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

by Laura Elliot

  The crash awoke her. Glass breaking, footsteps stomping across the hall and up the stairs. She reached under the pillow for her phone but before she could remove it, the bedroom door burst open. Blinded in the glare from a torch, she was unable to see anyone, but as she continued to scrabble for her phone, the man holding the torch shouted, ‘Sit up, bitch, and put your fucking hands where I can see them.’

  Still invisible, he moved closer, she could tell by the torch sweeping towards the ceiling then flickering across the room. Only then was she able to make out his bulky shape and the pale oval of his face, which seemed to hover before her in two halves, but that impression disappeared when he again directed the torch towards her. He repeated the order as she pulled herself upright and put her hands on the duvet. Other footsteps were approaching. Voices were audible and a bark of laughter was silenced by his gruff command to, ‘Shut up.’

  A scream swelled in her throat. She fought to contain it. No one else would hear her and it would serve no purpose, apart from antagonising them. When someone switched on the bedroom light, the full horror of this break-in was revealed. Three figures stood in a row inside the door. Dressed identically in anoraks, jeans and gloves, all black, their faces were covered by what she first thought were balaclavas. As her eyes adjusted to the brightness she realised why she had seen the first intruder’s face in two halves. Hoods covered their heads and their features were hidden behind Mickey Mouse masks, their eyes covered by black blindfolds. They must be able to see through them because they were moving towards her bed with the confidence of the sighted.

  The slimmest of the three made a squeaking noise and the figure beside him giggled. She was female, young, her laughter high-pitched, giddy. They parted when they reached Adele’s bed, two on the left side and the man who had been the first to enter the room coming to a standstill on her right. She resisted the urge to huddle out of sight under the duvet in a crazed belief that they would disappear. Three blind mice; their significance was only too obvious. This time she was unable to control her scream.

  ‘Shut your mouth, bitch, or I’ll shut it for you.’ He clenched his gloved hand into a fist and shoved her back against the pillows. Casually, as if he was familiar with the geography of her bed, he reached behind her with his other hand and removed her phone. Dropping it to the floor, he crushed it with his boot.

  Leave me alone… get out of here… don’t you dare touch me… how banal those words would sound if she tried to speak but her voice was silenced anyway by the choke of fear. She considered diving towards the end of the bed and making a dash for the open door. That would be equally futile. The thought of being held down on the floor and wrestled into stillness was too terrible to contemplate.

  ‘What part of “fuck off” do you not understand, bitch?’ His head jutted forward as he moved closer to her and grabbed her chin.

  ‘I don’t know…’ Her voice was a whisper, almost inaudible. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You were warned to shut down that blog but you wouldn’t listen.’ His accent was wrong. It should be harsh and guttural, like the voices she sometimes heard at night on the riverbank. Instead, he sounded as if he was the product of a posh private school. He continued speaking, quoting words from posts she had received, the vile ones, cruel and, until now, anonymous.

  The man who had been squeaking held an iPhone towards Adele and said, ‘Say cheese, bitch. Say it nice and slow for the birdie.’

  Despite the bulkiness of his anorak, he had the tall lankiness of a youth who had yet to fill out into the solidness of adulthood. The woman was clowning it up, pulling at her mock-whiskers in a parodic gesture, then clawing the air with her black-gloved hands. Thugs for hire, tough and vicious. When the youth with the iPhone leaned closer to Adele, she screamed into his face, her fist moving simultaneously and smacking against the side of his head. He staggered backwards and crashed against the woman. This lash of fury drove Adele forward, her arms flailing. For an instant, it seemed possible that she could escape but this hope was dashed when she was grabbed by the first intruder. He was older than the others, his body supple and muscular as he pinned her face-down to the bed and fended off her struggles with a grunt. The woman, recovering her balance, came to his assistance. Adele continued to struggle, knowing the uselessness of it but determined to fight until there was nothing left to defend. She stiffened, the energy going from her when she felt the muzzle of a gun against the back of her neck.

