All the Rage (26 page)

She could hear laboured breathing. Twisting furiously, she found herself alone. It was then that she realised it was the sound of her own exertions. She wiped her forehead. It was wet. She extended her hands for inspection. They were shaking. Her stomach churned. Holding on to the bedpost for support, the room was fast becoming a whirling mass of indeterminable objects. How could that be so? She felt faint. She felt like she was about to freak out. Where the bloody hell are you, Marcus?

The photograph in her hand fell to the floor, face down. Kara bent down and retrieved it, but dizziness overcame her. She sat on the bed and examined the faint inscription on the reverse of the black and white image. It was barely visible to her eye, handwritten in pencil, but she read: Patrick Porter R. I. P.

What the hell was this? Kara didn't care anymore; such was the pain in her head. She was just thankful to lie back on the bed, closing her eyes to the increasing mayhem which invaded her world.

Chapter Sixteen

 

Early the next morning, before his lunchtime flight, Michael packed hurriedly and settled his bill at the Shelbourne Hotel. This gave him the opportunity for an appointment with a very special person. He was going to meet the one woman who could effectively be of the greatest significance in his journey to Dublin. He had endeavoured to avoid this moment but it was now inevitable. What he had gained from Paddy McGuire and then the doctor was of huge importance, but the door was still only half open, he felt.

This person he hoped to meet had no idea of his existence or his intentions, nor, he imagined, had she any real recollection of past events that had been so responsible in misshapening her life. To all intents and purposes, Delores Porter was but a barely breathing corpse, a pathetic shell of a woman. Worse still, she had not spoken for over twenty years. It was a long shot, but Michael needed to find a way to communicate with her.

Bridge Nursing Home was situated on the south side of the City. Michael took a taxi and arrived at 8. 45 am. Once again, he was indebted to Terry who had provided the vital information to help track her down. He had also laid the groundwork to enable him to gain access to her. This time, he was masquerading as a solicitor working on forgotten papers that just needed verifying. His story didn't need to be convincing, just plausible enough to get through the front door.

The care home was an imposing red brick three-storey gothic building, surrounded by massive oak trees bordering either end, like bookends. Overgrown shrubbery partially hid the imposing façade. The tarmac drive was cracked and badly worn. It was a place of neglect for the forgotten people. Inside, it was grossly overheated and sadly threadbare, with nurses coming and going, carrying trays of tea and biscuits, and elderly patients, sitting forlornly, dotted around the cavernous rooms, waiting to die. The sound of several television sets boomed across the hallway. Michael hated the sight and smell of these places. It made him feel nauseous.

‘Can I help you? ' From behind a heavy desk, a matronly figure in starched white uniform peered closely at him from behind rimless glasses. She was as cumbersome as the desk.

He approached her in confident manner. ‘Michael Strange, from Strange and Churchill, solicitors,' he announced. ‘You will have been expecting me. '

The woman scrutinised him from head to toe, examining his immaculate navy wool suit, sky blue shirt, navy tie and highly polished black shoes. The shoes were a must: they would gain entry to anywhere on the planet on gleam alone. Satisfied, she searched down a typewritten list on her overcrowded tabletop, frowning intently as she went. ‘Here you are. A man telephoned to make an appointment at two-thirty in the afternoon. ' She frowned again. ‘You are rather early, don't you think? '

Michael knew Terry had made the appointment on the day he left England. It was a mistake not to have kept in contact. They had made an error. ‘Unfortunately, my plans have changed. I am expected in court this afternoon. I have a flight to catch, and I needed to rearrange my timetable. ' He raised his eyebrows, lowered his briefcase to the floor and surrendered his arms to her mercy. ‘Quite clearly, you should have been informed. I apologise. Does this present a problem?'

The woman puffed out an almighty huff. She opened a large book from a shelf and inspected the contents. Again, she ran a finger down a list. Michael caught sight of her badge. Miss Brogan.

‘I have a taxi waiting for me,' he said firmly, adding, ‘What I have to accomplish will only take a few minutes. I would appreciate your cooperation, Miss Brogan. '

She looked up, and straightened her back. She was as wide as she was tall. And she wasn't tall.

