Sisters and Lies

by Bernice Barrington

  ‘More to it?’ I could see Artie’s eyes darken. ‘Is that the reason you got me to come here today? To find out if I was sleeping with Evie?’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Rachel,’ he said, standing up so quickly that his chair gave a sharp squeak. ‘Didn’t you hear me when I said I was engaged?’ He reached for his jacket. ‘Christ almighty, what do you take me for?’

  ‘Artie, wait, I didn’t mean –’ I got up too, attempting to block him.

  ‘Rachel, get out of the way,’ he said, staring down at me. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, still standing sentinel. ‘But you must understand that I’ve had enough of things too. Watching Evie in that coma day in, day out, with no idea what happened to her, who might have put her there.’

  ‘And you think I might have had something to do with it? You think I could have hurt Evie?’ Artie gave a dry, bitter laugh.

  ‘Of course not,’ I spluttered. ‘I’m just trying to piece everything together. Get to the truth of the matter.’

  ‘Well, here’s the truth for you, Rachel. I wasn’t sleeping with Evie and I wasn’t involved with her crash. Do you think you can comprehend that?’

  Around us, other drinkers were staring. I stood there, too mortified to argue.

  ‘Let me know if there’s any change in her condition but otherwise …’

  Otherwise, go fuck yourself, was what he was saying. Don’t worry, I got the message.

  I moved myself a fraction so he could get past me, then watched him walk away.

  40.

  I walked home from the pub, cursing myself. So much for taking it slowly, getting him to open up and reveal all to me. I’d learned nothing new. Nothing helpful, at any rate. All I’d done was insult Artie, and suggest he’d been indecent with my sister. Way to go, Rachel. Way to fucking go …

  What was I going to do now? On the one hand, a tiny part of me couldn’t help thinking there was more to the story than Artie was admitting to. He’d looked so wrecked – his eyes bloodshot, as if he’d been crying – and he’d been so twitchy. Maybe he’d just had a rough day at the office or maybe …

  Maybe something else was going on.

  A memory floated into my mind, from years earlier, when Mammy had been in the final throes of her illness. She’d wanted to see our apple tree one last time but had been too weak to walk, so Artie had carried her in his arms into the garden. There, he’d plucked a pink blossom from the tree and gently held it against her face.

  ‘We’ll have apples soon, Mrs Darcy, for all those wonderful apple tarts of yours,’ he’d said.

  She’d turned her watery eyes to meet his and whispered, so quietly I could barely hear her, ‘You’ll have to make them without me this year, Artie, darling. I’ll give you the recipe.’

  Even now, six years on, I could still recall how Artie had averted his eyes then, so that Mammy wouldn’t see him crying. So that his tears wouldn’t spill over her soft brown hair …

  Back in the apartment I had a shower, desperate to clear my head after the horrible altercation with Artie, then lay down, exhausted, on the bed. I gazed at the ceiling for a while, trying to make sense of everything.

  Was I losing my mind, accusing someone as nice as Artie of doing … What exactly? And even if he and Evie had slept together, how did that implicate him in her crash?

  I picked up my phone, hoping the internet might shed some light on Artie’s life in England, but before I could do that, I noticed I had two new emails. When I clicked in, I saw that the first was from Jacob, apologizing once again for ‘the girl’, asking my permission to come and see Evie. Until now, I’d been adamant that his visiting would be a terrible idea. I’d told him to keep his distance until I’d got my head straight. But now I felt desperate to talk to him, share what had happened with Artie. Hear his voice.

  Afraid I might type something to him along those lines, I clicked into the second email, which had come via my author website.

  Rachel, I really hope your sister is making a swift recovery. By the way, you look beautiful tonight. I love watching you naked. And, just so you know, I am watching you.

  TBM

  What the fuck?

  I looked down at myself – naked, as the email stated – and instinctively reached for a nearby towel to cover myself up. It was that stupid fucker again: The Better Misogynist.

