Let Them Lie, page 24
‘What card nights?’ Aoife asked, holding her breath.
‘Aww, just a wee thing he does with old school pals. He goes off to different houses and plays a few games. He’s never very late but he seems happier after he has these outings. But I’d love it if he met a nice girl. Someone to share his life with and not be stuck minding an old one like me. Do you think staying on the farm with me is cutting his chances of meeting someone?’
‘Mam, I doubt it -– not everyone wants to marry and have kids, you know.’
Agnes gave her shoulder a little squeeze. ‘OK, love, I forgot for a minute about you and Connor. I’m sure you’ll meet someone else soon.’
Aoife could feel her nerve-endings tingle and a surge of tears press against her eyelids. It took all her strength to smile brightly and nod.
They finished their meal in silence and Aoife sent her mother into the front room to watch TV while she cleaned up. She allowed herself the brief luxury of crying as she loaded the dishwasher and swept the kitchen floor. Then she turned out the lights in the kitchen and with grim determination resolved to shed no more tears from now on.
She joined her mother to watch the nine o’clock news and, when her mother settled down to watch a movie, she inspected the drinks cabinet, liberated a bottle of Irish whiskey and took it up to her room where she steeled herself to do further research.
CHAPTER 40
Anika Bakker 1978 – Sligo/Donegal border
Mary Bernadette Maher 1980 – Sligo
Anna Halliburton 1985 – Galway
Catherine Gillespie 1986 – Mullingar
Louise Kavanagh 1988 – Dublin
Susan O’Brien 1992 – Clonmel
There were greyhound stadiums in many of these areas but, equally, Manus could have been attending marts, or collecting machinery when he came across these women.
She stared at the first three names on the list, sickened. Those poor women died because her mother’s depression had triggered something dark in her father. They had their futures stolen from them. Their lives with all their possibilities were wiped out because her father was a fucked-up monster. Her father the destroyer had taken away their lives, scarred their families and robbed the world of all the difference their presence might have made. They had lost their lives when they were at their most vital. No, not lost their lives as though they had been careless – no, they hadn’t lost their lives, they had their lives ripped away from them. Now all that remained were names on a Missing Person site and the tormented memories of those who loved them. They had no future, and their loved ones had lost that future too. Mary Bernadette’s mother would never get to be part of her daughter’s life and all its possibilities. Pádraig would never get to marry his secret love. Lotte Bakker had lost her sister and confidante. Susan had lost her twin, and all the adventures they could have shared. God knows what other lives and private hells existed behind that simple list of names. She didn’t want to know. She felt an obligation to honour their memories by at least finding out a little about the lives stolen, but she was too weak and cowardly. It was enough to know they existed, and there could be many more that she knew nothing about. Her father was in his mid-twenties when he married. He could have been venting his hate and rage for years. She recalled reading stories of ‘the disappeared’ in places like Columbia and Guatemala. How it tormented the families not having a body to bury. They spoke of their desperate need to find out what happened to their loved ones and to lay their bodies to rest. It wasn’t a lot to ask, was it?
But it was a lot to ask for her family. They were innocent victims too. Their lives would be destroyed if she went public with what she had discovered. How could she do this to her mother, Kate, and Sam, not forgetting Sandy and Colm? Poor Colm was struggling with having a broken father – imagine piling all this horror on his young shoulders!
