into an expression of hope.  
"Maybe Brian is in the house. He might have left him alone. I'd better go up." She took a step towards the door and then stopped. She looked back at Anne, straight at her for a few seconds, and looked down. Anne understood.  
"I'll be dressed in two minutes and I'll go up with you," she said.  
Hannah lay embedded in her thick sandwich of a bed, warm, listening and worried.

The house was empty. Nothing to suggest where they might have gone. Jacqui's acceptance of David's new life shattered at the same time as Brian's disappearance broke over her like a volcano. Everything lost. The little love in her life abruptly snatched away. She leaned over the bars of the baby's cot and tried to make it only a dream, tried to re-materialise him with her will. A surge of anger overtook her. She started to shake the cot, then swung wildly round and banged the wall with her palms. She went out to the hall and pushed roughly at L's door. It was locked as usual. She kicked it. The wood gave a little. Anne put her arms firmly round her and tried to keep her still.

"Leave me alone. LEAVE ME ALONE!"  
She pushed and sent Anne crashing into the opposite wall. She marched into the kitchen, trembling with violence now, and returned with one of the steel chairs, almost hitting Anne in the eye as she swung past her. Anne gave her leeway, shouting, "Stop it, Jacqui, for heaven's sake." She took no notice, kept banging at the wood until it started to break.  
"Jacqui, I'll have to call someone if you don't stop."  
Jacqui stopped. She turned.  
"Call whoever you fucking like. My life is over. My whole life is ruined."  
She started banging again.  
"I'll kill him. The fucking (bang) poxy bastard (bang) son of a bitch (bang). This is for your balls, you prickface (bang). Scumbag (bang). Ratsack (bang). Filthy pimping shite (bang)."

She put down the chair and threw herself against the door. Then something occurred to her. She ran to the phone.  
"The fucking phone!"  
She threw it on the floor and ripped the wire off the wall.  
"Jacqui! Will you stop? This isn't doing any good."  
"Not doing any good? It's doing plenty of good, plenty of fucking good. I'm sorry I didn't do it ages ago. You know what I'm going to do now? You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to get the kitchen knife and I'm going to find him and I'm going to murder him."  
"Look, murdering him isn't going to get you anywhere but jail. And carrying on like this will get you into hospital. Will you calm down please?"

Jacqui looked at Anne and saw a doll in primped petticoats, someone who felt superior because she could moralise and give out useless advice. She didn't want to speculate on where Brian might be, but her whole body told her he was being ill-treated.  
"I'm going to the guards now."  
"Right. Good. I'm going with you. You never know, we might meet them on the road."  
Jacqui stared at her.  
"Liam and Brian, I mean."  
Jacqui kept staring. She was weirdly still.  
"Why are you looking at me like that?"  
"Liam O'Malley is a pimp—that smooth face is just a front—and I'm his whore. He hasn't sat that child on his lap since the day he was born. He has never so much as given him one single, solitary cuddle. He calls them the brats. He beats them, he mocks them, he... once he made David lick his shoes." She choked up. "He does things to me too, filthy things. What else do you want to know? The man is mad. Or no, not mad... he's bad, he's evil, he's cold. He's just... he's a complete and utter bastard. There's no way Brian is alright if he's with him. He's with him since last night. Oh Jesus!"  
She dashed out the door, Anne behind her.

As she careered down the road, Jacqui didn't have the presence of mind to be surprised at her sudden burst of vengeful energy. She was in the full rush of the rapids and going right along with them. She'd have him locked up. Surely he had no right to take the child? He wasn't her husband. She had sole rights, didn't she? She slowed down and breathlessly asked Anne if that was correct.  
"I think so," Anne replied, wondering how she had been so stupid as to give him the child. Tired and careless more like. "Are you going to try and get a barring order?"  
"Yeah. I want to keep him away from the flat in Dublin if I can, until I get a new one anyway. He'll surely show up at the station, won't he?"

The Garda car rolled towards them as they approached the sign marking the town's boundary. Kevin O'Leary had tried to get Jacqui at home, then at Gallagher's. Half past eight in the morning and no answer at either house. It occurred to him that she might have stayed at Brennan's, or that she might at least be down there now. He was on his way to check when he saw the two women pacing manically along the footpath.

Before either Anne or Jacqui could say anything, the Sergeant had asked them into the car and was turning back for the station.  
"We were on our way down to you," said Anne.  
"Is that right?"  
"I have to talk to yee about... stuff," explained Jacqui, her resolve waning in the face of authority.  
He said nothing, examined her in the rear view mirror, wondered how she was going to take the news, thought how burdensome and heroic were the tasks of his job.

* * * * *
Chapter 24

The sergeant settled his copious frame on the rather inadequate chair and leaned his arms on the table. Jacqui sat straight and wary across from him.  
"Your husband rang us at a quarter past eight this morning from the Children's Hospital in Dublin."  
It had been on the tip of her tongue to say that he wasn't her husband, but the fact that he had rung from a hospital made that a lesser issue. Her heart speeded up.  
"I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but Brian died last night in his sleep."

The rage she was feeling at Brian's disappearance intensified, except now it was a cold, white emotion, a definite physical resolve to do something that would make his murderer pay, that would tell the world, that would release her. She saw Brian's face, his plump, dimpled wrists, the gorgeous fruity shape of his head, the crease down the back of his neck, his folded, sleeping legs. The smell of him kindled in her nostrils like grass, like freshly cut wood, like a new dress, the smell that gave her consolation when nothing else could, when she would rest her face on his head and cry.

Anne wept spontaneously. That lovely bright little child she had played with, caressed and cared for. Gone like a piece of paper in fire. Jacqui's tears came slowly and quietly. She had spent so much of her time crying lately that she was learning to be coherent through sobs. Pat Cassidy handed her a handkerchief.  
"Do they know what he died of?" She was half afraid to find out.  
"It looks like a cot death, but they won't know until the post mortem is done."  
She stared at the wall. Anne put her hands on her shoulders.  
"Jacqui, I'm so sorry."

The dull faces of the Guards looked accusing.  
"Jacqui thought I was minding Brian last night," she told them. "She left him with us."  
"I got the impression he was in his own house," said Kevin O'Leary.  
"Oh yes he was—later on. Liam called and collected him."  
The Guards looked at each other.  
"What time was that?"  
"About half eight."  
Kevin O'Leary nodded slowly, then looked sympathetically at Jacqui, whose face was now buried in her hands.  
"You have the sympathy of all of us here, Mrs O'Malley. It's a shocking thing for one child to go missing, but the second one to pass away, that's a terrible tragedy. Should we call the doctor, maybe?"  
Jacqui braced herself.  
"There's stuff I want to tell." She thought she was getting the words out well enough, but they were coming too slowly.  
"Jacqui, maybe you'd better collect yourself first."  
"No."

She took a deep breath. Tea was brought in by a young Guard with orange freckles. She took a sip but didn't taste it.  
"I can't go back home," she said. The room filled with anticipatory silence.  
"He treats us.... He hits me and...." She might have been in an empty hall the way her voice echoed.  
"I want to go to Dublin for a while. I can give yee my phone number."  
"Are you going to see Brian, Jacqui?" Anne asked.  
"What do you mean, see him?"  
"See his body at the hospital."  
Jacqui looked at her, bewildered.  
"I don't think I want to see him."  
Anne put a practised hand on her shoulder.  
"They say it makes the grieving process a bit easier later on. It's good to see your loved one after they're gone, before they're buried. Then you can say goodbye properly."

Jacqui jumped up, letting her chair clatter to the floor.  
"Him! You have to take him off the streets. He's the cause of it all. He's killing us." Her voice wavered. "He made me be a prostitute. He hit me lots of times. He's always hitting me. All last week he made me do stuff in Dublin. He makes porno videos. He has tons of illegal material in the house. You can see for yourself. He buys them or makes them, and then rents them out."

She stopped. None of it sounded important. None of it sounded even true. Kevin O'Leary hadn't taken his eyes off her and his face was as ruddily expressionless as ever.  
"If you want to go to Dublin, you can," he said coolly, "but we'll need your address and phone number. You mustn't leave the country or change your address without telling us. We have to know where you are. But first and foremost, I think you should see Doctor O'Grady. After that, you probably should go to the hospital." He paused. "Your husband is on his way here now. He said on the phone that he was coming over. If you don't want to see him, you can stay in this room until he's gone." Then, as it struck him, "Do you think you'll be pressing charges?"  
Charges?"  
"You can charge him for assault if you wish."

Jacqui couldn't get her head around that. It had never occurred to her to take him to court. Anne saw her hesitation.  
"Guard, I don't think she's in any fit state...."  
"No. There's no rush. We'll do everything in our power to protect you, Mrs O'Malley."  
"Jacqui."  
"Jacqui."  
"We're not married."  
The Guards weren't particularly surprised.  
"That's okay. We'll see if we can get a warrant to search the house as well. But you must understand, our priority is David at the moment. All our attention is focused on finding him."  
"But Guard, if what Jacqui says is true, maybe there's a good reason why David left. Maybe you should ask Liam a few questions."

Kevin O'Leary had thought of that, but he had also been told by Liam that Jacqui had been out all night without telling him, that he had rung her at Malachy Gallagher's and she hadn't wanted to talk to him, that she was an unashamed prostitute who wouldn't give up the game, no matter how much he pleaded, that she had a valium-plus-drink habit, that she neglected her children and had even scalded David one time, after which she had spent a month in a mental hospital. Liam had cried on the phone. It was clear that a lot of enquiries needed to be made. The flat in Dublin was another mystery and would have to be checked out. The Superintendent was coming over to co-ordinate the search for the missing boy. More than likely RTE would be around later on. He felt like telling Anne to mind her own business, but settled for a brief, disparaging glare.

"Are you in a position to accompany Mrs... Jacqui... what's your second name, Jacqui?" He hated using familiar terms, except with gougers. But then, he was on the way to classifying Jacqui as a gouger.  
"Byrnes."  
"Will you accompany Miss Byrnes to the hospital?"  
"Yes, of course I will, but we'll have to figure out how to get there. I don't have my car."  
He looked at the two of them in that appraising, uncomprehending way that is peculiar to police.  
"I'll be wanting to have another chat with you at a later time, Miss Byrnes, when you're feeling better." He pushed back his chair. "We'll contact the doctor and arrange transport. Try to make yourselves comfortable."  
"I hate them," Jacqui said, when they had left. "I'm getting out of here." She moved towards the door.  
"Wait," Anne grabbed her arm. "They're trying to help you. And anyway, Liam will be here any minute. You don't want to bump into him. They're being very good really."

Jacqui lit a cigarette and started pacing, thinking in a jumbled way of all the things she had to hide, wondering what L had said to them, what he had done to Brian, avoiding that last thought, couldn't bear that last thought.  
"Do you want to contact your family or anyone?"  
"There's no-one."

Suddenly she had a sense of David being there with his hands around her neck and his face on her shoulder. As if she were giving him a piggy-back, she thought at first, but he was no weight. He was supporting her like a wall.  
"You're better off going to see Brian now," Anne said. "And listen, if Liam doesn't do it, I can help you with the funeral arrangements."  
"Oh don't worry, he'll do that alright. He loves that sort of thing. I'll be the last to be consulted on anything."  
The hand holding the cigarette was shaking. She stubbed out the butt and strained pointlessly to see through the opaque window. Cars were pulling up. The doctor and Liam had arrived at the same time.

Doctor James O'Grady drew breath noisily in through his extremely large nostrils. He wore small glasses which he looked over when he talked and through when he examined. He found Jacqui highly agitated, an easy diagnosis, and suggested a sedating injection. Anne objected on the grounds that she was going to see Brian and needed her wits about her, whereupon they entered into an argument and Jacqui got upset.

"Look, give me some tablets and I'll take them. I take valium anyway."  
"How many?"  
"Three five-mills a day."  
"Hmm. Who's your doctor?"  
"He's in Dublin."  
"Alright. These are ten milligram tablets. Take one now and two more later. Take them at least five hours apart." He was doubtful. "Will you be with her?" he asked Anne. She nodded.  
"Would you watch the time intervals? If she gets very agitated, give me a call. Or call her own doctor. But she should be alright on these."

As the doctor left, Liam was sitting in the reception area, tearstains on his cheeks.  
"I can't contact my wife," he moaned.  
"We contacted her and she's under our protection," said Pat Cassidy, sliding his fingers together and landing his hands on the pin of his navy blue tie.  
"What do you mean protection?" He looked up in dismay. "Protection? Did she say she needed protection? From me? Oh Lord."  
He ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed the side of his face like a hounded man.  
"I don't know how long more I can take this," he said, shaking his head. "It's getting to be a nightmare. Day after day, listening to crazy accusations."

Garda Cassidy maintained his deadpan expression.  
"We told her about Brian's death and we'll arrange for her to travel to the hospital. It appears she doesn't wish to travel with you."  
Liam looked shocked.  
"Is she here? Can I talk to her?"  
"Pat Cassidy looked at him for a second, then said, "I'll have to check whether she'll agree to see you."

Jacqui shook her head and contemplated the jar of valium tablets.  
"One of us can stay in the room all the time if you wish," said Pat Cassidy.  
"Alright so," she said, thinking he might have something to say that she should hear. At any rate she had nothing left to lose.

As he came in, hatred rose up in her as if there were a syringe pumping it in. He felt her reaction and was delighted. He stopped for a second, then went towards her with his arms out, taking her by surprise.  
"Oh Jacqui, darling, our beautiful son."  
He hugged her close, burrowed into her hair and whispered, "Cunt", to her right ear.  
Jacqui lifted her two hands to the back of his head and pulled on his hair as tightly as she could. He let out a sceam of pain as his head was drawn back. He let go of her for a moment, which gave her time to bring up her foot and push him back with a dig in the stomach. When he got his balance, he dived at her without thinking, grabbed her hair, threw her, face up, across the table and would have hit her, but Pat Cassidy grabbed his arm and locked it behind him. He spat an inarticulate snarl at Jacqui as he was led out. Just outside the door, he recollected himself and shouted back in.  
"I can't take it anymore. I've put up with enough. You've driven me to violence."  
"You bastard," shouted Jacqui, her voice high-pitched and strained. "You can't hurt me now. I'm not afraid of you anymore. Don't think I'm going to lie down and die. I'll see you behind bars yet."

It took all of Liam's self-control to pull himself together and play the wounded lover again. He had expected her to be broken, to have gone over the edge even. He had never expected her to fight back. It only meant a slight change of strategy for him, he supposed, but the plotting and battle was beginning to tire him.

Jacqui would have followed him out the door if she hadn't been restrained by Anne and Kevin O'Leary, who had appeared at the sound of conflict.  
"I'm not staying here. I'm not afraid of him. I'm going to say goodbye to my son. Can we get a taxi or something?"  
"I've arranged for Bill O'Connell to drive you," said the ever-efficient sergeant. "He'll be here in five minutes." He adopted a more authoritative tone. "Come in here for a moment, Mr O'Malley." And to Anne, "Will you excuse us, Miss Brennan, please?"

He shut the door behind her and looked at his two captives, his two strange fish, his prospective gougers. Liam stood on the opposite side of the table from Jacqui with his head down and his entire body rigid, as if he were more robot than man. Jacqui lit a cigarette and, although she was sitting, was in constant motion, twitching, tossing her head, fiddling with her bag on the table, continually glancing at the window as if she kept forgetting that she couldn't see through it.

Kevin O'Leary dropped into familiar, interrogative tones, "I don't know exactly what's going on with the two of you, but I hope to God for your own sake and for the sake of your son that you get it sorted out. We've had disturbing allegations about the two of you."  
Liam jerked his head up and swivelled it towards the sergeant.  
"I just want to make it clear that we're not eejits. We'll be following up all the allegations. Mr O'Malley, I'll have to ask your permission to search your house. I have reason to believe that you have illicit material on the premises."  
"What? What illicit material? Who made the allegations?"  
He had a queer ache between his shoulder blades and his stomach was cramping, as if he were getting diarrhoea.  
"I'm not at liberty to divulge my source. Will you accompany me?"  
"I certainly will not. My child is missing, he might even be lying in a ditch somewhere, and you accuse me of... what? What the hell are you accusing me of?"  
"My information suggests that you may have illicit videos in your house. Is that so?"  
"No."  
"Alright, then, I'll have to ask Mrs O'Malley's, oh sorry, Miss Byrnes's permission. Maybe you'll open your house for us and we can have a look around while you go to the hospital, Miss Byrnes?"

