Page 244 of The Missing Sister

‘So...’ He eyed me. ‘Here we are, finally on to the meat of the matter.’ I watched as he signalled for the waiter and ordered two more whiskeys.

‘Will I need another?’

‘I don’t know, Merry, but I certainly do.’

‘Please, Peter, just tell me what happened. It’s a long time ago and whatever the reason, I promise I’ll understand.’

‘I think you’re clever enough to know what happened, Merry.’

‘Was it him?’ I forced the name onto my tongue. ‘Bobby Noiro?’

‘Yes. After you left for England, I’d done as we agreed that night and made a point of being seen in that bar where he’d first spotted us together, to make sure he didn’t think I had anything to do with your disappearance. I don’t know whether he saw me, but then, just the day before I was about to get on the boat to England, he turned up at my parents’ front door – he must have followed me home from the bar pinned me against the wall with a gun to my throat and told me that if I disappeared too, he’d make sure Mum and Dad wouldn’t live to find out where I’d gone. That he and his “friends” would make sure of it by burning down the house. He said he’d be keeping a watch on it to make sure I was there at home every day, going out in the morning and coming home at night. And he did, Merry, for months.’ He took a sip of his whiskey and gave a deep sigh. ‘He made sure I saw him too. What could I do? Tell my parents they’d been targeted by the Provos? A terrorist gang that, as we both know and history can attest to, would stop at nothing to get what they wanted.’

‘I waited for three weeks in London at Bridget’s place. And heard nothing from you. Why didn’t youwriteto me, Peter? Let me know what had happened?’

‘But Idid, Merry, and I even have the proof. Let me show you.’ Peter reached for his leather case, unzipped it and pulled out a bunch of old airmail envelopes. He handed them to me and I stared down at the top one.

My name and the address in London were crossed out, and in big letters was writtenReturn to Sender.

Then I looked at the address he had sent it to.

‘See? Look at the stamp at the top,’ he pointed. ‘It’s dated August the fifteenth, 1971. Turn it over, Mary.’

I did so. It had Peter’s Dublin address, in his neat handwriting, and a note beneath it:Person not known at this address.

‘That isn’t Bridget’s writing,’ I said. I frowned and, turning it over to the front, I reread the address.

‘Oh no!’ I gulped in horror and looked up at him. ‘You got the address wrong! Bridget didn’t live in Cromwell Gardens. She lived on Cromwell Crescent! I told you that!’

‘What?! No!’ Peter shook his head. ‘I swear, Merry, as you were packing to leave, you told me it was Cromwell Gardens. It was indelibly inked on my heart – why would I ever forget? When we decided we needed to go, that address was the only means of communication we had. I swear you told me it was Cromwell Gardens...’

‘And I swear I said Cromwell Crescent.’

I forced my mind back to that night, when Bobby had paid me a visit and threatened me and mine. Peter had arrived an hour later and I’d taken him down to my bedroom to tell him we’d been seen by Bobby in a pub the night before. I’d been hysterical, as I’d sobbed in terror and thrown God knows what into a suitcase.

‘Did I not write it down for you? I’m sure I wrote it down,’ I said, desperately trying to recall the details of telling Peter I was going to Bridget’s flat in London on the morning ferry, and parroting the address she’d given to me when I’d called her earlier.

‘Merry, you know very well you didn’t. You were in a terrible state, and to be fair, so was I.’ Peter gave a heavy sigh. ‘Well, one of us made a mistake that night,’ he shrugged. ‘And ever since, I’ve never known whether that maniac had caught you, murdered you and thrown you into the Liffey, or whether you had just decided it was best if we ended it.’

‘You know I’d never have ended it, Peter! We were secretly engaged, had all our plans set out for a new life in Canada... It was a decision that was only pre-empted by Bobby and his threats. I thoughtyou’dchanged your mind, and as I knew I could never come back to Ireland because of Bobby, I had to go on. Alone,’ I added.

‘So you went to Toronto as we’d arranged?’

‘Yes. After delaying my passage three times to see if you’d come. The fourth time, well, I got on board.’

‘And how was it? Canada, I mean.’

‘Terrible,’ I admitted. ‘I headed for the Irish Quarter in Toronto as we’d agreed – Cabbagetown, it was called. It was little better than a slum and there was simply no work available other than literally selling my body. A girl I met there told me she’d heard that they were desperate for young workers in New Zealand and there were plenty of jobs, so I used the last of my savings and went with her.’ I looked down at the letter that I was still holding in my hands.

‘Can I open it?’ I asked.

‘Of course you can. It was written to you, after all.’

I looked at it again and then at him. ‘Maybe I’ll save it for later. What does it say?’

‘It says what I just told you – that your Bobby had paid me a visit at home and threatened to burn down my parents’ house. That I had gone to the police to tell them about him and his threats, and that they said that they’d look into it. I was hoping that they’d take him in for questioning and charge him with threatening behaviour, but I didn’t even know where he lived.’

‘If I remember rightly, he was squatting at the time, with his fellow “comrades”.’