2006 - Wildcat Moon Read online

  “Lissia,” he hissed, “come away from there, this is someone’s private garden!”

  She turned and smiled at him but ignored him.

  He lost sight of her again and had to follow the hissing noises she made as she stalked the cat.

  Eventually, he found her sitting on a broken bench in front of a whitewashed house, the cat now purring happily in her lap.

  He was about to scold her and drag her away when his heart skipped a beat. On the wall of the house, written in faded blue paint, were the words, Casa delle Stelle.

  House of the Stars.

  He stood staring at the words in disbelief. Sister Isabella had told him it had burned down. Why had she lied to him? Nuns weren’t supposed to lie! It was against the rules.

  Why would she want to stop him from finding the Casa delle Stelle?

  “Lissia, put the cat down and come away this minute or Mammy will be mad we’re away so long!”

  He had to be stern with Lissia sometimes, for her own good.

  She stuck out her lower lip and her eyes filled with tears. He hated it when she did that.

  “It has a fat belly and is going to have kittens,” Lissia said, pointing excitedly at the cat.

  “Come on, put the cat down now.”

  She smiled suddenly, reluctantly let the cat go and allowed him to take her hand and lead her back through the garden.

  He looked back at the house longingly; how he’d love to have a nosy around but he couldn’t take Lissia inside the house, there was no knowing what she’d get up to. One day soon he’d come back here alone and have a good scout around.

  The front door of Casa delle Stelle was locked and the faded blue shutters on the downstairs windows were closed fast.

  Archie skirted around the outside furtively and found a small window at the back that was warped with age and not shut properly. He tried to open it with his fingers but it was stuck fast. He found a rusty skewer on a window ledge and with much huffing and puffing he managed to prise the window open. The gap wasn’t very large and it would take some doing but if he breathed in and twisted like a rubber man he should be able to get in. He’d have to take his calliper off first though.

  He looked around the garden for something to stand on, found an old bucket and set it down below the window. He took off his calliper, tested the bucket with his weight and then climbed tentatively onto it. Taking a deep breath, he heaved himself up onto the windowsill. He’d have to get through head first which would make it difficult…

  He was breathless by the time he’d wriggled in through the window and landed in a heap on the floor inside the house.

  He lay puffing with exertion, his laboured breathing loud in the quiet of the house.

  He was in a cupboard that smelled of garlic and onions, cinnamon and tomatoes. He shuffled over to the door, lifted the latch and stepped out into a large room and looked nervously around him. It was dark and hard to make out anything except the outline of furniture. He inched towards the windows, fumbled around and opened one of the shutters.

  Light flooded greedily into the house. He moved slowly around the room, taking in everything. Someone still lived here by the looks of it; maybe they’d just popped out on an errand and might come back in at any moment.

  There was a large table on which stood a half-empty bottle of wine and a bowl of fruit.

  There was a bookcase crammed full of books in different languages. There were lots in Italian, some in French and English. There were dictionaries and rail timetables and an A to Z of London.

  There was an enormous sideboard with a glass front that contained glasses of all shapes and sizes, cups and plates and oil lamps. There was a bottle of whisky and a half-full bottle of gin. There were paintings on the walls that looked as though they had been done by children. He opened the door at the far end of the room and stepped into the kitchen. It was a normal sort of kitchen with a large stone sink and wooden shelves filled with jars of bottled fruits and vegetables. There was a stove filled with wood ready for lighting and a basket of logs next to it There were strings of purple onions and hams hanging from hooks in the ceiling. On the table there were two places laid ready for a meal.

  He wondered who lived here now and what they would do if they came back and found him snooping around in their house.

  He thought sadly that this was the house that Thomas Greswode had wanted to come home to and never did. This was the place he had dreamed about in his miserable days at Killivray House. If he had managed to get back here, though, he would have had a terrible shock to find his father dead and buried.

  Archie found the stairs and climbed them cautiously, feeling like Goldilocks in the house of the three bears.

  It was lighter upstairs because the windows were unshuttered although outside the daylight was fading fast. He stood nervously on a small landing area keeping his ears peeled for the sound of anyone returning home. Opening a door to his right he stepped into a small bedroom. There were two narrow beds with gaudy knitted blankets thrown over them. Near the window there was a small writing desk with a few dusty books on the top. He went across to the wardrobe and opened the door. It smelled vaguely of flowery soap and freshly washed clothes. It was empty except for a few coat hangers that jangled and made him feel nervous.

  He dosed the wardrobe door and stepped up to the desk. There was a sheaf of yellowing papers on the desktop. He lifted them up and looked through them. There was nothing written on them. No clues there. He put the papers back down on the desk, slid open the drawer and looked inside. There was a chewed-up pencil, a pen and a bottle of dried-up ink, a mildewed lemon and a sheet of pink blotting paper.

  He knelt down by the bed and looked underneath it. There was nothing except a thin layer of dust and a scallop shell full of dried-up dog ends with crimson lipstick stains.

  He left the room and closed the door quietly. The next bedroom was larger, there was a big double bed and a large wardrobe and a blanket box. The blanket box was full of starched sheets and pillowcases but nothing interesting. Underneath the bed there was just an old pair of cracked black ballet pumps.