Jacqui stopped moving. Liam glared at her, murderous. She thought of all the photographs of her in his library. She thought of the videos she had been in, all of which were in that collection, neatly shelved according to title. She pictured Kevin O'Leary and Pat Cassidy looking at them, fingering the photos, studying them, drawing all the right conclusions as they stared inscrutably at the remarkably erotic details of her body. Vagina exposed. Fruit up her. And they would watch the videos. Of course they would.  
"No," she said.  
Kevin O'Leary's eyes widened.  
"No. There are no illegal videos in the house. What are you talking about?"

There was a long silence. Kevin O'Leary was assessing his position. Liam stared at him with a look of injured righteousness on his face. Jacqui sucked deeply on her cigarette, looking now at the window, now under her eyelashes at the burly Guard, now down at her lap; all the time keeping Liam in her sights but never facing him.

"You can go to the hospital now, Mrs O'Malley," Kevin O'Leary said after a while. "If necessary, we'll get a search warrant. Anne Brennan is taking responsibility for your whereabouts, which we'll have to know all the time."  
"And me?" asked Liam indignantly.  
"I want to talk to you for another while, if that's okay with you, Mr O'Malley?"  
"It's not okay with me, but it would appear I don't have a choice."

Jacqui was out the door as quickly and gracefully as she could manage, considering the fact that Kevin O'Leary was spearing her with a hard glower. The last thing she heard Liam say was, "I must make funeral arrangements for my son. Have you no decency?"

* * * * *
Chapter 25

Brian was waxy pale and angelic. An angelic abomination, Anne thought, because a human being that small should have been warm and urgent with life. Jacqui held him in her arms in the cutting silence of the hospital, wept and shivered. Her heart wanted to explode, die with him there and then, but it kept pounding and she sat alone with her dead baby, rocking, crying and whispering for almost an hour. The nurse came in and quietly suggested that she might be ready to put the baby into the basket again. There was a big Moses basket in the centre of the room with white satin-sheen trimmings, lace, and yellow bows. Jacqui wasn't ready to put him down for another few minutes. She consoled herself that he hadn't had to live a life full of suffering and misery. At least now he couldn't experience pain. And in the course of the hour she had thought she heard him speaking, his spirit, from far off, saying that he was in a good place, saying that he would be happy there, saying that one day they would meet again and be free together, free to love each other without restraint or intrusion, in a place where no-body hated them or could control them.

Anne was waiting when Jacqui came out of the morgue. She put an arm round her shoulder. Bill O'Connell hovered in the background. He was good in this sort of situation, quiet, with an air of capability. It was 1.00pm.  
"Do you think maybe you could eat something, Jacqui?  
She looked at Anne as if she didn't understand the question.  
"Bill has offered to buy us lunch. I think maybe you could do with it. You have a long day ahead of you."

Jacqui wondered how she could get away from them. Brian was dead. She didn't want to see his body again and she had no thoughts when it came to organising a funeral. There was no point in her hanging around. Anne took her silence as agreement. She and Bill guided her down the street to Cleary's Hotel, a comfortable, homely establishment a few hundred metres from the hospital.  
"Now, Jacqui," Anne said, as they both faced the mirror in the Ladies' Room, "if you don't mind my saying so, I think you should make sure that everything to do with the funeral is what you want. I'll help you all I can. I'll talk to Liam if you like."  
Jacqui didn't reply. She was absent-mindedly guiding her blue eye-liner under her lashes. Her hands were unsteady. Her cigarette smouldered on the edge of the sink.

"Watch out!"  
Anne rescued the cigarette, now burnt a good way down and precariously close to Jacqui's jeans. Jacqui's insides cramped and shook.  
"So," Anne said when the cigarette had been disposed of, "what are you going to do?"  
"I'm staying in Dublin. I'll go over to my flat." She put her cosmetics into her bag. "Maybe I should go now."  
She was thinking of the boat to England again.

Anne was flummoxed. Jacqui seemed to be in a state of constant struggle. That was what potential suicides were like. She had counselled women in deep despair; why did Jacqui elude her? She was so good-looking. Did that make a difference? Did it create a barrier, place her at a distance from everyone?  
"You know, Jacqui," she chanced softly, "you need to look after yourself. David will need you when he comes home."  
Jacqui was so completely convinced of David's whereabouts that it took a few moments for this notion to register.  
"He won't be coming back."  
"You don't know that," said Anne, in a tone Jacqui took to be reproachful.

She couldn't tell Anne about the Sí. That would surely mess things up. She had visions of hundreds of people on the hill, poking around, disturbing them. They might even move on and leave him behind. Anyway, she wouldn't have believed her.  
"I just feel it," she said.  
There was silence.  
"Are you sure you don't have a friend we could call, someone who could be with you?"

Jacqui thought of Cora. She opened her mouth, but didn't say anything. Her legs felt heavy. She couldn't get in touch with Cora now, not after this long. The last time, when David was only a few months old and she had bumped into her on the street, Cora had said, "Don't forget your old friends, Jacqui." She hadn't replied, had just walked away, thinking she didn't want to be around the street women now she had the prospect of a real life, a man and children. He would marry her when she was twenty-one. What a fool she'd been. The videos were art, he had said. She was beautiful, he had said. Brigitte Bardot and Raquel Welch—you're like them on a smaller scale. Cora isn't in your league. You don't need to be around her. She's going nowhere.

Twenty-one had come and gone. And twenty-two. He had been cruel and she had been desperately lonely. Each day away from Cora had made it harder to think of getting back in touch. She had betrayed her friend and that meant she could never trust herself again.  
"Jacqui? Are you alright?"  
Jacqui held onto the sink, her shoulders pulsating. At twenty-three, to have no-one to turn to, no-one to depend on except a Social Worker doing her good deed for the day.... What kind of life was that? What kind of failure was she?  
"Take it easy, Jacqui. Let it all out."

She was in Anne's professional arms again. The arms that pretended to care so often they didn't know when they really did care. Arms that lied. They were alike in that way. She always pretended too, had always given without really wanting to give. Except with her children. Or had she loved them? Was she relieved now they had gone? Who was she crying for? She pulled away from Anne and dried her eyes.  
"Your man will wonder where we are."  
"Don't worry. Bill will understand."

Jacqui dabbed at her face with a piece of tissue until she was satisfied that she looked presentable. That was another thing. She always wanted to look attractive. For all the good it had ever done her. What was the point?

Bill had been chatting to the man at the next table while waiting for the women. In front of him were a pint of Guinness, two brandies and two small bottles of white lemonade. When he saw them coming, he stood and pulled out chairs for them. He fussed over pouring the lemonade into the brandy, asking them to say 'when', saying the menu looked good, there was nothing like a decent dinner to keep you going, drink up now, that'll calm the old nerves.

Nothing could penetrate the shadowy wall that had descended between Jacqui and the rest of the world. She was a fish swimming in a tank of her own thoughts, each one pernicious. No. No dinner thanks. Well, maybe a bowl of soup. She sipped her brandy. And then, in a sudden flash, she knew what she had to do. As soon as the certainty rose in her mind, the details of the plan followed quickly. She knocked back the last of the drink and pushed out her chair.  
"Thanks for the drink. I'm going for a walk now, and then I'll go on to my flat. Thanks for the drive," She nodded at Bill, took her jacket and hurried towards the door.

Anne was shocked into inaction for a few seconds, then ran after her as fast as she could without overturning tables and food. She caught up with her at the bottom of the Hotel's front steps.  
"Jacqui, you can stay at our house if you don't want to go home. You'll be lonely in the flat."  
"It's alright. I want to be alone. Thanks for everything."  
She started to walk away, teetering slightly as she went. Anne ran after her.  
"Jacqui, if you want to stay around the hospital, that's fine. But I really can't leave you alone when you're in this state. And the Gardai... I said I'd be resp... look after you."

All the bitterness and rage rose up and became a screaming monster, but the sound that came out was barely as loud as the hiss of a cat.  
"You can fuck off and find someone else to take care of. I'm sick of the lot of yee."  
She went, walking purposefully this time.

* * * * *
Chapter 26

"Oh, of course, I understand. The only thing is, Jacqui, we're obliged to have a post mortem carried out on all infant mortalities. There's someone due from the State Pathologist's office very shortly."  
The young sister had large, soft brown eyes that were brimming with sympathy. ''You can go in for a while until they come. You'll see him again after the examination."  
Jacqui nodded dejectedly and the sister hurried off to the mortuary to take the baby's body out of the fridge and place it in the Moses basket.

"Now, Jacqui." She led her by the arm. "Do you want me to mind that case for you?"  
"Oh, it's alright. I'm staying in Dublin for a few days, you know. I have..." The sister was all ears. "...a teddy in here and fresh clothes, for later, after the post mortem."  
The sister nodded enthusiastically.  
"That's good. Do you want me to go in with you?"  
"Could you leave me alone with him for a while, please?"  
"Of course. Whatever you want him to wear and whatever toys you want him to have, just leave them on the chair and I'll sort them out later."

Jacqui pulled the suitcase in on its wheels and laid it flat. Brian looked even smaller this time. The sister pulled the door closed with a tiny click, and Jacqui waited until she was well gone. She seemed to be busy; she'd probably gone back to Casualty.

Jacqui opened the suitcase and took out the large baby doll she had got in Roches Stores. She eased back the sheet covering Brian's body and lowered him into the suitcase. He was quite heavy. She put the baby doll in his place and pulled the sheet over it. She locked the case and left by the mortuary door, which opened straight onto the car park.

Twenty minutes later she was in the Ladies' Room of Wynn's Hotel, which was empty, thankfully. She unloaded her other purchases: a fifteen-minute hair colour, a scissors, dark eye-shadow, a navy beret and a light navy mac. She started snipping, letting the thick cuttings drop like moultings into a plastic bag. She worked speedily, finding a rising pleasure in it, until her hair was close-cropped and spiky. Whenever she heard someone coming, she would hurry into one of the toilets and stay there until the woman had left. After this, she told herself, I'll have something to drink. She coloured and rinsed her hair. Examining the effect in the mirror, she found it was quite dramatic and very different from before.

With her make-up radically altered, dark blue on her eye-lids instead of the usual pink or lilac, she hardly recognised herself. She almost looked like a dyke. She would have found that funny if she hadn't been so taut with nerves. She was about to go into the bar but decided against it. She left and hurried shakingly across the bridge, pulling the case behind her. She got into one of the taxis on the quays and told the driver to take her to the south city. She chose a hotel on the road heading out of town in the direction of Drumnashee.

As nonchalantly as she could manage, she strolled into the Green Rose hotel and booked in as Sandra O'Brien. She threw herself on the bed and couldn't stir for a time. She discovered a Telephone Directory in the bedside locker and, after many unfocused attempts, found the number for Busaras. Her concentration was so shaky she had to play the talking timetable a few times. She sat down and reconsidered. It might be safer to get a taxi, or no, a hackney cab, at about 11pm. She still had £240 left. It'd cost about £20 or £30, she supposed. £60 or so for the hotel unless she could get out without paying. But the money wouldn't matter anymore. That was a hard notion to absorb, especially for a habitual hustler. She took off most of her clothes, lay between the sheets and willed herself to an intermittent sleep.

She woke at six o'clock, nauseous. Malachy sprang to her mind for the first time since that morning. She smoked a cigarette and concluded that he couldn't change her life any more than anybody else. What had happened was nice, but didn't matter. It wouldn't work between them. Liam would be on the warpath and she wasn't sure what he'd do or could do. She couldn't live with Malachy in Drumnashee—that was out of the question. He probably wouldn't want her to live with him; life never turned out like that. Anyway, Drumnashee was finished for her. Everything was finished for her. She tried to figure out exactly what she had done. She pictured the sister's shocked face when she discovered the doll. She pictured him arriving with the undertaker and finding out. Where would they start the search? Buses and trains? Would they be out looking for her everywhere by now? Well, there'd be nothing leading them to the Green Rose except the suitcase, and surely there was more than one of them around.

She gazed at her ad hoc coffin. Babies' bodies. Her life was full of them. Yesterday he had been crawling and laughing. It was hard to fathom so much happening in such a small space of time. Saturday might have been a century away. She thought about moving, but her limbs and body felt powerless. She had a panicky thought that someone might have drugged her, but that was hardly possible. A sudden fear that L might have found her made her force herself up on her arms and look anxiously around the room. Nothing. She lay back again and, closing her eyes, let herself see all the pictures of a waking dream, scenes of her life and of the week-end flicking through her mind. She began to spin very fast, then zoomed down and down.

* * * * *

"haw haw haw haw haw hawhawhawhawhawhaw"

huge mouth teeth white and sharp more teeth brown and scutty can see the back of the throat and the dangler shaking as it he? she? who? laughs wrinkled brownish face a bit like hannah brennan not her small cold blue eyes reduced to slits by folds of dry skin he a long green cap that falls to one side like an old night cap he's closing his lips they're thin and bright red painted? he's small dressed all in green with golden stripes down the leggings and gold around the ends of his flared sleeves golden boots that come to his ankles the laughter goes on even when he closes his mouth she's in the laughter it's a whirlpool and she's the centre of it high-pitched getting higher and higher it's going to explode her ears it stops he's saying something  
"you think you can come away with us, do you? you think we'd have you do you? you're some fool alright they say i'm the fool but it's you it's you're the fool jacqui's a whacky jacqui's a whacky where did you get the name, jacqui? off jacqui onassis? but you don't own asses jacqui don't even own your own ass do you jacqui?  
oh! jacqui you're a fool such a fool hey! oh! jacqui we'll never take you away!  
we'll kick you in the head and we'll put you back in bed and we'll never never never never talk to you again  
until you're dead"

he laughs again it seems as if the sound begins in his stomach and climbs its way up how it comes full and echoic at first then opens to shrill something else a softer voice  
"not up to it just now don't you know what damage you could do? give it a rest, will you?"  
slender young man royal blue satin shirt and trousers presses himself through to the picture he begins to dance she understands the language  
"i am fiachna we are receiving disturbing news the host is in a state of agitation we cannot stay here much longer"  
he stops his long black hair is held in a sleek ponytail his eyes are large and blue as royal as his clothes his face is angular straight nose strutting cheek-bones  
her heart jumps  
"on the hill? yee can't stay on the hill?"  
fiachna dances..."tonight we hold council"

jacqui starts to tremble fiachna raises his hands above his head pirouettes brings his hands in towards his face in a double circular motion takes them outwards turns his head to one side then the other sways at the hips until his legs start to move one leg extends right up to his face and then down the other copies a series of whirls and jumps the rising rhythm of a deep earthy drum beat fiddle strains he weaves intricate steps a manic pattern sends out colours and shapes orange yellow blue purple red flowers faces trees clouds stars mountains waterfalls she's riveted certain she knows the music can't place the melody or recall this intensity the sound makes an ear of every pore every inch of her inner flesh a resonating drum that beats back the same sound  
DUM DA DUM DA DUM DA DUM DA DUM DA DUM DA DUM DA DUM DA DUMMMMMMMMMM

from an inarticulate hum the chant emerges and grows  
"slua na sí slua na sí slua na sí slua na sí slua na sí slua na sí slua na sí"  
fiachna is both frenzied and perfect in his movements he swirls so quickly she can see the remnants of every movement in the next she's in there with him swept up in joy weightless in a world of possibility what her body can do how her legs can take her up over and

* * * * *

She opened her eyes and wondered where she was. When she remembered, she was overcome with a feeling near despair, that spoke itself in the crispness of the room, its almost bare walls, the hum of the bathroom's air-conditioner, the faint sounds of people and cars. This was the epitome of loneliness.

