She was removing her hand from the cavity now, gripping something. It was small and book-like – her passport, perhaps? That would fit with the weekend she’d gone to Paris. And, if so, no wonder she was scared. I’d seen that passport and I knew why she’d want to keep it hidden. It featured a picture of her before she’d had the nose job. It showed her real name. Her real face.
The footage ended there, and for a second I just stared at the blank screen. Then, abandoning the computer, I tore into Evie’s bedroom and pushed the rug aside, as Evie had done. Underneath it I identified the floorboard – it was a slightly different colour from the others. When I pulled, it came up, just as in the video footage.
Lying in front of me was a large dark hole, measuring perhaps one foot by three. A private bunker. Something Evie had never shown me.
For just a moment I stopped, a jolt of sheer adrenalin passing through me. Then I plunged my hand in, feeling my fingers connect with a variety of textures. I caught something and pulled it upwards into the light. It was a small framed picture of Evie and Mammy, Evie leaning towards Mammy, whispering something into her ear. The day was windy so wisps of Mammy’s brown hair intermingled with Evie’s blonde. I fingered the glass, feeling bereft. This was exactly how I remembered them.
So animated.
So alive.
I took a deep breath and rummaged some more. This time I pulled up three of Evie’s watercolours, landscape paintings of Leitrim, books, the mug with her name on it, several official documents – her birth cert and the deeds for her flat – and finally what appeared to be letters, all addressed to our father. I was about to close the floorboard, go through all the correspondence, when I noticed something else shimmer up at me from the side of the bunker. A quick pat around the wall revealed a compartment I had overlooked, a hidden ledge. When I reached inside and tugged at the contents, I sensed immediately that I had hit upon the real treasure, Evie’s diary, a small embroidered notebook with a purple and blue cover.
I sat back and began to flick through the pages. Evie had been contributing to her diary until a few days before her accident. That would have meant opening and replacing the floorboard without Donnagh noticing. Why had she gone to so much trouble? What had she so badly needed to get off her chest?
I began a cursory read of the entries, noticing that Donnagh’s name cropped up again and again.What am I doing? she had written in an entry from two months earlier. And then a few weeks after: Is he changing? Did I completely misjudge him? If so, how can I possibly tell him the truth?
The days immediately before her crash were a blank white space. I sighed and pushed my fingers through my hair. It would take hours to go through all the diary entries. And I didn’t have hours. I didn’t have minutes, even. I needed to get to the police and report Tom. Why was I procrastinating? What was I looking for?
Something was nagging at me. The final spycam clip that I hadn’t yet watched. Did it matter? They’d all been more or less the same – various shades of nakedness. The most important thing now was holding my nerve, reporting Tom to the police.
And yet that one file nagged at me – the final piece of the puzzle. For some reason, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I should watch it. Then I would have everything saved on my USB key, Tom’s sordid documentary complete.
I carried the computer to the breakfast bar, sat on one of Evie’s high stools, then pressed play. Almost immediately, I regretted it. There on the computer screen was a clear image of Donnagh and Evie: he was holding my sister by the hair, Evie appearing to give him head.
‘Suck it, bitch,’ he growled.
I was shocked by the strong language. But maybe they’d just been to see Fifty Shades of Grey together. Maybe this was why Tom had kept it: because it contained a new element for his repertoire – kink.
I was tempted to turn it off. I didn’t want to watch any more. But I forced myself to stick with it. I wanted to record and remember every element of Tom’s crime before I handed the computer to Ainsworth at the police station.
My phone beeped repeatedly, alerting me to a flurry of new messages. I stretched a hand for my jacket but couldn’t reach it. In any case the video only had a minute or so left to play. I let it run.
Donnagh had released Evie’s hair, and she was jerking her head away from him. She seemed to be making a noise, but it was extremely difficult to hear. I pushed the volume up as high as it could go, but still Evie’s words remained muffled.
Next, Donnagh was pushing Evie down on the bed – roughly – catching her arms behind her head. ‘You deserve to be punished, don’t you, Eveline?’
