The Truth Will Out

by Anna McPartlin

  ‘I’ll get back to you,’ she said, wondering whether or not the serious diseases, pain and torment she had recently wished upon her substitute parents would be enough. She was trying to forgive them, but their deceit was eating away at her. Perhaps one day in the future the Harri sitting at that table would be gone. Good riddance, you didn’t exist anyway. She knew George was pretending too. He had danced with his mother and made nice over dinner. He’d toasted their family and had been charming, forgiving and deceiving. She could see it in his eyes, the eyes that refused to meet those of either parent. The Ryan family were doing what the Ryan family did best: they were pretending and hiding and lying and sweeping every irritation, uncomfortable emotion and bad feeling under the carpet. How long the charade would last was anybody’s guess.

  Melissa entered the restaurant barefoot, holding her handbag tight against her chest. She looked the maître d’ in the eye and, with a beaming smile, announced that she had seen her party and would not require help being seated. He didn’t seem to notice she had no shoes on – but, then, how many people look down?

  Susan was the first to speak. ‘Where are your shoes?’ she asked, proving that in any situation the saying ‘there’s always one’ has merit.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ Melissa said, taking her bag away from her stained top.

  Harri poured her a large glass of wine.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Melissa, and had a long drink.

  ‘Kids are hard work,’ Susan said, sighing.

  ‘Husbands are harder!’ Melissa said, and had another gulp.

  ‘I hear that,’ Susan agreed.

  Harri remained silent. The scene before her only served to remind her that she had neither kids nor a husband. James was gone, she missed him more than she would have thought possible, and rabbits were probably banned by the apartment-building committee.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Melissa asked her.

  ‘Fine.’ She grinned for effect.

  ‘You look constipated.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘There are prunes on the menu,’ Aidan interjected.

  ‘I don’t need prunes.’

  ‘I was only saying. It’s not often you see prunes on a menu.’

  ‘Where’s George?’ Melissa enquired.

  ‘He’s up to his tits in carpenters, electricians and plumbers,’ Aidan said. ‘You’d swear he was converting bloody Buckingham Palace. He’s had me painting all week and he’s a fussy little bastard.’

  Aidan was lying. George was up to his eyes in it but not so much that he couldn’t stop for a meal. The real truth was that George didn’t enjoy nights on the town with the girls, and Aidan was sick of making excuses for him. They’d argued about it earlier when Aidan had begged him to come, especially in light of Harri’s latest ordeal. George was adamant he had no intention of wasting time listening to idle bloody gossip, baby talk, marriage talk and Aidan’s bitching.

  ‘I don’t bitch.’

  ‘Aidan, have you ever met yourself?’

  ‘Your sister needs you.’

  ‘And I’m there for her on our own time.’

  ‘You never come out with us.’

  ‘Three women and you are not my ideal dinner companions. Melissa and Susan are lovely women, my sister is my world, but just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I like girly nights.’

  ‘Isn’t it funny how you enjoy their company here in our home but not in a restaurant?’

  ‘Don’t start, Aidan.’

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘So don’t say. I have my friends and you have yours.’ George was annoyed to be having the same stupid argument for the millionth time.

  Aidan gave up. What was the point? George’s supposed friends were all adrenalin junkies who, when not hurling themselves out of planes or bungee-jumping off buildings, were talking about it or planning it or getting pissed on it. They didn’t know George, any more than he knew them. They had nothing in common except their hobbies. When George needed help with his business plan it was Melissa who spent three nights drawing up his proposals for the bank; when he needed décor discounts, it was Susan who ensured he got what he needed. For everything else he relied on Harri. They were his real friends and his real friends wanted to have a night out with him so that together they could move past the recent terrible revelations. But why argue reason with a man like George? He’d made his mind up so that was that.

  Aidan had slammed the door to signal his exit.

  George had been tired after a long day spent wrangling with an electrician.

  ‘I’m just not comfortable putting the spots there,’ the man had said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘It doesn’t feel right to me.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to feel right. It’s what I want,’ George had snapped.