Only seven o'clock. She supposed she'd better eat, and sat up. She was a little more energetic than before. She'd dreamed something powerful, but couldn't recall what.  
The clatter of staff and chatter of customers assaulted her as she entered the dining-room. It looked as if all the tables were taken.  
"Hello, Madam," said the head waiter. "Table for one?"  
She shook her head and walked back to the hall, murmuring something about room service, keeping her head down. Of course! The weekend before St. Patrick's Day. That's why everywhere was so packed. She had forgotten all about it. She headed back upstairs, freezing for a second when she heard the receptionist's dulcet reply to a question over the phone.  
"No. No-body of that name here. No-one fitting that description."

She plumped onto the bed and rang room service. She picked a fish dinner and ordered a double vodka and orange. She couldn't get the dinner down, and could only get through half the drink. It was as if her throat had brought down a shutter. Soon. Soon it would be over. She wondered whether she should go there and then. Too early. She'd have to sit it out. Seven forty-five. If she left at about eleven.... Did anyone see her leaving Wynn's? Couldn't be sure. Unlikely. Maybe she should have gone further out of the city? Look, the receptionist hadn't copped her, even if the phone call had been about her.

Her stomach was beginning another ache. She went to the window that overlooked the car park. No sign of Guards or L. She turned on the TV and settled herself on the bed. Coronation Street was just finishing. She flicked stations.

* * * * *
Chapter 27

Malachy's mood deteriorated with every mile nearer Dublin. No matter how good the day felt, he wasn't yet over the previous night and the fact that they hadn't let him in. They still didn't think him worthy. Or were they afraid of him—his scepticism, his unyielding opposition? Ego, ego. Why did he want them to deem him worthy? Were they superior to him? Control freak. That's what you are. You can't let go. You can't accept that you might be wrong about them, about her. He'd have to stop dwelling on them; he knew he wasn't thinking straight. He turned his thoughts to Jacqui, though she was a no less complex matter. He was worried about her. She was holding something back. He was worried about his attraction to her as well.

He found himself picturing her face and loving what he saw—the long eyelashes, the pale silkiness of her skin, the broad forehead and perfect eyebrows, the full mouth. He liked her mannerisms, even the nervous pulling at cigarettes. And the tears that were always on the brink but seldom fell, he especially responded to the tears. That unnerved him. It shouldn't have been so. That he should want her at all was a mystery. Really? Don't you know what you're doing? You're a statistic. A middle-aged man grasping at a straw of youth. Was that it? If so he was exploiting her. Is that what he wanted to do? When she was so vulnerable? He thought of Aine. The two women couldn't have been more different. Aine wouldn't have begrudged him a new relationship, but she wouldn't have approved of the disparity in this one. It couldn't continue. They shouldn't make love again. Don't call to the flat. But what if there were something more in it, something deeper? An age difference didn't preclude love. Shouldn't they give it a chance? She wanted him too, that was obvious. She was over eighteen, an adult woman. He'd see. He'd call to the flat in the evening and play it by ear. He wasn't just using her. He cared about her welfare. He was helping her. Yeah, right.

He couldn't tell whether the voice in his head was his own or that of an intruder. They had been whispering around him so much he couldn't tell anymore. And yes, he knew that sounded mad, but he wasn't mad, because he could carry out his everyday business and he knew what was real and what wasn't. It was just that voice he couldn't control. Sometimes he was certain it was them, and at other times he wasn't so sure. That they existed he had no doubt, but what exactly they did and why they did it was still something of a mystery.

The car swerved to the right and panicked an old woman who was cruising in the opposite direction at thirty miles per hour in a Volkswagen Beetle. She pounded the horn. Malachy recovered his sense of place, but little equilibrium.

When he arrived outside the solicitor's office he sat back, placed his thumbs lightly against his forefingers and recited his affirmation.  
"I am good, I am strong, I am wise."  
He stopped and looked at his hands. This was ridiculous. He knew that he was 'good, strong and wise', and a few other things besides, a mixed bag like everybody else. He didn't need this kind of self-administered therapy. Just get on with things.

The transactions were successful, if tedious. Afterwards he visited the site, the last building venture he vowed, had lunch with two of his sub-contractors and saw two more in the afternoon. By the time he arrived at Jacqui's flat, he was quite happy with his day and glowing with the satisfaction of jobs well done, the morning's doubts tucked away in the back of his mind.

He didn't notice the Garda car on the opposite side of the road. The two young officers watched him ring the top bell, and waited. When there was no answer, Garda Rachel Carr got out and strolled over.  
"Excuse me. Could you tell me who you're calling on, please?"  
"I beg your pardon?" Malachy disliked uniforms and questions. "Is there a problem?"  
"I saw you ringing Jacqueline Byrnes' bell. Are you a friend of hers?"  
"Jacqueline Byrnes?"  
"Also known as Jacqueline O'Malley."  
"Oh. Yes. What can I do for you?"  
Rachel Carr narrowed her eyes and practised that stony look she admired so much.  
"Can I have your name, please?" she asked, taking out her notebook.  
Garda Eamon Delahunty sauntered over to her side.  
"Malachy Gallagher."  
"Where are you from, Mr Gallagher?" Garda Delahunty asked pointedly.  
The question sounded like an accusation. Malachy took a deep breath. He got this all the time. A hint of a northern accent and there was suspicion straight away.

They took his current address, his birth address, found out how long he'd lived in Drumnashee, what he did for a living and why he was in Dublin. The fact that he was a property developer seemed to mollify them somewhat.  
"Ms Byrnes and her husband are renting a house from me in Drumnashee. She told me she was coming up here today, so I thought I'd drop in and see how she was. Have they found her son yet, do you know?"  
In typical police fashion, the Gardai took a few seconds to reply, as if it might be a trick question.  
"Is that the elder son?" Eamon Delahunty asked.  
Malachy nodded, puzzled by the question.  
"Not as far as we know."

There was another silence before Eamon Delahunty spoke again.  
"We're concerned about Miss Byrnes," he said sternly. "We have reason to believe that she's in a precarious mental state."  
"I'd say that's a fair assumption, considering her son is missing."  
The Guards looked at each other. They made a silent decision that Rachel would be the best one to break the news.  
"Her other son died last night."  
"Christ! How?" So many images crowded into his head, he felt as if he had been suddenly immersed in a swamp.  
"Possibly a cot death, but there's been no post mortem yet."  
"When did you last see Miss Byrnes?" Eamon Delahunty asked.  
"This morning at about eight o'clock."

They looked at him, waiting for more. Shit! He'd better tell them.  
"She stayed at my house last night. Her husband was away and she was too nervous to stay on her own."  
"There's something else," Rachel Carr said slowly, assessing him. "The child's body was stolen from the morgue this afternoon, before the post mortem."  
"What? You can't be serious. Why would anyone do that?" He thought of Liam. Very strange man, Liam.  
"We think Miss Byrnes might have taken it. She was the last person seen in the morgue before the discovery was made."  
"But why...?" His mind raced in all directions. They think she's covering up, that she killed Brian. The baby in the bed last night. She seemed surrounded by innumerable horrors. He put his hand on the railing behind him and went silent.

"If she took the baby's body, have you any idea where she might have gone with it?"  
At first Malachy couldn't make sense of the question.  
"No. No. We were friendly, but—Jesus Christ—no. I don't know where she'd go. I suppose I hardly know her at all really."  
Eamon Delahunty scribbled some details on a page and tore it out.  
"If you think of anything, or if you meet Miss Byrnes, we'd appreciate a call."  
"Yes, of course."  
Malachy folded the page and put it in his wallet.

"Something funny about that fellow," said Eamon Delahunty, turning the car key and watching Malachy's departure in the wing mirror.  
"I think he's alright," said Rachel Carr. She really wanted to say that he was a hunk, but she wasn't long enough in the force to be so flippant on the job.  
"I suppose they're having an affair," she ventured.  
Her colleague gave her a quizzical look and swung the car out onto the road.  
"Going to be rough around the flats tonight," he said. "Paddy's Day tomorrow. They go crazy."

* * * * *
Chapter 28

Back in Cleary's Hotel, Anne dissolved onto Bill O'Connell's shoulder. He looked around to see if the whole place was gaping. Luckily they were in a corner.  
"Don't upset yourself, sweetheart. You don't have to feel responsible for her."  
"I don't know what's happening to me, Bill." She tried to stifle the sobs. "This week-end—I think I'm going mad."  
"You're going nowhere if I can help it." Bill's programmed wit was soothing, however lacking in conviction. "Sure, maybe you're working too hard. Dublin's an unhealthy old place too. For the likes of you, sensitive and all that. You're a bit highly strung, aren't you?"  
"I've been doing fine. I mean, I've been in this job for nearly four years now. I thought I could do it. But—oh it's so complicated. All of this seems to have happened since I met Graham. My confidence has gone right down. I felt great for a while and then I started feeling so... inferior to him. That never happened before." A new spurt of tears.

"Sure, if he doesn't treat you right, get shut of him. Plenty of other fish in the sea."  
"It's not that. He treats me perfectly. He's extremely good at his job, good at everything, actually. But it's not just him. I discovered that... I don't really care. You know? I don't care the way I should about people."  
She had stunned herself by the nakedness of the admission.  
"I think you care too much altogether. Sure, you wouldn't be crying if you didn't care."  
She shook her head.

The waitress approached.  
"Maybe we should go back home?"  
"I can't. I told the Guards I'd take responsibility for Jacqui. I only hope she's gone to her flat or I'm in trouble. Oh, I can't think. I should have stayed with her, shouldn't I, whatever she said. She could be anywhere." This might be Linda Brogan all over again, but she still couldn't motivate herself.  
"Look, girl, have a bite to eat and we'll think what to do then."  
"I'll just go to the Ladies and pull myself together."  
She gazed in the mirror at a tired, pale face. Getting old.

Why had Jacqui upset her so much? People had told her to fuck off before. Maybe it was because she was low to begin with. She would have to give up her job. She just couldn't do it anymore. Come on. This wasn't the first time she'd got depressed. Take a few days off sick. Too much to do. That meeting with Yvonne Carson on Thursday morning. Three 'at risk' visits. No. Not this week or next. But if she cracked up, she'd miss appointments anyway.

The prospect of going into work on Thursday morning made her feel faint. She wasn't even sure she could walk out of the loo there and then and sit at the table with Bill. But she had to. He'd be getting worried for one thing. She made a phenomenal effort and ended up back beside him. She picked up her coat.  
"I'll have to go after her, Bill," she said wearily.  
"You don't have to do a damn thing," he said, with a satisfied smile.

He had 'phoned the Guards in Drumnashee and spoken with the sergeant, who was going to notify the station nearest Jacqui's flat. Having been told of Anne's distressed state, he agreed that she didn't have to be involved anymore. He asked Bill to convey his regards and wish her well. Anne put her head in her hands and thanked providence for her friend. He had ordered her a steak, which took an effort to eat, but made her feel a bit stronger.

She nodded off during the return drive and became immersed in a dream. Joe and herself as children, going up the hill to where the Ring was. That's what they used to call the circle of trees, the Ring on the Hill. There were songs and poems about it, but Hannah couldn't sing and Dinjo wouldn't, so Anne had only heard them once or twice. The day was so warm the air shimmied around them. They arrived at the trees and she stared at them as if she had never seen them before. They were shocking, all leaning towards her, threatening to crush. They began to shiver, then tremble, until they were vibrating from top to bottom with a violent power. They altered and became humanoid beings, each infused with a differently coloured light that blurred the outline of the body. It was as if the beings had sprouted from central cores of brilliance, their colours red, blue, purple, yellow, green, silver and orange. The faces were somehow accusing, or maybe just challenging, but she took it that she had done something wrong. She turned to Joe. He was looking at her softly. No, sensually. She didn't mind the look, liked it actually. It made her feel warm and relaxed. Just before she woke she saw Aine Gallagher moving towards her, dressed in vivid glistening silver, beginning to untie the silky cord that held her dress together.

She woke with a jerk and was shocked when the seat belt held her in place.  
"Are you awake?" Bill asked pointlessly.  
Anne looked at him and blushed. She pulled her shoulders in, a habit she had when she wanted to calm herself. There had been a day up in the Ring when Joe had asked if he could see her knickers. Good Lord, he had only been thirteen. A year younger than her. She had been insulted and refused bluntly, but later, as they sat on the grass, she had put her feet on the ground with her knees up and her thighs spread wide enough for him to see. She had looked towards the trees and sky, talking away as though she felt nothing, filled all the time with the indiscriminate, half-conscious lust of puberty.

She looked out the side window. Her face had to be scarlet by now and she didn't want Bill to see. It was no big deal, just a harmless exploration. All teenagers experiment. But boy, was it embarrassing to remember it, especially considering how Joe had turned out. The dream wasn't literal, she knew that; there was nothing sexual between her and Joe. His presence in the dream symbolised some part of herself. But it indicated how her mind was working and had triggered a long lost memory. She wondered how much more there was to remember. Maybe she'd talk to Malachy when she went for her healing session. And then, maybe not. She had told him private things before, but this? He was a man. It would be difficult to reveal all. Siobhan would listen. She touched her forehead and found it damp.

Bill left her to her thoughts. He trundled the car up Brennan's drive in a leisurely enough manner to get a start when Anne suddenly let out an "Oh no!"  
"What's wrong? Did you forget something?"  
"That's Graham's car."  
"Graham? Is that your fella?"  
"Oh Lord. He's the last person I want to see."  
"Things don't sound good between the two of yee at all."  
"Oh Bill, I wish I could explain things to you a bit more. I just can't, I'm sorry."  
He shrugged his shoulders and smiled at her.  
"Wish me luck."  
"Good luck, girl," he said, meaning it and all.

Graham came to the door, eyes gleaming as ever behind his half- rimmed glasses.  
"Hello," she said, and looked down.  
He took her two hands in a generous gesture and pulled her towards him. She embraced him awkwardly, conscious of her mother behind him in the kitchen.  
He whispered, "I'm sorry, Anne," into her hair. It took all her willpower to hold back the tears. She tightened her grip and began to feel a little thankful for him. "I hope you don't mind that I came down."  
She shook her head. It would have been better to work some of her memories through her system first. He would interrupt the flow. Unless he could help. Could she ask him? Was it alright to be counselled by your fiancé? A fiancé whose skin was silent to you.

* * * * *
Chapter 29

Liam hurried back to the house with eyes mad enough to burn a hole in a piece of glass. He knew the Pigs would get a warrant. Try to hide at least some of the harder videos, the rarer ones, and some of those with her in them. He couldn't afford to lose them all. He had been in his bedroom for only a few minutes when he heard the car outside. He watched from the living-room window as the squad-car dropped off Pat Cassidy, who folded his arms and leaned on the gateless pillar, casting looks up and down the road. Liam's nerves seized. He rushed back to his room. The videos were neatly placed on steel shelving, all along the wall. They'd tear the whole place apart when they got in. He had a thought. He put as many tapes as he could fit into his sports bag, then as many as he could fit into the large leather suitcase which he had to root out of the attic. He was just about to put them back up in the attic when the doorbell rang. He continued the task and was closing over the hatch door when he looked down to see the sergeant standing at the bottom of the ladder with an impassive face. He had come in by the back door and he had a warrant in his right hand.

Three hours later, Liam left the Garda station again, this time trembling like a hunted fox. They'd send the file to the Director of Public Prosecutions. Stay around, they had advised. He was to inform them of all his movements. It wasn't as if the videos were a massive offence, but of course they suspected something worse, with children maybe, especially after what had happened to the boys. He couldn't stand being exposed, having them look at him with that knowledge of his secrets. It galled him right to his marrow. And it would go public when the court case came up. His legitimate business would be ruined. He had a violent pain in his stomach and fervent drops of sweat were melting his careful composure. His roof and walls had blown away and everyone could see his arse and genitals; everyone could look in and see what his life was made of—the plans, the routines, the personal history, the needs. His castle was shattered. His mind started to bend in on itself.

