by Julie Corbin
Murphy knows this area and could find his way home from here except for the fact that he has no traffic sense. He has simply never appreciated the danger of cars. I have visions of him lying bleeding by the roadside and I quickly brush the broken glass off the driver’s seat on to the floor and start the engine. I drive home at a snail’s pace, scanning the pavements and the side streets, the grassy patches and the shop fronts. Wind blows through the space where the window should be and I gulp back the tears, grateful for the sea air cooling my face.
When I get home, I park haphazardly and go inside to get help. But as I run through the hallway to the back of the house I see Murphy lying on the kitchen floor. Daisy on one side of him and Ella on the other. He is loving the attention and when he sees me he doesn’t bother to get up but settles for a thump-thump of his tail on the ground. I fall down on to him and rub my face in his coat. ‘You came home!’ He licks me appreciatively. ‘Clever, clever boy.’
‘We tried calling you but your phone is off.’ Paul comes over to greet me. ‘Did Murphy run away from you? What happened?’
‘My car was broken into.’ I lean back on my heels to look up at him. ‘The window was smashed and there was blood inside. Is he hurt?’
‘Your car was broken into?’ Paul touches my forehead. ‘Are you okay? Did they take anything?’
‘I’m fine and no, they didn’t take anything.’ I give the dog another hug. ‘Murphy must have escaped through the window.’
‘He just has a small cut on his head but it’s stopped bleeding now. Wasn’t it lucky that Orla found him?’ Daisy says and my spine snaps up straight. ‘He could have been run over.’
I get up quickly, turning as I do so. She is standing there. She is wearing a summer dress, off-white, off the shoulder. It has blue forget-me-nots around the hem. She looks fresh and flirty. She is holding one of my best crystal glasses, twirling the stem in her fingers. She goes to the dresser, takes out another glass, fills it up and hands it to me.
‘Champagne,’ she says. ‘I wanted to celebrate my return to the village. I hope you don’t mind?’
Anger is rising inside me like a geyser. She is in my house, fraternising with my family, pretending to have saved our dog. She must have come back to the cottage for her meeting with Shugs and seized the opportunity to break into my car and steal Murphy. The knife block is to the right of me. I could reach it without even moving my feet. I could grab the biggest one; the one I use for slicing through pumpkin and squash. I could hold the wooden handle and push the blade into her. I could push until her blood flows. I wonder what it would feel like, whether I would have to push hard or whether the blade would slide in easily. I wonder whether she would scream. ‘Where did you find Murphy?’
‘Out on the pavement.’ She takes a sip. ‘Lost.’
‘How did you know he was our dog?’ My tone is flat, unfriendly. I feel Paul and the girls looking at me and then looking at each other.
‘He has a collar with your surname and phone number on it.’
‘Well, thank you.’ I take the glass from her hand. I think about the photos of my family on the floor of her bedroom: the shrine to her teenage self. ‘You can go now.’
‘Grace!’ Paul laughs uncertainly. ‘I invited Orla to stay for a drink.’ He puts an arm around my shoulders and shakes me gently. ‘She just did us a huge favour bringing Murphy back like that.’
‘Actually, Paul, she hasn’t done us any favours.’ I sound cool. Inside I am boiling. ‘She should leave now.’
Orla touches Paul’s arm, lightly, almost a stroking movement. ‘I don’t want to cause any trouble.’ She makes wide eyes at him, manages to look both innocent and vulnerable and while Paul is nobody’s fool, Orla’s act is Oscar-winning.
As I watch his face soften, a bitter taste washes through me. ‘You really are a piece of work.’ I make a decision. I know I’m risking her upping the ante – if I take a stand against her then she might shout out the truth about Rose’s death – but what I’ve just seen in her bedroom, the damage to my car and the way she’s worming her way into my family’s affections, feels more urgent than a twenty-four-year secret. I point towards the front door and say quietly, ‘Get the fuck out of my house.’
‘Grace!’
‘Mum!’
Paul and the girls are staring at me. The girls are open-mouthed and Paul is frowning and shaking his head. Orla reels back as if she’s just been struck, her face fearful, her eyes filled with tears.
