The Girl Who Lied

by Sue Fortin

  ‘Ah, hello Roisin. Yes, that’s right. She’s running an awful temperature and has a sore throat, which is covered in little white spots.’

  Roisin was sure she could detect an apprehension in Fiona’s voice. No doubt, Erin had already told her about their confrontation in the street. Fiona would know about her sister’s pregnancy. Erin told her sister everything. Roisin couldn’t deny the sense of vitriol rolling around inside her. A small victory; making the Hurley girls squirm. Giving them cause to worry and stress. A small battle in the big war. Roisin took a moment to savour the sensation.

  She checked through the appointment system. ‘We’re really busy today. Can I get the doctor to call you back for a telephone consultation first?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine.’

  ‘Okay, I just need to get Sophie’s details up. Right, here we go. If you can confirm the address and date of birth.’

  ‘Roisin, really, you know it’s me,’ said Fiona. ‘You don’t need to be doing all this, surely. Can you not just make the telephone appointment?’

  ‘Sorry, rules are rules. I can’t go any further in the system without ticking the boxes to say I’ve personally checked the details,’ said Roisin, enjoying herself. The sense of control and power warmed her heart. ‘I don’t want to do anything illegal that will get me into trouble. I don’t want to get found out for not doing things right.’

  With more than a reluctant tone to her voice, Fiona relayed the information. Roisin checked off the details and took a telephone number for the call-back. ‘Okay, thanks then, Fiona. Doctor Peters will call you as soon as he can.’

  Roisin ended the call. Something was bothering her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. She tapped the desk with her pen. It was something to do with Sophie, but what? She read through the child’s notes.

  It was on the third time of reading, it struck her. There, in black and white, staring straight at her. Sophie’s date of birth. Why hadn’t Roisin noticed this before?

  Her stomach gave a tumble and thoughts rushed through her mind, making connections so fast, it was hard to keep up. She closed her eyes and massaged her temples with her fingertips, letting the flow of thoughts wash over her like the gentle lapping tide on the shore. Slowly she began to make sense of it all. It wasn’t concrete, but it was a start; it was the lead she needed.

  ‘Okay, what have we got, then?’ It was Doctor Peters’ voice.

  Roisin gave a start, relieved she had her back to the doctor so he hadn’t caught her with her eyes closed. She fumbled with her pen. ‘I’ve just put the list of call-backs through. There are three elderly and two children,’ she managed to say, without the nerves sounding in her voice.

  Doctor Peters looked over her shoulder at the list. ‘Mrs Farrell, again, I see. What’s up with her this time?’ Roisin moved the cursor so he could read more details. ‘Okay, usual complaint. Who else have we got? Oh, the Keane girl, Sophie. That doesn’t sound too good. I’m sure we ran some blood tests recently. Can you have a look?’

  Roisin tapped around on the keyboard, working her way to the correct screen. ‘Here we are,’ she said, turning the monitor to a better angle for the doctor. Roisin scanned the results at the same time as the doctor.

  ‘They all came back normal,’ said Doctor Peters, more to himself than to his receptionist. ‘Okay, thanks, you can close that now. Roisin. Hey, you’re miles away, girl.’

  ‘What? Oh, sorry.’ Roisin hadn’t been listening. One box of the blood results caught her attention. Stopped her in her tracks. She had almost missed it. A tiny piece of information that made all the difference. She realised Dr Peters was looking at her. She apologised again and exited the results, aware that her hand was shaking ever so slightly and her heart was pumping faster than normal.

  Once Dr Peters had returned to his consulting room, Roisin logged back on to Sophie Keane’s results to check she hadn’t misread anything. She then double-checked the child’s date of birth before closing the records and bringing up Fiona’s notes.

  The excitement was building inside her. Roisin’s hand shook wildly and her mouth was drying by the second. She could hear Sandra, the other receptionist, talking to one of the practice nurses. Roisin willed the patient-records system to work faster. Within a few seconds she was in Fiona’s records. Luck was on her side. Fiona was pretty healthy and hadn’t attended the surgery much, it meant fewer notes to wade through. Roisin scrolled back down through the data to her pregnancy with Molly. It had been Fiona’s first pregnancy. This was all tying in so much better than Roisin could have imagined.

