Seventy Times Seven (33 page)

Two days later at 11 a.m., a woman entered a small bank in Niagara Falls on the east coast of the United States and opened a deposit account using a false passport and social security number. She told the bank clerk she was moving to the area and the money was the proceeds from the sale of her house back home. The clerk didn’t even look up when she handed over nearly $200,000 in cash. The transaction took less than ten minutes.

He only asked one question: ‘Do I spell “Marie” with or without an “e”, Mrs O’Hanlon?’

Marie slipped the deposit receipt in her purse and crossed the busy main street, heading for the small coffee shop on the corner of the crossroads. She ordered a tall latte and sat by the window watching the passers-by with distracted interest. Sean’s flight was due to arrive at Niagara Falls International Airport later that afternoon, so she had some time to kill.

She had no reason to doubt he would be on the plane.

‘Have you ever woken in the middle of the night and reached out for someone who isn’t there?’

The guy didn’t have to think too hard before shaking his head and saying, ‘I can’t say I have.’

‘It’s not something you’d forget . . . the feeling.’

‘What sort of feeling?’

‘Longing, regret . . . isolation, I don’t know. It’s an emptiness, like your soul is missing something.’

‘Are you alone when this happens?’

‘Usually, but not always; it’s got nothing to do with loneliness or being on my own.’

‘What do you think your soul is missing?’

Keira Lynch shrugged. ‘I don’t know?’

‘Is it the “dream” that wakes you up or the “longing” feeling you’ve just described?’

‘The dream exists on its own, it’s separate: they’re not connected . . . they happen at different times.’

‘So it’s not the dream – the girl screaming – that wakes you?’

‘It can, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m asking if the emptiness, the “reaching out” thing, is something you’ve come across before, that’s all.’ Keira felt exposed, vulnerable, like the guy hadn’t been listening. ‘And in the dream, it’s not a girl screaming, it’s a young woman, there’s a difference,’ she corrected him. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong.’

‘What am I thinking?’

‘It’s me screaming . . . my younger “self”, making the sounds . . . but it’s not me.’ Keira’s teeth set against each other. ‘They’re not a product of my imagination, they’re a recollection – the memory of something that happened – an actual event.’

‘The screams?’

Keira nodded her head. ‘A young woman howling and shrieking like an animal being slaughtered: much worse and far more sickening than could simply be described as a scream.’

‘In your dream do you know who this young woman is?’

‘In real life I know who this woman was . . .’

He waited for her to continue, but could see she was reluctant and changed the subject.

‘Is it connected to the thing with your wrists?’

Keira glanced down and saw that her hands were crossed and her wrists were pressed firmly together.

‘I suppose . . . yes.’

‘Do you rub them together like that often?’

‘Only when I’m stressed.’

‘Are you stressed now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to stop?’

‘No.’

‘How does rubbing your wrists help with your stress, d’you think?’

‘It reminds me not to take life for granted.’

‘Why would you take life for granted?’

‘I don’t . . . I rub my wrists together and it reminds me not to.’

‘Okay, why that particular action?’

‘It helps me remember: no matter what situation I’m in, nothing could be worse than this . . .’ Keira held out her upturned palms to reveal two, thin scars, one across each wrist just above the line of her cuffs. ‘Sometimes I wish the scars would disappear; sometimes I’m glad they’re there. They remind me that life is precious, and trying to make it shorter than it is already is a dumb thing to do . . . I’m lucky that I
can
remind myself.’

‘Do you want to tell me how you got the scars?’

‘No. Not right now . . . I will . . . but not right now.’

‘Okay, sorry . . . let’s rewind.’

The psychiatrist looked down at his notes. ‘You were going to tell me what you remember about the house.’

‘Every detail . . . even what it smelled like. A two-up-two-down tomb. It was damp, musty, stale; like it had been abandoned, left empty for a long time, the doors and windows never opened. Like the air inside had been there for ever.’

‘Where did it happen, where was the house?’

‘Where it happened isn’t relevant.’

‘I’m just trying to get a picture . . .’

Keira cut in on him, ‘It doesn’t matter
where
it happened. What matters is that it happened.’

He shrugged and continued, ‘Had he assaulted you?’

‘No . . .’ She thought for a second, then added, ‘Do you mean physically or sexually?’

‘Sexually.’

‘No. My hands were tied behind my back and my mouth was taped – except when they were feeding me. I guess you’d call that assault.’

‘Who are they?’

‘There were two others.’

‘How long were you held for?’

‘The room was in total darkness the whole time I was there – the windows boarded over – so I had no way of knowing. I found out later it was three days.’

‘How old were you?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Too specific.’

‘Roughly how old?’

