Stolen Child (27 page)

Dylan looks different. Not like a parent or a windsurfer, which is the way Joy always perceives him. She tries to imagine him as a drug addict, sleeping rough. Impossible. A certificate hangs on the wall before her and others are displayed around his office. Is this an office or a clinic or a nuthouse? From the outside it looks like an ordinary stone cottage with apple trees in the garden and herbs in window boxes. This is their third session. He is dealing with what he calls her ‘reckless behaviour’ which means her drinking, and her ‘unresolved grief’ – namely sleeplessness and a tendency to weep for no apparent reason.

Her father was furious when he discovered she had been drinking in Molloy’s. No one asked for ID and it was cool being part of the gang and laughing until her sides ached. Danny Breen dropped her off at the top of the lane. She insisted she was okay, no need to drive her down, and Danny took her at her word. His father had bought him a Boxster for his eighteenth birthday and he was frightened the police would pick him up for drink-driving or speeding, or both. She never made it to Rockrose. Her father found her outside
the cottage but she has no memory of collapsing. She is barred from going near Molloy’s until she is over eighteen and her father has threatened to report Jimmy Molloy if he ever again serves underage drinkers.

Afterwards, she was so sick it seemed impossible to imagine ever doing anything so foolish. But she did, and only a week later, six of them hanging out in the long grass in Dowling’s Meadow. Danny bought the cider in Molloy’s off-licence and they would have been safe from discovery if he hadn’t wanted to show off the stereo sound on his new Boxster. When he turned up the volume, the Children of Bodom blasted her ears and it felt good, the grating hate songs. Pity it didn’t dawn on any of them that the sound could probably be heard in the next county. It was certainly heard in Rockrose and her father looked as if he wanted to take a lump hammer to Danny’s new car. She didn’t make it to the bathroom on time and threw up on the landing. Then she sent the email to Joey. Just thinking about it still brings her out in goosebumps.

‘How was your week?’ Dylan interrupts her thoughts.

‘Boring.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘What’s to tell about boring? I got up, did stuff, went to bed.’

‘Stuff?’

She shrinks deeper into the chair and uncrosses her feet. ‘School, homework…emails. Like I said, boring.’

‘You sent boring emails?’

‘I suppose…can you think of a better way to pass the time in this one-horse town?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Apart from drinking, I mean.’

‘How’s that going?’

‘Well, it’s not, obviously. Isn’t that why I’m here?’

‘That’s the reason you gave me. But is it why you are here?’

‘You tell me.’

She hates it when he allows the minutes to elapse without either of them speaking. It never seems to bother him but the silence itches against her mind and she finds herself saying stupid things just to break it.

Pens and an envelope opener sit in a jade-coloured holder on the desk. She studies the blade of the envelope opener. Letters are definitely safer. They need to be folded and placed in envelopes, addressed and stamped. Even if she changes her mind after the letter is posted, Mildred in the post office will allow her to remove it before it is taken on the next stage of its journey. But not with email. That is an instant communication.

She had written the email on the night her father marched her home from Dowling’s Meadow. Alone in her room, his voice still ringing through her head, she wrote to Joey. The following morning she had no memory of what she wrote and almost threw up again when she discovered it in the sent mail folder.

Darling Joey…do you know that only one letter separates us? Joey/Joy. E is for eager and I am eager to see you again. E is for escape and I want to escape into your arms…I miss you so much since you left…I hate Italy for taking you away from me. I miss you…miss you…

She had immediately sent Joey another one and excused the first on the grounds that she had been delirious with drink. His reply was cold and distant.

Joy, I’m worried about your drinking. You’re only fifteen and have no idea of the damage it’s doing to your organs.
I understand why you want to escape from the shock of your mother’s death but drinking and hanging out with that Breen creep is not going to help. I’ve deleted your last email on the grounds that you were, as you wrote, ‘delirious with drink’.

I’m extremely busy at present and will email again when I’ve time. Please remember what I said. Dylan has been through his own horrors and will understand.

Joey.

She had called Dylan that afternoon to arrange her first appointment.

He sits so still she wonders if he’s still breathing. She studies the photograph on his desk of Nikki and his two children.

‘I don’t know why everyone is so worried about my drinking,’ she says. ‘It only happened a few times but everyone’s going on as if I’m on the fast track to skid row.’

‘Who’s everyone?’

‘What?’

‘You said everyone’s worried. Who exactly do you mean?’

‘Well, my dad and grandmother…Joey as well.’

‘How is Joey?’

She shrugs. ‘How should I know?’

‘You don’t keep in touch?’

‘Hardly ever.’

