The annexe was in a funny-shaped building on the side of the house. There was a door into it from the downstairs pantry. There was another door beside my bedroom door too. Occasionally, I would hear noises coming from behind the other door. Often, the sound of crying or howling. Dad said that’s where he kept the ghost, and that I mustn’t worry because she could never get out. And he was right, because she never did. But the noise could be frightening sometimes. When it got bad, Dad told me to stay under the covers with my hands over my ears and I think he must have gone into the room next door and told the ghost to be quiet, because there wouldn’t be a peep out of it for days.
At bedtime, Dad would read me a story and kiss my forehead and tell me he loved me and we would say our prayers together and then he would lock the door again to keep me safe until morning.
Every year on my birthday, 7th August, we had a Special Day. Dad didn’t go to work. The first one I remember, Dad brought home a tent and we pitched it in the garden. He made a bonfire and we cooked sausages on it. We slept in sleeping bags in the tent. And then, later, he woke me up and it was dark. He led me outside and lit fireworks and the summer ink sky burst into colour and noise and it was the most exciting thing that ever happened to me.
The next birthday was scary. I was seven years old, I think. I was frightened when we went through the gates at the bottom of our garden in Dad’s car and turned out on to the road. I was dizzy. I hadn’t been in his car before although I helped him wash it on Sundays. He had put cushions on the front seat so that I could see out of the window. And he gave me a bag to get sick into, in case the dizziness didn’t pass. It went away quickly. Outside the gates, there were people – the same size as Dad and me – and there were women. I’d only seen them on TV and in books, but these were life-size.
We had a long journey in the car to the zoo. I was worried that we would never find our way home, but Dad said he would always be able to find home.
I was so terrified of letting go of Dad’s hand. I was more intrigued by the people than by the animals. They walked around in groups, mothers with children and babies in prams, mums and dads walking arm in arm. Groups of children, girls and boys, running around together. Dad was trying to get me to look at the chimpanzees and the elephants, but I was listening to the people talking to each other. Dad bought me an ice pop and told me not to look at the other people, but I couldn’t help it. A man stopped Dad and talked to him. I hid behind Dad’s legs. Dad told the man I was his godson. I could tell he didn’t want to talk to the other man, and we moved along quickly, and then Dad said it was time to go home. I was glad.
I had lots of questions. I asked him what the difference between a son and a godson was and he said a godson was a child who believed in God. And I certainly did.
I asked Dad if women were bad. He said most of them were. I said that there were nice ones on television and in my books, but he said that television and my stories were make-believe. I asked if I had a mum and he said I did but that she was a ghost. There was a big padlock on the door of the room next to mine in the annexe. Now, I asked if my mother was the ghost who lived in that room, if she was the one who made the howling noises, and he said that she was, but that I shouldn’t worry because I wouldn’t ever have to see her.
17
Sally
I opened the letter with trembling hands.
Dearest Sally
I hope by now that you have recovered a little from my death.
These are things I should have told you gradually long ago, perhaps over a period of time. I don’t want you to be upset by this news. It is all in the past and nothing will change for you now, unless you want it to, but I think you are a creature of habit and you will go on as you have.
Your birth name is Mary Norton. Norton is your birth mother’s name. We believe it would not have been her choice to use your birth father’s name. All of the original medical reports and some newspaper clippings are in the box under my desk in a file marked PRIVATE. When you came to us, we decided that you were a new person. You were our Sally Diamond.
The reason you are a bit odd is not because there is anything wrong with your brain, but because you were raised in disturbing circumstances, until you were discovered.
At the age of eleven in 1966, your mother, Denise Norton, was kidnapped by Conor Geary. He abused her mentally and sexually for the next fourteen years. As far as we are able to tell, you were born eight years after her abduction. Your birth mother could not be certain of the date or even the year, but that was her best guess, and my medical colleagues agreed that you were probably born sometime in the latter half of 1974. Your birth was not registered, for obvious reasons, so the birth date on your adoption certificate may not be correct. I am sorry to tell you that Conor Geary, the kidnapper, is your birth father.
