captive. I shook my head. Where? I didn’t even know the address. By Sheridan Sinclair – basement apartment. Please send help.
Oh, God, I thought. This is so stupid! Imagine finding this note. Would I take it seriously? Of course not. I needed someone to back up what I was saying. Someone to explain. I scribbled Dympna’s phone number on the bottom, along with the Irish country code. At least if the police spoke to her, she could verify my situation. Dympna would defend me with her last breath – she would make people believe.
I swore as the lift whirred into life. Someone was on their way down. Closing the drawer, I folded up the notepaper, my panic increasing as each second passed. Where should I hide it? My shoe? My pocket? As the lift doors dinged open, I quickly shoved it down my bra. There was a thud as the sketchbook fell to the floor. In one swift movement, I kicked it under the bed, grabbing a hairbrush at the same time. My hands were clammy as I held the brush, trying to appear casual as I dragged it over my blonde hair.
I breathed a sigh of relief as George approached, wearing a bomber jacket and jeans. At least it wasn’t Sheridan. It was the first time I’d seen him dressed casually. Was it so he could blend in? Judging by his expression, he was worried, too.
‘Here, my little Irish shamrock.’ He thrust a bag in my direction. ‘Stick some bobby pins in your hair and put that on. Honestly, if this goes tits up, there’ll be hell to pay.’
I peeped into the bag and found a long mahogany wig.
‘Sit.’ George issued instructions as he helped me put it on. It was a far cry from the makeover he’d given me when I first arrived in New York. Just as before, I watched him via the mirror of the dressing table. His expression was guarded as he tugged the wig into place. For the hundredth time, I wished I could read his mind. Did Sheridan know about our trip to the church?
St Patrick’s Cathedral was stunning, the biggest Gothic cathedral in New York. George had filled me in on it on the way over and my mouth fell open as we approached. It was a world away from the church I attended in Ireland, which was on a much smaller scale.
‘Don’t try anything,’ he said as he led me to the building, his arm tightly interlinked with mine. ‘There’s security all over the place. Say one word and you’ll be carted off to the funny farm.’
Really? I set my jaw, held my cool. He was calling my bluff. George didn’t care about me; if he did, he would have reported Sheridan to the police. I had no doubt that she had him over a barrel. I had to put myself first.
But when I entered the church, my plan fell apart. It was empty. We were the only ones inside. Like a child, I fell into quiet awe. Jewels of light flooded the stained-glass windows, with giant marble pillars adding a sense of opulence.
‘What time is mass?’ I whispered to George, pausing to genuflect before taking a seat in the back aisle.
He answered my question with an incredulous look. ‘There’s no mass. You’ve got five minutes to say your prayers and then we’re heading back.’
There was no point in arguing, and I slid on to my knees in the pew. I thought of Dympna, and the masses we attended in our local church as children. How we had warbled in the choir as schoolgirls, the teacher telling me to mouth the words. I wondered if God was watching me, and I closed my eyes in a silent prayer. I took comfort in my surroundings. For all my mother’s failings, she’d insisted that I keep up the weekly ritual of attending church. I was happy to comply, because it gave me an excuse to spend an extra hour with my friend. Without Dympna, the weekends would have been very gloomy, and she was grateful for the opportunity to sit away from her family, who sat at the front.
Not that her father could always attend. His job dictated that he was usually elsewhere. I remembered looking at him as if he were some kind of superhero, and in comparison to my father, he was. Dympna’s dad not only looked after his family, he made the streets safer for them too. I loved her