His voice had the same aggressive tone as earlier but it didn’t look like role-play any more. Suddenly a lead weight seemed to be lying across my chest and droplets of sweat were forming on my skin.
Eveline? Had he really just called her that?
My phone beeped again, and this time I ran to my jacket and grabbed it out of the pocket. Back in London. Apartment is finally ready. I’ll be over shortly to pick up my stuff. D
I was sweating now – real sweat, which was drenching my back and armpits. I was shallow-breathing, unable to get proper traction on my thoughts or movements, and feeling a wave of blood rush to my head.
Nothing was making sense, yet everything was. I clicked on another text – this time from Lorelei.
I tried to read it, but the words swam in front of me.
A sound from the door – a key in a lock.
I was trying to read but my eyes wouldn’t focus. Finally I made out one word – short and to the point. I squinted. Strained to read it. It was three letters, clear and uncomplicated:
Run.
58.
Evie
It’s come back to me, what happened before the crash. I’d arrived at my flat and I’d had an email from Artie, asking me to meet him. Although I knew I shouldn’t, I desperately wanted to go to him. Because he was the man I was in love with, truly in love with. Those words I’d uttered to Donnagh at the top of the Eiffel Tower had not been a lie exactly, but neither had they been the truth. I was in love with the idea of Donnagh: a strong, authoritative man, who would tell me what to do, how to be. But now I knew I needed to do those things on my own. I needed to take control of my own life.
I packed away the last of my clothes and headed for the living room. I’d decided that I would finally come clean to Donnagh. However, as I approached my bedroom door, he was already standing there, almost as if he had been waiting for me.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he said, straightening his arm across the door frame, blocking my exit.
‘Um, I wanted to talk to you, Donnagh,’ I said. ‘We need to talk.’
‘Uh-oh, sounds serious. How about we forget talking and do something else with our mouths?’ He was wearing a lascivious grin but I was in no mood for sex. I couldn’t keep up this ridiculous pretence. Not any more.
‘Donnagh, listen, there’s something important I’ve been meaning to tell you.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I probably should have waited until tomorrow night, when we’re both less knackered, but –’
‘I won’t be here tomorrow night, Eve. Or the one after that.’
‘You won’t?’ I said, and felt a prickling sensation, hot and scratchy.
‘No, I won’t.’
I raised my eyes to meet Donnagh’s, and that was when I saw how his face had changed. Unlike at the top of the Eiffel Tower, when it had been all soft and yielding, it was now hard and angular. I hadn’t seen that face in years. Not since his first day in secondary school when he’d called me ‘Big Nose’. And on the day at the swimming-pool when he’d bared my breasts to all the other kids.
‘Give it up, Eveline,’ he whispered, just loud enough so I could hear him.
‘What?’ I replied, stumbling back a bit. Had he just called me Eveline?
Donnagh moved in closer now, bent down so that his lips were practically touching my ear. ‘I k
now.’
The words hovered above us, begging for a response. But I was unable to provide one. Instead, I just stood there, all the blood rushing to my head.
‘Don’t you want to know how I know?’ he asked faux-politely, the sides of his mouth curling into a smirk.
I shook my head, refusing to make eye contact. I didn’t want to know anything.
‘Truth is, I thought there was something familiar about you from our very first meeting. An odour I recognized. A slightly rank smell …’
He was still smiling at me and I was struggling to remain upright. My legs had turned to jelly.
‘Gemma agreed. We had a bet on – which of us could figure out who you were first. I obviously had the advantage.’ He bared his teeth, perfect white pillars, and my breath quickened.
‘Donnagh, I …’ But nothing else would come. It was like my voice had simply given up, like a car battery. Conked out. Dead.
‘You led me to it, actually. You were sleepwalking one night – do you know you do that? You bent down and started scratching at the rug near the bed. Weird, I thought. But then I took a closer look.’ He stamped hard on the floor. I jumped.
‘My favourite bit was finding your diary. That human drip Artie Columb was back on the scene. And I restored your orgasm!’ He started to laugh.
