Blood Tracks Read online

  Gina crossed her arms, scowling. “Oh yeah and what would that be?”

  “Well, Madam…erm…Miss… I’ve noticed that your guttering may need updating and, luckily for you, our company, Gutted!, is in the area for one day only and can offer you an exclusive half-price deal on replacement guttering, with a lifetime guarantee.”

  “No thanks,” she said, closing the door.

  “Please,” the young man pleaded, “could I speak to the householder – see if they’re interested?” He looked down at his list. “A Mr. Martin Wilson. Is he in? Maybe if I could convince him of what an unmissable offer this is…”

  A wave of nausea washed over her; she’d never get used to people asking for him.

  “Maybe I should call back later. Catch him then,” he said uneasily.

  “He won’t be back later. He won’t ever be back. He’s dead. He died seven months and five days ago.”

  “Oh…I’m sorry…” Olly squirmed.

  “But the thing is,” Gina continued earnestly, “they said it was suicide.”

  The young man started to look twitchy.

  “It wasn’t, you see, but nobody believes me, nobody will help me. You’d know if your own dad was depressed, wouldn’t you?” she asked, nodding manically at him.

  The young man backed away nervously. “I’m sorry. I haven’t got a clue. I’m only trying to sell guttering. I’ll make sure we cross him off our list.” He lowered his head in embarrassment and started to walk away.

  She shouted furiously after him: “Doesn’t anybody care about what really happened to my dad!? Well you can piss off! You can all piss off!” She slammed the front door and ran up the stairs to her bedroom.

  Her whole body shook as she stood there. She walked over to the photographs and slowly ran her trembling hand over each one, studying them, until her eyes fell on one particular picture. She peeled it off the wall. Her churning insides were immediately calmed as she was drawn into the scene.

  Her dad’s face was creased with laughter as he kneeled by a mound on Scarborough beach. Only her head and neck stuck out of the sand that he’d buried her under. She was grinning, showing off a gap-toothed smile. That was the last summer her hair had ever been short. It looked like a halo of glossy curls on her little head. Even though she was only six, she could vividly remember a woman passing by, remarking to her dad, “Isn’t he sweet? He looks the image of you.”

  After that Gina had insisted on growing her hair as long as possible so that no stupid stranger would ever mistake her for a boy again.

  Gina walked over to her dressing table, opening several drawers before finding the long-bladed scissors. She sat down, placing the photo in front of her. Her fingertips stroked her father’s smiling face and she smiled back at him. She looked at her gaunt reflection in the new mirror, as she gathered a bunch of the curls that cascaded halfway down her back. She narrowed her eyes with satisfaction as she listened to the sound of the blades slicing through the mass of hair. She held the first decapitated clump aloft like an American Indian warrior triumphantly displaying a scalp. She threw it onto the floor and gathered together another bunch. She cut through the hair with such reckless disregard that the scissors nicked her earlobe; she winced, but didn’t stop, even when droplets of blood fell on the dressing table. The blades of the scissors were struggling to cut through her thick mane, but undeterred, Gina continued hacking, pulling at half-cut strands until they came away. Then she placed the cold steel blades against her forehead and began to chop into her fringe, blowing away the clumps that floated into her eyes, obscuring her sight.

  The front door opened. “Gina, we’re home! Are you still in your bedroom, love?” Mum called, making her way up the stairs. “Danny’s got a pirate ship for the fish tank. I’ve bought some new clothes, but I could do with your opinion. I don’t know whether they make me look like I’m wearing a tent. Oh, and I’ve got a couple of tops for you. I hope you like them. I know you think I’ve got no idea about fashion but…”

  Her mum stood in Gina’s doorway, her jaw dropped open.

  “Gina!” she cried. “What have you done?!”

  Danny shot up the stairs to see what was wrong. He saw his sister, scissors in hand, surrounded by a carpet of hair; her butchered tresses rollercoastered around her head. She sat staring, as if she could see right through them.

