In My Mother's Name: A totally addictive and emotional psychological thriller

by Laura Elliot

  How little he knew about her life. He should have been the first to know about the theft of the diary and the deliberate wiping of her computer. If she had told him, he would have insisted on her leaving Reedstown. Would she have had the will to withstand the pressure he put on her? Now it was too late and the argument that followed had a preordained pattern, as if the decision to end their engagement had already been made. Their future together ending on a storm of accusations and tears. Daniel’s tears, not hers. Adele was beyond tears. She was suspended in some limbo land, waiting for a solution she no longer believed was possible.

  After he ended the call, she pinched her arm. Yes, she could still feel pain… but little else. Was it that easy to fall out of love? A tap turning off with a quick flick of the wrist. No drips.

  She searched the photographs for a clue that would convince her they had been manipulated as Daniel insisted; truncated arms or background figures that could belong to a jostling crowd – but all she saw was a cameo with two faces, their eyes feasting greedily on each other.

  When she phoned the Garda station to check for an update on the break-in, Sergeant Darcy advised her to close down the blog for her own safety. She did not state it quite so bluntly, more like a gentle encouragement to let the dead rest and move on with her new life in Colorado. What new life? Adele clamped her lips on the question. Sergeant Darcy was unlikely to be interested in the fact that her engagement to Daniel was over.

  The sergeant was right about her leaving Reedstown. Yesterday, a man had spat at Adele in the supermarket. He came right up to her when she was at the fruit section and aimed the globule at her face. He was her own age, his muscular body primed from the gym, his language gathered from the gutter. She had been accosted on Main Street by two elderly women, who had once belonged to the Thorns. Gently but firmly they had told her she was on the highway to hell. And she was being watched. Eyes on her spine, the back of her neck. A tingling nervousness that convinced her she was a lightning rod where danger was concerned.

  30 Julie

  Davina’s constant phone calls to complain about the blog were disturbing Julie. Their memories of the past were so different and she, unlike Davina, was scalded with guilt. Each time she read another entry, she imagined the pages blotched by tears as Marianne Mooney scribbled frantically and in secret late into the night.

  She had been one of those bullies. Bullying was not an attribute she would previously have used to describe herself but the diary had forced her to confront her younger self. That perplexing, ugly time, conveniently forgotten until now. Davina laughed scornfully when Julie compared their behaviour to a ‘virus’ but, to Julie, it seemed an apt description.

  Forgotten incidents kept surfacing. Marianne Mooney’s expression as she endured the remarks and open mockery that followed her along school corridors; the taunts that filled the empty space created around her in the school canteen. Her name becoming a byword for graffiti, splashed on the walls of the school bicycle shed and the walls of her house. How had Julie believed that was funny, fair or justified? One memory in particular became more clearly defined with each appearance. Marianne and Keith Lewis standing outside the snooker hall in the village. She had been wearing a floral-patterned dress with bell sleeves and a flouncy hem that ended just above her ankles. Very retro seventies, which had been her style thing. Her chunky blue clogs gave her extra height, yet she still looked tiny against Keith’s tall frame. He bent closer to her and grabbed her hat, slapped it on his own head and laughed out at her from under the floppy brim.

  ‘Bitch slut.’ Davina had been convinced they were going to kiss, as had Julie. The girl’s lips had been slightly parted, as if she was about to offer her mouth to Keith; but, looking back, what Julie now remembered was Marianne’s embarrassment as she strained away from him, her skinny body almost flattened against the wall. Such a configuration had not seemed possible then. Not with handsome, swaggering Keith Lewis, who had held her hat out of reach while she struggled to snatch it from him. Shane Reagan, who saw what was happening as he came towards them, broke into a run. Marianne managed to grab her hat back and go towards him, anxious to prevent any contact between the two boys— no, Julie corrected herself, not boys but men, young, virile and dangerous. Davina had hissed a few more insults as Marianne walked away, insults that would later become the template for the gossip that swirled around her when her pregnancy was revealed.

  Liam had also been present, observing the tableau as if he were a voyeur and it was being played out for his pleasure. In those days he had been Keith’s shadow, a skinny boy with acne, and mortified by his mother’s religious zeal. Who would believe that he would fill out into a compact sturdiness or that his skin would be blemish-free as he grew into a confident, driven businessman? So confident that he had persuaded Julie she would be happy with him for the rest of her life.

  Liam was as incensed as Davina over the diaries but had failed in his efforts to serve an injunction against the blog. Documented evidence existed that his mother did run a mother and baby home in Inisada and that Marianne Mooney delivered her baby there. No overlooking hard facts. But that had only added to his anger.

