The Liar's Daughter

by Claire Allan

  Stella asked me this morning if I thought I should tell people the truth of what happened when I was younger. I shook my head. What good would it do people to know now? It can’t be changed, I’d thought.

  ‘But at least they, including your mum and Kathleen, might stop talking about him as if he is some saint. That must be hard for you,’ she said as she buttered some toast for me – still intent on pampering me after the previous night’s revelations.

  ‘Causing them pain won’t make any of this easier for me,’ I’d said.

  They can’t confront him. They can’t make him face justice. But I suppose he faced justice the night he died. He had no doubt experienced fear and terror and pain. He had known what it was like to be helpless. To be weak and vulnerable.

  Karma had come full circle, I suppose.

  ‘Do you think you should tell the police?’ she had probed gently.

  I’d shrugged. ‘Why? It’s not like they can arrest him.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But it might help them understand why someone killed him.’

  She’d looked away, stared out of the kitchen window. It dawned on me that my revelation had given me a very strong motive for wanting him dead.

  ‘You don’t think it was me, do you?’ I’d asked.

  ‘It would be understandable if it was,’ she’d said in a quiet voice.

  I took a deep breath and steadied myself to admit the one thing that I’d not been able to say out loud before.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ I said. ‘But I wish it was. From the bottom of my heart, I wish it had been me.’

  Stella turned to face me, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. ‘I’m glad it wasn’t,’ she said slowly, deliberately, ‘but I would’ve supported you if it was.’

  I nodded, my face blazing again. I could not speak.

  She sat down beside me and took my hand. ‘Can I ask something else?’

  I nodded once more.

  ‘If he hurt you, do you think he could’ve hurt her, too?’

  ‘Who? Heidi?’

  I thought of how she hated him. How she always seemed to hate him. How I always thought it was because he was intrinsically linked in her mind to the death of her mother. I might’ve given it a passing thought in the past, but to be honest I’d done my best not to think about Heidi at all over the last ten years. But I knew she had never left his side, even as she grew up. They had never become estranged. Not like me. She still visited him. She may not have loved him, or even liked him, but she felt a duty of care to him and she acted on that. Would she have done that if he had hurt her in the same way?

  But then I think of how messed up I was. How confused I had been about what love meant, and care and family. I think of how many times I’d told her no one else wanted her. That she was alone. That she’d be better off dead. My face blazed at the memory. I had been such a vindictive bitch. Even when I was old enough to know better.

  I had goaded her through her life, and even when I came back to see Joe at her behest, I had still been unable to resist goading her. Acting like a child. Breaking that stupid doll.

  And all the time refusing to acknowledge that she could be hurt, too. That she might have endured some of what I had. Except he had left me, hadn’t he? He stayed with Heidi. From the moment her mother had died when she was nine and a half, he had been a constant. He must have thought he had died and gone to heaven, I think, and my stomach tightens and turns and guilt and fear wash over me.

  We’d both been guilty. My father and I, of destroying her.

  I could no longer look at the breakfast I’d been eating. I could no longer think beyond Stella’s words. Had I been so wrapped up in my own pain that I’d failed to see what was most likely going on under my nose? If I had spoken up all those years ago, could I have stopped him from hurting her?

  I’d turned all the hate and hurt I felt for him towards her. And that, ultimately, makes me complicit in his crimes.

  If she was pushed to put a pillow over his head and end his life, then I was as guilty as if I had handed her the pillow myself.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Ciara

  Then

  I told someone once. A school friend. Someone I thought I could really trust. Someone I was sure would understand.

  I think I was maybe sixteen or seventeen. Going through one of my rebellious phases. Dying my hair (and my scalp) jet black with cheap home hair dye. Wearing too much eyeliner and lipstick much too dark for my complexion. Rolling my eyes and swearing when my mum asked where I was going and when I would be home.

