Paupers Graveyard (19 page)

‘Isn't it strange,' one whispered, ‘that in all the suffering, this is the first time we heard that?'

‘What is it?'

‘The Banshee.'

‘That's not the Banshee,' his companion turned and looked back towards the graveyard. ‘That's Mother Éire herself, weeping over the premature death of another great son.'

October 2003

Helen was floating, sinking deeper into the warmth, dreaming of sunshine and swimming in blue, tropical seas. The water lapped about her skin, caressed her thighs. Its touch felt as soft and familiar as a lover. The cocaine speeding through her blood heightened the effect. Surrendering to them both, she forgot, in her drugged state, about the massive bulk of her pregnancy. It was only when she tried to turn gracefully within the water, twisting sharply, propelling herself forward, that reality returned. She cried out as the pain speared her stomach, and the warm water ran from between her legs.

‘Shit!' She threw back the covers, pulled at the bunched sodden mass that was her nightdress, and stared at the rapidly expanding bloody mucus staining the sheet. Her waters had broken.

‘Joe,' she jabbed at the sleeping form beside her. ‘Joe, get up.'

Her husband awoke with a startled grunt and looked at her with bleary eyes.

‘My waters have broken. Get up quick.'

Her what? Had what? He had been a bachelor for far too long. Not even the antenatal classes had managed to seep through a brain that was designed for such sterile things as facts and figures. Somehow, he had always hoped that it would never come about. That he would be away on business when the event occurred. Watching the video of a birth, with all its gore and screaming had turned his stomach. And the sight of the head appearing, pushing its way through like a giant white slug against the glutinous red of the surrounding tissue, appalled him. Anyway, it was a month earlier than he had expected.

‘Are you just going to sit there looking stupid or are you getting dressed?' she demanded, waddling across the room, pulling the wet nightdress over her swollen stomach and breasts. He would have preferred to sit there, but swung his legs onto the floor. He filled a case with the assortment of nightwear, baby clothes, perfumes and towels that she threw at him. Soon he was carrying the case in one hand and a still sleeping Jenny on the other arm, down the stairs, and out into the cold night air.

The street was quiet and shrouded in a mist. The car doors slamming resounded like thunder in the silence. The headlights pierced the night as the car pulled away, its tail lights – red cat's eyes – skulking through the white of the night.

Black Jack stood surrounded by the mist and watched them go. They would be back with another child. He knew about her pregnancy. It was easy enough to spot as the clothes she wore did little to hide it. She was not like the others in this place, her very tone denied this. Like Elizabeth, she had married out of her own class, but she found it hard to settle into her chosen life and would never be happy. She belonged to the streets and alleyways, this one, and no doubt her needs would take her back there. Though it pained him to think in such a way, they were alike, this woman and Elizabeth. She did not want the child within her. He had heard her say so often enough, when she spoke to her friends, and he knew that Elizabeth cursed him for her condition. But unlike Elizabeth she would be back and with a live, bawling infant, while he, Jack Carey, had to watch the blood of his unborn child drain from between Elizabeth's legs. He should have had a son and if that whore returned with one, then God help her. He walked along the pathway, misted street lamps revealing his shadowy darkness as he passed underneath.

He paused for a moment to look back at the house and up at the bedroom window where Sheila Ryan slept fitfully, sensing his presence, despite the strong sedative. He was tempted, really tempted, to make another assault on her body. The need raged within him and he licked at the dry, indented hollows on his lips. But sense outweighed his desires, as his eyes caught the motion of the many shapes that followed his every move from the darkness. He laughed, scorning the watchers, and strode into the deepening mist.