  His moment of shocked silence swiftly erupted into laughter, as he howled at her, “Oh my God, Gina! You’re proper mental!”

  Gina slouched on the straight-backed chair, her arms crossed, scowling at Dr. Havers.

  “My waiting list is ridiculously long. I’m so sorry you’ve had to wait for this appointment,” Dr. Havers said.

  “I’m not sorry. I didn’t want to come in the first place,” Gina huffed. She patted her head self-consciously. She had been reluctant to let anyone touch her hacked hair but, eventually, Mum had persuaded her to let a hairdresser sort it out. The hairdresser had performed a minor miracle, turning Gina’s butchered curls into a cropped style which brought out the gamine quality of her face.

  “I realize that you don’t want to be here, so I appreciate you coming,” the doctor said warmly. “People have all kinds of strange ideas about psychiatrists, but you might be surprised to know how many people come to us for help. Now, Gina, are you sure you want your mother to sit in on our session?”

  Gina grabbed her mum’s arm. “Yes, my mum stays. I’ve got nothing to say to you anyway.”

  “Well, it would be much better if you’d talk to me, but if you’d rather listen this session then that’s fine.” The doctor came out from behind her desk and positioned her chair so that the three of them were sitting in an intimate circle. “I’ve studied the referral from your GP and your mother and I have spoken on the phone.”

  Gina flashed her mum an angry look.

  “I’m worried about you, Gina,” her mum said sadly. “The doctor needs to know what’s been going on.”

  “Your mum has done the right thing by bringing you to see me. I can help you to deal with your father’s suicide.”

  “My dad didn’t kill himself,” Gina growled at Dr. Havers.

  “Would you like to tell me why?”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you. You’ll only twist it and make out that I’m mental or something,” Gina fumed.

  “No,” Dr. Havers said gently. “I don’t think that at all, Gina, but you are traumatized.”

  “You don’t know what you’re on about,” Gina mumbled, sinking down into her chair.

  The psychiatrist’s kind face creased in thought. “I’m not going to patronize you, Gina. You’re obviously a bright girl and I’m going to talk to you as such. I believe the best way to help you is to be direct, to share my explanation for your behaviour, even if it makes you angry at first.”

  Gina rolled her eyes but her mum squeezed her hand supportively. “Please listen to Dr. Havers.”

  “Go on then,” Gina said challengingly.

  “From what I’ve heard from your mum, you were very close to your father. The shock of him leaving you in the car and killing himself with no warning has clearly left you traumatized and unable to accept what has happened. I believe that, even if it’s at a subconscious level, you are experiencing deep feelings of guilt that you were unable to prevent his death and maybe even that you were in some way responsible for his death.”

  “Come off it!” Gina protested.

  “Really, Gina, this is a very common feeling in teenagers. They are naturally egocentric. They tend to think that everything revolves around them so you may believe that your dad’s actions were because of you. I think that you’re also struggling to deal with powerful feelings of rejection. You find it hard to believe that your dad would do this to you.”

  “This is such crap,” Gina interrupted.

  Dr. Havers held her hands up. “Just hear me out. The reality of what happened is too overwhelming for you and therefore your mind has been searching for an alternative exp
lanation, no matter how irrational it is. This is why you are convincing yourself that your dad didn’t kill himself and, in turn, treating your ‘obsession’ more like an ‘investigation’. From what your mum has told me, you seem to be focusing much of your suspicions on a family friend who tried to support your dad. This is perfectly understandable – you’re angry with him. Your dad confided in this man, Tom, but he wasn’t able to stop your dad killing himself. You feel he let your father down and you want to punish him.”

  Gina jumped up with such force that her chair fell backwards. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not punishing Tom Cotter. He’s a liar. He must know stuff about how my dad died. I’m not kidding myself – Dad would not kill himself. He loved me. He said that he’d go for a run with me the next day. People don’t say things like that if they’re about to kill themselves!”

  “But they do,” Dr. Havers said calmly.

  “He wasn’t depressed! I would have realized.”