  Julie had seen evidence of the mother and baby home shortly after she moved into Holywell. It was kept in an abandoned building at the end of the garden. The den had been locked for years but Julie had found the key. She had partied there with Davina when they were teenagers and Gloria was away on tour. Drink and drugs, the risks they took then. How confident they had been that they knew it all. Nothing could touch them yet she had been carried from that den suffering from alcoholic poisoning and hospitalised. The arrogance of youth, she had shivered as she entered the den and knelt to examine the boxes and crates that had been salvaged from the mother and baby home. According to Liam, the big house had been gutted so they must have been stored in an outside building. She had been tempted to leave everything alone and relock the door but curiosity got the better of her. She had opened boxes filled with Gloria’s unsold books and meditation CDs. Presentation packs of candles and medals were covered in a film of soot. She found stacks of photographs of her mother-in-law in a trance-like state, her eyes gazing skywards, her hands joined in prayer or raised in benediction. Such a strong face, her eyes slightly protruding, her firm mouth softened as if she was greeting a familiar apparition. Julie was tempted to light a match and finish what the original fire had been unable to do.

  A small safe was hidden behind the boxes. She tried various combinations to open it and finally succeeded when she used the date Gloria had died. The first document she removed was the last will and testament of Charlotte Greerson, who had willed her house and land to Gloria. A second document authorised Gloria to establish the House of Atonement. Photographs of newborn babies were filed together. Julie opened letters. One was from adoptive parents in Ohio, another from a couple in Atlanta. The photographs that accompanied these letters showed the trinity of adoptive parents and their babies. She delved deeper and found copies of birth certificates and travel itineraries. Christy Lewis’s name seemed to leap from the pages of one letter. He had written to Gloria from Boston, where he was on a trade mission. He had taken the time to call on Baby Malcolm’s adoptive parents and was happy to report that everything had gone according to plan. Another letter reassured Gloria that the fuss over that ‘other incident’ had died down. The girl would be in Inisada shortly.

  Julie had staggered when she stood, pins and needles running through her feet. She closed the safe and surrounded it again with boxes. Her skin felt clogged with secrets as she hurried from the building and headed straight to the bathroom to shower. She had left that echoing space and never entered it again. Liam had promised to sort out the material and the building was knocked down. The ground on which it stood was now a flagstoned patio. She had looked upon the memorabilia as relics of her mother-in-law’s deluded ego but, now, reading about that mother and baby home, she was tormented by the suspicion that she had let valuable info
rmation slip heedlessly through her hands.

  She counselled women in her clinic, listened when they spoke about the trauma they experienced when they searched for babies taken from them at birth and persuaded against their will to hand over for adoption. A moat of bureaucracy in their way, the drawbridge closed against their pain, their need for information.

  31 Rachel

  Breathing smoothly, Rachel jogged up Summit Road. She was clocking up kilometres on her pedometer and should reach her target today. She used to run marathons before she was transferred to Reedstown and she was familiar with the rush, the high, all those released endorphins making the aches and the strains worthwhile. She drank from her water bottle and shook the remaining water over her face. Bunches of flowers had been left outside Hillcrest. Rachel had heard that this was happening. People were turning what they believed to be the birthplace of Marianne Mooney into a shrine to her memory. She could only imagine Davina’s reaction.

  An hour later she was behind her desk reading a registered letter in her in-tray. Marked ‘Personal/Important Information’ and posted in Reedstown, it had arrived in the morning post. Her heart, when she read it, beat to a rhythm that could not be good for the fragile life she carried.

  Dear Sergeant Darcy

  I write to you as a serving politician who has always afforded the Garda Síochána my utmost respect. I have always maintained a professional distance between myself and our police force but am now compelled to make contact with you on an urgent matter of concern for you and, also, for me.

  I’m deeply disturbed and distressed by the antics of a certain young woman, namely Adele Foyle, who claims she is revealing information about an incident that happened in Reedstown many years ago. I am appalled each time I read another outrageous entry on her blog. She came like a plague into our village and her lies must be silenced.

  So far, for reasons best known to yourself, you have refused to publish the statement signed by Marianne Mooney at Reedstown Garda Station on the night of 3 April 1994, despite Jack Bale’s request that you do so. Therefore, I’m forced to write this letter to you for two reasons. Firstly, you have the means to control the lies that are being spread by Ms Foyle. Secondly, your failure to name those lies could have dire consequences for the man you love. I fear it is only a matter of time before your husband’s name is linked to an imaginary crime. If that happens, it will destroy not only his newspaper but also your reputation as a sergeant.

  Guilt by association has a powerful pull and my son’s untarnished reputation could also be damaged for no other reason than that he once befriended your husband for a brief and oft-regretted period. Drugs were always an issue with Bob Molloy. I’m aware that young people like experimenting with danger. They enjoy disregarding the rules but usually they come out from the dark side, chastened, wiser and ready to assume their responsibilities as sensible adults. Not your husband, though. He was unable to control his habit. This led to a lapse of judgement and he was seen regularly in the company of Marianne Mooney. The girl was highly promiscuous from the time she was thirteen. She looked older than her years and she certainly behaved that way too. Of course, she became pregnant and concocted this outrageous story of a gang-rape. Believe me, it never happened. She finally confessed the truth to Jack Bale, who sorted it out in a manner that most benefitted the young people at its centre.

  I don’t need to remind you of your responsibilities. For no other reason than to save your husband’s reputation, release that statement and end this farce once and for all.

