Tell the Truth

by Amanda Brittany

  A knock on my side window, before I could press down on the throttle, startled me. It was Margo, huddled into a tartan coat, a scarf wrapped around her neck and half her face. I lowered the window, and a burst of cold air numbered my face.

  ‘Are you coming in, dear?’ she said, her voice muffled through her scarf.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said, with a sniff. Surely she knew how difficult it was for me.

  ‘I know how hard it is for you, Miss Hogan,’ she said as though she’d heard my thoughts, leaning in through the window. ‘But your mother so enjoys your visits, even if she doesn’t always seem to.’

  Didn’t she know my mother was dead? She’d just arrived for work. Maybe she hadn’t heard.

  I got out of the car. If we walked in together, perhaps it would be easier.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ she said, as we trudged through the snow towards the building, and she linked her arm through mine to steady herself.

  We reached the door, and I stopped and turned to her. She didn’t know. I needed to prepare her. ‘I’ve had a call from Martin Walker,’ I said. ‘And the thing is … the thing is … my mother died this morning.’

  ‘What? Oh, my dear girl, how awful.’ To my surprise, she took me in her arms and hugged me close. I didn’t pull away, needing the comfort. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea,’ she went on. ‘Your mother was an amazing woman. I got on famously with her.’

  Once inside, I stood by reception, waiting. Margo had zipped away to ‘find somebody to help’ and a chill ran down my spine. It felt as though I wasn’t in my own body – that this terrible experience was happening to someone else.

  My mind cruelly flicked back to the Christmas before last, when we stayed at Mum’s, and she was fit and well and seemed happy. Lawrence had been so affectionate back then; we were in love. Flashes of him helping Grace to open her presents, and Mum demanding to know how I’d made the delicious Christmas pudding we’d brought with us, and Lawrence giving away that it was shop-bought. So much happiness, so much laughter, so much normality. And now it was gone, and everything had plunged into chaos and darkness.

  ‘Miss Hogan?’ It was Martin’s wife, a skinny woman in a tartan kilt and white blouse. Her two-inch heels clipped the quarry tiles as she raced towards me, Margo trying to keep up in her soft shoes. ‘Margo tells me you’ve had a call from my husband.’ There was concern in her voice.

  ‘That’s right. About my mother.’

  ‘Well, he’s away at the moment, so it couldn’t have been him,’ she said, and now standing by my side, she placed her hand on my elbow.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Your mother is perfectly well, Miss Hogan. She’s in her room, painting.’

  I didn’t know if it was the shock or lack of food, but the room spun. I grabbed the reception counter, steadying myself. My mum’s alive? ‘I don’t understand,’ I repeated. Why would someone call me? Why would someone be so cruel? ‘I need to see her,’ I said desperately.

  I took a deep breath, and raced up the stairs, throwing open her door. She was sitting in a wing-backed chair looking out of the window, her easel close by, brush in hand.

  My eyes fell on her painting, and I held in a gasp. Clouds like cotton-wool balls dipped in blood dotted a vivid yellow sky. Sharp-edged, misshapen metal buildings grew up from emerald green grass.

  She turned and placed the brush on the pallet. ‘I thought you might be Jude,’ she said.

  ‘Jude?’

  She tapped her breastbone. ‘It’s gone, Rachel,’ she said.

  I approached, battling back tears. ‘What’s gone, Mum?’

  She screwed up her face, and shook her head, continuing to tap her neck. ‘Why can’t I remember?’ Words often teased her, reaching the tip of her tongue, before darting away. She closed her eyes, and opened them again. ‘It’s been taken.’

  ‘What has, Mum?’

  She tapped her breastbone again, the same puzzled look on her face. ‘The hanging thing.’

  ‘Your locket?’

  ‘Yes. With Rachel inside.’ She picked up her brush once more.

  ‘Who’s taken it, Mum?’

  She looked towards the ceiling, and shrugged.

  ‘Was it Margo?’ I asked. She was the only person I could think of, who Mum saw other than me.

  ‘I need to get it back.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘It’s very special.’

  ‘I know it is, Mum,’ I said, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  ‘And it’s been stolen.’