‘Less than ten.’

This revelation stopped him.

He sat, slowly shaking his head from side to side, his eyebrows raised. ‘You must have been very frightened,’ he said eventually.

‘That’s one thing I don’t remember . . . how I felt at the time. I know what I feel about it now, but when I think back it’s like watching a movie with the sound turned down. I can describe everything I saw, or smelled even, but not what was going through my mind. I feel somehow detached from my younger self, as though she were someone else.’

‘Like it happened to someone else?’

‘No.’ Keira was adamant. ‘I know it happened to me, but I have no recollection of what I was feeling . . . emotionally.’

‘What do you feel about it now?’

‘Guilt . . . mostly.’

‘Why would you feel guilty about being kidnapped and held against your will?’

‘I don’t. I feel guilty about what happened . . .’ She paused once more, choosing her words carefully. ‘. . . How the situation was resolved.’

‘How was the situation resolved?’

Again she took her time before answering.

‘The way most problems were solved in those days . . . with a gun.’

‘The situation was resolved with a gun?’

‘That’s what I’m saying.’

‘Who had the gun?’

‘I did.’

‘Where did you get it from?’

‘My dad . . . though I didn’t know that at the time.’

A look of confusion flashed across his face. ‘Didn’t know that he’d given you a gun?’

‘Didn’t know that he was my dad. I’m still not sure. And he didn’t
give
me the gun . . . I took it from him.’

He was staring back at her, like he wasn’t sure where to take it next.

‘Why would you not know he was your own father?’

‘He wasn’t around when I was growing up. I had an uncle who was always over at our house. For whatever reason, I just assumed that
he
was my dad: that he and my mother had split up when I was born, or some shit like that, and it was easier for my mum not to say anything. Then one day his older brother – who everyone assumed was dead – showed up out of the blue and it seemed to make more sense that it was him. I’m still not sure if that’s the case. But it seems the most likely scenario. We’ve never discussed it. I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think he even knew I was his daughter. It sounds complicated, but complicated is my normal.’

The psychiatrist wrote something in his pad, but didn’t comment. Instead he asked another question.

‘Who is “we”?’

‘My mum . . . and my gran.’

‘Why d’you think they didn’t discuss it with you?’

Keira shrugged. ‘Who knows! Too painful, maybe? I really don’t know.’

‘So what happened with the gun? Can you tell me?’

‘I went back into the house, along the hallway.’

‘Back?’

‘My dad and I had managed to escape.’

‘Why didn’t your dad go back inside?’

‘He couldn’t. He was injured. He’d been shot in the leg. He could barely stand.’

The guy nodded for her to continue.

‘There was a fight at the top of the stairs . . . on the landing, between my uncle and the main guy.’

‘Did you know him: the main guy?’

‘Not at the time, but I overheard my dad and uncle talking about it afterwards . . . I heard his name then, but that’s something else I need to keep to myself.’

‘You said there were three men altogether: what were the other two doing at this point?’

‘Nothing . . . they were already dead.’

‘So this guy was attacking your uncle?’

‘Yeah. He was screaming and howling, his arms flailing around, punching out. There was blood everywhere.’

‘Were you trying to get the gun to your uncle?’

‘I said a moment ago that I don’t remember what I was feeling at the time. That’s true, but I do know what I was thinking. From the moment I had the gun in my hand I knew what I was going to do. There was never any doubt. If I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ve been as certain of anything in my life since.’ Keira stopped talking and stared at the floor.

After a while the psychiatrist said, ‘Are you okay?’

Keira nodded, but didn’t speak.

‘D’you want to leave it there?’

This time Keira nodded her head and said, ‘I don’t think I can say the words out loud. If I keep them inside I can almost pretend to myself that it never happened.’

‘Have you ever discussed this with anyone else?’

‘No. There were only four of us – including myself – who knew what happened that night.’

‘What about the other three?’

‘They’re dead. There’s maybe a fifth,’ continued Keira, ‘a priest . . . but I’m not sure how much he knows.’

‘Maybe we should leave it there for now.’

‘I’ve tried everything else: drink, drugs, suicide. The only thing I haven’t tried is talking about it. But now that I’m sitting here, and it’s real . . . I don’t think I can.’

‘It’s okay . . . another time.’

‘This thing is hollowing me out. It’s time for me to take control of it. I need a different perspective.’

‘Do you think that by talking it through you’ll achieve solace or redemption? How do you see it changing your life?’

‘I see it filling the emptiness.’

About the Author

John Gordon Sinclair was born in Glasgow, Scotland. He moved to London in the early Eighties and now lives in Surrey with his wife, Shauna, and their two children.
Seventy Times Seven
is his first novel.