  Sincerely yours

  Christopher Lewis

  The noise in the Garda station faded to a dull rumble as she absorbed the threat. Yesterday, on Main Street, he had greeted her in passing. His complexion was flushed, an unnatural ruddiness that made her wonder if he was suffering from high blood pressure. It was after five thirty in the evening; the post would have been collected by then. Nothing in his demeanour had suggested that he had written a letter designed to tear her husband’s reputation to shreds. A letter he believed would force her into making a decision based on the ugly reality of self-survival.

  She tore the letter into fragments and stuffed them into her pocket. She would burn it when she returned home. Bob would never know that she must choose between Marianne Mooney’s desperate writings and the statement she had made in the threatening presence of Jack Bale.

  It was dark when she parked her car a short distance from Hillcrest and walked down the lane to The Lodge. She rang the doorbell twice before he answered, his mouth opening with shock when he recognised her.

  ‘Ah, Sergeant, this is a surprise.’ He quickly regained his composure. ‘As you’re out of uniform, I assume this is a social call?’

  ‘Correct, Mr Lewis. May I come in?’

  ‘Of course. You’re more than welcome to my humble abode.’

  ‘As a humble abode, it’s impressive,’ she said. ‘Would this have been the original house where Marianne Mooney lived?’

  ‘It was, indeed.’

  ‘I can see why the land would have been of interest to you.’

  ‘Ah… I see you’re familiar with the diary’s lies. I can assume you, Sergeant, I bought this property at above its market value and the owner was mightily relieved to sell it to me.’ He switched off the television and swept his hand towards an armchair. ‘Please be seated. Now that you’re off duty, may I call you Rachel?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘And may I also offer you a drink?’

  ‘No thank you. I won’t be staying long. I was sorry to hear you were in hospital. I hope you’re feeling better now.’

  ‘Much better, thank you. How’s Bob?’

  ‘As busy as ever.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Success was never built on idleness.’ He settled into the armchair opposite her and folded his hands over his stomach. ‘Now that we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way, we can get to the crux of your visit and discuss my letter.’

  ‘No, that’s not why I’m here. But, you’re right about this being an informal visit. I want to talk to you about Gloria Thornton.’

  ‘Ah, Gloria. A mysterious and imaginative woman. What can I tell you about her that you don’t already know?’

  ‘Adele Foyle’s blog refers to the adoption of babies to the States.’

  ‘It refers to many things. Frankly, Rachel, as I’ve already stated, that diary is an outrageous concoction of lies.’

  ‘Regarding these babies who were taken out of Ireland, I wonder how that was achieved. From my enquiries, the House of Atonement was a private enterprise, yet there is documentation available that claims these adoptions were legitimate. If I were to begin a Garda inquiry to trace the origins of that documentation, I’m certain it would lead the investigation team to some very interesting conclusions.’

  ‘What exactly are you implying?’ he asked.

  Did you traffic babies and take your cut from wealthy Americans who adopted them? How many were sold? Did you keep tabs on them after Gloria died or did you conveniently forget they existed? Such questions demanded to be asked but how could she frame what was pure speculation on her part?

  ‘I’m sorry if I’m upsetting you, Mr Lewis,’ she said. ‘You refer to the diary as lies. I’ve read its entire contents. So far, Adele Foyle is rigorously editing what she publishes on her blog. But some entries, unpublished so far, refer to visits you made to the House of Atonement. Can you tell me what you were doing there? I’m interested in finding out about your relationship with Gloria Thornton.’

  ‘You are treading on very dangerous ground.’ His glacial gaze, the aggressive tilt of his head – she had forgotten how formidable he could look.

  ‘The ground on which I stand is quite solid, Mr Lewis. But, regarding that unfortunate letter you sent to me, I’d like to know why are you demanding I release a statement that was taken from Marianne Mooney under what could certainly be called coercion?’

  ‘What gives you the idea that you can com
e here and question me like this. It’s highly irregular—’

  ‘As was your decision to send that letter to me. You could be accused of interfering with police procedure.’

  ‘Only if you report me. And I doubt you’ll do that.’ His ruddiness had been replaced by an alarming pallor but his voice was still strong. ‘Every wretched word written by that capricious little slut was untrue. Let me pass on some sound advice to you, Sergeant. Shut your mouth and keep it closed or you might find you’ve bitten off more that you can chew.’

  ‘Don’t ever threaten me—’

  ‘Threaten you? My dear girl, if I were to threaten you, you’d know all about it. That diary is a fake and the truth will be revealed soon enough. I’d advise you to go home now and forget this conversation ever took place.’

  ‘And I would advise you to leave my husband alone. I won’t hesitate to bring the full rigour of the law down on you if you ever write a letter like that to me again.’

  He was gripping the arms of his chair and breathing heavily when she left, unable any longer to look at his ravaged face where every secret he had ever hoarded was reflected in his eyes.

  32 Davina

  The midnight hour had passed and Davina was still awake. She sighed and moved to the edge of the bed when Keith flung his arm across her, his sleep undisturbed by fears that the past had a way of fingering the present. Christy had brought him up to believe he was invincible. A belief that had transferred into arrogance and the confidence to believe he had no reason to fear those lies.