Read Online Blood Tears by Michael J. Malone - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael J. Malone
Ads: Link
as easily as a frog would swallow a python. ‘I expect you want to catch this murderer as much as we do. We really need your help with our investigation. I apologise…’ although it’s costing me five years of my life. ‘… for my tone. There is an evil man out there and we need to find him in case anyone else is in danger.’
She sits down, her hand to her throat. I’d said the magic word… Evil .
‘Do you think he’ll come after anyone else?’ Her face is as pale as bleached linen.
‘We can’t be sure, but from what we can guess of his motivation, we suspect this is a one-off. A revenge killing for some poor child’s lost childhood.’ My pulse is just getting back to normal.
‘Frightful, just frightful. May the good Lord bless his soul.’ She looks into my eyes, her own devoid of emotion. We stare at each other, neither wishing to speak first. I can hear a little boy scream, look away, look away, look away. He is sweating and his legs have lost all strength.
I steel myself against her gaze, determined I will not move my eyes away first. My mouth is dry. It’s like looking into the eyes of a photograph. I’m getting nothing back.
‘Do you have a list of children who were here around the same time as Patrick Connelly?’ asks Allessandra.
‘Of course we do, my dear.’ Mother moves her eyes to her. Then straight back to me.
She smiles, letting me know she could have held my gaze for just as long as it took.
‘Sister Margaret,’ she booms. Sister Margaret walks into the room carrying a large ledger. She drops it on the table with relief.
‘We thought you might like to look at this,’ she says.
The book is large. About eighteen inches tall, twelve wide and ten deep. It is bound in black cracked leather and the front is gilded with a Celtic border. Someone has stuck a piece of lined paper on the front and written on it ‘1965 to 1975’. The pages are thick and rustle like a distant thunderclap as I open them.
A list of names appears before me. Children who spent their formative years here as I had done. What scars do they bear, I wonder? How many have been assimilated successfully into society? How many occupy our jails and mental homes?
I took my relative success in life for granted until a social worker helping me with a case found out I was brought up in an orphanage. Of the children who are reared in that environment, he informed me, seventy-five percent do not make a positive contribution to society. By that he meant they were junkies, thieves or worse. It shocked me. It’s not usually cruelty that causes it, he told me. It’s the absence of love.
‘It will take a while to go through this, Mother. Can we take it away? Or do you have a photocopier?'
‘I’m afraid the answer to your questions is, regrettably, no, Ray.’ A small, triumphant smile. ‘This is a document that is precious to the Order. We can’t let it out of our possession, without a judge intervening.’
‘That can be arranged.’
Mother slams the cover down. I manage to get my fingers out in time. ‘In the meantime,’ she warns, ‘… if that’s the path you decide to take, the killer’s trail will be colder than the good Lord’s tomb.’
Lifting the cover up again, I reply, ‘We’ll just take some notes for now. If we need to produce anything at a trial… I assume a court order will be obeyed?’
‘We follow a higher court, Ray, as you may have forgotten.’ Her hackles are still at attention, ‘But we will do what is necessary to help give this killer his earthly justice.’
She stands up. ‘Sister Margaret will attend to you now. The good Lord saw fit to grant me a wonderful burden. But this place doesn’t run itself.’ She looks at Allessandra.
‘Miss Rossi, you have my sympathy. He was a difficult child. From what I can see, little has changed.’
The small room seems huge now that she has left.
Allessandra pulls out a notepad, her face as unreadable as a blank piece of
She sits down, her hand to her throat. I’d said the magic word… Evil .
‘Do you think he’ll come after anyone else?’ Her face is as pale as bleached linen.
‘We can’t be sure, but from what we can guess of his motivation, we suspect this is a one-off. A revenge killing for some poor child’s lost childhood.’ My pulse is just getting back to normal.
‘Frightful, just frightful. May the good Lord bless his soul.’ She looks into my eyes, her own devoid of emotion. We stare at each other, neither wishing to speak first. I can hear a little boy scream, look away, look away, look away. He is sweating and his legs have lost all strength.
I steel myself against her gaze, determined I will not move my eyes away first. My mouth is dry. It’s like looking into the eyes of a photograph. I’m getting nothing back.
‘Do you have a list of children who were here around the same time as Patrick Connelly?’ asks Allessandra.
‘Of course we do, my dear.’ Mother moves her eyes to her. Then straight back to me.
She smiles, letting me know she could have held my gaze for just as long as it took.
‘Sister Margaret,’ she booms. Sister Margaret walks into the room carrying a large ledger. She drops it on the table with relief.
‘We thought you might like to look at this,’ she says.
The book is large. About eighteen inches tall, twelve wide and ten deep. It is bound in black cracked leather and the front is gilded with a Celtic border. Someone has stuck a piece of lined paper on the front and written on it ‘1965 to 1975’. The pages are thick and rustle like a distant thunderclap as I open them.
A list of names appears before me. Children who spent their formative years here as I had done. What scars do they bear, I wonder? How many have been assimilated successfully into society? How many occupy our jails and mental homes?
I took my relative success in life for granted until a social worker helping me with a case found out I was brought up in an orphanage. Of the children who are reared in that environment, he informed me, seventy-five percent do not make a positive contribution to society. By that he meant they were junkies, thieves or worse. It shocked me. It’s not usually cruelty that causes it, he told me. It’s the absence of love.
‘It will take a while to go through this, Mother. Can we take it away? Or do you have a photocopier?'
‘I’m afraid the answer to your questions is, regrettably, no, Ray.’ A small, triumphant smile. ‘This is a document that is precious to the Order. We can’t let it out of our possession, without a judge intervening.’
‘That can be arranged.’
Mother slams the cover down. I manage to get my fingers out in time. ‘In the meantime,’ she warns, ‘… if that’s the path you decide to take, the killer’s trail will be colder than the good Lord’s tomb.’
Lifting the cover up again, I reply, ‘We’ll just take some notes for now. If we need to produce anything at a trial… I assume a court order will be obeyed?’
‘We follow a higher court, Ray, as you may have forgotten.’ Her hackles are still at attention, ‘But we will do what is necessary to help give this killer his earthly justice.’
She stands up. ‘Sister Margaret will attend to you now. The good Lord saw fit to grant me a wonderful burden. But this place doesn’t run itself.’ She looks at Allessandra.
‘Miss Rossi, you have my sympathy. He was a difficult child. From what I can see, little has changed.’
The small room seems huge now that she has left.
Allessandra pulls out a notepad, her face as unreadable as a blank piece of
Similar Books
