The Book of Tomorrow

by Cecelia Ahern

  ‘We shouldn’t have let you find out this way,’ Mum said, her voice trembling.

  ‘Well, neither of you had the guts to do what Rosaleen did. She told me.’ I pushed Mum’s hand away and turned my face away from her. ‘She told me some ridiculous story about Dad arriving here with Granddad, wanting to buy the place to develop it into a spa. She said he met Mum, and he met me.’ I looked at Mum then, waiting for her to tell me it was all lies.

  She was silent.

  ‘Tell me it’s not true.’ My eyes filled up and my voice trembled. I was trying to be strong but I couldn’t. It was all too much. Sister Ignatius blessed herself. I could tell she was shaken.

  ‘Tell me he’s my dad.’

  Mum started to cry and then stopped again, took a deep breath and found strength from somewhere. When she spoke her voice was firm and deeper. ‘Okay listen to me, Tamara. You have to believe that we didn’t tell you this because we believed it was the right thing to do all those years ago, and George…’ she wavered, ‘George loved you so much, with all of his heart, just like you were his own…’

  I yelped at that, couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  ‘He didn’t want me to tell you. We fought about it all the time. But it’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.’ Tears gushed down her cheeks and though I wanted to feel nothing, to stare her down and show her how she’d hurt me, I couldn’t. I couldn’t feel nothing. My world had shifted so viciously, I was spinning out of orbit.

  Sister Ignatius stood up and placed a hand on Mum’s head as she ferociously tried to stop her tears, wipe her cheeks and comfort me instead. I couldn’t look at Mum so my eyes followed Sister Ignatius as she then crossed to the other side of the room. She opened a cupboard and brought something back over to me.

  ‘Here. I’ve been trying to give this to you for some time now,’ she said, her eyes filled. It was a wrapped present.

  ‘Sister, I’m really not in the mood for birthday presents right now, what with my Mum telling me she’s lied to me my whole entire life,’ I spoke with venom and Mum pursed her lips and her forehead creased. She nodded slowly, accepting whatever it was I threw at her. I wanted to shout at her more then. I wanted to use that opportunity to say all the bad things in the world that I’ve ever felt about her, just like I used to do when fighting with Dad but I stopped myself. Consequences. Repercussions. The diary had taught me that.

  ‘Open it,’ Sister Ignatius said sternly.

  I ripped off the paper. It was a box. Inside the box was a rolled-up scroll. I looked to her for answers but she was kneeled beside me, her hands clasped and her head dipped as though in prayer.

  I unrolled the scroll. It was a certificate of baptism.

  This Certificate of Baptism is to certify that Tamara Kilsaney was born on the 24th day of July, 1991, in Kilsaney Castle, County Meath and was Presented to the World with Love by Her mother, Jennifer Byrne, and her father, Laurence Kilsaney On this day 1st January 1992

  I stared at the page, reading it over and over, hoping my eyes had deceived me. I didn’t know where to begin.

  ‘Well, first things first. They got the date wrong.’ I tried to sound confident but I sounded pathetic and I knew it. This was something I couldn’t beat with sarcasm.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tamara,’ Sister Ignatius said again.

  ‘So that’s why you kept saying I was seventeen.’ I thought back over all our conversations. ‘But if this was right, then I’m eighteen today…Marcus.’ I looked up at her. ‘You were going to let him go to gaol?’

  ‘What?’ Mum looked from one to the other. ‘Who’s Marcus?’

  ‘None of your business,’ I snapped. ‘I might tell you in twenty years.’

  ‘Tamara, please,’ she pleaded.

  ‘He could have gone to gaol,’ I said angrily to Sister Ignatius.

  Sister Ignatius shook her head wildly. ‘No. I asked Rosaleen over and over to tell you. If not tell you, to tell the garda? She kept insisting he’d be fine. But I stepped forward. I told the garda, Tamara. I went to Dublin to Garda Fitzgibbon and gave him this certificate myself. There was a breaking-and-entering charge too, but bearing in mind the circumstances, it’s all been dropped.’

  ‘What’s been dropped? What happened?’ my Mum asked, looking at Sister Ignatius with concern.