Michael glanced at his watch for additional impact.

The formidable Miss Brogan relented. ‘Very well, Mr Strange. You have fifteen minutes only. I must warn you that you must not upset her in any way, is that understood? She can easily get into a distressed state of mind, and she must remain calm at all times. '

Michael gave the reply she wanted to hear. ‘Understood. '

She wasn't quite won over. ‘I will be keeping a very close eye on you, Mr Strange. '

‘Indeed. '

‘Wait here. I'll make her comfortable and explain who you are. '

With that, Miss Brogan disappeared down the long corridor to his left. Waiting patiently, he made way for a mobile bed being ferried past by two male nurses. A fragile old lady barely glanced in his direction. The smell of urine invaded his nostrils.

Several minutes elapsed, making him restless.

‘Come,' Miss Brogan barked, waving at him to follow in her path. At the end of the hallway, Michael stepped into a grand glass orangery. It had seen better days, but it was impressive nonetheless.

‘Fifteen minutes,' came the instruction.

Michael silently crossed the black and white tiled floor and recognised the woman who had passed him in the bed. She occupied a place by the entrance to the garden and was bathed in light from the vast windows. The back of the bed had been raised, allowing for Delores to be propped up using extra pillows behind her shoulders.

Michael pulled a chair across and sat beside her. He had to act quickly. From his briefcase, he pulled out a photograph of Lauren and himself taken several weeks ago. It was in the garden at the farm. They were smiling together. He had to make immediate impact with Delores, and this he hoped would be the start.

‘Hello, Delores. My name is Michael. Do you recognise the pretty girl in the picture? '

He held it up in front of her seemingly vacant gaze. Her eyes did not flicker. ‘It is your daughter, Lauren…' Shit. He quickly corrected himself. ‘Laura. ' He disguised his mistake by adding, ‘The good looking fellow is me. We are friends. Good friends. ' Thankfully, he seemed to get away with his stupidity. Although her daughter had undergone a change of identity, it was inconceivable that
any
mother would relate to another name than the one that she herself had chosen.

Delores remained impassive. It was a bad start.

‘I know that she came to see you recently, with Maggie. That must have been a wonderful surprise. Laura told me all about it. I've been to Dublin on business and I promised your daughter that I would call in and say “hello”. It is a real pleasure. '

He took her hands in his and gently caressed them. They were gnarled and cold and bony. He suddenly felt awful, attempting to deceive her with his false tales. Just what did he think he was playing at
?
He reached into his case once more. ‘These are for you. ' He placed a gift-wrapped box of soft jellies on her lap, and then, rather more secretively, a tiny bottle of brandy, which he slyly slid under her bed sheet. ‘I know this is naughty,' he glanced around in a bold gesture of defiance, ‘but what the hell…'

For the first time, he registered an inkling of response; just the slightest movement of her mouth. It was a smile. And slowly, he traced it to her eyes.

‘You can hear me, can't you, Delores? ' His heart beat faster. Just then, they were interrupted by Miss Brogan, who marched over to the bed. She silently wiped around Delores's mouth and chin with a sterilised cloth, finishing with a cold stare in his direction. ‘Ten minutes. '

He waited until they were alone again. Michael needed
something
.

In desperation, he tried another tactic, more underhand. ‘Laura, your daughter,' he whispered. ‘She and I are to marry. Does this make you happy? Did she tell you about us when she visited recently? ' He cradled her hands once more. ‘We can arrange for the ceremony in Dublin, if you like. Then you can attend, if you feel well enough. What do you think? '

He felt a reflex from her hands, a gradual tightening. She really was aware of everything he was telling her. It was a big breakthrough.

‘Squeeze my hand if it pleases you. That is, our marriage. '

Delores did not respond.

‘Would you be unhappy with this? '

He felt a tightening.

‘Are you not happy for Laura, Delores? '

Tighter.

‘Do you not approve of what she is doing? '

Tighter still.

‘I know it is difficult for you, but can we somehow talk about this?'