‘Yet you believe he’s worried about your drinking?’

‘That’s ‘cause I do stupid things…’ She stops and sucks in her breath. ‘My mother never liked him.’

‘Have you any idea why?’

‘She blamed him for this.’ She pulls back her fringe, runs her finger over the fine white ridge. At night when she is unable to sleep, she touches it. An almost invisible scar, yet it
is as familiar to her as the rest of her body. ‘She wanted me to blame Joey but I refused. I disappointed her…as usual.’

‘As usual?’

‘It’s difficult to continually disappoint someone but I managed it.’

‘How, in particular, did you disappoint her?’

She wonders how much longer she will have to sit here making idle conversation. ‘By being me, I suppose. She wanted a blue-eyed baby for starters.’

She is surprised by the tightly coiled memory that springs from nowhere. Years since she thought about it…lying in bed with her mother, eye to eye, arms around each other, and her mother had sighed, ‘If only you had blue eyes. Then you would be perfect.’

What age was she – two, three years old? And was it said once or many times? Why is the memory so sharp, as crystal clear as the feeling it evoked? The longing when she looked in the mirror that her eyes would change, lighten, be as beautiful as her mother wished them to be. But they always stayed the same muddy colour and her mother would look away, press her lips tightly together in disappointment.

It’s easier to talk about her mother than to discuss Joey. The words come easy. She remembers the quiet years, the silence and the solitude that settled over Rockrose when her father left. The silence she had needed to break by screaming and flailing against her mother, and how, when she was left alone in her room, she would cry herself back to silence.

Home-schooling, the only way to go. ‘I know what’s best for you,’ her mother had said. ‘A mother always knows what’s best.’

‘But I want to go to real school. I don’t want to be here all the time with you.’ She did not mean to say the words aloud and her mother smacked her legs for being bold again. Joy had cried softly after her mother left the room but she
must have heard because she came back and rocked her…rocked her…
Hug me…kiss me…love me…

Dylan’s face is impassive. He looks almost nondescript in his grey jumper and trousers, but perhaps that is a deliberate attempt to make himself invisible so that people’s emotions can flow like a rip tide over him.

‘She used to write things down in a book when I was a child. She called it her Judgement Book. Every time I did something wrong she’d record it so that God could see it and use the information on Judgement Day. It frightened me so much…every time I saw her writing, knowing I’d disappointed her again. How could she…’ She breaks off, sobbing now, and Dylan waits for her to continue. She believes he will wait all day if necessary.

‘She greeted death with anticipation.’ She ground out the words. ‘She preferred to die than to continue living with me…living with her disappointment.’

Dylan looks up from his hands. ‘Have you ever considered the fact that her disappointment was with herself, not you? Perhaps that’s the reason you cannot understand it?’

‘Why? I was supposed to be her miracle baby.’

‘It’s hard to live up to the expectations of a miracle. Why did she look upon you in that way?’

‘She had a number of miscarriages before I was born.’

‘I never realised.’

‘Why should you? She never spoke about them. My grandmother told me, otherwise I wouldn’t have known. She wanted to be with her babies. That’s what she said before she died. She anticipated a better life with them than the one she had with me.’

Dylan hands her tissues. She wonders how many boxes he uses in a week. Dozens, if everyone who sits in this chair is like her.

‘What exactly did your mother say to you?’ he asks when she can speak again.

‘I told you—’

He leans forward. ‘Tell me her exact words.’

The morning comes back to her in fragments. Nikki in her luminous jacket and boots and how, as she broke through the traffic lights, she kept telling them everything was going to be okay.

‘Joy…Joy…’ Her mother seemed too thin, her body hardly defined under the cover, yet her grip was claw-like, drawing her nearer, whispering all the time, the words garbled…such a fierce glittering gaze, looking beyond her daughter towards her lost babies.

‘Her anticipation babies.’ She is unaware that she has spoken aloud until Dylan stands up and walks to the window. Usually he never moves until it is time for her to leave.

‘Anticipation baby?’ he says.

‘Babies,’ she corrects him. ‘I told you, she had those miscarriages.’

Joy also stands and crumples the tissue in her hand. Time has passed so quickly. Dylan’s expression is intent, troubled. Something has changed between them. Something so subtle and inexplicable that she has already forgotten it by the time she leaves.

She passed the day reading a manuscript written by a woman who spent three years crossing continents in search of her tug-of-love son. The woman’s story was amazing, yet she had managed to make her fight for custody read like a social worker’s report. Carla’s job was to breathe life into it but it was too raw, too close. She would reject the commission. Her skin had been absorbing the molecules of other people’s experiences for too long.