  Who the hell was this guy? And how did he know I wasn’t wearing any clothes? I tried to calm myself. So, somebody was trying to scare me. But who? And, more importantly, why?

  I shuffled through my memory banks, attempting to recall people I’d recently pissed off. There’d been that Catholic guy on the TV panel who’d called me a Nazi for ‘exterminating’ my unborn child as a teenager. But he’d been about eighty. Did he even know how to use email? A few ‘men’s rights’ representatives popped into my head. They all hated me or, at least, hated what I stood for. But were they really stupid enough to send threatening emails of a sexual nature? They were misogynists but they weren’t idiots. If they were uncovered, the PR blowback would be disastrous.

  Briefly, my mind went to Artie. Had I pissed him off so much that he’d wanted to counter-attack? But that was ludicrous. He hadn’t known about Evie’s crash until this afternoon, and I was pretty convinced he wasn’t lying about that. There was no way he could have sent the initial TBM email. I was just being paranoid.

  The sound of a key clicking in the lock alerted me to the fact that Donnagh was home.

  Donnagh.

  I am watching you.

  Could he be trying to rattle me? Had he sent that email? Was there a peephole through which he could see me?

  I got off the bed and began walking around Evie’s bedroom, searching for a hole – some place Donnagh could spy on me. But after five minutes, cold and on my knees, I stopped. Was I losing my mind? Donnagh had just arrived home: unless he was capable of being in two places simultaneously, he hadn’t been looking into my bedroom. And, anyway, he was a man who could have any woman in London.

  I got off the carpet, threw on a dressing-gown and flopped down on the bed.

  That email had been designed to freak me out. And it had succeeded. But I was damned if I was going to waste any more time thinking about it.

  It had been sent by some internet nerd who’d seen the news about me and Evie in the papers – some pimply youth who’d never had sex. Or, alternatively, some obese middle-aged guy, whose only bit of action was a blow-up doll. It was pure coincidence about the naked thing. He just wanted to scare me.

  Well, he could fuck right off if he thought he was going to succeed. He was underestimating just how hard I was to scare.

  41.

  Evie

  After leaving Donnagh and the party, I stumbled outside in a daze. I’d come so close to getting caught. I had no idea what to do. If I went home I would spend the night in inexorable terror, going over every word Gemma had said. For about the thousandth time, I wished I still lived with Janet. If she were around, she would talk me down, convince me it was all one big, hilarious misunderstanding, which we would laugh about in years to come.

  I stood there, staring at my phone, my fingers hovering over the buttons. There was so much I needed to apologize for: being such a bitch to her, such an awful flatmate; the whole horrible incident with Patrick. Just thinking about it made me wince with shame.

  There’d been no terrible assault, as I’d insinuated. In fact, it was the other way round: I’d come on to Patrick while I’d been off my head on coke at a party in the flat. Patrick, ever the gentleman, had pushed me gently aside, explaining that while he thought I was a ‘very nice girl’, he was in love with Janet, and could I please put my top back on because I might catch a cold. He’d even retrieved my blouse from the floor and tried to encourage me to put my arms through it, allowing me to hold onto him for balance because I was so high I couldn’t do it on my own. That was when Janet had walked in, me half in, half out of m
y blouse, Patrick standing in front of me, one hand on my arm, looking mortified. For a second I froze, sick with shame, but then some dark, evil bit of me saw an opportunity and I grabbed it, too embarrassed to admit the truth.

  Of course, Janet didn’t believe a word of my story. She clocked what had happened in an instant and sided with Patrick before I’d even had time to put my top back on.

  ‘Fuck sake, Evie. Is this what you’ve been reduced to?’ she spat, her cheeks flaming.

  I didn’t respond, just held my arms defiantly across my chest. She turned to Patrick then: ‘In case you were wondering, Evie is shit-faced on coke. That’s why she’s behaving like this.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ I said. ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘Well, actually, it is my business when you bring your druggie friends back to our apartment on a whim, without even telling me, then try to shag my boyfriend behind my back.’