No response.

A commanding voice roared from behind him. ‘Five minutes, Mr Strange. '

Michael leaned closer to her. In the strong light, her skin was pure white and translucent. Her hair was sparse and wiry, revealing a fragile scalp. Blue veins protruded on her bony arms.

‘Delores,' he said softly, ‘I would like to help your daughter. She is seriously ill. I believe that she urgently needs medical supervision. If you cannot talk, squeeze my hand again if you agree with what I am saying. '

He felt her grip on his hand.

‘Is she a danger to herself? '

She responded again.

‘To others? '

A firmer tightening.

‘Delores, I will only get one chance to say this. I need you to trust me. I know the family history. I am aware of the tragic circumstances that have befallen you all. But I need to know what happened to Patrick, your son. I know this is distressing for you, but it is pivotal in understanding where the first trauma manifested itself with Laura, because in my opinion it obviously deeply affected her. It shaped her later life, far more than when she killed her father. ' Michael watched for signs of distress but Delores remained unreceptive. ‘According to the police, Patrick died as a result of an accident. But there were doubts cast. Do you believe it was an accident? '

No response.

He tried again. ‘Was his death the result of harmful activity? '

Engaged pressure.

‘Was your husband responsible? '

Static.

‘I have to ask this. Were you implicated? '

No response. He was aware of her breathing becoming erratic. Her skin was sticky. His questioning was causing stress.

From afar, he heard Miss Brogan yell, ‘Time for you to go, MrStrange. '

He heard her footsteps approaching. Fast.

‘Delores,' he pleaded, ‘however painful this must be for you: tell me now, because I know you want to unburden yourself. Was Laura responsible for the death of your son? '

‘That will be all,' Miss Brogan demanded, her immense shadow looming over them both. She cleaned Delores's mouth and chin again, and wiped her brow. ‘No more talking. ' She then turned and admonished him. ‘Delores is clearly exhausted, Mr Strange. '

Michael clung to her hands just waiting for a sign –
any sign
– but to no avail. She was too feeble to respond. Her eyes were closing.

Miss Brogan persisted, ‘Mr Strange; that will be all, now I must ask you to leave. ' She raised her formidable eyebrows. ‘Immediately.'

Michael stood and fastened his briefcase. He was beaten by his own impatience. He hated himself. Loosening his tie, he turned for the exit.

‘Goodbye, Delores,' he said, adding, ‘I hope you find a peace that you deserve. I will do everything in my power to protect Laura from the demons that possess her. You have my word. '

In the hallway, he became agitated and despondent. He had subjected an old lady to a painful reminder of a brutal past.
But she had wanted to communicate with him. She was not hiding from the past. She was confronting it.
The fact remained that with his final question Delores had chosen deliberately not to respond. Christ. He retraced his steps and found Miss Brogan barring his way. Behind her, Delores was being wheeled off in the other direction.

‘Is there a problem? ' Miss Brogan asked. ‘Or did I not make myself absolutely clear. '

Michael protested. ‘I need to ask just one last question…'

‘Time is up, Mr Strange. You have caused enough anguish for my patient. '

‘Delores! ' he shouted.

‘Mr Strange, I must warn you…'

‘Delores! '

Miss Brogan snapped her fingers and suddenly a uniformed male nurse grabbed him by the arms. He struggled to get free, mindful of her final order: ‘Have this man escorted from the premises. Now! '

He had but one slim chance. Above the din and chaos, he screamed, ‘It was Maggie, wasn't it? '

But he knew it was a futile request. She could not tell him. Speech was truly beyond her, her voice sealed by a suffering beyond the comprehension of others. She existed in a tomb of remorse.

Just then, a peculiar crack invaded the mayhem. Momentarily, everyone hesitated, almost in slow motion. It gave Michael time to direct his gaze to where the sound had come from. Then he saw it. Rolling toward him, across the highly polished floor, was the miniature bottle of brandy that he had hidden under her bed sheets. Delores had managed to secure it in her hands and then, with great fortitude, released it to fall to the ground. He was convinced it was her way of catching his attention.