  ‘I’m sure nobody would take your things.’ I glanced around the room, then bent down to look under the bed, wondering if she’d dropped it. Straightening up again, I swept my eyes over her bedside cabinet where there was a photograph of me and a glass of water.

  ‘Well, it’s gone,’ she said, dipping her brush into the yellow paint, and turning away from me. ‘And so have my black shoes with the big gold buckles.’

  I dropped onto the bed, my head in my hands. To my knowledge, Mum had never owned a pair of black shoes with big gold buckles.

  Chapter 15

  February 2018

  ‘Oh God, Rachel, that’s awful.’

  Desperate to talk to Zoe, I’d pulled off the slippery Suffolk back roads into a lay-by, and called her. I blurted out what had happened as soon as I heard her voice.

  ‘And you’re sure it was a hoax call,’ she said now. ‘I mean what do you know about this Martin Walker?’

  ‘Well, nothing really – I’ve never met him. His name and photo are on the website, but it’s his wife who deals with everything. But it can’t be him, Zoe. Why would he do something like that? And the more I think about it, the more I keep thinking the bloke’s voice sounded familiar.’

  ‘You think you know him?’

  ‘Yes … no … oh, I don’t know.’ I sighed, looking out of the front window at the heavy snowflakes twisting and turning in the headlights. ‘And I thank God my mum’s still here, but I’m so worried about her. They told me to expect deterioration, but …’ My throat tightened.

  ‘She’s getting worse?’

  ‘Today, she’d painted a really odd picture – nothing like her usual work. It broke my heart to see it. Margo said it’s good for her to keep painting, but it’s awful to watch how her mind sees things now.’ I gripped the steering wheel, not wanting to cry again. ‘I’m sorry to burden you, Zoe. I just needed to talk, you know.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, hon. You know I’m here for you. In fact, how do you fancy a Chinese and a catch-up?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’d like that.’ I rummaged in my pocket for a tissue, and sniffed into it.

  ‘How about tomorrow night? We could go to the Red Dragon?’

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘I’ll book a table for seven-thirty, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, yes please. Thanks, Zoe, you know, for being there.’ I looked about me. I’d parked in a lonely spot, and my stomach tipped. I wasn’t normally bothered, but everything that had happened lately made me feel uneasy. I locked my doors with a clunk. ‘Listen, I’d better head for home. I said I’d pick Grace up from Angela’s at six, and it’s already gone five. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘OK, drive carefully, Rach. The roads are dreadful,’ she said, as I ended the call.

  Knowing it was unlikely I would get home by seven, let alone six, I texted Lawrence:

  I’m in Suffolk. Grace is with Angela. Any chance you could pick her up on your way home? I’ll collect her from yours.

  Next I texted Angela, keeping it brief. I would explain about my mum another time:

  Hey, Angela. Sorry to mess you about, I’m still in Suffolk. But I’ve asked Lawrence to pick up Grace. X

  She replied instantly:

  Please don’t worry. Grace is as good as gold. X

  I started my engine and skidded out of the lay-by onto the winding road, my wiper blades doing their best to combat the snow. My nerves were in tatters, as everything bounced around
my head, like tennis balls on acid.

  A rabbit darted out in front of me, and I let out a gasp and slammed on my brakes. The car skidded, tyres screeching, brakes squealing as I came to a stop inches from a deep ditch. My eyes fell on the bundle of grey fur in my rear-view, bouncing into the hedgerow, not caring a whisker that one of us could have been killed.

  I thudded my temples three times with my palms, fighting back tears, aware I was close to screaming, my angst at maximum. Was the Martin Walker hoax call connected to the studio call?

  I grabbed the bottle of water from my glove compartment and took a swig, staring for a long moment into the cold, dark night.

  I knew I wasn’t paranoid.

  Everything that had happened was painfully real.

  The truth was, I had good reason to worry.

  ***

  Since Lawrence moved out, he’d rented a first-floor one-bed apartment near the railway station – just five minutes’ walk from my house. I eventually found a parking space after circling the area for some time, and dragged on the handbrake – it was OK for him, he had secured underground parking.

  I hurried along the icy pavement, past the closed-up shops, almost skidding over. It would have been as easy to go home and walk, I realised. But it was almost seven. I was here now.

