The Truth Will Out

by Anna McPartlin

  A man with a beer belly stood between her and her seat. His loud tuts suggested he was displeased at having to get up to allow the shaken and terribly apologetic Harri to gain access to her cramped seat. Sometimes Harri’s headaches induced vomiting and, while squeezing past him, she decided that if she was to vomit she would do so on him. Once seated, she congratulated herself. Bloody hell, I made it. I can’t believe I made it. It had been just three hours since she’d received George’s SOS call, and the Ryanair flight to Bergamo was the only one that would get her to Sirmione that day.

  The flight was uncomfortable, mostly because of the mind-numbing headache but also because she’d only had enough time to throw a few items into a case, grab her passport and leave in the clothes she was wearing. Unfortunately, as she had earlier attended a new-business meeting with Susan, she had on stilettos and, having run far enough to qualify for the Olympic Games, they were now embedded so far into her feet that they would probably have to be surgically removed.

  Three hours later, she navigated her way to the airport’s nearest exit and found the small, air-conditioned bus to Sirmione. She handed the driver the exact fare – Thank you, God, for the euro. She was now heading towards Lake Garda and the tiny island of Sirmione without having had to engage with one Italian. She sighed. Okay. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Harri was not a happy traveller. The few times she’d bothered to leave her own country, to travel into the abyss she considered abroad to be, had been mostly either to join or rescue the man she had until recently believed to be her twin brother.

  George had insisted they share their twenty-first birthday together although he refused to leave Cape Cod, so Harri and their parents had travelled to him. Before that, aged eighteen, she had caught a flight to Biarritz, where he was participating in a surfing contest even though his parents had banned him from attending due to upcoming exams. He’d broken his ankle and needed his sister’s savings to pay the hospital bill and her shoulder to lean on when hopping on and off the planes. She’d once gone to Venice at his behest because he had broken up with his first love and was desperate over the whole thing. There had been a few trips after that but, thankfully, they had been to English-speaking countries so not as stressful for the girl who was pathologically afraid of anything or anyone she didn’t understand.

  And now once more Harri was travelling to George. He had called, slightly panicked because he had woken up with what he believed to be a broken nose. Clearly he was still drunk as he had started the conversation in harassed Italian. She had had to remind him that she didn’t speak it and asked if he could manage English. He conceded that English was possible. He was slurring and it became slowly apparent that he had gone on a three-day drinking binge that had culminated in a punch to the face.

  It was after ten when she reached his hotel. He was sleeping soundly when she knocked.

  ‘Chi c’è?’ came his groggy response.

  ‘George?’

  ‘Chi c’è?’ he reiterated.

  ‘George, it’s me, Harri.’

  ‘Harri? Sei tu?’ Clearly he was still not properly awake.

  ‘It’s Harri. Your –’ The word ‘sister’ caught in her throat. ‘Let me in for the love of God.’

  The prayer seemed to work. George opened the door, sweeping back a fringe that needed cutting, revealing two black eyes and a swollen nose. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, in a tone that suggested he didn’t remember their earlier conversation but that he was glad to see her. He was smiling.

  ‘Good God, George. Look at the state of you!’ She followed him inside.

  He glanced into the mirror. ‘Oh, that’s why my face is hurting,’ he said. ‘I called you, didn’t I?’ he added sheepishly.

  She nodded.

  ‘Old habits die hard,’ he said, sitting on the side of his bed. He looked at his watch. ‘Still, you must have made serious time.’

  ‘You’ve no idea.’ The familiarity of their situation was comforting. She sat on the single bed opposite his. ‘You’ll need to see a doctor.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ he protested.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she argued.

  ‘I’m sorry I called. I was drunk.’

  ‘Don’t be and I know.’

  ‘I’ve really missed you, sister.’

  ‘I’ve really missed you too.’

  ‘You’re still the one I call,’ he said, smiling to himself. ‘When I’m down and out, you’re still the one I call.’

  She grinned. ‘Lucky me.’ I haven’t lost him. He hasn’t lost me. He’s a pain in the arse but he’s still my pain in the arse.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘That you’re a pain in the arse and I’m really glad you called me.’

  ‘Aside from the bender, street fighting, broken nose and black eyes, I’m glad too.’ He laughed but that hurt so he stopped.

  ‘I’m calling the hotel doctor,’ she said, lifting the phone.

  A woman on Reception answered in Italian and she froze. I have no idea what she’s saying. What the hell is she saying? George grabbed the phone and one medical examination two showers and a number of painkillers later, he and Harri were sitting in a nice restaurant close enough to the imposing Rocca Scalgera and far enough away from the scene of the unfortunate fracas that had occurred the night before. The castle was lit up in all its Gothic glory.

  Harri stared at her menu.

  ‘Do you want me to choose for you?’ he said.

  ‘Great.’

  The waiter approached. Harri dropped her gaze to the floor. George ordered a number of items with which she was completely unfamiliar. He smiled warmly at the waiter, who smiled back despite George’s fearsome appearance. George turned to Harri. His eyes rested on her but he said nothing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You really need to get over your fear of foreigners,’ he said, with authority.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, like a child chastised.

