Apple of My Eye

by Claire Allan

  Attempted murder? That one makes me angry. That’s not what it was at all. I shake my head.

  He gets increasingly frustrated when I stop answering his questions, choosing to sit in silence and stare out of the window instead.

  They send in another police officer after that. A woman. She sits in her nicely pressed suit, her hair iron-straight, a trace of slut-red lipstick across her lips, and tells me she’s a mother. That she understands a mother’s love can be all-consuming but, if she’s to help me, she needs to know more.

  She’s lying. She doesn’t want to help me. She must think I’m stupid as well as mad. She reads the list of allegations against me and can’t hide the shock from her voice, no matter how she tries.

  I just stare at the window again. It’s clear she’s never going to understand. Just as it’s clear she’s made up her mind that I’m guilty. There’s little point in me adding anything to the conversation.

  Another day passes, and another officer arrives. Tall. Handsome. Flecks of silver through his hair. He has the weather-beaten look of a man who enjoys an outdoorsy lifestyle. Crinkles by his eyes. Tanned hands. I always notice a man’s hands. A simple gold wedding ring glinting on his left hand. A nice suit. Freshly pressed.

  He seems friendly as he sits down beside me. Calls me Ms Johnston. Not missus. That earns him some points straight away.

  He introduces himself as DS Bradley, from Strand Road PSNI in Derry. I imagine he’s here to talk to me about the break-in at Eli’s house – the one for which I’d been responsible.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry you’ve come all this way,’ I tell him. ‘But I’ve said as much as I’m going to say about the whole thing already to your colleagues. Everything else, well, that’s between my daughter and me.’

  He shifts in his seat. ‘Actually, Ms Johnston, I’m not here to talk to you about recent events. This would be more an historical matter.’

  I feel my nonchalance slip.

  ‘Can you tell me, does the name Louise Barr mean anything to you?’

  I shake my head, hoping my momentary pause, the slight widening of my eyes, hasn’t given away that I’m lying. I can feel my palms moisten with sweat. Oh, Peter, what have you done?

  ‘Does the name Carys Kearney mean anything to you?’

  I haven’t heard that name in a long time. Not since the day I turned up at her doorstep and left with my heart and my arms full.

  I shake my head.

  Deny everything, isn’t that what they say? If they have any real evidence they won’t ask questions. They’ll just arrest me.

  ‘Are you aware that on 24 November 1984, a female child – an infant – of Mrs Kearney was taken from its home by a woman claiming to be a health visitor?’

  ‘You don’t expect me to remember every missing child of the last thirty-odd years, do you?’ I ask.

  ‘No, Ms Johnston, I certainly do not. But we have reason to believe this particular case might be one you’d remember. Just as we have reason to believe that you’re familiar with Louise Barr, née McLaughlin.’

  ‘I was living in Scotland in 1984,’ I said. ‘I can prove it. Sure, that’s where my daughter’s registered.’

  He shifts again in his seat and clears his throat. ‘If I can be perfectly frank with you, Ms Johnston, it would be easier for everyone, your daughter included, if you just came clean now. The Kearney family have been through enough trauma in their lives, and your daughter has been through enough over the last few weeks by the sounds of things. I understand life was tough for you then. I don’t believe there’s anyone who wouldn’t be sympathetic to that.’

  ‘Are you a parent yourself? Do you know what it feels like?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But one day?’

  ‘This isn’t really about me. This is about baby Kearney. Olivia. That was her given name.’

  ‘I don’t know what this has to do with me,’ I lie, but I can feel the net closing tighter and tighter. It’s clear Peter’s spoken to them.

  ‘We’ve taken blood tests,’ he says. ‘Within a short time we’ll have a definitive answer one way or the other. It’ll look better for you if you come clean before we present you with all the evidence. Eliana is the Kearney baby, isn’t she? And you are or were Louise Barr. She was never really yours to begin with.’

  I wanted to scream that of course she was mine. God had brought her to me. She was more mine than Carys Kearney’s. She’s more mine than Martin’s. She belongs to me more than she does to that baby lying in the NeoNatal Intensive Care Unit. She’s the only thing in this entire world who’s ever truly been mine.

