Tell the Truth

by Amanda Brittany

  I loved the beach in February, the peace radiating from it – just a man walking his dog, and the crash of waves breaking on the sand. A flock of seagulls flew over, squawking on their way to the beach, and as they settled, clustered together squabbling over a crab, the distant caws of others filled the cold air.

  We’d always visited the beach in winter when I was a child, Mum and I. ‘I don’t like the summer crowds,’ she would say, as we walked along the pier at Southwold, wrapped in our warmest winter coats, snuggled into our scarfs.

  Now the wind had got up, and wild waves broke on the shoreline, and I felt some of the tension in my neck and shoulders lift.

  Once I’d eaten my sandwiches, I closed my eyes against the watery sun, still tired from a restless night. I was in the place between awake and sleep, when a jolt ran through my body, as though I’d fallen, waking me.

  My eyes sprang open, and I noticed a dark-haired man on the grass near a huge statue of a woman holding out her arms towards the sea. He was staring my way.

  I tried telling myself not to be paranoid, but my mind spun. Was he the driver of the black car that rammed me off the road? The anonymous caller? The man who’d arranged to meet me outside Emirates Stadium? I opened a bottle of water and took a sip. I was being ridiculous. Why would he be in Sligo?

  But still the man stared, his dark eyes haunting.

  I put down my drink, started the engine, and as I reversed, he turned, heading away from me, and out of sight.

  I tried putting him out of my mind, as I drove along the beach road. If I didn’t, I would end up back at the bed and breakfast behind a locked door, and I needed to see the farmhouse one more time.

  The route took me, as it had before, along narrow, twisting country roads. As I slowed at a junction opposite a pretty church, I glimpsed Felix approaching the graveyard, dressed in a long coat, his hair blowing in the wind.

  A toot from behind, and I turned the corner, but I promised myself I would go to the graveyard on my way back. Perhaps it held answers.

  Just after three, I pulled up outside Evermore Farmhouse. With the knowledge Felix wasn’t there, I could snoop about. Try to remember my childhood. Despite my fear, I needed to trigger those awful memories once more, learn what happened here.

  After several deep breaths, I got out and locked the car.

  The side gate was still ajar, so I headed through it and down the cobbled drive. Flashes of memory swooped – children crying, a woman screaming. I forced myself to go on, the farmhouse looming, my confidence sapping with every step, as the memory of a sharp blade on flesh came and went. I stopped and let out a scream.

  I was wrong. I can’t do this.

  I spun round and ran back towards the gate, but someone was standing there – the man who’d been staring at me earlier by the sea. He opened the gate, and strode towards me, hands deep in his jean pockets.

  With memories fresh in mind of the car nudging me off the road, I turned and ran back down the drive towards the house, glancing over my shoulder, seeing him picking up speed. I darted right, and raced towards the woods, diving through a hole in the high fence that surrounded the farmhouse.

  It was a mistake.

  As I ran, I heard his heavy footfalls getting closer and closer, splintering twigs. ‘I’ll find you,’ he called.

  My attempts to pick up speed were scuppered, as I caught my foot on a branch and fell, scuffing my knees. Fuck! I dragged myself up, my breathing laboured, and looked over my shoulder, seeing him moving through the trees, like a hunter stalking his prey.

  I darted in and out of the trees, but it was hopeless. I didn’t know the woods. He was gaining on me.

  Suddenly he was behind me, pushing me to the ground, and I fell with a thud face first, hurting my cheek, grazing my hands.

  ‘Why are you snooping around?’ he said. ‘What do you want with us? Are you the press?’

  ‘No.’ Tears were close, as I pulled myself over and looked up at him. ‘Please. I don’t want anything. Honestly.’

  He stared deep into my eyes for what felt like a minute, his own eyes dark, his pupils dilated. He furrowed his forehead as though trying to work me out.

  ‘Who are you?’ I cried, as he finally stumbled away, disappearing into the woods.

  I didn’t wait. I jumped to my feet and ran, not looking back, until I reached my car.

  Whoever he was, he didn’t follow.