She sent an email to Frank to that effect, then clicked into
www.FindIsobelGardner.com
. This evening, only one email demanded her attention. She read it once, then sat perfectly still before leaning forward to reread it.

Dear Carla,

My name is Dylan Rae. We met for the first time when you were searching for your daughter in the Chalwerth Industrial Estate. We did meet again a second time but I imagine our first encounter is the one you remember most vividly.

I’d like to meet you again and discuss some information that may be of interest to you. I debated for a long time
about sending this email and I’m following a gut instinct by doing so. Please let me know a time and place where we can meet. I look forward to seeing you soon.

With warmest regards,

Dylan Rea.

Effortlessly she slid back in time: the burned circles of wood, the stale smell of urine and mould, the shadow that moved from within the greater shadows and connected with her. Now he wanted to connect with her again. She tried to decipher the word ‘information’. What could he possibly mean? She moved restlessly from her office to the kitchen and made coffee. Then, without drinking it, she ran back to her office and clicked into the archival pages of her website. Instantly, she was consumed by the past. The visual links were almost impossible to watch. Their faces at the press conference, their hands clasped, Robert’s tears, her catwalk smile, Leo trying to control the journalists, the fever and fear and desperation. How had they endured? So long ago, over fifteen years now. She clicked into
reply
and unhesitatingly moved her fingers over the keyboard.

His eyes roved over the hotel foyer, seeking her out. She had suggested the Gresham Hotel on O’Connell Street and had arrived before him to secure a secluded table. He showed no sign of recognition when he noticed her and continued walking among the tables in search of her. He, on the other hand, was instantly recognisable – a little older but with the same spiked hair and hard-worn features.

‘Hello, Dylan,’ she said.

Unable to hide his surprise, he sat opposite her and grasped both her hands. ‘Carla! I wouldn’t have recognised you.’

‘I don’t use that name any more,’ she said. ‘My appearance wasn’t the only thing I changed. Call me Clare.’

He smiled and said, ‘With or without an I?’

‘Clare,’ she said. ‘Like the county.’

He nodded thoughtfully and signalled to the waiter. ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’

‘Tea is perfect.’

‘When did you change your appearance?’ he asked when the waiter had taken their order and departed.

‘Years ago.’ She self-consciously touched the back of her neck. ‘Do I look very different?’

‘On the surface, yes.’ He nodded. ‘You had a strong, iconic image. I expected you to look exactly the same.’

‘That was the problem,’ she said. ‘It imprisoned me. What have you been doing with yourself?’

Did she care or was she simply delaying the moment? He spoke too fast, as if he too must go through the preliminaries before getting to the heart of the matter. He worked as a counsellor, dealing mainly with troubled young people. She could imagine them confiding in him. There was something reassuring about his eyes, intense and embracing. Her own eyes felt naked without their contact lenses which, on impulse, she had removed before she left her apartment.

The waiter returned with a tray and it was possible to draw breath while he laid the table. The clink of china was reassuringly familiar but Dylan’s hand shook when he lifted his cup. No longer able to postpone the moment, she leaned towards him.

‘Why did you want to see me?’

He placed the cup back in the saucer and linked his fingers together. Strong hands, knotted veins, leathery skin.

‘I’m not sure any more. Seeing you like this…calling
you Clare…it’s unnerving. I’d never forgive myself if I raised your hopes then destroyed them.’

Raised her hopes? Unable to mistake his meaning, she dug her fists into the chair and leaned towards him. Her surroundings had shifted, a dizzying tilt that wrenched her stomach and filled her mouth with a gush of hot saliva. She tried to swallow and felt an instant of panic before her throat muscles worked.

‘I’m stronger than I look.’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘And my hopes have been raised and dashed so often I’m immune to disappointment. Tell me what you know and let me decide.’

In reply, he reached into his jacket pocket and removed his wallet. ‘I want you to look carefully at this photograph.’

Two young people at a party, their faces close together, big cheesy grins. The young man was older than the girl but Carla barely registered his presence before her attention switched to the girl. She was wearing a red dress, low-cut, and with shoestring straps. Blonde hair fell to her shoulders and her brown eyes seemed to reach out and enfold Carla in an unquestioning gaze.

The noise from the foyer faded. Carla touched her stomach, an automatic gesture that used to register as no more than a tic. Now, suddenly, it was imbued with a terrifying meaning. She was on the edge of something and she did not know whether to stay or run.

‘Who is she?’ she whispered.

‘Her name is Joy Dowling. Joey is her half-brother. I took the photo at a party in her house.’

‘And you think…
What
makes you think she’s Isobel?’