  But no one else will understand that. Not DS Bradley. Not the nurses. The doctors. All the Kates and Martins and friends and family in the world.

  But that doesn’t mean it’s not as true as the sky being blue or the sea being wet.

  ‘She was always mine,’ I tell him, and as what little that was left of my heart crumbles away to nothing, I turn to look at the window again.

  Biology might say one thing. The law might agree. But Eliana is my daughter.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Eli

  ‘This will come as a shock,’ a kindly faced nurse had said before a policeman came into my hospital room and told me the ‘truth’ about my mother.

  Not that she is my mother. Not biologically, anyway. Martin holds my hand as the words wash over me, one by one. The new information overwhelming me.

  Olivia Kearney. That’s my name. My first name. My real name. I have another mother. Carys. I have a father, Tom, who’s alive and real and who’d wanted me. My ‘mother’ had taken me from my home, in Derry. Where I have set up home. There’s an irony in that, I suppose. It was where my mother had been from all along. And her family.

  ‘We were contacted by Ms Johnston’s ex-husband. He’d seen an article about you in the local paper, put two and two together.’

  She’d been married. My mother. What life had she led before me?

  ‘He’d tried to contact her directly but she never replied, so he came to the police. When we ran a check on our systems, the incident in which you were injured in her home showed up. That’s when we looked further.’

  All this time, my mother’s carefully constructed world was just one person away from falling down around her ears.

  ‘Can I see her – my mother, Angela?’ I ask.

  The police officer looks surprised at my request. Martin is vocal in his shock. He doesn’t want me anywhere near her. Not now. Not ever. They don’t understand how I need to see her face, to see the truth of what she’s done in her expression. Perhaps even to hear her say she’s sorry.

  ‘She’s been moved to a secure location,’ DS Bradley says. ‘Awaiting psychiatric assessment, to see if she’s fit for trial. I think, maybe, in time …’

  ‘I just want to ask her why,’ I say to the police officer, who looks at me sympathetically.

  ‘We’re still piecing together what happened,’ he says. ‘But it seems she lost a child, a son, in the year before you were born. Very late in her pregnancy. She’d suffered a series of losses before, most in the early stages, but this one affected her more than the others.

  ‘She asked one of the police officers to bring her a storage box from her study, said she needed it with her. We didn’t, of course, but we were able to open it – found a locket with a curl of baby hair, a little pot with soil, some footprints …’

  I think of my baby. Our baby. Clara. Already, the thought of something bad happening to her is unbearable. Even though I haven’t yet been well enough to hold her in my arms, have only been able to stroke her hand through the incubator, watching her tiny chest move up and down, her body fight for life, I know it’ll kill me, too, if she doesn’t make it.

  My love for her exceeds each and every expectation I’ve ever had in my life about motherhood. I feel a pang for my mother, for Angela, or Louise, or whoever she is, for her loss.

  But to inflict that l
oss on another woman?

  ‘We’ve made contact with your birth parents,’ DS Bradley says softly. ‘Informed them that we suspect you to be their missing child. I know this is a lot to take in, but we’ll have a family liaison officer and social workers to help you all through this process.’

  ‘Do they want to meet me?’ I’m scared. My whole life has turned on its head.

  He nods. ‘But it doesn’t have to be rushed. I think everyone’s trying to process what’s happened. I think it’s important you all take time to try to come to terms with things.’

  I wonder how I’ll ever – can ever – come to terms with everything. With the fact my whole life has been a lie. And those poor people. What must they have been going through all these years?

  I feel my husband squeeze my hand softly. I look at him. His face is so filled with love, even after all that he’s been put through. I know he’ll be by my side through it all. Every step of the way. Through every challenge life will throw at us. And I know that Clara will help us both to heal and move on.

  EPILOGUE

  Eli

  I stand in the sunlight. A soft breeze is caressing my skin. I hold Clara close to me. Even though she’s safely ensconced in her baby sling, I feel the urge to wrap my arms around her, so I do.

  Martin’s waiting in the car, the window down, looking in my direction, but we both know this is something I need to do myself. Well, it’s not so much that I need to do it, but I want to.