Paul takes my arm and leads me into the hallway. ‘What on earth has got into you?’
‘Orla is not our friend,’ I tell him. ‘She’s dangerous and she’s, she’s’ – I think of an appropriate word – ‘unstable. She’s unstable, Paul. And she’s manipulative and deceitful. She is twisted and evil and would happily have killed our dog. She will destroy our family without batting an eyelid.’
‘What?’ Paul is incredulous. ‘Where is this coming from?’
‘She smashed my car window. She hurt Murphy.’
‘How can you know that? Did you see her?’
‘No. But I know what she’s capable of and there’s no one else it could be,’ I say, agitated now. ‘And Shugs McGovern was at her house. He had gone there to sell her drugs.’
‘That seems remarkably far-fetched.’ He is struggling to believe me. ‘How would you know that? And as far as your car is concerned, there have always been occasional acts of vandalism in the village. I’m not sure why you want to blame Orla for this one.’
‘Because she did it!’ I clasp my hands together and briefly consider whether I should tell him about her room, the photographs and the rest. But then I remember that if I tell him that much, it will inevitably lead to me telling him about Rose and I can’t do that. I hold his hand and say, ‘I know this seems ridiculous. I know it looks as if I’m making it up but I’m not, Paul. I’m really not. Please trust me. Will you?’
He starts back and then half smiles at me. ‘Of course, I trust you.’
‘Then, please, ask her to leave.’
He holds my eyes for a couple of seconds. ‘Okay, I will.’ He sighs. ‘But let’s try to do it politely.’
We both go back through to the kitchen. The girls have recovered from my outburst.
‘Look, Mum!’ Ella is holding up a patterned T-shirt. ‘Look what Orla bought us!’
Daisy has one too, a different colour and design but the same expensive cut. And when they notice the label, Ella squeals and Daisy runs over to give Orla a hug.
‘Belated birthday gifts,’ Orla says, light as a hummingbird, brazen as a vulture. ‘And for you, Paul.’ She kisses him, once on each cheek and holds out a glitzy, book-shaped package. ‘I was going to bring this on Sunday to thank you for your hospitality but’ – she gives me a pointed look – ‘I bumped into Grace’s mum this morning and she told me you’re going fishing.’
I don’t react. So she has found out that Sunday lunch is off? No problem. Euan and I will arrange some other time to meet her, deal with her, do what has to be done.
‘Well . . .’ Paul inclines his head but doesn’t take the present from her. ‘I appreciate your generosity, Orla, but we have things we need to press on with here.’
‘What things?’ Ella says. ‘Just open it, Dad!’ She takes it from Orla’s hand and tries to put it into his. ‘It’s a present!’
I have an almost overwhelming urge to grab the package, push it back at Orla and bundle her out on to the pavement, but I daren’t because I have to let Paul handle this. He has asked me to be polite and while I’m desperate to be rid of Orla before she does any more damage, I don’t want to alienate Paul in the process.
Ella, impatient with the delay, tears the wrapping off the package. His present is the autobiography I bought for him and mistakenly left underneath the table in the restaurant in Edinburgh. ‘That’s such a good choice!’ Ella says. ‘Dad wanted this book, didn’t you, Dad?’
I catch Orla’s eye as it lights up with triumph.
>
‘I did,’ Paul acknowledges and Orla preens herself in front of him, managing to look both coquettish and angelic.
She has quite a range and I can’t help myself say, ‘You’ve missed your calling. You belong on the stage.’
Paul gives me a troubled look but Orla carries on as if she hasn’t heard me. ‘And this is for you, Grace.’ She tries to hand me a box. ‘For old times’ sake.’
I push her aside. ‘I’m not prepared to accept it.’
‘But it’s just right for you! Here.’ She removes the lid and holds it up to my face. As soon as the scent hits the back of my nose, it jump-starts a memory so intense that my heart stops and my stomach turns over. I can’t breathe or speak. I can do nothing more than stare at her.
‘Is it okay? It was always your favourite, wasn’t it?’ She acts stricken. ‘Lily of the valley. I haven’t got it wrong, have I?’