  Talking back. Stealing from her purse. Enough for a carryout from the offie. A three-litre bottle of the cheapest, most disgusting cider money could buy. I’d pool my resources with the people I regarded as friends, so we had enough to get pissed and have enough cheap cigarettes to smoke ourselves hoarse.

  We weren’t original in our rebellion. We joined the other underage drinkers up on Derry’s historic walls, sitting on benches or on the cold cobbles and smoking and drinking into the wee hours. Being rowdy. Making what my mother would call a ‘holy show’ of ourselves.

  There was always someone to ‘get off’ with, too – and that was part of the rebellion. Random, meaningless sex acts that fulfilled some sort of need, I suppose. That was before I admitted that boys were not my thing – before I realised that sex didn’t always have to feel shameful, intrusive and wrong.

  When we were suitably pissed, and sated from our teenage fumbling, we would have those big philosophical discussions that only really seem very important at two in the morning when the rest of the world has gone quiet. We’d say things we’d never say in the light of day. Things it seemed easier to say under the soft cover of the stars.

  Jude. That was her name. Short for Judith. She was shorter than I was, but her presence was larger. Everyone wanted to be Jude’s friend, and when you were in her company she had a way of making you feel like the most important person in the world.

  Unlike me, she could apply her winged eyeliner perfectly and her blood-red lipstick never found its way onto her teeth. She could drink an entire bottle of cider without having the need to throw up, or find a quiet place to have a pee.

  But as well as being, seemingly effortlessly, cool, she was also a good listener. She showed a maturity beyond her years and it’s fair to say I hero-worshipped her. In hindsight, she was probably my first girl crush.

  So I’d found myself worse for wear one night, having one of our deep and meaningful conversations sometime after 1 a.m., when I told her what I didn’t dare tell anyone else.

  I’m not sure what I expected. Perhaps a hug. Perhaps she would cry and tell me she was sorry something so awful happened to me. Perhaps she would offer to come with me to the police. Perhaps she would just understand.

  Instead, I saw a look of disgust on her face. Maybe even disbelief. I can still see her now, dragging on her cigarette before dropping it and grinding it into the ground under one of her trendy ox-blood DM boots.

  ‘That’s really fucking serious, Ciara,’ she’d said, shaking her head.

  I waited to see what she would follow it up with.

  She’d simply shaken her head and walked away. I was left not knowing what I’d done wrong. Wondering if she thought it was my fault. Feeling like I was dirty and horrible all over again.

  Jude kept her distance after that. Slowly but surely I was sidelined from her group, from my ‘tribe’ of so-called friends who drank on the Walls. I was too damaged even for society’s misfits.

  I promised myself then that I’d never tell anyone again. And yet, I’d told Stella and the world hadn’t ended. Now I owed it to Heidi to tell her, too.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Ciara

  Now

  I’m nervous standing here, outside the house at Aberfoyle Crescent, waiting for Heidi to arrive, to discuss what happens next.

  Like her, I now just want to get this all over and done with. I want the past put in the past. So much
makes sense now that didn’t before.

  I’m not sure how I’ll look her in the face when she arrives. I can feel my palms sweating, despite the biting cold. I don’t want to be back in this house at all. I can’t imagine how Heidi has kept coming here, kept facing her trauma over and over again. If it wasn’t for my mother and Kathleen badgering me to make sure they had access to Dad’s things, I’d have been happy never to come here again.

  The house is icy, unwelcoming. No one has put any heating on in here in days and the temperature hasn’t taken its time to drop, cold and damp settling into the very fabric of the building. The big clock in the hall still ticks loudly. I can just hear the low hum of the fridge, but aside from that the house is silent.

  I can feel it, though, for the first time. The badness of this place that gave Stella the creeps. I’d assumed she’d felt my pain, but it was possible much worse had happened here.