  ‘God, Tamara, if you don’t know that by now, then you’ve far more problems than I thought. Listen, I wish you good luck with everything but…don’t call me again.’

  That had been our last conversation. He’d known then why the charges had been dropped. How messed up was I that I didn’t even know my own age? I had been so relieved for Marcus that my anger subsided momentarily. Then that faded and I was fuming again. My head pounding, I held my hand to my wound. They had been feeding me lies, dropping a trail of breadcrumbs in their path which I had been forced to follow in order to learn the truth for myself.

  ‘So let me get this straight. Rosaleen wasn’t lying. Laurie is my father. The freak…with the photographs?’ I shouted then. ‘Why didn’t anybody tell me? Why did everybody lie? Why did you all let me think I lost my dad?’

  ‘Oh, Tamara, George was your father. He loved you more than anything in the world. He raised you as his own. He-’

  ‘IS DEAD,’ I shouted. ‘And everybody let me think I’d lost my dad. He lied to me. You lied to me. I can’t believe this.’ I was up then, my head spinning.

  ‘Your mother thought Laurie had died, Tamara. You were only one year old. She had a chance to start a new life. George loved her, he loved you. She wanted to start again. She didn’t think you needed this hurt.’

  ‘And that makes it okay?’ I addressed Mum, even though Sister Ignatius had defended her.

  ‘No, no, I didn’t agree with it. But she deserved to be happy. She was so broken when Laurie died.’

  ‘But he’s not dead,’ I shouted then. ‘He’s living in the bungalow, eating sandwiches and apple pie every bloody day. Rosaleen knew he was alive.’

  Mum broke down at that and Sister Ignatius held her tightly in her arms, her face revealing her heartbreak. I stopped then, realising that it wasn’t just me that was lied to. Mum had just found out the man she loved hadn’t died after all. What kind of a sick joke had they all been playing?

  ‘Mum, I’m sorry,’ I said softly.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ she sniffed, ‘maybe I deserve it. For doing this to you.’

  ‘No. No, you don’t deserve this. But he doesn’t deserve you either. What kind of sicko must he be to pretend to be dead?’

  ‘He was trying to protect her, I suppose,’ Sister Ignatius said. ‘He was trying to give the both of you a better life, one that he couldn’t give you.’

  ‘Arthur said he was badly disfigured?’ Mum looked at me then. ‘What…what does he look like? Was he kind to you?’

  ‘Arthur?’ I snapped to attention again. ‘Arthur Kilsaney? He’s Laurie’s brother?’

  Mum nodded and another tear fell.

  ‘It’s just one thing after another with you all,’ I said, but not as angrily this time. I hadn’t the energy.

  ‘He didn’t want to go along with it,’ she said, drained now too. ‘Now it makes sense to me why he was so against it. He said he wanted to always be your uncle. We never said he was my brother. Not until you just assumed it and then…’ she waved her hand, sensing the ridiculousness of it all.

  Weseley arrived in the room then. ‘Okay the garda?are on their way. Are you all right?’ He looked at me. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘No, no, he didn’t.’ I rubbed my eyes. ‘He saved me from Rosaleen.’

  ‘But I thought he…’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head.

  ‘I locked him in his bedroom,’ Weseley said guiltily, producing the room key from his pocket. ‘I thought he was trying to hurt you.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ My main anger passed then. I felt sorry for him. He had been defending me. He had been reaching out to me giving me gifts. He’d remembered my birthd
ay. My eighteenth birthday. Of course he had. And how had I thanked him? I’d locked him away.

  ‘Where’s Arthur?’ Sister Ignatius asked.

  ‘He’s gone to the bungalow, to Rosaleen.’

  And then I remembered. The diary. ‘No!’ I scrambled to get up again.

  ‘Honey you should relax,’ Mum said trying to coax me back down again, but I jumped up.

  ‘He needs to get away from there,’ I panicked. ‘What have I been doing here all this time? Weseley, call the fire brigade, quick.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Honey, just relax now,’ Mum said, worried. ‘Lie down and-’

  ‘No, listen to me. Weseley, it’s in the diary. I have to stop it. Call the fire brigade.’

  ‘Tamara, it’s just a book, it’s only-’

  ‘Been right every single day until now,’ I responded.

