When Michelle arrived at the Capuchin Centre on Bow Street a queue was snaking its way from the arched wooden doors and along the perimeter of the building. The priest in the friary had told her they closed for an hour to prepare lunch, so she’d come at the busiest time. Many types littered the queue, from those constantly on the move to families hoping to get enough groceries to keep them going for a day or two. Some of the homeless had already availed of the morning services; they were clean-shaven, wearing fresh clothes. The only giveaway was a sleeping bag rolled beneath an arm, or a shopping bag stuffed with their few possessions. One man, with a Jack Russell terrier on a lead, was a familiar face on the streets of Dublin.
At 12 p.m., a lock was turned and the assembly streamed through the arched doors and into the dining hall. As Michelle followed the cortège, she felt rather than saw curious eyes upon her. She hung back and waited until the rush began to thin before approaching one of the volunteers, a woman who was busy stacking plates at the head of the queue.
She looked up with a friendly expression. ‘What can I do for you, love?’
Explaining that she was from the Simon Community, Michelle took the picture of David from her bag and asked if it would be possible to speak to a few of the volunteers to see if they recognized him. The woman nodded and looked at the photo, but didn’t react. ‘If you can wait until they’re all served up,’ she said.
Michelle nodded. People were too busy now to pay her any attention, and she stood back and surveyed the room. Numerous volunteers filled and handed out plates piled with food. They smiled at and seemed to know by name a lot of the people who came. The Capuchins were doing an impressive job. Not only did they provide meals and a warm, safe environment, they gave clothes to those who needed them too. If she had more time, it was something she’d like to get involved in, but she had enough on her plate for now.
The woman she’d spoken to signalled to her when the queues had died down. ‘Go ahead, love,’ she said, nodding towards her colleagues.
Michelle approached a young man and a girl who were standing chatting and showed them the picture of David. The man looked closely at it. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t be sure, he looks familiar but …’
The girl leaned in, taking the photo from his hand. She nodded. ‘Appearances can change so radically. He does look familiar. There’s a guy who used to come in. I haven’t seen him for a couple of months though. He had a beard, but … it might have been him.’
She had no more luck with the rest of the Capuchin volunteers. A few of them agreed he looked familiar, but none of them could be sure. Michelle gave them her number and left a copy of the photo with them. ‘If you could give me a ring if you do see him,’ she said.
She left feeling despondent. The people she’d talked to in the street had got her hopes up, but who knew, she thought, maybe her enquiries would bear fruit yet. It certainly did no harm to get the picture out there.
When she called Nick to tell him, he had news of his own. Gary had called to inform him that Daniel’s death certificate had read “death my misadventure,” which could mean anything.
‘I have to find out what happened to that child,’ he said. ‘And then Caitlin … why would she have said she didn’t have any siblings? Why wouldn’t she have mentioned him? It’s odd, no?’
‘I don’t know, Nick. Maybe because he died so young. I mean why would she tell me – a virtual stranger – about a little brother who died? Maybe she doesn’t even remember him. She’d have been what, five, at the time?’
It was logical, wasn’t it? Who knew what a five-year-old kid could block out – what they’d choose not to remember. Besides, Michelle needed Nick to drop this. In the state he was in, this wild chase into the past could do him no good. He needed to take care of himself – despite his protests that he was okay, she could see the effects that his sickness was having. This kind of stress was the type of thing that could lead him to drinking again and that would be the end of him getting on any transplant list.
‘I don’t know,’ Nick said. ‘Look, is there any way you could bring it up the next time you meet her? Not directly, obviously, but you could find a way, couldn’t you? I know you think I should drop this, and I will, but you know me. I won’t rest easy until I know what happened. I have to know if I was responsible, if Johnny Davis …’
‘Okay. I’ll try, Nick. I’ll give her a call, see if she wants to meet. Anyway, I was calling to tell you I’ve just been to the Capuchin.’
‘And?’
‘A few of the volunteers looked at the photo of David and said he looked familiar, but there was nothing concrete. Someone said they may have seen him a few months ago, but not recently. To be honest it was a bit of a let-down, but I left my number with them just in case.’
She hung up, downhearted, wishing now that she’d never succeeded in finding Caitlin Davis. It was enough having to deal with Nick’s illness without him trying to resolve the tragic events of his past life too. Would it do any good, she wondered, if she were to talk to Tessa? Try to persuade her that all this was likely to do Nick more harm than good? But no, she had no right to interfere in his life. And besides, surely the hypnotist would know that anyway. Surely she wouldn’t allow the sessions to take them down this route if she thought it would disrupt what they’d set out to achieve.
She texted Caitlin, best to follow Nick’s wishes for the moment. She had no idea what she’d say or how to raise the subject when they met. It was only 1 p.m. – maybe she’d catch her before her lunch.
I’m in the city this afternoon. Don’t suppose you’re free for lunch?
Ten minutes later the phone pinged.
Love to. Ideally somewhere near here? I could meet you at the gateway to Stephen’s Green in fifteen mins?
There was nothing like getting everything done in one day, so she texted Nick and told him she had a date.
It was one of those bright November days. Michelle stood at the entrance to the Green and waited for Caitlin. A busker played at the top of Grafton Street. She was early so she wandered over to listen. She wasn’t familiar with the song he was playing and wondered if it was an original piece of music. She’d always envied those who could play – she’d attempted guitar once, but her hands were too small, wouldn’t stretch to reach those tricky chords. Well they were basic chords she supposed really, but still too difficult for her. Instead she resigned herself to the role of appreciator like she’d always been. Standing in the sun, her back against a store wall, she thought about David, wondered whether he had composed his own pieces for violin, or if he’d played in an orchestra. She’d ask Caitlin if she didn’t find it too upsetting to talk about. She still hadn’t thought of a way to bring up the dead child and any other topic was preferable to the task Nick had assigned her.