  This was a place of so much sadness, but it feels so very peaceful all the same. I look at the small white headstone in front of me, inscribed: Noah Barr, Born Sleeping.

  I’ll never meet him. He was gone before I was even born, but our lives will always be intrinsically linked. Had he breathed, would Angela have been okay? Would I have had a good life with Carys and Tom?

  I’ve met them twice now. Emotional, strange meetings where we’re trying to suss each other out. I look like her. My mother. And I’m sure Clara has my father’s eyes. But it will be a slow, delicate process. We’re trying so hard to get our heads around everything. I’m hopeful one day we’ll be in a room together and be able to talk without thinking, first of all, of all that was robbed from us.

  I kneel down on the soft patch of grass, lovingly tended, where he lies. A fresh posy of yellow roses has been placed on his grave. I leave them just as they are as I put my own flowers, soft white roses, set in baby’s breath, in front of his headstone.

  I sit there for a moment and think about Clara. And about Noah. And of course about Angela, who’s still in custody in a psychiatric unit. She’s not yet fit for trial. She still refuses to talk except to ask where I am.

  I changed my mind; I haven’t been brave enough to see her yet. Or maybe it’s just that I’m too angry to see her, knowing what she tried to take from me. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to see her again.

  I’ve met her ex-husband, though. Peter. A nice man. A caring man. A man who blames himself for not doing more back then. As if it were his fault for not doing more to get her help.

  He’s gone on to have two more children – two daughters – both grown women with children of their own now. But when we talked and he told me about Noah and that devastating heartbreak, he looked broken.

  ‘It was more than she could bear. It was more than anyone should have to bear. To lose her baby and, well, to lose her womb, too. All she ever wanted was to be a mother.’

  ‘She was a good mother,’ I said wryly, because she had been, until it had all gone so horrifically wrong.

  ‘I think she could’ve taken one loss, but there were so many. Noah was the last in a long line. Maybe she would’ve been able to live with losing him if it hadn’t been for the others,’ he said. ‘We really thought he’d make it. He’d got so far along. Much further than the others, even … even our daughter.’

  ‘You lost a daughter?’

  No one had mentioned this to me before. Yes, I knew there were other losses, but I’d never been told any details. Assumed they’d all been early miscarriages.

  Peter had looked uncomfortable. ‘A little girl. At five months. Just the year before Noah. She didn’t have a chance. Louise wouldn’t even talk about her. Refused to. She fell pregnant with Noah so quickly afterwards that she said she was sure that this baby would be God’s way of making up for the heartache of losing our little girl. She had always, always longed for a daughter.’

  I had wept with him. Walked away stunned. Horrified. Overwhelmed with all the emotions.

  It’s taken me a further two months to find the strength to come here.

  A tear rolls down my cheek, landing squarely on Clara’s soft downy hair as I trace the second name on the small white headstone: Eliana Barr, Born Sleeping.

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost I must thank my editor Phoebe Morgan, whose guidance and insight has turned a challenging first draft into a finished article I’m proud of, and whose belief in me – and willingness to challenge me to move outside of my comfort zone at times – has meant the world.

  In addition, the entire team at Avon Books have made me feel so welcome and I am eternally grateful for all the hard work they have done on my behalf. In particular, thank you to Sabah, Elke, Dom and Anna. I owe you all more chocolate.

  Thanks to Claire Pickering, whose all-seeing eye during copy-edits smoothed all the rough edges. Apologies for all the Northern Irish turns of phrase which make no sense to anyone elsewhere in the world!

  Thanks also to Mary, Tony, Eoin and Ciara – the brilliant team at HarperCollins Ireland who held my hand through the launch of Her Name Was Rose and helped me enjoy my moments in the sun.

  And to the HarperCollins teams around the world who have championed Her Name Was Rose and who will hopefully champion this book just as much!

  As always, my thanks goes to my agent Ger Nichol who is my first sounding board, my cheerleader and my friend. I am lucky to have had you on my side for the last twelve years.

  Writing is a solitary business, but it’s also conversely a very supportive one and I’m blessed with some truly wonderful author friends who make me feel a little less alone in my madness.

