The Fall Girl

  Denise Sewell

  THE FALL GIRL

  Contents

  The Fall Girl

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

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  The Fall Girl

  Denise Sewell grew up in Cavan town. Before becoming a full-time writer, she worked variedly in Ireland and the US as a telegram girl, substitute teacher, hot-dog vendor, waitress, nurse’s aid and post office clerk. She now lives in County Monaghan with her husband and two children. The Fall Girl is her second novel.

  For Leo and Nuala McGrath

  (Mum and Dad)

  15 September 1999 (sometime in the middle of the night)

  There are no excuses for what I’ve done.

  My daughter’s eighteenth birthday

  It’s 24 August 1999: almost midnight. I’ve just spoken to my father on the phone. He’s very upset; I’ve let him down again.

  ‘It’ll be the shock,’ Sergeant Hennessy says. ‘Give him time, he’ll come round.’

  I have to spend the night in a cell at the Garda Station, but I don’t care; a bed is a bed and at this stage my body feels shaky with exhaustion. As soon as the bangharda opens the door leading to the cells, a vile smell fills my nostrils and my stomach churns.

  ‘I’m not going in there,’ I whimper, taking a panicky step back. ‘It smells of piss and shit.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she shrugs. ‘There’s nowhere else to put you. This is it, I’m afraid.’

  Someone lets out a string of obscenities from behind a cell door.

  ‘Are there men in there?’

  ‘Just one man so far: the night is young. But, don’t worry, you’ve a cell to yourself. Now, come on,’ she tugs my elbow, ‘you’ll be grand.’

  ‘Can I stay in the interview room?’

  ‘No, Frances, you can’t. That room could be used several times before the night is out.’

  ‘You can put her in beside me,’ the gruff-tongued man shouts. ‘I’ll keep her company. Is she good-lookin’?’

  ‘Shut up, Packie,’ she tells him.

  But he doesn’t. ‘Are you good-lookin’?’ he shouts a little louder.

  We’re standing at a cell door now. The bangharda is turning the key. ‘Don’t mind him,’ she says, ‘he’s a regular guest in here.’

  As she opens the door, the smell thickens and my stomach retches.

  ‘Toilet,’ I cry, putting my hand over my mouth.

  ‘OK, come on.’ She leads me back to the Ladies, where I vomit several times.

  Afterwards, she gets me a cup of water and I stand with my back against the cubicle wall, sipping and sobbing.

  ‘It’s only for one night, Frances,’ she says.

  ‘Why? Where will I be tomorrow night?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it won’t be as dirty as this kip here, I can promise you that.’

  ‘I can’t go back in there. Can I not stay in the other room where I saw the doctor?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Please let me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘If you take me back there, I’m going to throw up again.’

  ‘Then you’re going to have to do it inside the cell. You can’t keep coming out to the toilet all night.’

  ‘Is there no toilet in there?’

  ‘No, but there is an alternative. Come on,’ she sighs, taking the empty plastic cup from my hand, ‘let’s go. The eyes are hanging out of your head; you need to sleep.’ She opens the door. ‘After you.’

  ‘Oh no, oh Jesus!’ I groan, dragging myself down the corridor a reluctant pace ahead of her.

  ‘If it’s any consolation,’ she says, ‘I find the stink revolting too, and I’m in and out of here several times a week.’

  ‘So where’s the alternative?’ I ask as soon as I step inside the cell.

  ‘There.’ She’s pointing to what looks like a shallow sink built into the floor.

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘But –’

  The man in the next cell lets out an unmerciful belch.

  ‘I need a drink, youse shower of fuckin’ bastards,’ he roars. ‘If youse don’t get me one now, I’ll kick this fuckin’ door down.’

  ‘Sorry, I have to go,’ the bangharda says. ‘Just try to get some sleep, will you?’

  Before I have time to draw breath, she’s out the door and turning the key in the lock.

  I’m alone now, heart banging inside my ribcage like a mad animal. I look around me. The walls and floor are grimy. There’s a dirty blanket flung across a thin, stained mattress. The toilet is a dip in the ground with a plughole that is clogged with all sorts of grot.

