Beck had tossed and turned for much of the night, unable to sleep. The words of a radio talk show host from somewhere in the distant past played over in his mind: ‘Folks, did you ever wake in the middle of the night and all that is wrong with your life, all that you worry about, all that makes you anxious, all that troubles you, everything, all of it, together, suddenly hits you in the face? Did that ever happen to you folks? Bang! Right in the face. There it is. Well, that happened to me last night.’
Beck had never forgotten those words, because it meant that other people felt the same way he sometimes did too. But now, his tossing and turning was not to do with something wrong in his life, although he had much of that already. No, this was about something that had been so right in his life. Something, however, he just didn’t have any more. But even when he did have it…
He imagined her face. Natalia smiling, her particular smile that came only at particular times. A smile of cunning and lust. The smile of a woman cuckolding her husband, her husband who just happened to be Beck’s old boss. It was a relationship ultimately toxic, morally corrupt, yet irresistible in that it had that which most people seek: excitement. And without which relationships can flounder, disappearing beneath the waters in a sea of apathy.
Stop it, Beck.
This was useless. He gave in, abandoning any attempt at sleep, and decided to get up and face the day, even if it was still the middle of the night. But then, as he lay there, he felt his eyes starting to grow heavy. Sleep, now that he was no longer grappling with it, turned to him, luring him in. It would not be ignored. Finally, he drifted off through an open, waiting door.
He slept for an hour or more without interruption, not deep enough for his dreams to come up from below, but just enough for them to stir. Before they could fully come alive he was jarred back to consciousness, and in that moment before his eyes snapped open, he thought he heard something, a scream maybe, and a sound like that of a baby crying. But it was something else that had awoken him. He heard it again. Like drumming.
Someone was banging on his front door.
He immediately moved from the bed and crossed the room to the window, parted the curtains and peered out.
Maurice Crabby, big fish in a small pond, owner of the town’s main supermarket, was standing on the street below, in his ridiculous lycras, the bicycle that cost him a fortune discarded on the ground behind him. Crabby was agitated, hopping from one foot to the other, unable to stand still. He banged on the door again.
‘Hold onto your hat, calm down, I’m coming,’ Beck said to himself as he looked around for his trousers. He couldn’t see them.
He went down the stairs and opened the door.
‘There’s a body,’ Crabby blurted.
‘A body?’
Crabby was shaking.
‘Are you deaf? I said a body!’ Crabby repeated.
The man was normally so polite.
‘Where?’
‘A body. Murdered. There’s blood everywhere. Oh Jesus.’
‘Where?’
‘I left my phone at home, went off on my bike you see, so I couldn’t ring…’
‘Can you calm down?’ Beck said, stepping onto the street now. He realised he was wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. He took Crabby by the shoulders and shook him. ‘Where? Where’s this body you’re on about?’
‘My wife doesn’t like me taking off like that. So I didn’t tell her. I did leave a note though.’ Crabby garbled on.
Beck shook him again.
‘One more time now, Mr Crabby. Where is this fucking body?’
The village that literally died. A photograph hangs in the library, of the last inhabitant of Kelly’s Forge, standing by the stone bridge over the River Óg, a tributary of the Brown Water River. May flowers and gorse are teeming over the ditches all about, wild flowers sprouting from between the rocks of the bridge itself. He stands there. A tall, proud, white-haired man. If you looked closely enough you could see he was hiding a cigarette in the cup of his hand. The brass plaque beneath reveals the year, 1957, and an inscription:
Michéal Peoples, Village Elder, who assumed a role akin to an old Gaelic Chieftain. It was he who established the Clachán on the site of a medieval forge. Its people were his tribe. The inhabitants of the place known as Kelly’s Forge were rehoused in Galway in 1956, the year the village was finally abandoned.
The man stares from the faded photograph. He looks lost, bewildered even.
Now, standing by this very same place, Kelly’s Forge, Beck thought of this photograph. He’d seen it on a visit to the library once, hanging prominently in the foyer for all the world to see.
But the existence of that place was an aberrant, a freak, an oversight, something that had fallen between the cracks of a stagnant society, a society that did not want to be reminded of the ways of the past, of how it had once lived. And so they did what people in such situations do, they ignored it, maligned it, and ultimately, feared it too. And because of this, Kelly’s Forge did not abide by the rules of the established order. Rather, they ignored them, created and abided by their own.
