‘You do?’
‘Yes. Laura. Not well, but I liked her. I thought once we might … well, that never happened.’
I felt my neck tingle. The conversation felt awkward. I thought back to the newspaper cutting. ‘So you have a daughter who survived the crash,’ I said, to change the subject.
‘Yes, Yolanda. She wasn’t so keen on your mum, I’m afraid. She got it in her head that Laura might replace her mother.’ He ran his finger around the neck of his collar, a shaft of red crossing his cheeks, and I imagined for a moment him married to my mother – and me, as a child, trying to explain away my peculiar stepfather to my school friends.
‘But I told Yolanda more times than I care to remember,’ he went on, ‘that no one could ever replace her mum.’
I looked around for a photograph of his daughter, and my eyes fell on a child of about six or seven in a green school uniform, with a heavy honey-blonde fringe. There didn’t seem to be any recent photos.
‘She moved to London to study media and design, and ended up staying, as so many do. She has her own shop in Islington: “Yolanda’s Heaven”.’
‘I have a friend who owns a salon in Islington.’
‘Really?’ He raised his brows. ‘It’s a small world, isn’t it?’
‘I guess so,’ I said.
‘Yolanda’s doing well, she tells me. Says she loves her work – her life.’ He let out a sigh, and I knew he was suddenly somewhere else. ‘When she was little she wanted to be a ballerina, or an actress like Julia Roberts. I don’t see her much, but that’s my fault. I should make more of an effort. Trouble is I hate leaving this place, and Yolanda is always so busy.’ He took another swig of coffee, looking at me over the mug. ‘How is your mother?’
‘Unwell,’ I said, through a lump rising in my throat, unsure how much to tell him.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He shook his head, and a pause followed, broken only by him lifting the plate. ‘Why not have a biscuit?’ he said.
I took one and bit into it, a cascade of crumbs sprinkling my top. ‘I don’t suppose you remember where my mother used to live?’ I said, my mouth full.
‘You don’t know?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘She lived in the big house on the edge of the woods in Laurel Road, near the lake. The building looks so out of place, you can’t miss it. I’m not sure who lives there now. Your mother moved away years ago, just after the tragedy.’
‘The tragedy?’ Was he referring to the car crash?
‘Yes. Although I’ve seen your mum a few times over the years.’
‘You have?’
‘Mmm …’ The doorbell rang, and Trudy skidded across the kitchen floor and hurtled towards the door, yapping. Marcus rose, and smoothed his trousers. ‘That will be Sue. We’re off to The Jester for lunch,’ he said, and scooted off.
No, no, no, stay and tell me what tragedy – was it a child? When did you see my mother?
I stood up, desperate for him to carry on talking. But by the time I’d caught up with him in the hall, he’d opened the door and was deep in conversation with a woman in her fifties with pink-tipped hair.
He paused as I reached his side. ‘We’ll catch up another time, Rachel,’ he said.
‘But … the tragedy? I …’
‘I’m off out now,’ he cut in, assertive. ‘We’ll talk another time.’
I slipped into my coat. ‘OK … well I’ll leave you to it,’ I said. And knowing it was time to go, I pushed past them.
‘I’m sure we’ll meet again, Rachel,’ he said, raising his hand as I raced past the gnomes.
***
As soon as I saw the house where my mother once lived, I knew I’d seen it before. But however much I searched my head, that was where the memory ended.
I got out of my car and approached to see the blinds at the windows pulled down, and I sensed, even before I rang the doorbell, nobody was home. And even if they had been in, my mother sold the house nearly thirty years ago.
I walked around the back and onto a patio, and peered through the cracks in the vertical Venetians, more to provoke memories than anything else, but it was impossible to see.
I turned to take in my surroundings. The heavy rain clouds and tall trees gave it a sombre feel, and the silence, aside from the wildlife, was tangible. I imagined my mum here when I was a baby, and could almost feel the loneliness suffocating her.
