O’Brien fell backwards and a whoosh of flame swept up behind him. Quickly she grabbed Sean. Kirby picked up the knife, cut through the rope and pulled Jason from the noose.
Lottie lashed out with her foot as O’Brien rose from the fire and connected with his torso. He fell into the candles, his burning cape igniting further as he outstretched his arms, flailing against the blaze. His flesh crackled. Screaming, raw and inhuman sounds, O’Brien batted wildly, fanning the flames. He dragged himself to a kneeling position, stood up in a wave of orange and yellow light, tearing at his burning robe, his hands on fire. His skin was already sizzling, oozing, slipping down his body. He fell back into the inferno.
On her knees, consumed with the smell of fried human skin, Lottie dragged Sean along the ground, crawling away from the blaze.
‘I didn’t kill James and Susan, or Angelotti, I didn’t,’ the voice from hell screeched as O’Brien twisted and turned, trying to quench his burning flesh. ‘Cornelius Mohan, yes I did that bastard in.’ He screamed in agony and was engulfed in smoke and fire.
Kirby had his phone in one hand, shouting frenzied commands, while hauling a lifeless Jason to his shoulder. Lottie hugged her son to her breast and undid the rope binding him. Kirby slapped wildly, quenching the fire on Jason’s jeans. She only moved when Kirby steered them towards the stairs.
‘We can’t leave him there, like that,’ she said, glancing back at the man dancing around like a wound-up ballerina in a jewellery box of fire. Kirby tightened his grip on her hand.
‘Shoot him,’ she shouted.
‘He’s not worth the waste of a bullet. Come on,’ he said. ‘Now!’
Lottie followed Kirby, Jason secure across his wide shoulders, and she clutched Sean around the waist, dragging him up the staircase with her. On the top step she allowed herself a backward glance. The man was ablaze, his skin a melting slime. He sank downwards, his screams dying as the inferno swelled out towards the wooden kneelers. Thick black smoke choked the air.
Her son was safe. That’s all Lottie could think of in that instant. Her son was safe.
She didn’t look back again.
She heaved Sean along the corridor, down the stairs, through the hall and outside. She dropped to her knees on the frozen steps, her son in her arms. She welcomed the cold air, coughing up smoke from her lungs, and remained there, statuesque, until the wail of sirens stole the silence of the night.
31st January 1976
Sally kept her eyes open all night long; the night of the Black Moon, Patrick called it.
She listened to the night-time sounds, to the soft breathing of the other girls in her room, to the scratching in the skirting boards and the ceiling. She imagined grotesque shapes dancing in the moonlight, belts and candles swaying toward her and away from her, like some obscene ballet. She heard babies crying in the nursery but no footsteps hurried to soothe them. They were alone. She was alone. And the night seemed to go on forever.
She didn’t know what had happened to her baby; she didn’t know why Fitzy had died; but she vowed there and then, that one day, however long it took, the truth would be revealed. She would remember for the rest of her life.
She lay awake as the first light of dawn broke through the window with the moon just a shadow in the sky.
DAY NINE
7th January 2015
One Hundred Seven
The first orange rays of dawn crested through a snowy horizon beyond the hospital walls while the nurse monitored Sean’s vital signs, as she’d done every twenty minutes for the last five hours. Contented that her patient was stable, she nodded to Lottie.
‘The doctor will be here in a minute, but Sean is doing fine.’ The nurse left.
Lottie kissed her son’s hand and forehead, and gently traced her finger over his eyes, telling him over and over she was sorry.
Watching the IV tube bleeding life into him, she counted each drop as it dripped downwards. One, two, three . . .
Sean’s eyelids fluttered. Lottie’s internal anger had caused her fingers to linger on his eyes. Removing her hand, as if it were scalded, she wondered how much longer could she go on causing her children pain.
The door opened. Boyd stood there wearing a navy cotton dressing gown, neatly tied around his narrow waist. His face, still bruised and pale, was grave. Lottie dipped her head and he was at her side.
‘You shouldn’t be in here. They’ll throw you out,’ she said.
‘Let them,’ he said, and gently kissed the top of her head. ‘Ugh, smoke.’
‘Feck off, Boyd,’ she sobbed.
‘It’s okay to cry.’ He rubbed her shoulder.
‘No, it’s not. I’ve failed him. Failed my son, my family. Jason too.’
‘You saved Sean.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, unable to screen the scorn from her voice, ‘but what about Jason? I should’ve figured it out sooner.’
He didn’t answer. She pushed him away.
‘You look terrible,’ she said.
‘So do you,’ he said, pointing to the wound on her arm. ‘The murderer, did he have a bruise and a limp?’
‘He does now. You better go.’
‘I’m getting out of here, anyway.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve too much to handle and I’m here like a spare prick watching soaps on the television. You need me.’
She didn’t object. She needed Boyd, even if he was like something out of The Walking Dead.
As the door closed behind Boyd, Lottie let her fingers linger for a moment on her son’s face before the nurse returned with the doctor and hustled her out.
Superintendent Corrigan paced the corridor, Lynch and Kirby behind him. No sign of Boyd.
‘Inspector Parker,’ Corrigan said, clamping a hand on her shoulder.
Lottie didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.
‘The bastard is barely alive and needs to go to the specialist burns unit in Dublin. He’ll have to wait until this snowstorm abates. Air ambulances are grounded,’ he said.
‘He’s still alive? Lottie asked, incredulously.
‘Prognosis is not good. Eighty per cent burns.’
‘Good,’ Lottie said. ‘And St Angela’s?’ She was avoiding the question she knew she must ask.
‘The fire was contained to the chapel. We’ll seal it off as a crime scene when the fire crew are done.’
‘Jason?’ she asked, eventually.
‘You know you were too late.’ Corrigan shook his head. ‘Feckin’ shit luck.’
Lottie swayed. She’d already known Jason was dead. Just needed it confirmed.
‘At least we have our murderer,’ Corrigan said.
‘I’m not so sure,’ she said, hesitantly. Hadn’t O’Brien told her he didn’t kill Susan or James or indeed Angelotti? He had no reason to lie. Especially as he had admitted to killing Father Cornelius Mohan.
Kirby steadied her as the Rickards appeared at the other end of the corridor. Corrigan moved toward them. Tom Rickard stared straight through her before taking Corrigan’s sympathetic handshake. Lottie allowed Kirby to steer her in the opposite direction.
‘Can I have a word, boss?’ Kirby said.
Leaning against the wall, Lottie nodded.
‘I know this isn’t a great time, but I have to tell you . . .’ he began.
‘Spit it out, Kirby.’