  He turned the key in the lock and the door to the wardrobe grated open. The strong smell of mothballs caught in his throat and made him sneeze.

  There, hanging up, were a variety of costumes. Faded red satin, moth-eaten silver and gold, sequins and spangles…

  He drew in his breath sharply. These must have belonged to the silver bird: Rosa Gasparini. He closed the door and struggled to steady his breathing.

  Outside a lone star pricked the sky above the Convent of Santa Caterina.

  There were two more rooms left for him to see. He crept stealthily along the corridor, lifted the latch and walked into a large room. There was an ancient roll-top desk and nailed to the whitewashed wall was a gigantic map. He stepped up to the map and studied it. There were small flags stuck into it here and there as though someone had been on a long journey and wanted to remember all the places where they’d been.

  On the other walls there were a few uninteresting oil paintings and circus posters.

  Slowly, he lifted the lid on the roll-top desk and peered inside. There was a thick wadge of bills stuck on a spike. They were stamped PAID with red ink. A pen was stuck in a dried-up inkpot on the left-hand side. There were balls of string and sticks of red sealing wax. He picked up a sheaf of papers that had pictures of houses on them. He flicked through them. Le Petit Bijou, Almond Cottage, Dos Casitas, The Kilpenny. He put them down and picked up a red leather-bound book. He glanced at the first page.

  Adler. Jacob and Ruben

  Abrahams. Rudi and Ruth

  Blomstein. Miriam

  Goldberg. Benjamin

  Solomons. Daniel

  It was some sort of address book. Closing the book, he opened a small drawer at the back of the desk and peered in; he drew back when he saw the shiny black gun, the sort that gangsters had in books.

  He cocked his ears. He was sure that he’d hear
d a noise somewhere in the house, the sound of a key turning in a lock.

  He stepped back out into the corridor and listened. He was probably just imagining it; he did that when he was afraid. He crept back along the corridor and tried the door of the last room. It was locked. He bent down and put his eye to the keyhole. The door was locked from the inside, he could see the key. He stood stock-still, suddenly conscious that someone was inside the room, someone on the other side of the door who was as afraid as he was, someone in there hardly daring to breathe.

  He felt the fear weaken his legs, his heart squeeze up into a double knot. Why would you lode a door from the inside? The shadows around him grew deeper and downstairs a clock dumed the hour. Holy mackerel! If the clodc diimed then that meant that someone wound it up regularly. A floorboard creaked and outside a bird squawked as it flew away over the rooftops.

  He was absolutely sure now that there was somebody in the house, every musde and sinew in his body told him so.

  It was important not to panic! But Holy shit! Whoever lived here had a gun. He tiptoed back along the landing and into the first room he’d gone into and crossed to the window. He peeped down into the garden. The lemons on the tree had turned to black and the sunflower heads bobbed like people hiding. A palm tree waved, making shadows that looked like arms.

  He looked up at the spooky convent towering above the house. In a lighted window he was sure that he could see the outline of a nun. Sister Isabella, looking down at where he stood quaking by the window.

  That was fanciful and daft. She couldn’t possibly know he was in here. As he watched, though, the light was extinguished, then lit again.

  He was sure that she was watching the house; spying on him. There was something creepy about Sister Isabella. He wasn’t sure if he could trust her.

  Outside a cat growled a warning. Jesus, he’d had enough. He was off. Out of here. Fear clutched at his heart as he clattered noisily down the stairs. He raced back into the cupboard, heaved himself into the gap and wriggled through the window. He landed head first in the grass, terrifying the cat who shot off through the waving sunflowers with a wail.

  He hurtled back through the narrow streets startling old people who were sitting outside their doors taking in the cooler night air. Bats arced above his head and a dog barked at his passing. He arrived back at the house just as they were sitting down for supper.

  His mammy looked up as he came in. “Where’ve you been, Archie? I was worried sick when it got dark and you didn’t come back.”

  “Oh, I was just out and about and lost track of the time,” he gasped.

  “You been running, Archie, you face all pink and you breathing hard,” Alfredo said.

  “Where’s your calliper, Archie?” Martha Grimble asked.

  He looked down at his naked leg. He’d run all the way back without it and hadn’t even realized it was missing.

  Martha Grimble looked at him in wonder and made the sign of the cross.

  “It’s a bloody miracle, that’s what it is,” she said.

  “A bloody miracle!” yelled Lissia and laughed like a drain.

  In the kitchen the oil lamp burned dimly and shadows danced along the whitewashed walls. Alfredo, Lena and Martha sat around the kitchen table talking.

  “What did Archie mean when he say he think Lissia dead?” Alfredo asked, pouring wine for everyone.

  “Alfredo, it’s a long old story. Have you got half the night?”

  “Si. I enjoying myself with all my favourite people round me. I good listener too.”

  “I made a big mistake in telling him she was dead. It seemed the easiest thing at the time. The truth is that Lissia has been in a convent in Ireland for years.”

  “She was a nun?” Alfredo said in disbelief.

