The Ruin Page 2

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be kept together,’ Cormac said, then cursed himself inwardly. A five-year-old like Jack would have no trouble finding a home. A fifteen-year-old girl was a different prospect. Placing them together? That would take a miracle.

  In the rear-view mirror he saw Maude give a slight smile, but the smile was a sad one and she said nothing. She didn’t speak again on the long drive to Castlebar. When he pulled into the emergency area she woke Jack, quieting his protests and coaxing him from the car. She picked him up again when he started to cry, and walked with him towards the sliding doors.

  The waiting room held the usual mix of the genuinely ill, the drunk, and the stupid. Seats were taken by a trio of teenage boys who looked like they would fit at least two of the three categories. The heaters were on too high, and the muggy warmth was unpleasant. The triage nurse was absorbed in paperwork as Cormac shepherded the children towards her, but a flash of his ID and an edited explanation saw them brought through the A&E double doors and into the assessment area.

  Maude followed the nurse to a curtained off bed and gently sat Jack down on it. He clutched at her hand.

  ‘Is there a loo?’ Maude asked the nurse.

  ‘Just down the corridor there. First left and it’s on your right.’

  Jack started crying again as Maude untangled her hand and walked away.

  ‘Now be a good brave boy,’ the nurse said. ‘Your sister will be back in a minute.’ But Jack lowered his head and wept, his tears horribly silent, his small body limp. Cormac took a little hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. He tried to distract the boy. Told him stories and talked hurling and superheroes as the nurse took off Jack’s clothes and put him in a hospital gown. Tried not to show his horror at the black and blue bruising that ran up Jack’s spine, at the swollen contusion above his left hip. Then the doctor came and Cormac had to step back as he examined the little boy. Cormac stood there, his arms folded and his eyes bleak. And all the time, Jack cried his silent tears and ignored them.

  It was a long time before Cormac realised that Maude had not come back. And some time later before he thought to check for her. A full two hours passed before an agitated Tully arrived and they did a proper search of the ground floor bathrooms, the café and the public wards, and realised that she probably wasn’t in the hospital. In the end, that was the only search that was ever carried out for fifteen-year-old Maude Blake. She was labelled a runaway, and with no family to notice or care that she was gone, the system forgot her. Eventually, Cormac Reilly forgot her too.

  Galway, Ireland

  Saturday 16 March 2013

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was two hours into the day shift when Aisling finished her last chart and signed out, which meant she had the dressing room to herself. She took her time in the shower, letting the hot water ease the tension in her shoulders and lower back. She took her time too getting dressed. The solitude was a balm, and for once she was in no hurry to leave the hospital. She was sitting on the bench, dressed, but with her wet hair still wrapped in a towel, when Mary Dooley broke the peace by pushing the door open hard, and entering the room while still calling to someone over her shoulder. When she saw Aisling she let the door swing shut, then turned, and pointed to her back. Her blonde pony-tail was stuck to her top with blood-streaked vomit. An acrid, metallic smell reached Aisling from across the room, and she felt a solid punch of nausea. Jesus. The smell of vomit hadn’t hit her like that since she was a first-year intern.

  ‘Never turn your back on them,’ said Mary. ‘I swear.’

  She un-peeled her scrubs top carefully, and dropped it into the waiting laundry basket. The long-sleeved top she’d worn underneath went straight into the bin. Every female doctor Aisling knew bought those tops in packets of five from Dunnes Stores. They were cheap and warm, and once you’d been puked on (happened more than you’d think) or a blood bag exploded on you (not common but once was enough), you really didn’t want to wear that top again, no matter how well washed.

  ‘Shouldn’t have left surgery,’ Aisling said. ‘You’d be out of that stuff by now.’

  ‘What stuff?’ asked Mary. ‘You mean actual medicine, looking after people?’ She went to her locker, took out her towel and shampoo, and held them in one hand, half-turning to talk to Aisling as she pushed each runner off using the toe of the other foot.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I’m well off out of it. All that obsessing over test scores, assessments; putting socks in my knickers so the consultants forget I’m a woman.’ She smiled. ‘Now I just have nice relaxing night shifts in A&E to worry about.’