  ‘Sorry, Janet, but in case you hadn’t noticed, I own this apartment. You’re my lodger. I can do what I fucking well please.’

  She didn’t speak for a good few seconds. Then: ‘You know you have a problem, Eveline, don’t you?’

  I tutted. ‘Oh, of course, silly me. I’m a drug addict.’ I hit my forehead with the palm of my hand, and threw her a sarcastic scowl.

  ‘Well, yes, you do have a problem with drugs, but there’s a lot more to it than that. You’re also chronically depressed – borderline suicidal, I would say – and your self-esteem is so low you have to sleep with strangers to fill the emptiness … You even have to come on to my boyfriend because you can’t bear to see me happy. That’s how low you’ve sunk.’

  I felt my mouth fall open. She’d hit the nail on the head so accurately I felt dizzy.

  ‘Evie,’ she said, a little softer now, ‘I know you’re worried you’re losing me and you’re jealous of Patrick, which is why you did what you did back there. But you’ve got to understand you’re unwell.’ She glanced at her boyfriend, who nodded. ‘You’ve got to know you need help, sweetheart.’

  I stared at her, rendered mute. A trembly feeling had started to envelop my limbs.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, really soft now. ‘We’ll kick everyone out. I’ll put you to bed and then, in the morning, we’ll go to the GP together. Get you referred to a rehab centre. I can call Rachel. We can all do this together.’

  Still, I remained unmoving.

  ‘Evie,’ she said, moving closer to me, reaching out her hand, ‘come on, hen. I know it’ll be hard but you can do it. You know you haven’t been yourself in a long time now, and if this continues much longer, well, God knows what’ll happen. Come on,’ she said. ‘Just allow yourself to surrender.’

  I continued to stare at her, at her hand, knowing I was just centimetres away from help, from salvation. But then I thought of all the implications if I took Janet up on her offer: no more drugs; no more sleeping with random strangers or locking myself into my room. I’d have to face the reality of my unbearably shitty existence. Accept that I had psychological and addiction problems. Accept that Mammy was gone.

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ I whispered, from a place inside me I hadn’t even known existed.

  ‘What?’ she said, clearly thinking she had misheard.

  ‘I said, fuck you and your faux-piety and your great Saviour of the World act.’

  ‘Evie … I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to make you see reason here.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re trying to feel superior to me.’

  She threw me a hurt look. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Because you’re unhappy in yourself. Because you’re jealous now that Patrick has forced you to become a boring cow.’

  ‘Patrick hasn’t forced me to become anything.’

  ‘Are you sure? You used to be fun, and then you met him, and now you think anyone who drinks three beers has addiction problems.’

  ‘Evie, come on, be reasonable. You know how much I care for you but I can’t keep overlooking your behaviour. I’m trying to be your friend but there’s only so far you can push me.’

  ‘Well, then, don’t bother,’ I shouted, the trembling in my limbs really bad now.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t be my fucking friend. I don’t want you to be anyway. Not now you’re dating a thug.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, why don’t you and your sexual predator of a boyfriend just fuck off and leave me alone?’

  ‘Evie, I didn’t go near you. Please stop lying.’ Patrick looked distraught, as if he was about to cry, and I felt terrible, but I needed Janet to leave me alone, to stop antagonizing me about getting help.

  ‘Evie, I’m going to ask you one more time, really slowly. Please kick these loser druggies out of your apartment and let me help you get the treatment you need.’

  She stared at me, and I stared back. This was my last chance.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I said again. ‘I don’t need or want your help, thank you very much.’

  Janet stood there, as if thinking something over, then she came right up into my face. ‘Fine. Don’t say I didn’t try. I’m leaving now, Evie, and I don’t intend coming back. And just so you know, if I ever hear you defaming Patrick’s character again, I will break that perfect nose into the back of your face, got it?’

  I didn’t respond, just waited as she grabbed Patrick’s hand, and said to him, ‘Come on, babe, let’s get out of here.’