  I see a picture of Natalie, a slightly older version of the woman Heidi has become, smile down from the wall. I wonder if I should’ve given Natalie more of a chance. For the two years she’d been in my life I’d treated her with nothing but absolute disdain. I’d hated her, although all she ever did was be kind to me. She was soft-spoken, like Heidi. Meek. Unaware of her own beauty. She’d try to engage with me, even when she was ill. Even when it was clear she was dying. I turned my back on her every time.

  She’d tell me she understood. It must be hard for me, she’d say. I remember her saying that, sitting in the armchair in the living room, little more than a bag of bones. Her face grey, her eyes sunken. I remember her hands, long bony fingers. Bruises on the back of her hand, livid blue-and-green. Specks of blood from cannula sites. Her fingernails were still painted the palest pink. A pink I’d have asked her about if I hadn’t hated her so much. The faintest wisp of hair escaped from a pale lilac headscarf.

  What a bitch I’d been not to give her a chance, even when it was clear that she didn’t have much time left.

  The same chair still sits in the living room. I can almost conjure her image in it. I wish I could talk to her now. Apologise for how I’d been with her. Apologise for not protecting her daughter.

  I’m so lost in my memories that I jump when I hear the key turn in the lock behind me. Heidi walks in, carrying a sleeping Lily in her car seat and that ever-present changing bag. She huffs and puffs as she puts the seat down and wriggles out of her puffy jacket. Of course as soon as she puts the jacket down she shivers, wraps her mustard scarf around her neck more tightly. She looks unwell, the colour of the scarf draining her pale skin. There are dark rings under her eyes. I think of her mother again, or how alike they look, my stomach twisting.

  ‘Well,’ she says brusquely, ‘you wanted me to meet you here and here I am.’

  She looks nervous, fidgety. She clearly doesn’t want to be here. I’m tempted to tell her she’s not the only one.

  I feel awkward now. Lumpen and heavy. Misplaced.

  ‘I’m not sure what your plans are for the house,’ I start.

  ‘Estate agents will be out at the start of next week to value it and get it on the market,’ she says, looking around as if she’s seeing it for the first time. Looking anywhere as long as it isn’t at me.

  I swallow. ‘We’ll do our best to sort through his things. As quickly as we can. Get out of your hair. I know Kathleen wants some things. The police said they’ve all the stuff they need, so there’s nothing stopping us from getting on with it.’

  ‘Take whatever you want,’ she interrupts, her voice cold. She delves into her jeans pocket and pulls out a sheet of paper, folded in two. ‘Those are the only items I want from here – anything else is yours if you want it. Once you’ve had your pick, I’ll get someone in to do a house clearance. Dump or sell all the other stuff. I’ll sort through the junk in my old bedroom too, but there’s little I want from there. Probably my dolls – you know, for Lily. Of course, someone smashed Scarlett.’

  She looks at me for the first time that day. She is accusing me. Suddenly it’s as if I’m fourteen again and this precocious nine-year-old with the awful haircut is looking up at me, looking so needy and pathetic and wrapped up in her own selfish world.

  I blush purple. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, the words sticking in my throat. I am mortified. ‘So very sorry. I was a bitch. I’m such a bitch. I was just angry and hurt and wanted to hit out at someone or something …’

  ‘At me,’ she says, glaring at me. ‘You wanted to hit out at me. You’ve always wanted to hit out at me. For whatever I did to you. I thought we might be past it now, but the last few days … nothing has changed, has it? You’ve not changed. You’ve not matured. You’re as spiteful and manipulative as you ever were. You’re still all about playing mind games.’

  ‘I broke the doll and I’m sorry for that. I really am. But I’ve not been playing any games. Not this time. Look,’ I say, ‘I just want to get this over with as much as you do. Can we just do that? There’s been enough hurt.’

  ‘Really? We’ve finally reached a limit? Good to know after all these years we’ve crossed that hallowed threshold. We just needed to blame missing prayer books on me, talk about me behind my back to my husband and have my mother’s grave opened against my wishes.’