  Aisling rolled her shoulders, freeing the remaining tension from her muscles. ‘How was it?’

  ‘Shite,’ said Mary, as she balled up her scrubs pants and threw them neatly into the laundry basket. She grimaced. ‘Apart from the usual, we had two suicide attempts. One of them was only fourteen.’

  ‘Ah God, Mary. I’m sorry.’

  Mary nodded. ‘He tried to hang himself. Made the rope too short so he didn’t break his neck, and he can’t have been hanging long or he would be dead. His mother walked in on him, cut him down. He’s in a coma now.’

  ‘Brain damage?’ Aisling asked.

  Mary shrugged. There was a shadow behind her blue eyes. ‘I suppose we’ll see.’

  Aisling made for the mirror and the sole crappy hairdryer. She didn’t want to go home, but she couldn’t put it off forever. She’d dried her hair, and was pulling on her puffa and boots when Mary emerged from the shower and started to dress.

  ‘Are you coming tonight?’ Mary asked. ‘You’re finished nights now, right?’ Her voice was muffled by the T-shirt she was pulling over her head.

  It took Aisling a minute to remember, then it came back. Mary’s boyfriend, Derek – dental student by day, band member by night – had a gig in the Róisín Dubh every second Saturday night. Bugger. ‘I’m off for the weekend,’ she said. ‘We might come. But I think Jack said something about a work thing.’ She couldn’t face Róisín’s; the music, the drink, the shouting to be heard. And she needed to talk to Jack in private. They needed space to think. To figure out what to do.

  Mary wagged a finger at her. ‘They’ll be brilliant,’ she said. ‘You’ll miss out.’ But she let it go, and launched instead into a rundown of patients she’d seen and assholes she’d put manners on during her fourteen-hour night shift in Galway University Hospital, Accident & Emergency. Aisling leaned back against her locker and listened, enjoying Mary’s delivery, though she’d heard the jokes before.

  She should feel good. It had been a hard week – long hours, lots of politics – but she’d done well, and it should have felt good to come out ahead, and to have nothing but Jack to look forward to all weekend.

  When she finally left the hospital the sun was fully up. For once the clouds had cleared, and the sky was a bright, hard blue. Some of the puddles were still frozen, and she picked her way around patches of ice as she made her way up University Road towards the city. She was overtaken by a group of students. There was a lot of foot traffic – more than usual for this time on a Saturday morning.

  Of course. Sunday was Paddy’s Day. She’d forgotten. Town would be packed. This year there was going to be an evening parade. Quay Street pubs would have their doors wide open, and the street would be so full of people that the drinkers – an enthusiastic mix of students and tourists – would almost be able to convince themselves that they weren’t semi-hypothermic. Aisling shivered reflexively. She just wanted to get home.

  She let herself into their little place in the Claddagh half an hour later. They had been renting the two-storey terrace for nearly two years, and she loved it, despite the dodgy heating and dated décor. It was close to the city, close to the sea and walking distance from work. Best of all, it felt like home. The cosiness of the small rooms felt like an embrace after the sterility of the hospital.

  Jack was awake – she could smell coffee, and bacon, and the heating was o
n.

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Kitchen,’ he called.

  He was making breakfast – he had rashers in the pan, and toast in the toaster – and he smiled at her as she came in. ‘How was work?’

  She leaned against the doorframe and watched him, the words she’d carried around all day growing heavier and heavier in her mouth, until she finally spilled them out on the floor.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  ‘Ha ha, funny.’ Jack didn’t look up from rummaging in the bottom kitchen drawer. ‘Have you seen the tinfoil? I think it’s fallen down the back.’ He got down on his knees, started to lift the drawer out.

  ‘Jack.’

  He caught the tone of her voice and turned to her.

  ‘You’re pregnant.’ Shock widened his eyes, slackened his mouth, so that he looked like a stranger.

  Slowly Aisling nodded her head.

  He closed his eyes. ‘Jesus, Ash.’

