When his wife left him, I became Tierney’s partner. However hard I tried, I couldn’t bear him near me, but he never forced himself on me.
I couldn’t bear living with him. I blame my awful past. I had to be rid of him, and if I could turn Dillon against him – convince the boy he was ill-treating the girls and me – he would help. The burns on my arms were my own doing – Tierney never hurt me.
One night I grabbed Dillon’s stick and crashed it over Tierney’s head. I wasn’t sure he was dead, but Dillon helped me take him out in the rowing boat, and push him into the lake.
But now the guilt consumes me. I can’t go on. I’m sorry.
Imogen
Dillon shuffled and twitched on the chair opposite me, nibbling on his thumbnail.
‘I walked in the back door and found her,’ he said. ‘I knew instantly she was dead. That she’d killed herself.’ There was a sob in his voice, but he took a deep breath and carried on. ‘The note was by her side, and when I read it, I panicked. If the Guards found out I helped her, they would have thrown me in jail. So I filled my rucksack with money from the pot in the kitchen, as much food as I could carry, and took off.’ He lowered his head. ‘I’m ashamed to say I didn’t think about you girls – that you were still in the house. I had no idea Rachel was dead. I just ran. And I beat myself up about that daily.’
‘You were just a boy,’ I said, leaning forward and touching his arm.
‘I joined the army, ended up in Sierra Leone. But even there, with all the bloodshed, it felt safer than home.’
Tierney poured tea into mugs from a spotted pot. ‘It turned out she’d convinced Dillon I was abusing her, told him I’d locked the kids in the cupboard – but it was never me, it had always been her. She had so many issues, poor soul. It wasn’t surprising, the awful life she’d led before I met her. Parents can make or break a kid.’
We sipped our tea in silence for some time, before I looked once more at Dillon. ‘So you helped Imogen throw your father in the lake?’ The words felt wrong on my tongue.
He nodded, and put down his mug. ‘She told me she’d struck Da with the stick I used to carry about, in an attempt to stop him hurting her. She said he was dead, and I must help her get rid of the body. She was in a dreadful state, said if I didn’t help, the girls would end up in care.’ He turned to look at Tierney, and with words I knew he must have said a thousand times, he said, ‘I’m so sorry, Da.’
‘It was a long time ago, son,’ Tierney said. ‘We’re different people now.’
I turned my tear-filled eyes on Tierney. ‘So how did you survive?’
‘Picked up by a fisherman,’ Tierney said, leaning back in his chair. ‘The water’s deep in the middle of that lake, some say it’s fifty metres, but I was lucky. I was washed up, still alive. But I was in a coma for months. Nobody knew who I was. When I finally came round, and got back here, everyone had disappeared. Took me years to track down Dillon, and later Bridie appeared, God help her. Of course, we thought you were in the graveyard.’
Another chill ran through me, and I covered my mouth with my hands. I wasn’t sure I’d ever come to terms with everything.
‘Eventually I did the place up,’ Tierney went on. ‘Gave it a new name – a new start.’
‘So what will you be doing now, Rachel?’ Dillon asked, his eyes meeting mine.
I shrugged. Thoughts of Suffolk had played around my head recently – it would be peaceful there, and, for now at least, I was planning to give up psychotherapy. And yet Ireland with its beautiful scenery and a new father and stepbrother to get to know was enticing too.
‘Who knows?’ I said, studying them both, and feeling relaxed for the first time in a long time. ‘I guess I’ll take one day at a time.’
The following day, once I’d hugged Dillon goodbye, Tierney walked with Grace and me up the drive towards my hire car. He was talking about his latest book, and I was glancing about me. Taking everything in so I could revisit it in my thoughts once I got back to Finsbury Park. My eyes skittered over the farmhouse, with jasmine growing around the door, the apple tree by the lake now bubbling over with blossom – it was such a beautiful place, and I couldn’t wait to return.
One of the doors of the double garage stood open. Inside was Tierney’s car, and next to it a black saloon, facing forward. I averted my gaze. I’d never got to the bottom of who’d rammed me off the road that day, or worked out who’d been watching me when I visited the grey houses with the red doors. I shook the fear from my thoughts. There were thousands of black saloons on the road, I told myself, refusing to let paranoia spoil things.
