The Field of Blood (11 page)

Paddy stared out the train window at the dark morning, a copy of the Daily News limp in her lap. She looked at the paper again. TWO ARRESTED FOR BABY BRIAN. The headlines were huge, an old layout trick to cover up a lack of printable copy, but it was the insert at the bottom of the article that pained her. It was a first-person account of life in Child A’s family, about the shame and shock and grief of the extended Irish Catholic family who had abandoned the boy. The piece was overwritten, punched out in short, conversational sentences. To an unfamiliar reader the bad grammar would have seemed like a heavy-handed, hokey touch, but Paddy recognized them as habitual conversational mistakes of Heather’s, left in by the subs to make it sound like the authentic voice of a greenhorn Catholic, the sort that might have evil monsters for kin. She read through the rest of the paper to keep her eyes busy. Caspar Weinberger, Reagan’s new defense secretary, was saying he would use a neutron bomb in Western Europe if necessary for American security. Paddy looked out the window at the white world and wondered whether Caspar might do her a favor and press the button before home time.

Dub couldn’t believe it when Paddy offered to dish out the new edition to all the departments. No one ever volunteered to do anything, and handing out the papers was a boring, messy job that stained hands black and ruined clothes. Paddy couldn’t sit still any longer. She carried twice as many papers as usual, getting her heart rate up as she carried them up and down the stairs, trying to tire herself out.

She was tired but wired, still bristling with nervous energy, when she came back into the newsroom and saw Heather sitting on the edge of a desk, dressed smartly in a white blouse and red skirt.

Paddy stopped in the doorway, astonished at her gall. She had at least expected Heather to stay out of the office today. She watched her smile along with some news guys, coyly rolling an elastic band between two fingers, and realized that she had come into the office to capitalize on her coup. She didn’t give a shit what Paddy thought of her.

Aware that a small, square body was standing in the doorway, being jostled by people coming in and out, Heather looked up and blushed when she saw who it was, raising a hand in greeting until she saw Paddy’s face. She tried to smile, showing all her marvelous teeth, but Paddy didn’t flinch. Heather muttered an excuse and slid off the desk, standing up and walking towards the back stairs.

Paddy found her shrill voice filling the entire newsroom. “You.” Heather froze. Paddy thumbed over her shoulder. “Out.”

Heather stood still for a moment. A hush fell over the mesmerized men. They looked from Heather to Paddy and back again. Someone tittered. Sensing that she had the support of the audience, Heather crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one leg.

“Do you want to talk here?” Paddy was shouting. “Will I tell them what you did?”

Heather shifted her weight nervously to the other leg. There were few crimes that could not be forgiven in the News. Stealing a colleague’s wallet from their jacket was bad, sleeping with their wife wasn’t good either, but using someone else’s story was unforgivable. Everyone appreciated the threat of losing a good story.

Heather uncrossed her arms, dropping them awkwardly to her sides, where they twitched and hung still. She turned and walked reluctantly over to Paddy, who held the door open and followed her out onto the landing and pointed her across the lift lobby and into the ladies’ loo. Back in the newsroom a huge falsetto whoop was followed by a gale of derisory laughter.

Heather began her defense before the toilet door had even banged shut. “I knew you weren’t going to use the story. You told me you couldn’t. I didn’t see any harm since you weren’t going to.” She lit a cigarette and offered the packet to Paddy.

Paddy didn’t take one. She looked at the packet and felt her lip tremble. “My whole family’ll think I did it.”

It was the one soft moment when Heather could have sympathized and made it all right, but she was frightened and ashamed and missed her cue. “Look, things can’t just be nicey-nice all the time. I’m not in this business to get popular. I’m sorry, but that’s just the game we’re in.” She crossed her arms over her chest again, not defensive but elegant this time, her cigarette hand resting on her upper arm. A clean thread of smoke rose high above the cubicle doors, making her taller.

There were so many reasons why what she had done was wrong that the words in Paddy’s mind became entangled. She opened her mouth to speak but stammered loudly and stopped, shocked at herself. Heather’s eyes widened triumphantly.