  ‘My finger is on the trigger,’ the older man whispered in her ear. ‘If you don’t stop screaming, I’ll put this bullet through your fucking mouth.’ He twisted her around until she was again facing the iPhone. The youth had regained his balance. Part of his mask had been dislodged when Adele struck him. She caught a glimpse of metal studs in one of his ears and the edge of a tattoo under his chin, but this impression was immediately forgotten as the gunman traced the muzzle from her neck to the hollow of her throat.

  ‘You heard the man.’ The youth moved from one foot to the other. ‘Say cheese. Let me hear it loud and clear.’ Once again, he moved towards Adele, but stayed out of range as he clicked. ‘Fuckin’ deadly pose,’ he said. ‘Hold it right there.’

  The woman giggled, a hand to her mouth, as the gunman used the gun to probe the opening of Adele’s nightdress. So, this was what was meant by helplessness. The feeling that she had been taken over by someone who had the power to exert total control over her mind and body. She had been moved to fury by the descriptions in Marianne’s diary but she had never understood the true revulsion and horror her mother must have known that night. Adele could feel it now, her limbs slack with terror as she stared at each identical mask, her senses attuned to every word, every movement. The clicking of the camera phone, the youth’s heavy breathing. So much noise but the hammer-beat of her heart was louder still. She imagined it shattered, the bullet exiting her back, her lungs collapsing.

  ‘Cheese.’ Drowning in their mockery, she was forced to repeat the word as the gunman pressed the barrel between her breasts and then, slowly and deliberately, moved it downwards, sliding it over her stomach, his intent so obvious that the female intruder, no longer laughing, turned her head away.

  ‘Where is the USB key?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t have one―’ Adele stopped, her thighs clenched against the cold press of steel, knowing he could probe deeper and more insistently if he chose.

  The youth with the iPhone moved into position, clicking, clicking. Adele nodded towards the bedside table. The woman opened the drawer and removed the memory stick.

  ‘This had better be the only copy,’ she said.

  Too petrified to reply, Adele could only nod.

  ‘Shut down that fucking blog or the next time we come for you we’ll rip you apart,’ the gunman said. ‘But before closing it down, you’ll post a final blog and admit that The Marianne Diary was fake. Do you understand?’

  The force of the gun against her skin drained the last of her courage. Tears flooded her eyes, flowed down her cheeks as she nodded again.

  ‘Say it,’ he demanded. ‘I want to hear you say it for the record.’

  The youth pressed the record app on his phone and held it towards her mouth. Her muscles were rigid, her jaw locked.

  ‘Say it,’ the gunman roared.

  Her voice was a croak when she spoke, an unrecognisable sound that betrayed her mother’s truth.

  ‘And don’t even think of going to the police,’ he continued. ‘There’s nothing they can do for you that we can’t undo. Just keep remembering that and you’ll be okay.’ Obviously unable to resist a final assault, he pushed the barrel between her thighs and prodded deeper, laughing when she closed her eyes against the terrifying pressure he was exerting.

  ‘Leave her alone.’ The woman spoke directly to him. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Without answering, he slid the weapon into the pocket of his anorak and switched off the light. The darkness pressed against her eyelids. She listened
to them leaving, heard the crunch of glass under their feet, the slam of the hall door. When she was sure they were no longer in the house, she opened her eyes and reached for the bedside lamp. She was briefly thankful for the woman’s intervention, her sudden anxiety to end the games and depart; but her reason became clear when Adele discovered that her engagement ring was missing from the bedside table. Perhaps tomorrow she would mourn it but for now, its loss seemed inconsequential.

  She left her bedroom and walked over the shattered glass, unheeding of a shard that penetrated the sole of her bedroom slipper and drew blood. Every window downstairs had been broken but they had not trashed the house.

