The solitary figure would have unnerved her once, but she didn’t care any more. Come and get me if you dare. You can’t hurt me. I’m already destroyed.
The figure darted behind a tree, as though he’d heard her thoughts.
‘Who are you?’ she called, her words trapped behind the triple-glazed glass. Without a second thought, she raced to the kitchen and picked up a carving knife. ‘Right, you bastard,’ she whispered, heading for the patio door, and throwing it open. ‘It’s time someone paid.’
She stood for some moments, her robe dancing about her ankles in the wind, her eyes skittering around the area, knife clenched in her hand. ‘What the hell do you want?’
A silent figure peered from behind the tree. It was too dark to make out his features.
‘I’ve got a knife,’ she yelled, raising it like a warrior. ‘And I’m not afraid to use it.’
‘I just want to talk,’ a voice called back. He sounded young, a teenager perhaps. ‘Wanted to find out who’d moved in.’
‘Come here then.’ She clenched the knife tighter, but as he approached and stepped into the light, she knew she wouldn’t use it. He was just a child, no more than twelve – scruffy and unkempt, his dark hair tangled, his face grey with grime.
‘Dillon O’Brian,’ he said, hands deep in the pockets of grubby jeans. ‘That’s me name, case you was wondering.’
She looked into the woods. ‘Where do you live?’
He took his hands from his pockets and pointed eastwards. ‘Lough End Farm, with me ma and da, and Bridie and Caitlin.’ He was Irish, his accent thicker than her own, and his green eyes looked dull and vacant.
Laura remembered the farm from her childhood. It had stood empty for years – was empty when she set off for university. ‘When did you move in?’ she asked.
‘Almost two years now.’ He sniffed, and wiped his cuff across his nose. ‘Bridie’s a year old, Caitlin’s two months. They cry a lot.’
She placed the knife on the patio table, keeping her eyes on the lad, who nibbled at his thumbnail and scraped his heavy boots through the leaves and twigs.
‘So you want to talk,’ she said.
‘I do. Yeah.’
‘About?’
He shrugged. ‘I just …’ He stopped, screwing up his nose, and nodding towards the house. ‘Did you know the couple who lived here?’
She nodded.
‘They would tell me to piss off if I came up this end of the woods. They thought they owned it, but I told ’em they can’t own a fecking wood.’ He kicked a stone, and it flew up and hit the patio table, the clatter echoing into the darkness.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘But they thought they could do what they liked.’
‘How did you know them?’
‘They were my parents.’
‘Christ! I thought I had it bad.’ His face broke into a smile as he glanced towards an owl on a branch of a high tree, its eyes wide and haunting, and then he looked back at Laura.
‘I’m Laura,’ she said. ‘Do you want a glass of lemonade or something?’ And deciding the boy could do with a treat she added, ‘I’ve got chocolate biscuits.’
He shook his head. ‘I should get back before Da notices I’m gone. Ma always says he’ll beat the shite out of me if I’m too long.’
‘Surely not.’
He shrugged. ‘He hasn’t yet, but I ain’t risking it. Listen, can I come by again some time? Would you mind?’
She smiled. It would be good to have the company. She was already feeling the isolation of the place. ‘I’d like that,’ she said.
‘Grand,’ he said, and took off, small and wiry, zigzagging through the trees.
Chapter 9
February 2018
I hated Sundays as a child. The thought of school the following day meant my hours at home were ruined, whatever we did. If I’d had my way, I would have stayed with my mother every day, watching her paint.
Sometimes, although never in depth, she would talk about her parents. ‘We were never close,’ she told me once, touching my cheek. ‘Not like us, Rachel – we’re different. It’s you and me against the world.’
‘I love you, Mum,’ I would say.
‘Love you more,’ she would reply, as I leant my head on her knee.
If I was honest, I wasn’t a fan of Sundays even now, especially today. Grace would be with Lawrence until six o’clock, and I had nothing planned. Plus I was woozy and fatigued from drinking too much. And with the weird things that had been happening, it really did have all the hallmarks of being a pretty rotten Sunday.