  She searched for the information she was looking for and jotted it down in the notebook beside the phone. Next she needed to access Sean Keane’s records. Her fingers tripped lightly across the keyboard, the dexterity and familiarity with the system aiding the need to work at speed. She made another note on the pad underneath Fiona’s name.

  Fiona 0+

  Sean A+

  Sophie B-

  Finally, she went back to Erin’s notes. This was where her luck ran out. There was no mention of Erin being pregnant and, therefore, no record of any blood tests or note of her blood group. Roisin tapped her pen on the desk. It didn’t matter. What she had in front of her was enough. She might not be qualified in the medical profession, but several years of working at the surgery meant she had picked certain things up. She stared at the notepad. The implications were huge.

  Chapter 24

  Twice Kerry thought about going over to the café and twice he dismissed the idea. He had also had to put up with a cross-examination from Joe as to why he didn’t want to go over for breakfast that morning.

  ‘Lovers’ tiff already?’ said Joe, totally unaware that he was spot on.

  Kerry was kneeling on the floor, fiddling around with the fuel pump on a Ducati, which was in for a service. He got up. ‘Give it a rest. I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘I take that as a yes, then.’ Joe grinned and ducked out the way of the oil-cloth that Kerry chucked at him.

  Kerry went into the small kitchen area and flicked the kettle on. He hated this indecisive feeling. On the one hand he wanted to go over to Erin and tell her he was sorry he had reacted the way he did. He was sorry for upsetting her. He was sorry she had walked out. And he was sorry he hadn’t gone after her. However, on the other hand, he wanted to stay as far away from her as possible. He couldn’t get his head around the fact that she had given up her own child. How could a mother do that? She was no better than his own mother. And what of the child now? How could Erin not put the child’s feelings first? What would that little girl be thinking now, knowing her mother didn’t want her?

  All these conflicting questions and emotions had kept him awake for the most part of the night. His feelings for Erin and his feelings for what she had done were at odds with each other. It was doing his head in.

  Joe walked in, his arms up in surrender. ‘Don’t shoot,’ he said.

  ‘Coffee?’ said Kerry, accepting Joe’s indirect apology.

  ‘Cheers. So, want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not especially. Anyway, since when did you become a relationship counsellor?’

  ‘Ah, so it is Miss Hurley that’s the cause of your bad mood.’

  ‘That obvious, is it?’ Kerry poured the boiling water into the two cups, adding a slosh of milk and two sugars to each.

  ‘Matter of deduction. No football last weekend, so it’s not that. Nothing wrong with your bike, so that’s ruled out. The pub hasn’t burnt down, so we’re good there. Skip’s still here.’ Joe threw the dog a biscuit as he spoke. ‘So that only leaves women. Well, one woman. Erin Hurley.’

  Kerry slid the mug of coffee over to Joe and picked up his own. He took a sip while he considered whether to confide in Joe or not. Despite being disappointed by what Erin had told him, he still felt loyal to her and didn’t want anyone else thinking badly of her. And it was disappointment. He thought she was pretty near-perfect but it had been naive and immature to think l
ike that. No one was perfect.

  ‘I found out something about Erin that I didn’t like,’ he said at last.

  ‘Right, I take it you’re not going to elaborate.’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Well, that’s a good sign. She can’t have pissed you off so much that you don’t care about anyone knowing. You obviously feel some loyalty to her and that’s good, right?’

  Kerry shrugged. ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘Is it something she’s done since she’s been back? Something to do with whatever is going on with her and Roisin?’

  ‘No. Something she did when she was a teenager.’

  ‘What? Here? In Rossway?’

  ‘No. After she left.’

