The Sister(12)

She’d been blissful in her ignorance. Now she knew that, in the simple act of leaving her jacket behind, she had contributed to his death.

She wept softly.

Vera woke and put her arms around her neck. ‘I’m sorry, Aunty Flynn. I thought you might have wanted to know what happened.’ She’d just discovered that the truth had the power to hurt.

After that, she always asked if someone wanted the truth first.

Brenda never woke Vera while she was sleepwalking again.





Chapter 10



Late May 1969





In the early summer of 1969, two memorable things happened to Dr Ryan, and they both occurred on the same day. One: a rainstorm, the likes of which he’d never encountered before. The other: meeting Vera Flynn for the first time.

Rain, driven on demonic winds, lashed horizontally – millions of thin, watery nails unleashed, wave upon wave, like sheets that seemed to undulate in all directions as they rode the currents. Dark skies subdued the light, making everything leaden and drab.

The soft red of the car stood out as it wound its way down the lane, the driver slowly easing in and out of the unavoidable water-filled potholes. Huge splats of machine-gun bullet rain drummed against the windows, producing a secondary mist that cut visibility, so that Ryan perched as far forward on his seat as the wheel allowed, his nose only inches from the inside of the screen. He wiped a swathe of condensation clear with his hand. As soon as I have enough money, he told himself, I’m getting a car with a decent blower. The wipers of the old Ford couldn’t wipe quickly enough to keep up with the rain. The dampness raised a sweet, stale odour from the upholstery inside.

Beyond the misty veil, the farmhouse was barely visible. Set back from the road, he saw it only at the last moment. Pulling quickly into the gateless gap in the stone wall between the pillars, he parked as close to the front door as he could.

Ryan switched the engine off and braced himself, ready to jump out. One – two – three, he flung the door open and dashed out straight into a puddle, cursing as the freezing water swept into his shoe, and soaked his sock. This was the Somme, a war zone masquerading as a driveway with water filled, muddy craters everywhere.

He grabbed his bag from the back seat of the car and, head down against the rain, zigzagged between craters to the front door. A woman watched his approach through a porthole she’d wiped clear through the mist on the glass. As soon as he lifted the knocker, the door opened, and he stepped inside, stamping and scraping on the mat to rid the rain from his shoes.

‘Mrs Flynn?’ he enquired.

Possessing the heavy, blunt features and ruddy complexion of someone who had spent a lifetime working outdoors, she looked from his bag to his face and said, ‘Where’s Doctor Robert?’

‘He’s, um … indisposed, so they sent me instead. Sorry, I’m Dr Ryan.’ He extended his hand. She ignored it.

‘What’s happened?’ she said, eyes narrowing.

‘I think he’s had an accident, and that’s all I know.’

She looked at him suspiciously and turned away, removing first her coat, then the scarf covering her head, to reveal a tangle of surprisingly snow-white hair, distinctly at odds with her age.

He took the opportunity to ask some questions. ‘What seems to be the matter with her?’

‘She was outside yesterday – you remember how dull it was – when she came back in, she looked as if she’d suffered the most terrible sunburn, blistered and all.’

Ryan frowned as he discounted sunlight from the list of possibilities. ‘Has this ever happened before?’

‘When she was thirteen, by all accounts, something similar happened one Sunday morning at Mass.’

‘How old is she now?’

‘She’s fifteen.’

‘Uh-huh, let’s take a look at her then.’

She led him down three steps from the hallway. The flag-paved floors did little to make the house feel warm. Ryan shivered; the dampness had seeped into his bones.

They stopped outside the last door down on the left. She knocked and entered without waiting for a reply, ushering him in behind her.

‘Vera, the doctor’s here.’ She did not turn away from the window. Ryan looked around the room; it was a dirty white and sparsely furnished. No two sticks of furniture matched. A small mirror hung over a pine chest of drawers, a rickety looking chair in front of it. Over by the wall furthest from the window, was a child’s bed. The blanket covering it was green, and the sheet from underneath it folded down over the top to form a collar. A single pillow was propped upright against the wall; the sag in the mattress indicated how much use it had seen over the years.

The other side of the room, opposite where Vera sat, was a table with a collection of paintings on it. He moved closer to inspect them. The girl had talent and a vivid imagination. The top painting was an aerial landscape view. She must have recreated it from a photograph, or remembered looking down on it from an aeroplane. The centrepiece drew his eye deep into the painting. A black hole of nothingness stood out stark against the greenery of the tree canopy surrounding it; bottomless and empty like the well of a dark soul, it stared up at him. Pointing to the painting, Ryan remarked, ‘Very imaginative.’

‘Not imagination at all, people have died there,’ Vera said without turning around. Unsure what to say, Ryan looked over to the easel next to the table. On it, a half painted canvas depicted stormy skies. Crows or ravens rode the thermals above misty mountain crags and, in the foreground at the foot of the cliffs, two black horses pulled a funeral carriage; one dragged a man behind. A procession of faceless people followed. Ryan switched his view from the painting to the window and beyond. The room was too cold for condensation to form on the glass. Dressed only in a thin nightgown, if she felt the cold, she showed no sign of it. Her eyes seemed fixed on the grey cliffs in the near distance. Taking a step back, away from the window, he’d almost staggered as he recognised the scene. It was the backdrop to her painting.