Needing someone to talk to, I’d messaged Zoe and Angela at four in the morning. Why I thought they’d be awake, I had no idea. But now the sun was up, its rays streaming through the kitchen window, and they still hadn’t replied – I thought maybe they were miffed I’d disturbed their sleep.
Lawrence hadn’t replied to my stroppy text either. Had Farrah deleted it, or perhaps suggested he shouldn’t respond to his crazy ex?
Nibbling on a piece of dry toast, swallowing it down with sweet tea and painkillers, promising myself I would never drink again, I stared, trancelike, out of the kitchen window. My eyes fell on the summerhouse where I worked most weekday mornings, and I wondered what right I had to offer psychological help to others when I couldn’t seem to manage my own life at the moment. Tomorrow, Emmy would arrive on her morning off from the TV studio, and I wasn’t even sure I could face her.
Perhaps I should move out of Finsbury Park – start again somewhere new.
We’d moved nearer to central London when I worked in Kensington, and Lawrence worked in the finance district as a Software Development Engineer. Later, when he suggested we didn’t need my salary, and I could be a stay-at-home mum, I’d had no objections. I adored spending time with Grace – being a mum. But after a while I missed working. So, over-riding Lawrence’s objections at the time, I set up a business from home to fit around Grace.
I stared down at my phone. I hadn’t opened the message from Ronan Murphy, convinced that if I did, whoever had sent me the request would know I’d looked at it. But now I needed to know.
I grabbed my phone, and opened the message, my hand trembling. Just two lonely words:
Hi, Rachel.
I tapped the screen:
Who is this?
Seconds later an attachment flew into my inbox. I opened it, heart thumping, oblivious to any thought it might hold a virus. It was a photograph of a pretty, pale pink cottage, with roses around the door. At the foot of the photograph were the words: Evermore Farmhouse, followed by an address in County Sligo.
‘For God’s sake,’ I whispered. What the hell’s going on?
Within moments I was Googling Ronan Murphy, adding the name of the insurance company, followed by the name of the farmhouse. Then I tried keying his name into LinkedIn, Instagram, and Twitter. But as with David Green, it was impossible to find him.
By nine o’clock, I felt calmer, and the painkillers had kicked in. I’d showered, pulled on leggings and a long, baggy jumper that touched my knees, and attempted to do something with my hair, which needed cutting badly.
My phone pinged. It was Angela.
Oh, sweetie. Do you want me to come round? X
I didn’t. The desperate need for a friend in the small hours had vanished.
Maybe later. Thank you X
A red heart appeared on the screen, along with a row of kisses. At least I had friends I could rely on.
Phone in my hand, I brought up Lawrence’s number. Should I call him? Ask to speak to Grace? I stopped myself. I was still fuming about Farrah, and the last thing I wanted to do was upset my daughter. Instead I rose and took the stairs two at a time, deciding to distract myself by clearing out my wardrobe. De-cluttering and filling a bag for charity would make me feel better, I felt sure of it.
I’d been working for about an hour when the doorbell rang. I raced downstairs to see a large envelope on the doormat. I reached to pick it up
.
It was addressed to me.
Inside was a canvas, folded twice. The painting was in my mother’s unique style, although unsigned. But it was ruined. Flakes of dried paint lay in its creases, and splodges of black filled the pale blue sky – a childlike attempt at clouds, perhaps. I tipped the envelope upside down, but there was no letter – no clue who sent it.
But I recognised the farmhouse immediately. It was same as the one in the photograph from Ronan Murphy earlier, although the building in the painting looked run-down. Had Ronan Murphy posted it through my door? Was it by my mother?
I flung open the front door, and looked up and down the road. Two cars – a red and a black – were indicating to turn left at the end of the road, and a white van was travelling in the other direction. A young couple stood at the bus stop, and a man with a briefcase hurried along the pavement. I had no way of telling who had delivered the letter.
I slammed the door and leaned my back against it. When had my mother painted this strange painting?
