The Liar’s Daughter (ARC)

by Claire Allan

  not now. Now, I can hear that there is a storm brewing.

  I take my medication. Feel it numb me and lull me to sleep,

  only to wake with a jolt. With a feeling of pressure. Choking

  me. Making me gag.

  It’s said your life flashes before your eyes in the moments

  before your death. That your electrical synapses fire, pulling

  memories from the innermost depths of your brain and flooding

  your senses with them.

  There are no flashbacks now, but I know that I am dying.

  I know there is no way out.

  There are no visions of long-lost relatives reaching out to

  me between dimensions.

  There is no angel of death to help me move between worlds,

  either. There is someone here, of course, but this person is no

  angel. They’re not guiding me towards a soft beam of light.

  There is no sense of peace.

  No sense of forgiveness or redemption.

  There is just fear. Disappointment.

  Grief that it has all come to this.

  I fight, even though I’m weak. I had been sleeping, but now

  I feel the weight of something on my face. A pillow, perhaps.

  It’s soft but it’s not malleable. There’s no give in it. No matter how I turn my head, it is there and it won’t move.

  There is a fierce, unquenchable burning in my lungs and a

  pressure on my chest. Is someone kneeling on me? Has someone

  placed a weight on me? I’m pinned down. Is there more than

  one person in this room? I’m trying my hardest to orientate

  myself to the space around me but I can’t. I try to cry out but

  I can’t. I can’t breathe. I can’t make a sound. I hear a voice I

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  can’t place, muffled, almost drowned out by the increasingly loud thumping of my heart. I can’t tell if it is man, woman or

  beast. It feels as if my chest will open, my lungs explode or

  burst into flames.

  The Devil, I think, the Devil is in this room and I can feel

  his flames threaten to engulf me. I know where I’m going and

  all those years of kneeling at the altar rails haven’t made a

  difference.

  ‘ Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, ’ the Bible says. Maybe God knew what I wouldn’t admit

  – the sin was always in me.

  I want to breathe. I need to breathe. I need oxygen. I need

  to live.

  I am trying, thrashing. My hands are fisting the bed sheets

  trying to gain purchase on something, on anything, on this life.

  The voice again, indistinct, muttering words I cannot hear. But

  they are not words of love. I know that much.

  This person is weighing me down, I realise, jabbing their

  bony knee into my chest, close to a wound that’s not yet healed,

  that I can feel start to pull and strain against the pressure.

  Everything is tearing. Everything is burning and still they don’t

  stop. They keep going. I try to suck air in, even the smallest

  amount. Just enough. I just want enough. I don’t need more. I

  just want to live.

  But I can feel it all slipping away. A dizziness washes over

  me, tingling. A sensation, almost as if I’m floating, as if I could just drift away. And the pain stops, you see. My lungs stop

  burning. I stop needing to breathe in. There is a moment of

  relief.

  Of false hope.

  There is a moment where I’m between this world and the

  judgement that awaits me.

  Then the darkness stretches out in front of me.

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  Chapter Nineteen

  Heidi

  Then

  Joe McKee was a clever man. He was very good at making

  people believe he was a nice person. I learned that very quickly.

  People always smiled when they saw him in the street. They

  would stop to talk to him, and he would listen intently to their

  news and offer his nuggets of wisdom, or reassurance or condo-

  lence as appropriate.

  I quickly lost count of the number of times I heard people

  say: ‘You’re a sound fella, Joe,’ and they’d pat him on the back.

  Sometimes they’d slip a shiny fifty pence piece into my hand

  and tell me to treat myself to something. They’d give me a

  sympathetic look and pat me on the head. I’d smile and thank

  them, because that was what was expected, but I never bought

  sweets, not with that money. That money always felt like a

  consolation prize.

  I’d started to think that the whole world must have known

  was what happening in my house. That they couldn’t be oblivious

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  to the fact that I was a troubled child, that something was badly wrong. I started to think that they either didn’t care or maybe,

  worse than that, this was something that happened to all little

  girls and just nobody ever talked about it.

  Like how nobody ever talked about the fact that Santa wasn’t

  real. I learned that one quickly too, the year my mother died.

  Instead of the lovingly wrapped pile of presents under the tree,

  there were some books and a selection box. New underwear

  wrapped up in crinkly Christmas paper. Pants and vests.

  Nightdresses, when I preferred pyjamas. Maybe a board game,

  something we would have to play together, because I never,

  ever asked anyone to come back to the house with me. I was

  too scared to. Imagine they found out? Imagine if he hurt them,

  too?