“Never mind,” she said, placing the cigarette between her lips.

Paddy slapped Heather so hard that she snapped the cigarette in half. The amputated tip bounced once on the floor and continued smoking. They stood for a moment staring at it, both shocked, a red blush flowering Heather’s cheek. Paddy was nervous but excited. She shouldn’t have done that. She was a bully. It was wrong.

She reached roughly around the back of Heather’s head, grabbing the thick blond hair at the nape. Roots popped from Heather’s scalp as she tugged, dragging her forwards into a toilet cubicle, shoving her head into the bowl, and yanking the handle. Paddy watched the water swirl around her head, catching her thick hair, sucking the tail of it down through the U-bend. Heather spluttered and tried to stand up, using all the strength in her back. She was very strong, but Paddy used her weight, leaned against her neck, and kept her down. The toilet water saturated Heather’s blouse: Paddy could see the adjusting clips on her bra strap. Farquarson might sack her for attacking another member of staff. It would placate Sean if she did get sacked. It might even convince her family that it wasn’t her who wrote the article. The recession couldn’t last too long; she’d get another job somewhere.

She lifted her hand away and stepped back, watching Heather bounce up from the bowl gasping, throwing her head back, her hair tracing a great wet circle through the air. She turned to Paddy, astonished, her mouth hanging open, panting for air. Paddy saw the fright in her eyes. She couldn’t look at her anymore. She turned and left the toilet.

Out in the lobby Paddy’s hot face throbbed. She was ashamed and a little shocked by what she had done. It was ignoble and undignified and thuggish and she wouldn’t have thought herself capable. She loitered on the landing, listening to the rumble from the newsroom, disentangling long blond hairs from the fingers of her right hand as she waited for her blushes to subside.

They were laughing at her. Paddy saw them sniggering and glancing over at her as they repeated the story, trailing their hands down from their heads to their shoulders to describe Heather’s wet hair. Some guys on the features desk called her over and asked her to go to the stationery cupboard and bring a couple of lady wrestlers.

Everyone who came back from the Press Bar at lunchtime seemed to know what had happened. Paddy guessed that instinctively they would be on her side because Heather was attractive and not yet having sex with all of them, but she didn’t care. All she could think about was how embarrassed her mum and dad would be. They’d try to believe her when she insisted the story wasn’t her fault, but they’d be wrong. It was her fault. She knew that professional journalists made difficult choices, tricked information out of people, and broke confidences for stories. She’d been prepared to steal the letter from Mr. Taylor. A good journalist had to be prepared to take off-the-record asides and turn them into stories. She should have known. She was a naive idiot.

She was in the canteen, queuing for teas and practicing her apology to Sean, when Keck approached her looking serious and angry, vicariously annoyed on behalf of the management as he told her that he was to get the teas for the news boys because Farquarson wanted to see her.

“He’s in his office,” he said, sliding in front of her in the line, keeping his back to her as if she had already been sacked.

She walked downstairs slowly, loitering on the final landing to catch her breath. She was determined not to cry if he sacked her. The side lights were on in his office and the door was closed, an arrangement that usually denoted some kind of drama. She knocked on the door and he answered immediately. She opened the door a little and slid in.

Papers littered the floor around the desk. Farquarson was trying to break into a catering box of macaroons he had stolen from the canteen, chiseling into the thick plastic around the box with a penknife. He lost his temper and pulled at the plastic, stretching it until it ripped suddenly and the bars spilled in a messy pile on the floor. Farquarson bent down, picked up three and started to unwrap one. He nodded Paddy towards the pile. “Get stuck in.”

Paddy picked up a bar and thanked him. She opened the wrapper and took a bite, hoping that eating together might establish a bond between them. Macaroon bars were almost too sweet even for her. Made with potato saturated with icing sugar, they made her teeth ache and the skin on her gums wither. Farquarson slid into his seat.