  My God! What have I done?

  A buzzer goes off and I yelp, staggering as I take a step back. Within a few seconds, I hear whistling and a key turn in the outer door. It’s not the bangharda this time.

  ‘What do you want now, Packie?’

  ‘A fuckin’ drink.’

  ‘Will water do you?’

  ‘Water me arse. I want a real drink.’

  ‘If you call me in here again to ask me for booze, I’m switching that buzzer off for the night, got it?’

  ‘You can’t do that; it’s against the law. I’ll report you.’

  ‘Report whatever the fuck you like. If you don’t stop wasting my time, the buzzer is going off, end of story.’

  ‘Excuse me, Guard, excuse me, Guard,’ I splutter, bolting towards the cell door and knocking frantically.

  The hatch opens. ‘Yes?’ Two angry eyes are glaring at me.

  ‘Eh, eh …’ I swallow hard, fighting back the tears.

  ‘What? Spit it out, I haven’t got all night.’

  ‘I don’t want to stay in here,’ I sob. ‘Please.’

  The man in the other cell starts shouting, ‘This little piggy went to market, oink oink. This little piggy stayed at home …’

  ‘That’s it, Packie,’ the Guard tells him, ‘your buzzer’s going off.’ He looks back at me. ‘What did you expect, the Hilton?’

  ‘… and this poor piggy got none,’ the man roars.

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘Look, it’s a cell you’re in, not a honeymoon suite, so get used to it, cos there’s nothing I or anyone else can do for you.’

  ‘Tom, Tom the piper’s son, stole a pig and away did run. Yah-fuckin’-hoo,’ the man howls.

  ‘Christ, such a night!’ the Guard groans, slamming the hatch shut.

  As I back away from the door towards the bed, it begins to hit me – the depth of the trouble I’m in. I have committed a serious crime. It can’t be undone. I’m a prisoner. My father doesn’t want to know me. My life will never be the same again.

  I lift the manky blanket and wrap it around my shoulders. Surrendering to the dirt and the smell, I lie down on the mattress and curl up. My feet are swollen, my back aches. I’m still trembling.

  Why did I listen to that woman in the jeweller’s shop? Why do I always let other people’s comments get to me? Why did I do it?

  My head is swimming. When I shut my eyes, I see myself back in Dublin, chin up, all business. I’m happy, and why not? It’s my daughter’s eighteenth birthday – a milestone. I walk into a jeweller’s shop in Henry Street and pick out a gold chain – a T-bar chain, eighteen inches. An inch for every year.

  ‘Good choice,’ the assistant says. ‘Is it for yourself ?’

  ‘No,’ I smile. ‘It’s for my daughter.’

  ‘Lucky girl. How old?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Same age as my own,’ she says, fixing the chain in the velvet-lined gift box and holding it up for my approval.

  I nod.

  ‘I must say, I love gold myself, th
ough you’d not see my young one wearing it. They’re all into silver nowadays. Still, as far as I’m concerned …’

  I run out the door and into the middle of the street, where I stop short. She calls out after me, ‘Are you all right, missus?’

  There are throngs of people walking in all directions. What’s wrong with me? Why didn’t I think of that? I should have known – silver, not gold. My cover’s blown. I can’t even fool myself any longer. She isn’t eighteen. She hasn’t grown up. I lost her. No! Stop! Don’t think about it, not today. Don’t go, Baby Fall. Be, for me. Get back in my head. Get back in my womb. And kick.

  People brush past me, bump into me, tread on my toes. They’ve no manners. Can they not see me? Someone nearly knocks me down. I try to walk away, but I can’t find a passage: I’m surrounded. A mother with a pram crosses the street in front of me: ‘Excuse me, excuse me.’ Everyone makes way. Like a disciple, I follow her, just to get out of the maze, to breathe. She stops outside a boutique, puts her foot down on the brake of the pram and walks in the door, a bag slung over her shoulder, high heels, lipstick. She has her hungry eyes on the merchandise, on the price tags. Never mind the baby.