  ‘Yeah, well, that may be the case but I’m the one doing the work and four spots so close together in that particular area does not look right to me.’

  ‘I am the fucking customer.’

  ‘There is no need to swear.’

  ‘I think there is.’

  ‘Really there isn’t.’

  ‘Are you going to put the spots where I’ve asked or not?’

  The man sniffed and rubbed his sleeve under his nose. ‘It’s your funeral.’

  ‘Are you trying to say putting them close together is dangerous?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’

  Days before, in a moment of weakness, he had agreed to go for the meal but that was only to get Aidan off his back. Then he’d forgotten about it so it was an unpleasant shock to find Aidan waiting for him in his best smart casuals reeking of Paco Rabanne and with a big smile plastered across his face.

  ‘You have half an hour to get ready.’

  Bollocks. ‘Aidan, I’m not going.’

  The argument had taken off from there.

  After Aidan had gone, George realized he had no food in the place and was sick at the thought of ordering in once more. He knew Aidan was furious with him and that the argument could go on for days. Part of him really needed a good night out and of course he loved all the girls – it was just Aidan around the girls that he didn’t like. He became giggly, girly, loud and camper than camp, and George found it embarrassing. Of course, when he brought this up, Aidan called him a homophobe and screamed and shouted, ‘You’re as bad as them! I am what I am. How dare you judge me?’ George had no comeback – at least, none that gained anyone’s sympathy. Now he sat alone waiting for the delivery of his third chicken satay that week, simmering and trying to remember why he and Aidan were together in the first place.

  Harri had talked about her dad, her mum, the dead twins, the girl in the woods, the dead girl’s fragile mother and vicious stepfather, Father Ryan, the young doctor and the boy who’d lost his love.

  ‘I think it’s very romantic,’ Susan declared, after one too many.

  ‘Your idea of romance must be sharp tacks in your knickers,’ Aidan said. ‘The girl died alone under a fucking tree with a dead kid between her legs. How is that romantic?’

  Harri winced and Melissa kicked him.

  ‘I meant the boy’s love for the girl. She was dead and he loved her so much he was willing to let his little girl go just to keep her safe from the stepfather the girl loathed. I swear it’s like a Mills & Boon.’

  ‘You’re such a sap,’ Aidan said.

  ‘It’s a nice thought, Susan, but Aidan’s right – you are a sap,’ Harri concluded.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Susan said.

  ‘He was just a kid. He didn’t want a baby,’ Harri said, swirling the contents of her glass thoughtfully.

  ‘And now?’ Melissa asked.

  ‘Now what?’ Harri responded.

  ‘And now he’s a grown man.’

  ‘My age,’ Susan reminded them. I wonder what he looks like.

&n
bsp; ‘And now nothing,’ Harri asserted.

  ‘You’re not the slightest bit curious?’ Aidan asked.

  ‘No,’ Harri lied.

  ‘Really?’ Melissa said. ‘That’s a pity because I Googled him last night.’

  Harri went slightly pale. ‘I can’t believe you did that,’ she whispered.

  The other two said nothing.

  ‘Did I step over the line?’ Melissa asked, a little alarmed by the silence. Nobody spoke. ‘Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have but I didn’t think. My computer was on and, you know me, I’m a Googler.’ Melissa was sweating now. Aidan and Susan shuffled in their seats uncomfortably.

  ‘So what did it say?’ Harri asked, after a long pause.

  Melissa cleared her throat. ‘Well, he’s a horse breeder. It turns out he’s a very well-known trainer and big with the horsy set. He lives in some mansion in Wicklow. He’s not married and, other than you, he doesn’t have any kids. Oh and he’s minted.’

  ‘My parents have money,’ Harri replied, slightly offended that finance had been mentioned.

  ‘Yes, they do, but this guy would make the Ryans look like peasants.’

  ‘And he’s single?’ Susan clarified.

  ‘Well, he’s unmarried. He may have a girlfriend.’

  ‘So he’s very rich,’ said Aidan.