  He nodded.

  ‘What’s that?’ Mum suddenly asked, walking to the window.

  Over the tree tops in the distance, plumes of smoke were drifting up into the sky.

  ‘Rosaleen,’ Sister said then with such venom, that it chilled me. ‘Call the fire brigade,’ she said to Weseley.

  ‘Give me the key,’ I said, grabbing it from Weseley and running from the room. ‘I have to get him. I’m not losing him again.’

  I heard them all calling to me as I ran, but I didn’t stop, I didn’t listen. I ran through the trees and followed the smell, ran straight towards the bungalow. I had just lost the father who’d raised me. I wasn’t about to lose another.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Dreams About Dead People

  When I reached the bungalow there was a squad car parked outside. I could see Rosaleen standing on the grass alongside her mother. Talking to her was a rather impatient garda, who kept asking her over and over if anybody was inside. Rosaleen was wailing, hands covering her face, and looking back at the house as though she couldn’t decide. Beside the garda was Arthur, who was barking at Rosaleen, shaking her by the shoulders and trying to get her to answer.

  ‘He’s in the workshed!’ she finally shrieked.

  ‘He’s not, I looked!’ Arthur yelled.

  ‘He has to be!’ she shrieked. ‘He has to be. He always locked his bedroom door when he went to the workshed.’

  ‘Who?’ the garda was saying over and over again. ‘Who’s in the house?’

  ‘He’s not there.’ Arthur’s voice was hoarse. ‘My God, woman, what have you done?’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Rosaleen was shrieking over and over again. Her mother was softly crying.

  Sirens were wailing in the distance.

  I ignored them all. I ran past them unnoticed, down the side passage and in through the back door of the bungalow. Smoke was everywhere, filling the halls, so black and thick that as soon as I inhaled it I was choked. It sent me to my knees, retching and gasping, stinging my eyes so badly I rubbed them over and over but it only made them worse. I placed my cardigan across my face. I had soaked it in cold water from the outside tap and put it across my mouth and nose to help me breathe. Peering out from one eye, I felt my way along the wall. The plastic beneath my feet was dangerously hot and sticky, so that the rubber in my trainers was sticking to it. I kept to the sides of the hallway, where it was tiled. I felt my way along the wall to his bedroom door. When I placed my hand on the metal door handle it burned me so badly I let go and cowered over, cradling my hand, coughing, eyes stinging, retching, hand burning. The open door at the end of the hall relieved the hallway at least of some smoke and I knew it wasn’t far. I could always run out the door.

  I shoved the key in the door, hoping the whole thing hadn’t melted, and I turned it. Stepping back, I used my foot to push down the handle and the door swung open. More smoke followed me in and I pushed the door closed. The corners of the photographs were curling with the heat. I couldn’t see any fire, just smoke, thick black heavy smoke that hurt my lungs. I tried to call out but couldn’t, just kept coughing over and over, hoping he’d hear me, that he’d know I was there.

  I felt my way along the bed, felt his body, felt his face. His beautifully scarred face, ruined just like the castle, which carried such a story I was drawn to it and not repelled. His eyes were closed; I could feel his eyelids. I shook him, moved my hands all over his body to try to wake him. Nothing. He was unconcious. Behind me I felt intense heat, felt fire. It would quickly close in on me, in this room of photographs. I pulled at the net curtains, bringing a little light into the grey smoky room. I felt around to try to open the windows. They were locked. There weren’t any keys. I picked up a chair, threw it at the window over and over to smash it, but I couldn’t. I tried to pull at him, but he was too heavy. I tried to get him to his feet. I was getting tired, running out of energy, feeling dizzy. I lay down beside him, trying to wake him. I held his hand, the two of us huddled together on the bed. I wasn’t going to leave him.