Why isn't she here? Why wasn't she brought in with me? I'll tear her limb from limb. I'll twist a knife up her cunt until she chokes on her own blood. I'll fuck her in the mouth with a screwdriver. I'll beat her head to pulp with a sledgehammer.  
The tortures were vivid, satisfying pictures to him. Scenes from videos he had copied and supplied but never had the guts to make himself. Until now. Now he would do it. The Snuff Movie to snuff all Snuff Movies. Her on the operating table. I the doctor. Please, oh please doctor, give me an anaesthetic. Here's your anaesthetic darling—mouse up the fucking cunt. I'll give him animals. That guy, that stupid bastard with the piggy head and the ponytail; he'll see all the animals he can handle.

He was working himself up to a frenzy. All the things he could have done. Jesus, he could have used those kids. Why the fuck didn't he use them before they disappeared? Too nice. Mr Fucking Nice Guy. Too fucking nice to them. Nice. Nice. Fucking nice. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He reached a point of mangled chaos and went blank. His body stopped shaking. He lost all feeling again. Which suited him fine.

* * * * *

It was three-thirty in the afternoon and Michael O'Connell was about to leave the studio to cover a wedding that had been allocated to Liam.  
"Liam, there you are. Christ, I'm real sorry about your young lads. You must be in bits are you? I was trying to get you there on the mobile but the battery must be low or something. How are you? How's the Missus?"  
Liam smoothed the hair back from his forehead.  
"Shattered," he pronounced with emphasis.

It was no lie. He assessed the situation, the man with the bag over his shoulder, the tri-pod under his arm.  
"So you're doing the Donnelly-Matthews job?"  
"Yes, Liam. I didn't think you'd be in any fit state to do it yourself. For the love of God, I wouldn't expect you to."  
Liam glared unconsciously, then checked himself.  
"You didn't want to do it?"  
He shook his head abruptly.  
"Alright so. I'd better go."

Michael came closer, sure that any man in Liam's position needed comfort, but unsure how to give it. He thought of putting a hand on his shoulder, but that didn't feel right. He leaned towards him and said gently, "If there's anything I can do for you, anything at all now...."  
Liam gave a crisp, dismissive nod, willing him gone.

When the door clicked closed, Liam drew a relieved breath. He looked around the studio. It was a long room which had been partitioned to create a reception area and studio space. The reception desk was to the side of the entrance door. Behind it was a door that led to a hall and three other small rooms: a toilet, a kitchen and a dark room for developing black and white prints. He went into the studio and sat on the edge of the blue velvet chaise longue. He wondered why he had taken this on. To get away from the Tax Inspectorate. It had been getting too hot in there. To have an income and a front for his other activities. To do the only thing that he did without thinking, and get paid for it.

He was finished. Or was he? Carry on like a politician. People would forget after a while. Would they? Country town? He wasn't sure he could have kept up the pretence much longer anyway. The posed respectability wasn't sitting too well. How long would it have been before he insulted somebody? He tried to see the next step and her face came up. Her silly, inscrutable face. That face had to go. That was definite. He stood up, put his Hasselblad, his Nikon and some lenses into his bag, and stalked past the posed faces that stared predictably from the wall in the reception area. He locked up and went to the car, fully aware that he was sweeping past Mrs Meehan. She was about to ask about her grandson Paul's baby photographs. She was mortally offended and went straightaway into Fitzgibbon's butcher's to spread the bad word.

Where was she anyway? Still at the hospital? The Brennan one, that interfering cunt, she was probably still with her. Better check what was happening. It was his right to organise the funeral. That's what was expected. It would look good.

He had just found the number for the Children's Hospital when the phone rang. Kevin O'Leary. He cleared his throat a couple of times before slowly revealing the new development. The Gardaí in all the Dublin stations had been notified that the baby's body was missing. They were trying to trace Miss Byrnes. Had he heard from her?  
"How could I have heard from her? If you remember, I was in the station for most of the day."  
"Yes, that's the case all right, but I have to check everything. If you hear from her at any stage, let us know. She'll probably need help. Do you know of anywhere she might have gone to?"  
"Not offhand."  
"Well, if you think of anywhere, give us a ring, here or Fitzgibbon Street. And Liam?"  
"Yes?"  
"No monkey business. We're watching you."

He hung up. She'd need help alright! Fucking pig. Talking to him as if he was nothing. His face was burning hot, but if he had looked in a mirror he would have seen that it was deathly pale. He wondered if they knew the address of her flat in Rathmines. He rang there. Caroline from next door answered. No-one in. She might not be answering the door of course.

His habitual cold composure was returning. Miraculous. His stomach had stopped jumping and his heart was settling into its normal rhythm. He sat down and thought for a while. Then he rang the Rathmines Guards.  
"Hello. Liam O'Malley is my name. Drumnashee. I believe you're trying to trace my wi... partner, Jacqui Byrnes."  
After he gave them the required details, they confirmed that, yes, they were trying to locate Miss Byrnes.  
"Yes, well, I forgot to mention to the Gardai in Drumnashee that she has a flat in Dublin. It's at...."  
They had checked the flat already. They had got the address from the Drumnashee Gardaí.  
"Are there any family or friends she might have gone to or contacted?"  
Liam took a long breath.  
"You know, of course, that my partner is a prostitute?"  
There was silence on the other end as Sergeant Burke tried to figure out what was coming next.  
"She insisted on continuing with it even though we were living together. I'm only telling you because her friend, Cora MacMahon, lives in Dublin and she might have gone to her. Miss MacMahon is a prostitute as well. You may know of her. The Gardaí at Ballymun would certainly be familiar with her."  
"Do you have Miss MacMahon's address?"  
He recited it.

"Is there any more information you can give us, Mr O'Malley?"  
"Well, as a matter of fact," he feigned a shake in his voice, "poor Jacqui, you know, is very unstable. To be perfectly honest with you, I'm worried that she might have had something to do with the baby's death."  
"That's a very serious allegation, Mr O'Malley."  
"Call me Liam, please. I'm afraid I have my reasons for thinking it. You see, she was admitted to a mental hospital seven months ago for panic attacks and compulsive behaviour."  
"Well, that's more common than you might think."  
"Yes, of course, but one of the things that led to her being hospitalised was that she scalded our other son, David,"  
"The one that's missing?"  
"Yes. She spilled hot fat over him. It looked like an accident, but I was never convinced." The sergeant took a deep breath and blew it out. "I'm only telling you because she might be a danger to other people—or to herself."  
"Liam, we'll take note of your comments, but all of this will have been documented by the Social Services, and Miss Byrnes isn't as yet suspected of committing a crime. We'll keep trying to locate her. If you have a statement to make, maybe you'd go into the Gardaí at Drumnashee and make it? We can't charge her with neglect or injury unless we have proof."  
"Oh I know that. God knows I don't want her charged with anything. It's a sickness she has really. If you find her, will you let me know please? And tell her... tell her I want her home. Will you do that?"  
"We'll keep you informed, Liam."

Liam had hardly replaced the receiver when it rang again. A man hesitantly asking for Georgette.  
"Sorry, she's not available tonight. Would you care to leave a number? Discretion assured. No? Can you ring tomorrow then? Alright. Sorry about that."  
He was very sorry. Pounds were disintegrating before his eyes. He fumed for a few minutes, then rang Doyler in Ballymun. Doyler sounded as if he had been drinking. Either that or he had just woken up. His voice was more rasping than usual.  
"Yeah?"  
"Hello, Doyler? Liam O'Malley here."  
"Liam O'Malley. What's up wit' you?"  
Doyler didn't like Liam because he was an outsider, didn't have the code of behaviour, didn't belong.  
"Jacqui is missing. If you see her in the Penthouse or on the street, could you give me a shout?"  
"Maybe. Wha's your number?" Doyler had two women on the game. It paid for the men to stick together. "She hasn't been around here for a couple a' years. Wha' makes you think she'll show up now?"  
"I think she might go to Cora's, Cora MacMahon's. Do you have her number by any chance?"  
"Hold on." He consulted with someone, a woman. She protested at first until he muttered something sharply to her and then she answered quietly and slowly. Doyler passed it on.  
"And listen. I don't want an'thin' to do wit' any monkey stuff between you and your mo'. I'm no' a fuckin' matchmaker." He slammed down the receiver.

Cora wasn't in. Answering machine. He'd have to go up there. Threaten her within an inch of her life. Where else would she go? She'd never go to her flat, she'd expect him to look there. And she had no money until Thursday. He made some more calls. People needed to be warned about the video crackdown. Beef was getting a batch in that night and needed to be told he couldn't send them down as arranged. The Councillor was expecting a hot one for his pals. Two other clients wanted some hard stuff for a rugby party and a stag. With each cancellation he seethed a little more. Everyone reassured him that it wasn't considered a serious offence, but that wasn't the point. His cover was gone. The Guards knew him now. How could he stay in the town? Unless his friend the Councillor could pull something off. But that wasn't the point. She was the point. She was the reason for all this mess, and she'd have to die for it, suffer and die.

He washed and changed his clothes, took the Kalashnikov bayonet and placed it under the passenger seat of the Mazda. At the junction with the main road, a car swung by with Anne Brennan in the passenger seat. He pressed on the horn, got out and flagged them down. The driver reversed until he was alongside. Liam went over to Anne's side with an exaggeratedly slow, straight-backed stalk.

"Is she with you?"  
Maybe she was in Hannah's. He hadn't thought of that.  
"No, Liam. I don't know where she is."  
"Where did you see her last?"  
He flung the questions like knives.  
"She left us in Cleary's Hotel, in Dublin. I haven't seen her since."  
"Some Social Worker you are."  
Anne was a bit shaken at this, but said nothing.  
"Did she say where she was going?"  
His eyes were fixed on her face, as if he hated every pore, every tiny, barely-visible hair of it.  
"No, Liam. She didn't."  
His stare was working on her. He could see it.  
"Well, I'll find her one way or another."

He strode to his car and turned it round while Graham and Anne continued towards the Brennans'. He had just remembered Malachy Gallagher. How could he have been so stupid? She might have it in her head to stay with Gallagher. He might be aiding and abetting her. See if he's around, quiz him diplomatically first. If he was lying, Liam would know straight away.

A quarter of an hour later, the call to Gallagher's house having been fruitless, Liam was back on the Dublin Road, murder still on his mind.

* * * * *
Chapter 30

Anne slumped back in the seat, quite shaken.  
"Judas Priest, he's a strange fish."  
Then she remembered who he reminded her of.  
"Anthony Moorehead. He's like Anthony Moorehead, the same walk, and the stare."  
Graham raised his eyebrows and blew a breath.

Anthony Moorehead had arrived at the Centre looking for help with what he called a drink problem. His wife's. Turned out he was repeatedly raping her and his two daughters in all sorts of horrific ways. After they eventually made statements to the Guards, he was put away for seven years. A holiday, his wife said he had got. Anne had believed everything he had said for two weeks. Imagine! How naïve could you be? She tried to push the thought aside. She was weary from bad memories.

Graham broke in with a question and a look of concern.  
"What's your opinion about the child who went missing? Do you think they'll find him?"  
Listen to him! Always the measured tones. She spoke carefully too, but didn't think she sounded so weak and boring.  
"They won't find him." This newly discovered vehemence was frightening her. They were silent for a minute.  
"Your mother is very nice, refined."  
"Yes, she is." She stared out the window.

"Graham, the first thing I saw when I walked in on Friday was the Sacred Heart picture."  
He waited for her to explain.  
"I know she wouldn't think I was properly married if I did it in a Registry Office. I just know it."  
"That's probably true. But is that the real problem?"  
"What?"  
"Would you feel properly married by a Registry Office?"  
"Well, yes. I mean, you can still wear white, can't you?"  
What was she talking about? She sounded like a schoolgirl.  
"Is that important to you?"  
"Yes, the full gear. Yes, it's important."  
She knew now that it would never happen.

The searchers were littered on both sides of the hill, beating bushes, leading and being led by dogs. Graham turned into Tubbercreeve and stopped at St. Brigid's well. They got out and took a drink.  
"This is the nicest water around," said Anne. "We used to love coming here in the summertime when we were children. We'd sit on the wall and swing our legs and talk for ages."  
"You and....?"  
"Maria and I."  
Her face clouded.

"Look, Anne, whatever's bothering you, I want you to know I'm on your side. I'm a bit hurt that you don't want to talk, but the main thing is that you work it out somehow. So any help I can give, you've got it."  
He could have been talking to anyone. So formal. But she knew he meant it.  
"You're great," she said, and embraced him politely. She was beginning to dread ever having sex with him again.

There came a gruff "Hiya" from behind them.  
"Joe! What are you doing up here?"  
"I thought that child might be up around here, in the forestry plantation or at the old ball alley."  
"You walked all the way up?"  
"Yeah"

He looked as if he hadn't slept at all the previous night. His eyes landed on Graham and stayed. There was a strained silence during which Anne forgot to talk. Then she remembered herself and blurted:  
"This is Graham. Graham, this is Joe."  
Graham smiled and stretched out his hand enthusiastically. Joe grunted and gave it a brief shake. Anne recognised the puckering of his eyebrows. He was ravenous for information. Graham didn't look like one of the lads. She opened her mouth to explain as she would normally do, but stopped herself. Another awkward silence. She turned towards the well.

"I'll see you back at the house in a while, Joe."  
She could feel him staring at her back.  
"You're not from around here?" Joe asked Graham.  
"No. I'm from Carlow originally. I'm living in Dublin now."  
"Oh, you're down from Dublin?"  
"Yes. I came down to see Anne. We'll go back together on Wednesday night." Graham was obviously embarrassed at having to explain himself.  
"Where are you staying?"  
"Well, I...."  
"He's staying at Stembridge's B & B," said Anne, turning round. Joe gave her a long, sideways look. The cool grey of his eyes seemed to contain all the information they needed to intimidate her. It was as if he could denude her, reduce her to one aspect of herself, one weakness, one need. Maybe people like Joe learn to read minds in order to keep the upper hand.

"How's Valerie?" She wanted to break the look. It didn't work straightaway; he kept her wriggling.  
"Val," he corrected, "is still at her mother's."  
Anne nodded nervously, but the question had hit home.  
"Be seeing yee," said Joe, and off he loped, bearlike, full of lonely thoughts.

* * * * *

Lonely thoughts and anxious thoughts Joe had indeed. What he had considered to be a minor fling with Michelle O'Connor had turned out to be big trouble. Sexy little one. He knew he shouldn't have succumbed, but he had taken the first step and after that it had got harder to turn back. She was up for it all the time. Who'd say no?

But then she tells him she's pregnant. Not his of course; he's only been going with her for a month or so. Instead of turning him off, he wants her more. Maybe it's the added element of taboo, maybe it's just knowing that now he doesn't have to worry about getting her up the pole. He doesn't even ask who the father is, could be anybody. She has a reputation. That's all fine until it's coming up to her time. She's unbelievably small, hiding her stomach with roll-ons and big shirts. It's very hard to believe there's a baby in there.

Saturday night he's due to pick her up on the main road out at Hannafin's bridge. He drives slowly, keeping in the layby, and he sees her there, slumped over the low wall of the old bridge, as if she was blind drunk. He gets out and hurries over to her, annoyed that she should be in any state that might cause him hassle. In the light from the headlamps, he sees the pool of vomit just in time and curses at her for getting so sloshed.  
"What are you at, Michelle? What did you get yourself into this state for?"  
She looks up and says panic-stricken, "Joe, I'm in labour. What am I going to do?"

He wants to leave straight away. Not his problem. What the fuck would he know about babies? Why wasn't she in hospital? Where were her fighting sisters now? It must be some sort of trick.  
"Look," he says, "if you're having the baby, leave me out of it. It's nothing to do with me. You made your own bed. Anyway, you're getting sick. How would you be getting sick if you were having the baby? You're blind fucking drunk."  
Which causes Michelle to start crying and yelling.  
"You shagging moron! Do you know anything? The baby is coming, I'm telling you! Please, Joe, Get me out of here. Anywhere. Somewhere I can lie down."

