The Lost Read Free Page B

was.
    ‘Jesus, Mary, and St Joseph. Is that wee Paula Maguire I see before me?’
    ‘It is. Hello, Pat.’ Not so wee now, Paula was nearly a foot taller than the small woman hugging her to an acrylic-covered bosom.
    Paula manoeuvred her bags into the front door of her childhood home. It was exactly the same dark poky space, walls lined with family pictures, going as far as 1995 and then stopping dead. The same smell of Pledge and cooking. By rights the family should have moved far and often, designated legitimate targets by the local IRA, but they’d stayed – just in case she came back and they weren’t there. It was common, in families with one member permanently lost. The hope that kept you rooted to the spot.
    ‘Now let me seeyou.’ Pat shepherded her into the also poky but slightly less dark kitchen, its brown seventies fittings unchanged. It overlooked a small passage that ran from the front of the semi to the strip of lawn at the back. That was where Paula had seen the man, all those years ago. On what had been the last day, though of course she didn’t know it – you never do. If she closed her eyes she would find the layout of this house etched there: downstairs the kitchen and front room, upstairs the bathroom and two small bedrooms. And that was even without the police diagrams they’d made her study over and over.
    Pat was nodding at her. ‘A wee bit peaked from that dirty city, but you’re looking well, pet. That’s a lovely jersey you’ve on you, is it M&S?’ She stroked the soft cashmere.
    ‘Eh – no.’ Paula wasn’t about to tell Pat how much the jumper had cost. ‘How is he?’
    ‘Like you’d expect. Not used to taking it easy. On you go, I’ve a pot of tea waiting.’
    She was suddenly nervous. It was far too long since she’d seen him, a few strained visits to London and one failed holiday together in the Lake District. Why hadn’t she seen him more? He was stretched out on the sofa in the parlour, which still had its plastic head-cover on from when it had been bought in 1980. The year of Paula’s birth. A cabinet was lined with china kittens, gifts from Irish seaside towns, cut-glass statues of the Virgin Mary.
    ‘Hello, Daddy. Are you well?’
    ‘I’ve been better.’ The man on the sofa was approaching sixty, still tough and rangy but for the cruel metal cage pinning one strong leg.
    ‘God, it’s bad,isn’t it.’ She winced at the metal cutting into her father’s flesh.
    Pat hovered in the doorway. ‘They said he twisted the bone right round like a corkscrew. Three months he’s to wear it.’
    ‘Ow. You’ll be off your feet a while, then.’
    ‘I’ll be bored out of my mind, Paula.’ His arms were folded, eyes fixed on the muted TV, which played the early evening news. A boring affair now the almost-daily shootings, bombings, and kneecappings were in the past. Mostly.
    ‘How did you even break it this time, Daddy? You never said.’
    ‘It was my fault,’ said Pat.
    ‘It was not indeed, Patricia. It was me fell like an eejit. Patricia wanted some old boxes out of the attic –’
    ‘– for my project, Paula – you know, the town history.’
    ‘So I go up the ladder – and doesn’t it break clean under me. Came down on me leg like a ton of bricks.’
    Pat clucked. ‘You were never right anyway since that first accident, PJ.’
    Paula remembered the circumstances, the way her father had first hurt his leg, and pushed it away. She couldn’t think about that now.
    PJ made a grumpy noise. ‘Well, I’m still in the land of the living, thank God. I’ll just have to sit and wait.’
    ‘And here’s Paula back to mind you! It was lucky you got that job too, pet. Sure didn’t it all work out for the best.’
    ‘Lucky’ wasn’t the word Paula would use. She had made her mind up to say no to the job – though she took the file out every night for two weeks to look at it – when the call came in. If you can come now, we need you. Something’s happened.