‘I can’t wait to read it,’ I said, realising Tierney had come to a stop, and was staring my way. ‘Will all this coming out about Bridie’s past reflect on your novels?’
He shook his head. ‘I worried for nothing, as it turns out. They seem to have gone up in the charts, rather than down.’
‘That must be a relief,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘I’ll send you a signed copy as soon as it’s published. And you’ll have to come to the book launch. I’d like to show off my new-found daughter.’
‘That would be brilliant.’
‘Well bye, Rachel.’ He leaned forward and kissed my cheek, then ruffled Grace’s hair, making her giggle. ‘I hope you’ll come again.’
‘Of course, you can bank on it,’ I said, with a smile.
Chapter 52
May 2018
It felt strange to see the sold sign on Angela’s house propped against the wall, and an excited young couple carrying boxes up the path.
Angela had moved in with her mother as she’d planned, and I felt a sudden rush of sadness. I’d spoken to her just before she left. Told her I would never understand what she’d done, but I would be there for her if she needed me.
It had turned out that neither of my friends had been who I thought they were. Maybe I chose friends unwisely, or perhaps I’d simply been gullible.
I slipped my key into my front door, and opened up to my familiar lounge. Grace skipped in, bouncing onto her bottom to open her toy box. It was time for a change. I would move into Mum’s house before Grace started school. Lawrence would have to accept that.
Once Grace was in bed, and I’d poured myself a glass of wine, my mind whirred for the millionth time over everything that had happened.
I looked at Mr Snookum still perched on the shelf. Bridie had admitted to stealing my spare key, and moving the rabbit from the loft, to scare me. She’d even given my mother the original rabbit that had belonged to the real Rachel – another ploy to unnerve me. I was still struggling with her duplicity. The fact I’d cried on her shoulder when my mother died, the way she’d showered me with comfort, helping me through. She’d been there for me when I needed her most. Had it all been a lie? I was being ridiculous. Of course it had.
I lowered my gaze to the books by Felix T Clarke on my bookshelf, and a flutter in my stomach reminded me that he was my father. I’ve finally found my father. I was proud to be the daughter of a famous author. All those years of wondering, and now I knew exactly who he was – who I was. Happiness simmered on a low light, but didn’t boil over. Despite wanting to feel ecstatic – crack open a bottle of champagne; after all, this was something I’d dreamed of since childhood – I was still haunted by my real identity, which felt like a new pair of gloves that didn’t quite fit, and in a style I’d never worn before. And however much I didn’t want to feel anger towards at my mother – Laura – I wished she’d told me, confided in me.
And there was the niggling concern that someone had chased me in my car that day in Ireland, which I couldn’t shake. Who had it been? It hadn’t been Bridie. She would have gloried in mentioning it, wouldn’t she?
I rose, and pulled out the book he’d signed for me the day I’d seen him in the bookshop, and smiled at his photograph on the back. My father.
I opened the book, and let out a gasp. It slipped through my fingers as though in slow motion, cras
hing to the ground with a thud.
Dear Rachel,
I hope you enjoy the book.
Very best wishes,
Felix T Clarke
I stumbled towards the sofa, my eyes on the open book on the floor, its pages splayed like a dead bird’s wings, Tierney’s words swirling and curling on the page – the same handwriting that was on Imogen’s suicide note.
I fell onto the sofa, my head spinning. What did it mean? Had Tierney written the letter?
Memories prodded my mind, vivid and frightening:
I’m heading down a narrow staircase. Looking at my cream shoes, splattered with blood, a pain in my forehead.
‘Rachel,’ I whisper, as I pass the child at the foot of the stairs. ‘Rachel, are you OK?’
I hear raised voices in the kitchen. ‘Da?’
I pad across the lounge, passing the table laden with half-eaten food, and peer through the crack in the kitchen door.
‘You left me for dead.’ It’s Tierney – younger – spitting as he yells, a knife in his hand. ‘You’re a fecking madwoman.’
