Tell the Truth

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘I was hiding,’ Rachel said.

  ‘You shouldn’t hide. I was worried.’ She put her daughter down.

  ‘It’s my birthday,’ Rachel said, taking hold of Dillon’s hand.

  ‘Well, happy birthday,’ he said, staring deep into her eyes. He looked at Laura. ‘I reckon Rachel has the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen,’ he said with a smile.

  Laura was still in shock, her body trembling. ‘Has she?’ she said, ashamed she’d never really noticed.

  Inside the house, Laura plonked Rachel in the lounge with her new toys, and poured herself a brandy. ‘Want one?’ she asked Dillon. ‘You must be old enough, by now.’

  ‘Not quite,’ he said, pulling open the fridge, and grabbing a can of cola.

  ‘I sometimes think I’m losing my mind, Dillon.’ She knocked back the brandy in one go, and poured another.

  ‘Have you thought about selling up? Starting again somewhere else?’

  It was a question she’d asked herself a thousand times. And there were so many reasons why she never had.

  ‘Often,’ she said. ‘But I haven’t got the strength. What if Rachel doesn’t fit in? What if I can’t cope with the real world any longer?’ A pause as she watched him flick open the can, and take a gulp. ‘You were telling me about Imogen,’ she said. ‘That she’s ill?’

  He nodded. ‘She’s throwing up every morning, but she won’t go to the doctor’s – says she knows what the problem is, but it ain’t right.’

  Laura suspected another baby was coming into the O’Brian family, and it filled her with dread. ‘She could be pregnant,’ she said, her glass halfway to her lips.

  ‘Christ. I dunno. Maybe.’

  ‘I can’t be sure, but it sounds like she could be. Make sure she eats right, help her the best you can, and try to coax her into going to the doctor’s.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ll try, but she seems determined not to,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I guess I’d better go to her.’ He thudded the can onto the table. ‘I just hope she listens.’

  Chapter 25

  February 2018

  I woke to sun’s rays streaming through a gap in the curtains, and dust particles raining down like a snow shower. I squeezed my eyes closed, having to think for a moment where I was. The sudden realisation I was in Ireland sent a mixture of relief and apprehension through my body. It felt good to be away from my normal life for a few days, but what would I find out while I was here in County Sligo? What would I discover at Evermore Farmhouse?

  Then I remembered the friend request I’d received in the early hours, and shot up in bed, grabbing the top of my head, as though my brains might explode.

  After a few moments I grabbed the journal I’d been keeping since Zoe suggested it.

  I opened up the page where I’d jotted down the friend requests I’d received:

  David Green. Cover photo: Mandan Road, County Sligo.

  Ronan Murphy. Cover photo: Glastons Insurance Dublin.

  I added the latest one:

  Flora Phillips. Cover photo: Daffodils.

  As with the other requests, it had been impossible to find anything online about Flora Phillips – there just wasn’t enough to go on.

  I thought about what the odd variations on nursery rhymes could mean, and shuddered. They’d been so creepy, all suggesting someone getting hurt – the fire, the bump on the head, the fall down the stairs.

  Suddenly everything that had happened played through my mind like a film on fast forward: the calls, the man who’d wanted to meet me at the Emirates Stadium, my mum’s despair when she’d seen the mysterious painting. The photos I’d found at her house.

  I slammed closed my notebook. I needed to find out why my mother had kept secrets from me – what happened in Ireland when I was small. And what, if anything, did Evermore Farmhouse have to do with it?

  I rose, stretched, and pulled back the drapes to see a clear, pastel-blue sky. There was no doubting it would be cold out, but for a moment, as I pushed my body against the warm radiator under the window, I kidded myself it was summer. That I could go down to the nearby beach in my shorts and T-shirt, and kick off my Converse and wiggle my toes in the warm sand – not too close to the water.

  Benbulbin stood proud in the distance. My mum had read Yeats’s poem about the mountain to me when I was young. It was fascinating to see it for myself, the unusual shape that gave it its local name ‘Table Mountain’. Why had Ronan Murphy used it as his profile picture? Was it to lure me here?