  ‘Because it’s weird, not to mention rude,’ he said, wagging his finger.

  ‘I’ll tell you what weird is. Weird is when you wrap a T-shirt around your feet and hop across a room rather than stand barefoot on a tiled floor.’

  ‘Tiles are cold and hard,’ he protested. ‘I have very sensitive feet.’

  ‘And as for rude. If rude was an Olympic event you’d take the gold.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘What about the time that Tina made a pass at you and you informed her that even if you weren’t gay you wouldn’t stick someone else’s dick in her?’

  George sat back in his chair to contemplate. ‘Tina Tingle, your old flatmate?’

  ‘How many Tinas have you said that to?’ Harri grinned.

  Laughing, George put up his hands in surrender. ‘That was years ago and I sincerely hope my behaviour has altered for the better since then.’

  ‘Well, my guess is that last night you weren’t punched hard in the face for nothing.’

  ‘There is that,’ he said. ‘I just wish I knew what I’d said so I could avoid any future battering.’

  The food came and, both ravenous, the Ryans tucked in.

  Afterwards they strolled together arm in arm by the lake. George liked to have an arm around a woman in public. It made him feel masculine and virile and especially so with his diminutive sister, who, when abroad, clung to him like a child afraid of getting lost. They sat on a bench, staring at the moon, both quiet and tired after the events of the past few weeks.

  ‘How’s Susan?’

  ‘Aidan’s fine.’

  ‘I didn’t ask about Aidan.’

  She looked towards her brother.

  ‘Okay,’ he agreed, holding his gaze on the bright moon. ‘How’s Aidan?’

  ‘He’s annoyed and frustrated and fine.’

  ‘He won’t take my calls.’

  ‘He’s punishing yo
u.’

  ‘Any idea how long it’ll last?’

  ‘Until you come home.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You’ll come home with me?’ Harri asked.

  He sulked. ‘It’s only been a few days.’

  ‘It’s been more than a few days. You have a new business to run, a boyfriend waiting for you and a life back home.’

  ‘You didn’t mention Mum and Dad.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Have you seen them?’ he asked.

  ‘Mum,’ she said quietly.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Contrite.’ She sniffed a little.

  ‘And Dad?’

  ‘We’ve texted but I can’t face him yet.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve a neck to ask.’ She laughed.

  ‘Oh, I know why I can’t face him but tell me why you can’t.’ The answer might seem obvious but George needed to know exactly what Harri was thinking. He needed to feel he knew her as well now, on the Sirmione shoreline, as he had nearly a month previously when he had thought they shared a birthday.

  ‘Because he’ll take me into his office and he’ll sit me down and he’ll get out a file and he’ll open it and he’ll tell me and show me things I’m not ready for. Don’t forget I was once one of his cases.’

  George was silent for a few minutes, absorbing his sister’s words. In his outrage and contempt for his parents’ lie, he had forgotten something important. He had forgotten that Harri, once lost, might soon be found, with all the frightening implications that that entailed. She has another family somewhere. That really should have occurred to me before now. God, I’m such a selfish sod.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked, after a minute or two.

  ‘That I’m a dick.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Harri?’ he said, after another moment or two.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you scared?’

  ‘Not any more.’ She smiled at him. ‘Maybe a little nervous but definitely not scared.’

  ‘Are you curious?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she admitted. ‘I am.’

  ‘Are you still my twin sister?’

  She nodded. ‘I am.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But,’ she sighed, ‘I’m also someone else.’

  ‘I can forgive them but only if you can.’

  ‘The parents?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So we’ll forgive them.’

  He stood up and took her hand and together they walked away from the shore and towards their hotel room where, twenty minutes later, George would make an ill-conceived joke implying that as they were not now technically related she should probably turn her back so she didn’t get too aroused by his muscle-bound body. He didn’t duck in time. The pillow hit his face and, because of the previous night’s injury, it felt like a brick. I really need to learn to shut up.

  5 July 1975 – Saturday

  I can’t believe it. Dr B has moved into Matthew’s gate lodge! Henry asked us to help him unload boxes from his car. I carried the light stuff and he was really strict about us bending our knees before picking anything up. When Matthew went out to get stuff for sandwiches, Dr B mentioned he’d seen us at the carnival. I asked him why he hadn’t said hello and he said we were in a mammoth bumper-car battle at the time. He made me laugh. He was right – it was a mammoth battle, Matthew against Dave, who took it a little too seriously for my liking. Anyway, he said that, out of my school uniform and with makeup, I looked a lot older than my years. Sheila’s Dave said I’d definitely pass for twenty-three! I suppose looking in the mirror at my old face all the time makes me think that others like Dr B are really young when they’re not. He’s probably twenty-six but he only looks about twenty. It’s weird. I hope I don’t always look older. That would be terrible – I’ll look like my granny at twenty-five. Dr B said he almost didn’t recognize me with makeup on. I told him I’d been able to buy beer since I was thirteen. He frowned at that, crinkling his face, but I said that if he can tell me he likes men I can tell him I buy beer. I didn’t tell him I don’t like the taste. He conceded that I had made a good argument after going very red and shuffling a bit. He’s very sorry he let his secret slip and I don’t think he’s really sure how or why it happened. I think he was just like a bubble on the verge of bursting and I just happened to be there at the time.