Leaving Crabby in the squad car, Beck walked with Garda Fergal Dempsey towards the gap in the hedge at the narrow road’s dead-end. The sky was a clear blue and the heat of the sun like an unexpected kiss. Dempsey was wearing shiny shoes, something he always did on the 7 a.m. early shift, the time to catch up on admin work, the registering of fines and transferring of outstanding incidents to Pulse and such like. And, on a Tuesday, to attend at the district court for the prosecution of cases. Dempsey had told Beck once that the 7 a.m. shift was what returned him to a state of being a normal person, of having lunch at a proper hour, of being home in time for the early evening news on TV. It was a shift where only occasionally someone might shout in his face or need to be arrested. Usually for shoplifting, or being drunk and disorderly, usually because they hadn’t sobered up from the night before. Generally, you could wear shiny shoes on the day shift and get away with it. Now, Dempsey was clearly trying to keep his shiny shoes clean as he followed Beck in through the gap in the hedge.
As they passed through, Beck spotted the back end of the car as described by Crabby on the drive over, registering that it was a Citroen Picasso, two years old. He paused, preparing himself for what was to come. People don’t act the way Crabby had without good reason. Beck walked over to the car and slowly stepped out from behind the rear.
It doesn’t matter how many times a person witnesses the aftermath of a violent death, it leaves its mark. That is, if the person witnessing it possesses the normal faculties of emotion and empathy. And Beck, despite his flaws, did.
He observed the head, shoulders and arms of the female victim protruding through the open front passenger door, noted she was lying on her back, her head at an odd angle, hanging so far back it appeared to be on a hinge. He observed all this and wondered: Why?
Beck took a couple of steps forward and stopped. There was a long, wide, gaping wound to the neck, stretching from beneath the earlobe on one side of the head to beneath the earlobe on the other. Blood smeared the bottom half of the windscreen by the passenger door, tapering towards the door. Considering the severity of the wound, there wasn’t as much as would be expected. Then, he noticed the large patch of crimson on the ground. Had the victim been trying to escape the car when the wound was inflicted? He turned again to the victim. Her eyes were wide and stared ahead, frozen. A mass of light brown hair tumbled to the ground, some wisps stuck to the grey flesh of her forehead. Dempsey started to speak, but Beck raised his hand.
‘Get tape from the car, Dempsey. Bring it here to me. And check the reg plate. I want to know who this person is. And I want you to go round to the registered address the first chance you get. Take somebody with you. Got that?’
Dempsey nodded, but didn’t move.
‘Now! Dempsey. Get on it now.’
Whatever Dempsey had wanted to say, he didn’t say it. Instead he turned and headed quickly back towards the squad car, showing no regard now for his shiny shoes. Alone, Beck approached the car, stepping carefully through the grass. The passenger seat was semi-reclined. He noted the victim’s feet were in the footwell on the driver’s side, cork-heeled sandals discarded next to them on the mat. Half of each foot disappeared under the seat. Beck imagined she had used her feet as an anchor, wedging them in under the seat in an effort to stop herself from being dragged from the car. She was slim, her arms stretched out behind on either side of her head, frozen in rigor mortis. The body itself was remarkably blood-free. It appeared to have just that one, single, fatal wound. The floral-patterned blouse she wore had been ripped open. Beck could see buttons scattered on the floor of the car, and two others on the grass outside. Her bra had been partially pulled up, exposing one breast. She was wearing a short skirt, pulled half way down over her hips where it appeared to have become stuck, the centre crumpled and pulled up over her crotch, revealing purple underwear, the elastic broken, the material puckered and frayed. Someone had tried with great determination to pull those off. The glove compartment was open and the contents had spilled out. Beck took in the rest of the interior. Beside him, directly behind the passenger seat – the door pillars had obscured it until now – was a baby seat.
He stepped right up to the rear passenger door and pressed his face close to the window, peering in. The baby seat rested on the grey, suede-like fabric of the seat. At the other end, a loaf of sliced bread and a two-litre container of milk. The writing on the bread wrapping, ‘Crabby’s Shop Rite Wholemeal Bread’. In the footwell below lay a half-empty baby bottle of milk.
Beck attempted to reassure himself, thinking that just because there was a baby seat in the car, it didn’t mean there had been a baby. He thought of Garda Jane Ryan, who parked her car at the station for the duration of her ten hour shifts and it always had a couple of baby seats in the back. He told himself he didn’t constantly have to expect the worst.
But deep down, he knew he was kidding himself. Because he did.