  Outside, the river was awash with moonlight. Bulrushes speared the night, serried ranks that Jack Bale would snap aside when he next cast his line into the dark-green flow. She had no doubt in her mind that he had organised tonight’s attack. Intimidation. It had worked perfectly. Unable to remain any longer in the house, she closed the door behind her.

  Her car’s tyres had been slashed. She hesitated, her plan to escape in the car thwarted. Larry’s house was within walking distance but they could be hiding in the undergrowth, waiting for another opportunity to attack.

  The riverbank was hard, the grass dry and withered from lack of rain, yet the ground felt like quicksand as she ran towards his house. Overhanging branches threw grotesque shadows before her and added to her confusion. She fell once, her face smacking off the rutted path. Blood seeped from a gash on her forehead, but she was hardly aware of the wound as she staggered to her feet.

  Larry’s irritated expression when he opened the door changed to one of concern as he took in the sight of her in her nightdress, her forehead still bleeding. He caught her in his arms just before she collapsed and supported her into the murky gloom of his living room, where the odours of a late-night curry and the beer that washed it down still hung in the air. He bandaged her foot and forehead, calmed her down when she beseeched him not to alert the Gardai. She expected her voice to crack, the wailing to begin. Her composure surprised her but she was confusing it with numbness, as she would later realise.

  ‘‘This can’t go unreported,’ he said. ‘The police will have to be notified.’ He handed her a glass of brandy and stood over her until she finished it. ‘What if they come back and burn you out… or shoot up the house. You can’t stay there any longer. It’s too dangerous.’

  She nodded. The brandy steadied her, made it possible to ask him if she could use his phone to ring Daniel. Five o’clock in the morning in Reedstown but in Colorado it was party time. She heard the background choruses of conversation and music when his phone was answered. Bar sounds, always recognisable, as was the husky, female voice in the background when Daniel asked who was calling. Adele made no reply as she ended the call and handed the phone back to Larry.

  36 Adele

  For three days she was unable to leave her room at the Loyvale Hotel. She ordered room service when she was hungry and spent most of her time in bed. Her short, fitful periods of sleep were filled with nightmares. Larry organised new tyres for her car and, having managed to retrieve the memory card from the broken fragments of her smashed phone, arrived with a new one. He reckoned he knew who the vandals were.

  ‘Shitty little river rats,’ he called them. ‘A toe up the arse would soon sort that lot out.’

  He was referring to the teenagers who gathered by the river at night. Pills and weed, needles also. Local youths who knew their terrain and blended into the shadows at the hint of a Garda raid. Adele had often heard them when she was closing her bedroom window before going to bed, their raucous laughter, their raised voices, the slap of their running footsteps. She didn’t believe they were to blame. Her gunman, the leader of the trio, had been older, more adept at terror. He had been sent with a message and had every reason to believe it had been successfully delivered. She was seized by dread every time she recalled the crash of glass, the footsteps on the stairs, the rasp of their breath, their inane squeaks and giggles.

  She had known the risk she was taking by retaliating with that last entry. Believing that Sergeant Darcy had released her mother’s statement without contacting her first, she had been consumed with rage as she tried to cope with the immediate online reaction. The screen on her laptop should have been fogged with bile by the abuse she had received, the name-calling and death threats. She was convinced there was a concerted effort behind the negative reaction; an echo of the verbal campaign orchestrated against her mother all those years ago. The message didn’t change, just the medium for its delivery. But Sergeant Darcy had not leaked the statement. Adele had realised this as soon as the intruders burst into the bedroom.

  She was not physically hurt, yet the pressure her attacker had used felt like an intolerable ache; his intentions clear as he pressed the gun closer, closer, and in that clenched instant, she had sought desperately for her mother’s comfort. She had willed Marianne to tear aside the veil that separated them. If such a connection existed between them then that was the moment it should have been made manifest. But there had been no ghostly voice exhorting her to be brave. Three blind mice… they had smashed the tenuous bond she had formed with her mother and laughed ─ like those others had ─ as they did so. One by one… laughing… sometimes their laughter is the only sound I hear. She no longer needed the diary to understand the subjugation Marianne had endured. Her ordeal had been subsumed into her own experience, her own encounter with evil.