  Aisling turned and left the room. She walked on autopilot to their bedroom. The bed was still unmade. She started straightening the sheets. He never made the bed. Not ever. Had he ever once, since they moved in together, even washed the bloody sheets?

  ‘Aisling.’ He was standing at the door, watching her.

  ‘You didn’t make the bed,’ she said. ‘Again.’

  ‘Aisling, seriously. Just – how did this happen?’

  She very deliberately tucked the sheet over, then straightened out a wrinkle, before turning to him. ‘I don’t know, Jack. How do you think these things happen?’

  He wiped his hand across his mouth, looking grey-faced. Then he said, ‘But you’ve been on the pill.’

  Aisling walked past him, then pushed the door open into the bathroom. She rummaged in her washbag, taking out her pill packet. Every day of the month so far had been neatly punched out – she was only three days into the next cycle.

  She handed the packet to him. ‘I threw the other one out. It’s in the bathroom bin probably, so you can check if you want. Of course I could have been throwing the pills into the toilet. As you know, it’s always been my dream to get pregnant at twenty-five. Isn’t that what I’ve been working for?’ She left him at the door and went to the bed, lying down on the sheets she’d just straightened, turning away from him. She wanted to climb under the covers, pull them over her head, and hide from the world.

  ‘For fuck’s sake Aisling. I’m not suggesting you got pregnant on purpose. I’m just . . . trying to get my head around this. I know you’re careful. I mean, we’re careful. Ash. Aisling.’ He walked over, climbed onto the bed, and pulled her gently towards him.

  She resisted, shaking her head, her eyes closed. She thought of all the times she’d worked a long shift, maybe been on call the next day, gone for a few drinks and dinner with friends on the way home. She always took her pill, sure, but how many times had it been forty-eight hours between pills, or more? That made a difference, particularly at the beginning of a cycle. She kept her eyes closed. She couldn’t look at him. But he was lying down now, pulling her against him, curling himself around her protectively. His left arm came around her so that her head rested against him; with his right hand he wiped a tear from her face.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ she whispered, without opening her eyes.

  He hugged her a little tighter, said nothing.

  Then, eventually, ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I did a test, at the hospital. I never had a period. I just realised this morning that I was three days into the next packet and still no bleed. So I did the test. A urine test first, which was negative. But it was one of the hospital ones; they’re not very sensitive. So I did a blood test. Put it through the system under a different name. And it came back positive. I’m pregnant, Jack. I mean, barely, barely pregnant. But I am. What the fuck are we going to do?’

  His arms tightened around her again, his lips brushed her hair. ‘I suppose we’ll just have to make it work, Ash. We’re not the first to be in this situation. We won’t be the last. At least we love each other.’ His voice grew in confidence as he spoke. ‘We’re not babies. Jesus, Americans get married at twenty-five all the time, the crazy bastards.’ There was a laugh in his voice now, that Jack-joy that always made her happy. ‘We’ve got good jobs. The hospital will have to give you maternity leave. We’ve got this little place. Or we could rent somewhere bigger.’ He hugged her closer. ‘We can absolutely do this.’

  Oh Jesus. ‘Jack,’ her voice was aching with unshed tears. She turned to him, pushed backwards so there was enough distance between them that they could see each other. ‘I don’t want to be a mother. At least, I don’t want to be a mother now.’ His dark eyes held hers; there was a patch of stray stubble on his chin. His left arm was still under her, his jumper warm and scratchy under her cheek. She put her hand against his chest. ‘I want to be a surgeon. I have to be a surgeon. If I get pregnant now, then I can forget about it. They’ll never, never, never give a training spot to a pregnant girl, to a mother.’

  ‘They can’t stop you. You’re right up there – what, third in the country at the moment? They can’t refuse you.’

  ‘They can. There’s the interview. They can just say I’m psychologically unsuited and that will be the end of it.’

  ‘They can’t do that. You’d sue them.’

  She shook her head. ‘Sue a consultant in Ireland and you’ll never get another job in a hospital. You know that as well as I do.’

