Tell the Truth

by Amanda Brittany

  She went to head across the kitchen, and Laura grabbed her arm. ‘Think of the kids, Imogen. What if something awful happens to them? You would never forgive yourself. I would never forgive myself.’

  Imogen snatched her arm back, and the look she gave Laura was long and unsettling. ‘I am thinking of them,’ she snapped. ‘Dillon!’ she yelled, and he was there within moments, Caitlin in his arms, Bridie by his side. ‘We’re leaving!’

  As they made their way to the door, Caitlin smiled sweetly at Laura, as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

  Laura’s mind twisted and turned as she stood at the window, watching them disappear into the woods. Dillon with his usual stick, twirling it in his hands, hurling it high and catching it like a majorette, Imogen carrying Caitlin, taking brisk, sharp steps, Bridie struggling to keep up on her three-year-old legs.

  Why wouldn’t Imogen tell the Guards about Tierney? Had he got some sort of hold over her?

  Rachel let out a yell from upstairs. Laura turned from the window, and blocking her ears with her hands, fell into the armchair. But the child’s cries seeped in, along with a surge of guilt. She rose and headed up the stairs.

  She lifted Rachel from her cot. She would never be cruel to the child, but even now, after all these months, holding her in her arms she felt nothing but painful loneliness. Jude would have finished his degree by now, and would be getting on with his life without them. It was so unfair. Rachel was his daughter too.

  Downstairs, she turned off children’s TV – Rachel wouldn’t be interested – and slid her daughter into her highchair. She gave her a mug of juice, which the child gulped down, and bread fingers coated with Marmite.

  Rachel rarely smiled, and wasn’t walking yet. She made noises, but hadn’t said her first word, not even ‘mama’. But Imogen had told her not to worry, that babies developed at different rates. She was only a year old, after all.

  As Rachel squashed the bread into her mouth with damp chubby fingers, Laura smiled and said, ‘Is that nice, darling?’ But her daughter’s eyes seemed lifeless, somehow. Did she know her mother struggled to love her? That her father had abandoned her when she was the size of a peanut?

  A knock at the front door startled Laura. She rarely had visitors, and was tempted to bob out of sight.

  But whoever it was knocked again, more urgently.

  From the kitchen window she saw a smartly dressed man, in a knee-length turquoise mac, stepping from foot to foot. He turned and smiled at her. She had no choice but to open the door.

  Close up he looked to be in his thirties, with a round, pale face, and bloodshot eyes. He smiled once more, and dragged his fingers through his short, light ginger hair. ‘Laura Hogan?’

  ‘Yes.’ She poked her head outside, and glanced up and down the quiet road. A Ford Cortina was bumped up on the grass verge opposite. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m Marcus McCutcheon.’ She knew the name instantly. Why was he here, standing on her doorstep? Her parents’ accident was over a year ago. ‘I can tell you know who I am.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and I’m so sorry.’

  ‘May I come in?’ he asked.

  The thought of him stepping inside didn’t feel right. Although he seemed pleasant enough, she didn’t know this man – this man whose life had been ruined by her parents.

  ‘I’m just on my way out, actually,’ she said, which was far from the truth. She rarely went out.

  ‘OK, not to worry,’ he said, turning to leave.

  ‘What do you want?’ she called after him, before he could cross the road.

  He turned back and shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ Another shrug. ‘Closure, I suppose. It would be easier if your parents were alive; there would be something to focus on.’

  ‘Focus on?’

  ‘Yolanda’s at school now, and I often imagine my wife looking down from the heavens, wondering how her daughter’s life can be moving on without her. They were so close. But they forget at that age, don’t they? Forget those early years.’

  His eyes were swimming with tears, and he looked so helpless, her heart went out to him. ‘Come in for a bit,’ she said. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’

  He stood behind her, too close, as she spooned coffee into mugs. ‘My daughter doesn’t need me quite as much these days,’ he said. ‘I guess she’ll need me less and less, as time goes by. I seem to be flapping aimlessly, looking for something to make everything right again.’