  Her eyes are flashing with anger, her voice harsh. Lily is starting to stir in her chair, no doubt disturbed by the angry tone of her mother.

  ‘Heidi, the prayer book was in your bag. I found it there. I didn’t disregard your wishes. I didn’t know them. Everything was so messed up. I’ve apologised for breaking your doll. If I could turn back time … And yes, I’ve talked about you behind your back, but I’m sure you’ve said a few choice words too, about me.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Why are you lying? Why do you keep lying? Why can’t you just admit it was you who killed him and you’ve been doing everything in your power to point the finger of blame at me since?’

  I see her body tense, her hands ball into fists. I fear she won’t stop herself from lashing out this time.

  Before I know it she is lunging at me, pushing me as hard and fast as she can against the wall. My back hits the plasterwork first, my head second – a sickening thud, the force of which causes me to bite into my tongue. I taste blood, feel my legs buckle. I try to centre myself, looking up to see her glaring at me, a fist raised, poised to come at me. I lift my hands, block her assault. Scream at her to stop.

  She lashes out again, furiously. I can see she is crying.

  ‘You’re making everyone think I’m mad. You’re turning my own husband against me. You have to stop! You have to stop!’

  I can see years of pain on her face and I almost, almost, want to lower my hands and let her take out her rage on me. I deserve it. I could have saved her even if I didn’t save myself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I blurt through my tears. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. He hurt me too, Heidi, he hurt me too!’

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Heidi

  Now

  ‘He hurt me too.’ Ciara’s words cut through the noise. They cut through the thumping in my heart and the rush of blood through my veins. They cut through Lily’s crying. They cut through my anger and pain.

  I hear them and immediately I freeze. I register their meaning. I stop, drop the hand that was in mid-flight to my side. My anger seeping from me, through my feet, through the floor, leaving as quickly as it arrived.

  ‘He hurt me too,’ she’d said again. It is enough to change everything.

  I look at her. At the expression on her face. For the first time, I see the same pain in her eyes that I see in my own every time I look in the mirror. Even when I think I’m happy. Even when I think I have it sussed and when I think I’m finally ‘over it’. My eyes tell a different story.

  Seeing Ciara now, the look on her face, I know she feels it, too. The pain, the betrayal, the hurt and the shame.

  My arms are like lead weights. Ciara is crying now. Gulping lungfuls of air. Lil
y is still howling. It’s only the sharpness of her cry that forces me to move, to turn from Ciara and focus on the tiny child who needs me. The innocent baby.

  My girl.

  My precious little girl.

  I could never have allowed him to hurt her, you see.

  When she was born, everything I’d thought I’d pushed to the back of my mind about Joe and what he’d done came back. And with it came such a primal sense of needing to protect my daughter, I vowed to distance myself even further from Joe McKee.

  And then he became sick and it all seemed as though karma was finally catching up with him. But it trapped me. No one would understand if I walked away from a dying man, but I’d rather have died myself than tell people what I’d endured. They’d never understand. I doubted they would even believe me. Joe was regarded so highly, and I was always regarded as a strange one, a misfit, the girl who was a bit ‘mad in the head’.

  They’d never understand that it was more complicated than it ever appears in the movies. Mind games and manipulation. A destroyed sense of self. I had clung on to ‘love’ as twisted and as damaging as it was. I’d almost persuaded myself it had never happened. Until Lily was born. Until I woke up.

  I’m aware of Ciara slumping to the floor behind me as I lift my baby and rock her to me. Hold her close and soothe her. Centre myself as she fusses. She’s hungry. Her physical need reminds me I need to be present.

  I lower myself to the floor and bring Lily to my chest. She quiets as she starts to feed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ciara says. ‘I’m sorry for everything. For what I said. Or didn’t say. I’m right, aren’t I? He hurt you.’

  I nod, a teardrop plopping onto Lily’s soft hair. It all seems so sad.

  ‘If I’d spoken up, maybe, just maybe …’

  I can’t speak.