Almost on cue, I began to cry: a racking sob coming from deep inside me. So this was the place they referred to so often in the Bible. This was Hell.
‘Gemma.’ My voice had returned, perhaps because I’d made my own connection now. ‘You were having an affair with her, weren’t you? And she was trying to end it.’ It all made sense suddenly: why Donnagh had pursued me, then moved in. It hadn’t been a bet: it was to make her jealous. That row I’d seen outside the restaurant. It wasn’t Mick having the affair. It was them.
‘So what if I was?’ he snapped, sounding a little less in control now. ‘But let me make one thing very clear, Eveline. If you breathe one word of that to anyone, I will destroy you. Do you understand me?’
I nodded. I believed him. ‘Why?’ I found myself asking. ‘Why go to the trouble of bringing me to Paris?’
He laughed then, a short, vicious grunt. ‘Because it was fun. Watching the look on your face when you realized we were getting off the Eurostar at Gare du Nord, not Amsterdam. Your attempts at covering up your lack of French – pretending you had laryngitis. To be honest, the whole thing was absolutely priceless.’
He laughed again, but then he stopped and fixed me with a stare. ‘Eveline, you should never play a player.’ His face was hard as granite now, his eyes boring into me. ‘Nobody ever beats me.’
Something inside me cracked. ‘Your father did. He died, didn’t he? And your ex-wife cheated on you. Or did she even exist?’
A spark of rage: ‘Oh, she existed all right. Slutty little bitch. And she got the same punishment you’re going to get.’
I felt a thrill of sheer terror run down my spine. Punishment? What the hell was he talking about?
‘As for my father, if you ever speak about him again I’ll throw you straight off that balcony.’ He pointed towards the window. ‘Do you understand me?’
‘You don’t frighten me,’ I said, my voice rising a little.
‘I should, Eveline. I really should.’ A second later he had grabbed my arm and was pushing me backwards, inside the bedroom again.
‘Get off me!’ I screamed, struggling. But there was no way I could escape from his grip. Not a chance.
‘Now that you’re becoming hysterical we’re going to have to shut that mouth up, aren’t we?’ He smiled a little, baring those perfect teeth again.
‘Fuck you,’ I spat, looking for a tiny bit of space to get past him. Every nerve in my body was alert.
I made a dart to the right of him, but he caught my hair. I yelped – the pain was breathtaking.
‘Now, my lovely Eveline Darcy-Durant, as a finale to this happy weekend you’re going to do something special for me.’
He yanked harder on my hair so that I was forced to look up. ‘What?’ I heard myself whisper.
‘Press those lovely lips together,’ he said, miming the action. ‘Then blow.’
I screamed then – the fear coming as suddenly as the pain had. He yanked again, and this time the force knocked me to my knees. Donnagh repositioned himself so that my face was in front of his crotch. He unzipped his trousers and pulled out his dick. I pursed my mouth, refusing to make contact. Again and again he thrust my head at it, but I refused to open up. I wouldn’t do it. He’d have to kill me first.
‘Okay, Eveline, if you’re not going to play ball, so to speak, we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.’ He pulled at my head again, forcing me upwards. Then he pushed me back towards the bed.
‘No, Donnagh, please.’ Terror surged through me, convulsing me. I began thrashing, using every bit of strength I possessed, but with one swift movement he had pulled my arms over my head. I could feel the sinews stretch as he held them. There was no escape now. Just submission. I began to cry again.
Quietly, almost softly, he spoke in my ear: ‘You deserve this, Eveline. You tried to fuck me about, and you failed. Now I’m going to fuck you. Just accept it. Things will be easier if you do.’
He was hoicking up my dress with one hand – my spindly arms pinned in place by his single muscular one.
‘Oh, and if you go to the police, who do you think they’re going to believe? A fantasist who’s been living a double life or a well-respected businessman, like me? And, by the way, I’ve asked around. Apparently the neighbours think you’re a slut, Eveline. A complete and utter whore.’