I’m next to the pond; Orla is screaming. Rose is lying on the ground. Her face is bloated and the blue veins across her temples stand out against her grey pallor. Limbs dense, chest still, eyes staring at nothing. Dead. Because of me.
Dizziness closes down my thoughts. I take a laboured breath and feel beads of sweat break out on my forehead. For a few seconds I lean forward with my hands on my knees and then I snatch the box of soap from her, open the patio door and throw it out into the garden.
When I turn back into the room, Paul is addressing Orla. ‘I don’t know what’s going on here but clearly you are upsetting Grace and I’d like you to leave now.’ He turns to the twins. ‘Girls, give me the tops and go upstairs.’
‘But . . .’ Ella clutches hers to her chest. ‘Do we have to?’
‘Give them to me and go upstairs.’ This time his tone is stern and both girls respond at once. He holds the gifts towards Orla. ‘Take these and leave now.’
Orla doesn’t move. ‘What do you say to that, Grace?’
Tension is cramping my stomach and I can do no more than stare at her. Paul, impatient now, takes her by the shoulders and marches her towards the front door. I wait for her to shout out the truth but she doesn’t. She lets him lead her out on to the front step and close the door behind her.
It’s quiet. I’m breathing. It’s not the end of the world. My legs are wobbly and I collapse down on to an easy chair.
Paul pulls another one up opposite me, sits down, our knees touching. He takes both my hands in his. ‘So are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
‘Orla is a bad person,’ I say slowly. ‘When we were young she was involved in all sorts of stuff—’
‘Last week,’ he interrupts me. ‘When we were talking. Before Sophie came to see Dad. You were upset. Was it because of Orla?’ His fingers find the curve of my wedding ring and he moves it gently then strokes the palms of my hands. ‘Is she the one who knows something about you?’ I freeze. He feels the tension in my hands and he rubs them harder. ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ he says. ‘But it might be easier if you did.’
I can’t look at him. The room is completely silent. All I can hear is the sound of my own blood pounding through my ears. I remember one of the phrases from the newspaper clipping: ‘Recently . . . well . . . she’s been in prison. She was an accomplice in her husband’s murder.’
He tilts back in his seat, his forehead creased with concern. ‘Honestly?’
I nod. ‘It was in the newspapers. Wherever she goes she makes trouble. It’s what she does. And—’ I stop. I don’t want to tell Paul about the bedroom. I can’t let him know about that. I stand up. ‘I’ll go and clean the glass out of my car and take it along to the garage to be mended.’
‘Sweetheart, I’ll do that for you.’ He urges me to sit back down again. He takes the brush and dustpan from the kitchen cupboard and goes outside.
I relax into the chair and close my eyes, think about what just happened and more particularly what didn’t happen. She’s smart, Orla. Everything she’s doing, she’s doing for a reason. Just now, she had the chance to tell Paul all about Rose, but she didn’t take it. She is biding her time. Clearly she has something else in mind for me and whatever that is, I have to make sure she is stopped before she can carry it out.
May 1982
‘Shugs McGovern is a weirdo,’ I say.
We’re lying in the sand dunes, sheltering from the winds, tearing up strands of marram grass and then tossing the pieces over our shoulders.
‘He’s worse than a weirdo, he’s a psychopath,’ Orla replies. ‘Being cruel to animals – it’s one of the first signs. I read about it. Most psychopaths start by torturing and killing animals.’
‘Faye’s going to tell her dad so he’ll do something.’
‘We should do something.’
‘What?’ I think of the poor cat, his tail set alight and I shiver then jump up and wipe the sand off my shorts. ‘If we’re quick we’ll have time for an ice cream before the café closes.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Grace! This is important! Sometimes you have to have principles, stand up for what’s right.’
Since Orla turned fourteen she’s taken to swearing a lot. I look around, scared someone is going to hear us. Callum and Euan are running across the sand kicking a football between them. When they’re close enough I hold up my hands either side of my mouth and shout to Euan, ‘Do you know if Faye’s told her dad about Shugs McGovern and the cat?’