  “No, she wasn’t a nun but she was looked after by the nuns.”

  “I see, because she not able to look after herself?”

  “She’s never been able to look after herself; she has the mind of a child.”

  “Was she always this way?” Lena asked.

  Martha took a long drink of wine and put down her glass before she spoke again.

  “She seemed normal when she was a little girl but as she got older it was more and more obvious that things weren’t quite right.”

  “And so she was sent to the nuns?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  Martha paused and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Alfredo refilled her glass.

  “When she was fifteen she got herself into trouble. God help her she wouldn’t have even known what the fellow was up to…”

  “My God! You don’t mean she have a…”

  “Yes, she had a baby,” Martha said. “I had moved away from home after my mother died and was working in Dublin. My father and I didn’t get on; when he found out Lissia was expecting he went berserk He beat her to try and get her to tell who the father was but the poor girl hadn’t a due. Some unscrupulous bastard took advantage of her being simple.”

  “God help the poor child,” said Lena.

  “My father was a hard, unfeeling man and he put Lissia with the nuns, working in a laundry, and she was there until I fetched her a few weeks back.”

  “Why did you wait for so long?” Alfredo asked.

  “My father would never have agreed to her leaving the place. But he died recently and now I’m her next of kin and I agreed to take her away. Oh, Alfredo, not a day went past when I didn’t think of her. It broke my heart to think of her shut up in there.”

  “What happened to the child?”

  “The child was put up for adoption to a good Catholic family. The Connollys from Wexford were going to take the baby on and bring it up as their own.”

  “I hope to God these Connollys peoples was good peoples?”

  Martha finished her wine and put down the glass.

  Alfredo refilled it along with his own.

  Martha Grimble’s face was flushed and her eyes bright with recklessness.

  “The thing was, the Connollys from Wexford were bogus.”

  “What is this bogus?” Lena asked.

  “They were only pretending to be the Connollys from Wexford. When the real Connollys turned up, they were too late. The child had been stolen.”

  “Stolen! Who would steal a little baby?” Lena said.

  “Did they find the child?” Alfredo asked.

  “No. There was a massive police search but they never found the baby.”

  “That’s terrible. I wonder where the poor child is now.”

  Martha Grimble took a large swig of wine and banged down her glass.

  “Upstairs asleep in bed,” said Martha Grimble.

  Lena Galvini choked on her wine and Alfredo stared at Martha Grimble, eyes wide with fear.

  “You see,” said Martha, “Walter Grimble and I were the bogus Connollys who stole him.”

  Outside an owl called, bats squeaked and the bells of the ancient convent tolled the midnight hour.

  Cissie had finished the letter that she was writing to Archie Grimble and was painstakingly writing the address on the envelope. Next she was going to do him some drawings.

  She smiled as she worked. She was so full of being happy that she thought she might burst.

  Fleep and Nan had taken her out to meet the lady who had liked her drawings and soon, soon she was going to start school with all the other little girls. She was going to have brand new clothes to wear. A uniform. And at the school there was a big room full of things to paint and draw with. Easels and big sheets of paper. Fat brushes and thin ones. Smudgy charcoal and waxy crayons…

  And if she liked it she was going to sleep there and Nan and Fleep were going on holiday.

  Cissie liked Fleep. He smiled a lot and he cooked the best food ever. And he’d kissed Nan. Twice in the kitchen and once on the lips!

  That meant they had to marry and then she’d have a daddy all of her own.

  She finished addressing the envelo
pe, then got up and moved her chair closer to the parrot who sat on his perch looking around him inquisitively.

  Cissie approached the cage apprehensively, cooing and lisping.

  The parrot looked at Cissie and squawked. Cissie giggled.

  “Good morning,” Cissie said.

  The parrot chewed a sunflower seed and stared at Cissie.

  “Good morning,” she said again.

  The parrot put his head on one side and eyed Cissie quizzically but stayed sullenly silent.

  “Who’s a pretty boy?”

  “Arseholes,” screeched the parrot.

  Cissie put her hand to her mouth to stop herself laughing.

  She picked up her pad and began to draw the bird, tongue poking out between her teeth, totally immersed in her drawing.

  Nan and Fleep came out from the kitchen. Nan pulled a pint for Fleep and poured herself a small nip of brandy.

  “Well, you could have knocked me down with a bloody feather when Gwennie came in here and told me the news,” she said.

  “What happened exactly?” Fleep said.

  “Well, first of all the Faynes said a fellow came in here the other night asking after Gwennie. They had no idea who he was, just knew that she didn’t take kindly to visitors so they told him she was dead.”

  “So how did he find her?”

  “I don’t know. But find her he did. She came in here first thing this morning. Told me that her son had turned up and she was off to live in America with him.”

  “Why did she come here?”

  “She said she’d got a message for Archie Grimble. I didn’t think she even knew Archie Grimble.”

  “What was the message?”

  “To tell him he was looking in the wrong place. That he should look in the collecting box.”

  “What did she mean by that?” Fleep asked.

  “God knows. I asked her that and she tapped her nose and said Archie would know what she meant.”

  “Well, what a turn up for the books.”