  Next thing I knew suitcases were being thrown on the floor and doors were being slammed. And after a few hours, when all the drugs and booze were gone, everyone else left, too, until it was just me, alone in the darkness.

  And, true to her word, Janet never came back.

  That had been months ago. Now I was standing in the street, still shaking from my encounter with Gemma and Mick at that awful party. Right now a few lines of coke would have been wonderful to take the edge off. But my mate Chaz, my dealer, if you wanted to be pedantic about it, was out of the country, and I really wasn’t a drug addict. I could cope with life’s ups and downs.

  I walked around for a few minutes, wondering what to do. I could ring Pandora, one of the people Chaz had introduced me to. She was bound to have something doing. But when I called her number, her mobile was switched off. I tried a few more of the gang: Will and Saffie and Megan. But it was the same thing: either their phones were off or they rang out. They were probably in a pub somewhere, getting pissed.

  A feeling like a raging thirst ran through me. I wanted to be with them. But then I thought of Janet, and heard her patronizing voice again: ‘You’ve got to get to the bottom of your problems, Evie, not self-medicate with booze or cocaine every time something goes wrong.’

  Well, tonight I was going to prove her wrong. Even though something very frightening had happened, I was going to be the essence of virtue and restraint.

  And, anyway, she wasn’t technically correct. Sometimes when things went wrong, I slept. In fact, taking drugs was usually a sign I was in good form. Full of energy, bursting to do things. It was the sleepy periods I dreaded.

  I walked on for a while. Ate a McDonald’s. I wasn’t even hungry, but I figured it might help quench the need inside me.

  It didn’t.

  I walked past a guy, and I knew, just knew, he’d be able to score me some drugs. I stopped and looked back. He was still there, staring at me. A couple of words with him, a few minutes, and I’d be on a highway to oblivion, all thoughts of Donnagh and my terrifying schoolmates left behind.

  Then reason intervened. What was I thinking, buying drugs off a stranger in the middle of central London?

  You see, Janet had been wrong. Yes, I liked the odd toke, the odd class A on a Saturday night. But the fundamental difference between me and a junkie on the street was quite simple: I knew when to stop.

  42.

  In the end I rang Artie. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you like this. I don’t suppose you’re out and abo
ut?’

  ‘I’m in Mayfair, actually, just out of a meeting,’ he explained. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I’m fairly close by, in Covent Garden. Would it be weird for us to meet up?’

  There was a pause down the line. ‘Are you in trouble, Eveline?’

  ‘No. I mean yes. I mean, I don’t know.’

  Again, there was a pause.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to cause any problems between you and Shannon. It’s just I could do with a friend and –’

  Artie sighed. ‘Evie, you’re not causing any problems with me and Shannon. Listen, of course we can meet up. I’ll ring home and explain, and maybe we can go for a drink or something.’

  ‘Would you do that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, finding myself suddenly tearful. It was the kindness that was making me so emotional. I wasn’t used to it, these days.

  About twenty minutes later, Artie arrived and gave me a quick hug. ‘Did something happen to you? You look very pale.’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ I said, just relieved to be in his presence, far away from the party, Donnagh and all those frightening people from my secondary-school days.

  ‘So what do you want to do? Do you want to go for a drink?’

  I shook my head. For some reason, now that Artie was there, I didn’t feel like drinking. Or getting off my head. ‘Would you mind if we just walked for a while?’

  ‘Sounds good. I could do with getting some air into my lungs after the week I’ve had.’

  So we walked. Along the way, Artie stopped and bought each of us an ice-cream, getting my flavour right without even having to ask. ‘Pistachio. You remembered.’

  ‘Of course I did,’ said Artie. ‘Although, of course, pistachio is easier to acquire in modern London than in rural Leitrim of the mid-noughties.’ He smiled at me. ‘But you did always have very obscure taste.’

  ‘So did you,’ I said, smiling shyly back.