  ‘Right, I was going to say, if it was here in Rossway, I’m sure we’d know about it. You know what this place is like.’ Joe placed his cup on the counter. ‘Doing something at sixteen or seventeen isn’t the same as doing something now, at twenty-six or twenty-seven. We’re different people now to what we were then. Sure, you’ve no life experience at that age. You think you’re grown up, but you’re only a kid.’ Joe leant on the counter. ‘You can’t judge what someone did as a teenager through the eyes of an adult. Jesus, I should know. I was a shit at times when I was a kid. Look at me now.’

  Kerry gave a small laugh. ‘You reckon you’ve changed? Grown up? Matured?’

  Joe grinned back. ‘To a certain extent. I don’t seem to remember you being much of an angel when you were a kid either. Anyway, the point I’m making is, we do things as kids without the knowledge and experience of adults. That doesn’t make us bad people as adults. Whatever she did then, she was a kid herself. It’s what she does now, as an adult, you should think about.’

  ‘Thanks for the counselling session,’ said Kerry. ‘Now, if it’s all right with you, I’ll get back to my work.’ He wasn’t entirely sure Joe was right. What made a person, the essence of who they were, that was embedded deep in their DNA. He wasn’t convinced a person could change that.

  Roisin spent the rest of the day at work barely able to concentrate. Once she called a patient Mr instead of Mrs and another time she took some urgent results back to the wrong doctor. She was glad she wasn’t on a late shift that night. She wanted to get home and think clearly about what she was going to do next.

  Finally, she made it back to the Manor House. She could hear the television on in the living room and poked her head around the door. Her father was there watching the evening news.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ he said. ‘How are you? Good day at work?’

  Roisin went over and gave her father a kiss on the cheek. ‘Hi, Daddy. I’m fine. Glad to be home.’

  ‘Your mother’s in the kitchen getting tea ready.’

  Although her father tried to say it in a nonchalant way, as if it was the most usual thing in the world for her mam to be cooking, they both knew that given Diana’s current state of mind, this was something of an achievement.

  They had never openly discussed Diana’s depression and drinking habits. They were taboo subjects: ones Roisin and her father both pretended didn’t exist. It was as if admitting to them, saying it out in the open, would mean they had to confront them and do something about them. Neither Roisin nor her father had the emotional energy to do so. It was simply referred to as Mam having a bad day. Her good days, when they happened, were to be savoured, although they were bittersweet reminders of the mother Roisin had lost. When Niall died the best part of her mother died too.

  Roisin weighed up her options. Should she approach her mam whilst she was sober, knowing that it would probably kick-start the next cycle of drinking? Or, should she wait until Diana had had a drink, when alcohol was more likely to loosen her tongue?

  Roisin stopped outside the kitchen door. She could hear the radio playing and her mam singing along. It reminded Roisin of happier childhood days. Sundays in the kitchen helping her mam prepare the roast dinner. They were precious times. Her mam had worked long days as a GP which often trailed into the early evening. Roisin hadn’t always seen much of her during the week, but always felt at weekends her mam more than made up for it.

  Roisin longed to have her old mother back and, for the first time in ten years, she thought she just might be able to make it happen. She now had the solution. The answer to all their problems. An answer that could also punish Erin Hurley and bring a sense of justice for what had happened.

  Roisin decided to hold off speaking to her mam, she would wait until after dinner, when they were all relaxed after a nice evening meal together.

  ‘Hello, Mam,’ said Roisin, walking into the kitchen.

  Diana looked up from chopping the vegetables. ‘Hello, Roisin,’ she said as a smile spread across her face. ‘Dinner won’t be long. I thought we would eat in here today. Less formal.’

  Roisin took in the pine kitchen table set for three. Pale-blue table mats; matching napkins lay on top of white dinner plates. A white oilskin table-cloth with blue spots finished off the retro effect. Her eyes came to rest on the condiments and bottle of wine on the table. The wine was already open. She looked over to where Diana had returned to prepping the vegetables. To her right was a wine glass with the remnants of red wine sitting in the bottom.

  Diana looked back over her shoulder and followed her daughter’s gaze. She raised her eyebrows in question.

  Roisin said nothing. What would be the point? It wouldn’t stop what was surely to follow. Any hopes of a civilised evening and a heart-to-heart talk were slipping away.

  And so it did.