I hadn’t seen all of my mum’s work – many of her paintings were sold when I was young – but as I looked at the picture of the farmhouse, something stirred inside me. I’d seen a similar painting before in a pile I’d brought from Mum’s house in Suffolk, when I’d collected things she’d needed in the care home. I’d intended to hang some – but they’d ended up propped up in the corner of the lounge for ages, and later been transferred to the loft.
I dashed upstairs, pulled down the loft ladder, and looked up, my stomach tipping. There were so many memories up there. Would it be upsetting to start wading through my childhood memorabilia, or souvenirs of happier times with Lawrence? I took a deep breath and climbed the metal steps. I would look at the paintings and come straight back down.
It smelt musty, and always felt odd in the attic, as I shared the space with Angela. No divide had been put up when the house was built, and although Lawrence had said he would sort it out, he never had.
The light illuminated twenty or so boxes crammed in our section, whereas Angela’s side was almost empty. Just a pile of books – mainly medical – a holdall, and somehow Mum’s pictures were leaning against her back wall. I hadn’t been up there for so long, I could only think Lawrence must have moved them when he was trying to sort things out, and forgot to put them back.
I clambered over the boxes, and knelt down in front of the paintings. There was a stunning painting of Southwold’s brightly coloured beach huts; one of the remains of Greyfriars Priory in Dunwich, the sky intense grey, as though it might start to rain; another depicting a fish and chip shop in Aldeburgh, a queue of people waiting – and I could almost taste the chips with lashings of salt and vinegar. They were all studies of where we’d visited when I was a child. Despite never travelling far from home – I never went abroad as a child – my mother loved Suffolk.
And then I saw it: a painting of the same farmhouse – but this time four children stood outside, three girls and an older boy. A memory fluttered. I knew this house. I’d been inside it, could smell the damp, the cigarette smoke, and what was that? Bleach? I dropped the painting, a surge of fear filling my senses.
Something terrible had happened there.
I rose, suddenly breathless, and clambered my way across the loft, knocking my knee against one of the boxes and letting out a cry, almost falling.
By the hatch I saw a box marked ‘Rachel’s Childhood’. Mum had given it to me many years ago, and despite knowing I needed to get out of the loft, the temptation was too much. I lifted the lid, and began rummaging.
I picked up a naked, tangle-haired Barbie. I’d had all her accessories too – although I hadn’t wanted them that much. I’d been happiest with a football or a cricket bat, but a friend had a Barbie so I’d asked for one too. I continued to rummage through the fluffy toys that had once lined my bed, and found a game of Monopoly. I smiled at a memory of Mum and I playing. She’d joked that she’d wanted to buy Whitechapel and Old Kent Road to do them up, but I’d bought Mayfair and Park Lane, putting paid to her renovating ideas.
‘Mr Snookum?’ I whispered, nearing the bottom, and spotting his soft body. I lifted the toy rabbit out, and adjusted his waistcoat, before placing him against my nose, and breathing deeply.
And then it hit me.
Mum had him when I last visited. She’d tucked him under her duvet. How the hell had he got back into my loft?
I put him back in the box and snapped the lid shut, before climbing down the metal steps, my heart thudding.
Once downstairs, I put on my thick socks and boots and grabbed my parka, shoving the painting that had arrived earlier into my pocket.
I scooped up my car keys from the plate near the door. I knew I had to visit Mum.
Chapter 10
July 1987
Laura dangled her feet in the lake, the hot sun stroking her neck. The house her father built stood behind her as though determined to cast its shadow over her.
But it was a beautiful day, and the sun’s rays danced on the water like shimmering diamonds. Anglers on the banks in the far distance looked like tiny dolls set up by a child. A sailboat glided across the lake, carried by the breeze.
Laura nibbled on a blade of grass, as she gazed through her sunglasses, her corduroy maternity dungarees tight across her stomach.
