by Andrea Mara
“Lauren’s photo? You thought that was my mother?”
“At first. But when I zoomed in, I could see it was someone who looked exactly as she did back then, only far younger than she could possibly be now. It had to be her daughter.”
“But you can’t have been sure – there’s no way you’d remember her that clearly – you were only a child!” Cleo’s voice is louder than she intends, and Grace shifts the blade in her hand.
“I knew. Believe me, I’ll never forget her face.” She looks at Cleo, moving closer again. “Your face.” Then she grabs her wrist, and Cleo jumps, caught off guard. “And there was this.” She’s got Cleo’s wrist in her hand and she’s rubbing her thumb over the elephant bracelet. “I saw it when I zoomed in. You got it from your mother, didn’t you?” Cleo nods. “He bought it for her, did you know that?” She nods again. “I found it in his bag that night, and thought it was for my mam, but it was for the whore.”
“I knew it was from my dad, but I didn’t know this story . . .”
“Your dad,” she spits the word. “He was my father – you’re just the bastard child he never knew – you shouldn’t even exist.”
“If what you say is true, then we’re sisters,” Cleo says quietly. “Half-sisters.”
Grace grips her more tightly, digging her nails into the thin skin of Cleo’s wrist.
“You’re the product of an affair, worth nothing more than a stain on a sheet. I don’t see you as my sister, believe me.”
The knife is still in her other hand and Cleo tries to pull her arm away but Grace’s grasp is too strong.
“Don’t worry, Cleo, this isn’t how it ends. There’s something else we have to do first.”
Cleo’s cell phone starts to ring, and Grace’s nails go deeper into her skin, as a warning or on instinct, Cleo’s not sure. They both look over at the phone, chiming out from the kitchen table, and wait as though it’s somehow rude to keep talking while it’s ringing. As Grace turns back, the cell starts to ring a second time. And again they sit, waiting for it to ring out, the ringtone chirpy and surreal in the deathly quiet air.
LAUREN
Chapter 56
“No answer from Cleo. She could be at work though – she works in a bar on Saturday nights.” I put my phone on the counter and boil the kettle a third time,
“The whole thing might just be a coincidence,” Dave says, sitting down at the kitchen table.
Rebecca sits opposite him, a sceptical look on her face.
“If it was just the surname, then yes, maybe,” I reply, “though Holloway’s not exactly a common name. But what about the lies Grace told?”
Dave doesn’t answer, but his expression tells me he’s not convinced.
“Mum, if Grace has some connection with Cleo, do you think she could be the person who’s been trolling you? Isn’t that how it all started – when you put up the photo of Cleo?”
I’m about to tell her no, that it was Jonathan all along, but I stop. It’s like I’ve been forcing a shape into the wrong hole, and she’s handed me the right one.
I turn to Dave. “When did Grace start working for you?”
“September, I think. First or second week of September maybe?”
“My God, she did it on purpose!”
“I don’t get you,” Dave says.
“The car – don’t you see how easy it would have been to hit your wing mirror on purpose?”
“But why would she do that?”
“To wangle her way into our lives – to get to me, and for whatever reason to get to Cleo.” And, my God, I fell for it – I was so busy enjoying tidbits of gossip about life inside their walls, I never doubted her for a second.
Dave leans back on the chair, lacing his hands behind his head.
“But how would she have found my car or my house, or have any idea I know you?”
I glance over at Rebecca who is studying her fingernails.
“Through what we – what I posted online. Pictures of the house, the car, the surrounding area . . .” Dave is going to love telling me I brought this on myself. “Between all the photos on all the social media accounts, there was enough to put it together. A digital jigsaw puzzle.”
He looks perplexed. “Hang on, your pictures are of this house – I can see how someone would find you fairly easily. But how would they find me?”
Rebecca is still examining her fingernails.
“Yeah . . . I’m not sure . . . I –”
“It was me, Dad.”
He looks over at Rebecca.
“I’ve been putting up photos. Stuff from outside and inside Nadine’s house, from school, from around the road. I didn’t really think about it – I didn’t imagine anyone using it like this.”
I walk over and put my hand on her shoulder.
“Ah Jesus, I’ve told you so often –” Dave starts, but I cut him off.
“We know, we get it, and it’s stopped now. But we need to understand why Grace did it, and how this is linked to Cleo. Okay?”
I pick up my phone and go into the VIN account on Twitter. Was it really Grace all along? But if she’s related to Cleo in some way, why is she trying to find her – wouldn’t she already know where she is?
On autopilot, my finger touches the link to VIN’s website.
“Oh. VIN has a new blog post up, and it’s called The End.”
Swallowing, I start to read out loud.
“‘And then my mother was gone too. It was just me left, all alone in Auntie Peggy’s house in the middle of nowhere. Your mother died of a broken heart, she told me. I wanted to see my mother’s body but she said it was already gone. Not suitable for children. I wasn’t stupid. Even then I knew people didn’t die of broken hearts. I knew all about Peggy’s neighbour found dead in the barn. No note, they said. No note from my mother either. We had to leave before people started talking, she said, and packed a bag. And then there I was, in the tiny cold bedroom in Peggy’s falling-down house, with nobody left in the world.