  “Listen, Gina, I’ve worked with many depressed and suicidal patients, and let me tell you, they can be experts at hiding their feelings. Suicide often comes as a complete shock to the people closest to them.”

  Gina saw her mum’s shoulders slump and tears start to roll down her cheeks.

  “Are you okay, Mum?” she asked gently.

  “Yes, it’s just such a relief to hear a doctor say that. I’ve been feeling so guilty that I hadn’t picked up on how your dad had been feeling.”

  “There’s nothing for any of you to feel guilty about, and you have to understand, Gina, that your dad’s suicide wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t a rejection of you. He was depressed and not in his right mind. It doesn’t mean that he didn’t love you or that he wanted to leave you.”

  “Look, I know that you’ve probably got a ton of degrees and that you’re really clever, but you’re still wrong about my dad and you’re wrong about me. Thank you, but I really don’t need to be here.” Gina gestured to her mum. “Are you coming, Mum?”

  “Give me a minute with the doctor, will you, Gina? Why don’t you go and wait in the car?” Her mum gave Gina the car keys and waited until she left the room.

  “Do you think you can help Gina?” Clare asked Dr. Havers.

  “She’s a very distressed, confused and angry young woman, but if she keeps seeing me, I’m confident that I can help her through this to some kind of acceptance of what’s happened.”

  “But what if I can’t persuade her to come again?”

  “Please do, Mrs. Wilson, otherwise your daughter’s long-term mental health may suffer.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, if Gina can’t move out of this stage of denial, then she’s in danger of losing her grip on reality and developing psychotic behaviour which would require more drastic intervention.”

  Clare looked shaken.

  “The truth is, Mrs. Wilson, Gina desperately needs someone who can reach her and she needs them now.”

  Declan groaned as he stepped out through the doors to be greeted by the evening gloom and the heaving rush-hour traffic. He booted a discarded can along the pavement, deep in thought. You’re such a balls-up, Declan Doyle! Mum and Dad have only been gone two months.

  It was his parents’ fault that he hadn’t wanted to move to Ireland with them, even though he loved the place. How could he not love it? It was in his blood; he’d spent every holiday of his life there. Okay, so it rained most of the time, but in his head his uncle’s farm was always bathed in sunshine, with lush fields as far as the eye could see; him and his cousins running wild, drinking cider in the hayloft and joyriding on the tractors.

  In England his mum would have had him tagged given half a chance: always wanting to know where he was going, who he was with, giving him embarrassing curfews that his mates laughed at. But at the farm in Ireland, normal rules never seemed to apply. His parents seemed happy to let him and his cousins camp out all night in the middle of nowhere, or roll in after midnight, without having to explain himself – yeah, the craic was great, the place was beautiful, but still, it was this heaving, grimy city across the grey water that felt more like home.

  After all, this city was where he’d been raised, amongst the sea of crammed-in houses. The cobbled back alleys were where he’d honed his football skills and accidentally smashed a few windows. All his mates were here, his football team was here, sometimes the whole of humanity seemed to be here. He was happy that his parents had fulfilled their dream and returned home to help Uncle Shaun with the farm, but he wasn’t ready to give up the buzz of his city for the joys of the Irish countryside.

  His parents had taken some persuading, but his dad had eventually convinced his mum to let him stay in England. “I know he’s only seventeen but it’ll be the making of him,” his dad had proclaimed. “You’re going to get a job, aren’t you, Declan? Make me and your mammy proud.”

  His mother’s attitude had been somewhat different. “You get one chance, Declan Doyle,” she’d said, “and if you mess this up I’ll have you over in Ireland quicker than you can say ‘Guinness’!”

  Declan checked his watch. Six-thirty! God, I’m late for tea. Mrs. Mac will have a search party out for me.

  He started to sprint down the road, cutting down the side streets and through the back alleys until he reached the unique forecourt that marked Mrs. McManus’s house. The tiny space in front of the terrace was overflowing with window boxes containing luridly coloured silk flowers, their stems sunk into concrete. As all the local cats had taken to using her floral display as a litter tray, a distinctly unflowery aroma rose from it, though Mrs. McManus still maintained that it “brightened up the street”.