An overgrown path leading to the lake pulled me towards it. I pushed my way through the hedgerow, avoiding puddles, and as I reached the water’s edge, something moved behind me. I froze for a few moments before turning to see a deer strolling away from me. I pressed my chest, feeling my heart hammering under my fingers.
The peace, now the deer had gone, was breath-taking. It was a setting I recognised from some of my mother’s paintings. In fact, the dense, dark clouds pressing down on the lake could have been brushstrokes on one of her canvases.
A sudden memory of a splash, a cat struggling to breathe, Mum rushing to pull it out of the lake.
Unexplainable tears filled my eyes, and I choked them back.
‘Rachel, what happened?’ It was my mum’s voice, and I could see her wrapping the cat in her cardigan, holding the bedraggled animal to her. ‘Did you push him in? Did you push him? What the hell is the matter with you?’
Oh God, what the hell had happened here when I was a child?
Chapter 29
September 1990
The boat glided across the lake, silhouetted by the hazy moon. One of the occupants rowed, the other was still. Laura’s heart pounded. What had she heard? Whatever hit the water was heavy – a solid mass. Were there smugglers in the area? Fishermen?
But she was pushing down her real fears. The only rowing boat she’d seen since she arrived was the one that had been moored outside Lough End Farm, and that was where the boat was heading now.
She stole a glance over her shoulder at her house. She’d locked up. Rachel was asleep. Laura wouldn’t be gone long. She tightened her robe around her, took her torch from her pocket, and flicked it on. Her slippers were hardly suitable for walking through the wood, but if she returned to change them, Rachel might wake.
The torch made little impression on the impenetrable darkness, and the moon was barely visible through the trees. The ground was dry and hard, twigs breaking under her feet. She knew the way now – the direct route. She’d been there so often, watching the children like their guardian angel – hoping they were OK.
An owl hooted, and an animal the size of a mouse darted about the undergrowth startling her. As she neared the farmhouse she heard hushed, anxious voices, and saw a flicker of torchlight. She continued until she could see and hear clearly, and crouching behind a tree, she turned off her torch.
‘I don’t like this.’ Dillon jumped from the boat, and tugged it to the edge through the liquid black water. He bent to wrap the rope around the mooring post, and Imogen climbed out and stood watching him, her arms folded.
‘It’s too late now,’ she said.
‘But what if someone finds out?’ He rose to his full height, now several inches taller than Imogen.
‘And who would that someone be? Nobody’s interested in us, Dillon. They don’t even know you haven’t been to school in years. We’ve dropped off the radar.’
‘Yes, but…’ He bashed his cheeks with the heels of his palms. Soundless tears.
‘Enough of your weeping, Dillon O’Brian,’ Imogen said. ‘You’re the man of the house now, and you need to act like it.’ She strutted towards the farmhouse, and he followed, head bent down.
Had they killed Tierney? Dumped him in the water? Laura trembled. Her torch fell through her fingers, clattering onto a pile of sticks. Imogen stopped and peered in her direction. Can she see me?
Laura froze; her heart pounding so hard she was amazed Imogen couldn’t hear it. But after a long, painful moment, Imogen and Dillon continued into the house, and closed the door behind them.
Laura turned and r
an. Should she call the Guards? If she didn’t, was she an accessory after the fact? But Tierney was a cruel man, and the last thing she wanted was for Dillon to get into trouble. They’d be better off without Tierney, she knew that much. She picked up speed, tripping over branches, her hands catching on thorns – sharp and painful, blood running down her palms.
When she entered the house, Rachel was screaming, and Laura raced up the stairs to see her standing in her cot, face red and smeared with tears, stomping her feet.
‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart,’ Laura cried. Flustered, she grabbed a blanket, and held it against her hand, blood spreading across the lemon wool. ‘I’m an awful mother. You deserve someone better.’ She lifted her out and attempted, for what must have been the millionth time, to comfort her. But the child wiggled and thrashed, until Laura put her down.
‘Why do you hate me so much?’ she said, a tear rolling down her cheek.
***
Dillon appeared at the back door around seven the following morning, drained of colour.
I saw you. I saw what you did.