  I’d received his text at six o’clock, when I’d pulled into a service station to use the loo.

  Collected Grace. We need to talk.

  Reaching the apartment, I felt exhausted and hungry. I hadn’t eaten all day, and the last thing I needed was a confrontation with Lawrence, or to witness the happy couple.

  Did Farrah live with him?

  A train thundered by as I pushed the entrance buzzer. ‘It’s me,’ I said, defeat in my voice, as he answered.

  He let me in, and I took the stairs like an old woman burdened down with bags, and rang the doorbell.

  ‘She’s asleep,’ he said, opening the door, and gesturing for me to enter.

  ‘Jeez, she won’t sleep tonight, Lawrence, you know that,’ I said, passing him, breathing in his familiar aftershave.

  Once in the lounge, I noticed his shirt collar was unbuttoned, and a pistachio-green tie lay across the back of the black sofa, but he still looked as though he belonged in his office, in linen trousers and a fitted shirt.

  The room was minimalistic. Only what he needed, and nothing more – a widescreen TV, a laptop, old CDs he’d taken when he left. I hadn’t argued. I had never been a fan of rhythm and blues, and I rarely played CDs any more. My eyes fell on a vase of fresh flowers on the glass table. ‘Is Farrah here?’ I asked, preparing myself for a full-on row.

  He shook his head. ‘Drink?’ he asked, pouring gin over ice, and dropping in a slice of lime.

  ‘I just need to get home. I’ve had a rotten day,’ I said, deciding not to tell him about the call about Mum. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you. Have you visited my mum in the home?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not since I went with you before we … Why?’ He narrowed his eyes, the glass halfway to his lips.

  ‘I just wondered if you’d told her we’d broken up, that’s all.’

  He shook his head. ‘Nope.’

  ‘So if you didn’t tell her, who did?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’ He sounded bored of me.

  ‘So, what do you want to talk about?’ I asked, remembering his earlier text.

  He threw me a crooked smile, as though he was going to enjoy what he was about to say. ‘The thing is, Rachel, I don’t want you to leave Grace with Angela any more.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She stank of booze when I picked up Grace.’ He took a gulp of gin.

  ‘But you drink in front of her.’

  ‘That’s different,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘She’s my daughter, and I never get pissed. Angela was smashed.’

  I couldn’t believe Angela would do that. Surely she cared too much about Grace. ‘She probably had a glass of wine with her dinner. It’s not against the law.’

  He raised a brow. ‘It was more than that. She slurred her words, and staggered. I don’t want Grace anywhere near her.’

  ‘For God’s sake, you’ve never liked Angela.’ I’d always blamed it on the fact he’d prefer me not to work.

  ‘True, but that has nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I need her in my life. I haven’t got anyone else who will look after Grace at short notice, and I must work, Lawrence. Especially now.’

  He narrowed his eyes, and took another swig of his drink. ‘So you’re prepared to put our daughter at risk.’

  ‘No! No, of course not, but I’ve never seen Angela drunk. Yes, she likes a drink, but don’t we all?’

  ‘Functioning alcoholics rarely give themselves away.’

  ‘Oh, but surprise, surprise, she did to you.’ I was raising my voice. ‘The one day you see her, she just happens to be drunk.’

  ‘Mummy?’ It was Grace, rubbing sleep from her eyes and blinking. ‘Can we go home now?’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ I said, throwing Lawrence a filthy look, as I grabbed Grace’s coat.

  ‘Oh and there’s something else.’ Lawrence smiled at Grace. ‘I’d like to take Grace to Disneyland in Paris at half-term.’

  ‘Next week?’ I said, manoeuvring Grace’s limp arms into the sleeves of her coat. ‘That soon?’

  ‘Can I go, Mummy?’ Grace looked up at me, her eyes pleading. ‘I’d like to see Beauty and the Beast.’

  I looked back at Lawrence, who took a cigarette from a half-empty box. ‘Just the two of you?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, lighting it, and blowing out a spiral of smoke in our direction. When we lived together he’d smoked in the garden. But now his face said, I’ll do exactly what I like.

  He dragged on his cigarette, as I fastened the toggles on Grace’s coat, and turned and glared at him. To think when we first went out I thought smoking made him look sexy.