  I leaned forward, my nose touching the window, attempting to breathe in the peace and solitude on the other side of the glass – almost forgetting why I was there. Then the moment popped like a balloon, and I was back, ready to find out everything I could about my mum’s time in Ireland – everything I could about my past.

  I showered, although it was more of a dribble, barely wetting my hair. The bed and breakfast was cosy, and the couple who ran it, friendly, but the place was dated, with swirling patterned carpets in oranges and browns, and a brown Dralon three-piece suite and a hefty-backed TV in the lounge. But then I wasn’t here for luxury.

  My hair felt light under my fingers as I dried it, and I was thankful that Zoe had cut the weight from it. The nick she’d made with her scissors was now a scab waiting to fall. I dragged on the pair of jeans I’d discarded on the floor the night before, and a clean sweatshirt, along with thick socks and fur-lined ankle boots. My stomach let out a gurgle. I was starving.

  The dining room was small, with an old-fashioned sideboard covered with a lace tablecloth, and laden with cereal, fruit, and juices. I served myself, and once I was back at the table a pleasant young waitress brought over a jug of coffee.

  Fed and caffeine-fixed, I thumbed through the things I’d taken from my mother’s house: the photograph of me and the three other children at Evermore Farmhouse. The newspaper cutting about the crash that killed Jacqueline McCutcheon at Devil’s Corner – why hadn’t Mum told me more about my grandparents’ accident? Didn’t she want me looking into her? I pushed down a sudden anger rising inside me. I hated that she’d kept things from me. I hated that I felt I didn’t know her at all.

  I left the bed and breakfast and hurried along the road towards my hire car, pulling on my parka. According to the satnav, I would be at Evermore Farmhouse in fifteen minutes.

  The car took several attempts to start, and I growled inside, but it eventually spluttered into life, and I was on my way, heading along quiet narrow roads, winding my way into the countryside. The ride was pleasant, no snow to speak of, so I turned up the radio, and tried to enjoy the scenery.

  It was gone ten when I pulled up next to a set of security gates, and my satnav announced I’d reached my destination – Evermore Farmhouse.

  I got out of the car. There were no other buildings close by. No traffic noise – only the chirping of birds, and the rustle of wildlife in a nearby wood. I wasn’t afraid of the silence. In fact, I felt energised, full of determination.

  I peered through the wrought-iron gate at a pretty farmhouse at the end of a cobbled drive, and pressed the buzzer. I waited … and waited, stomping from foot to foot. Nobody came, and my eyes fell on the side gate. It was ajar. I zipped up my parka, and, before my confidence evaporated, I opened the gate and walked up the drive.

  The farmhouse looked more like the photograph sent by Ronan Murphy, very different from my mother’s paintings. The place had been renovated and extended since my mother took a brush to canvas. It was pale pink, and a trellis arch framed the front door where, I knew from the photograph, roses grew in summer. There was no sign of hens, or any animals come to that. It didn’t appear to be a functioning farm, and I wondered if it ever was. There were a few outbuildings, a double garage, and a patio in a shaded area near the lake with garden furniture, a tree barren of leaves, and a rowing boat moored nearby.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I stopped halfway up the drive, and turned to see a tall man of about sixty, with a shock of gr
eying hair, heading towards me from the wood, a silky, black Labrador by his side.

  ‘Sorry … do you live here?’ I said. I knew I was trespassing.

  He came closer. ‘Yes,’ he said. He was Irish, although his accent was watered down, and he seemed vaguely familiar.

  ‘I’m a bit lost,’ I said, not sure why I was lying. Why I didn’t come right out and tell him why I was there – proceed with questions I was itching to ask about the place. But something stopped me.

  ‘Where were you heading?’

  Then it hit me. ‘Oh my God, you’re Felix T Clarke!’ I’d seen him before when he’d signed his novel in my local bookshop, and he’d written a few kind words too. Plus his photograph was on the back of all his books. He’d even played a cameo in the TV dramas based on his novels – a bit like Stan Lee in the Marvel movies, or Colin Dexter in Morse and Lewis.

  He smiled, seeming pleased I recognised him. ‘That’s right,’ he said, glancing at the farmhouse. ‘I’ve been cooped up for the last few months hoping to get my next novel finished. My publishers are biting at my heels.’