‘Please don’t hurt me,’ the woman cries, stepping backwards, covering her face with her arm, as though he might hit her. I know her. It’s my real mother.
‘You have no idea what I’m capable of, Imogen,’ Tierney continues, his free hand balled into a fist.
‘I’ve a fair idea.’ She steps back once more, and presses her body against the worktop. ‘I know it was you.’
‘What was?’
‘You raped me, Tierney. I was just seventeen. You followed me from the pub, and you raped me.’
Tierney claps slowly. ‘What took you so long?’
‘I see you in Bridie. She has your eyes. You raped me, then you pretended to rescue me.’
‘My wife rescued you, Imogen,’ he spits. ‘Do you think I wanted you here?’
‘She knew what you did, didn’t she?’
He grabs her hair, and she lets out a small cry. ‘And now I’m going to kill you,’ he says.
‘What, like you killed your wife?’ she cries. ‘I saw you, Tierney. I saw you kill her and drag her outside – plant an apple tree where you buried her body. I saw it all.’
He lunges towards her. I turn. I run.
I covered my eyes with my hands, as the reality that Tierney was evil – that he killed Imogen and his wife – crumpled me into a heap. I heard my mum’s words. The cuts. They were exactly the same. They should have been different. Had she noticed that the cuts on Imogen’s wrists were both the same depth? That if she’d taken her own life, her second cut wouldn’t have been as deep as the first?
And Tierney couldn’t have been in a coma for months. He must have been rescued, and then he’d returned – watching them.
Had it been Tierney who rammed my car off the road in Sligo – worried I would uncover the truth about Lough End Farm?
But there was one thing I was certain of. My father – Tierney O’Brian – was a killer, just like his daughter Bridie. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
I shot up, and stumbled towards the downstairs loo, feeling sick. I’d liked him. Thought he was caring and kind. Stupid, gullible Rachel.
Had it been in Bridie’s genes to kill like her father?
But where did that leave me? I was his daughter too.
Nurture is more important than nature, I told myself over and over as I threw up in the loo, my head pounding, my limbs shaking – even more determined to leave Finsbury Park, and start again somewhere new.
Chapter 53
May 2018
In the early hours, memories of what Tierney had done morphed with ghostly shadows of Bridie’s cruelty. I’d woken with a start around two, my body clammy – my mind thick with tension. These people were my family. My sister. My father.
I’d finally got back to sleep around five, and now I could hear my daughter’s voice calling me through the darkness of my dreams, and my eyes sprung open.
‘Mummy?’ Grace was tugging at the quilt, her curls chaotic, her cheeks flushed from sleep. She placed her hands on her hips, and with a tilt of her head, she said, as though we’d reversed roles, ‘Get up. I’ve got to go to nursery.’
I grabbed my mobile, knocking an empty glass to the floor, and stared at the screen, the white numbers blurred before my eyes. It was gone 8.30. Damn!
‘Of course, yes,’ I said, diving out of bed. And taking her hand, I led her down the stairs.
I filled a bowl with Rice Krispies, and splashed on milk, before making myself a strong coffee. ‘Eat up, sweetheart,’ I said, my mind distracted as I looked through the kitchen window at a milky sun rising in the sky.
I needed to see the letter again that Dillon had showed me in Ireland, to compare the handwriting. Maybe I was mistaken – I desperately wanted to be. But truth was, I knew it was Tierney’s. The writing was sharp and spiky, the letters large. It was so distinctive.
Should I call Dillon?
‘Finished,’ Grace said, dropping the spoon into the bowl with a clatter, and getting down from the table. I glanced at the time on the clock on the cooker. We should have left by now.
‘OK, let’s see how fast you can get dressed today,’ I said with fake brightness.
She raced towards the stairs. ‘Do I get a prize if I’m quick?’ she said, beaming.
‘You get a big hug,’ I said, following her and tickling her waist, before she raced up the stairs. ‘And don’t forget to clean your teeth.’
I followed her up, and got dressed, the sheer burden of what I was carrying weighing heavy.
