Page 167 of The Altar Girls

‘Now go to sleep.’

She turned the key, locking Harper in, and returned to the bathroom.

She thought Naomi had stopped breathing.

What had she done?

What was she to do?

It was clear she had to do something.

She could make it look like it was the act of a raging murderer rather than a loving mother. She was a loving mother, so she was. Heaving Naomi over the edge of the bath, she dropped her in. Choking back sobs, she lifted the hammer. She knew what she had to do, but would she ever get over it?

The little angels were on their way to heaven and needed to be dressed appropriately. In what? Something white and virtuous.

She remembered the bundle of white cotton shrouds she’d taken from Connolly’s undertakers when her mother died. He didn’t need them, and she could use them for her craft work, for classes she’d intended to run but never had. She’d taken them from the greedy bastard because of the fuss over the wicker coffin.

Where had she put them? She’d never brought them to her workshop. They had to be in the house somewhere.

She had a cupboard where she kept the things she couldn’t throw out because they reminded her of her failures. Like the badly made red-beaded rosaries. She grabbed two shrouds and two of the rosaries. Perfect for imperfect children.

She took an age to undress Naomi. She wrapped a hand towel around the child’s head and dried both children as best she could. She pulled on their underwear and tugged one of the white robes over Willow’s head and down her body. Then she tore open the bin bags and cocooned her daughter within one. She did the same with Naomi. The blood had stopped when her heart had, so she removed the towel.

What next?

None of this was her fault. It was her mother’s, wasn’t it? She had crafted her into a controlling perfectionist; into a woman with a mind that went from hysterical to clinical in an instant. No one could understand what it was like to be her, living with a child who would not bend to her needs. It was Willow’s own fault. And he had to bear some blame. He had refused to help her. He’d humiliated and enraged her by denying her what she’d asked for. Even after she’d offered herself to him on a plate. A fucking plate! Stop, Zara. Dampen down those thoughts. Clinical Zara had to regain control.

She knew exactly where she would leave the children, and he would be blamed. She had to act fast and with purpose. A glance around the bathroom at the mess almost stalled her but she would soon scrub it with bleach.

But what about Harper? She would sleep for a few hours, and she couldn’t get out of her room. She’d be fine. As long as she kept her mouth shut.

One by one Zara carried the two children down the stairs, struggling with their dead weight. She bundled the girls’ clothes, school bags, coats and towels into another bin bag. She checked the school bags first and found hymn sheets in Naomi’s. They would come in handy too. The rest she would burn in her kiln. Not today, though. Tomorrow, or another day when it was safe to do so.

Her car was at the side of the house, and she was sweating profusely, despite the cold, by the time she had the bodies and bags loaded inside. There was no one about. The air was wet with snow. Maybe she should wait until it was dark, then she could leave them where she wanted. But first there were things she had to do.

She knew all about Ruth Kiernan and how she’d hurt Naomi. Should she direct the blame there? Blame might land there anyhow, so she’d go with her original plan. To be sure that nothing lay at her feet, she’d phone the other parents looking for her child, and then report Willow missing. That way there would be no suspicion directed at her.

She left the plastic-swaddled bodies in the car and went back inside to clean and scrub. When she finished, she’d report her daughter missing and no one would suspect her. And when the time was right, she would leave the girls where she wanted them to be found.

She was relieved that she had regained control of the situation. She grabbed the bleach and got to work.

99

Father Maguire had regained consciousness. He had suffered bleeding on his brain, but the consultant was hopeful it was not fatal. He would have to remain in hospital for observation for at least a week.

Clothed in a hospital gown, his head heavily bandaged, eyes black and bruised, a multitude of tubes snaking from his arm, chest and throat, he no longer looked like Robert de Niro, more like Frankenstein’s monster.

Lottie pulled over a chair and sat beside his bed.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘For what?’

‘For not losing sight of two little girls. I should have been more aware that Zara was at her lowest ebb, that she was liable to do anything.’

‘Like accuse you of fathering her child?’

‘That,’ he said, ‘and she was facing eviction from her home. With little or no income, she was desperate. I should have acquiesced when she called Sunday night and given her some money immediately, but she angered me with her false accusations.’

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