There were no other houses beside us – only fields and broken walls. Peggy said I’d have to get a bus to school. I said I didn’t want to go to a new school, and she shrugged and went back to her knitting. I knew then that I did want to go to school, and the stone in my stomach just got bigger and hotter as I watched her knitting, not listening.
Later, after I went to bed, I went downstairs to get a glass of water. On my way back from the kitchen, I stopped at the living-room door. She was in a chair by the fire, still knitting. She didn’t see me or hear me. The glass of water slipped out of my hand on to the floor and smashed, and then she heard me. She screamed.
“Oh God Almighty, you gave me a fright – I forgot you were in the house at all. Clean up that mess and stay upstairs, do you hear me?”
I stayed up upstairs then, in the freezing cold. I remember looking for an extra blanket, the wardrobe door creaking when I opened it, finding nothing but empty hangers inside. The bedside locker had three drawers, all lined with blue-and-white paper. In the top one, there was a bible, and the other two were empty. Auntie Peggy had left my bag on the floor beside the bed, and I lifted it up to look inside for a jumper to wear to bed. It was the old brown holdall that used to belong to my dad when he went away with work. All my clothes were in it, but no toys or books. In the zip pocket on the outside of the bag, I could feel something. Maybe she’d packed a book for me? I opened the zip and reached inside. It was a notebook, one that belonged to my dad. Inside there were numbers and words, and I knew I’ve seen it before. It was the notebook he used to write down his sales when he was away. As I paged through, something fell from the back, and I picked it up from the floor. It was a Polaroid of a beach. I wondered if it was from one of our holidays, but no, it wasn’t. There was only one person in the photo, not me, not Mam. It was a woman, sitting on the sand, reading a book. Her knees were bent up, her book resting on them. Her feet were bare. A green dress covered the tops of her legs, going almost as far as her knees. Long, red hair flowe
d down her back, almost touching the yellow sand behind. She was focused on her reading, not looking at the camera but I didn’t need her to look at the camera, I knew exactly who she was. The Whore.
I made a promise that day to that silent woman in the photo, that if I ever saw her again, I’d show her what it means to lose everything.
And then there she was, 30 years later, with still not a care in the world, and I knew our time had come.’”
I looked up at Dave and Rebecca.
“What the hell is that all about?” Dave asks.
“My troll has been posting bits of this story for the last while, but none so far have been as detailed as this one. If it’s true, I guess VIN – well, Grace if we’re right – lost both parents as a child and blames the woman she calls The Whore. Though if it all happened thirty years ago, it’s hardly Cleo.”
“Mum, you don’t think Grace is dangerous in some way, do you?” Rebecca asks, looking more anxious than curious now.
I have no idea. The woman I talked to didn’t seem dangerous, but then again, she’s not who I thought she was.
“I don’t know. I’m still trying to take all of this in. But when I think about the lengths she went to in order to find Cleo . . . ”
Rebecca nods. “And did you ever mention Cleo to Grace? Like, can she literally find her now?”
I’m pacing again, trying to remember, but I’m nearly certain Cleo never came up in conversation.
“No, we talked about lots of things,” I glance over at Dave, “but never Cleo.”
“So even if Grace was looking for Cleo, and they’re connected in some way, it’s still okay, because she has no way to reach Cleo. Right?”
“Exactly.” Even as I say it, my mind is scanning back over the conversations with Grace, the photos I’ve put online, what I’ve said on Twitter, every photo Rebecca’s shared on Snapchat – could any of them lead her to Cleo?
I try phoning Cleo again, but still there’s no answer.
Rebecca watches silently from her seat.
“Why don’t you try the bar where she works?” she says. “Maybe that’s why she’s not answering?”
This is why we have kids, because eventually they are smarter than we are. I search for a number for Nocturn and call, asking to speak to Cleo. The person on the other end tells me she’s not there – she was due in ten minutes ago, but hasn’t shown up, he says. I meet Rebecca’s eyes and shake my head as I hang up.
“She’s supposed to have started work ten minutes ago, but she’s not there.”
“She might just be late,” Dave says.
“Okay. Does she live with anyone? Does she have a flatmate or a boyfriend?” asks Rebecca, ignoring her dad.
“No, nobody. I don’t know who her friends are, or if she’s close to anyone at all over here. If something happens, I’m not sure who will know or notice . . .”
I press the button on the kettle again, though tea is the last thing on my mind, and I pick up my phone. Only I don’t know who else to call.
“Mum, would you feel better if we drove in to Cleo’s place to see if she’s okay?”
I’m about to tell her it’s ridiculous, that we’re overreacting, that Cleo is just running late for work and Grace is nothing more than an internet troll, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Rebecca stands up and takes my car keys off the hook by the back door.
“Come on. Dad can wait here to fill Ava in, I’ll go with you. If you keep pacing the kitchen all night you’ll wear a hole in the floor. Let’s go.”