The jerking movements of her unborn child brought her out of her trance. She touched her stomach, but instead of how she’d hoped she might feel by now – amazed and bewildered by the miracle growing inside her – it was as though she was carrying an alien. An alien that reminded her daily that Jude let her down.
Seven months she’d carried the little stranger, and now she’d stopped hoping Jude would call. She’d accepted he never would, and any love she’d first felt for their unborn child had been replaced with fear. Thoughts of moving away, starting a new life, were a distant memory. She hadn’t got the strength to move on – not right now. Perhaps she should have told her GP she dreaded the birth of her child. But how do you explain something so awful? How do you say those words?
She clung to the rapidly fading glimmer of hope that maybe, when she held her child in her arms, her motherly instincts would kick in. Burst through and outweigh anything she’d ever felt for Jude. Maybe their baby would become the love of her life, and together they would start a new life somewhere else.
Twigs snapped behind her. She turned, but there was nothing to see. She knew it was Dillon. She’d seen him several times over the past few months, when they would drink lemonade and talk. She had learnt not to ask too many questions about his home life because each time she had, he’d clouded over and clammed up.
He was an imaginative, animated boy, lighting up as he described the monster in the lake, and the werewolves in the woods – giving Laura’s life a much-needed magical boost. He’d been flattering too – telling her he could talk to her more easily than he could to anyone else. And he’d loved her paintings.
Laura had enjoyed painting since childhood, and despite dropping out of university, she’d loved studying art. And now painting had become her go-to – her escapism from her grief and isolation.
‘They’re fecking brilliant,’ he’d said, scanning her walls. (They’d taken ages to put up – a rebellious act against her parents.) ‘Maybe you could paint one of me and me sisters?’
‘One day,’ she’d said.
‘Dillon,’ she called now, her gaze skimming over the cluster of trees, blinking as a beam of sunlight hurt her eyes. ‘Is that you?’
The sun drifted behind a fluffy white cloud, and Laura pulled on her cardigan and shivered. ‘Dillon, don’t be silly,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Come and talk to me.’
He appeared on the bank behind her, and she patted the ground moaning as she twisted her baby bump, a twinge crossing her stomach. ‘Sit with me,’ she said, and he ran and dropped down beside her, stretching out as the sun crept out once more – his hands behind his head like a pillow, and eyes closed.
‘Did you know the mayfly only lives twenty-four hours?’ he said.
‘I did not know that,’ she said with a smile.
‘And did you know the dragonfly doesn’t bite or sting? Although it looks pretty scary.’ He pulled himself to a sitting position, and she noticed his eyes were bloodshot and red.
‘Are you OK, Dillon?’
‘Yep, course. Why?’ He avoided her gaze.
She placed her hand on his arm. ‘You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?’
‘I said, I’m fine.’ He pushed her hand away. ‘Don’t go all soft on me, Laura.’
‘OK, sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy. So tell me more about the dragonfly.’
He rubbed his face hard, and his eyes shimmered. She wanted to ask again if he was OK, but felt it might scare him away.
‘Did you know fox pups stay with their parents until they’re seven months old? They make great parents. I like foxes. I often see one out here.’
‘You’re so clever. How do you know all this stuff?’
He shrugged, and turned to look at her, eyes serious.
‘What is it, Dillon? Please tell me.’
‘I can’t. If he knew …’
‘Who knew?’
He dropped his head, fiddling with his fingers. ‘You have to promise on your baby’s life you won’t say anything.’
‘OK.’
‘It’s just … sometimes I find my sister Bridie in the cupboard. I hear her sobbing sometimes because it’s dark in there, and she can’t get out. Ma has the key.’
‘Oh my God, Dillon,’ she said, her heartbeat speeding up.
‘Ma says me da puts her in there before he heads off to work, as a punishment. And ma says she daren’t get her out because he’d go mad, and hit her.’ He paused, now picking at a scab on his knee. ‘But Bridie’s only little, Laura.’ The scab came away in his fingers, and blood trickled. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me da. He’s always been a bit of a shouter, but now it’s as if the divil’s gotten into him.’
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