He was lying on top of me now – his body so heavy I thought my pelvis was going to break. There was no talk any more – just the feel of his heavy breathing against my face, the smell of sweat, of animal musk, of my own fear.
It dawned on me now that he was right: there was no point fighting this. He had me like a caged animal, and he was going to do whatever he felt like. Would he kill me? It felt like he might.
There was just one problem. My leggings, the tight, shiny kind, weren’t coming down easily, and I sensed Donnagh’s frustration as he swiped at them with one hand, trying to rip them off. For an instant I felt the arm that was pinning me down slacken, and one of my own was suddenly free.
I seized this tiny window of opportunity and took my chance. I’d spotted a pair of nail scissors on my bedside locker a few moments earlier, and now I reached for them. I plunged them deep into Donnagh’s neck. Almost instantly, there was a scream, and Donnagh rolled off me. I could barely register what I had done. All I knew was that somehow I had managed to get out from under him.
I heard him scream: ‘You fucking bitch, come back here now! Come back or I’ll fucking kill you!’ I believed him. I knew he would.
I needed to get out. My eyes landed on Donnagh’s car keys lying on the hall table and I grabbed them, as much for weaponry as for transport, and then I grappled with the chain on the hall door, my fingers shaking so badly they kept slipping. Donnagh was coming up behind me. I could hear his steps heavy on the wooden flooring as he stormed towards me. If I didn’t undo this fucking chain, he would grab me by the throat, drag me back into the bedroom and do – God knew what he’d do. In that moment, I felt such a bolt of terror that it paralysed me.
Then, out of nowhere, I heard something.
I’m with you, darling, a voice whispered. Don’t be scared.
I steadied my hand and took a breath. Mammy? New energy filled my body. This time my fingers did not slip off the door chain. This time it slid off. Finally, there was a click. A pulling open. And suddenly I was out in the corridor – the faint smell of cooking. Then I was running. Down the stairs, out of the main door, the huge night sky above me. I was taking in panicky gulps of air as I went.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Donnagh’s gleaming Porsche, parked just a few feet away on the street. There was a bang from the main door, and when I tur
ned around I saw him lurching towards me, one hand covering his injured neck.
He was like a demon, huge and terrifying, and it was the thought of him catching up with me that drove me to fumble with the car keys, insert them into the lock and get in.
I hadn’t driven for years, not since Mammy had been ill, but somehow I made the engine start, and when I pushed my foot hard against the accelerator, the car took off, gravel flying out from underneath the tyres – a smell of burning rubber. It was as if the car had sensed my urgency and was propelling itself.
Even so, I continued to push down hard on the accelerator, sneaking a peek in the rear-view mirror at what was behind me. Donnagh was still there, but he was smaller now. A stick figure. A tiny, insignificant dot.
I wanted to pull over – my hands were shaking so badly on the wheel I could barely steer – but there was no way I was going to stop. If I did, Donnagh might catch up to rape and kill me. I pressed harder on the pedal.
As I drove, my thoughts collided against each other. How had I allowed this to happen?
Me too. The words I had spoken atop the Eiffel Tower came back to me in all their self-mocking glory and I wanted to die. Donnagh had humiliated me all through my teenage years, and now he had done it again. And I had let him.
I was still crying, still driving like a maniac. It was so dark. I used the back of my sleeve to wipe away the tears, but it was difficult: everything seemed so blurry.
I didn’t know where I was going.
A dog ran out in front of me, and I swerved sharply to avoid it, narrowly missing it. I was going too fast. Way too fast. And suddenly the car wasn’t under my control any more.
Everything slowed down then, the car careering towards the pavement, the stone wall coming closer and closer.
Images appeared suddenly in my brain: my dad holding me as a child; Artie and me with buckets in our hands, collecting blackberries; my mother making apple tarts in the kitchen. All of them spooled together, like a mixed-up reel of film, impossible to know where one ended and the next began.
It was a riot of technicolour and vivid imagery. I felt no fear. I accepted the inevitable.
Sisters and Lies Page 28