  Melissa ignored him. ‘I printed off a picture. It’s not great – my colour printer is rubbish – but if you want to see him …’

  Susan’s mind buzzed. Please be good-looking. Oh, Jesus, what am I doing? How desperate am I? Get a grip, Susan.

  Harri sighed. ‘Show me,’ she said.

  ‘Okay.’ Melissa nodded and took the picture out of her handbag. She unfolded it and smoothed it out on the table.

  The man before them was dressed in a tuxedo and grinning while holding up a glass of champagne. The caption read: Matthew Delamere Back on Form. He had a full head of thick wavy brown hair that matched Harri’s, but was shorter. His smile was wide and his eyes had a twinkle in them.

  ‘You have his eyes,’ Melissa said.

  ‘He’s a ride,’ Aidan said.

  ‘He really is,’ Susan agreed. God, I really feel like calling Keith. Don’t do it, Susan. You’re better than that.

  ‘He’s a rich ride,’ Aidan said, and sipped his wine. ‘Every cloud …’ Harri gave him a dig. ‘Right,’ he agreed with himself. ‘Too early to be positive.’

  Harri felt weird and decided she needed the loo. She excused herself and sat on the toilet, trying to regain her composure. When it didn’t work she cried.

  ‘Are you okay, dear?’ a woman asked, from the next stall.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ Harri sobbed.

  ‘Sometimes all you can do is have a good old cry,’ the woman said.

  ‘True,’ Harri spluttered.

  ‘Good girl,’ the woman said, and left her to it.

  2 August 1975 – Saturday

  It’s been a whole month since I wrote in my diary. Damn it, I’ve missed so much and, no matter what, I won’t remember everything. I broke two fingers on my right hand – that’s why I couldn’t write. Two really bad breaks. I was in bits and they’re still really sore. I was racing with Matthew and fell off Betsy. Henry said I was lucky I didn’t break my neck, and I seriously don’t know how he worked that one out. I landed on my hand, not my head. Dr B gave me a letter for the hospital and Matthew came with me. I didn’t bother telling my mam – she’d just have embarrassed me. She’s being a psycho at the moment. One minute she’s laughing, the next she’s crying, then she’s laughing again, then she’s screaming, then she’s apologizing before crying, then laughing, and so on. I swear she’s got so mad I even felt sorry for HIM one night last week. It was only for a moment, then I wanted him dead again so that’s all right.

  I’ve been able to continue working in the stables although I’ve been doing more in the office, which I love. The girl on Reception got a job in Dublin and left them stuck so my broken fingers couldn’t have been better timed. I’ve been answering phones mostly and taking notes on a chalkboard because chalk is way thicker and easier to hold with the claw I have instead of a hand. It was Matthew’s idea and seriously genius. I was up in the posh trainer’s part of the property and, holy hell, was it posh. At the start Matthew’s dad ignored me but then he came into the office one day shouting about a lunch order that hadn’t been delivered to him and a Saudi prince!!! Anyway, the girl who’d gone off to Dublin must have forgotten to order from some posh place, ironically in Dublin, so while he was going mental I rang Sheila’s dad and asked him to pack up a traditional pub lunch and deliver it and he was only too happy to oblige and the prince loved it. Afterwards Matthew’s dad said I was great at thinking on my feet and I’d make a good PA. I’ve no idea what a PA is or exactly what a PA does but it sounds brilliant.

  He’s been all over me since. Well, when I say all over me I mean he thinks I’m brill – and if I didn’t want to go back to school to do the Leaving Cert in September, I’d say he’d keep me on. I don’t think Matthew would like that, though.

  Now, what else? Sheila and Dave were off for two weeks but they’re now back on and she says they definitely won’t break up again. Yeah, right, and my mam isn’t bonkers! Dave broke it off because he thought she was being too clingy and she wasn’t supportive when he said he wanted to be a rock climber for a living. Dave is a total spasm. A rock climber? Who does that? How does that pay? Why would you do it? What is the point? I wouldn’t mind only he’s the laziest boy I know. He wouldn’t scratch himself if he thought someone else would do it and I’m sure behind closed doors his mam does it for him. She’s weird-looking and always has a wet hanky at the ready. Dave still wants to be a rock climber and Sheila’s pretending she’s happy with that because her mother told her it’s just a phase.