‘Not yet.’ He comes over and throws himself down next to Orla then puts his arms behind his head. ‘Her dad’s still out on the rigs. He won’t be home till the weekend.’
‘It’ll all be forgotten by then.’ Orla is sitting up now and putting on her shoes. ‘We have to do something now!’
‘I’m up for that,’ Callum says, bouncing the ball up and down on one foot. ‘I’ve wanted to give him a doin’ since Primary Three when he dobbed me in for breaking the window.’
‘We’re not resorting to beating him up, Callum,’ Orla tells him. ‘Nothing as crude as that. If he’s to learn his lesson then we have to hurt him long-term.’
‘Two wrongs don’t make a right,’ Euan says. ‘We should just report him to the police. Let them deal with it.’
‘Like that’s going to work!’ Orla is scathing. ‘He’ll tell the police it wasn’t him and they’ll believe him and that will be that. He’ll know he’s got away with it. Where’s the justice in that?’
‘Yes, but . . . if he’s going to be a psychopath then we can’t really stop that, can we? I mean, if he’s like that then . . .’ I shrug.
Orla’s already walking away, her heels pushing prints into the sand. ‘Are you coming or not?’ she calls back.
I look across at Euan. He’s back to playing footie with Callum. ‘I wouldn’t get involved, if I were you,’ he says, heading the ball out towards the sea. ‘We’re going to di Rollo’s for an ice cream. Come along if you like?’
I’m in two minds. I watch Orla’s retreating back. She’s my friend. I want to run after her, take her arm and chum her wherever she’s heading, but I don’t because I know that when she has an idea in her mind there’s no changing it. I don’t know what she has planned for Shugs but I think Euan’s right – I’m better staying out of it.
At school next day, Orla seems to have forgotten all about Shugs. Our first lesson is English. While Mrs Jessop is writing on the board, I turn round and try to catch Orla’s eye but she’s busy copying down the questions. When class is over, we climb the two flights of stairs to the science labs together. She puts her arm through mine and asks me whether I want to go to St Andrews with her at the weekend. Her dad will drop us off and we can go swimming then have a fish supper in the chippie on the high street.
When we get to biology, both teachers are standing at the blackboard with their hands in front of them. Miss Carter looks like she’s been crying.
‘Everyone sit down, quickly and quietly,’ Mr Mason orders. He is visibly shaking. We slide on to our stools and wait. Even the worst behaved boys in the class don’t dare make a s
ound.
‘This morning when I came in to work I found Peter dead.’
A couple of girls gasp and then there’s complete silence. Peter is the class rabbit. We have three guinea pigs, a snake and half a dozen gerbils. Mr Mason likes to bring biology to life.
‘Only this class has access to the room before school begins. Only this class feeds the animals. Only this class knows the combin ation to the animals’ cages.’
Orla is next to me. I sneak a look at her. She is twirling her hair around one finger, her mouth slightly open.
‘Who fed the animals this morning?’
Breda Wallace stands up. ‘It was me, sir.’
‘Was Peter alive?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Her voice trembles. ‘When I left he was eating a carrot.’
‘Sit down, Breda.’ He paces backward and forward, his fists clenching and unclenching. ‘Does anyone have anything they want to tell me?’
Seconds tick by. No reply.
‘Turn out your bags.’
The tension is palpable. We look at Mr Mason, then at each other and then we do it. Books, pencil cases, lunch boxes and gym kit spill across the science benches. We shake every stray penny and empty crisp packet out of the bottom of our bags. A commotion breaks out on the back row and we all turn around.
‘I didn’t do it, sir. Honest!’ There’s a knife in front of Shugs. ‘That’s not my knife!’
Mr Mason uses a tissue to pick it up. ‘You’re saying this isn’t yours, McGovern? And yet it was in your bag?’
‘I don’t have a knife like that!’ He looks at the boys either side of him for verification. ‘Somebody must have put it in my bag.’ Nobody comes to his defence. Even worse follows.
‘You set fire to that cat’s tail, though,’ the boy to his right says.
‘It was Faye’s cat,’ someone else pipes up.
