Mother of Pearl by Mary Morrissy Page A

at them she would remain invisible. The young woman yanked the metal grid closed. The lift whirred and they began to move, edging slowly upwards. A red spot of light winked above the door. The boy, no more than three Irene guessed, was mesmerised by it, his large blue eyes fixed on it as if he were transfixed by a vision. Irene willed the flashing light to travel faster and as she did there was a sickening lurch and they were plunged into darkness. The lift swung airily between floors. Irene, pinned in the corner, saw in her mind’s eye the vertiginous lift shaft. She imagined that all that was keeping them aloft was a series of frayed ropes and creaking pulleys like a cradle teetering on a fissured branch. She held her breath, afraid that any false move of hers might send them crashing down. In the dimness she could only barely make out the furry silhouettes of strangers. She caught the rank smell of her own fear. The woman jabbed angrily at the button near the doors, then banged on the metal grid.
    â€˜Help!’ she bellowed.
    Irene felt something cold and sticky brush against her skin. She stifled a scream imagining some gelid discharge running down the walls of the lift as a result of the jolt, but it was only the child seeking out his mother’s hand in the darkness. Irene took it gratefully. The woman thumped on the bars of their cage a second time. The lift shuddered again like a beast wakened from slumber. There was a whine and they were off, thundering down the shaft, clanking and squealing – afterwards Irene couldn’t tell if their voices had joined in with the machinery’s protesting wails – before landing on the ground floor with a jarring thud. Another safe arrival. They tumbled out gratefully into the dazzle of daylight, Irene leading the little boy by the hand until he looked up and, realising that she was not his mother, swiftly withdrew his hand and spat on his palm.
    She made for the stairs. Maternity was on the third floor. At the entrance to the ward there was a linen closet with its door slightly ajar. Irene slipped inside and locked the door. She set her bag down. She took off her hat and coat, hanging them on the back of the door. All around her were piles of newly starched linen, among them a number of white coats. She did not consider this lucky. There was no luck involved here. She took it as her due, as proof of the rectitude of her mission, the fruit of her long years of apprenticeship at Granitefield. She was an explorer who, having studied the maps, finds the terrain corresponds with the cartographer’s drawings. This was her territory; she could have reached her destination blindfold.
    Coat flapping, she stepped out into the corridor and, pushing the swing doors briskly, she entered the ward. Two nurses gossiping over a trolley of medicaments were aware only of a flash of white as she swept by. On her right she saw the nursery. It was a long, bright room with an aisle down the centre between the rows of cots. She moved towards the door which stood invitingly half-open. Gingerly she stepped inside. For a moment, standing there in the glass-walled room she felt totally exposed, a predatory fish gliding menacingly in a bowl. She braced herself. She mustn’t lose her nerve now. Wrapping the white coat around her for protection she walked boldly between the serried rows of cots. They were empty; they were all empty. It must be feeding time she realised with a sharp pang. She was about to turn and flee, smarting at this lack of foresight when she spotted right at the very end of the room a little pink mound. A little girl – she knew from the colour of the blanket –
her
little girl. Heart pounding, she made for the distant cot. She leaned over the sleeping baby. How peaceful she looked. It seemed a shame to disturb her. Irene, clutched by terror but greedy with desire, froze. If the baby were woken she would surely cry and that would draw attention. Or