  Suddenly I dreamed of the castle, of a banquet with a long table filled with pheasant and pig, everything dripping with grease and sauces, wine and champagne, the most delicious duck and vegetables. Then I was with Sister Ignatius and she was shouting at me to push, but I didn’t know what to push. I couldn’t see her but I could hear her. Then the darkness faded and the room was filled with such wonderful light, and I was in Sister Ignatius’ arms. Then I was in the field of glass, running, running, with Rosaleen hot on my heels. I was holding Weseley’s hand just like before only it wasn’t Weseley, it was Laurie. Not as I knew him from today but as I first saw him in the photographs, handsome, young, mischievous. He was turning round and smiling at me, his perfect white teeth opening and closing as he laughed, and I realised then how alike we were, how I’d always wondered why I didn’t look like Mum or Dad, and now it all made perfect sense. His nose, his lips, his cheeks and eyes-all were like mine. He was holding my hand and telling me we were going to be okay. We were running together, laughing and smiling, not worried at all about Rosaleen because she couldn’t catch us. Together we could outrun the world. Then I saw my father, at the end of the field, clapping and cheering us on as though I was a child again, at the community races in the rugby club. Laurie was gone and it was me and Mum for a moment, legs tied together in the three-legged race, just like we used to do when I was young. She was anxious-looking, not laughing but worried, and then she left and Laurie was back. We were running, tripping up, and there my dad was, laughing and cheering, beckoning us forth, arms open and ready to catch us when we fell across the line.

  Then the glass mobiles in the field exploded all around us, shattered into millions of pieces and I lost Laurie’s hand. I heard Dad scream my name and I opened my eyes. The room was filled with glass, it was all over our bodies, all over the ground and the smoke was pluming out through the window. I saw a claw, a giant yellow claw, disappear through the glass and the smoke drifted out. But it didn’t stop the fire. It ravaged the photographs, racing through them with such speed and ferocity it was eating away at everything around us and leaving us until last. We would be next. Then I saw Arthur. I saw Sister Ignatius. I saw my mother’s face, alive, present, terrified. She was outside, moving, talking and, despite her alarm, I was relieved. Then there were arms around me and I was outside, coughing, spluttering. I couldn’t breathe, I was on the grass. Before I closed my eyes I saw my mother, felt her kissing my head, then saw her embracing Laurie, crying and crying, her tears falling onto his head as if they alone could put out the fire between them.

  For the first time since I’d found my father on the floor of his office, I exhaled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Little Girl

  Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived in a bungalow. She was the youngest child, with an intelligent older sister, and cute older brother so handsome that he turned heads in the street, invited conversations with strangers. The little girl was what some people would call a surprise baby. To her parents, who had long finished having children, she was not just unplanned but unwanted and
that she knew well. At forty-seven years old and twenty-two years since she’d had her last baby, her mother was not prepared for the arrival of another child. Her children had grown up and moved away, her daughter Helen to Cork to be a primary school teacher and her son Brian to Boston, where he was a computer analyst. They rarely came home. It was too expensive for Brian, and her mother preferred to go to Cork for holidays. The little girl didn’t know these two strangers she rarely met and who called themselves her brother and sister. They had children older than she; they knew little of who she was or what she wanted. She’d arrived too late, she’d missed the bonding that they had all had together.

  Her father was the gillie at Kilsaney Castle grounds, which was across the road from her home. Her mother was the cook. The little girl loved the position her family were in, so close to such grandeur that the children at school considered her to be a part of it too. She loved that they were privy to bits of gossip that nobody else was. They were always the benefactors of great Christmas bonuses, leftover food, fabrics or wallpapers from recent refurbishings or clear-outs. The grounds were strictly private but the little girl was allowed to play inside its walls. It was an absolute honour for her and there was nothing she wouldn’t do to please the family, such as odd jobs around the house, running from her father Joe to the groundsman, Paddy, with messages from her mother on what to catch that day, what vegetables to choose for dinner.

  She loved the days she was allowed to enter the castle. If she was off sick from school her mother couldn’t very well leave her at home. They were good like that, Mr and Mrs Kilsaney. They allowed her mother to bring her child to work, knowing there was nowhere else she could possibly leave her child and there was nobody else who could take care of their three meals a day so well, feeding them so well with money that was lessening by the year. The little girl would remain quiet in the corner of the great big kitchen where she’d watch her mother sweat all day over steaming pots and a roaring Aga. She would be quiet, never giving any trouble, but she’d take it all in. She’d take in her mother’s cooking but also she absorbed the goings-on in the house.