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

by Laura Elliot

  ‘The information you received when you were running your blog must have been overwhelming,’ she continued. ‘Surely you have your suspicions as to their identity.’ She was a trained professional, capable of receiving terrifying information without flinching. Now, she was forced to draw on all her resources to maintain her deadpan expression and not burst into tears of relief when Adele shook her head.

  ‘I don’t believe I’ll ever find out who they are.’ She slid her engagement ring across the table to Rachel. ‘I’ll call into the station tomorrow and collect my ring but I’m not making accusations against anyone. I’m closing down The Marianne Diary but I’m going to do what I can to help others who have nothing except their memories to mark their time in Atonement.’

  Rachel gathered up the bag containing the mask, along with Adele’s ring, and prepared to leave.

  ‘You may think you’ve failed but you’ve told your mother’s story,’ she said. ‘It’s out there now, not trapped under the eaves of an attic.’ Rachel handed a business card to her. ‘Should you change your mind and want to talk about what happened to you, phone this number.’

  She hesitated for an instant before touching the younger woman’s shoulders. How brittle they felt, drawn forward like wings in flight, resistant to her touch. Her brown eyes watered as Rachel’s ring tangled in her hair.

  ‘If you need me, call any time, day or night’ she said and left.

  The bleep of a text distracted her as she walked away. Another emergency at the news desk. Bob would be late home. Overcome by relief, she stumbled on loose gravel and almost fell. Outwardly, all seemed normal, if politeness was ever the barometer of their marriage. He had not referred to the conversation they had had on the night of Christy’s funeral but they both knew it had marked a turning point in their marriage.

  38 Julie

  Social media had been buzzing with comments since Marianne Mooney’s Garda statement went online. One devastating anonymous post and her diary was toast. Liam’s smile when he saw the statement, tight and satisfied, had slanted towards her.

  ‘There’s no way Adele Foyle can come back from that disaster.’ He had emerged from the shower, rubbing his hair vigorously and combing it into position, side split, short back and sides. Neat, like everything about him.

  ‘Could Marianne have signed that statement under duress?’ Julie had asked. ‘She could have been too traumatised to know what she was doing, especially if she was dealing with Jack Bale. And Garda Gunning, if I remember rightly, was cut from the same cloth.’

  ‘Duress?’ He knotted his tie and inspected the result in the mirror. ‘You speak as if you believe her diary. When did this epiphany take place?’ He put on his glasses, rimless, almost invisible against his pale complexion. The summer was a heatwave but he was too busy working to turn his face to the sun.

  ‘I’m simply asking a question, Liam. I remember the rumours that were spread about her―’

  ‘Facts, Julie. Facts.’

  What facts, she had wanted to shout. What facts were you arguing about when I opened the door of your home office and glimpsed your fear?

  ‘We crucified her, Liam. She was just a kid and we turned on her like a pack of animals. For what? That’s what I’ve never understood. Could Jack Bale have started those rumours and, if so, why?’

  He had remained standing, his arms folded, watching her. ‘Isn’t it rather late in the day to develop a conscience?’

  ‘Everyone is entitled to a conscience,’ she replied. ‘You need to respect mine. I know how I treated her and my shame belongs only to me.’

  ‘Then go for it, Julie. Self-shame all you like. Just don’t expect me to share some form of collective guilt with you.’

  He had been incandescent with rage when Adele blogged her response to the statement and published that damning entry about Jack Bale and his coercive tactics. She had not been online since then. Until tonight, Julie was convinced she had closed down her blog, but Adele had fired a final salvo at those who considered The Marianne Diary to be fake. She had apologised for the closure of her website. She gave no reason for her decision but, instead, she had posted a copy of an email she had received from a former resident at The House of Atonement.

  My dear Adele, I want to thank you for exposing the conditions that existed in the House of Atonement. I knew Marianne Mooney well. Her diary brought me right back to those days. She was a beautiful, lost young girl, stricken down by an appalling crime. She supported me when I was told my beautiful twin girls died. I moved to New Zealand with my boyfriend when I left the House of Atonement and finally, after years of enquiries, we discovered that our daughters did not die from their premature birth, but were adopted by an American family. I have been in touch with my girls and hope to visit them soon. I consider myself lucky in that my own mother spoke the truth before she died, unlike my father, and gave me a chance to find peace of mind again.

  There is so much false information out there. So many obstacles to overcome. Your blog has been a catalyst for me. Please keep blogging. It is never too late to expose a grievous wrong. I’m setting up a website called ‘Glorious Survivors Together’ for the mothers who spent time in the House of Atonement. This will be a safe space to tell our stories and share information that can help us in our search for the babies who were snatched from us.

  Thank you for your courage.

  Siobhan Miley

  Liam was working late again. With Stephanie still away, it was generally after ten or even eleven when he arrived home and Julie was usually in bed, pretending to be asleep. On an impulse, she googled Siobhan Miley and located her website. Siobhan had issued a statement regretting the closure of Adele’s blog and insisted that the final diary entry had exposed the fraudulent Garda statement for what it was.