Denise Norton’s family searched for her for years. She was not found until March 1980, after an anonymous tip-off to the guards. You and your birth mother were discovered within a matter of days. You were both in appalling condition in a home-made extension at the back of Conor Geary’s house in Killiney, Co. Dublin. The window of your mother’s room was boarded up. It was dark and dank. There was a hot plate and a fridge. There was a mattress on the floor in one main room with a toilet and washbasin adjacent. Your small bedroom next door was bright and airy with a large window looking out to the garden. You were both terribly emaciated and although you were almost completely silent, and obviously distressed on your release, Denise was suffering from severe mental health issues. I am not sure it would do you any good to try to imagine her state of mind. In the beginning, she was feral, and would attack anyone who approached her. You both had to be anaesthetized in order for doctors to physically examine you. Normal sedatives were not strong enough. It was never initially intended that she would be permanently separated from you.
Your mum was well qualified. Jean had done an additional specialist rotation in child and adolescent psychiatry before finishing her GP training at the time of your discovery. You and your birth mother were both admitted to St Mary’s Psychiatric Hospital, where I was Medical Director. A special unit was set up and I assigned a dedicated team of staff to look after you. Given the concerns about your development and physical health, I requested that Jean be seconded to work alongside me at St Mary’s and, because we were a married couple, it suited everybody. We worked as a team around the clock, living in the unit with you, along with the support staff.
I never gained Denise’s trust, though in my defence, I tried extremely hard, and if I had had longer with her, I am sure that I could have helped her to adjust. I don’t think she could ever have lived a ‘normal’ life, given all of the horrors she had experienced. My initial aim was to get her to a place where she could live in an open facility with access to the outside world and twenty-four-hour medical and psychiatric assistance. This facility would not have been an appropriate long-term place for you, however, and it was my strong suggestion then that you should be separated from your mother at some stage when Denise was ready. You were still being breastfed. Unheard of for a five-year-old. Jean showed Denise how to bottle feed you, but your birth mother strongly resisted. We failed, and you screamed and pulled your hair out, but eventually we had to make a drastic decision. One that I will always regret, but not in every way.
I feel now that it was a crude and possibly cruel thing to do, but we were concerned for your future. I was convinced that you were young enough to be retrained, as it were, and that you might have a chance at a normal life. You and your mother stayed in the unit for fourteen months together and, in that time, we were never able to separate you from Denise. It was a harrowing time and nobody who treated either of you could have been unaffected.
I saw you with your birth mother almost every day. She refused to talk about Conor Geary but strenuously denied that he had ever sexually assaulted you, or that you witnessed any of her abuse. You would be locked in the toilet when the assaults took place. Medical examinations also suggested that he did not sexually abuse you and I think you must assume that is the case. We cannot rule out that he may have physically harmed you, though, as he had definitely left your mother with physical as well as emotional scars. He removed her teeth as punishment. Conor Geary was a dentist.
Your mother took her own life in May 1981 after you had spent one night in a separate room with Jean. We made terrible mistakes, but there was no intention to harm either of you. Until my dying day, which will shortly come, I will feel responsibility for your mother’s death. There was a brief hospital inquiry and I was cleared of medical negligence, but I do hold myself accountable, Sally. I should have found another way.
Jean and I approached the Adoption Board and the Minister for Health together. We had not had any luck having children of our own. They agreed that a home with a psychiatrist and a qualified GP who intended to move away from Dublin was for the best. We felt that we could provide a safe and stable home for you and I hope that we did that and that you have always felt safe with us. Losing Jean so young was a tragedy, but I think we managed, you and I, did we not?
It is because of your very early experiences that you are sometimes socially and emotionally disconnected. Your tendency to take things literally is a hangover from your early years of social isolation in captivity. It is most fortunate that you have no memory of that time before we brought you home. I would strongly advise you to do nothing at all to try to revive those memories as I know they could only be traumatizing.
So, now you know. I agonized over writing this letter. I wondered if it were better that you never got to know these details. Nobody in Carricksheedy knows your background, not even Angela. Jean told her own family, but everyone else was sworn to lifetime secrecy. Your discovery in 1980 was huge news as you can imagine, and we did everything in our power to keep you away from the media.
Thankfully, my name was not released in the news coverage. The department agreed to put out a press release to say that you had been adopted in the UK. I moved us out of Dublin as soon as you could leave the unit.
So now I finally say goodbye, my love, leaving you with lots to think about. You are under no obligation to do anything at all with this information. But if you need to talk to anyone, you could show Angela this letter. She will be shocked, but will be of practical or emotional support if you need it.
I wish you good health and happiness and a peaceful life.
Your loving Dad