  ***

  It was almost nine o’clock, and I was dozing at the bed and breakfast, when my phone rang. I opened my eyes and grabbed my mobile from the bedside unit. It was Angela.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, when I answered. ‘I’ve been trying to call you all day.’

  ‘Sorry. The signal’s a bit erratic here,’ I croaked, rubbing sleep from my eyes. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Not really.’ I picked up on a slur. ‘But that’s nothing new.’

  ‘What’s up? Can I help?’

  ‘I doubt it. In fact, I’m sure you’d hate me if you knew me better.’

  ‘What? Don’t be silly. You’re my friend.’

  ‘So, would you stick by me whatever I’d done?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Angela.’ I was barely awake, and struggling to understand. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘A little,’ she said. ‘Drowning my sorrows, well, letting them have a paddle.’

  ‘This isn’t about a man is it? Because they’re not worth it.’

  ‘Ha – no – although in a way, I guess it is.’ Her voice was huskier than ever. ‘Rachel, the main reason I’m ringing is to let you know the police were round your house yesterday. I told them you were away.’

  ‘Really?’ My heart flipped, as I remembered the calls. ‘Did they say why?’

  ‘The one in charge said his name was Inspector Smith or Smyth, or something, and he needed to talk to you.’ She paused, and I heard her take a gulp. ‘Listen, I’m sorry I called. I should have waited until I was sober. It’s not fair on you. You don’t need this right now. Goodnight, Rachel.’

  She ended the call before I could respond, leaving her words to thrash around in my head. What was it that I didn’t know about her? And an inspector had been looking for me. Had the calls I’d received been genuine? Had I hung up on the police? I was so confused, and suddenly imagined the police tracking me down in Ireland, or catching up with me at the airport and arresting me for wasting their time. I needed to call them, to explain – to find out who had died in suspicious circumstances.

  Chapter 34

  October 1990

  ‘I’ve got something for you.’ Laura picked up her painting from where she’d propped it against the dressing table. Imogen had admired it at her house some time ago, and now she wanted her to have it.

  Imogen raised a smile – the first since Laura found her in such a dreadful state.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, eyes focused on Laura, her face pale against the pillow. Imogen was young, but tonight she looked tiny and helpless – like a lost little girl. The room was small with burgundy wallpaper burgundy, and lit only by a bedside lamp, the heavy curtains pulled against the window. A dark wood wardrobe stood in the corner next to a five-drawer chest, all polished to a shine. Books were piled on Tierney’s bedside cabinet: three novels and a poetry book.

  Laura leant the painting against the wall. ‘Try to get some sleep, Imogen,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard it can be the best medicine.’

  Imogen continued to gaze at Laura. ‘I would swap places with you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Not just now, but our memories.’ She closed her eyes. ‘It’s the memories that hurt us most, don’t you think?’

  Laura stroked Imogen’s hair from her face. ‘You wouldn’t want my life,’ she whispered.

  ‘Why not?’ She opened her eyes. ‘You have a lovely home, and you paint so beautifully. I know you lost your parents, and that must have been heart-breaking, but they were never cruel to you.’

  Laura wanted to disagree. There are different kind
s of cruel.

  She mopped Imogen’s forehead with a flannel.

  ‘You would make a good nurse, Laura,’ Imogen said. ‘I wanted to be a nurse when I was young. I was booked on a training course before everything went wrong.’

  ‘Don’t upset yourself,’ Laura said. ‘Just get well.’

  She’d helped her to shower, made her a hot water bottle, and dosed her up with painkillers, all the time unsure if she was doing the right thing. But Imogen had begged her not to call an ambulance or doctor. And Laura, as she always seemed to do, had been swayed away from her instincts – easily led.

  Imogen turned her head away. ‘Do you know what the worst thing is?’ she said, her voice fading. ‘It’s not that I’ve miscarried, but it’s the fact I didn’t want the baby growing inside me. Tierney put him there without my permission. And now it’s gone. What did the little thing do to deserve that?’

  Tears filled Laura’s eyes. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Imogen turned back and rested her hand on Laura’s. ‘Don’t be.’ She closed her eyes. Laura stood up and padded towards the door. ‘Don’t go,’ Imogen said.

  ‘OK.’ Laura returned to the chair by the bed, and took hold of Imogen’s hand.