  I confess, I felt awestruck – much like the time I leapt across the organic veg in Sainsbury’s to ask for Robbie Williams’ autograph. Zoe had almost wet herself laughing when I’d zipped back to where she was waiting with my trolley, with a complete stranger’s signature – Mark Bristow, I think his name was.

  But there was no doubting this was one of my favourite authors – here, right in front of me. He’d sold millions of books. The dramas were on prime TV.

  ‘Wow! Fancy seeing you here,’ I said, knowing I sounded ridiculous. After all, I was the one who’d arrived uninvited.

  He smiled and stuck out his leather-gloved hand for me to shake, as his dog sniffed my crotch, which I tried desperately to ignore.

  ‘I adore The Inspector Bronte Mysteries,’ I went on, as he released my hand. ‘I’ve got all the novels, and the Blu-ray box set – although the early episodes are on Sky now, aren’t they? Probably should have saved my money. But they’re nice to have.’ I was rambling, but didn’t seem to be able to stop. ‘Lots of people don’t bother with Blu-rays these days do they? What with digital downloads – but I’m a bit old-fashioned. Although I own a Kindle and a Mac, and I never buy CDs any more, so I guess I’m not a complete technophobe.’

  Another smile crossed his lips, as I came up for breath. ‘Who are you?’ he said, raising a brow.

  ‘Ah … well my name’s Rachel …’

  ‘Lovely name,’ he cut in. ‘There was a character named Rachel in one of my books.’

  ‘Yes, I remember – she disappeared.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He’d lost his smile, and was studying me with dark eyes. ‘So you’re lost?’

  ‘Yes … well, no.’

  ‘So, which is it?’

  ‘Well, the thing is … I’m doing a bit of family history research.’

  ‘And it brought you here?’ Another raised brow.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Well I guess you’d better come in,’ he said, striding towards the farmhouse. ‘Duke,’ he called, and his dog followed. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ he said, disappearing inside.

  I moved closer to the farmhouse, and peered through the window to see Felix with his back to me, filling a kettle. I placed my palm on the glass, but snatched it away immediately. It was as though it had burnt my skin. Dizzy, I grabbed the windowsill to steady myself, knocking a plant pot to the ground, where it smashed and soil scattered.

  Flashes of distorted memories filled my head – blood pooling on the floor, a child, limp and motionless.

  I gasped, tears in my eyes as I turned, stumbling away, my stomach turning and churning. Halfway down the drive, I bent over double, retching and coughing.

  Are these real memories? Oh God, they can’t be.

  I continued to stagger onwards, needing to get away.

  ‘Rachel!’ It was Felix.

  ‘I’m not feeling well,’ I called, not looking back.

  I dived through the gate and into the car, tears rolling down my cheeks.

  But even as I pushed my foot down on the throttle, desperate to get away, something told me I must go back.

  Chapter 26

  September 1990

  Laura, from her deckchair, captured on canvas the morph of blues and greens in the distance. The way the sun’s rays glinted like diamonds on the water. Rachel snuffled in her sleep in her buggy beside her, dressed in a pink polka-dot dress and sunhat.

  ‘Laura.’

  Laura turned to see Dillon. It had been over two months since she’d seen him, and her eyes lit up. She put down her brush and rose, desperate to hug him, but too afraid he’d take off if she did. ‘It’s good to see you,’ she said. ‘How are you? How’s Imogen?’

  ‘You were right. She is pregnant.’

  ‘And she’s seen a doctor?’

  He shook his head. ‘She won’t listen.’ His chin crinkled. ‘It’s a real worry, so it is.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be OK,’ she said, but her heart wasn’t in her words. She lowered herself back onto the deckchair, looking at the boy. He looked pale and his eyes were bloodshot.

  He sat down on the grass, knees touching his chin, fingers entwined around them, and took a deep breath, eyes focused on the water. ‘Me da …’

  Was it what she’d always feared? That Tierney had hurt one of them. That she’d done nothing to prevent it. ‘Oh God, what has he done?’ she cut in.