  The air in the attic smelled of dust and neglect. Julie had never entered the attic until tonight when she had been driven by a dangerous compulsion to climb the ladder stairs and investigate what lay beyond the closed trapdoor. She shuddered when she switched on the light. Gloria’s possessions were everywhere. Rails of dresses, jackets and coats, protected by plastic covers, expensive brands, many with price tags still attached. Shoes and handbags were still in their boxes. What was wrong with Liam? He should have sent her clothes to a charity shop years ago. Perhaps it had been easier for him to let her presence moulder up here than face the fact that his mother had led two lives, the inspirational fantasist and the compulsive shopaholic.

  She was unable to see the boxes that had originally been stored in the den. Liam could have destroyed the contents when the building had been demolished. She was about to give up when she pushed aside a rail of evening dresses and recognised the rattan crate and, next to it, the safe. Did the previous combination still work? Holding her breath, she tried the numbers, and exhaled with relief when the lock clicked open.

  The contents were the same as she remembered. The attic was stuffy, a sticky heat that beaded her forehead with sweat. She felt weak, dizzy from having too much information and no knowledge of how to handle it. She found a letter at the back of the safe and unfolded it.

  Dear Gloria,

  My sincerest apologies for not responding sooner to your last letter. Duties of state occupy my time and demand my constant attention, just as your vocation stretches you to the limits of your responsibilities.

  I’m relieved to know that the Mooney girl has settled into your care and is in good health. Her pregnancy is a most unfortunate occurrence but it has been handled with tact and sensitivity. Her time with you will provide her with excellent work experience and keep her gainfully occupied until her confinement ends.

  I’ve heard from her unfortunate mother. She is finding peace of mind in Hard Wind and is grateful for the support she has received. I agree with you that the commune, situated, as it is, on the magnificent west coast of Kerry, is the ideal place for her to recover from her ordeal. Thank the Lord that the fuss over the Mooney incident has died down and a resolut
ion been found to the difficulties that arose because of it.

  Liam is like a son to me and is welcome to stay with Keith until you return from your mission. We hope to move into Hillcrest as soon as the new house is finished. Just one slight issue. Jack feels his worth is not valued. It’s something we need to discuss when I visit again.

  I head to Chicago next week and will meet up with the Bradshaws, as you requested. Their pride in their son is unbounded, as is their gratitude. I will meet with their friends, who are overjoyed to know that through you and your blessed sodality, their travails are over and their dearest wishes about to be realised. Your main responsibility is to provide a reliable and trustworthy courier to deliver this joy safely into their arms.

  Write back when you have time and bring me up to date on the girl’s progress. She need not worry about her baby’s future. A happy and privileged home is ready and waiting for her son or, if ordained by God, her daughter. May he continue to bless your holy work and those in your loving care.

  Sincerely yours,

  Christy

  The years had yellowed the pages but nothing could diminish the hypocrisy that oozed from every line. The coded references and oily reverence, the bland indifference to Marianne’s fate. Could Julie have understood those words so clearly if she was not already familiar with the entries in the diary?

  Working quickly, she examined the rest of the contents in the safe. She missed her daughter. Stephanie had been keen to spend the summer in France with her grandmother and improve her language skills. She loved her grandmother but Julie suspected there was more than love involved. Escape, that was what Stephanie had sought, a brief respite from the unacknowledged but unrelenting tension the thirteen-year-old sensed between her parents.

  Hearing Liam’s footsteps, she tensed, unable to believe he had returned early from work. When he entered the attic, she had closed the safe and was back at the rails examining his mother’s clothes.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked. There was nothing threatening in his manner or his tone but she had learned to read his body language: the thrust of his chin, his lips thinning, as if the downward force of his anger had compressed his mouth.

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you clear out Gloria’s wardrobe after she died?’ Julie ran her fingers lightly along the plastic covers. ‘All those lovely dresses and coats, her shoes, any charity shop would sell them in a flash.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he said. ‘Why are you snooping around her possessions? What are you hoping to find? Evidence that she was selling babies? Is that what you believe, eh? Come on, Julie. Spit it out. Tell me what really goes on behind that serene face you present to the world.’

  ‘Don’t I have a right to be curious?’ she asked. ‘I’m surrounded by her furniture, her religious paraphernalia. You refuse to get rid of anything that belonged to her so I figured her clothes would probably be in the attic.’

  ‘Clever girl. Go to the top of the class.’

  ‘Why do you never discuss her with me? You always claim you’re protecting her reputation but what if it doesn’t need protecting? She neglected you, Liam. You were only eight years old when your father died yet all she was concerned about was building up her sodality and leaving you in the care of others. Have you ever considered the impact her negligence must have had on you?’

  She regretted the words as soon as she uttered them. Discussing Gloria had never been easy. The early stage of their marriage had been fraught with arguments about the influence she still exerted over him. Eventually, Gloria became a taboo subject, an unspoken agreement that Julie would accept his need to keep her possessions around him. An abnormal need, she admitted to Davina in the days when they used to share secrets. It became less of an issue when Stephanie was born and the love they felt at this new arrival created a stronger bond between her and Liam.