  Her grandmother had been right. Nothing except scorched memories came from stoking the past. Yet, the past was all around her. Messages kept arriving on her laptop. Women who had shared Marianne’s experiences in other mother and baby homes. She did not want to read them. Her mother’s heartache was more than enough to bear. She had come to Reedstown to discover her father’s identity, not to be a voice for women who had been wronged and were demanding justice and information. But that was what they were asking her to do. She sighed as she opened her email account and read the latest messages. How could she post a blog denying the diary’s claims? She had written words to that effect, brief, damning and apologetic, she had stated that she accepted responsibility for the fraud that had been carried out through the publication of The Marianne Diary. Every time she felt she was ready to publish the post and deal with the opprobrium that would be heaped upon her, she found herself unable to take that final step.

  On the third afternoon, she forced herself to leave the hotel room and go for a walk along the river. She felt weightless, as if she was venturing out after a long illness and was trying to find her balance again. A group of joggers ran past, followed by an elderly woman wheeling her dog in a buggy. The woman came most afternoons, her terrier sitting upright, his eyes darting towards birds he could no longer chase. The wending riverbank should have been a place of peace yet, for Adele, it was filled with unseen spectres. She hurried past Brooklime. A glazier had installed new windows. She needed to remove her possessions but she was not yet ready to return to the house.

  An hour later she entered the Kasket, where Katie insisted the coffee and cupcake was her treat. Larry had told her what happened. Like him, she was convinced it was the ‘river rats’. She was heartily sick of chasing them from the Kasket, knowing they would eat and run without paying.

  Bob Molloy was sitting by the window staring out into Main Street. Was he waiting for his wife to emerge from the Garda station and join him? Despite Larry’s encouragement, Adele had steadfastly refused to report her assault. The cold press of steel against her skin kept her silent. Nothing, she believed, would ever dispel that sensation, or the belief that the gunman would not hesitate to pull the trigger the next time.

  She had not spoken to Bob Molloy since his refusal to allow her space in his newspaper. He nodded at her, then looked away, unsmiling. She found a table close to the wall. She needed shelter around her, something she could touch for reassurance.

  The café door opened and three people, a woman and two men,
entered. The woman wore a pair of zigzag patterned leggings and a white top stretched over her ample stomach. The younger of the two men was dressed in mock army fatigues but it was the older man, in tailored shorts and an open-neck shirt, his gaze hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, who held her attention. She recognised him from the computer shop on Barrow Lane. He walked towards a two-seater table next to her. Other larger tables were available but he pulled an extra chair around the one he had chosen. His spicy aftershave, laid on with a heavy hand, wafted towards her. She remembered the odour in her kitchen when Jack Bale had called to warn her off. Slight yet pungent enough to be differentiated from the smell of freshly gutted trout, She would have recognised it that night if terror had not ripped the memory from her.

  When the woman looked towards Adele, her gaze hard and direct, she knew they had followed her into the Kasket. The flashback came instantly. She was back in the bedroom again, his gun sliding over her body, her skin glassy with sweat as she stared into the nothingness of their collective gaze. Now, as they crowded around her, she pressed her shoulder against the wall, willed it to slide apart like the door of a vault and hide her.

  They ignored her for a while and talked among themselves about a concert they had attended the previous night. The younger two called him ‘Grad’, their attention focused on everything he said. No wonder they had been laughing at her when she brought her useless laptop into BootUrBytes.

  ‘Have you heard the latest from the Loyvale Hotel?’ asked the woman after Katie had taken their order. ‘They’re dealing with a mice infestation. That’s so gross. The exterminators have been called in. It’s particularly bad in room 32.’ She stared boldly at Adele, her high-pitched voice no longer indistinct behind a mask.