  Anyway, I had Tuesday off so I thumbed to Bray and headed to the bookshop and spent half the day looking for the perfect moving-in present. In the end I came across it by accident. I was looking through some second-hand books in the corner and came across A Passage to India, which had been a present I’d received from my granny the year before last. I nearly had a fit. I thought it was a travel book and I really don’t think I’d like to go there. I mean, I wouldn’t even know what they were saying and that’s just weird.

  I was wrong. It was a brilliant story about a poor Indian doctor who lives under British rule, which means they probably do speak English or at least they did. I don’t know. God, I’m sooooo ignorant. Anyway he’s falsely accused of touching up some stupidly named English woman during a day out at the caves and all hell breaks loose. It’s really good. I was glued. Anyway I was looking through the writer’s other stuff – Howards End looked kind of boring and A Room with a View looked like it could be a bit sexy. Then I came across a book called Maurice and it’s only a story about homosexuality! Unbelievable! So I bought A Room with a View and Maurice and the man behind the counter gave me a dirty look when he saw what I was buying but he didn’t ask my age because I wasn’t in my uniform and I was wearing makeup. Last night I started reading Maurice (Dr B will never know it’s a second-hand book). Holy Mother of God, I think there’ll be parts I’ll have to read with one hand over my eyes!!!!! I’m only at the start of it but already I really feel sorry for Maurice and Clive. I’ll give Dr B the book when I’m finished. I hope he likes it. I hope it has a happy ending. If it doesn’t have a happy ending maybe I won’t give it to him. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about that.

  HE’s keeping his head down. He hasn’t said a word to me and I haven’t said a word to him. Mam is pretending not to notice. Father Ryan has visited twice and the other day the three of them knelt in the sitting room and said the rosary before they had tea and biscuits in the kitchen. It makes me sick to my stomach. Father Ryan asked if I would pray with them but I said no way and Mam said later that I gave him that look, the one that would frighten the devil himself. Tough! If Father Ryan thinks a rosary or two, a few cups of tea and some biscuits will make any difference he’s a fool. If he thinks by talking my mam into letting HIM back into our house that he’s done a good thing he’s wrong.

  I haven’t seen Matthew in three days. His dad came home without his bit and took Matthew to somewhere in Spain with him. He didn’t say why he wanted Matthew to go with him, but he doesn’t really talk to him, just kind of orders him around. They won’t be back until mid next week. I really miss him. I wish he was home. I haven’t seen Sheila either – she’s still locked in her room. Dave has been up and down Matthew’s dad’s ladder like nobody’s business. Her parents are too busy in the bar to check on her so she and Dave have her room all to themselves. Little do her parents know she’s been having the time of her life just above them!!! Having said that, once she found out she wasn’t pregnant she told Dave they couldn’t have full sex for a good while as she didn’t want to risk it, so they’re doing other things that she says are private. Suddenly Sheila is private. I’ve heard it all now.

  Henry said I’m getting to be a much better rider. I’m not a natural, though, not like Matthew. Betsy is good to me. She’d want to be after she almost shat all over me. That will be hard to forget. Anyway, although the days are a little longer without Matthew, I still love working with the horses. Maybe I’ll go into horse training. Maybe I should be nicer to Matth
ew’s dad. I’ll think about that. The door is locked. I’m tired. Going to sleep now.

  12. Limbo’s just a stopgap

  In the weeks after Harri had returned from Wexford and before she went to Italy she had allowed disillusionment to consume her. As Aidan had put it one afternoon, if she was a taste she’d be described as tart with a hint of bitter. He had appeared the day after his own return from Italy. When she’d opened the door to his annoying rap, he’d bustled past her, tanned, wearing white and smelling of a combination of Paco Rabanne and Lynx, which he insisted on spraying down his pants in what her brother had once described as an OCD-type manner.

  ‘Is that the TV I hear?’ he asked, trailing into the sitting room just to be sure. ‘Wow, I didn’t think that thing actually worked!’

  Since returning from her holiday home in Wexford, Harri had done little except work and watch TV. Television was the greatest thought-antidote imaginable. She could remain awake and free from contemplation, consideration or deliberation for hours on end. Instead she was free to live someone else’s joy or misery, fear or fortitude. She could stare blankly at the screen and become embroiled in another’s nightmare without having to consider or ponder her own. She found that she liked crime shows best. CSI was particularly fascinating and conveniently seemed to be showing every time she turned the TV on. It had such an impact on her that when her dad had told her about her origins, in the attic, one of the few thoughts that had passed through her paralysed mind was They’d never have got away with that in Nevada, not to mention Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, this stuff only happens in films.

  Aidan made himself tea while cursing her brother. ‘He’s a pig’; ‘I’m sick to death of him’; ‘Selfish selfish selfish!’; ‘Where are the teabags?’; ‘I’ve reached my limit with him, I really have’; ‘Are you going to say anything?’