Returning to the back of the car again, he pulled his shirt out from his trousers, wrapping the fabric around his index and middle finger. Fumbling for the boot lever, he found it and pressed it open. Inside were two long-life shopping bags, a pair of sneakers, and a set of jump leads wrapped in an elastic band.
And something else.
Pushed towards the back was a folded pushchair, and just in front of it, a baby bag. The baby bag was open, revealing a couple of striped nappies and a bag of baby wipes, sealed shut.
Only then did he realise that he had been holding his breath. He exhaled now with a loud whoosh.
Beck felt a coldness. It crept through him, like an icy stream.
He felt sure now: A baby. Yes. There had been one.
‘Mr Crabby,’ Beck said. ‘When you found the car, was there a baby in it? Can you tell me that? Did you hear or see a baby?’
He was sitting alongside Crabby in the back of the squad car. Crabby appeared to have calmed down, staring straight ahead, completely still. Which wasn’t good either. He turned his head slightly, his eyes swivelling to the corners of their sockets. It gave him a shifty look.
‘Mr Crabby,’ Beck said. ‘When you found the car, was there a baby in it? Can you tell me that? Did you hear or see a baby?’
‘A baby?’
‘Yes. A baby.’ Beck was struggling to keep his voice calm.
‘I can’t be certain. I didn’t see a baby… I don’t think. I can’t be certain’
‘Okay. And you were out for an early morning cycle, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘What brought you here, to this spot?’
Crabby shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s, I don’t know, pretty, isn’t it? The bridge. I’ve always liked it. There used to be a tiny village you know, Kelly’s Forge. All ruins now. It’s very peaceful. I like peace…’
‘Did you recognise the deceased?’ Beck asked.
‘You mean the person in the car?’
What?
‘Yes. The person in the car,’ Beck said.
Crabby bowed his head and folded his arms tightly across his chest.
‘Her throat was cut. I could see it.’
‘Did she look familiar?’
‘I don’t know?’
‘What do you mean you don’t know?’
‘I don’t think I even looked at her face, you see.’ He paused, before adding. ‘All I can remember is her throat. I couldn’t take my eyes off her throat.’
‘I see,’ Beck said. ‘By the way, how did you know my address?’
Crabby unfolded his arms and they fell by his sides. He looked down, then up again at Beck. ‘You don’t remember?’
‘Remember. Remember what?’
‘The bottle of tequila. You came into my shop. I had actually closed, was locking the door. I didn’t want to sell it to you, you understand, but you were very, very, persistent. I knew you were a policeman, so I offered to drive you home. You were, you know…’
‘Oh,’ Beck said, his mind whirring quickly. ‘I’d like to thank you for that. And apologise at the same time. It was a reaction to antibiotics. I had a virus at the time.’
Crabby was silent.
Beck wondered if he believed his lie.
The truth was he had absolutely no recollection of the event. He didn’t even like tequila. But it did explain one mystery. During a particularly bad bender not so long ago, he had woken to find a half empty litre bottle of tequila on his bedside locker. He’d called it a gift from the Mexican tooth fairy.
‘I’ll have someone drive you home,’ Beck said. ‘But we’ll need to talk to you again. You’re not planning on going anywhere are you? Certainly not in the near future?’
‘No. I’m not. When do I get my bike back?’
‘We’ll have to hold onto that. It shouldn’t be for long. I’ll get word to you. You can come and collect it from the station, or we can drop it back. Whichever you’d prefer.’
‘Why?’ For the first time a change in the pitch of the voice. ‘Why do you want to hold onto it?’
‘Because we’ll need to forensically examine it, that’s why.’
Crabby thought about that. ‘And why? Surely… Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with this?’
‘I don’t know,’ Beck said. ‘I don’t know anything. Not at this moment. You can understand.’
Crabby stared at Beck. ‘Listen,’ he said abruptly. ‘Actually, I don’t understand. This is my reputation you’re talking about. I’m not involved in this dreadful business. Do you understand?’
‘Understand? I understand there’s a killer out there who needs to be found. And there’s probably a baby missing too. That’s what I understand. Anything else, such as your reputation, well, it pales into insignificance, doesn’t it?’
Crabby pursed his lips and looked out the window, away from Beck. He muttered something under his breath. Beck couldn’t quite catch what it was, but it sounded like ‘I gave you a bloody bottle of tequila.’
They were outcasts. The people of this place. This Clachán, this hamlet known as Kelly’s Forge. The boy knew it. Knew it in the way the people of the town avoided them. Knew it in the way they looked at them. In the way they spoke to them. In the way they ridiculed them. They did not belong. Their world was the world of the forest, where the monsters dwelled, the banshees, the faeries. That was their world.