  When I peep inside the pram, I clamp my hand over my mouth and gasp. Although she’s bigger than my baby was, she still looks new.

  The security guard is watching the shapely mother flicking through the rails. Tight jeans, tight bum.

  I could have been anyone – a nutter, a killer, one of those child-traffickers, just waiting for the right opportunity. You can’t be careful enough these days.

  ‘She was lucky it was me and not one of them.’ That’s what I tell Sergeant Hennessy.

  ‘I suppose it’s one way of looking at it, but you still did wrong.’

  ‘I never meant to hurt anyone. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Can I go home now?’

  ‘It’s not that simple, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There are procedures.’

  ‘Procedures?’

  ‘In cases like this.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You kidnapped a baby, Frances.’

  ‘You’re making me out to be some sort of criminal.’

  ‘Technically, you are.’

  Can you believe that? Me, Mousy Fall – a criminal. Put that in your celestial pipe, Mother, and smoke it.

  19 September 1999 (afternoon)

  Mousy Fall was my nickname at school. I hated it. I used to feel grateful if someone called me by my name, especially Lesley. I was always Frances to Lesley.

  Introducing Mousy Fall

  It’s my first day at secondary school. I’m waiting for the school bus. My mother’s poking her head in and out of the front door, keeping an eye on me. I’m pretending not to see her. The twins – Angelina and Attracta Reilly – say she’s like one of those ornamental storks on a pendulum, long pointy hooter and all. Hurry up, bus.

  My uniform skirt is hanging inches below my gabardine to half-way down my calves. I’m wearing white knee-high socks, no flesh exposed. I look hideous. There are only two other girls from the village attending the Mercy Convent, but they’re in third year and are wearing blazers and knee-length skirts.

  My schoolbag feels a ton weight. The straps are digging into the tops of my shoulders. I’m too warm. I’d love to throw my bag down on the ground where the other students have thrown theirs and undo the belt and buttons of my gabardine, but my mother is probably still watching me. Best to leave it the way it is.

  With all the pushing and shoving to get on the bus, I stand back and wait. I don’t mind being last. What about it? Blessèd are the meek and all that. I get the front seat. For they shall inherit the front seat. No one else wants it.

  ‘Oi, look, Frances,’ one of the boys shouts down the bus, ‘your mother’s waving at ya.’

  Big laugh.

  ‘Your man back there gave your mother the fingers,’ Attracta tells me.

  It’s all right for the rest of them. They’re used to it – the rowdiness, the slagging, the crude language.

  Every time the bus stops to pick up more students, there’s an uproar.

  ‘Hurry up, Jones, ya huare ya.’

  ‘Shut it, Four-eyes, or I’ll bate the head off ya.’

  And it isn’t just the boys. When I hear someone strike a match, I turn and see Susan Scully, in the seat behind me, light a cigarette like a seasoned smoker.

  ‘Want a drag, Mousy?’ she says, sticking out her chin and blowing a thin line of smoke in my direction.

  Mousy! Is she talking to me? She is!

  ‘Here, Mousy Mousy, want a nibble of my cheese sandwich?’

  ‘Where’s your hole, Mousy?’

  I don’t react. If I ignore them, they’ll get fed up and pick on someone else. But they don’t.

  By the time we arrive at the convent, I’m well and truly christened. Mousy Fall. It sticks. I think it’s funny how my mother often turns out to be right about people, hard as I find her scornfulness to swallow.

  I don’t expect to see Lesley there. There was no sign of her at the enrolment months earlier, but it’s her for sure. Apart from her height, she hasn’t changed much. But there’s something different about her. I can’t put my finger on it.

  A couple of days later, our eyes meet in the corridor, she walking in one direction, me walking in the other. There’s a group of girls with her. I’m on my own. I smile at her, hopeful of rekindling our friendship. She smiles back, nostalgically I think. A that-was-then-this-is-now look on her face. The moment passes. There’s definitely something different about her. What? An air of tragedy? Eyes that have seen darkness? I’m drawn to her again, but I can’t go where I’m not invited. I wouldn’t dare. Besides, she has her new friends, lots of them. Smitten just like I was. Am.