“Meehan,” he said through a mouthful of sticky white paste, “a Mr. Taylor phoned this morning to complain. He said he’d been harassed by two journalists from the Daily News.” He paused to chew. “D’you know anything about the unions in this business? D’you know that The Scotsman has just had a weeklong work-to-rule because a journalist winked at a print machine? Richards gave you permission to go out in the car, not to misrepresent yourself as a journalist at the Daily News or to steal letters from grieving members of the public. I’ve calmed Mr. Taylor down and McVie’ll keep it quiet, but I don’t want you telling anyone you’re a journalist again. We could have a walkout on our hands, understand?”

Paddy nodded.

“You’ll have to get used to tiptoeing around the unions. It’s part of the job.” He took another large bite. “Now, are you going to tell me what happened in the ladies’?”

“I had an argument with Heather.”

“I thought she had an argument with the lavvy.”

It was a stupid joke. Paddy didn’t know if it was benign. She looked at her feet and kicked the table leg.

He cleared his throat. “I don’t want to know why you did that—”

“She’s a shit.” She sounded so vicious she surprised herself.

Farquarson looked up, eyebrows raised. “Meehan, I’m not going to umpire.”

“But she is a shit.”

“Listen, she’s been convinced not to make a formal complaint, and I’d drop it if I were you. She’s flavor of the month with editorial because she’s just brought us a very important story.”

“It’s not her story,” snapped Paddy. “It’s my story. Callum Ogilvy’s my fiancé’s cousin. I saw a picture of him and was upset and I confided in Heather. My family’ll disown me when they see today’s paper.”

Farquarson was very still. “The boy’s a relative of yours?”

“I’d never have used that story.” Suddenly angry, reckless of the sack and a life at the sink, she slapped the table, hurting her hand. “And what has being Irish Catholic got to do with anything? Why does it say that in the story? If they’d been a Jewish family, would you have put that in the second paragraph?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not right.”

“I can’t do anything about it now,” he said flatly, “but I understand why you were so angry.”

They were quiet for a moment and tried not to look at each other. Farquarson took another bite of macaroon, snapping the bar between his teeth as gently as possible. He chewed quietly until Paddy broke the silence.

“Did the baby die in an accident? Were the boys just playing with him?”

“No, it was murder. They killed him.”

“How do they know?”

“Do you really want to know the details?”

She nodded.

Reluctantly, Farquarson rolled his head back and then just told her. “They strangled him and smashed his head in with stones.”

“Jesus.”

“It was brutal. They stuck things up him. Sticks. Up his backside.” Farquarson looked down at the sweet in his hand, suddenly disgusted, and laid it down on the table.

“Could they have the wrong boys?”

“No. Their shoes matched the marks on the ground where the body was found, and his blood was on their clothes.”

Paddy was shaking her head before he had even finished the sentence. “Well, blood could get on them any number of ways. It could have been put there. Someone could have put it on them.”

Farquarson wasn’t entertaining the possibility of a mistake. “He ran for it, the Ogilvy boy. When they went to his school, before they’d even mentioned the baby, he tried to run away.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s guilty,” she said, thinking of Paddy Meehan’s arrest and James Griffiths’s wild run. “He could have run for any number of reasons. He might just have been frightened.”

Farquarson sat back, suddenly tired of tolerating the bolshie copyboy. “Right.” He pointed to the pile of macaroon bars. “Take one for your journey and tell me this: Are any of the early-shift boys in yet?”

“A couple,” said Paddy, wondering what possible use he could have for them. They never seemed to do any work. “Which ones were you after?”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Farquarson. “They’re all interchangeable.”

1969

Paddy Meehan heard the mob from half a mile away, chanting in a low, slow bray, getting faster and faster, until he began to sweat with panic, adding to the stench of piss and worry inside the police van. It was nine thirty on a weekday morning, but three hundred people had found the time to gather outside the court to see the bastard charged with old Rachel Ross’s murder.

He kept thinking that the van was in the middle of them, that the noise was as loud as it could get, but then another second would pass, the van would move another few feet, and the crowd outside would get louder. When they finally rolled to a stop the sound was deafening. The two uniformed policemen glanced at each other nervously, one holding the door handle, the other holding Meehan’s arm. They turned to the plainclothes CID men sitting near the back of the van, looking to them for the signal to go.