He did not like looking at his grandmother’s face, so he avoided it, turning away from her now. Because it held a tortured grimace, as if she was suffering the most indomitable, insufferable pain, as if her skin was being burned alive, dripping from her body. He knew the cause, one word: stroke.
The boy watched as the people congregated around the door of the cottage, the light from their burning rushes a glowing pit in the darkness. They stood there, stooped figures for the most part, one or two women with babies beneath their shawls, the men in ill-fitting jackets, their faces gaunt and shadowed in the flickering light that reflected on the uniform buttons of the two guards who stood inside.
He watched as the big hulking detective pushed the rickety door closed, the light from the burning rushes disappearing, appearing to squeeze through the small narrow windows, where faces were pressed against the dirty panes of glass.
The boy would later learn the big detective’s name: Inspector Padráic Flaherty, of Mill Street station in Galway.
He watched his mother. She was sitting on a wooden stool by the table. In that night dress. That was drenched in blood. He saw that she was shivering, and wanted to go to her. Wanted to protect her. Because that’s what men did. But he was not a man. Not yet. He was still a boy. And so he could do nothing. The boy turned his head on the hard pillow. And was startled to see his grandmother staring at him. In the black pits of her eyes he could see his face. But he did not recoil. Instead he reached out for the old woman, held her close. And he could feel her hand on his back, gently pressing into him.
Claire Somers didn’t do tears. Or so she thought. Anyway, it had been a long time since she had.
She wiped her eyes with the tissue again and looked at herself in the rear-view mirror. She sighed. A long sigh. A sigh of hopelessness. Also of confusion. But above all, of loss.
Was it the same for straight couples?
She was immediately angry she had even asked herself this question. It was the sort of question sure to get up her own goat if she’d heard someone else ask it. It was a question up there with, well, how do you actually, you know, do it?
Whatever, this had been the longest week of her life. It was now eight weeks since they’d got the news. The IVF cycle was now complete. Over. Finished. The result delivered. The preamble, the jargon, it went on and on, but she had known right away. Because they don’t do preamble and jargon unless they want to hide the bad news at the end. And the bad news at the end was more or less the same as the bad news on the previous two occasions. Eggs had been harvested, but only one fertilized, and this had rejected the donor’s sperm. The clinic had wanted to try again. They said to keep positive. Easy for them to say, so long as they were getting paid. But Lucy and Claire decided that enough was enough. For now. Maybe in the future they would try again, maybe with Claire’s eggs next time. But for now, it was too difficult to continue, each failure was too much of a numbing loss in itself, and it was taking too much of a toll on their relationship.
The clinic would not use the word failure when this was really what they meant. Why couldn’t they say it like it was? Why did they feel the need to colour the result with the same enthusiasm they had coloured their promises at the start of the process in their bloody colour brochures. It would have been easier if they’d just said it like it was.
The process.
Jesus.
And she didn’t do make-up either. Or so she thought. Anyway, it had been a long time since she had. But she needed colour to her pale, gaunt face. Because Beck had already rung twice. And she couldn’t keep putting him off. She had to face people. She had to present a normal image to the world.
Her phone rang again.
She picked up, ‘I was just th…’
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘Keep your shirt on, Beck, I’m on my way.’
The big policeman was angry. The boy knew it. He could see it in the way he clenched his fists and in the way his arms hung down by his sides, his mouth set like a cross dog.
‘Stop your nonsense!’ the policeman shouted at his mother, kicking back the stool and standing. ‘Enough of it!’
The boy shuddered.
‘It’s the truth,’ his mother shouted back. ‘I swear it to you I do. It’s the truth.’ She began to wail. ‘Oh, my bábóg.’
But just as suddenly, she fell quiet, staring at the table. The weak light from the candle glinted on the nail heads in the rough-hewn wood.
‘Have you a husband?’ the big detective asked.
The boy stiffened at the mention of his father. But it was not his mother who answered. It was the sergeant.
‘Her husband is in England. He left to find work.’
‘Did he?’ his mother said. ‘That’s more than I know. He told me he was leaving. For good. Said he’d had enough. Have I not had enough as well, I ask? But where can I run off to? I can’t, can I? No. I can’t. Are marriage vows worth nothing any more? The curse of God on him.’
‘Have you got a torch?’ the inspector asked the ser. . .
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