  ‘What?’ he said, widening his eyes. ‘My father smoked around me, didn’t do me any harm.’

  I wanted to say he was a hypocrite, but knew it wasn’t fair to argue in front of Grace – plus I would never win. I never have.

  ‘Well, I guess she can go to Disneyland,’ I said, unable to think of a reason why not, and Grace wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek.

  ‘Thank you, Mummy,’ she said. ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you more,’ I said.

  ***

  Once I’d strapped Grace into her car seat, I sat for some moments. Could Lawrence be right about Angela? Had she been drunk when she’d looked after Grace before? Was that why she fell asleep while she was playing with her?

  ‘Do you like Angela?’ I said, turning to look at Grace, but she’d fallen asleep again.

  I slid the key in the ignition, switched on the engine, and shifted into first gear, feeling sure I would have noticed if Angela had a serious drink problem.

  But how well did I really know her?

  Chapter 16

  July 1988

  ‘It’s mostly when he’s been down the local, and comes back plastered.’ Imogen tugged her cardigan sleeve up to her elbow, and Laura’s eyes widened. The cigarette burns on her thin arms ranged from scars to deep red and pus-filled. Laura had suspected, after Dillon’s outpouring a year ago, that things weren’t right in the farmhouse, that Tierney was a bully, and this confirmed her worst fears.

  ‘Oh, Imogen.’ Laura wanted to pull her into a hug, but she knew they weren’t at that place. Despite knowing her for eight months, Imogen hadn’t been an easy person to reach.

  ‘He …’

  ‘What is it, Imogen?’ Laura placed her hand on her arm, but she felt the woman tense, and removed it.

  ‘The thing is … he says he has rights.’

  Laura covered her mouth, to stifle a gasp. ‘No, Imogen, that’s not the way it works,’ she said through her fingers.

  A gust of children’s laughter swept into the kitchen, and Laura turn
ed from where she was sitting with Imogen to see they were on the floor watching a ‘Rainbow’ video, Caitlin propped on Dillon’s knee sucking on her dummy, and playing with his hair, and Bridie leaning against him, her thumb pressed into her mouth, her eyes heavy.

  Rachel was sleeping upstairs.

  ‘You must leave him,’ Laura said, her gaze back on Imogen who was pulling down her sleeve, and gripping her cuff in her fist, as though afraid of the secret she’d shared.

  ‘What, and abandon Dillon?’ Her eyes swam with tears, and she looked even smaller than her five-foot frame – far too thin. ‘What if he gets custody of Bridie and Caitlin?’

  ‘Please tell the Guards, Imogen. Surely they’ll do something,’ Laura insisted.

  ‘They won’t.’ Imogen sounded certain. And shaking her head, she stood up and padded towards the kitchen window. ‘It’s not that easy,’ she continued, her eyes penetrating the glass. ‘What if Tierney finds out I’ve contacted them, and then they do nothing? It’s not only me I have to think of.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘I wish I’d never met him.’

  Laura joined her at the window. ‘Where did you meet?’

  Imogen picked up a cloth and wiped the sink and taps with furious speed. ‘In the local when I’d just turned seventeen. He ran the boozer with his wife. Although I rarely saw her at that time.’ She paused for a moment. ‘He would let all of us drink underage – my parents would have killed me had they known.’ She screwed up the cloth and placed it on the work surface, and stared, once more, through the window. ‘Tierney seemed a nice bloke, back then. Good-looking, he was – came from a well-off family. His wife told me his parents had had high hopes for him, but then he started getting in with the wrong kind, got into a bit of trouble with the law. They wiped their hands of him.’ Imogen’s eyes shimmered. ‘I wish I’d never set eyes on him.’

  ‘But you ended up living with him.’

  She nodded. ‘Tierney was left some money when his grandfather died, so he and his Mrs closed the pub and moved to the farmhouse. When my parents threw me out for getting pregnant – I wasn’t in a relationship let alone married – it was Mrs O’Brian who said I could come and live with them until I found my feet. She was a kind woman. Dillon adored her.’ Imogen flicked a tear from the corner of her eye. ‘I’ve said too much,’ she said. ‘I should go.’