Another strong pain comes on and she bends over in agony. A car Joe recognises by the sound of its engine comes near, heading towards the town. He pretends he's just finished taking a leak, while Michelle manages to conceal herself at the far end of the wall, where there's a dip. There's a honk of recognition and the car passes on at a leisurely pace.  
The pain has made Michelle ferocious.  
"I'll tell Val it's your baby. I'll tell her you left it out to die of the cold. I'll tell the whole town you killed your own flesh and blood. I'll destroy you. I swear I'll never leave you alone. I'll fucking haunt you if you don't help me now. Jesus, you'd help a dog in the street." She pauses. "Bring me to The Motel. Please, Joe."  
"You can't have a baby in a fucking motel!"

Now he's only worried about getting her off the road. If this gets out, the whole town will believe the baby was his. If she tells them he left her there, they'll be sure it was his. And then his name will be mud forever. He'll have to help her. But this is the last he's having to do with her. Christ, she's some loola having a baby by the side of the road.  
"We'll go to the Regional," he says, helping her into the car.  
"No," she gasps, another pain making her seize up at the same minute.

When it passes, seems like ages, she says again, "No hospital. I don't want any questions. Drive around a bit—out the road or something."  
"What? Are you... are you... going to have it in the back of the car?"  
She doesn't answer. She's trying to keep in her screams. Joe keeps driving. They're almost in Dublin. He's getting worried about her at last.  
"You could go to a hospital in Dublin. We're nearly there now."  
"It's coming... it's coming...."

He's panic-stricken. The first opportunity he gets, he pulls the car over. He turns on the light and looks in the back. She has her skirt up and her knickers off. There's a pool of blood, and in the middle there's a creature. It doesn't move, just lies there like a drowned frog.  
"Here, help me take my coat off," she says.  
He does, shocked out of his wits. He's seen cows birthing, but a real human birth in the back of his car? He's flabbergasted.  
"Jesus. Are you okay?"  
"I'll be alright," she whispers. "Turn around and head for Drumnashee."  
She takes off her floppy shirt as well and shoves it between her legs.

"Have you got a scissors?" she asks after a while.  
He holds his cigarette precariously between his teeth, searches in the dashboard and hands her a large, stainless steel scissors.  
"Can you do it yourself?"  
She doesn't answer. He's afraid to ask more.  
"Are you alright?" he asks tentatively, trying to see her in the mirror.  
"Yeah."

She says nothing then for a good while.  
"Will you drive up to St Brigid's Well, Joe?"  
"What do you want to go there for?"  
"The baby's dead."  
Joe loses control for a second and the car does a swerve.  
"Jesus! Michelle!"  
He's nearly crying now. It's a nightmare.  
"It was dead when it came out. The umbilical cord was wrapped around its neck."  
The words go clawing up his back. He keeps driving and asks no more questions.

When they arrive at the well, she extends the naked baby towards him.  
"Here. Put her beside the well."  
He starts with a shout and brings it down to a whisper.  
"Don't put that fucking thing near me. I'm not laying a finger on it."  
She sighs. "Okay. Will you help me out so?"

He pauses, then realises this should be done as quickly as possible if it's to be done at all. He gets out, opens the door and helps her over to the well. She carefully lays the dead child on the stone paving. When she finally sits in again, he starts up the car straight away and drives around by Tubbercreeve to the main road to avoid passing Kilnalacka. He can't get clear in his head what has just taken place.  
"I need a drink," he mutters, and looks at his watch. Ten past one in the morning. "What are you doing now? Are you going home?"  
She checks the time too. She wipes some tears away with the back of her hand. Like a child, Joe thinks.  
"Not in this state. Can you get me some of Val's clothes?"  
"You must be out of your mind."  
"She's away, isn't she?"  
"Yeah, but my mother isn't. And the neighbours aren't."

His arguments fail. There's no alternative. She can't go home in that state. A short while later he parks the car well up the road from his house, walks down and bumps into Anne who's wandering around like a madwoman. That's all he needs. He sees her in home, then goes and gets what Michelle ordered, only the panties are brief frilly ones, he gets stockings instead of tights, and a figure-hugging skirt. Michelle curses him, but does the best she can.

By two-thirty on Sunday morning they're around the corner from her house and she's ready to go home. She's looking so bewildered Joe's afraid she's going crazy.  
"Will you be alright?"She shrugs and looks out the window.  
"Will you swear not to tell anyone, Joe?"  
He really has a soft spot for her, the unfocused look in her droop-lidded greenish eyes. She's like a lost little girl sometimes, for all her reputation.  
"No-one will ever know," he says.

He'll have to keep the secret anyway. He's probably an accessory to... something. At the moment he's not annoyed about that.  
"Michelle?" he says, as she leans towards the door.  
"Yeah?"  
He looks straight at her for a few seconds.  
"I think at this stage you could tell me who the father was."  
She won't look at him, says slowly, "St Joseph. That's who."  
"Thanks a lot. After what we've been through together!"  
"Let's just say it's the most likely person. It wasn't the Holy Ghost anyway," she said hoarsely, and was gone.

Sunday morning he's up at seven trying to clean the blood off the seats and floor of the car. He's scrubbing and using the special upholstery cleaner. The truth is he'll never be in the better of it. In the evening, when Val comes back, she's heard that he's been playing around. He doesn't relish the prospect of living on his own, but reckons he probably won't have to for very long. Women have always gone for him like bees for a honey pot. Val will come back with a bit of persuasion. He'll have nothing more to do with Michelle though, much and all as he likes her. He still hasn't figured out her little riddle of last night and he hates that. He hates a woman that won't talk straight. St Joseph? The most likely person? What the fuck was she on about?

There's nothing about the baby around the town. He wonders why no-one has found it. There are always people at the well on a Sunday. On Monday he's itching to go up and see. They say the murderer always returns to the scene of the crime, so he tries to stay away, but finally curiosity overcomes him. He walks up so it will look casual. Mind you he's not exactly a man for the evening stroll.

All he meets at the well are Anne and some drip of a guy who talks like herself. They say nothing about a baby. That means someone has it and it'll be on the news and in the papers. But why hasn't he heard anything, or noticed some comings and goings? His heart is thumping painfully as he turns for home.

* * * * *
Chapter 31

Joe and Val had occupied Hannah's mind all day. Their row, on top of the child's disappearance and the baby's death, had her feeling disturbed and anxious. There was something strange and unnerving in the air this weekend, like the gathering of dark forces.

When Anne had called up to see Malachy, he hadn't been there, so Graham and herself had gone into town instead. Graham was nice, no doubt about that, gentle, thoughtful. Not long after they had left, at a quarter to nine, Malachy had driven up the road. Hannah watched the news and a bit of the Liam Ó Murchú show, then started preparing for bed. She had to go out and check on the dog. The moon was already up and very clear. She stood enjoying the peace, and looked up at the hill. A faint glisten about it caught and held her attention. A sound drifted to her ears, a light, lilting melody that made her think of dancers and chat and children in flowery dresses and white shirts. It reminded her too of birds that tip the clouds, soaring across the sky in their casual triumph over gravity.  
The melody spoke. It said, 'Listen, you who have ears'.  
A crawl of fright travelled her skin and froze at her throat when she saw the lights, a procession of pale blue translucent flames marching up the slope.  
'This night', she heard. The lights disappeared and there was silence. She backed into the kitchen, stuck her entire hand into the Holy Water Font and splashed herself in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, taptaptap. She locked and bolted the door, then remembered Anne and drew back the bolt. She would wait up until Anne got in. _This night_? What did that mean?

Disturbed as she was, Hannah was also resilient. Within ten minutes the fear had faded and been replaced by a fierce curiosity. She turned off the light and went to the window for another look at the hill. She could only make out its dark bulk. The moon must have gone behind some clouds. She turned the light on again and sat to think. No fear at all now, just a desire to be there, a desire that she tried to fight because it made no sense at all to go up the hill at this time of night. At her age! And disturbing the Good People! But she felt as if they wanted her to go. She knew they wanted her to go. She pulled on her fleece-lined winter boots, put a cardigan over her two jumpers, a thick scarf, a woolly cap and gloves, her full-length winter coat. She reached daintily up to get the torch from the top of the press, and set out.

* * * * *
Chapter 32

Liam arrived at Jacqui's flat at a quarter to seven. He had just begun to feel the pangs of hunger and that irritated him. He charged up the steps and pushed the bell. No answer. He pushed it again, holding it for a longer time, blasting her out of it, hopefully. Then he pumped it: drinng drinng drinng drinng DRINNG DRINNG. No response. He tried all the other bells, pumping them too. He banged on the door. Either everyone in there was deaf or they were all out. He stepped back onto the road and looked up at the window. The curtains weren't drawn and his sixth sense told him she wasn't there. He got into the car and pulled off, just before the Gardai rounded the corner, returning from an emergency call.

As soon as Cora opened the door, he pushed her out of the way and stalked in. She was in a red velvet kaftan, and her flat was as cluttered and way-out as ever. He stormed around chinese screens and into all four of her rooms while she settled herself like a great queen on her deep-cushioned floral armchair and lit a cigarette.  
When he came back to stand in front of her, she slowly put her cigarette out and looked at him with cool battle in her eyes.  
"Do you know where she is?"  
"I presume you mean Jacqui?"  
They stared at each other, neither giving any indication of weakness. He leaned towards her, resting his hands on the arms of the chair.  
"If you're hiding her, you won't live to feel another prick up your cunt. You'll drown in your own blood."  
"You're in your true colours now, Liam O'Malley." He didn't move. "You're just a good-for-nothing poxy bastard."

He grabbed her throat with his left hand and pushed her back. At the same moment, she drew from under the cushion an eight millimetre automatic and pressed it to his stomach.  
"Let me fucking go or you'll never taste another Sunday dinner, you shithead," she snarled.  
She cocked the bolt. Liam glared at her, then stepped back.  
"I'd kneecap you without a second thought," she continued, standing up. She aimed first downwards, then up at his chest.  
"I'd do time for killing you, you fucker. It'd be the heroic deed of my life. No-one lays a hand on me. The people I got this off are my friends and they aren't as nice as I am. You'd never get away with anything you did to me. Now get the fuck out of here before my patience runs out."

Liam was more frightened by her attitude than by the gun. He hadn't seen this kind of cool control in a woman before. He had to exit with dignity, though. He stiffened up, tried to maintain the threatening stare, and turned to go. He tried a different tack.  
"Our children are dead. Did you know that?"  
He softened his look. Cora was shocked but didn't change her position.  
"I heard one of them was missing. I heard it on the News. I heard other things elsewhere." She intensified her glare.  
"The baby died last night. Jacqui stole his body from the hospital and no-one knows where she is. She could be suicidal for all I know."  
"Do you care?"  
"Believe it or not, I do care. Look, Cora," he made a move towards her and she pointed the gun more sternly, "I love Jacqui...."  
"I haven't heard from Jacqui or seen her in three years but if she walked in that door now I'd give her whatever she needed. And I don't think you're what she needs, Buster. You're after turning into a right punk, Liam O'Malley. I don't know what went on between yee but I don't want you on my floor another minute. Now get out of here before I riddle you."

A tour of the flats brought no joy. Jacqui hadn't been seen anywhere. He called to Rathmines Garda Station to be told that there were no new developments and that if she hadn't shown up by the day after next, her details would be given to the RTE Crimeline team. Garda Eamon Delahunty, who had just come in for his break, overheard the gist of the conversation and came over to him.

"I've been watching the flat," he said, "but no joy. It's early days yet. She might have gone to friends or relatives."  
"With a dead baby?"  
"Well, she might have disposed of the body. We just don't know." He paused. "You can rest assured we'll do everything in our power, but you must understand we're run off our feet out there and we wouldn't really consider this urgent as yet."  
"I'd consider it urgent."  
"I appreciate that. Will you excuse me now? Oh, by the way," he took out his notebook, "are you acquainted with a Mr Malachy Gallagher?"  
"Yes. He's my landlord. Why?"  
"He called to your wife's flat this afternoon. We happened to be calling at the same time."

Liam's shock turned fast into livid rage. It took a full half hour after he had left the station, until he was seated in a restaurant for dinner, before he realised that Malachy mustn't have known where Jacqui was if he had called to the flat. On the other hand, they must have got pretty close if he knew her flat in the first place. This was something else to send his thoughts stewing.

He drove more slowly on the return trip, struggling for cool and plan. He was having strange sensations. Three times he saw his father's face. The first was on a tree which leaned over the road and George O'Malley's face grinned out from the crook of one of the branches. His heart went sledgehammer at that, alarmingly similar to the way it used to when his father was alive—when he'd wear that look that said he'd won, that Liam's will was worth nothing.

There it was again, in the window of a shop as he waited for traffic lights to change. This time it was sullen and determined, as if he were dealing with some business-related issue. The third time it appeared right in front of him, the profile poised in mid-air looking downwards. That was the day he had left home, never to contact his parents again.

After the third of these visions, Liam was sweating steadily, his heart and stomach knotted together. His hands were blobs of jelly on the wheel. One might have been a trick of the light, two a trick of the mind, but three was either fact or insanity. Memories he had effectively blocked out came flashing like slides through his mind. Study. Bedroom. Chess board. His father's half-naked body. Smells. SMELLS. He shook his head, trying to get shut of them. He turned on the radio. RTE 1. Someone talking about St Patrick's Day in times past. He had completely forgotten about St Patrick's Day. He had been asked to photograph the parade. Mickey Mouse affair it would be, most likely. The prospect brought no feelings up, just an image of silly costumes and waving flags. The car veered over the white line and he got a start, decided he'd better pull over for a minute. He leaned forward and rested his head on the wheel. He was five miles from Drumnashee. He realised he had nowhere to call home.

* * * * *

A boy came strolling, a small boy of five, swaggering a little, his hands in the pockets of his short pants. It was the height of summer and the road was alive with the hum of bees and the singing of insects in the hedgerow.  
"Hello Daddy," he said. Liam jerked up, infuriated by the affectionate tone. "Liam O'Malley," David went on. "I'm your son. Don't you recognise that?"  
"You're my son and you're a scut."  
"Why did you abuse me?"  
"I never abused you. I fucking should have, though."  
"You'll not get a chance, now", David said sweetly, "I'm going with the Sí."  
"You're what?"  
"I'm going with the Sí. The Fairies. The People who live on the hill. Well, they used to live on the hill. They're leaving tonight and I'm going with them."  
"You're going nowhere, you little shit. You're my son and I tell you where you can and can't go."  
"It's not up to you, Daddy. The rules are different now."  
"Oh are they?"  
Liam made a grab for him. His hands and head collided with the windscreen.  
"Holy Fuck!"  
He punched the glass with his fist. His knuckles stung painfully.  
"Fuck. Fuck."

He got out of the car and went around it, kicking the wheels, pummelling the body until his knuckles bled. He leaned up against it, tired for the moment. The night was very quiet, only the wind shuffling the trees and the strained hush of fields and hedges. A car passed. When its sound had faded, he heard a movement. He turned towards the hedge nearest him.

George O'Malley stood a few yards ahead of the car, near the hedge. He had on a fine wool suit, the suit he had been buried in, and he was scowling. Liam froze for a second, then jumped away from the car and faced him.

"What are you doing here?" He tried to control a shake in his voice, tried to sound threatening.  
"I've come to take you home, son," his father intoned.  
Liam shivered and the knot in his stomach became a jab of pain. His throat turned to concrete. His father moved towards him, stretching out his hand, while Liam fumbled for the handle of the driver's door, found it and scraped his side rushing to get in. He reached for the ignition key and turned it. His father stood perfectly mid-way between the two headlights.  
"Get out of the way!"  
Charlie didn't move.  
"GET OUT OF THE WAY!"

Liam revved the engine and put his foot down. His father glided onto the bonnet and stayed there with his arms outstretched, holding on at either side and looking through the windscreen. Liam braked suddenly. His father stayed on the bonnet as if stuck there. Still no cars on the road, but even if there were, he wouldn't have taken account of them in his frenzy. He accelerated again, then braked suddenly. The car roared and screeched. His father remained splashed on the bonnet, his stony eyes staring in the windscreen. Liam stopped the car and jumped out.

"You fucker," he screamed. "You fucker. Get off my car. Get the fuck away." He pushed at his father's body. Flesh and bone. Heavy. He pulled at the hands. They were a dead weight, no give in the muscles. After a few attempts, he turned his back and tried to shoulder the old man off. Before he knew what was happening, his father had turned, grabbed hold of his shoulders, put his arms around his neck and clamped onto his back.