  No, it was better to go it alone. And I had my dolls for

  company. And I had my growing collection of fifty pence pieces,

  which I saved in a spare Trócaire box I’d taken from school. If

  I saved enough, maybe I could get a plane ticket and fly away

  to America or somewhere. Then I’d write to my granny and

  grandad and tell them I was safe and happy, and maybe they

  would come and visit me.

  I’d never tell Joe, though. Never, ever tell him where I was.

  So it broke my heart, and my spirit, the day I came home

  from school to find Joe standing in the living room, in front

  of the fire, the Trócaire box, used to collect money for charity

  during Lent, on the mantlepiece.

  It was May, I remember that. It had been a sunny day. Warm.

  I’d made a daisy chain at school and I was still wearing it around my neck when I got home. I had a sense of things being, maybe,

  possibly okay. That things were going to be okay.

  Then I saw him. Saw the expression on his face. Thunderous.

  Not the smiling, genial ‘sound fellah’ everyone thought he

  was.

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  ‘Would you care to explain this?’ he said, thrusting the box at me, a picture of a starving African child, eyes wide, staring

  at me.

  ‘I was just . . .’ I was trying to think. How to tell him I was

  saving to run away. How I never wanted to see him again. Or

  what to say so he wouldn’t know my plan, after all. That I

  wou
ld still have a chance to get away with it.

  But I didn’t get past those three words.

  ‘You were just what, Heidi? Stealing? From a charity? From

  these starving children?’ He thrust the box at me, so close to

  my face that I closed my eyes in anticipation of an impact that

  didn’t come.

  ‘That’s not what . . .’

  ‘I know people feel sorry for you, poor little girl, having lost

  her mammy.’ He spat the words at me. I felt flecks of his spittle

  hit my face, his coffee-tainted breath fill my nostrils. ‘But this!

  This is despicable. I have never been more ashamed of anything

  in my life. After all I’ve done. After all I do and you steal from a Christian charity from people who have nothing?

  ‘Maybe you’d like to live out there, Heidi, starving, sick, alone.

  Then you might stop being such a selfish, moody little bitch!

  May God forgive you for what you’ve done!’

  He grabbed me by the arm so tight that I feared it would

  break and he hauled me through the house, the Trócaire box

  in his other hand, and into the street. He let go only to open

  the car door and then he practically threw me into the back

  seat, my head colliding with the sill of the door as I fell. The

  skin of my bare legs burned against the hot leather of the car

  seat and I tried to curl up.

  ‘Sit properly, girl, or so help me!’ he hissed, of course keeping

  his voice low enough that no neighbour out mowing their

  lawns or soaking up the sun could hear the vitriol with which

  he spoke.

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  He wouldn’t tell me where we were going, and I dared not ask more than once. Soon we were at the parochial house and

  he was hauling me from the car, my daisy chain breaking and

  falling to the ground, trampled over by his heavy shoes as he

  dragged me to the door.

  ‘Now, Heidi, you are to tell Father Campbell what sins you

  have committed and you are to beg him for his forgiveness.

  You wicked child, it’s a good thing your mother is dead so she

  doesn’t have to be humiliated by how badly you’ve turned out.’

  Father Campbell was an old school priest. Small, round,

  hunched with his white hair that seemed to sprout as much

  from his nose and his ears as it did from the top of his head.

  He didn’t ever speak during Mass, he bellowed as if he had the

  power to bring hellfire forth on command. Every child I knew

  lived in mortal fear of Father Campbell and I was no different.

  My legs were wobbly beneath me, my arm aching from Joe’s

  tight grasp as he dragged me towards the large wooden door

  of the parochial house. I couldn’t help but cry even though I

  was trying so hard to be brave. I always tried to be brave no

  matter what, but this . . . It was beyond me.

  I prayed with all my power that Father Campbell wouldn’t

  be in. That Father Brennan would answer the door instead. He

  was young then, new to the fold, considered to be approachable.

  He told funny stories when he visited us at school. I might

  have a chance of him believing me.

  But it wasn’t Father Brennan who answered the door. It was

  Father Campbell, who glowered at me from beneath his

  heavy-set eyebrows as Joe told him of his deep shame at finding

  the ‘stolen’ Trócaire box and money in my room.