  Dinner was one of false cheer and fading hope. Each mouthful of food was matched by a slug of wine.

  Roisin poured herself another glass that she didn’t want but it was one less glass of wine for her mam to consume. However, it was a wasted attempt to limit her mam’s intake. Diana simply opened another bottle and took it into the sitting room.

  ‘I’ll help you clear away,’ said her father, rising from the table.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll do it. You go and sit down. I’ll bring you in a cup of tea.’

  He didn’t argue. It was best that way. Pat would shut himself in the living room and watch the television. He wouldn’t go into the sitting room to comfort Diana, to talk about his feelings, his wife’s feelings or even what Roisin might be feeling. No, this was the Marshall way of dealing with their heartbreak. The remains of their family united in eternal grief, yet disjointed and alone in life.

  I’ve just got back from a visit to the hospital. Mum had called both me and Fiona, asking us to come to up. The doctors wanted to speak to the family. I had closed the café early for the day and driven us in my father’s car.

  The doctor had explained that although Dad’s condition remains the same: stable but critical, they are considering bringing him out of his induced coma. They want to monitor him for another twenty-four hours before they make a final decision. The doctor has warned us not to expect anything to happen fast or for there to be any great or sudden recovery. It’s a long process that needs to be handled with care. No miracles are in the offing.

  I left Fiona with Mum. Sean is going to call in on his way back from work and pick her up before they go home to relieve the babysitter. I got the impression Fiona wanted some time with Mum. She had encouraged me to go home to get some rest. I didn’t argue. The hospital room makes me feel claustrophobic, saps my energy and stokes my guilt. The empathy for my father I thought might come still eludes me. And if that isn’t bad enough, I know Mum is only too aware of this. More guilt.

  I climb the steps to the flat, having declined Fiona’s offer to stay over at hers. I feel down and, if I’m honest, a bit sorry for myself. I haven’t heard from Kerry and it hurts. More than I care to admit. I hope he’ll see things from my point of view. I can understand the way he’s reacted in light of what he said about his mother, but it’s not the same. Twice I had composed a text message to him asking him to get in touch, to meet up, but both times I deleted it without sending. H
e needs to come to me because he wants to, not because I’m asking.

  As I reach the door to the flat, I look out across at the bike shop. A few hundred yards and a brick wall is the physical separation, but the emotional separation is far greater. Is it too great a divide for us to meet somewhere in the middle?

  I let myself in to the flat. I really should try to stop thinking about Kerry so much. He has occupied pretty much my every other thought and it’s an unhealthy state of mind to be in. I shouldn’t let someone have so much hold over me. I’ve just got rid of Ed for the very same reason, so why I am allowing Kerry to take up so much headspace?

  My phone rings, making me jump. I pull my mobile from my handbag and look at the screen.

  It’s Ed.

  It’s as if my thoughts have managed to conjure him up. I let it ring twice more while I debate whether to answer the call or not. I decide to speak to him. Knowing Ed, he’ll only keep trying if I leave it go to voicemail. I might as well get whatever it is out of the way now.

  ‘Hello, Ed,’ I say, walking into my parents’ living room and sitting in one of the armchairs. I sink into the sagging cushion. It’s never been comfortable, even when I was a teenager, it’s less so now, having had another ten years of use. I opt for perching on the edge of the seat.

  ‘Hi, Erin. How are you?’ His voice is warm and soft but it fails to have the same swooning effect as it once did.

  ‘Not too bad. You?’

  ‘You know…okay. What about your father, how is he?’

  ‘No change.’ I have the distinct feeling this call isn’t really to discuss the welfare of me or Dad. I sense there’s more to it. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.’

  ‘I’ve wanted to call for a while, but I didn’t want to crowd you,’ says Ed. He seems hesitant, which isn’t like him at all. I wait for him to continue. ‘I wondered if we could talk. I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Okay, now?’ I’m taken aback by this. Ed’s confession to wanting to talk surprises me. It also puts me on guard. Thinking back to the day of the barbecue at Bex and Joe’s place prickles me more than I care to admit.