Three Little Truths

by Eithne Shortall

  ‘I spoke to your principal. She is taking the matter very seriously and they are investigating.’

  ‘That’s how power always speaks.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. She’s not power. She’s the woman who lives up the road.’

  Sinead was shivering now, the rug fallen to her lap. A tear made its way down her right cheek and Ellis reached out to wipe it away, but Sinead recoiled with such kneejerk force that she smacked her elbow off the arm of the chair.

  ‘Sinead! Are you okay?’

  The tears came readily now, rushing down both cheeks. Sinead gave a sharp intake of breath as she tried to harden her face. She held her elbow with one hand and wiped at her face with the other.

  Martha knew what this was. She looked from her shocked son to her crumbling daughter and she felt her stomach drop. Moving house wasn’t enough.

  ‘Should we get you some counselling, do you think, Sinead?’

  ‘You want to punish me?’ her daughter screeched. ‘Because some asshole wrote my name on a bathroom door, you want to punish me?’

  ‘No,’ said Martha calmly. ‘Because of what happened in Abbyvale.’

  ‘Nothing happened in Abbyvale.’

  ‘Sinead.’

  ‘What, Mum? I’m just acting like you. Nothing happened. Everything’s fine. Nothing was taken. Nobody was injured, not really. And nobody was caught. Nobody! I’m not even allowed to talk to you about it in case you get upset.’

  ‘Come on, Sinead.’

  ‘It’s true, Ellis. Dad said they’ve made no arrests but not to ask Mum about it because she doesn’t want to know. How could she not want to know? There’s a guy in my year and his sister was bitten by a dog and his mother is always calling the guards about it, demanding to know if they’ve caught anyone yet. A dog! How can Mum not be on the phone to the guards or lawyers or the minister of whatever every day? What’s wrong with you, Mum? They touched me.’ Sinead spat out the last sentence. Her hands, arms, shoulders all shaking now. ‘And yeah, I know they didn’t rape me. But how dare they touch me. How dare they! They are not allowed.’

  ‘You’re right, they’re not allowed. Mum knows that.’

  Martha wanted to tell Ellis to zip it. He didn’t understand. He would try to, because he was a good man, but he was still a man.

  ‘I am so sorry about what happened,’ said Martha, ignoring her son and piercing her gaze into her daughter, just as she had done that day. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it. And you have every right to be angry. I dream about it all the time. I hear the sound of them at the back door when I’m alone in this house. I hear anything in this house and I jump. But you can’t let the anger overwhelm you. And phoning a shock-jock radio show isn’t going to help either. I doubt your school will be very appreciative.’

  ‘I don’t care about the school.’ Sinead’s face was red and blotchy, and Martha could see the energy starting to drain, the cracks starting to show. Where the hell was Robert?

  ‘That school took you and your sister at short notice despite being full. Did you think about Orla when you picked up the phone and made an enemy of what is also her new school?’

  ‘Of course I thought about Orla! That’s why I did it. Don’t you see?’ Sinead was shouting again now. It was breathtaking, really, how she could go from nought to sixty in the blink of an eye. ‘She’s your daughter, Mum. How do you not see? I don’t want my little sister to grow up thinking men can do what they like and she has to take it. She’s a person, Mum. She’s not a joke!’

  Sinead was doing her damnedest to look at Martha with hatred, but her true feelings were too extreme to hide. Her eyes shone and twitched and Martha wanted to tell her to hush, that it would be okay. Sinead sat up straight, her face defiant – but her heart and her soul and her youth were kicking and screaming on the kitchen floor, crying out for help.

  ‘Your principal is nice. Give her a chance. Let her do her job.’

  Her daughter looked away.

  ‘They even have a suspect.’

  Martha instantly regretted saying this. Partly because she had made it up, but more so because of the double-take her daughter did. Before Sinead could question it, Martha pressed on. ‘I think you should go to bed now. It’s a miracle Orla is still asleep.’

  And then, right on cue, her youngest daughter appeared at the kitchen door: ‘Why are you all shouting? I am trying to get my beauty sleep.’

  Ellis grinned. ‘Well, it’s definitely working.’

