‘You can’t leave now. What’s the matter with you?’
‘Because it’s just another wild goose chase. It’s not bringing me any closer to the manuscript, is it? People can waste their whole lives chasing shadows and I can’t let myself become one of them.’
I refused to stand there arguing about it. I’d made my decision. I didn’t owe her an explanation. I started walking briskly down the drive, assuming she would follow eventually.
‘Can I help you?’ A middle-aged woman held open the heavy wooden door and addressed us in a tone that left no doubt – the last thing she wanted to do was help. She had short, tight curls and wore a white nurse’s uniform. I didn’t blame her for being miserable, I would be too in a place like this.
‘Yes, I would like to establish if a woman by the name of Opaline Carlisle was a resident here at one point?’ I said, rushing back.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
No greeting, just direct animosity.
‘No, but I—’
‘You have to make an appointment.’
She was about to close the door when I stuck my boot in the door.
‘Excuse me, what are you doing?’
I didn’t know. I’d seen it done so many times on TV I just did it without thinking of a follow-up plan. I stammered something incoherent. I just wanted to pull my foot back out but I couldn’t seem to move it.
‘We’re from the Department of Health and we’re running a spot-check,’ said Martha.
I couldn’t even look at Martha. I knew if I did, I would give the game away. What the hell was she doing?
‘I wasn’t informed about this,’ the woman replied, suspicion narrowing her gaze.
‘It’s a spot-check, that’s the point.’
I didn’t know who this person beside me was. For all I knew she was an undercover spot-checker for the Department of Health, such was her conviction.
The woman shifted her weight from one foot to another and she looked even more cross than she was when we’d first arrived.
‘I’ll need to see some identification.’
‘Mr Field, show her your ID,’ Martha said.
Was she talking to me? Where the fuck was I going to get ID? I finally looked across at her, trying to express my what-the-fuckness with my eyes. She widened hers as if to say just bloody do something. So I pulled out my ID card. The one from university. The one that said I was a rare manuscript specialist.
‘Very well, Dr Field’ she said and let us both inside. ‘I hope this won’t take long. We close at four o’clock.’
Doctor Field? That was what she took from my ID? Not that I was a PhD candidate?
The place was eerily quiet. Inside, it looked as though the building was slowly deconstructing itself and nobody had bothered to fix it. The walls, painted a sickly green, were peeling and there were damp patches everywhere. Black mould spread out from the windows and the lino on the floor was curling at the edges. The smell was toxic. A mix of bleach and boiled cabbage. It was old and uncared for – just like the residents, I imagined.
‘We just need to check some records, isn’t that right, Dr Field?’
‘Um yes.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Pertaining to the Freedom of Information Act, we would like to look at how the records of past residents are, you know, filed.’
The woman glared at me. ‘Oh. Aren’t you going to inspect the ward?’
‘The ward? You still have—’ I stopped myself before saying the word ‘inmates’.
‘Another time,’ said Martha. ‘We wouldn’t want to keep you, and this is something that the minister really wants to get on top of before the new legislation comes in.’
‘New legislation?’ the woman asked, falling for Martha’s spiel.
‘It’s being put before the Dáil next year.’
I looked at Martha with new star-struck eyes. It was a revelation to see her so confident and unfazed whilst lying through her teeth. I was so impressed, I almost forgot why we were there.
We were led into a narrow office on the first floor with a thin brown carpet and a flickering light overhead. There were rows upon rows of steel-grey filing cabinets.
‘Sharon normally takes care of the admin,’ the woman explained, immediately absolving herself and again checking her watch.
‘Not to worry Ms …?’
‘Mrs Hughes.’
‘Mrs Hughes,’ I said, ‘this won’t take long. Any chance of a cup of tea in the meantime?’
‘No.’
With that, she left the room and we both waited until her footsteps were far enough down the hall.
‘What the hell was that, Angela Lansbury?’ I whisper-shouted.
‘I don’t know! It just … happened.’
‘I can’t believe it worked.’
‘Nor can I.’
She was giddy with excitement. We didn’t know how to celebrate so in the end we just high-fived.
‘Okay, we better start looking.’
We didn’t have much time and our task was daunting. Admissions files were categorised by date, but then some records were filed under the resident doctor’s name and others still were filed under the patient’s name. It was basically a mess. We agreed to begin at opposite ends of the room. I was searching the dates – mid-1920s onwards – and Martha was searching for Carlisle. We hardly spoke, apart from the occasional ‘I still can’t believe you did that’ coming from me. I was pleasantly surprised by how much she wanted to help me. Or perhaps that was conceited. If what she said turned out to be the case and she had found herself in possession of Opaline’s book, then it made sense that she had her own connection to this intriguing woman. After all, as I’d told her on the bus, you didn’t need a qualification on paper to make a big discovery. Knowing my luck, she’d probably find the manuscript before me. The thought hit me like a sucker punch. I looked across at her and watched as her fingertips picked their way through the hanging manila files. Had I been played all along? Was she using me?
‘Henry. What are you doing?’
‘What?’
‘We don’t have much time,’ she said.
‘Right. Yes. Sorry.’
I pulled open another drawer and flicked through the files. They were all too recent. We were about to meet at the middle filing cabinet when I heard footsteps coming quickly down the hall.
‘Shit!’
‘Stall her,’ Martha said.
I didn’t think, I simply did what she said and met the woman just outside the doorway.
‘I’ve been on to the department, and they’ve never heard of a Dr Field. In fact, they said there was no spot-check arranged. So now, would you care to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?’
‘I would like to tell you, Mrs Hughes. But if I did, I’d have to kill you.’
‘Excuse me?’
Jesus, what was I saying?
‘Candid camera,’ Martha smiled, coming out of the room. ‘See, I have a camera in my bag,’ she explained, pointing to what looked like a badge on her rucksack.
‘I don’t—’
‘Oh, you’ve been such a good sport, hasn’t she, Henry?’
‘Yes, yes, absolutely,’ I said. ‘Thanks for taking part.’
‘Oh, I—’