Assumpta swallowed down her annoyance. If he only knew the circumstances, he might understand her reluctance to broadcast it to the nation. But if he did, he would realise that she couldn’t say exactly who the father was. She had a vague idea, going by the dates, but that wasn’t going to be enough for her father. ‘I wish I could turn back time, Dad. But I can’t, no one can. I just want the opportunity to put this behind me and start again.’
Patrick turned around then, and looked at his daughter. She was so pretty, all tits and teeth – a real brahma. Her hair was thick and shiny, her eyes were deep blue, and she had his mum’s high cheekbones. She was a Costello all right – physically, anyway.
‘You’re having this fucking baby, Assumpta – get that through your thick head. As a Catholic, I can’t believe that you ever thought otherwise. If you don’t have your baby, Assumpta, I will cut you off from this family without a second fucking thought. I swear that to you in the name of the Christ Child Himself. I will never forgive you as long as you live. You will be as dead to me as the child you murdered.’
It was over. Patrick Costello looked at his daughter and knew that he had finally beaten her. His threat to cut her off had frightened her more than anything else. That troubled him, but he firmly believed that the child would be the making of her. It was the only thing left that could redeem her in his eyes.
Assumpta knew that she had no option but to do as her father insisted. He had shown her how serious he was, and he was not going to change his mind. This child she was carrying meant more to him than it could ever mean to her. She hadn’t thought for a second that anyone in her family would welcome her pregnancy; she had banked on her parents wanting the child removed as quickly and quietly as possible. That her father, Patrick Costello, really believed in the sanctity of life had been something she had never thought possible. But she could not have been more wrong. The stories she had heard about him all of her life suggested the opposite. His capacity for great violence, the myths about his involvement in the death and the disappearance of people who had thwarted or challenged him, implied that her father was a murderer.
To now find out that this same man was adamant that abortion was unacceptable, was a sin against God, scared her. She had always assumed that his churchgoing was just another scam, nothing more than a public show, a pretence to make him look like a good, decent man. That her father actually believed in the Catholic Church, and its most basic of beliefs, forced her to reappraise her position.
But she had one last argument up her sleeve. One she hoped would cancel out everything else her father had said.
‘Dad, I have to tell you something.’
Patrick shrugged. He could be magnanimous now – he had won the war. ‘Go on, then.’
‘This baby I’m carrying might be black.’
Patrick could hear the hope in her voice. She genuinely thought that a black child might be enough to make him turn against everything he had ever believed in. This daughter of his would never cease to amaze him.
‘And?’ He made sure his voice was as nonchalant as possible.
Assumpta was rattled by his reply. ‘I just thought you should know, that’s all.’
Patrick laughed. ‘The fact you said “might” tells me all I need to know about you. But I couldn’t give a flying fuck if it was sky blue with pink spots. It’s going to be born and it will bear the Costello name. It will be my first grandchild and, as such, it will be given every opportunity I can provide for it and, hopefully, unlike its mother, it will have the brains to make something of itself.’
Assumpta turned to leave, and Patrick fought the urge to kick her arse out of the door. She had disappointed him in more ways than one. It wasn’t the pregnancy itself – he would have come to terms with that eventually – but his daughter’s disregard for her own child’s welfare, and her complete indifference to it had really shown him how selfish she was. He had to admit that he was ashamed of his daughters – both of them. They were cut from the same cloth, and so self-absorbed they couldn’t see further than their own needs and wants. He had grown up with nothing; they had been given all they could desire from an early age. His girls knew the price of everything, but the value of nothing.
There was poor Josephine Flynn, who had more right to motherhood than this whore of his, and yet she had lost child after child, denied the one thing that she craved. Well, his Assumpta was finally going to learn the harsh realities of life. She was going to have her child and, if she had any nous whatsoever, she would finally understand about consequences.