  He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘He still locks Bridie in the cupboard before he goes off to work if he reckons she’s been bad. She doesn’t cry any more. Used to it, poor kid.’ He turned to catch her in a stare. ‘And sometimes Caitlin ends up there too. It’s brutal in there, dark, cold – spiders the size of me hand.’ He held up his grubby palm. ‘Ma’s still too scared to argue.’ A pause. ‘There are so many burns on her arms now, there’s no fecking flesh left.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Laura said, picturing it, a chill shuddering through her body – the thought of a new baby going into that awful environment making her toes curl. ‘Something has to be done, Dillon.’

  ‘I know, but what? What the fuck can I do? I heard Ma screaming the other day. I tried to barge down their bedroom door. I wanted to put him right. But it was locked. He yelled at me to go away. Said it had nothing to do with me. But he’s wrong, Laura. I have to protect them.’

  ‘But you can’t,’ Laura said, trying to sound calm, but feeling far from it. ‘He’s twice the size of you.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ He rose, rammed his hands into the pockets of his crumpled shorts, and kicked the dry earth. ‘I’m sixteen. I ain’t scared of him any more.’

  ‘You’re a brave lad, Dillon, but we need to call the Guards.’

  He shook his head. ‘You know I’ve called them before – that Ma tells them everything’s OK. Tells them to leave us alone.’ His eyes were wide, and Laura, despite her earlier reservations, took him in her arms and hugged him close.

  ‘Your mother’s afraid of him. Too afraid to do anything,’ she said, a note of defeat in her voice. And now she’s carrying another of his children.

  Dillon pulled away, and nodded. ‘Imogen told me yesterday that she thinks he killed me real ma. That me ma didn’t take off at all, that he killed her stone dead.’ A tear rolled down his cheek.

  ‘What? Why ever would she think that?’

  He shrugged. ‘She wouldn’t say any more, but I’m wondering now if he did. I’ve never understood why she took off without saying goodbye. I hated her for it, but now …’

  ‘I’m sure it isn’t true, Dillon. Imogen’s got it wrong – she must have.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Laura, can we stay with you? Hide away here?’ He glanced back at the house, but it was as though he realised even before he’d finished speaking, that it wouldn’t work. ‘It would be the first place he’d look,’ he said, resigned, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.

  ‘Dillon!�
� It was Imogen, standing some distance away, Caitlin propped on her hip. Bridie was closer to Laura, leaning against a tree, staring with dark, sad eyes. ‘I wondered where you’d got to,’ Imogen continued, her voice sharp.

  ‘How are you?’ Laura called over – she looked so pale.

  ‘Fine!’ Imogen snapped. ‘Dillon! Home!’

  ‘I’d better go,’ he said, racing away, shooting past Imogen, and disappearing into the woods.

  ‘If you ever want to come over,’ Laura called, but the woman turned and walked away, leaving Bridie to continue staring.

  ‘You ought to go too, Bridie,’ Laura called, but the child didn’t move.

  Laura’s thoughts skittered. How could she help, if Imogen wouldn’t let her? Anyway, Laura was no match for Tierney. Perhaps she could call social services? But it was the same worry she’d always had. What if he took it out on the children?

  Once Imogen was out of sight, Laura’s angst settled a little. She picked up her paintbrush, and dipped it in the blue, glancing every few moments at Bridie still loitering behind her. She would go over soon, make sure she got home OK, but for now the child was dragging a stick along the bark, humming. She seemed happy enough.

  Her cat sprung onto Laura’s lap. ‘Rusty, you startled me,’ she said, holding her chest, before stroking the ginger feline’s ears. Purring, the cat curled up, making it difficult for her to paint, and he had just closed his eyes when Rachel woke, and let out a cry. He made a quick exit, as Laura lifted Rachel from the buggy and tried to comfort her, but the child kicked and thrashed, as she often did, so she planted her on the ground.

  ‘Stop crying, darling,’ she said, as Rachel continued to bellow. ‘Please, Rachel. Stop. I’ve got a headache.’ It was true; the sun and the stress of seeing Dillon had been a fatal combination. ‘Would you like a lolly?’ She took a lollipop from her bag and held it out towards her daughter, but Rachel smacked her hand and upped her volume, so much so a magpie flapped its wings and flew out of a nearby tree.

  Laura turned to Bridie. ‘Would you like a lolly, darling?’ she said, and the child shook her head, her dark hair falling about her face.