How long had Sam known and why hide the box? He must have buried it when Polly died, and that happened shortly after Manus had died. When had he discovered it? After the funeral? Or had he known before Manus died? But he might have his own secrets to hide. Her mam had said that he used to disappear off to Donegal to dances. She thought he might be seeing someone. But perhaps he was continuing his father’s work. She thought about the missing girl in Donegal. No! She couldn’t believe that of Sam. Her Sam! Questions swarmed round and round her head, making it ache. How had Manus got away with it for so long and where did he bury all those girls? It was extraordinary that they had disappeared without a trace. Were their unmarked graves on the farm? From her vantage point on the tree the other day, she could see the diversity of the farmland. Her father had never been much of a tillage farmer – he kept dairy cows and animals to sell at the mart, but he wasn’t interested in growing potatoes or vegetables, unlike most of the farmers in the area. He gave up growing things in the early 80s as it was labour intensive. Sam followed in his footsteps. The phrase made her shudder. Sam didn’t follow in her father’s footsteps, he just hid them. Perhaps he was afraid to plough the land because of what it might expose. How deep did a grave have to be? Karol had dug about four feet to bury poor Nell. She recalled Westerns that she watched with Sam as a child, and the bad guys all seemed to agree on six feet to bury a body. The outlaws often made their victims dig their graves – what a refinement of torture to be forced to prepare your final resting place.
Aoife’s mind recoiled at the thought of how those young women had suffered. Did they feel terror or were they like Anika, taken by surprise with little time to react or feel fear? But perhaps some of them fought back, their sufferings prolonged like Mary Bernadette. Images of her father’s face contorted with hate and rage imposed themselves on her retina and froze there until she rubbed her eyes harshly. Obviously there must have been a sexual element – presumably the killing itself provided release – but did it go further than that? In the diary, Manus spoke of spending time with the dead women. Unable to contemplate these disturbing thoughts, she closed her laptop. Filling up her glass, she pulled the eiderdown from the bed around her shoulders. That her father was a monstrous killer was horrific enough, but the thought that he was a rapist too was a horror too deep to bear.
What about Sam and those mysterious monthly trips away from home? She never heard of him playing cards before. She didn’t think he liked to gamble. And his secret trip to Donegal when he said he was in Mullingar. What did it mean? She looked at her phone. The news feed said the young girl from Donegal, Jane Cornell, was still missing. Could Sam have done something to her? Her skin crawled as though covered with tiny ants as she thought about it.
If only she had someone to talk to. Normally, Sorcha would have been the friend she shared all her worries, hopes and dreams with. But this was a category of horror that she couldn’t unleash on a friend however close and, besides, how could she swear her to secrecy, to make her accessory to withholding information on a crime? It was impossible. A wall of loneliness settled over her. She poured more whiskey, hoping to numb herself, at least until morning.
At twelve she heard Sam come in. She listened to the indistinct murmur of voices as he spoke to Agnes and then a short time later heard her mother slowly climb up the stairs to bed. Sam followed soon after.
Two hours later she groggily climbed into bed. Despite the whiskey, she lay awake for a long time and when she did lose consciousness her sleep was fitful, beset with troubling dreams that disappeared from her memory like water trickling down a drain each time she awoke.
CHAPTER 41
Aoife pulled sleep-glued eyelashes apart, tormented by the light streaming through the partly closed curtains. She glanced at the clock. Unbelievably, it was half past twelve. Groaning, she dragged herself to the bathroom. She stood inert under tepid water until it ran cold. Shivering, she dried off and dressed, then went downstairs.
Agnes was in the kitchen washing lettuce at the sink.
She turned her head and smiled. ‘Ah, there you are. I peeped in earlier but you were sound asleep.’
‘Yes, I stupidly stayed on my laptop till the early hours.’
‘Well, you’ll have to fend for yourself now, pet. We’ve already eaten. We had a light lunch – we’ll have the dinner in the evening.’ She beckoned to Aoife to come closer and, putting a finger to her lips, whispered, ‘Baby is here. I had to produce a quick meal for her. She caught the early train from Dublin. Sam had to pick her up. I don’t know what possessed her as she rarely travels alone. I think she must be lonely.’
‘Where is she?’ Aoife asked. That was all her mother needed – a plump elderly toddler with an insatiable desire to be coddled and minded.