Liam leapt off the car and tried to wrench the hands away, then tried to wriggle the old man off. The more he struggled, the tighter the legs wrapped around him, in what seemed an unconscious but inexorable movement. Liam let out an insane, rattling screech. He struggled and pulled, knelt and tried to throw his father over his head, pushed back and bashed the old man against the car, but nothing would shift him. He stopped, exhausted. He would have given anything to have someone pass by. His vision started to blur.

"Liam!" said the body on his back. "Liam!"  
Liam opened his mouth, but nothing could penetrate the wall that was his throat.  
"Walk, Liam. Walk where I show you."  
His father pointed towards the hedge.  
"Through that gate."  
Liam hadn't seen the gate. Now he walked towards it, his will destroyed.

They went through a field, and by fences and gaps through several more, until Liam found himself on the outskirts of Drumnashee, at the turn-off for Kilnalacka. By now he was numb, the dead cold of his father's body having petrified his fear into a shape that would never again break. His father pointed up the road. It, too, was deserted. There were sounds coming from the town, but Liam heard nothing. He walked. His shoulders ached, his legs wobbled, but he walked. They passed the house, which was in darkness, and when they reached the stile that would take them in the direction of the hill, George raised his corpse-head again and said "Stop!"  
He pointed over the fields. The hill loomed like a gloved fist.  
"To the Hill of the Fairies!" the old man said.

Liam looked up and saw a brief bluish glow embracing the bulk before it sank back into gloom.

* * * * *
Chapter 33

Malachy had been refreshed by his meal, but his mood changed as he approached his house. What had disturbed him about Jacqui's second name was beginning to crystallise. Jacqui Byrnes from Castleduff. Carmel Byrnes was the name of the woman he had known from there. He used to say she tasted sweet as caramel. He used to play with the sound of her name. Sweet Miss Burning. Melting toffee. She was gorgeous, great fun too, a rare find. When he was a truckdriver, he used to have a run to Killarney and he'd always try to arrange a stop-off in Castleduff to have a night with her. He even wrote to her for a while. How long did it go on? About six months probably. She was the first woman he had ever made love to. He'd never forget the overwhelming excitement of it, the drug that her body became. She had had a generous, easy sexuality, an almost swamping presence. Could she be related to Jacqui? As he drew nearer to Drumnashee, this question was becoming an obsession, taking his mind completely from the tragedies of the day. She certainly could be a relation. Could even be her daughter. He shuddered. An affair with both mother and daughter—that wasn't something he had ever aspired to.

He arrived home and hurried straight upstairs to the attic, turning on lights as he went. He found the box more easily than he had expected and brought it down to his bedroom. All his oldest correspondence was in it, stuff he hadn't bothered to unpack for years. A long, narrow biscuit tin held the letters. They were written on pink notepaper, all four of them. She had been quite a good writer, witty, and good at description. It had surprised him. She had signed them, 'Yours affectionately, Carmel', which was quite dignified, now he thought about it. One envelope contained a photograph. He stared at it for a long time. Those eyes, the eyebrows and lids. He looked at the date of the letter. Just before he had left for England. He calculated the years and months and felt his heart contract. He went to the mirror and formed his mouth into a smile. His canine teeth were a little short and leaned slightly in towards the incisors. Nothing major, but Jacqui had exactly the same formation. He had noticed it before, thought it attractive and a co-incidence. Now there were too many co-incidences. Not Carmel's eyes, the shape yes, but the blue? If his were a few shades deeper.... The laughing started in his head again. He put his hands over his ears, but of course that did no good.

He lay down on his bed and tried to breathe deeply, tried to control his nerves, but was unable to lessen the panic. Finally, he gave up. Like a man sleep-walking, he left his room and plodded down the stairs. Leaving the front door open, he went outside to the shed. There he chose an axe from the array of tools and, without a pause, headed for the hill. It was half past eleven.

* * * * *

Anne and Graham had gone for a few drinks in Hourigan's. They talked about their work, Joe's row with Valerie and very little else. Hourigan's had hired a trad band for the night and the place was packed. The roar of music, movement and banter mesmerised Anne, all the more so as the brandy went velvetly down.

After a long break in the conversation, Graham said, "I wonder where Jacqui went with the child's body."  
Anne thought for a minute.  
"Maybe she wants to bury it somewhere of significance to her. She's from County Limerick. Maybe she wants to take it there."

She pictured Jacqui's face as it had been in the Ladies' Room at Cleary's. She had been completely sure that David wouldn't be found. She must have known something. She must have been involved in his disappearance. But how? She'd surely not kill her children. She was over-wrought and might be a bit negligent, but she didn't seem crazed or malicious. Out of the blue, a picture of Aine Gallagher came into her mind. She was walking up the Hill of the Fairies wearing a long white dress, and her thick wavy hair was rippling all round her. It seemed that she turned her head and became Jacqui, smiling gorgeously, as if she were looking out from the front cover of Cosmopolitan.

"Anne? Are you alright?"  
"What?"  
"Do you want another drink?"  
"Ahh... no. Listen, Graham, I'm totally exhausted. Would you mind if I headed on home?"  
His eyebrows dived. He had a way of looking disappointed and disapproving at the same time.  
"I'm sorry, Graham. I really couldn't last another five minutes."  
He picked up his drink.  
"It's almost closing time anyway," he said, looking at his watch. "I'll finish this and we'll go."

Anne watched him finish his pint and hated herself for how she saw him now: a fussy, over-conscientious, weedy bore. He was almost sexless really. But she was hot with excitement as they headed for the door.  
"Listen," she said, grabbing his arm, "I think I'll walk home. It'll clear my head a bit."  
"Are you sure?"

Graham was thinking of his friend, Sean. Maybe he could talk to him about this. He felt abandoned.  
"I'm sure. Do you remember the way to Stembridge's?"  
"Yes. Right at that corner. Straight down and it's on the left. 33 Priest's Walk." Priest's Walk. He snorted at the irony.  
"Okay. Goodnight so."  
She looked straight at him and gave him a quick, closed-mouth smile. He nodded and looked down.  
"Will you come up tomorrow morning after your breakfast?"  
"Yes, of course."  
"See you then."  
"See you."

They looked at each other briefly. She touched his arm, said another _Goodnight_ and turned for home. By the time she reached Kilnalacka, she had decided not to go into the house. Her mother would start asking questions and she'd be worried. She wondered if she should call for Malachy. She stopped at the stile and looked towards his house. She saw its lights through the trees, but decided it was better to go alone. She studied the position of the hill, trying to remember the best route. It had been a long time.

* * * * *

Joe was well on. He had worked hard at the garage all day and then checked on the cattle when he'd got home. He hadn't slept well on Sunday night either, only floated below the surface, seeing the baby in his half-waking dreams, imagining it had a man's body and was coming for him with a hatchet. He longed for Val's yielding skin and wondered how he could be so stupid as to risk losing something as precious as a family. He hoped the few pints would get him to sleep.

Bricker Mahony couldn't get a sensible word out of him, just a few grunts and the odd shake of the head. He played no game of pool and threw no darts. His pals knew it was on account of Valerie, so eventually Brenda Downes came up to him.  
"You're a right snob tonight," she said.  
"Brenda, how're you."  
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and returned to the sightless stare he had speared to the back of the bar.  
"I saw Valerie today."  
He turned to face her.  
"She was very cut up about everything."  
"Was she?" He gave her a sideways glance.  
"Yeah." She stopped. "You were some bastard to do that to her, Joe."  
"If you see her, will you say.... Tell her I'm sorry, will you?"  
"You can tell her that yourself, Joe."  
"Sure she won't let me see her."

He started crying then—big, rolling tears that toppled out of his unblinking eyes and plopped unchecked into the Budweiser.  
"Maybe if you give her time. Maybe if you prove you're worth it."  
"Did she say that?"  
"Well, all I'll say is, she doesn't completely hate you. Although why she doesn't is beyond me, I can tell you that much."  
He brightened a little.  
"D'you want a drink, Brenda? Jesus, I never thought of asking you and you standing there. What'll you have?"  
"I'm alright Joe, honest. I've a full one over there. I only came over to say hello to you. A word of advice: don't go mad on the drink if you want her back. She's no doormat, you know."

Joe had never felt like this before. He had felt uncertain a few times, when he had started the job, for example. But he had always considered himself something of a cocky bastard. Now he couldn't muster any cockiness at all. He decided to go home and sit with his Mother for a while before going to bed. Maybe she could make sense of him, restore him to life. He didn't answer Bricker's parting words as he left.

* * * * *
Chapter 34: Jacqui's Diary Resumes

I rang the cab a bit early in case it'd be hard to get one, so I left Dublin at a quarter to ten. I was very calm, considering I had Brian's body in the boot. Or maybe because I had his body in the boot. I knew what I was doing was right, even though if I had told anyone they would have thought I was crazy. I had no idea what was waiting for me when I got to the hill. The thing that worried me most was, would I be able to get in again to the Sí as easily as I had the first time. I was counting on David to help me from the other side. I was worried too that Liam might see me going through the town. When we got to the sign for Drumnashee I ducked down. Then I remembered I had to give the driver directions—he was eyeing me in the mirror a lot—so I had to look up to see where we were going. Granted I looked completely different, but some people are very sharp. Liam had a sixth sense for these things.

Anyway, we got to Kilnalacka. It was a quarter to eleven. I thought that might be a bit early, but I had no choice other than to head on up and wait. I reckoned they wouldn't start anything too early in the night in case people were around, on the roads or whatever. Then I realised everyone would be out drinking that night, so it seemed the best thing to be there early. It never occurred to me until afterwards that I took to the whole set-up as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Of course I was up the walls at the time. But I accepted it all very quickly and kind of understood it.

I wasn't sure where to tell him to let me off. In the end we went just beyond Malachy's house and I got out there. As I stood on the dark road holding the case, my mind was absolutely clear. It was a nice night, cool but calm. Everything seemed right. I started over towards the hill. The case seemed to have got heavier and the arms were nearly dragged off me by the time I got to the bottom. I wondered if I could have missed everything. I couldn't see my watch in the moonlight. How was I to know what time meant to them? I was taking a quick rest, trying to get the feeling back in my arms, when all of a sudden the whole place lit up with a pale blue glow. Then little by little a road appeared on the side of the hill. It was whitish and sparkly—like what sunlight does to the surface of a lake, that kind of sparkle. I picked up the case and, I couldn't believe it, it was as light as a feather. I felt a small hand holding mine. I looked down. It was David. He was wearing a long white gown. He wasn't actually holding my hand, he was standing apart from me, so he must have been doing that trick he did before.

"There's a lot of magic around tonight, Mammy," he said.  
I shivered with excitement and whispered down to him.  
"Does this mean we can all go, David?"  
He didn't get a chance to answer because just then the music started. I had never heard music like it before and I don't know how to describe it. The nearest thing would be a choir, with male and female voices. There were words, but I couldn't understand them. They were more like natural sounds, like the sounds the wind makes and the sounds the dry earth makes when you walk on it and then when it's wet and you splish-splosh in mud. There were the noises of rivers, and I could picture the water splaying out as it went past rocks. I could see waterfalls and hear the roaring crashes as they touched down.

Playing around these sounds was a melody in two parts. If I concentrated on the high-pitched notes, they made me think of flying, made my body feel as light as a feather, made me think I was lifting off the ground. The low part was a hum and it got me in the pit of the stomach. I thought of all the little movements of the earth that we never notice. I thought of flowers being pushed up and I could hear what that sound must be, the creaking of the roots as they turn into branches, the crack of the soil. The opening of the buds was the same as a gigantic scattering of birds from the top of my head.

As we walked up the slope, people came from nowhere. They were dressed in vivid colours: yellow, purple, bright blue, scarlet, orange, green, and they all had a glow that started in their stomachs and spread out around their bodies. Just looking at them sent thrills through me. There were different low noises coming from each of them and as they passed their flesh seemed to vibrate. Looking back, I don't know how I saw all the colours when it was dark. I suppose the fairy glow let me to see them.

The people danced as they moved, bobbing up and down, swaying from side to side. I couldn't make out how so many could fit on the one path. Sometimes there seemed to be a packed crowd; other times there was space and I could see some of them moving in a formation. There might be, say, ten lines of three and they'd be keeping perfect step, kicking out, stopping, leaning to the side, jumping, standing on one leg, rushing on a bit. It was marvellous. When they ran, they looked like a sea of butterflies.

That was the way we got to the top of the hill and I was happy. I really thought Brian was going to come back to life. Or maybe I didn't believe he was actually dead. I thought he was going to do the same thing as David and fly away with the Sí and be alive always.

I got a shock when we arrived at the ring of trees. The atmosphere was different. There was a line of people—I could only think of witchdoctors—dressed in red and black. Their faces were painted black and their mouths white. They had bird feathers on their heads, stuck into big headdresses. There was a fire lighting on the rock in the centre and it was crackling like a great big hungry flower.

"I must be going now, Mammy," David said.  
I was terrified. I knew he was going for good. I made to grab him but he bounced up into the air away from me.  
"David," I said. "Come back for me, won't you?"  
He sent me a tight hug and a kiss. For all my bravery the night before, I would have held on to him if I had known of any way. He ran up to the witches and stood in the middle of the line.

There was this almighty wind, the fire went out and two huge women appeared, bringing a cloud with them. The lights of the other people faded out. Each of the women must have been at least seven feet tall. One was wearing a long black gown and the other was in red. They stood at either end of the line of witches. The one in black spoke first and when she opened her mouth, I heard the name 'Findmag' as if the crowd behind me had whispered it.  
"The obligation of the Host is clear," she said.  
Her voice gave me a shock, it carried so far. It was something like the roar of a lion.

"Following the Transformation, we will leave for the new site. It is fitting that we consecrate this hill with a Transformation before we leave. However, as you all know, several human issues must come to their natural conclusions in this place tonight. We will watch that also, and play whatever part we must. It is partly due to human interference that we must go, and partly due to the diminution of natural energy in this area. I myself have no great sympathy for the humans who defile our sacred places. Generally, those who disrespect us also disrespect themselves and deserve the consequences." She looked at me. My heart almost stopped at her ferocity. "You are David's mother?"  
I nodded.  
"We are aware of your intentions."  
I was relieved.  
"Can you take Brian and myself with you?" I said, and I made to open the case.

She was annoyed at that. Her face hardened up. It seemed like it wouldn't have taken much at all for her to fly into a rage. She looked as if she was barely keeping her temper under control.  
"We are not a burial service," she said, real cold-like.  
I started to cry. I looked at the other one. 'Scaw' was the name I thought of when I looked at her. I hoped maybe she was kinder.  
"Please," I said. "He didn't deserve this. I don't know what happened to him, but he really didn't deserve it. He was only ten months old."

I couldn't get any more words out. I opened the case as quickly as I could, struggling with the straps and lock and everything. There he was, as white as paint, his little face sweet and innocent. I took him out. I had forgotten how cold his body was and I got a shock when I touched him. The tears were streaming down by that stage, but I managed to slobber this out:  
"Can't you just transform him, even, with David? Please?"  
Scaw was staring at me all the time, not saying a word.  
She stepped forward slightly, or it felt as if she did. When I looked again, she didn't seem to have changed position at all. She started to speak. Her voice was powerful too, but it was gentler. I liked her.

"Findmag understands something she has not said. The Sí will only survive as long as humans allow us to be what we are. We can only take people who are finely tuned to our ways, people who will never be happy to live among mortals because they don't belong in that form anymore. The will to join us must be complete, and it must be the human's will, a free and total decision to leave the material world."

I didn't understand. I thought my will to go with them was complete. If they didn't take me, I didn't know what I was going to do. I was never going back to Liam. How was I going to get Brian buried? I couldn't even accept that he was dead. I had only one hundred and fifty pounds left in my pocket and no other plan. When the Sí disappeared, I'd be left shivering on the side of the hill with a dead baby in my arms. The Guards would pick me up in no time. They'd probably clap me in a madhouse. I knelt down, hugging Brian, even though the cold of his body was sending a chill into me. Everything was drifting away, like as if I was on a patch of ground that was turning into an island. Darkness rushed at me. Suddenly someone touched me. I didn't look up.

