I had lots more questions for Dad about why I didn’t go to school, and why I couldn’t have friends, and why I wasn’t allowed down to the front gate, but he got sad when I asked those questions. He said it was hurtful to him, and that he was doing his best.

Months later, I raised it again. ‘I’d like to go to school and meet other children. On television, children are always playing together. At the zoo that time, there were loads of children and families, like on television.’

This time, he shook his head and bid me to come and sit beside him. ‘I didn’t want to tell you this until you were older, Peter, but you have a disease.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s called necrotic hominoid contagion. If you touched another person, you would get sick and you could die, a painful death. Remember when we went to the zoo? I never let go of your hand. It’s too dangerous for you. You must never mix with other people. It’s the only way I can save your life. That’s why I had to leave you with her the time I went away for work. You cannot get the disease from your parents. There is nobody else I can leave you with. They might kill you.’

‘But what about when I grow up?’

‘I don’t know. I’m hoping some treatment might be available, but there isn’t a lot of research on the condition at the moment.’

‘What would happen if I touched somebody else?’

‘You would gradually turn to stone, like in the story of Medusa. Remember? The woman with snakes for hair? It’s an agonizing death. Whoever she gazed upon would turn to stone. You see, women and girls are particularly dangerous, but touching anyone at all would put you at considerable risk.’

This explained why Dad was so sad when I asked all those questions.

‘So will I stay here for the rest of my life?’

‘My poor boy, we will have Special Days Out on your birthday, but we must exercise extreme caution. You are happy here, aren’t you?’

‘I get lonely sometimes.’

‘And that’s why you have specially chosen books in your room. You can have extravagant adventures with Homer, or scale mountains with Sir Edmund Hillary, or fly a plane like Biggles.’

‘My favourite books are the ones about children who are friends with each other.’

He ruffled my hair fondly. ‘Your reading is advanced for your age. Alas, your taste is not.’

‘So … I’ll stay here for the rest of my life, with you?’

‘Let’s take it a day at a time. You never know when there might be a cure.’

‘What about my baby sister?’

He took his hands away from my hands. ‘What about her?’

‘Would I die if I touched her? Couldn’t she live with us?’

‘Absolutely not. All women are dangerous.’

‘Even babies?’

He didn’t answer. I said nothing more.

23

Sally

As one year ended and a new one began, I read through all of the files and listened to all of the tapes. Some of Dad’s writings were medical records, but some were personal diaries. There was no further mention of Toby. The records confirmed that Mum and Dad were living with Denise and me in a specialist unit in the grounds of St Mary’s and were on call around the clock. We were a psychiatric enigma. No case like ours had ever arisen in Ireland before. Dad corresponded with psychiatrists in the USA, but none of their cases exactly matched mine and my birth mother’s. Dad was warned that it could take years of work to undo the damage and he was advised to take it slowly.

Denise was sedated at night-time but, even under sedation, she would not release me from her grip. She eventually became more talkative and she quickly learned to read longer words, alongside me. An educational psychologist joined the support team but admitted it was hard to teach both mother and daughter at the same time as they were ‘a constant distraction to each other’.

At one time, Mum and Dad took a week’s holiday from the unit. When they returned, it was three weeks before Denise or I would talk to them again.

Dad tried ‘every single thing one can think of’ to get Denise to talk to him or Mum about Conor Geary, but she either cried, which made me cry, or she was silent and pulled at her hair. Dad did ask her if more than one man had attacked her and forced her to do things that she didn’t like with her body. On that occasion she was completely silent, although the tape suggested that she shook her head.

Through official channels, my birth had to be registered and Mum and Dad got to decide on which day I was born. They chose 13th December 1974. They tried to hold a small party for my sixth birthday with all the staff, but Denise didn’t like the singing and I didn’t understand the concept of blowing out candles on a cake. Dad guessed that Conor Geary must have threatened us at some time with fire. Denise screamed and threw the cake at the wall. I’m glad I don’t remember that birthday.