‘You look dreadful – rough night?’ Laura said, wishing she could take back the words instantly. He didn’t need her playing games with him.
‘A bit.’ He avoided her gaze. ‘Rachel asleep?’
She nodded. ‘Do you want some tea?’
‘Na, had some.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets, and looked everywhere but at her. ‘Da’s gone, Laura,’ he said eventually.
I know.
She sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Where’s he gone, Dillon?’
‘Just took off in the middle of the night. Took all his clothes and everything.’ There was a wobble in his voice.
‘Just like your mother?’
He bolted a look her way, but said nothing.
‘Talk to me, Dillon,’ Laura said.
‘Imogen says we’re better off without him.’
‘Perhaps she’s right.’
‘I keep wishing me real ma was here. She’d know what to do.’ He lowered his head into his hands. ‘Imogen says I can come and see you now, if I want. She says she’ll come too sometimes. You know, like she did before. That’s if you want her to.’
Laura’s mind whirred. Imogen had deserted her, bickered with her, and now she’d possibly murdered Tierney. Suddenly, the cold reality that Imogen was capable of murder – that Dillon had helped – shot through her like an injection of poison, and fear filled her senses. She had to find the courage to leave Ireland. Leave behind the memories of her cold, selfish parents, and Jude letting her down. It was time to shake them free. Stop allowing them to feed off her sanity, to somehow hold her here. This time she would find the strength to move on.
‘You don’t mind me coming over, do you?’ Dillon said, seeming to pick up on her silence, and lowering himself on the chair opposite her.
She looked into his worried dark green eyes, bruised cushions of flesh beneath them from lack of sleep, and sighed. She leaned forward and touched his cheek gently. How could she leave him when he needed her most? ‘Of course I don’t mind, I love our chats. Always have.’
For a moment a smile touched his eyes, but it quickly departed, ‘Thanks, Laura,’ he said. ‘Life’s shite at the moment, and I desperately need a friend.’
Chapter 30
February 2018
Blobs of rain fell once more, and I turned and raced back to my hire car, the image of the poor cat prominent in my mind. Had the cat drowned?
I dived into my car, thrust the key into the ignition and turned it.
Nothing.
‘Crap!’ I muttered, turning it several more times, before leaning over to retrieve the car hire documents from the passenger seat. I tapped the company’s phone number into my mobile and, following a time-consuming effort to get through and convey my problem, they promised to send someone out – in two hours.
I sat for some time aimlessly flicking through my contacts, eventually calling Zoe.
‘Rach,’ she said, in her usual singsong voice.
‘Are you busy?’ I asked.
‘No, I’m on my break. How’s Ireland?’ And with a pretty good, if a little satirised, Irish accent, added, ‘Slept with any leprechauns yet?’
‘Only the one.’ I was trying for upbeat, although I felt far from it.
She laughed hard, but my sense of humour had deserted me. ‘So, seriously,’ she said, as though my low mood had brought her down too. ‘How’s it going? Have you found the farm?’
‘I have, yes.’
‘And?’
‘Truth is, it triggered some weird repressed memories.’
‘Oh my God. What sort?’
‘They were pretty awful. I think something happened there. I don’t know what exactly. The place is really beautiful now though …’
‘Do you think you should be there on your own? I could always come over …’
‘No, I’m fine. Honestly. I’m making progress. I’ve found Marcus McCutcheon.’
‘The bloke whose wife died in the accident?’
‘Yes … he collects gnomes, of all things – which is a bit freaky in itself. I was quite traumatised going round there. He’s got so many, and I’ve always had a bit of a gnome phobia.’
She laughed. ‘He’s a bit of a weirdo then?’
‘A little, perhaps, but I think it’s more that he’s still grieving, and dealing with it in the only way he knows how. Who am I to judge?’
‘But it’s been over thirty years, hasn’t it?’ she said, far too flippant.
‘Some people never get over losing someone they love, Zoe.’ I sounded like a mother telling a child. ‘I guess we haven’t had that kind of loss in our lives, so we can’t understand.’ I stopped, knowing I sounded preachy.