CLEO
Chapter 57
“Now, Cleo, open the laptop and Skype your mother.”
Even though she’s thousands of miles away and untouchable, every bone in Cleo’s body tells her not to involve Delphine.
“She’s not there, she’s away at the moment.”
Grace laughs. “Oh Cleo, what do you think I’m going to say – ‘Right so, let’s leave it?’ Come on.” She stops laughing and her voice hardens: “Now open the fucking laptop and Skype your fucking mother.”
Swallowing, Cleo clicks into the Skype app and dials her mom, praying she won’t answer, but she does. She always does.
“Now put the laptop on the coffee table so she can see both of us, and don’t speak. It’s my turn to talk.”
Cleo does as she asks, and watches as Delphine registers the stranger beside her.
“Hi, Cleo, what’s up?” Her eyes dart over and back between her daughter and Grace.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Cleo says, and Grace moves her hand so that the blade is at Cleo’s side now, just millimetres from her shirt and her ribcage beneath.
“I’ll do the talking,” Grace says in a soft voice, and somehow it’s more unsettling than anything she’s said so far. “Hello, Delphine, do you remember me?”
Confusion gives way to horror as the knife catches the light and from three thousand miles away it flashes into Delphine’s eyes. Her hands go to her throat.
“What’s going on? Cleo, are you in trouble?”
“You could say that, Delphine,” Grace says. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember me, I was only a child when we last saw each other. When my father died, after you took him away. You surely haven’t forgotten? You remember my mother I’m sure. Barbara Holloway?”
Delphine’s mouth opens and closes again, and recognition flares in her eyes. And in that moment, Cleo understands it’s not just a story.
Grace smiles. “Yes, you know who I am. And did you know I lost my mother too? Or were you gone by then? They said she died of a broken heart but we all know what that means. I didn’t even get to go to her funeral.” She leans closer to the screen. “You took away everything I had and you destroyed it. So I’m going to do the same to you. And just as I had to watch my life unravel in front of my eyes, tonight it’s your turn.”
She holds the knife up to the screen now, and Delphine puts her hands over her mouth.
Cleo shifts a fraction of an inch to the left, but not enough to make any difference.
“Do you have anything to say before I start unpicking your daughter?”
There’s sheer panic on Delphine’s face now. “Please don’t do anything to her.” Her voice is rattling and low. “This has nothing to do with her. This was between me and Barbara. Please, Grace.”
“Did you afford me the same compassion when you took my dad, just because you could? With your long hair and your long lashes and your American accent?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Delphine says, and Cleo sees her hand reaching across the table towards her cell-phone, though her eyes never leave the screen.
Grace sees it too.
“Oh, you can call the police, Delphine, go right ahead. I’m sure the NYPD will be of great service from thousands of miles away.”
Cleo’s mind is careering, trying to work out how Delphine could call the Irish police – will she even think to do that? She still has her hand on the cell, and she’s sliding it towards her. Grace is watching and waiting, like a cat watching a mouse. Delphine picks it up and hits a button, never taking her eyes off them as she speaks.
“I need police, but in Ireland. I don’t know the number. My daughter is being held at knife-point in her apartment in Dublin. It’s on . . . Aungier Street. Oh God, what’s the full address? Cleo, what’s the address?”
Cleo opens her mouth to answer, but Grace pushes the blade further towards her and now she can feel the point.
“Ah, ah! It’s not that simple.”
Delphine is still talking to emergency services, trying to explain where she is and what’s happening but she’s not making any sense.
“That’s enough – you can hang up the call now, Delphine,” Grace says, moving the blade closer again, and this time it goes through Cleo’s shirt, pricking her skin.
Disconnecting, Delphine holds up her hands. “Grace, please, none of this has anything to do with her.”
“I know that. But she’s here and you’re not, and I susp
ect this will hurt you more than if you were in her place. Nothing like a mother’s love, is there? There’s a quote that’s been ringing in my ears for thirty years now, ‘A mother is she who can take the place of all others but whose place no one else can take’.”
Delphine sits up straighter and something changes in her eyes.
“That’s right. Nothing like a mother’s love. Though mothers lie too, don’t they?”
Grace nods. “And you’ve been lying to Cleo all her life.”
Delphine smiles then, and for the first time Grace looks confused.
“I mean your mother lied, Grace. Your dad didn’t die in a car wreck. Do you really not know what happened?” Delphine pauses and Cleo feels something shift. “It happened one evening about a month after your father moved in with me. Barbara told him she was calling in to talk about child-support payments. I went to see a movie on my own, to give them some space. I was pregnant, and we knew your mother wouldn’t take it well, but he wanted to tell her that night, in case she heard it from someone else.”
Grace stiffens beside Cleo as Delphine keeps talking.
“And nobody saw exactly what happened, but it seems your mother lost it that night, Grace. She picked up a poker and hit him over the head with it. According to the coroner, she continued to beat him over and over, even as he lay dying on the floor, smashing his skull so badly he was barely identifiable. On our living-room floor, bleeding into the carpet, with no chance to say goodbye to you or to me. Barbara did that, Grace. Not me.”