  Sheila is now seriously considering becoming a hairdresser and not like before when she was only talking about it. She’s even done my hair in an up-style. It wasn’t very good – there were loads of lumps and my head hurt but she’s a beginner and hasn’t had any training yet so you never know.

  Dr B! What can I say about Dr B? He’s at a crossroads and gone goggle-eyed! We’ve got closer since I broke my fingers. I forgot to mention he hated my present of the Maurice book. He nearly lost his temper when he got around to reading the back of it and we didn’t talk for a week. Then when I broke my fingers he admitted he did read it and I didn’t say that I’d read it because it was really sexy and I didn’t want to go red and he said that he loved it and thanked me and told me it had made him feel normal. I told him I understood, but he laughed and said I couldn’t possibly understand what it felt like to be a pariah, and I couldn’t answer him back at the time because I didn’t know what a pariah was, never mind how it was spelt. Later I looked it up in the dictionary, and now that I know what it is, he’s wrong. He may like men but nobody knows that, only him and me, and everyone knows that I’m living in a house of violence, everyone knows my mam is being odd and falling apart and that my stepdad is a drunk, and everybody thinks they know exactly what goes on and they don’t.

  I hear them talk and whisper and wonder. I watch the world pass me by and just because I’m a teenager it doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect me. I see the person I want to be and the world I want to live in and it’s out of my reach by miles. I’m a stupid kid to be ignored and trodden upon – so if anyone knows what it’s like to be an outsider I do. Have a wank, Dr B, and get a clue! Well, that’s what I thought but I didn’t say it.

  At my next bandage appointment I told him I now understood the term and explained why I was right and he was wrong. He laughed at first but then he was sad. He said that my frustration and pain were a rite of passage and his was a burden to bear for eternity. That’s Father Ryan talking – I can even hear it come out of his mouth. What a load of old shit! I told him as much. He thinks the Church knows what it’s talki
ng about and maybe he’s right – but maybe he’s wrong. I asked if he’d ever considered that and he admitted he hadn’t. I told him that my dad’s brother (a hippie the family doesn’t talk about) once said to me that there was only one rule that applied: treat others as you wish them to treat you. It was New Year’s Eve and he was drunk but it made loads of sense. He said anything above or below that was utter bollocks. I think he’s right. You are who you are and as long as you live a good life and treat people well, aren’t you decent and good and worthy of all that Heaven has to offer?

  Dr B didn’t talk much after I brought up my drunken uncle but he did say he was glad he’d met me. That was nice. He seemed surprised that I haven’t spoken to anyone about him, but why would I? He’s my friend. Plus he’s really sorted out my fingers.

  Father Ryan is being weird. He keeps trying to talk to me, asking about how it is at home. I told him it was shit. Well, I didn’t say ‘shit’ but I told him my mam was going mental and HE would explode any day. He asked me what I meant, as though I was speaking a different language. What do YOU mean? I said, I swear I did, and it was really cheeky, but what does he expect, shoving his nose in people’s business when he has no idea? Does he live with someone who swears at him and brutalizes him every day of the week? Has he ever been in hospital so swollen he couldn’t speak? Has he ever locked his door and prayed and prayed he wouldn’t be attacked? Father Ryan doesn’t have a clue and yet he comes into my home and preaches the Lord’s word, the same Lord who hung out with whores and thieves and liked them because at the end of the day He was human and they were probably a better laugh than the pious bullshitters that in the end viciously murdered him.

  Father Ryan doesn’t like it when I say what I think. He twitches and stutters and his neck goes red, and then he quotes and reasons and argues and I switch off because I don’t care. If he had left well enough alone my mam wouldn’t be so mad that she left the house the other day forgetting to put on a skirt but that’s another story.