"Jacqui," a woman's voice said, and I knew it was Dechtire. I looked up at her and then buried my face in her skirt. She was wearing a deep shade of green. "Jacqui, you're privileged. No other woman has witnessed the transformation of her son."

It took a minute for that to sink in, and then I realised how right she was. This was something I'd never experience again. This was something almost no-body knew about. I was David's mother. I had a right to be there and watch him go, no matter how hard it was. I was special to him, even if I wasn't to anybody else. All around me went bright again. Findmag and Skaw were beside David. The big stone looked like it had turned to marble, it was that white and gleaming.

David walked towards the stone with Findmag in front and Scaw behind. He looked back once and when he saw me he waved, all excited. I desperately wanted to give him a hug. I turned to Dechtire, she was standing beside me at this stage, and she took Brian from me. Her right hand sailed past me like a sling and swept him up without touching me. I made to run forward, but something restrained me at the waist. I still don't feel it was enough, the way he sent out the sensations to me. I wanted to hold him properly, in the flesh, one last time. Isn't it only natural for a mother to want that? He did make me feel very close to him, but I couldn't say categorically that I held him. I suppose l mustn't have total faith. I can't be blamed for some lingering doubts, can I?

The 'hug' was wonderful alright, the sweet, fresh, child's smell of him, the smooth skin of his face. For the first time I realised that this child was a gift to me and I had given the world a gift by having him. I understood how I could get real pleasure out of a child, and not just a constant state of panic and worry. For the first time I was proud. Of myself as well as him. That made me swell out a bit and square my shoulders. I had something in me that was strong and innocent. Loveable even.

David lay down on the stone. Cascorach was there. I was getting used to the way they appeared and disappeared. Cascorach was wearing a silver gown and his hair was silver too. His face was splashed with light. He stood at David's head with Findmag on his right and Scaw on his left. A ring of Sí appeared around the stone, dressed in silver, all glowing like Cascorach. They joined hands and there was a burst of light from them that burned a hole in the night sky. The light seemed to have a sound as well—a hectic, gushing noise. I couldn't see David at this stage because he was surrounded, but after a minute I did. He had risen up, still in a lying position, and now he was suspended in the air. He was lying on the light the Sí were giving out, as if it was a cushion. It was an amazing sight. The rest of the crowd started to chant until it sounded like the whole world was singing. The place was packed full of people, or presences really, loads more than before. They were everywhere. And even though they surrounded me like a multitude, I could see David and the ring around him absolutely clearly, and I could hear everything as if it was being said directly to me.

The ring of Sí started to chant and the 'Host' answered them, repeating or adding to what they sang. It went something like this.  
The Ring: With all our wisdom we ascend to the will of the universe beyond the wind.  
The Host: With all our wisdom we return to unite the forces, love and learn.  
The Ring The Host  
In the light In the light  
In the full light In the full light  
Rise up Rise up  
Leave the body Leave the body  
Free the soul Free the soul  
Rise up Rise up  
Rise up Rise up  
To remember To remember  
To forget To forget  
By the spirit Of the heart  
You are one You are all  
Know the glory Know no fear  
Die and live Fly and come to earth  
Be you huge Or like a seed  
Serve the essence Of your self  
You are light You are light

They repeated "You are light" over and over, louder every time. As they said it, the atmosphere around me got so intense I thought I was being electrocuted. My body started to jerk and I couldn't control it. Dechtire reached out again, still holding Brian in her other arm, and covered me, all of me except my eyes, with her cloak. It's only looking back now I realise she wasn't wearing a cloak when I saw her first, and it couldn't have been big enough to cover me anyway, no more than her arm could have been that long. But whatever happened, I was shielded. The cloak seemed to act like a wall or a bullet-proof case or something, because the whole place was thundering. The trees were shaking. You could see the air like a silver sea and David—my God!—David was vibrating. His body was actually vibrating, like in the films when there's a high electronic sound and a glass starts to vibrate until it shatters.

He shattered before my eyes. A burst of blinding white like an explosion broke open his stomach and pieces of his body went flying off in all directions. I could see the red flesh of his insides. I was so shocked I was paralysed. And then the most amazing thing happened. The pieces stopped a few feet out from the stone, hung there for a split second, then went zooming back in again, towards the centre of the explosion. They hit the centre and were instantly eaten up by it. A ball of light was all that was left of his body. The ball turned different colours, rippling out and in as if it was made up of thousands of coloured threads, each with its own track. The song started again.

The Ring The Host  
Rise to the Air Fall to the earth  
Strength of the sky Power of the ground  
Spread to the universe Squeeze to a spot  
Live in the mind Cling to the flesh  
In stone In crystal  
In tree In grass  
In essence In kind  
This is the joyful race This is your eternal peace  
Thousands of years to stay In the billows of the Sí

These words are writing themselves. I really don't know if they were said as such, but they're the gist of what was meant. I'd better keep going before the memory begins to fade. I'm terrified of that, forgetting it all.

As they were singing (they repeated the same kinds of words over and over), the ball of colour started to cave in on itself, a lot like water in a sink after you pull out the stopper. It was all sucked into the centre. Every bit disappeared as it went, until there was only a tiny white speck hanging in the air. And then that was gone too.

I was shaking like a leaf. So much so I was really grateful that Dechtire had a hold of me, because I might have collapsed. I couldn't believe he was gone forever. I couldn't get that fact into my head. I was having doubts. The spectacle was so frightening I was afraid I was after getting involved with a crowd of lunatics and it wasn't the Sí at all. And what were the Sí anyway? Was I mad? Was everything since Saturday just one long hallucination? I wasn't seeing anything at all at this stage, until Dechtire took her cloak away and I felt naked without it. The crowd had thinned out and there were rows of them scudding down the hill like they'd never get out of there fast enough. The speed of them, I never saw anything like it. They got so fast it was more like streaks of lightning. Dechtire was still beside me, holding Brian, and there were others, about eight of them, who looked like they were going to do something with me.

Dechtire said, "Look!"  
I looked where she was pointing, and there was David, dressed in a brilliant white gown, waving at me from beside the altar. There were a group of children with him and they were all giggling and laughing. He blew me a kiss and they all went tearing down the hill after the others. I turned back to look at the group around me. It was then I saw that fellow, the one with the green and gold rig-out and the mocking grin on his face. Dechtire beckoned him to come forward.  
"Cruachan," she said, "It's time you explained some things to Jacqui."  
He slinked forward, as if he had been whipped into it. He was even stranger looking when I saw him up close. His skin was like shiny yellow leather and his eyes were orange. Horrible. He looked at me as if he hated me.  
"I planted the baby."

Strange as it may seem, that baby had almost slipped my mind. It had all been so unreal. Thank God I had enough presence of mind to talk. I asked him why, in a really low, hoarse voice. He looked up at Dechtire.  
"We knew about your own baby, the baby you killed," she said. "We can read people. "Cruachan carries out a kind of rough justice, but he doesn't know why. You could call him an agent of retribution if you like."  
"I don't understand. Yee were trying to make me suffer?"  
Cruachawn stood rubbing his yellow hands together, looking around him like a ferret.

"Somebody around here had a baby in a car on Saturday night. It was born dead and she left it by the well. Cruachawn found it on Sunday and was driven by his knowledge of you to place it in your bed. You see, we knew that you hadn't come to terms with what you had done. And it wouldn't have been right for you to leave Drumnashee on that day. Something had to keep you here. Also, Malachy Gallagher had violated our pathways by building his house where he did. We do what we must. We are instruments of healing, but often that healing comes through pain, and many people refuse the healing."

I was feeling out of my depth now. I thought it was a vicious trick to play.  
"Where's the baby now?" I asked her.  
"In the river," she said. "She'll be found there."  
"What am I going to do with Brian?"  
I had a sudden feeling that I was going to die, and I wanted to die, but Brian's body was like a weight around my neck. I felt I couldn't be free to go until he was at rest somewhere.  
"If you leave him on the altar stone, he will be found and buried. We cannot take him. A dead person cannot be transformed."  
"Are yee going to go now?"

I was getting fed up with them at this stage. I had thought they were going to save me, but it looked like they were no better than anyone else in this world. I thought maybe I'd just go walking with my dead baby and die of cold and hunger. That'd show them all.

A woman in a long blue gown came out from the group. They looked like a committee or something. She was smaller than the others, but she had gorgeous eyes. They were black and shone like patent leather shoes.  
"I'm Liban," she said. "I'm a seer."  
I couldn't be bothered saying anything to her. I was beginning to feel cold and I was desperately sad. Now that I was turning off them, I wouldn't give them the soot of crying in front of them, so I didn't even look at her. But she goes off into this speech and her voice was hypnotic. It made me feel like crying, so I tried to keep my distance from it.

"You are an injured bird, and like any injured bird, you cannot fly. You puff out your breast, you stir your legs, you raise your head for some sign of sustenance, but in vain. When you sense that you have been abandoned, you push your head under your broken wing and wait for death. But death does not come for a long time. You are exposed to the elements. The rain comes down in torrents on your weakened body, you are battered by the wind. Time goes by and, piece by piece, you are scattered in all directions, first your feathers, then most of your body parts, until finally all that is left of you is unrecognisable pulp under a speeding car."

I looked up at her, hating her for this horrific description. What was she going to do about it? Drive the car? I felt mad enough to strangle her. And then she said,  
"What are you going to do to heal yourself?"  
I went weak again and shook my head.  
"We will take you where you want to go," she said.  
"I already asked yee to take me with yee," I muttered. "Failing that, I want to die."  
"I have looked into your heart, and I see no death wish. I look at your body and I see no death wish. I look at your face and your mind and I see no desire to live with the Sí. You are bound to your flesh and your material destiny by the force of your own will."  
"But my life is shit."

"Your life is your life and no-one can take its essence away from you. You are Captain of your pain and Queen of your eternal spirit. You can cower while the world attacks you with every weapon at its disposal, or you can walk out and break those weapons and be unharmed. You are free as long as you give your spirit the space it needs to breathe. As long as you believe in the Sí, you don't need to be with us."  
She stopped and turned away. I'm still not sure what exactly she meant by all of that. I felt a bit unnerved by it.

"Please place your child's body on the altar stone."  
Dechtire sent Brian into my arms and I carried him over. The blue light of the Sí was still making the hill bright and it gave him a sacred sheen as he lay on the altar. I knew I was going on without him. I was going on alone.

Dechtire came over and stood facing me. I felt her hands in mine.  
"No-one we love leaves us without a gift. And we love you, whatever you might think. You will have a gift that will bring joy to yourself and others, that will give you the means to live well in your world. There will be changes. You will have to grow accustomed to the new knowledge within. You are brave, honest and beautiful. You do not deserve that violence should be done to you. May you never allow violence to visit you again."  
She kissed me then, the way they have of sending sensations, and I was overcome. Sweet, soft kisses all over my face. The only other person who had been so tender was Malachy. But now he, Dechtire and all other thoughts were drifting away.

* * * * *
Chapter 35: Jacqui's Diary Continues

The first thing I noticed was the smell. It was sweet and sharp at the same time, a warm, clingy smell like wet hay. Then there was the smell of dung that reminded me of the farms I knew as a child. Sounds of heavy breathing and quick snorts shocked me and I opened my eyes. After a few seconds I realised I was in a stable, lying in a vacant stall. I stood up. Sure enough, there was a big chestnut horse in the stall next to me, a real sleek beauty. I had never noticed how beautiful horses were before. I stroked her nose and talked to her. Then I said hello to the other two, a black and a stockier grey spotted one. This must be a well-off farmer, I thought to myself. I pushed at the door. It was locked from the outside. I looked around and found a window hole, no glass in it. After a bit of effort, I managed to stand on a large wooden crate, get through the window and jump down.

There was a big house to my right, a barn on my left, and I could see a road beyond the hedge on the other side of the house. There was no sign of life at all. It was morning, maybe seven o'clock or so. I was lucky the horses hadn't made a sound. I stole past the house, around to the front and down the drive—it was long but fairly winding so I could duck behind the hedge. It was a main road but quiet. It didn't look like anywhere around Drumnashee, but otherwise I hadn't a clue where I might be. I started walking to the right, because I had some inkling that there was more life that way. A truck passed. I got a sudden notion that I might hitch, so I crossed the road. Sure enough, the first car stopped. A business man in a black Audi. I hadn't a clue what to say.  
"The next town?"  
"Limerick?"  
"Yeah. Thanks."

He looked at me suspiciously, but as soon as I was in, I started on about how there was this song called 'The Next Town' and I had been singing it in my head before he came along. I started to giggle a bit then. I swear I felt I was fourteen again, a happy fourteen, like. No children, no man, just myself on the open road and this stranger who'd be gone his own way in no time. It felt good to be heading for Limerick too, although I had kept miles away from it for so long. I thought it might work out fine. Near enough to my mother that I could visit her, but far enough away to have a bit of privacy until I got myself sorted out.

It wasn't until I got into the city that I thought about Liam and wondered what had happened him. It crossed my mind that I should be mourning my two sons, but I couldn't bring myself to do that. I decided I was never meant to have children of my own and I'd make sure I never got pregnant again. I went into the Royal George Hotel to tidy myself up. I didn't look too bad considering I'd spent the night in a stable, but my make-up needed to be re-done. I wondered how I was going to get by. I didn't want to go on the streets, I had never done that. I had my bag and my Lone Parent's book was in it, but I wasn't sure how to work it. I thought first about transferring it to Limerick, but then I realised I might have to change my name so Liam wouldn't find me, or the Guards. I suddenly remembered I wasn't a lone parent anymore and I'd have to go on the dole. Trying to tease it all out in my head, I went down the street and found a nice little café for breakfast. I was so hungry I ate a full fry, not like me at all.

Everything looked so clear. As if I had had bad eyesight all my life and someone had just given me the right glasses. I was seeing sharp outlines around people, and colours in the air that people seemed to push and pull out of shape. The waitress who was serving me, I could read her mind. She was young, about eighteen, and she was worried about her baby. I could see him lying in bed coughing, a hard, barking cough.

"Croup," I said, when she bent over to put my pot of tea on the table.  
"What?" she said.  
"Croup!" I said. "He'll get better. Don't worry."  
Now I might have heard about croup years ago at home, but if I did I'd forgotten all about it. The words just came out by themselves. She stared at me as if I had three heads and went back to her work. I thought it was kind of funny.

After breakfast I went for a wander, thinking I might find a Social Welfare office, but I was half afraid to do that in case the Guards would be on to me. I had to find somewhere to stay and I needed clothes. A hundred-and-fifty pounds wasn't going to last very long. None of these things were worrying me as such. They were just sitting at the back of my mind. It felt like nothing was worth worrying about, that I could just simply live. I was thinking how nice the sky looked at that time of the morning when a man brushed past me and I stumbled up against this cardboard sign that was attached to a railing:  
CLAIRVOYANT  
CAREFUL, SENSITIVE PERSONALITY READING  
GUIDANCE FROM PAST LIVES TO YOUR FUTURE  
MAKE APPOINTMENT IN BASEMENT (Bell at bottom of steps)  
OR PHONE 241689

I slipped down the steps and rang the bell at the door. A woman opened it. For a second I thought I was back in Fairyland. She was the image of Dechtire. I let a gasp out of me. I was thinking was I like Alice in Wonderland or the girl in The Wizard of Oz? Was I in a parallel world? Maybe the Sí had taken me and this was how the world looked through their eyes.

A girl of about ten came up beside the woman. She was going to say something, but the woman made a sign to her that she was to go back in.  
"Are you reading palms?" I asked her.  
She stared at me. She looked like she was just up, naturally enough. She was puzzled but not annoyed.  
"Come in," she said.

She walked like a queen. She had a flowing pale yellow skirt on that went down to her calves and a soft woollen jumper to match. She took me to a small room at the back. There were soft rugs on the floor, two armchairs, and a low table by the wall with a chair at either side. She lit a candle on the table.

