‘Looks like everyone’s back from the funeral,’ she said, her own voice high in her ears. ‘Let’s go down to the house.’
She took a step forward, but Davy’s hand fell on her shoulder, as she half-expected it would, holding her in place.
‘You asked me a question,’ he said, ‘at least let me answer.’
Ali turned to look at him. Davy jumped to one side and landed on a drain cover. It rang from the blow, like a gong.
‘Do you know what this is?’
As he said it, her nose opened to the familiar smell. Under the square drain cover was the tank that took all the pig waste. Cement channels ran down from the sheds and under the concrete rectangle they were standing on.
‘It’s the slurry tank,’ said Ali.
‘Good girl. Three fathoms deep of shit and piss. The magical thing is you never need to empty it, because the shit eats itself.’
Ali remembered a fear she had when she was little, when she was helping to brush the slurry down the channels, that she would slip through one of the narrow slits at the end into a dark pool of stink. But that had been a groundless fear, the stuff of nightmares, easily dissolved in the light of day. Nothing like what she felt now, lurking, wide-awake.
‘That so?’ she managed. Her hand moved to embrace the curve of the doll’s back beneath the thin wool of her cardigan, some animal sense in her feeling a small presence there. The tractor thrummed out of sight.
Davy drew her close and lowered his voice. ‘Una’s not a very sentimental person, you know that. It was the middle of Christmas Day when you found it. Guests arriving and all. She did what she had to do.’ He tapped on the metal with the toe of his scuffed black brogues.
Ali stepped back from the metal hatch, couldn’t block out an image of the baby’s body sinking slowly into the brown muck, lit by a square of daylight. Una standing above it, the grimy box in her hands.
‘That’s horrible.’
‘Women do horrible things, though your Mary O’Shea libbers don’t think so. Oh, the poor mistreated women … Oh, the terrible men that oppress them … If you hadn’t stuck your little nose in, it could have waited. I might have buried it properly on Stephen’s Day, when things were quiet.’
‘You knew it was under the bed?’
‘Course I did. I said I’d deal with it. And I would have…’ He turned from her. ‘Ach, you were only a child, it wasn’t your fault.’
Ali stared at him. Davy was quieter now – the antic spirit had gone out of him as suddenly as a wind dying. He’d been too young to be involved in something like that, younger than she was now, and she didn’t believe that callous tone he was trying to muster. He was still her Davy.
‘Let’s go down to the house,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to see my sister right now.’
The tractor noise was moving closer, though the machine itself was hidden behind the sheds. The light of the day was fading, shadows gathering in field hollows and the lee of buildings.
‘You look tired,’ Ali said.
‘I’d like to sleep for a thousand years, but I can’t even manage an hour. Come back to the bungalow and have a drink with me.’
He held out a hand to her, and after a moment she took it. She had asked, and he had told her. That should be worth something. Truth should be worth something.
They walked back through the trees, Davy humming a meandering slow tune. His grip on her hand was reassuring, tight.
31
The Nolan home was on a rise of land to the north of Buleen, half hidden by a lush hedge. It was double-fronted, with wide bay windows, a large brick-arched porch and a thick creeper straddling one corner. They left two police cars blocking the driveway, and the Kinmore Guards quickly fanned out in the grounds. Swan, Considine and Fitzmaurice walked round to the front door. An old blue-and-white vase took centre stage in one of the windows, holding sprays of gladioli. In the deep of the room, a pale face turned to their passing.
After a short wait, it was Sister Bernadette who appeared in the porch, her expression guarded but calm.
‘Good afternoon, Detective.’
‘Well, it’s been quite a hunt to track you down. We’ll need to talk to you further, and your sister Peggy.’
She stood for a moment as if running through reasons to refuse them. Her eyes moved to take in the police cars.
‘Come in.’ She stepped back to allow them into the house. The broad hall beyond the porch was wood- panelled, with a grandfather clock and a carved oak bench. Discreet good things, handed down. A brass plaque on one door read Surgery. Sister Bernadette was attempting to show them into the room opposite, but Swan hesitated.
‘Who else is in the house with you?’
‘My father’s in his study, working,’ she said, indicating the door with the brass sign. ‘My mother’s shopping in Limerick with a neighbour.’
‘And your sister?’
‘Having a nap,’ said Sister Bernadette. A board creaked above their heads. Swan raised his eyes to the sound.
‘Peggy?’ Bernadette called.
Bare feet appeared at the top of the stairs, slowly followed by the rest of a young woman. She wore a nightdress and a shawl around her shoulders. Her hair was indeed the colour of a conker and curled thickly around her shoulders. She registered no surprise to see them there. Her face was still as wax.
‘Peggy, we’re going to have a chat with your sister,’ said Swan. ‘Perhaps my colleague Gina here can keep you company in the meantime?’
Considine was on her way up the stairs when a man with white hair stuck his head out of the surgery door. Garda Fitzmaurice greeted Dr Nolan in an easy-going