  Once they had two steaming mugs in front of them on the kitchen table, Marcus told Laura what she already knew. That the bend locals called Devil’s Corner was notorious for accidents. ‘My wife hated that bend,’ he said, blowing on his coffee. ‘But, like a fool, I told her she was silly to worry, that if she drove sensibly, which she always did, she would be fine.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Laura repeated, as the stranger continued going into the details of how he found out, how the first months were too painful, and how he kept going for Yolanda’s sake. When he was done he breathlessly slammed his head into his hands and wept.

  Laura pulled tissues from a box and handed them to him, and eventually he calmed down, his eyes skittering around the kitchen as he dabbed his eyes and cheeks. ‘Was this their house?’ he asked.

  ‘It was. Yes.’

  ‘They must have had money.’ Was this what he wanted? Money?

  She was reluctant to answer.

  ‘It’s OK, Laura; I’m not after your money. In fact, I’m not sure what it is I want – need – other than someone to pay for what your parents did.’

  ‘You can’t blame me, surely.’

  His red eyes and wet cheeks made him look vulnerable. ‘No, I don’t blame you. You’re a victim too, I guess. Were you close?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, not really.’

  ‘A blessing then?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Not so much pain when they died?’

  She wasn’t sure how to answer. It had been the most painful time in her life. Losing parents she had hoped one day would love her – and the realisation that now they never would. And she’d lost Jude too – her precious Jude – the same week.

  Throughout their talk, Rachel had silently tucked into her bread, studying Marcus McCutcheon, but now she let out a cry. Laura rose and lifted her from her highchair, and propped her on her hip, swaying and humming in an attempt to calm the child. She didn’t sit back down, hoping Marcus would take the hint and leave. What could she possibly offer him? She hadn’t been driving the car that killed his wife.

  ‘I remember when Yolanda was that small,’ he said, draining his mug.

  ‘They’re hard work,’ Laura said, unable to think of anything else to say.

  ‘Jacqueline never thought so.’ He got up, and put on his coat. ‘She was a great mother.’

  ‘She sounds pretty much perfect.’ Oh God, do I sound sarcastic? She hadn’t meant to.

  But his reaction was soft and thoughtful, as he moved towards the door, and opened it. ‘Yes, yes she was,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’

  The slam of the door behind him jolted Rachel into another fit of tears, and she began hitting Laura’s face over and over. If she’d been any bigger it would have hurt.

  ‘Calm down, Rachel,’ Laura said, wrestling with the child. ‘For God’s sake, calm down.’

  Chapter 17

  February 2018

  ‘Chinese delivery!’ Zoe laughed, and lifted two paper carrier bags into the air, before stepping into my house.

  ‘I’m so sorry to mess you about,’ I said, following her into the kitchen, where she plonked the food on the breakfast bar. ‘I’d have loved to go out but …’

  ‘You’re too lazy.’

  I laughed. ‘I wish that was the reason.’ I hadn’t explained in my earlier text why I’d cancelled our meal at the Red Dragon. It had been too hard to explain in a short message.

  We grabbed plates and cutlery, and served ourselves.

  ‘So why
couldn’t you meet at the restaurant?’ Zoe asked, shoving a prawn cracker into her mouth and crunching down on it. ‘Grace isn’t ill, is she?’

  I shook my head, as I scooped prawn chow mein onto my plate. The food smelt delicious, but, quite unlike me, I wasn’t hungry. ‘The thing is,’ I began, ‘Lawrence doesn’t want Angela to look after Grace any more.’

  ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘It’s not important,’ I said. Zoe had never met Angela, but I still didn’t want to talk about her behind her back. ‘It’s made things difficult, that’s all. I had to postpone two clients this morning, because Grace’s nursery school had another snow day.’

  ‘Jeez, Lawrence can be a right bastard at times.’

  We finished filling our plates and moved to the table, and sat down.

  ‘Listen, Rach,’ she said, waving a fork in my general direction. ‘I don’t know Angela, but you rate her, don’t you?’

  I nodded. ‘I think so.’ But what if Lawrence is right?

  ‘And Grace likes her?’

  I moved the food around my plate, not meeting her eye. ‘Seems to.’

  ‘So who cares what Lawrence thinks?’

  I wondered what she would say if she thought Angela could be an alcoholic. And the trouble was, the niggling doubts were in my head now, and I couldn’t shake them free.

  ‘More importantly, are you OK?’ Zoe asked, pausing from eating and placing her hand over mine. ‘I still can’t believe some idiot called and said your mum had died. It’s sick, that’s what it is.’

  ‘I know. And although I’m relieved my mum’s OK, I still feel unnerved, especially after everything else that’s happened.’

  She removed her hand. ‘Anyone would be, Rach.’

  ‘I keep wondering if I should call the police.’

  ‘Good idea, although I don’t suppose there’s much they can do. I read somewhere you should keep a journal of everything that’s happening – that’s probably what they’ll tell you to do. That way, if it gets any worse …’

  ‘Christ, I hope it doesn’t.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t, but perhaps you could change your phone number,’ she said, shovelling in a mouthful of rice, and chewing.

  I shrugged, and laid my cutlery neatly on my plate.

  ‘Not hungry?’ She leaned over, speared one of my chicken balls. and nibbled on it. I wondered if she could really see how much everything was getting to me.

  I pushed my plate away from me. ‘I’ll have it for breakfast,’ I said with a smile.

  Once Zoe had eaten and we’d cleared away, we settled in the lounge, our legs curled under us, steaming mugs of coffee on the coffee table in front of us.

  ‘Lawrence is taking Grace to Disneyland next week for half-term,’ I said, attempting to sound happy about it.

  ‘Wow! Lucky Grace.’

  ‘I know. I’m pleased for her. I thought I might take the opportunity to go away too. A change of scenery and all that.’

  ‘It might do you good.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Maybe I could take some time off and come with you,’ she said. ‘Let me know if you fancy that.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘But I know how busy you are in the salon. Anyway, how’s things with Connor?’ I said, in an attempt to change the subject. I’d already made up my mind I would go alone, and where I would be heading.

  She’d dropped me home after the spa on Friday, and gone on to a nightclub where she’d planned to meet him.

  ‘Yeah, going well, I guess. I still miss Hank – well, the non-drugged-up Hank.’

  ‘It must be hard for you, but you’re doing the right thing.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ She lowered her head.

  ‘And Connor’s pretty cute. You said so yourself.’

  ‘And keen.’ She smiled, but I knew she wasn’t fully over Hank and still hoped one day he would tackle his addiction.

  ‘Last night Connor and I went to the spa after hours,’ she said, as though she’d popped any thought of Hank like a balloon. ‘He’s got a set of keys, and we went for a swim. And one thing led to another …’ She grinned. It would have been my idea of torture.

  ‘It was exciting,’ she went on. ‘I tried not to think about the room once being a morgue – the spectres of inmates staring at us.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts,’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘I’m seeing him tomorrow too. What can I say? I’m a sucker for an Irish accent.’

  A silence fell, but I didn’t want the evening to end – to be alone. ‘I was wondering if I could make an appointment at your salon,’ I said, grabbing a bunch of my hair, and forcing a smile. ‘I need a decent cut and colour.’

  ‘I thought your hairdresser came here,’ she said. ‘And you use a boxed dye, don’t you? Which always looks amazing.’

  ‘Normally, but my hairdresser is having a baby, and …’

  ‘Sadly we’re fully booked up for the next month, hon.’ She leaned over and raked her fingers through my hair. ‘But I could cut it for you now, if you like.’ She looked at the time on her phone. ‘It will only take twenty minutes. I’ll have you looking like a pixie before you know it.’

  ‘OK, great,’ I said, energised. ‘And I’ll pick up my usual dye tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah, small problem.’ She pulled a face. ‘I haven’t got my scissors. Tend not to carry them about with me unless I’m planning to commit murder.’

  I laughed and jumped to my feet. ‘I’ve got a pair.’ I’d bought them to trim Grace’s fringe, but only used them once. I hadn’t realised how hard it was to get a child’s fringe straight.

  ‘Brilliant,’ she said rising too. ‘Let’s do this.’

  ***

  Zoe snipped away at my hair, as I sat on a stool in the kitchen, a towel around my shoulders. She moved round to the front. ‘What happened here?’ she said, lifting my fringe.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The scar on your forehead?’

  ‘Oh, my ancient war wound,’ I said with a smile. ‘I fell as child, although I can’t remember the traumatic event.’ I laughed. ‘That’s the second reason I have a fringe.’

  ‘What’s the first?’

  ‘Have you seen my eyebrows?’

  She laughed. ‘Well, you’ve definitely got a bit of a Harry Potter thing going on.’

  ‘Hardly,’ I said. ‘It’s only tiny.’

  ‘Obliviate,’ she said, pointing her scissors at it, before moving round to continue snipping the back of my hair.

  ‘You do know you’ve just wiped my memory,’ I said.

  She burst out laughing and I jerked backwards.

  ‘Crap’ I cried, as pain seared through me. I slapped my hand on my neck, feeling blood wet on my fingers.

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ she said, grabbing a tea towel, and pressing it against my flesh. I prayed the cut wasn’t as bad as it felt.

  ‘My fault,’ I said, tears stinging my eyes, ‘I shouldn’t have moved.’

  Zoe removed the tea towel. ‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘It’s only a tiny nick. You won’t need stitches. Where do you keep your plasters?’

  I hurried into the lounge. I needed to see the cut for myself. But once I’d grabbed a hand mirror, and looked at the reflection of my neck in the mirror on the wall, I knew it wasn’t too bad.

  Back in the kitchen, I rummaged in the cupboard and found a plaster.

  ‘Thank goodness I didn’t cut into a vein,’ Zoe said, sounding devastated. ‘I can’t believe I was so unprofessional. So stupid.’

  ‘Please don’t worry,’ I said, sticking on the plaster. ‘It was honestly my fault. I moved back with a jolt.’

  I sat down, and once she’d finished cutting my hair, she trotted round to face me and, moving closer, flicked my hair with her fingers and smiled. ‘You look gorgeous,’ she said.

  ‘Ooh, I thought you were about to kiss me then,’ I said, and burst out laughing.

  She laughed too. ‘I did kiss a woman once. But you’re really no
t my type.’

  ‘Well, I’m offended now,’ I joked, rising and heading into the lounge to look in the mirror once more. ‘It’s great,’ I called through. ‘Thanks so much, it’s exactly how I like it. I’ll dye it tomorrow.’

  ***

  ‘Thanks again,’ I said later, dragging my fingers through my hair, as Zoe pulled on her coat. ‘I feel so much better.’ It was as though I had my identity back – the first step to sorting my life out.

  She opened the front door and headed out into the freezing night. ‘We must get together again soon,’ she said, kissing my cheek. ‘Maybe we could go to the spa again sometime.’

  I followed her down the path in my slippers, and stood at the gate until she’d pulled away in her car. Arms wrapped around me to ward off the cold, I turned and scurried back down my path, spotting Angela at her front door with a man. I smiled, hoping she’d finally found the one, but quickly realised his voice was raised.

  ‘Stop sending things,’ he was saying. ‘This has been going on too long. Just stop. Please. Or God help me, I’ll take out a restraining order.’ He shoved a carrier bag into her hands, and stormed down the path, and away down the road. She looked over at me briefly, closed her eyes as though sapped of all her strength, and then closed her door.

  The street was quiet – curtains drawn at the windows of the terraced houses opposite, a marmalade glow radiating from behind them. It hadn’t snowed any more, but the cold tingled my fingers.

  ‘Rachel Hogan?’ The voice was male and came from the opposite side of the road. Someone was standing at the entrance of an alleyway that led to the station – towards Lawrence’s house.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, knowing I should go straight inside. I narrowed my eyes, trying to make out the man, but it was too dark to see his features.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ he called, and I felt sure I knew his voice. A feeling of unease washed over me.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ he yelled, and raced across the road with long determined strides, his hood up and head down. ‘Can’t you see what’s happening? Why it’s happening?’