Agnes gestured towards the living room and continued to whisper. ‘I’m taking a lift into the shops with Sam in a while – there are things I need. Lovey, would you ever mind keeping Baby entertained until we get back? I’ve defrosted a lasagne and if I’m not back you could pop it in the oven at around five and maybe prepare a salad. But I won’t be that long.’ As she spoke she gave her hands a quick rinse under the tap and dried them on a tea towel.
Aoife hadn’t the heart to refuse, not that she actually could.
‘Why has she come?’
‘She mentioned coming for a visit a while back but I forgot all about it,’ Agnes whispered. To be honest, I could do without her but she’s your dad’s sister so I couldn’t refuse. You know how it is.’
‘Is that you, Aoife, dear? I’m in the front room,’ came Baby’s querulous tones.
Sighing loudly and cursing under her breath, Aoife called, ‘I’ll be in with you in a minute, Baby! I’m just making a coffee!’
Sam and Agnes had left, leaving her to baby-sit Baby.
Gulping at the hot coffee, she joined Baby where she sat ensconced on the largest armchair, a tray of tea things on a low table in front of her.
Baby was a study in roundness. Her frame was slight but encased in so much flesh that she resembled a springy ball. Her eyes were round, and her mouth appeared to be making a perpetual ooh shape of shock or disapproval. She was wearing her usual grey dress and was wrapped in two layers of enveloping shawls in hues of lilac and pink, with her bulging feet encased in sturdy brogues.
‘Aoife, it’s so nice to get chance to talk to you alone. We hardly spoke at your dear father’s anniversary. I was so sorry to hear about you and your young man. But it’s better to find these things out sooner than later and have to rue your choice.’
‘Sorry, what do you mean about finding out things?’
‘Ah now, Aoife, I can read between the lines as well as anyone and I think we all felt that your young man had a straying eye. He was shiftless too, so really you had a lucky escape, my dear.’
‘Baby, I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but it’s all wrong. Connor is a wonderful person and our reasons for breaking up had nothing to do with his behaviour.’
Baby opened her eyes wide. ‘Oh my dear, I just assumed when you suddenly broke up that perhaps he had been misbehaving.’
‘Well, you are wrong. Connor wasn’t the one misbehaving as you called it.’ Aoife deliberately stressed Connor’s name, knowing the construction Baby would put on it. She watched with satisfaction as colour washed over Baby’s face.
‘I see,’ she said icily.
‘Well, Baby, you’re looking well. The Wicklow air must agree with you. I see that you’re finished your cup of tea. Would you like a fresh drop?’
Baby looked a little mollified and assented to another cup of tea which Aoife poured.
The conversation was turgid until Aoife used this opportunity to see what her aunt’s take was on life on the farm when she was a young girl. After all, she had quizzed everyone except Baby, and she was the closest in age to her father.
‘Baby, I’m thinking of working on our family history and, although I have lots of information on Mam’s family, I don’t have a lot on the O’Driscoll side. Emma and Clarissa are always saying what a fantastic memory you have. So would you mind helping me out?’
Aoife could see that flattery was paying dividends.
Baby flushed with pleasure. ‘Well, my dear, I would love to help but I’m not too good on dates, you know.’
‘That’s OK, Baby, I can work out the dates, but I would love some background about your parents and where they came from. I mean, I don’t even know if they were from this area originally. I really would appreciate your help.’
Baby was positively blushing with pleasure. ‘Well, why don’t you ask me some questions and I’ll do my best to answer them for you.’
‘How about you tell me all about your parents and I’ll record you for posterity?’
Puffed up with self-importance, Baby waited eagerly while Aoife pressed record on her mobile. ‘This is exciting,’ she lisped.
‘Perhaps you could start by telling me about where your parents came from, how they met and so on?’