  Thanks to all of you who came out and supported Her Name Was Rose, saying exceptionally kind things.

  Special thanks go to Margaret Scott, Caroline Finnerty, Anstey Harris, John Marrs, Louise Beech, Cally Taylor, Brian McGilloway, Marian Keyes and Liz Nugent.

  The most special thanks of all goes to my beta-reader, my friend and my soul sister Fionnuala Kearney who has taken every step of this journey with me.

  Thanks to all the booksellers who have supported my books, with special mention to David Torrans of No Alibis in Belfast, and Jenni Doherty of Little Acorns in Derry. Also to the brilliant booksellers in Eason, Waterstones, Dubray and Argosy. And to librarians everywhere, but most especially at the Central Library in Derry.

  Thank you to all the bloggers, reviewers and journalists who have given me the time of day and lovely reviews. With special love for Margaret Bonass Madden, who has been championing my work for many years.

  Sincere thanks to Ruth Underdown, Sarah Rushton, Laura Hopwood and Katherine Lawson who provided information on end of life care. Any mistakes are entirely of my own making.

  Writing over the last couple of years has brought a lot of things into focus in my life – not least the importance of having a good ‘tribe’ on your side. To you who pick me up when I (frequently) fall down, thank you.

  Especially Vicki, Erin, Catherine, Carey-Ann, Sandra, Marie-Louise and Bernie. You ladies show what it’s like when women support women in the best way possible.

  And to my ‘stunt hand’ and road-trip partner who just understands, Julie-Anne – you are shaping up to be a first rate ‘herself’.

  My family as always, Mum, Dad, Lisa, Peter, Emma – assorted nieces and nephews and in-laws, thank you with all my heart. To Auntie Raine and Mimi who have provided practical and emotional support.

  To
my long-suffering and mostly understanding husband and children – thank you for letting me live my dream. I owe you a holiday and then some.

  And to all my readers, and all those lovely Twitter friends of mine. I will never be able to adequately express my gratitude.

  Finally, while this book was being written I lost one of my greatest champions. My granny, Mary McGuinness, who had been so incredibly proud to have an author in the family, whose love of reading rubbed off on me and who came to every launch and event with a proud smile. You will be missed always, but forgotten never. This book is for you.

  Read on for an extract of Claire’s first thriller:

  Her Name Was Rose

  Chapter One

  It should have been me. I should have been the one who was tossed in the air by the impact of a car that didn’t stop. ‘Like a ragdoll,’ the papers said.

  I had seen it. She wasn’t like a ragdoll. A ragdoll is soft, malleable even. This impact was not soft. There were no cushions. No graceful flight through the air. No softness.

  There was a scream of ‘look out!’ followed by the crunch of metal on flesh, on muscle, on bone, the squeal of tyres on tarmac, the screams of onlookers – disjointed words, tumbling together. The thump of my heart. A crying baby. At least the baby was crying. At least the baby was okay. The roar of the engine, screaming in too low a gear as the car sped off. Footsteps, thundering, running into the road. Cars screeching to a halt as they came across the scene.

  But it was the silence – amid all the noise – that was the loudest. Not a scream. Not a cry. Not a last gasp of breath. Just silence and stillness, and I swore she was looking at me. Accusing me. Blaming me.

  I couldn’t tear my gaze away. I stood there as people around me swarmed to help her, not realising or accepting that she was beyond help. To lift the baby. To comfort him. To call an ambulance. To look in the direction in which the car sped off. Was it black? Not navy? Not dark grey? It was dirty. Tinted windows. Southern reg, maybe. It was hard to tell – muddied as it was so that the letters and numbers were obscured. No one got a picture of the car – but one man was filming the woman bleeding onto the street. He’d try and sell it to the newspapers later, or post it on Facebook. Because people would ‘like’ it. A child, perhaps eight years old, was screaming. Her cries piercing through all else. Her mother bundled her into her arms, hiding her eyes from the scene. But it was too late. What has been seen cannot be unseen. People around me did what needed to be done. But I just stood there – staring at her while she stared at me.