  Orla, whose left eye was glued half-shut with sleep and who had encrusted drool on her lower lip, gave a modest curtsey.

  Sinead clambered up from the table and shunted out of the kitchen, knocking her sister off balance as she passed.

  Orla winced. ‘So – many – emotions.’

  Ellis got up from his seat, rotated his youngest sister and led her back to bed. ‘Come on, beauty queen.’

  Martha sat blank faced at the table and stared straight ahead of her until the footsteps on the stairs stopped. She felt the satisfying instant crumble of her face, like a magician whipping a tablecloth from under a fully set table. She cried ugly, silent wails for several seconds and then, just as abruptly, she stopped. She sat right there, not moving, concentrating on her breathing and waiting for the puffiness to subside. By the time Ellis reappeared downstairs, she had regained full composure.

  ‘Sinead’s started listening to Dylan, I see.’

  ‘She was sitting at this table the other morning reading the lyric book of one of Robert’s old CDs for about an hour.’

  ‘We’ve lost her so.’

  Martha smiled at her son. ‘How was work?’

  ‘Grand. The till didn’t add up and there was panic for a while but I had a look over it and it was just that the coffees that came with the evening special hadn’t been put through as free.’

  Her beautiful son was too smart to be waiting tables. He should be a counsellor; she’d always thought that. But she was too tired, too grateful to him, to get into it again tonight.

  She walked Ellis to the front door and gave him the sort of hug she never gave anyone else, not even the girls. It was hard to explain this bond; he was the only child who belonged to her alone. It made her think of Robin and little Jack across the road. Was that the connection she felt to the young woman?

  ‘I love you,’ she told Ellis, holding him tight. ‘And I love having you so close now.’

  Back upstairs she heard the silent vibrations of her phone in the half-folded sheets. Six missed calls, all from Robert, and two text messages.

  Sorry. Phone was in cloakroom. Tried to call back.

  On my way home. Be there asap.

  Martha stood for a moment in the middle of their new bedroom in their new house in their new reality and let it wash over her. She closed her eyes and saw her family, as they had been that day and as they were now.

  She saw Robert frowning as he woke that morning. She saw Sinead shivering at the kitchen table. She saw Orla refusing to get out of her old bed. She heard the creak of the decking that she’d presumed was Oscar. She heard the smash of the glass. She saw Robert smiling out of the newspaper with his medal. She saw Orla’s wrists growing red. She saw Ellis standing in their old house after all the guards had left, hands on waist, trying to find a purpose. She saw the glimmer of a black watchstrap as a hand reached out for Sinead. She heard the collective male laughter. She saw Sinead paralysed with fear. She felt the sting on her own cheek. She felt herself paralysed with fear. She saw Robert smiling out of the newspaper with his medal. She saw Sinead sitting at the old kitchen table, struggling. She saw Sinead sitting at the new kitchen table, struggling. She saw Robert smiling out of the newspaper with his medal.

  And she heard Robert. She heard him outside their house now, loudly telling the taxi driver to keep the change. She felt herself reaching for an unfolded sheet, stuffing it into her mouth. She felt her vocal cords stretch as she screamed into the creases. It was the same maddening sensation as getting
a filling; all this screeching in her head that no one else could hear. When she could no longer breathe, she removed the sheet. Then, as she heard the front door open, she switched off the bedroom light.

  *** Pine Road Poker ***

  Ellen:

  I’ve discussed it with Bernie and given that she obviously has a lot going on at the minute, I’ll be taking over as coordinator of this year’s Pine Road pre-Easter street party.

  Fiona:

  YASSS KWEENNNN!!!!

  Ellen:

  Thank you, Fiona.

  T minus five weeks folks.

  Ruby:

  Shouldn’t there be a vote or something? What if someone else is interested in the job?

  Ellen:

  I don’t think anyone else is interested in the job, Ruby, so it’s simplest, and quickest, if I just take it.

  Ruby:

  That’s the kind of attitude that led to 10,000% inflation in Zimbabwe.

  Ellen:

  Are you comparing me to Mugabe?