  ‘Always the counsellor, even when you’re on a very slippery slope,’ he said. ‘This renewed interest in my mother only happened after that blog went up. Why is that?’

  ‘It has nothing to do with Gloria,’ she replied. ‘I feel ashamed…’ She struggled to hide her agitation when he moved closer to her.

  ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, I’m familiar with your refrain.’ He fisted his chest three times as he spoke. ‘You read those outrageous claims and decided she was the villain. Even what that Garda statement was published you questioned its validity.’

  ‘I simply suggested—'

  Her breath shortened when he uncurled his fists and closed his hands around her throat. His grip, light but firm, drew her towards him. Aware of her panic – she was unable to hide it – he pushed her back against the rail. The clothes shook, as if galvanised into life and the dust of decades swirled under the attic light.

  ‘Am I one of your suspects?’ he demanded. ‘Is that why you’re here? Searching for the three blind mice.’ His laughter had a higher pitch than usual, feverish, she thought, an alien sound that scraped like a nail inside her head. ‘Come on, Julie. Out with it. Do you believe I was involved?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. For God’s sake, Liam, why would you even ask me such a question?’ Would he tighten his grip even more if she struggled? ‘I appreciated how upset you were at the way Gloria was portrayed in that diary and I fully supported you in your efforts to bring out an injunction against the blog. But I never for a moment associated you with that alleged assault on Marianne Mooney.’ She sounded convincing, reassuring, yet she had no idea if her words were having any impact on him. Lies, all lies, her inner voice taunted her. Ask him about the night Jack Bale came here with Keith and Bob. Ask him why he pretended they had met to discuss the annual Reedstown festival. Ask him why the venom in his voice when he spoke about Adele Foyle had chilled your blood.

  Slowly, he relaxed his hand and steadied her. ‘You’re right about this stuff. I’m going to get rid of everything. Let’s get out of here.’

  Her palms were slick with sweat as she began to climb down the ladder stairs. He followed her, his feet within inches of her face. If he kicked back at her she would be unable to hold on. The thought that he might do so added to her fear. This was the first time he had ever touched her with violence. No, she corrected herself. The first time was that night in his office when she came to him. She believed she had seduced him but it was he who had held her hair in his fist as he bent her over the desk. That same latent savagery coming to the fore then, as it had just now when he grasped her neck in a hold that suggested he could snap it as easily as he could caress it.

  A new day would soon begin in New Zealand. Siobhan Miley would open her blog on a wintery morning and fill her kitchen with sunlight. She would stare at her screen, unable to believe that an anonymous source had contacted her during an Irish night with photographed birth certificates. Certificates that contradicted the fact that all this precious information had been destroyed by fire and it was possible after all for those who had been incarcerated in Atonement to discover the path their children had followed when they were wrenched from their mothers.

  39 Rachel

  Two hair follicles that could read the past and rip apart the future. Rachel’s hand trembled as she opened the envelope. The sheet of paper that she removed fluttered gently in response. What wild impulse had driven her to carefully untangle strands of Adele’s hair from her ring and preserve them? The same suspicion that had had her pluck strands of hair from the brush Bob used in the mornings. Not knowing was worse than knowing, she had convinced herself as she sent the results to a DNA testing service she trusted. Now, reading the report, this belief was as arid as ash.

  Apart from the heave of her breath and the low, anguished cry she gave when she folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope, all was quiet in the bedroom. Was it possible for her world to collapse without a sound? Rachel had never asked him why his hair, so shaggy and black when he was a teenager, had turned grey by his nineteeth birthday. She suspected it had happened during the time when he left home a
nd entered rehab. She had seen photographs of him in those early days in New York, his head almost skull-like in its bareness. But the greying began before then. Oh, yes, Rachel thought, it began the moment he laid hands on Marianne Mooney. Would Adele’s shining hair silver before its time? A genetic imprint; it was entirely possible.

  She was off duty today, alone in the house she had created with him. The bedroom where they had conceived their child was alight with sunshine. His other child, his unclaimed daughter, had inherited the tenacity that had made him such an insightful journalist when he wrote for the Webster Journal. It was only a matter of time before she would uncover her story.

  Whatever dark place he inhabited twenty-five years previously had been left behind when he moved away from Reedstown. She wanted to find consolation in this belief; but it was cold comfort and could not change what went before.

  The water in the shower was cold. Needles of ice pummelling her body. Her skin looked sickly pale, almost translucent, which described exactly how she felt. Airy, as if she could float away and lose herself in some far-distant stratosphere. She collapsed back on the bed and closed her eyes, unable to bear the images that flashed relentlessly before her eyes.

  DO IT DO IT DO IT… Wild boys with their fast bikes and reckless parties, their disregard for their own safety, buoyed up by the invincibility of youth and the belief that days of reckoning never came.