‘All right!’ said Baby and screwed up her face, struggling to remember. ‘Well, Dada was from Leitrim originally, but an elderly uncle left him the farm here and so they moved in the 1920s. Mother was originally from Dublin but was sent down the country where she met our dear dada. They had seven surviving children. I think Mother lost two children between me and Manus. I’m sure it made her very sad, but Mother wasn’t one for feeling sorry for herself and, well, in those days you just got on with things. None of this crying and weeping and making much of everything, as is the fashion nowadays. Anyway, they were both devout Catholics and raised us to be regular in our religious duties. Mother was strict and she didn’t believe in spoiling us, but Dada was great fun. I remember him giving me piggybacks when I was small. It was so exciting to be so high off the ground, and he loved to gallop away like a crazy horse.’ Baby smiled reminiscently. ‘But is this what you want, Aoife? I don’t think I have too much more to tell.’
‘No, this is exactly what I want – a first-hand account. You never know, I might write a family history and dedicate it to you.’
Baby beamed delightedly at the blatant flattery. ‘Well, poor Dada didn’t have long with us. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but he got pneumonia or pleurisy and died. It was so sudden. I was only seven and I was so upset but, as for Mother, I think it broke her heart. I can’t ever remember her smiling or being happy again. Of course, it wasn’t your father’s fault, but I don’t think mother saw it that way.’
‘Hey, what do you mean, Baby? How could it have been my father’s fault? He was only a child.’
‘Oh dear, I’m always leaving things out. Let me see ... Ah yes, Manus was always an active wee fellow and one morning in late summer he escaped from the yard and wandered over to the neighbour’s and, well, he fell in a river at the end of their garden. Luckily for him, Dada went after him and jumped in and rescued him. Well, what with taking care of the little lad and getting him warm and dry, Dada neglected himself. I don’t know if I mentioned he had a weak chest, perhaps even asthma – well, anyway he took a dreadful chill and before too long it had spread to his lungs. Poor Dada was dead shortly afterwards. But mother was devastated. I’m not sure if I imagined it but she made this noise when the doctor told her he’d died – it sounded like what the old folk would call a Banshee.’ Baby shuddered a little at the memory and went uncharacteristically silent.
‘But surely Grandmother couldn’t blame a small child for what happened. It was an accident.’
‘Well, true, but Mother was furious that Manus had disobeyed her and left the house. I remember her saying “If you only did as you were told, your father would be alive today”. She shook him so hard that my older brothers had to rescue him. But I’m sure she forgave him, and we all kept her busy after Dada died. It was hard work on the farm, but she was a remarkable woman really ...’ Baby’s voice stalled as she saw Aoife’s shocked face.
‘My God, Baby, your mother sounds awful. Why would she land all that guilt on a small child?’
‘Oh, I’m sure Manus got over it. Children don’t really understand, do they, and it never stopped him from wandering. He was always outside playing. Sometimes he’d even forget to come in to eat. So, I’m sure he was having fun.’ Baby looked a little uncomfortable.
‘Was she hard on my father, Baby, did she take her anger about what happened out on him?’
‘Well, I don’t know, Aoife, those were different times and people didn’t pay so much attention to children then. But Manus had a thick skin – he never seemed to care if Mother was harsh. But, really, I suffered the most. I was to make my Communion that year and Mother told me I could have a little party, but because Dada died I didn’t even get a new dress – just a hand-me-down from Emma and she was much bigger than me – I’m not saying she was fat, but she definitely had big bones and because mother was so upset she took little care with the restyling. I was lost in it, and I had to wear Clarissa’s shoes and her feet were huge, so I had to stuff the toes of my shoes with newspaper and I got blisters.’ Noticing that Aoife was looking distracted, Baby paused and asked, ‘Well, have you more questions for me? I have lots of information about our school days, you know.’
Aoife shook her head but then asked, ‘No, wait, how did Dad get on at school? Did he have friends?’
‘Well, I was five years ahead in school, so I didn’t see too much of Manus at school and he was always missing days. He had to help on the farm, you know, we all did.’
‘Yes, but he was the youngest – surely his older brothers would be more useful?’