‘I’ve no proof that she is your daughter.’ He replaced his wallet, leaving the photograph with her. ‘I’ve carried this image of you around in my head for years. But now…you look so different—’

‘It’s superficial, and not important—’

‘But it
is
important.’ He rushed his words towards her. ‘Joy’s hair was short until recently when she let it grow. Either way, the resemblance is remarkable. Your eyes. The shape of your head…your neck…she’s so like you it’s uncanny.’

She tried to remain calm. Impossible, under the circumstances, yet she needed to concentrate. If she took the next step forward and this turned out to be another false trail, she would be unable to survive. A woman at the next table bayed with laughter, the sound shrill and unpleasant. Carla moved her chair closer to Dylan.

‘You must have more information or you wouldn’t have contacted me.’

‘Yes.’ He nodded slowly. ‘Joy Dowling was born at home. A neighbour assisted at her birth, or so it’s generally believed.’

‘And did she?’

‘I suspect Phyllis Lyons rather encouraged that belief and I’ve never had any reason to doubt it until I spoke to her recently. After I probed a bit deeper into her story, I realised it was slightly different to the generally perceived version.’

She could imagine him drawing the truth from the woman, his quiet, probing questions.

‘What did she say?’ Carla wanted to reach across and shake him, force the story willy-nilly from his mouth, instead of having to endure this slow build-up. Her eyes remained riveted on the photograph. Dylan was wrong. Her resemblance to this young girl was illusory. It was Robert she saw, his mouth, the full lips she had kissed so often, his determined chin. Their daughter, she realised, bore a stronger resemblance to him than his two sons did.

‘Phyllis admitted that Joy was already born when she arrived that night. Born and resting on her mother’s stomach.
Susanne Dowling claimed she had been unable to make the hospital on time.’

‘Why?’

‘There were heavy floods in the area that night and for days afterwards. Phyllis had seen her earlier in the evening and she had seemed fine. No sign that her baby was due. Then she rang Phyllis at the height of the storm. That was the first night of Isobel’s disappearance.’

Carla had expected to feel relief and joy, to rejoice that her long search was over. But she was aware only of pain. Her whole body ached but she had no idea where the pain emanated from. She welcomed the physical assault. Far preferable than dealing with this new possibility…probability…
actuality.
’

Vaguely, she was aware of Dylan’s words rising and settling around her. He talked about the wind…no…windsurfing and an injured dog and how friendships had formed over the last few years.

‘I know these people, Carla. I’ve been a guest in their house. There was never any indication that Joy was not their child. What I’ve just told you is based on remarks Joy made. She’s no idea that what she was saying had any significance and I’m running purely on my instincts.’ She had no idea who he was trying to convince, himself or her. ‘I can’t go to the police and tell them my suspicions. If I’m wrong I’ll be destroyed.’

‘And if you’re right…’

‘The people Joy believes are her family will be destroyed. But I can’t ignore my suspicions. Joy is…’ He hesitated, his expression suddenly noncommittal.

‘Joy is your patient?’ she said.

‘She’s had some difficulties adjusting to her mo…to Susanne’s death. But I can’t talk about her in that context, Carla.’

‘
Death?
’

‘Susanne Dowling died over a year ago from a massive haemorrhage.’

‘I see.’ But she did not see anything other than the photograph. Her feelings for the dead woman belonged to later. For now, all she wanted to do was devour the young girl’s features, rest her eyes greedily on her long slender body and starry-eyed gaze that sparked off the young man who lounged so casually beside her. Her half-brother, Dylan said. They shared the same father, or so they believed.

‘Who is this man who claims to be my daughter’s father?’

‘He’s my friend.’ Dylan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes against this monstrous betrayal. ‘His name is David. He was abroad at the time of Joy’s birth. He didn’t arrive home until two days later.’

‘But he would have been with her during her pregnancy. He must have known she was faking.’ She remembered Robert resting his head against her stomach, spooning against him at night, and Isobel’s frantic pattering. What kind of marriage did not allow such intimacies?

‘I don’t know…I don’t know. Jesus Christ, what am I doing?’ He fisted his hands to his mouth and blew into them.

She understood his terror. He had set events in motion and nothing could stop the momentum. David Dowling was a geologist. Most of the contracts he undertook were abroad, which meant that Joy Dowling was without a father for long periods of time.

‘Where will I find her?’ she asked.

‘In the county of Clare,’ he said.

She no longer tried to hold back her tears, nor cared who saw her bend her head into his shoulder. When she recovered, she pressed the photograph to her lips and listened as he spoke about the stolen child who had once rested under her heart.