  I don’t know which scared me most. The abuse I took from

  Father Campbell, who told me hell had a place waiting just for

  nasty little thieves like me – a place where I would be shown

  no mercy for stealing from innocent, starving children. Or the

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  fact that Joe handed over my savings, my escape route from all this, to Father Campbell and my hope at getting away was gone.

  The beating I got back at home could not have broken me

  more than the loss of that money. The beatings I knew I could

  take as long as I knew I could get away some day.

  Of course, what followed the beating was worse. The creaking

  of the floorboard and Joe, his face a picture of misery at my

  door, telling me he was sorry. That he had done it only for my

  own good, you see. I had to learn. I had to be a good girl.

  Then he crossed the room and even as I cowered from him,

  he climbed into the bed beside me.

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  Chapter Twenty

  Heidi

  Now

  ‘The roads will be icy,’ Kathleen says. ‘You’d better be careful

  if you’re heading out in it.’

  She has barely spoken to me since our earlier conversation

  in the kitchen and the drama of me cutting my finger. She

  keeps looking at me though, and I don’t like how exposed I

  feel.

  ‘I think maybe I’ll stay here tonight,’ she says to no one in

  particular. ‘The chances of getting a taxi won’t be great.’

  ‘We can drop you to Pauline’s,’ Alex offers.

  I don’t give out that dropping her to Pauline’s will take us

  at least ten miles in the opposite direction of home.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,’ she says, her

  voice meek.

  ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ Alex says.

  ‘You’re very kind,’ Kathleen says, yawning again.

  She’s exhausted. We’re all exhausted. None of us are sleeping

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  well. I can tell just by looking around the room. Dark circles and bags under our eyes. Pale skin, bodies stiff with tension.

  We’re no further forwards in coming up with a cohesive plan

  about Joe’s care, but we are at least faking an air of mutual

  respect. No, not respect. Tolerance. We are tolerating each other.

  ‘You go on,’ Ciara says. ‘We’ll stay here tonight, Stella and I.

  In the spare room.’ She looks me square in the eyes as she says

  this.

  Is she marking her territory on this house? Still sore from

  my outburst yesterday. I’ve apologised so there’s nothing I can

  do, or am willing to do, to appease her further.

  ‘Well, we should get going, then,’ I say, more keen than ever

  to get away from this house and the stifling atmosphere.

  ‘I’ll get Lily from upstairs,’ Alex says, standing up and stretching before going to get Lily from my old bedroom.

  I don’t want to be left alone with the others, so I set about

  packing up Lily’s things and putting my coat on. I’m in the

  hall, cramming a pale pink blanket into the top of her changing

  bag, when Alex appears at the top of the stairs. His face is pale, his eyes wide. He isn’t carrying Lily and for a moment I feel

  my heart sink to my stomach and fear grip me.

  ‘Lily?’ I mutter. ‘Where’s Lily?’

  I feel my head start to spin. Why doesn’t he have Lily? The

  look on his face. Something bad has happened. My knees start

  to go beneath me. He can barely speak. He shakes his head

  slowly.

&
nbsp; I think I might throw up. It feels like minutes, hours even,

  are passing when really it can only be a second or two. Then

  he speaks.

  ‘It’s Joe,’ he says.

  A guttural cry breaks forth from my chest – and it’s not for

  Joe. It’s borne of relief that Lily is okay. Ciara comes out of the hall to see what the fuss is about.

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  ‘What is it?’ she asks, her eyes darting between Alex and me.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Alex says, matter of factly, as if he can hardly

  believe what he is saying. ‘Joe’s dead. I’m so sorry.’ There is a

  tremor in his voice now.

  Joe McKee is dead. I inhale deeply.

  In that moment everything is still. The ticking of the clock

  is the only thing to punctuate the silence. I can almost feel

  Alex’s words, and the realisation of what they mean, move

  around the room, around the house. They wash over us all, and

  they start to sink in and the noise builds slowly. Kathleen wails, quietly at first, but her cry increases in volume and intensity

  within the same breath. Ciara calmly, maybe too calmly, asks

  Alex to repeat himself, and she’s already moving towards the

  stairs as if she needs to see it for herself. Stella is calling her back. Alex is looking at me, watching for my reaction, perhaps.

  I’m frozen to the spot. I dare not move, or hope . . .

  Ciara pushes past Alex, knocking him flat against the wall.

  Stella is following her up the stairs pleading with her to slow

  down. Kathleen has slumped to the floor and she is keening,

  rocking backwards and forwards. She is muttering something.

  The words of a prayer or something that I can’t quite hear over

  the buzzing in my head. