Tell the Truth

by Amanda Brittany

  Laura looked again at Rachel, and knowing her daughter would only stop crying when she was ready, she picked up her paintbrush once more and attempted lose herself in the view – to enter the picture, and block out the world around her. Was she being selfish?

  Rachel’s cries died down and she sat for a while on the ground beside Laura, staring out at the water.

  Five minutes later, Laura heard a splash – felt the spray of water on her legs. Her first thought was that her daughter had fallen in. She jumped to her feet, the glare of the sun making it impossible to see, as she raced to the lake edge, where Rachel came into focus, gazing down at the water.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  The cat meowed and thrashed in the water, trying to stay afloat, his fur soaked to his body. Laura dropped to her knees and fished him out.

  ‘Dead cat?’ Rachel said.

  Laura wrapped the bedraggled feline in her cardigan, and held him to her chest, hearing the rapid beat of his heart.

  ‘Rachel, what happened?’ she yelled. ‘Did you push him in? Did you push him? What the hell is the matter with you?’

  ‘She’s a troubled girl. You need to get your life in order, Laura.’

  Laura turned to see Imogen standing nearby, Caitlin in her arms, and Bridie by her side. She’d clearly returned for her daughter. Laura felt a thundering anger racing through her blood. She was upset. Scared for the cat’s life. ‘People in glass houses, and all that,’ she yelled, as they walked away.

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Imogen said, spinning round.

  ‘It means sort out your own problems, Imogen O’Brian, before you judge me.’

  The cat let out a pathetic mew. It would live, thank God, but Laura knew, as she observed her daughter’s blue eyes, that he couldn’t live with them any more.

  ***

  In the early hours, Laura woke from a vivid nightmare, beads of sweat on her forehead. Needing air, she grabbed her robe, swung her legs round, and shoved her feet into her slippers.

  After checking Rachel was sleeping, she slipped a torch into her pocket, and went outside.

  Fog whirled around her body as she walked towards the lake, and once there, she stood in the haze of the moon. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, and an odd shudder ran through her, the kind she felt when someone scraped their fingernails down a blackboard. She glanced over her shoulder, forming shapes out of shadows that dipped in and out of the trees and hedgerow, but still she stood, cool air fresh on her cheeks, her hair dancing in the breeze.

  After a while she sat down, and cradled her knees. She would take Rusty to the cats’ home tomorrow. Hope they would find him a good family to live with. Their promise to never put a healthy cat down boded well. Someone somewhere would love him, she felt sure of it. She knew she couldn’t keep him, and a flood of tears filled her eyes. She’d thought she was finally reaching the child – but it seemed to be one step forward and two back. Had she made Rachel the way she was? Was the damage she’d done irreversible?

  Distant voices on the lake disturbed her thoughts. She narrowed her eyes, wondering if it was anglers. She could just make out, with the help of the moonlight breaking through the fog, a rowing boat with two figures inside. Their voices were raised – a male first, then a female – but it was incoherent, muffled. She fumbled with her torch, and was about to switch it on when she heard a splash. An image erupted in her head. The cat panicking as it flailed around in the water earlier. But she knew, this time, something much heavier had hit the water.

  Chapter 27

  February 2018

  My vision blurred as a rush of tears filled my eyes. I could barely grip the steering wheel for shaking. I was driving too fast, and the blast of a car horn as I veered across the road caused my already jangled nerves to shatter. I braked hard, swerved into a lay-by, and sobbed.

  Had the visions at the farmhouse been real? Are they my memories?

  I fumbled in my bag for tissues, and my hand landed on my phone. I pulled it out, wondering whether to call Zoe, and noticed a text from Emmy:

  Hi Rachel, I wondered if I could arrange another therapy session with you. I’m OK. Just miss our chats – they tend to keep me sane. Sorry to be a pain. Emmy X

  I couldn’t face replying. In fact, was I even equipped to carry on as a psychotherapist? I would text her later, suggest meeting for coffee. I threw my phone back into my bag, deciding not to call Zoe either. I would deal with this alone – for now, at least.

  I started the engine. I would return to the bed and breakfast. Hide in the sanctuary of my room. Recharge.

  By evening, with the help of two glasses of red wine from a bottle I’d picked up from a nearby off-licence, I’d calmed down. Plus a FaceTime session with Grace had helped lift my mood. I’d been tempted to ask her about Farrah, but stopped myself. I didn’t want to put Grace in the middle of her father’s conspiracy. That’s if there was one, and I wasn’t simply his paranoid ex.

  I opened up my laptop around eight, and searched news stories for Evermore Farmhouse, but it didn’t even bring up that Felix lived there – and I assumed he’d kept his private life, private.

  It was around nine when I dozed off with the TV on, catching who had gone through on MasterChef before my eyelids grew heavy and I couldn’t fight sleep any longer.

  ***

  Hailstones hammering the window like marbles woke me the following morning. I threw back the duvet, rose, and headed for the shower – determined once more to find out about the past.

  A cooked breakfast inside me, I headed for the nearest village to Evermore Farmhouse, windscreen wipers thrashing.

  Although Devil’s Corner was a local name for the hazardous bend that had taken my grandparents’ lives, I’d managed to track it down on the Internet before I left for Ireland, and knew it wasn’t far from the village I was driving towards. Surely someone would remember my mother, or my grandparents’ accident – or, more importantly, what happened at Evermore Farmhouse.

  Once I’d reached the village, I parked at the side of the road. I dashed along the pavement, hood up, avoiding puddles, and dived into a convenience store. I could tell the teenager behind the counter was too young to recall things that must have happened almost thirty years ago, but decided to ask all the same.

  I plonked a bag of crisps and a chocolate bar on the counter.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, as she rung up the items on the till, throwing her my best smile.

  She looked up from under a green fringe. ‘Three euros. Want a bag? They’re five cents.’

  I shook my head, and handed her five euros. ‘Have you lived around here long?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Well, me. I just …’

  ‘Nope.’ She handed me my change, and shoved the items towards me with the length of her arm. ‘Came here with my parents a year ago. Sod all to do around here.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t know anything about Evermore Farmhouse?’

  ‘Where the kid died?’

  ‘A child died there?’ I felt my body tense, and my pulse flutter.

  She shrugged. ‘Apparently, yeah. Old Bob, who was a bit barking according to the residents around here, used to talk about it. He didn’t make a lot of sense though, so don’t ask me what he was on about.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  She pointed through the window. ‘You go out of here to the end of the road, and turn right.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’ I was finally getting somewhere.

  ‘He’s the second grave on the far left of the cemetery. Kicked it last June.’ She grinned. ‘He was gone ninety.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, trying to hide my annoyance. ‘Is there anyone else in the village who might have lived here thirty years ago?’

  Another shrug. ‘Some author bloke lives at the farm now, I think. To be honest, most people are new around here. Although I think Marcus McCutcheon’s been here a while.’

  McCutcheon. ‘Do you know where I might find him?’ />
  ‘Nope.’ A pause. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No. No thank you.’ I gathered up my items, and headed back into the rain, spotting a tearoom at the end of the street. Deciding I might find locals there, I slipped my phone back into my pocket, and broke off a piece of chocolate and shoved it into my mouth, chewing as I raced through the rain.

  A comforting smell of baking greeted me as I made my way towards a vacant table in the tearoom. A gorgeous original feature fireplace housed a flickering fire, and teapots of all shapes and sizes lined a high shelf, which ran the length of the room. Tables with yellow tablecloths and vases of plastic daffodils in the centre – far too much yellow – jostled for space. Music played in the background, sounding a bit like the theme from Harry Potter.

  A plump woman in her fifties with rosy cheeks smiled from behind the counter. ‘I’ll be right with you,’ she sang, blowing an escaped tendril of black hair from her forehead, as she poured boiling water into a teapot.

  I hung my wet coat over the back of the chair, sat down, and picked up a menu.

  ‘Rachel,’ came a confident male voice, carrying across the busy tearoom.

  I looked up to see Felix sitting by the bay-fronted window, his laptop open, glasses dangling from his hand. I hadn’t spotted him when I came in.

  ‘Hi there,’ I said, my cheeks suddenly hot with embarrassment that I’d stormed from his house without saying goodbye.

  His smile was wide, and seemed genuine, and I mirrored it, as I fiddled with the menu.

  ‘You disappeared quickly, yesterday. Was it something I said?’ He put his glasses on. Eyes back on his laptop screen, as though he didn’t care how I responded.

  ‘I felt ill all of a sudden. Sorry I rushed off.’

  ‘No need to apologise. I love it when strange people do odd things. It’s good fodder for my novels.’ He laughed.

  ‘Well, I’m not normally that strange,’ I said, running my fingers through my damp hair.

  The woman approached, brandishing a notebook and pen. ‘So what can I get you?’ she said.

  ‘Just a pot of tea, please.’

  ‘Can’t tempt you with a slice of carrot cake?’ There was a twinkle in her blue eyes, as she nodded towards the counter where a delicious-looking cake called to me from under a glass cover. ‘Made it myself.’

  ‘Oh, go on then,’ I said, smiling at Felix as she walked away. ‘I really shouldn’t,’ I called over to him. ‘I’ve got a huge bar of chocolate in my bag with my name on it.’

  He lifted his cup, blew on it, and took a slow sip.

  ‘So how’s the latest novel coming along?’ I continued. ‘I love Inspector Bronte.’

  He took off his glasses again, and overdid rubbing his eyes. ‘And I’m sure that has nothing to do with Bentley Ryan playing him in the TV series?’

  I laughed. The actor Bentley Ryan was gorgeous. ‘No, I read all your novels long before the TV series. I’m a stalwart fan. In fact, I’ve got a signed copy of Where are the children?’ But he’d pushed his glasses back on, and his fingers were tapping the keyboard. Our conversation was over.

  My tea and cake arrived and, as the woman emptied the goodies from the tray onto my table, I took a deep breath and asked her how long she’d lived in the village.

  ‘Me, love?’ she said, shoving the tray under her arm, and rolling her eyes upwards as though searching for the answer. ‘Must be twelve years come May. Messy divorce brought me here, but I’ve shown him I’m not just a pretty face.’ She glanced about her, admiring her teashop. ‘I opened this place ten years ago, and since then it’s gone from strength to strength.’ She glanced over her shoulder at Felix. ‘We even get famous authors in here.’

  I smiled. ‘It’s lovely,’ I said, but before I could ask anything else, she zipped away to another table, and began clearing plates.

  I poured tea, and found another surge of confidence from somewhere. ‘Excuse me,’ I called, trying to get her attention once more, desperately wanting to ask if she knew anything about Evermore Farmhouse, but while Felix was in the café it was a no-go. Instead I decided to concentrate on my grandparents’ accident. ‘I don’t suppose you know Marcus McCutcheon.’

  ‘Yes, I know Marcus,’ she said, flicking me a look as she scrubbed the table. ‘Comes in here sometimes. Loves my Victoria sponge.’

  ‘Do you know where I could find him?’

  ‘Hmm, now let me think.’ She gave her forehead a rub with her fingertips, as though it would release the information. ‘I think he lives in Truman Close – not sure what number. Mind you, he collects gnomes.’

  ‘Gnomes?’

  ‘Mmm, can’t see the attraction myself – freaky little things, if you ask me. Anyway, he’s bound to have some loitering in his front garden, so you’ll recognise his house.’

  ‘Gnomes give me the creeps too.’ I smiled. ‘Anyway, thanks so much,’ I said, as she headed away.

  I drank my tea, and ate my cake, scrutinising Felix as he typed. I hoped he would look up, and I could bombard him with questions about the farmhouse, but he was so absorbed in his words I didn’t disturb him. There would be another time. I would make sure of it.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Clarke,’ I said, once I’d slipped on my coat and opened the door – glad to see the rain had stopped. He didn’t look up.

  Chapter 28

  February 2018

  The sky was granite grey as I pulled into Truman Close, a cul-de-sac on the other side of the village, comprising eight semi-detached houses, probably built in the early Seventies.

  It was clear which house belonged to Marcus McCutcheon. The woman at the tearoom had been right about the gnomes – they edged his path as though on guard, and seemed to be watching me as I hurried towards the front door. I was being ridiculous, but there was something about gnomes that made me anxious. I felt sure they all stood statue-still when my eyes were on them, moving when I looked away.

  I reached the front door, sucked in a breath, and knocked three times.

  A small dog yapped, lunging at the frosted glass panel so hard I thought it might knock itself out. Eventually the door was opened, and through a gap of six inches, a pale, freckled face appeared. ‘Hello.’ He looked to be in his late fifties, with a receding faded-ginger hairline.

  ‘I’m looking for Marcus McCutcheon,’ I said, over the dog’s bark.

  ‘Trudy, shh,’ the man said, agitated, sharp. ‘Yes, that’s me. What do you want?’

  ‘Oh … well …’ I stuttered. ‘Hi.’ I lifted my hand in a wave, and swallowed hard before continuing. ‘The thing is my name’s Rachel Hogan. I’m James and Isabella Hogan’s granddaughter.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ He opened the door wider, and gestured for me to enter. ‘I’ve been expecting you. You’d better come in.’

  ‘You have?’ I stepped back.

  ‘Well, not today, obviously,’ he went on, straightening his cardigan. He gave a small, strange laugh. ‘But I knew you would come one day.’ He stared into my eyes. ‘People always want to know about their past, don’t they? Discover who their family were – what they were like?’

  ‘Do they?’ I stepped into the house, and he closed the door behind me. Trudy sniffed my feet and looked up at me with chocolate-brown eyes, before trotting away down the hall.

  ‘Come through,’ Marcus said.

  I followed him into his lounge, feeling wary. He was a stranger, after all, and more than a tad eccentric. Under his cardigan, he wore a crisp white polo shirt over smart, turquoise trousers. His leather slippers looked expensive.

  Patio doors stretched across the far wall, and a well-maintained garden opened up behind the glass, where yet more gnomes had taken over. Revenge of the Lawn Gnomes, a Goosebumps novel I’d read as a kid, flashed through my mind, making me shudder.

  ‘Coffee?’ Marcus asked, and I jumped.

  ‘Please.’

  He headed into the adjoining kitchen, where the dog was now curled up in a tartan basket. I turned back to the window, unable to p
ull my gaze away from those bloody gnomes. I’d never dreamt there were so many types. Some were fishing by a fishpond, others stood by the gate waving signs giving mixed messages: ‘welcome’ and ‘halt’. Under a tree, seven or eight were meditating, and vampire gnomes were perched on the branches.

  ‘Sugar?’

  I jumped again – far too anxious. ‘No, thank you.’

  Moments later he brought through mugs of coffee, and placed them on coasters on a marble coffee table. ‘Sit. Please,’ he said, dashing back to the kitchen and returning with a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits.

  I removed my damp coat, and sat down on the sofa. He took the chair.

  ‘So you’ve noticed my gnomes,’ he said. ‘Bit of an obsession of mine.’

  ‘I can see that.’ I glanced again out of the window, promising myself it would be the last time. Why did they freak me out so much? ‘If I’m honest, I’ve always had a bit of a gnome phobia.’

  He furrowed his forehead, and I knew he was put out. ‘My wife loved them.’

  ‘I’m sure lots of people do. Take no notice of me.’ I waved my hand apologetically. ‘I’m just being silly.’

  ‘We had half a dozen before the accident, and since then I buy a few each year in her memory. I bring them home and show her.’ He nodded to a framed photograph on the wall. His late wife looked about my age in the picture, with short, dark hair. She was wearing a black and white checked dress.

  ‘She had a lovely smile,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, yes she did.’ He looked at his hands, turning his wedding ring around his finger several times. ‘I realise collecting so many gnomes might seem a little strange.’

  ‘No. No, not at all,’ I lied. It had been over thirty years since his wife died, and yet, as I watched him sip his coffee, I couldn’t help feeling desperately sorry. Sorry that life had never been the same since his loss. Sorry that it seemed he’d never moved on. Sorry that my grandparents had been the reason for that.

  ‘I remember your mother,’ he said, putting down his coffee.