‘Are you OK, Mummy?’ Grace said, appearing in the doorway and catching me perched on the edge of the bed, head down.
‘Of course, sweetheart,’ I said, wishing I was.
***
Once I’d dropped Grace off at nursery, I headed back home. I’d cancelled my clients the night before, knowing I wouldn’t be up to seeing them.
Another large coffee in front of me on the breakfast bar, I brought up Dillon’s number on my phone. After hovering my finger over the screen for some time, trying to work out what I would say to him, I finally found the courage to call.
‘Hello, Rachel.’
‘Dillon?’ I said.
‘No, it’s Tierney.’ A pause. ‘Your dad.’
My heart leaped. Why did he have to say that? I felt an odd mixture of guilt for thinking he’d killed Dillon’s mother and Imogen, and fear that he had.
‘Hi,’ I said, attempting to sound upbeat. ‘I was hoping to catch Dillon. Is he about?’
‘He’s out. Left his phone charging. Shall I get him to call you, Rachel? Is it important?’
‘No, no it’s fine. Don’t worry. I’ll call him later.’
‘Right. Well, it was good hearing your voice. Hopefully we’ll get to see you again soon.’
I needed to end the call. It was painful to talk to him. ‘Yes, yes. That would be lovely. Well I’d better go, Grace is calling me.’
I hung up before he could speak again, my body turning to liquid, tears stinging my eyes. I desperately wanted to be wrong about him.
It was much later that Dillon called me back.
‘All right, sis?’ he said, and gave a small laugh. I hated what I was about to say.
‘Dillon, is Tierney about?’ My voice was a whisper, as though he might hear.
‘Da? No, he’s headed down the boozer. Why? Is something wrong?’
I caressed my neck, a fizz of tension tangible under my fingers. ‘Can you do something for me?’
‘Yep, of course, is everything OK? You sound a bit anxious, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Can you look at Imogen’s suicide note and compare it with Tierney’s handwriting?’
‘Why?’
‘For me, please …’ I wondered why he hadn’t noticed the similarity before. Surely he could see the writing was like his father’s. Known it was the same but refused to believe. Or perhaps I was mistaken, after all.
‘I do
n’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘The thing is, I’m sure it’s Tierney’s writing,’ I said in a rush.
‘Jesus, Rachel. Of course it isn’t.’
‘And there’s something else.’ I paused, trying to find the courage. ‘I think he killed your mother.’
‘What? For fuck’s sake, Rachel, what the hell are you trying to do here? Don’t you think we’ve all been through enough shite?’ His voice was cracking as it rose in volume. ‘I don’t want to hear this crap. Listen, I’ve got to go …’
‘Wait, please, Dillon. Just ask the police to look under the apple tree.’
‘Goodbye, Rachel.’
‘Dillon …’ I said, tears filling my eyes. But he’d gone.
***
Over the next month I gave up my psychotherapy, packed my things, and moved into my mum’s house in Suffolk. Lawrence had complained at first, but he agreed, eventually, that Suffolk wasn’t the other side of the world.
I couldn’t quite comprehend how my life had shrunk like pure wool in a tumble-dryer. No mum, no Angela, no Lawrence, no Zoe. I hadn’t heard from Emmy, although Facebook had informed me she’d given birth to a beautiful baby boy. I’d sent her a card and a gift, but hadn’t heard back.
And just when I thought I’d found Tierney and Dillon, they’d vanished like wasps in winter. I hadn’t heard from Dillon since he’d hung up on me. Perhaps it was better that way. I wouldn’t go within a hundred miles of Tierney knowing what I knew, and he and Dillon came as a package – Dillon had made that clear.
I’d been tempted to go to the police, but, for now at least, my sanity couldn’t cope with it. Anyway, I had no real evidence that Tierney murdered Imogen. No real proof that Dillon’s real mother was buried under the apple tree, other than my unreliable childhood memories.
Chapter 54
July 2018
Grace, her sunhat pulled low over her curls, paddled in the sea, splashing her shorts and her Peter Rabbit T-shirt.
Tell the Truth Page 27