Wednesday's Child (16 page)

‘No, Connie. That won’t happen. It doesn’t work like that.’

‘Sometimes, when it gets really bad, if they’ve been wound up a few days running, I sleep in one of our neighbours’ houses. There’s this old lady, Mrs Jones. She’s always been nice to me. She used to give me biscuits when I was little, and I used to go the shop to get milk for her. She lets me sleep over sometimes, when I’m afraid to be at home. I like it at her house. It smells kind of funny, but it’s so …
quiet
. Do you know, she doesn’t even have the telly on that much? She likes the radio, and she listens to this really old music on it. It makes me think of those black-and-white movies they show during the day sometimes – I’ve seen them when I’m sick and off school.’

‘She sounds like a very nice person. You’re lucky to have a friend that you can go to.’

She nodded and laid her head back down again, looking wistfully out of the window at the street.

‘Oh, I’m not lucky,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been lucky. Not in my whole life.’

*

I worried about Connie, maybe more than the others. It wasn’t that her situation was worse – far from it. It was that she seemed somehow less damaged than the rest of my clients. She was, however, teetering on the brink of the abyss. She had, through sheer strength of character, managed to remain functional and maintain a public face of calm normality. None of the rest of the kids I worked with had been able to do that. Gillian was obviously in deep trauma. Cordelia overplayed the maturity card, and seemed strange and remote. Connie, in stark contrast, was personable and pleasant, if a little shy. The display in McDonald’s and the subsequent disclosure made me see what I had suspected all along. There was a damaged, frightened child inside her, screaming for help and attention.

I decided the following day that a visit should be made to Doonan. If the Kellys were in crisis again, maybe I could help. I recruited Sinéad to accompany me, as she had experience with the family, and we drove out that evening when we both had some space in our diaries.

The light was beginning to dim when we turned into that desolate estate. This time there were no children playing in the street. It seemed that everyone had taken refuge from the advancing shadows. There appeared to be little life in the Kelly house. No shouting, no lights on, the curtains drawn in the living room.

The silence was beginning to get eerie.

‘What do you think?’ Sinéad asked as we waited for a response to our knock.

‘I’m reserving judgement,’ I said.

No answer came, and I knocked more loudly. Muffled movements came from within, and a dishevelled young man opened the door. He wore a nondescript shirt and jeans, and looked like he had just risen from bed.

‘Yeah?’ he said, rubbing the back of his neck and sniffing loudly.

‘Hello, Mick,’ Sinéad said. ‘We were just passing, so we thought we might call for a visit.’

Mick made a hawking sound in his throat, gurgled and spat something onto the doorstep. It landed with a dishearteningly heavy sound. ‘Sure you’d better come in, so,’ he said, turning and shuffling into the hallway, which was in total darkness.

The living room wasn’t much better, although it was lit with the orange glow of the television and the incandescence of the fire. The vast bulk of Mrs Kelly was seated on the couch, exuding menace. She looked over at us as we entered, but said nothing, her gaze turning back to the television immediately. A grey-haired man was in the armchair adjacent to her. He was dressed in a tweed jacket over a string vest and dark-coloured trousers. A non-filtered cigarette smouldered in his hand. He nodded at us but also made no comment.

Sinéad perched on the couch beside Mrs Kelly. I leaned on the wall by the door. There was something
wrong. It was far too quiet. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand on end. The atmosphere in the house was thick with tension. Sinéad sensed it too. I saw her shiver and shake her head to clear it.

‘So how have things been, Mrs Kelly?’ she asked, her voice full of levity and high good humour.

‘Mmm,’ Mrs Kelly said, her eyes still locked on the television.

‘And you, Mr Kelly. I haven’t seen you in a long time.’

‘That’s right,’ the older man said.

I squinted through the gloom at the father, and realised that he wasn’t watching the television at all, despite the fact that he was facing it. His line of vision was actually fixed on a point just to the left of it, on the far wall. I wondered how long he had been sitting there like that, staring at nothing.

Mick sat on the other side of Sinéad, and began to giggle. It was a horrible sound. There was no mirth in it, no happiness. It was a sick sound, as if all the foul energy in the house had found form and was spilling out of this young man. I wanted to turn tail and flee, get away from that sound of illness, but Sinead kept it together and turned to Mick, looking perplexed but not at all bothered.

‘God, Mick, that’s a great laugh you’re having. Do you want to share the joke?’

In the light thrown by the television, I could see Mick’s face. His eyes were locked on to Sinéad, and
there was no laughter in them. They were full of violence and rage. He shook his head at Sinéad’s question and the giggling continued, rising and falling, then reaching an insane peak.

‘Ye’re all very chatty today,’ Sinéad said over the cackling.

I knew that the bubble would burst, and it did right then.

‘Jesus Christ, Michael, will you shut the fuck up!’

Mrs Kelly roared like a bull elephant and moved with frightening speed, reaching across Sinéad and grabbing her son by the throat with her massive hand. The manic laughter turned to gurgles, and the two fell back on top of the unfortunate Sinéad, who was caught between them.