  Fiona:

  Who’s Mugabe?

  Ellen:

  An African dictator.

  Fiona:

  Oh. That doesn’t sound very nice, Ruby.

  [is typing]

  XXX

  Ruby:

  You’re right, Fiona. I apologise.

  [is typing]

  [is typing]

  xxx

  Ellen:

  We could confirm the details at the next poker game? Rita Ann, I believe it’s your turn to host?

  Rita Ann:

  Can’t. I’m getting the bathroom done up. And I’m STILL missing my newspapers!

  Ellen:

  Weren’t you getting the bathroom done up last time it was your turn?

  Rita Ann:

  [is typing]

  [is typing]

  The other bathroom.

  Ruby:

  I’m starting to think you’re hiding dead bodies in your house, Rita Ann ...

  Ellen:

  So, we have Carmel making fondue, Ruby supplying gin and tonics, and me doing a pig on a spit.

  Fiona:

  A pig on a spit, Ellen??

  Ellen:

  Oh, it’s nothing. You know me, I’ll probably just throw it together last minute on a wing and a prayer! BTW, Carmel, we were wondering could you maybe do a cheese-free fondue too, for Sylvie? With everything she’s been through I think she’d appreciate it.

  Anyone else?

  Edie:

  I’ll do dessert x

  Ellen:

  Okay. There will be lots of kids there so obviously no nuts, dark chocolate where possible and minimal sugar.

  Fiona:

  I can make an alcohol-free punch! XXX

  Ellen:

  Perfect.

  Ruby:

  What’s the point of that???

  Fiona:

  We should ask if Shay Morrissey might use his parking blockages for good and help us cordon off the road for the day.

  I can also provide music.

  Ruby:

  Just make sure it’s sound-free ...

  Ellen:

  Nobody finds you humorous, Ruby.

  That would be great, Fiona. Thanks. Remember to keep the music child-appropriate. No rap-rap.

  Edie:

  Will I mention it to the new neighbours?

  Ellen:

  Number 8? I’m not sure they’d be interested.

  Fiona:

  Oh do! I haven’t met them properly yet.

  SEVENTEEN

  On Friday afternoon, for the first time in the twenty-seven years she’d worked at Saint Ornatín’s, Trish took a taxi the 700 metres home from work. It was after six when she was finally done – nothing like a media frenzy and a courtesy visit from the guards to add an extra two hours to your day – and even then, she didn’t want to chance bumping into a parent.

  After word of the list got out, there had been a few pieces about it in the papers and on telly. The Daily Mail was considering an ‘Are Our Schools Safe?’ campaign and the Sun had nicknamed the school ‘Saint Horny Teens’. Bernie Watters-Reilly had never been one to refuse a call from a journalist but now she had a personal connection to a story, her stock had rocketed. The story was petering out by the end of the first week, but then Sinead Costello appeared on that bloody stupid radio programme and it had started up again, only worse. The list had gone viral and several of the girls on it had been forced to shut down their social media accounts because of harassment. Three of the girls had lawyers for parents and, while they’d yet to say anything, Trish had a bad feeling about it. At least two Sunday newspaper columnists had written about how hearing Sinead’s voice had humanised the story and awoken them from their apathy.

  Trish wished to God they’d all go back to sleep.

  She used her mobile phone to virtually hail a taxi and waited inside the school doors until it pulled up right at the entrance, then she scurried out.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ asked the heavyset lad in the front seat, reversing the car on the gravel and turning the volume of the radio down slightly.

  ‘Pine Road, please.’

  The man looked at Trish in his rear-view mirror. ‘Pine Road? As in, Pine Road just around the corner?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one.’

  The man said something under his breath and turned the radio back up. Eventually, reluctantly, the car moved.

  Trish fell back against the leather of the headrest and tried to do a minute of breathing exercises. The most important thing with mindfulness was to keep it up, no matter what else was going on. The taxi driver, however, had other ideas. He was determined to make Trish pay for this journey, one way or another. ‘That’s your place,’ he barked at the mirror.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘That’s Saint Ornatín’s they’re talking about. They’ve been on about it all day. A national disgrace. Are the culprits going to be expelled or what?’