There was silence on the other end, as rain hammered on the roof of my car, penetrating my eardrums. I shuddered, already cold from sitting too long.
‘You’re right,’ Zoe said eventually. ‘I don’t know what it’s like to lose someone I love. To know I’ll never see them again. It must be impossible to deal with.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my parents.’
They lived in Cornwall and led a full life. She would sometimes go down to see them, and from photos she posted on Facebook of them hugging and laughing, it was clear they loved their daughter – and she loved them.
‘I feel bad now,’ she continued, her voice low, the brightness I’d come to depend on, gone.
‘Don’t be daft. When you haven’t suffered loss, it’s not always easy to empathise.’
‘Well, it was hard enough breaking up with Hank.’ A pause. ‘He came round last night.’
‘Oh God. Is he OK?’
‘No, he’s worse than ever.’ Her voice was low, tearful, words catching in her throat. ‘He’s acting a bit weird. Doesn’t seem to accept we’re over. I need him to stay out of my life. File him under “crap” and lock him away.’
‘Does he know you’re seeing Connor?’ I asked, glancing in my rear-view mirror. I could just make out, through the incessant rain, someone pulling up behind me, headlights on.
‘No, I wouldn’t deliberately hurt him.’ A pause. ‘Anyway, enough about me. How are things with Lawrence?’
I’d tried to put him out of my head. ‘He’s in Paris with Grace,’ I said, distracted by the car behind.
‘Oh yes, you said they were going.’
‘Mmm, and I have this awful feeling Farrah could be with them, even though I insisted he didn’t invite her.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Is the right answer,’ I said. ‘I can’t be certain, but I think I saw her at the airport.’
‘Un-fucking-believable. Listen, I’m sorry, Rach, I’d better go. Work calls.’
‘OK. See you soon. Let’s have a catch-up at the weekend, aye?’
‘Sounds brilliant.’
The line went dead, and I leaned back and closed my eyes.
A sudden fist-thump on my window, and my
eyes shot open again. ‘Fuck!’ The downpour blurred the figure standing beside my car, and my heart raced. How had I ended up so anxious? The figure bent down, and a face appeared close to the glass. It was Felix Clarke, bearing a wide smile.
I lowered my window.
‘I thought it might be you,’ he said. ‘I saw you get into a blue Fiat when you left the teashop. Everything OK?’
‘I’ve broken down,’ I said. ‘But it’s totally fine. The hire company are sending someone out.’
I went to close my window, but he slammed his gloved hand on the glass, making me jump. ‘Will they be long?’
‘Another hour and a half – but it’s fine,’ I repeated. ‘I’ve got my mobile to keep me occupied.’ I wiggled my phone.
‘You look freezing, Rachel. Why not come back to mine for a warm drink and wait in the comfort of my lounge? I’m parked just behind you. I can bring you back here later.’
‘Honesty, I’ll be just fine.’ I’d used the word fine far too much. I had so many questions I needed to ask him, but I wasn’t sure I could face going to the farmhouse again yet.
‘You’re going to freeze to death out here. I insist.’
The draw was too much. What was I doing in Ireland if I wasn’t going to ask questions?
I got out of the car, pulled up the hood of my coat, and fumbling with my keys, locked the door.
I wasn’t sure of the make of Felix’s car, but when I climbed into the passenger seat, I had no doubt it would have cost a fortune, with its heated leather seats and more gadgets than The Enterprise. In fact, it looked as though it could drive itself.
‘Nice car,’ I said for something to say, as I fastened the seatbelt.
He started the engine, and pulled away, The Cranberries’ ‘Zombie’ playing through the speakers. ‘I bought it with my last royalties,’ he said with a smile. ‘I run out of things to spend my money on.’
‘A great position to be in. I’m not jealous at all.’ I laughed, and he smiled.
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ There was something in his voice I couldn’t quite read, and I realised I knew nothing about him. I was alone with a man I didn’t know, going to his lonely farmhouse. What was I thinking?
Tell the Truth Page 15