  It isn’t long before Lesley is earning a reputation for herself, and not a great one at that. She doesn’t turn up to all her classes. One day she doesn’t show up at all and she’s not ill. Sister Marie-Therese, the principal, has phoned her mother, who has confirmed that she’s not at home sick. We’re not in the same class, though, so I only hear rumours.

  I find a friend of my own in the end or, should I say, a companion. Kathleen Mulcahy, or Kat, as she becomes known, in order to satisfy their mocking tongues – Kat and Mousy.

  She comes to me, one oddball sniffing out another. I don’t really like her. In fact, she drives me mad the way she chews her egg and onion sandwiches with her mouth gaping or slurps her tea, while she scoffs up her sleeve and nudges me sneakily, whispering about this one and that one. She’s cowardly – an onlooker.

  Three years our companionship lasts; three dreary years. During that time Lesley and I never speak beyond the odd greeting, usually if I bump into her on her own, which isn’t very often. It’s only a howaya, Frances, but it means a lot to me. I appreciate it. She makes me feel normal, acceptable, un-mouselike.

  25 September 1999 (evening)

  I’ll never forget the first time I met Lesley. She danced her way into my heart.

  My best friend Lesley

  It’s 1971. I’m almost eight. I’m at my Irish dance class. My mother is sitting by my side on the bench at the back of the hall. It must be summer because the window is open behind me and I can feel the heat prickle the back of my neck. Miss Jackson, our teacher, is finishing up with the younger group and asks me to call in the other children from the car park. That’s where they play while they’re waiting their turn to dance. I’m not allowed to join them. My mother tells me to stay where I am and put on my pumps; she will call the others in.

  As she’s heading out the door, she stops suddenly and stands back, and a very tall, heavily built woman steps into the hall, with a striking, dark-haired girl of about my own age trailing behind her.

  Taking hold of the girl’s hand, the woman plods across the hall and plonks herself down beside me. She asks me my name. Her accent is strange. I can’t see the g
irl; she’s sitting on the far side of the woman.

  ‘How old are you?’ the woman then asks.

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘There you are, our Lesley. This young girl’s the same age as yourself.’

  The girl leans forward and stares into my face. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t need to. She has the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.

  ‘A new girl,’ Miss Jackson says.

  ‘Yes,’ the woman says, ‘though she’s been at the dancing back home in Manchester for a few years now.’

  Miss Jackson asks the girl if she’ll do a reel. The girl nods. My mother’s sitting beside me again, giving the big woman the once-over. The girl stands in the centre of the hall, throws back her shoulders and puts her slender right leg forward, toes pointed. She’s wearing a short, red, pleated kilt, a white polo, white knee socks and well-worn, wrinkly pumps without laces. They remind me of ballet shoes.

  Before she lowers the stylus on to the vinyl, Miss Jackson says, ‘Quiet, please.’

  No further requests for silence are necessary. Lesley’s like a pixie in the wind, circling and twirling around the hall, barely skimming the floorboards. I’ve never seen anyone leap so high and land so softly. I can feel my skin tingling. Tapping my mother’s sleeve, I tell her, ‘I want to dance like that,’ but she ignores me, her cold eyes fixed firmly on Lesley, who has just finished her reel and is taking a well-rehearsed bow.

  ‘I think the music needs Lesley more than Lesley needs the music,’ Miss Jackson says.

  My mother’s jaw is stiff, as her chin withdraws into the folds of her neck. I wonder what it is that Lesley has done to earn this instant disapproval.

  An hour later I’m on the swing in Aunty Lily’s garden. I love that swing. She bought it especially for me, having no children of her own. My mother and she are sitting out in deckchairs, drinking tea.

  ‘You should have seen her,’ my mother says about Lesley, ‘kicking her legs up higher than a French tart doing the cancan.’