suited him. And if all that broke down her mother would take him and his dream of living with BC full-time would be realized.
Ash dropped from her cigarette onto the industrial-gray carpet and she rubbed it in with the tip of her shoe. Unwinnable.
IV
They were released into the baby-killing world with assurances from the police that it was a random incident, that they would do all they could, that it was probably some nut who had become obsessed with Burns because he/she had seen him on telly. Good-bye and good luck.
Useless, lazy bastards was the gist of Burns’s rant on the pavement outside, as if it was only happening to him, as if Paddy wasn’t standing in a shit storm waving out.
They stood in the afternoon sunshine in Pitt Street, Pete pulling at Paddy’s arm as Burns related the traumas of the morning. More officers than necessary had tumbled into his house, all eager to have a look around; the incompetent forensics failed to find as much as a fingerprint; it had taken thirty minutes to get an ambulance for Sandra, and then she had to get a taxi from the hospital over to the station to subject herself to questioning. They gave her a Valium tablet at the casualty department and she wasn’t used to it.
He suddenly turned his anger on Paddy. “So what do we do now?”
“Well,” her hand was on Pete’s shoulder and she felt very calm, “you go to Sandra. Hide out for a bit. Stay in your hotel room. It’ll all be settled in a couple of days.”
Burns glanced at Pete, censoring himself. “What about the burglar?”
“That’ll be sorted out.” She looked away, sudden self-pitying tears nipping her eyes. Afternoon buses floated past the end of the road. A cyclist zipped down the hill, red hair fluttering out behind her. People walked, friends in twos and threes, contented, enjoying the warm weather, looking for lunch before they had to head back to work.
“I’ll sort it out.”
THIRTY-ONE. PHONE CALLS FROM HOME
I
Pete had only ever been in Paddy’s office once before, when he was one and a half, teething molars and refusing to sleep unless it was light. Her mother was at some dead friend’s rosary with Caroline and BC and she’d had no option but to take him with her. It was late at night, at that quietest moment in the twenty-four-hour culture of the place, when she took Pete in to pick up a folder and some telephone messages from her pigeonhole. She hoped he would fall asleep in the car but he didn’t; expected him to cry in the office but he didn’t do that either. He sat on her hip, watching everything, smiling for everyone and pointing everywhere, shouting a string of consonants at a desk and dribbling on her shoulder.
The night came back to her as she pushed in through the double doors. She would love to hold Pete like that again, wrap her arms around him and have him reciprocate. She was his world then and he was still hers now.
The few journalists who hadn’t stayed at Terry’s party downstairs or passed out or gone home were at the desks, burrowing away. Only the secretaries sat up at the sight of the little boy standing in the door looking around with honest interest.
Two of them came over and made a fuss, told Paddy that he looked like her and asked Dub if he was the daddy. Pete smiled up at him until Dub said kind of, aye. Pete punched Dub’s thigh, narrowly missing his balls, insisting that he wasn’t his daddy, his daddy was his daddy, but smiling all the same.
Paddy led them over to a desk on the fringes of News with a big space behind it for Pete to play in, found him some paper and pencils, and asked him to do some drawings of the police station with Dub while she worked.
She laid out the photocopies and Joan Forsyth’s list of names and addresses in front of her. It was long but she crossed off all the men and called international inquiries to get telephone numbers for all the other addresses. The operator would only give her three at a time so she kept having to phone back until she had the full fourteen. Then she called again, because she was in the swing of it, and got three Irish numbers as well. None of the names on Forsyth’s list sounded African or even West Indian so she began at the top of the list.
Two no answers and one reply, a man, said that the woman she was looking for, Fransy, was at “woyk.” Call later.
“I’m trying to trace someone, it’s quite urgent. I hope you don’t mind me asking but is Fransy black?”
The man stalled. “Who is this?”
“The woman I’m looking for is black. Is she black?”
“No, but I am.”
A yappy dog began to bark in the background.
“Right? But she’s white?”
The dog gave a sudden yowl and the speaker came back on the phone. “The fuck are you getting at?”
He sounded ready for a fight so she thanked him and hung up.
Two more calls and two more answers, both of whom were offended when she asked them about the color of their skin. Evidently, the question meant something over there that it didn’t mean over here.
“Hello?”
“Can I speak to Karen, please?”
“Speaking.” Her voice was a sexy southern-belle drawl. She sounded as if she was lying down, or at least walking around looking super in nice underwear.
“Karen, I wonder if you can help me. You had your photo taken last summer by a photographer-”
“Kevin? Sure, I have the form here, right in front of me. Sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry. “I’ll sign and send it back.”
“Well, the thing is-”
“How is Kevin anyway? Is he coming back? Do you know Terence?”
Paddy touched her funeral skirt, thought about telling her, and then realized it was far too long a story to go into. “Fine. See, the thing is we don’t know which photo is yours. I’ve offended a lot of people by asking this, but are you black?”
Karen laughed. “Well, sweetheart, I’m not surprised they were offended. It’s a issue over here.”
“Right. But are you?”
“As a midnight river.”
They smiled at each other down the phone. “Lovely,” said Paddy.
“I am that,” said Karen and let out a frank, dirty cackle that made Paddy want to meet her.
“You’ve got your hair in braids with yellow through them?”
“No,” she said sharply. “Not anymore.”
“But you did when the photo was taken?”
“Yeah. That was last year. No one does that anymore.”
Odd clunks in the background and the sound of the receiver being pinched between her shoulder and chin made Paddy think she was fixing breakfast.
“Karen, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this… Kevin died, that’s why I’m chasing up his notes for him.”
Karen gave out a sad “oh,” like the final breath from a deflating balloon.