At 1.15 exactly she saw Caitlin stride up North King Street. Her hands were in the pockets of her red trench coat, her dark hair bounced as she walked. She was wearing heels, but even without them she was tall. Michelle searched in her bag and threw some coins into the busker’s case before crossing the street to meet her.
At once Caitlin smiled. ‘It’s such a nice day, I thought we might get sandwiches or something and have them in the park?’ She shielded her eyes from the glare of the late autumn sun and looked around, presumably for somewhere they might buy lunch.
‘Yeah, that’s fine by me. It’s nice to be outdoors while we’ve got the chance.’
In a small convenience store they got what they wanted and strolled back into the Green.
‘How have you been?’ Caitlin asked. ‘And Nick?’
The trees had begun to lose their leaves; by the edges of the path there were clusters of bronze. They walked until they reached a bench near the duck pond and sat down. Michelle was wondering how she might raise the topic of siblings. It made her think of her own sister. Sarah rarely got in touch since their mother had died. It didn’t surprise her, she’d always had a tendency to be selfish; too wrapped up in her husband and her children to care about anyone else. When their mother was sick, Sarah visited only every fortnight. She didn’t care that Michelle was under a huge amount of pressure trying to work and get her mother to her hospital visits four times a week. When Michelle had come down with a bad flu and was terrified of passing it on to her mother whose immune system was weakened, she’d called Sarah and asked if she could take time off work to take her to her appointments. Sarah had refused point-blank, asked what was wrong with the taxi service the hospital provided, couldn’t their mother use that? It wouldn’t kill her, would it? Sometimes Michelle wondered if her sister even registered the seriousness of their mother’s condition. Instead, she made jibes, told Michelle that she could be a martyr if she wanted to, but she wouldn’t. And in that she was true to her word.
Caitlin was rummaging in her bag. She pulled out an early copy of New Woman and handed it to Michelle. Michelle she eagerly opened it on the contents page, then skipped forward as Caitlin told her that her article was on page fifteen. Readers had really related to her last article, Caitlin told her. They’d already received emails from people who had, or had almost, been homeless at some point. They verified the stories of the people who Michelle had interviewed. ‘Hopefully, it will help in some way,’ she said. ‘In raising awareness at least.’
Michelle nodded as she scanned through her own words. ‘I’ll send it to the minister for Housing, as well as local TDs,’ she said. ‘At least it will feel like I’m doing something.’
Caitlin took her sandwich from its wrapper. Michelle glanced at her. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested in running one on healthcare?’ she asked. ‘Along the same lines. I told you that my mum died … I used to go to the hospital with her four days a week for her treatments, so I know the problems first-hand.’
‘Okay. What do you have in mind? When you say problems, what exactly do you mean?’
Michelle exhaled. ‘The staff shortages. The lack of money. The failure by the government to invest in long-term solutions. Things like that. In my mother’s case, late prescriptions so that she couldn’t start her chemo on time. Hours spent sitting waiting for an infusion before someone even came to put a needle in her arm, doctors unavailable to see her, test results never returned. She should still be here as far as I’m concerned. She’d been in remission for two years, and they brought her in once a month to do bloods. The cancer was back, had obviously been back for some time for it to have escalated the way it had, and we weren’t even told.’
Caitlin stopped eating, put a hand on her arm. ‘That’s awful. Did you question them about it? Ask them why they hadn’t told you?’
‘Yeah. But I got nowhere as you can imagine. The consultant agreed with me about the department, said that all the things I’d pointed out were correct. She said she didn’t know if it would have made any difference if mum had gone on treatment, or if she had done, what quality of life she’d have had. You know how it is when you talk to these people, they try to convince you and it’s hard when you’re grieving to see things objectively. Two years have passed now and there are times when I still consider making a complaint, make them pull out the files to see all those results that we never saw. But it wouldn’t bring her back.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t talk like this … it was unthinking …’
Caitlin brushed the crumbs from her skirt. ‘It’s a good idea. The Irish health system’s a mess, everybody knows that, so to have someone with first-hand experience of it would really ring home.’ She stood up, screwed the paper from her sandwich into a ball and made for a nearby litter bin.
Michelle rose too, and they began to walk. ‘I was listening to a magistrate on the radio recently. He was talking about what should happen with siblings in an adoptive situation. If someone wants to adopt one child, usually the younger one, but not their brother or sister, is it right to separate the siblings? It was interesting, and I thought of you … I couldn’t remember if you’d said if you had any brothers or sisters?’
She glanced at Caitlin who shook her head. ‘No, just me,’ she said. ‘And I was lucky, I suppose, I didn’t spend too much time in the orphanage. I couldn’t have been there any more than six months, though to me then, it felt like years. All I wanted was to go home.’
No brothers or sisters. That was that then. Either Caitlin had blocked the memory of her brother or she didn’t want to talk about it. The only other way she could find out what had happened to the boy was to pay another visit to Lydia Davis. The idea of Lydia prompted her next question. ‘And you didn’t have any other family?’ she asked. ‘Aunts, uncles?’
Caitlin shook her head. ‘Just me,’ she said. ‘Alone in the world until I met David. Gillian’s the only family I’ve got now.’
Michelle glanced at Caitlin, but she was looking out at the duck pond. Could it be that she didn’t know about Lydia Davis, that she’d blocked out everything that had happened before the incident, that the only people she remembered were her parents? She’d heard about people blocking bad experiences, knew that the mind was capable of going into shut-down mode. Whatever the truth, there was nothing she was going to glean here that might help Nick uncover the truth. The only alternative was to try Caitlin’s aunt again, and hope that she could persuade her to talk this time.