****

Sheila awoke feeling as though she'd been run over by a train. Her head throbbed and the fuzziness refused to clear. The heavy sedative on top of the two sleeping pills had been too much. She had forgotten, in her terror, to tell the doctor about having taken them. Stumbling towards the bedroom door, she felt her way along the landing to the bathroom. She could hear muted mumblings from below, and realised that her hosts were up and about. Sitting on the side of the bath, she reached over and turned on the taps. Once the water reached the desired temperature, she allowed it to fill. The reflection that stared back at her from the mirrored tiles seemed alien. Black-circled eyes and dishevelled hair made her look like a mad woman. Her skin felt raw and sore. Easing the straps of her nightdress from her shoulders, she allowed it to fall to the floor. Most of the dressings had come loose and she pulled the remaining bits of tape off. The white gauze was stained with blood, pus and a blackness that felt like dried earth when she touched it. Cringing, she dropped them into the waste bin beneath the sink. Surveying the damage, she gasped at the bruises and lesions that marbled her body. There were long red scratches on the inside of both her thighs.

She shuddered, remembering the talons that had raked through her skin, opening the flesh in their wake and shivered, despite the warmth of the water.

The events of last night seemed impossible. The demon-things, whatever they were, had to be part of some crazy nightmare. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she hugged herself. Tom would be home soon, and everything would be okay.

A gentle tapping on the door made her jump, and she climbed reluctantly from the bath, unwilling to leave its womb-like sanctum. Grabbing a towel, she wrapped it tightly around her, and leaning against the door, whispered.

‘Yes?'

‘Are you all right, my dear?'

‘Yes, thank you. I'll be down as soon as I'm dressed.'

She wasn't sure if the woman had heard, because she never answered, and there was no sound of retreating footsteps. Was she still standing outside the door, waiting for her to come out? She shivered again, pulling the towel up around her shoulders, hoping to find some warmth within its folds. She couldn't stop shaking. After cleaning the bath, she sat on the side, delaying the moment when she'd have to face them.

‘Sheila?'

The voice startled her for a moment, then … ‘Tom!' She was struggling with the lock on the bathroom door. ‘Oh Tom,' she threw herself, sobbing, into his arms.

‘My God, Sheila, I didn't know what to think. The police contacted me first thing this morning. I got here as soon as I could. Are you all right?'

She couldn't reply. The relief at seeing him was overwhelming.

After she had calmed down and changed into the freshly laundered clothes that Ruth had fetched for her, they talked. The four of them went over the events of the previous night. It was hard to believe, sitting in the bright kitchen of their next-door neighbours, that anything like that could have happened.

‘Hooligans, that's what they are. Breaking into people's homes, attacking helpless women,' Mike Byrne's booming voice made Sheila jump.

‘They weren't people, I keep telling you.'

He didn't seem to hear, or chose to ignore what she said. She was a woman after all, and he knew how they were given to flights of fancy.

‘Call the army in. That's what they should do. Bring in a curfew, clean up the streets.'

His wife tried to shush him by patting him on the arm, but he slapped her away.

‘Well,' Tom cleared his throat. ‘We'll get back home.' He stood and held out his hand to Mike. ‘I'll never be able to thank you enough for what you've done for us.'

‘Glad to be of help.'

Mike Byrne's huge hand closed over his, and Tom could visualise the bones crunching as the man shook. His fingers were tingling and it took all his strength not to flex them, when he finally let go.

Tom was glad when they were safely back in their own home, but not Sheila, who looked around her as though expecting the ‘things' from the night before to jump out on her. Her nerves were so on edge, she almost screamed when the doorbell rang. Tom answered it and came back followed by the doctor.

‘Well, well, young lady,' he beamed, ‘feeling better are we?'

He reached down to feel for her pulse, and she drew back.

‘Still a bit jumpy, eh? Well, it's to be expected,' he sat on the sofa beside her and, using his briefcase as a desk, began to write out a prescription. ‘Just a few sedatives to help calm your wife down; if you need me, my number's on the top,' he threw the prescription pad back into his case and snapped the locks. ‘Keep those scratches clean,' he advised Sheila as Tom led him from the room.

She lay back against the sofa and tried not to listen to the whispered conversation between the two men.

Tom came back, smiling.

‘The doctor says that salt baths are the best thing for you.'

She remained silent and he sat beside her, reaching for her hand.

‘It's going to be all right, you know, darling. They'll catch whoever it was, and Mike is calling a locksmith and alarm company as we speak. We'll make this place safe as Fort Knox. What do you say?'

‘Would “go to hell” be plain enough?'