I had no time for thought. I jumped across and got Sinéad around the waist. She was a tiny creature, and I pulled her out from under Mrs Kelly without much difficulty. Luckily all of the huge woman’s attention was focused on throttling her son, so my actions went unnoticed. I was peripherally aware of Mr Kelly still perusing his patch on the wall with rapt fascination. Sinéad was gasping for breath and was trembling, but I dumped her unceremoniously onto the floor and tried to pry Mrs Kelly’s fingers from around her son’s neck. I might as well have been attempting to pull a brick from the centre of a wall. Her grip was ferocious. I had managed to loosen one finger when her dull gaze slowly turned and registered me. Her left hand, which had been lying unused in
her lap, shot out and I was sent reeling across the room, landing in a heap against the armchair that her husband was sitting in. My weight and the force of my fall caused the chair to roll a couple of feet on its castors. Mr Kelly remained in exactly the same position, moving only his head so that he could see that spot of wall that so consumed him.

I pulled myself on to my haunches as quickly as I could manage and prepared to spring again when I realised that Mrs Kelly was no longer strangling Mick. The two were now seated side-by-side, looking at Sinéad and me in our various states of disarray on the floor. It was like being looked at by a couple of pit bulls, and I was convinced that we were in very serious trouble.

Then the laughter began again. Not just Mick this time, but Mrs Kelly as well. Hers had a deeper, more throaty timbre, but was no less terrifying for it. They looked at us, then at each other and as they did so the laughter became more and more hysterical. I reached over and took Sinéad’s hand, and we slowly backed out of the room. I was expecting them to come at us any moment, and was ready to take whatever action was necessary to get out, but they never moved. The few seconds of almost pitch blackness in the hallway were like an eternity, then Sinéad was fumbling for the handle of the front door and we were out. Neither of us hesitated. We ran full-belt for the car.

Ten minutes later Doonan was only dim lights in
the rear-view mirror. My breathing had returned to normal and Sinéad had stopped shaking.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

All we could do was laugh – and maybe we cried a little too. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the two apart.

I tried to see Gillian as often as possible. I experimented with easy-to-eat foods, basically anything that did not involve chewing. So I brought her custards, mashed potatoes, creamed rice, puréed fruit.

One day I bought a book on weaning babies that had a variety of recipes. I went shopping and took over the office kitchen that afternoon, experimenting. When I had a good selection, I set up a taste-test for the staff. I wanted the food to be as inoffensive as possible, but I also wanted to start building her up to solids, so I tried to pack in some flavour, getting as much protein, fibre and as many vitamins into her as I could. I needed to know what she would be likely to eat and what she would turn up her nose at.

‘Okay, I want people’s opinions on these. Gillian is going to get thoroughly sick of veggie soup, and she isn’t a big fan of chicken, so we’re quite limited in what we can do. She seems to have a sweet tooth, and has been going for custard, especially chocolate flavour.’

‘Do you have any of that here?’ Melanie was in for a visit and was perusing the bowls I had arranged on the counter.

‘No.’

‘Damn.’

‘I’ve labelled the bowls, so everyone please have a taste of each and tell me what’s good, what’s okay, and what’s not so good. It’s a crucial time for her now. She’s holding food down and I don’t want to lose her before we’ve begun.’

‘Do you really expect me to eat anything that contains liver?’ Sinéad was looking with undisguised horror at a brown concoction that I had labelled ‘Liver, carrot and onion.’

‘It’s full of iron, Sinéad, and is actually not bad. I’m trying to get as many nutrients into her as I can.’

Sinéad spooned up some of the liver and let it dribble back into the bowl.

‘You have
got
to be kidding.’

‘This is surprisingly good,’ Josephine said, looking at the inscription on the bowl she was trying. “Courgette and banana”. Who’d have thought?’

‘Yeah, I had some of that too. It’s really nice,’ Francesca agreed.

‘This is to die for,’ Melanie said, having a second taste of a bowl of ‘Strawberry fool’. ‘Got any more of this?’

‘No. I’ve only made samples.’

‘Could you make some more?’

‘No!’

The exercise proved fruitful, and I went home that day armed with a database of good meals for Gillian.

Gillian herself was thriving. Her weight was increasing, and she had developed into a warm, friendly,
open child who seemed anxious to talk. We met in different places: at the school; at the park; at her home. I left it up to her. While our conversations were hardly deep yet, I felt that a solid foundation had been laid for a genuinely therapeutic relationship.

I pulled up outside her house one Tuesday evening. It had been a grey, overcast day, and the threatened rain had just begun to fall. I sounded the horn and the door of the cottage opened, Gillian’s small frame silhouetted in the light that emanated from inside. I turned up my collar and ran from the car. The dogs growled at my passage, but were all sheltering in the derelict car, and made no move towards me.

I got inside and grinned at the girl, immediately registering that something was not as it should be.

‘Hey there, Gillian.’

She sniffed at me, and walked towards the living room. I stood where I was, the door still open and the rain coming in. I closed it and followed her.

‘Gill, I’ve brought you something new to try.’

I had a tupperware bowl of the courgette and banana purée, as well as a pot of strawberry fool, which she had sampled the previous week and enjoyed.

‘Lovely.’ The voice was not Gillian’s.

Libby sat in an ancient armchair in the room they used as a living area. In the few weeks I had been coming here, I had only met her that first time. I was struck again by her rough beauty, and was also immediately aware of the smell of whiskey.

‘Hello, Libby. It’s good to see you again.’

‘The feeling is mutual, my lad. Getting on well with my little girl, are you?’

I didn’t like where this was going, so I decided to steer the conversation as far away from my work with Gillian as possible. The girl was standing behind her mother’s chair, as if she were on guard. I was reminded of the dogs outside, and how they had responded when Libby had come out to talk to Andi and me: silent, but coiled for action at the first signal. Gillian was looking at me, but her look was not friendly.