  Trish glanced down at the radio – a local station – and heard her name.

  ‘. . . a Mrs Walsh who has yet to make a public statement although she is understood to have spoken to the parents of the girls involved. We need accountability. We need action. Where is the school board on this? Where is the Department of Education? Indeed, where is the minister?’

  The minister is up my arse, thought Trish grimly. He’s been living there since last week.

  ‘We did ask the minister if he would come on and speak to us but the offer was declined.’

  ‘Could you turn that off please?’

  ‘I’ve two nieces,’ said the driver, ignoring her request. ‘If it was up to me, I’d get the lads who wrote it and I’d cut off their mickeys.’ He eyeballed Trish in the mirror. ‘Is it up to you?’

  ‘I can’t discuss that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’d do it for free.’ She wished he’d keep his eyes on the road. ‘No questions asked.’

  The car approached Island Stores. ‘Just up the top, please.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ the driver harrumphed. ‘You couldn’t swing a cat on this road with all the cars, never mind do a U-turn. So, if your ladyship could stomach a thirty-second walk . . .’

  Trish glanced up the road and considered all the possible landmines between here and her house: an in-person demand for an update she didn’t have from Bernie Watters-Reilly; an unexpected meeting with Sinead Costello’s mother, or father, or indeed Sinead herself. The girl was camped outside Trish’s office during every lunch break and free period, badgering her secretary and reading out extracts from the Human Rights Charter and the Freedom of Information Act. Then there were the other Saint Ornatín’s parents living on Pine Road, not to mention the neighbours with no vested interest other than the acquisition of good gossip.

  Trish handed over the exact change, gathered her things and, stepping out of the car, slammed the door shut. She hurried up the road, looking nowhere but right in front of her. She felt like a character from one of Laura’s old computer game
s, jumping from rock to rock, avoiding the cracks and the monsters that might emerge from the shadows. She opened her garden gate, winced at the creak, and made it to her front step. She was rummaging rapidly in her pockets – why hadn’t she gotten the key ready in the taxi? – when she heard her name.

  Busted.

  Trish turned from her door to the right, in the direction of the female voice, to see Edie Rice, the smiley young woman who’d moved into number nineteen last year. As landmines went, it wasn’t the worst.

  Edie had been on her way into her own garden, wearing her uniform – was she a receptionist, Trish tried to recall, at some hotel in town? – under a pink faux-fur coat and a multicoloured fluffy scarf. She stopped at the gate and Trish waved across at her. ‘Oh hi, Edie. How are you?’

  ‘Good, thank you. I was just moving the car. No space earlier, had to park it on Oak.’

  The girl had eyes like a deer. Talking to her was like shining a flashlight in them.

  ‘It’s a nightmare,’ agreed Trish, turning back to her door. Just as her hand hit upon the keyring in her coat pocket, she heard the clackity-clack of heels growing closer. She plastered on a smile and turned back.

  ‘I just wanted to say’ – clack, clack, closer clack – ‘I hope our cat hasn’t been bothering you? I’ve called her a couple of times and she always seems to come from the direction of your garden. Sorry about that. My brother-in-law’s dog has been staying with us on and off and she gets spooked when he’s about.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ called Trish. ‘Emily loves playing with her. And it’s good for keeping the rats away.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why we haven’t had any,’ said Edie, then added quickly: ‘Though we did put down the poison.’

  ‘Oh right, great,’ said Trish, physically taking the key from her pocket now and holding the Credit Union keyring up in Edie’s direction. ‘I actually have a bit more work to do . . .’

  ‘Oh grand, right, don’t let me keep you.’ There was a pause but no sound of footsteps leaving. ‘I hope you’re doing okay with all the hassle at the school. It can’t be easy.’

  ‘I’m coping. Thanks.’

  ‘Well, if you feel like a glass of wine, I’m having a couple of women over this evening – just a couple, Carmel and Robin, like, not Bernie or anyone like that. Not that there’s anything wrong with Bernie, of course,’ hurried Edie, ‘but just if you were looking to avoid all that . . .’