  Declan’s heart sank. He could see his landlady’s wizened face peering through the thick lace curtains.

  He greeted her with a winning smile as she ushered him in, tutting.

  “Evening, Mrs. Mac,” he said cheerily. “You’re looking particularly lovely today. Have you done something with your hair? It takes years off you.”

  “Where have you been, Declan? I’ve been worried,” Mrs. McManus scolded. “Your dinner was going cold. I had to put it back on the stove. Get in that kitchen and wash your hands.”

  Declan did as he was told and then waited at the kitchen table for a further telling-off.

  Mrs. McManus stood at the stove, stirring the contents of a pan with some difficulty. “I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead with mine because I’m away to bingo in an hour and you know I like to be ready in good time.”

  After living with Mrs. Mac for the last two months, Declan did indeed know that she liked to be early for everything. If she was going out at eight p.m. she’d be ready in her hat and coat by seven thirty. Declan couldn’t imagine that Mrs. Mac had ever done anything spontaneous in her whole life.

  “Bridie is picking me up,” she continued. “Do you fancy coming along? I know you love the bingo.”

  It was true that Declan had accompanied Mrs. Mac and her best friend, Bridie, to a few of the bingo nights, but this was solely to make the old ladies happy. There was no way he could face it this evening. Anyway, going out with Bridie was too traumatic. She drove her mini at twenty miles per hour on the ring road, shouting “Feck off” to the queue of beeping cars behind her and, even worse, once she’d had a couple of brandies at the bingo hall bar, she started to get a bit flirty towards him.

  “No thanks, Mrs. Mac,” he answered quickly. “I’m a bit tired. I think I need an early night.”

  “Ah, God love yeh. Have you been walking the feet off yourself all day, looking for a job?”

  “Kind of,” Declan replied uneasily.

  “Well, don’t you worry. Your mammy and daddy have left you in my care and you know I take that responsibility very seriously. I’ve seen you struggling to find work these last weeks so I thought I’d give you a helping hand.”

  Declan looked worried.

  “I know how upset your mammy was when you failed all thos
e exams, especially when the school said you were more than capable if you’d bothered applying yourself.”

  Declan cringed. Mrs. Mac may have been a family friend for years but did his mum have to tell her everything?

  “So, I’ve had a word with Mr. O’Rourke. He knows you come from a good, church-going family – though I didn’t mention that I hadn’t seen you at Mass once since you’ve been here.” She let out a theatrical sigh of disappointment. “Anyway, he’s willing to give you a try. Be at the parlour on Monday morning, eight a.m. sharp. He even provides your work clothes, although he said the only suit available may be a bit big. The last fella who used it was on the large side. Mr. O’Rourke was very upset with him when he went off on the sick after only a few weeks and tried to claim compensation for injury at work. He said carrying the coffins had given him a slipped disc. I assured Mr. O’Rourke that you wouldn’t be having any slipped discs; you’re a strapping young lad who would brighten up any funeral.”

  Declan looked at her in horror. “I’m not sure working in a funeral parlour is really for me, Mrs. Mac.”

  “Nonsense! It’s a solid trade. Recession-proof, Mr. O’Rourke calls it; always got a good supply of customers. The only thing certain in life is that we’re all going to die,” she proclaimed cheerfully.

  “I don’t think I’ll be very good around dead bodies,” he protested.

  “You’ll soon get used to them. And, if you play your cards right, you might end up in the mortuary section, helping to get them looking all nice and peaceful for the families. Mr. O’Rourke’s a real miracle worker; once he’s finished with them, some of those corpses look better than they did when they were alive.”

  Declan’s face was now tinged with green as Mrs. McManus ladled steaming heaps of stodge onto his plate. He picked at his food in brooding silence.

  “Get it down you, Declan. You’re going to need plenty of fuel to carry all that dead weight.” She smiled wisely.