"Sit down please," she said. She sat facing me. There was no crystal ball or anything. She muttered some words about cleansing me and herself and the room. She took hold of my hands and closed her eyes for a while. Then she started to talk.  
"When I saw you at the door, I couldn't understand why you were here. I thought maybe it was to test me or mock me. But I sense now that you sincerely need guidance. You have a gift and you don't know what to do with it. Do you know you have it?" I shook my head.  
"You're as clairvoyant as I am, maybe more. If you look carefully, you can easily read people's minds and hearts."

There was some heat coming from the joining of our hands. It was pleasant, but a bit frightening. She said:  
"Never be afraid to use your gift except where you might cause destruction. Don't be afraid of the forces. Find your own centre and stand there, no matter what happens."  
She looked at my palms.  
"You've suffered a lot in your short life, but your suffering is going to get less and less. There's something you did in the past that has caused you to feel guilt, but you have been forgiven for it. You'll bring a lot of peace and joy to people who have suffered like yourself. That's the distant future. In the distant future as well, you'll be your own boss."

She stopped looking at the palms and put her head back with her eyes half-closed.  
"Something happened very recently that changed your whole life, and even maybe your personality. There's a tall, brown-haired woman who will watch out for you. There are two children here. They want you to know they're alright and that you're to be happy."

She looked straight at me for a minute as if she had seen something she didn't like.  
"I'd prefer not to read anymore, if you don't mind. I'd like to talk to you about how to use the gift, though."  
I told her I'd like the advice. Funny, I'm not really interested in knowing much about my future.

Kate, that's her name, went through the lines on the hand, and she made a basic map of a pair of hands for me. She said to study it. She gave me the names of books she thought I should read. She let me borrow one, on Palmistry. She said to come back after I had them read. She wouldn't take any money at all from me, said get myself set up first. I'll pay her back, definitely. My days of taking something for nothing are gone. Hannah Brennan just came into my mind there. I must pay her back too when I get the money together.

I asked Kate if she knew somewhere, a flat or anything, that I could rent.  
"Well, now," she said, "isn't fate a marvellous thing? I have a house let in flats. I inherited it from my father. One of the flats is vacant and I put an ad in the paper last week, but I didn't have anyone enquiring about it. I thought it might be because of the build-up to Paddy's Day, but maybe it was waiting for you, Jacqui."  
"What day is it?"

Imagine I didn't even know what day it was. If it was St Patrick's Day, the seventeenth, there was no sign of it. All the shops and everything were open.  
"It's Friday. Friday the nineteenth of March."

* * * * *

I gave Kate thirty pounds for the first week's rent and went off to see if I could get a book or two. I thought I might ring the studio in Drumnashee. I was going to pretend to be someone else and find out if Liam was there. But I didn't need to. When I walked into Eason's, there it was on the news stand. I picked up The Irish Times.

INVESTIGATION CONTINUES INTO MURDER AT DRUMNASHEE

Then there was a bit of a re-cap. Malachy Gallagher had been found dead on the hill with twenty-five stab wounds in his chest and back. I went weak when I saw it. I paid the girl and got out as fast as I could. I looked at it again when I had a cup of coffee in front of me. From what I can make out, and I have all the papers at this stage, this is what happened:

Malachy was found dead on the hill with an axe in his hand. His body was discovered beside one of the trees, which it seems he had been trying to knock down. He had put axe marks on all the trees in the circle. According to Anne Brennan, her mother—who had gone up there for some unknown reason—had seen him trying to fell the trees and tried to calm him down, but she was afraid of him, the way he was behaving. Anne told the paper how much out of character it was for him. Hannah decided to go back down home and get some help.

On her way down she saw a figure coming up, bent over as if he was carrying something. He was talking to himself, but she couldn't make out a word he was saying. When she shone her torch on him, she discovered that it was Liam. She tried to talk to him, but he looked at her with a vicious glare in his eyes, so she turned off the torch and backed away, moving as quickly as she could. I can imagine how she felt. He was coming after her, but then he stopped. Malachy was talking all the time, going on about jinxes and babies and the Fairy Hill and his wife and his daughter (He had a daughter?) and death and destruction. It's as if he felt the trees had done something to him (Anne's words). Liam forgot about Hannah and walked very quietly towards Malachy. Hannah was in a state of shock, so she didn't twig that he was going to do anything. She didn't know which of them to be more frightened of at that stage. In the faint moonlight, she saw that Liam had crept right up behind Malachy without a sound. His arm was raised. She finally found her voice and shouted to Malachy to look out. Anne Brennan arrived at that point and was surprised to find the others there, especially her mother.

There were the sounds of a struggle. Hannah had been kind of paralysed, so she hadn't turned her torch back on. Anne grabbed it and shone it on the two men in time to see Liam stabbing Malachy in the back. Hannah fainted. Anne didn't know what to do. She couldn't leave her mother there on her own, so she turned off the torch and pulled Hannah into the shade of some bushes, hoping they could hide. She could hear the sounds of the knife squelching into Malachy's body over and over, but strangely enough, he didn't cry out. Finally there was silence. After a short while she heard Liam say, "You're gone now, you fucker."

The Guards found Liam's body on Tuesday evening. He hadn't gone far away from the hill, just a few hundred yards. He was lying in a dyke and he had cut his wrists. They had a photograph of his knife. The same one he threatened me with. I'm not exactly sorry he's gone, but it does make me sad. To think of a man lying there bleeding in a ditch and the way he used to be—precise, active, full of plans, evil and all as they were. It's such a waste. I know he'd probably have killed me someday, but it's the person he could have been that I'm mourning. Something must have made him the way he was.

Hannah came round, and she and Anne found Brian's body. Anne's brother went down the town to call the Guards and an ambulance. The Guards are looking for me now. There was a Superintendent on the telly on Saturday night and Anne Brennan was with him. They said they were concerned about my health. The Super seemed human enough, but you can never trust them.

"Ms Byrnes might be under the impression that there are charges against her, but this isn't so. We're only concerned about her health. And she may have wishes concerning the burial of her child. Obviously, if she doesn't contact us soon, we'll have to go ahead and carry out a funeral. Her other child is still missing. The search is continuing for him and if he's found it would be upsetting for him if his mother wasn't there. We'd appreciate if any of Jacqui's relatives could contact us. We've been trying to locate her mother, but it appears that she left the country a few years ago."

The interviewer asked all sorts of questions then:  
"Is it possible that Jacqui Byrnes and her eldest son are together somewhere?"  
"We're exploring every possibility," said the Big Man.  
"The baby who was found in the river, is that connected with the other disappearances, do you think?"  
"Investigations are still underway concerning that baby. We would appeal to the mother to come forward. She will be treated most sympathetically. As in the case of Ms Byrnes, our primary concern is for the health of the unfortunate girl or woman involved."  
"Is it possible that Liam O'Malley may have committed other murders?"  
"We're exploring every possibility."

The news was almost totally taken up with it. All the implications. My movements. David's last known movements. My God, Mammy gone away. To England probably. Hardly Barbados. I wonder was Patcho with her, or did she run from him? My picture is all over the place, wherever they got it. I'm looking at it now. I can't make out where it's from. Head and shoulders. Oh Jesus, yeah. That's the one where I was half naked and... I don't want to think about it, it makes me feel dirty and small. The Guards were looking at it, studying it. No way will I get in touch with them. They'd be looking me up and down, thinking I didn't notice. I know men. It says in The Irish Times that the people of Drumnashee have made a collection for Brian's burial. That's amazing. I wonder would they do that if they knew I stole three hundred pounds from Hannah Brennan. It says they're "deeply shocked" by the happenings. Just goes to show how much people know about their own town. They probably noticed that things were wrong and a bit weird, but they never expected this kind of bloodbath. Neither did I. There's a lot of blood on my hands now.

END OF JACQUI'S WRITTEN ACCOUNT

* * * * *
Chapter 36

The Irish Times, Monday 22ndMarch

The remarkable happenings in Drumnashee over the past week have been compounded by the revelation that the population of this rural town has, for generations, held the deluded notion that 'Fairies' inhabit the hill on the outskirts of the town. No fewer than twenty people have come forward to stress that anyone who interferes with the hill must expect what they get. And this twenty is, it would appear, but the tip of the hazel wand.

One could speculate, and this remains to be explored, that the parties involved in the bloodbath on the 'Hill of the Fairies' were equally deluded, and that the delusion led them to their destruction. Why was Malachy Gallagher hacking down the trees? The local people shrug and sniff. They say he was a 'blow-in' and never had enough respect. Wait for it: his own wife, Aine, was 'taken' by the fairies because of his disrespect. I've had to check my calendar several times over the past week to confirm that I'm living in the twentieth century, post-Psychoanalysis, post-quantum physics, post-deconstruction, post-methodical enquiry, post-sanity for Sanity's Sake!

Collective delusion has been defined as "the spontaneous, rapid spread of false or exaggerated beliefs within a population at large, temporarily affecting a particular region, culture, or country". Witness the moving statue phenomenon. Witness the Salem witch trials. Witness the UFO phenomenon. But wait, the UFO phenomenon continues. So we haven't grown out of this, and perhaps never will. We will always perhaps experience the failure of rationality and a clinging to outlandish explanations for the phenomena around us.

But let me plead, for the sake of our children, that we take a deep breath and try to resist the easy and unproveable answer. The collective delusion in Drumnashee has given rise to a certain callousness in the attitude of the locals which is deeply disturbing. To say that anyone had twenty-five knife wounds 'coming to him' is to suck our civilization back to the days of burnings and duckings. To abnegate personal or collective responsibility and imply that individuals can be attacked by incorporeal beings, in person or by proxy, is unacceptable in the extreme. This is illness. We must not allow ourselves to regress to an age of wanton cruelty and undiscriminating hocus pocus. Please, Drumnashee, wake up and smell the flesh.

* * * * *

Anne got up from the table and went to the window. The hill had overshadowed all her growing years. Hannah had forbidden them to go up there, forbidden them even to look at it too often. But she had gone up anyway, and looked at it anyway, from her bedroom window. She had gone there to kiss Paddy Kiely. She had played there with Maria. She had loved the mystery of it. You never knew what might happen on the hill, if the fairies had the power to cause cattle to die screaming or render humans speechless.

Now it smelled of blood. But everything had smelled of blood since she had touched Malachy's perforated body. The ground didn't feel steady under her feet. She had thought the earth had shaken very slightly when she was at the foot of the hill that night, but no-one else had said anything about it, so she hadn't either. The Times article made sense. Of course there were no Fairies. But collective delusion was as real a thing as anything else if it caused people to act in a certain way. And behaviour might also be influenced by earth energies and their disturbances. Her mother had seen lights, nothing else. They could have been caused by lots of things. Anne herself had never seen anything that resembled a Fairy. Malachy, according to Hannah, had seen Aine after she had been 'taken'. Post- traumatic delusion? More than likely. Her head ached.

She moved from the window and continued to put her mother's things into a case. She'd have to go up to Dublin to get her car and arrange a few things. Then she'd come back down and sort out the house for when Hannah came home from hospital. If she came home. She shook herself. She mustn't be negative. She didn't feel able for work and Dublin just now. Horrifying as the past week had been, this was home and there were old friends who could be trusted. Maria had called round a few times. Nothing had changed between them as far as she was concerned.

She thought of Hannah's stark, vacant eyes and her parched lips. The doctor had said she might come out of it, but she could go either way.  
There was a tentative knock at the door, uncharacteristic for Joe. He walked in shyly.  
"Packing her things?"  
"Yeah."  
"Will you be going back to Dublin?"  
"Just for a night. I'll apply for leave. If they don't give it to me, I'll just go sick. It won't be much of a lie. I'll come back down for a week or two, get things in order around here."

He thought for a minute, strolled around the kitchen, soaked up comfort from the familiar objects.  
"Would you live here, do you think?"  
"Why do you ask that?"  
"I think I might emigrate."  
"To where?"

"England, I suppose. Don't think I'd get in anywhere else."  
"England's no better than here. And you'd have no friends." He shrugged his shoulders. "What about Valerie?"  
"She might come with me."  
"Did you talk to her about it?"  
"Yeah. She didn't say no." He was restless.  
"I don't know what we'll do if... when Mammy comes home. She'll need looking after."  
Joe didn't answer.

"Joe, Mammy said there was money under her mattress. I can't find it."  
"Well, I didn't take it."  
"Oh come on, I didn't say you had."  
"I'll have a look." He went into the bedroom and said, "Oh", when he saw the mattress standing against the wall. He looked helplessly at the bare floor.  
"Maybe she took it and put it somewhere else. Or she might be raving."  
"She might be raving. Yes, she might."

Anne wouldn't have minded dying there and then. There were too many changes all at once. She just wanted to disappear. Maybe she was having a breakdown. She realised she wasn't even trying to be positive anymore. In a way, that made her feel free.

* * * * *
Chapter 37: Wednesday 24th March

I steal some Elizabeth Arden eye shadow from Roches Stores. I need a lift and I suppose it's hard to break the habit, especially when I'm good at it. I'm feeling very low. I don't know if I'm ever going to change. This Gift I'm supposed to have—I can feel it alright, but am I going to be able to use it? Like, it's frightening the shit out of me at the moment, visions flashing over people's faces, weird shivers all over my body. I'm not sure I want it. I'm not feeling good about the Sí either. They might just be bad bastards. All because Malachy Gallagher built his house on one of their paths? And David is one of them now. Well, his parents weren't exactly the best role models either. Then I wonder am I a lunatic and did I imagine it all? Did the past eight years happen, even? Here I am in Limerick without a man, without a child, without a lover, the way I started. My whole life wiped out in a long weekend.

I have a bad headache starting at mid-day. I'm going to do some psychic readings and save enough money for the boat to England. I might be able to get a false birth cert and sign on. I know someone in Dublin. Either way the Social Services give you money if you're destitute. I'll think of some way to live. With a fake birth cert I could probably get a job in a shop or something. Even without one.

I need painkillers for this headache and I know no-one. If I went to the right pub I'd surely meet people. I'm only hanging around these past few days, not eating or anything. The time is going really slow.

This is like magic. Kate calls just as I'm about to go hustling. She gives me the name of this woman who's a natural healer. And other people I should meet, she says. It all sounds a bit formal, a bit out of my depth, but it's something, I suppose. I can't imagine ever being like everyone else, respectable like, but Kate says I should trust myself. Little does she know what I've done. Or maybe she does. After all, she's psychic!

Now this. Talk about magic—I'm rooting in my bag for lipstick and I find a little square of green silk. It's clinging to the piece of David's pyjamas Malachy found on the hill. When I take it in the palm of my hand, I see Dechtire again and David, and they're dancing, him in white, her in that green. Both of them are laughing as if they hadn't a care in the world. After all that's happened, is it alright for them to laugh like that? Shouldn't they cry a bit first? How long do you cry for? At what stage do you have the right to be happy? I rub the silk between my fingers. It's not disappearing.

THE END

###

If you liked this book, take a look at The Coal-black Sea, also at Smashwords in multi-format.

The Coal-black Sea at Smashwords.com

About the author

I was born in Co. Limerick, Ireland, and now live on the outskirts of Dublin. I've become known as an innovator in text and poetry presentation, and have been described as 'a unique presence in the Irish literary scene'. The latter refers to my having been one of the first Irish poets to embark on performance poetry in the early nineteen-nineties. That scene is blossoming now, though **I've never been a 'scene' person exactly. I spend most of my available time writing, both prose and poetry. My literary philosophy is, in general, to attempt form that mirrors sense. I like language that dances; I like to dance language. On the other hand, I love precision, and I'm very interested in literary aphorism. My prose work,** **Savage Solitude,** **conflates the lot—dramatic dialogue, aphorism, poetic narrative, philosophy and research. Unlike many performance poets, I'm often asked to do readings with more traditional writers, so I happily straddle, and I hope happily marry, the different approaches. I've written three other novels.**

**My** website **has links to my other works in print, which are available to buy. I do a monthly essay on my website, which I call a** Blog **for the sake of common currency, and if you befriend me on** Facebook **, you'll know when it's online.**

Thank you for reading.