‘Come on, sweetheart. Don't be like that,' he said, trying unsuccessfully to lace his fingers between her limp ones.

‘I know what you were saying to that doctor. “Sheila's always been a bit nervy”,' she mimicked his voice.

‘Listen, darling, I know what happened last night was awful.'

‘Awful! Now that's a nice word for it.'

‘What do you want me to say, Sheila?' He jumped up and paced the room. ‘How do you think I feel? I leave home for one night and my wife is attacked and almost raped while I was gone. Don't you think I want to kill him?'

‘You think I imagined it.'

‘Christ, Sheila. I know you didn't imagine it. I can see that.'

‘I mean about the damned demons – or whatever they were.'

‘I'm not going to argue with you now. You're far too upset and need these,' he waved the prescription. ‘It will take me an hour to get to the pharmacy and back. Will you be all right, while I'm gone?'

She nodded, not looking up, and only moved when the front door slammed. She wanted to throw it open, to follow him. Tell him she was sorry. Sorry that she'd been attacked, sorry for not understanding. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Instead she leant back against the door and allowed herself to slide to the floor, sobbing. Crying for her loss of innocence, because she would never again feel safe within this house, this dream home, and for the loss of her parents and the empty years that followed. For the need for psychiatric care, but most of all, the stigma that was attached to this; never feeling wholly trusted after that. Not by the few friends she had and now not even by her husband. She forgot in her grief to be afraid, until a gentle tapping startled her. She sat for a moment, frozen.

‘Sheila, are you there?'

Oh, God, it was that woman from next door. Ruth, wasn't it? Tapping tapping, ever rapping, like Poe's
Raven
. She struggled to her feet and opened the door.

‘I just called around to see if you were all right?'

‘Come in.'

‘Well, just for a moment,' said Ruth, dodging as if expecting to be hit. ‘Mike called the home security company and they've promised to be here sometime this morning.'

Sheila looked at the woman before her. At her dark-circled, red-rimmed eyes and tight smile. Hands clasped tightly together as if she feared they would fly away. Such a small woman, she thought, to have such a big, angry husband. With this the tears started again, and she found the arms that went around her were surprisingly strong.

‘There, there now, dear.'

Sheila allowed herself to be led into the kitchen and sat listening to the kettle being filled and the clink of cups.

‘Sweet tea.' She took the cup from Ruth. ‘Best thing for shock. Better than any of those new pills they pump into you.'

‘Thank you.'

They sat in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

‘What did you see? What did you really see?'

‘You believe me?' Sheila was incredulous.

‘Well, I'm not sure. I've seen some things that I can't explain.'

‘I'm not sure now either,' admitted Sheila with relief. ‘I know I had taken two sleeping pills, and that I was panicked, hysterical, but I couldn't be that wrong. Could I?'

‘You said demons?'

‘Yes, like … um …' she searched for the right words. ‘D'you remember the video
Thriller
? Where Michael Jackson danced with all these zombies, corpses?'

‘Sorry, my dear,' the woman shook her head.

‘No, not your thing, I suppose.'

Silence descended again, until finally Sheila asked.

‘What if I imagined it?'

‘That's possible.'

‘Yes, but what if I didn't?'

‘Then God help us all.'

‘Amen.'

Outside a car door slammed and they both turned towards the sound. If it was Tom, he was taking his time. Ruth got up and started to clear away the cups. A key turned in the front door, and Tom came into the kitchen clutching a white paper bag.

‘Hello, Ruth,' he greeted the visitor. ‘The pharmacist said to take one right away, Sheila.'

Without being asked, Ruth filled a glass with water and handed it to her. Tom shook a pill onto her upturned palm and they both watched as she placed it in her mouth and swallowed.

‘Better now, darling?' he brushed Sheila's hand, afraid of rejection.

‘Getting there,' she grasped his extended fingers and pulled them back to her.

The doorbell sounded again and Tom went to answer it. Sheila had to admit she felt better. It was probably the effects of the pill, but terror was gradually being replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling. Tom returned to say the locksmith had arrived and was setting to work. Ruth excused herself, promising to call back the next day.