  He half rolled away from her, so that he was lying on the flat of his back, his left arm still holding her, his right hand running through his hair. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They were quiet for a time. Aisling found herself listening to the distant sounds of traffic at the end of their street. If she was standing outside she’d be able to hear the waves crashing, but up here, in their bedroom, she only ever heard the sounds of the city. It was a little cold in their room. She felt it creeping in the gap between her jeans and her top, where her jumper had ridden up. She wanted to curl up to Jack, to pull the quilt up over them, close her eyes, and let all of this disappear.

  ‘We need to talk about options,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah.’ His voice was flat.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I can’t have a baby and be a surgeon; even if I got a training spot for next year, I wouldn’t be able to do it. It’s three years of crazy hours, moving every three to six months. You’d have to be alone here with the . . . the baby, and I’d only be able to get home the odd weekend.’ She paused, breathed in again. ‘If I gave up on surgery I could try for the GP scheme. They say that can be family friendly. If I got in I could get credit for the hospital time I’ve already put in; then I’d just need to get a training contract with a GP practice here in Galway, maybe even arrange to do the two years training over three, so I could work part-time.’

  He rolled back towards her, his expression quiet, waiting. She felt claustrophobic. The conversation was moving too quickly. She’d gotten here before she was ready.

  ‘Or we could talk about Liverpool.’

  ‘Is that where they do it?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Liverpool. Or Manchester. I think that’s where most people go.’

  ‘Right.’ He stroked a strand of hair back from her face. ‘Would it hurt you? I mean, are there risks?’

  Aisling closed her eyes. Her head ached with the effort of holding back her tears. She didn’t want to be in charge. Didn’t want to be the one with all the information. Would she have to make this decision? And if she did, would he ever forgive her?

  ‘It’s very early. I’d just have to take a couple of pills probably. Mifepristone. I’d have to stay in the UK overnight, in case there were any complications. Then we could come home. I’d have to have a scan later, to make sure everything was okay.’

  ‘Could we have the scan here, or would we have to go back to Britain?’

  ‘Jesus Jack, I don’t know. I haven’t thought about all that.’

  ‘Right. Sorry. I�
�m just trying to . . .’ He let his voice trail off.

  He was still holding her, but she rolled away from him, stood up. She took one of his old sweatshirts from the wardrobe and pulled it over her head. It was too big, but it was warm.

  ‘I might make tea.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  But she didn’t go down, just leaned against the door jam, head bowed.

  He closed his eyes. Opened them. Looked at her, and she ached at the dearness of him.

  ‘I know what I’m supposed to say. I know that this is supposed to be your decision, and I’m just supposed to support you. Maybe it has to be that way. But it feels wrong. It just feels wrong, Aisling. For me to sit back and leave the hard stuff to you, then pat you on the head and say “I’ve got your back darlin’,” This should be something we decide together.’

  She smiled at him then. A small smile. Then let it drop.

  Jack being Jack, he knew why. He’d always been able to read her, far better than she could read him. ‘What if I want to keep it, and you don’t?’

  She shook her head, said nothing.

  ‘Yeah. See, then it’s your decision again.’ A long pause. ‘But what does that do to us?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Her voice was very quiet, not much more than a whisper.

  ‘Can we wait awhile? Talk about it?’

  She nodded. ‘A little. We can wait a little.’

  They ate breakfast together, and made stuttering small talk. Jack wasn’t working – he never worked weekends – so he said he would do the food shop, and when she woke they could just stay in, cook something together. He didn’t say he wanted to talk some more, though he obviously did. By the end of the meal she was fighting against sleep, fatigue pulling at her in unfamiliar ways. It was always a struggle getting back to normal after a week of night shifts, and she told herself this time was no different. Jack kissed her before she went upstairs, and gave her a long hug, but said nothing.

  Aisling used the bathroom, brushed her teeth and splashed water on her face. She was already half asleep as she stripped, too tired to do anything but leave her clothes where they lay and pull the previous night’s t-shirt over her head. And then she slept, long and hard, and woke, disoriented, to a dark bedroom.