  ‘Can I talk to you?’ Imogen opened her eyes.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can I tell you things I’ve never told anyone?’

  ‘If it will help.’

  ‘Yes, yes I think it will.’ She took a breath.

  ‘What is it you want to tell me?’

  ‘I want to tell you how my parents threw me out when I couldn’t hide her any longer,’ she said. ‘I was seventeen.’

  ‘Bridie?’

  Imogen nodded. ‘Obsessively religious, they were. Set in their ways. They couldn’t cope with a daughter who’d committed such a dreadful sin. Pregnant and unmarried – I didn’t even have a boyfriend. They said they couldn’t bear to look at me. They wanted me out of their sight, out of their minds.’

  ‘And Bridie’s father?’

  Imogen’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I don’t know.’ There was a long silence, as her chin crinkled. She lifted her hand to cover her mouth, as though the words she was about to say hurt. ‘I was attacked,’ she said. ‘He was wearing some sort of black mask. I couldn’t see his face.’

  ‘Oh, Imogen, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘My own fault, Ma said, for staying out later than they allowed.’

  ‘Oh, Imogen,’ Laura repeated. ‘Did you tell someone? The Guards?’

  ‘No.’ She closed her eyes, and a tear squeezed through her lashes and ran down her cheek. ‘I was just grateful Tierney and his wife took me in. But now I wish I was dead, even plan how I would do it.’

  Laura squeezed her hand, tears filling her eyes. ‘I’m always here if you need to talk.’ A pause. ‘Promise me you will never do anything silly.’

  ‘I can’t promise that,’ Imogen said, closing her eyes, and in moments she’d fallen asleep.

  Laura left the room and descended the stairs, to where the children were watching TV – Dillon on the sofa, his arms around both his sisters, Rachel on the floor. Laura didn’t want them to see her tears, so disappeared into the kitchen.

  Dillon followed. ‘Is Imogen going to be OK?’ he said, his tone low and even, as he grabbed a packet of digestives from the work surface, and munched on one.

  ‘She’s had a miscarriage,’ Laura said, picking up the kettle.

  ‘Jesus.’ He propped himself against the units, his jean-clad legs sprawled out in front of him. ‘So there’ll be no baby?’

  She shook her head, tears stinging behind her eyes. ‘Imogen seems OK physically, and doesn’t want a doctor or anything, but I feel I should call someone to check her over.’

  ‘She won’t like it if you do. She hates people coming here.’

  ‘Yes, but …’ Laura streamed water into the kettle from the tap. She was already keeping secrets about the boat she’d seen. What if Imogen took a turn for the worse? Died? ‘I’m just worried about her, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, let’s wait a few hours,’ he said, taking another biscuit from the packet and biting into it. ‘See how she is then.’

  ‘Yes, yes, OK. Do you want a hot drink?’ she asked, opening a cupboard and reaching for a mug. Everywhere was spotlessly clean, and yet the place was so run-down – the children unkempt. Imogen was strange, but after what she’d just heard, it wasn’t surprising.

  Dillon shook his head, and sat down at the scrubbed pine table, his eyes wide. ‘Laura …’

  ‘What is it, Dillon?’ she said, knowing by his face he needed to talk.

  He blew out a sigh. ‘OK … well … the thing is …’ Another sigh, deep and long.

  ‘Dillon?’

  ‘The thing is,’ he repeated, putting down the biscuits, his face draining of colour. ‘You remember how Da used to burn Imogen’s arms with cigarettes?’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Well, he’s gone. And … well … I saw two fresh burns on Imogen’s arms yesterday.’ He demonstrated, pulling up his sleeves. ‘I don’t get it. This time it couldn’t have been Da.’ He paused. ‘But I keep thinking, what if he never burnt her before?’

  ‘You think she self-harms?’

  ‘Maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘I asked her about them, but she said it was something and nothing. And then I got to thinking.’ His voice was growing in volume, and he rose and began pacing the room. ‘If me da didn’t burn her, what if Imogen put the girls in the cupboard? I never saw him do it, see. I only had her word for it.’

  ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t, Dillon,’ she said, grabbing his hand so he stopped and looked her way. ‘You haven’t found them in there since your da left, have you?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, no you’re right.’ He chewed on his lip. ‘But, and it kills me to say it, I’m not sure what to believe any more.’

  Before she could reply, screams came from the lounge, followed by tears. Dillon jumped up and raced through, Laura behind him.

  Rachel and Caitlin sobbed, Rachel covering her forehead with her hand, blood trickling through her fingers, Caitlin holding her arm close to her body. Bridie, now five and big for her age, was standing over the two girls, her arms folded like a mini schoolteacher.

  Dillon whisked Caitlin into his arms and hugged her close, and Laura bent down near Rachel, and tugged the child’s hand away from her forehead, to see a gash on her head.

  ‘What happened?’ she said, looking at Bridie, who shrugged.

  ‘What happened, Bridie?’ Dillon said, as he held a slightly calmer Caitlin on his hip. ‘Tell us! Now!’

  ‘Rachel hurt Caitlin,’ Bridie said, shrugging again, unsmiling. She looped a straying hair behind her ear. ‘She hit her hard.’

  ‘And?’ Dillon said.

  ‘I hit her with that.’ She pointed at a brass ornament, now on the floor. ‘She mustn’t hurt Caitlin. She mustn’t. She mustn’t.’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ Laura said. ‘But you shouldn’t hurt Rachel either. You should have come to get me.’

  ‘She hurts Caitlin all the time,’ Bridie said. ‘You don’t see it, like I do.’

  ‘I don’t think she does,’ said Laura, picking up Rachel. She took her into the kitchen, and sat her daughter on a work surface, where her chubby three-year-old legs dangled.

  ‘Did you hurt Caitlin?’ Laura said, dabbing away the blood on the child’s forehead with a wet cotton-wool ball, and popping on a plaster. Hoping it would heal without stitches.

  ‘Rachel?’ Laura asked. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  But Rachel just smiled.

  Chapter 35

  February 2018

  I called Inspector Smyth the following morning from the bed and breakfast.

  ‘I’ll let it go this time, Miss Hogan,’ he said, when I apologised for yelling at him and hanging up the phone. ‘But please remember in future, that non-cooperation and abusing the police could land you in trouble.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I
’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘So why did you want to get hold of me?’

  ‘We don’t any more. We’re satisfied now that the man’s death isn’t suspicious.’

  ‘Well, that’s good news, I guess,’ I said, rubbing my temples, as I perched on the edge of the bed. ‘But that doesn’t explain why you called in the first place.’

  ‘Your number was the last he called before he died. We wanted to rule you out of our inquiries. But, as I say, there’s no need now.’

  ‘When was this? Who was he?’ I said, trying to think who called me, if it was someone I knew. ‘Oh God, it wasn’t Lawrence …’

  ‘No,’ the inspector said. ‘The dead man’s name was Henry Derby. He called you last week. I hope he wasn’t anyone close.’

  ‘No,’ I said, puzzled. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name.’ Unless – I realised it must have been the man who’d called wanting to meet me at the entrance to the Emirates Stadium.

  ‘Anyway,’ the inspector concluded. ‘As I say no suspicious circumstances. But thanks for getting in touch.’

  ‘No, wait,’ I said, wanting to tell him everything, spill it all, and hope they could sort it out.

  ‘What is it, Miss Hogan?’

  ‘Things have been happening to me,’ I blurted.

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘I’ve been receiving strange friend requests on Facebook, and someone chased me in their car, and I’ve had some weird phone calls – that’s why I didn’t believe you when you said you were police. And it’s odd, don’t you think, that the man who called me is now dead?’

  ‘Of natural causes.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘Can I suggest, Miss Hogan, that you get in touch with your local police as soon as possible, and give them a detailed account of what’s been happening to you.’

  ‘Yes, yes I will. Thank you.’

  I ended the call, my mind whirring. The man who wanted to tell me what was happening was now dead. I desperately needed to find out who he was.

  ***

  As I drove from Sligo, threatening black clouds following me, I knew I would return. I needed to ask more questions. Truth was, I’d made a right mess of things, and it felt as though I knew less now than I did before I visited.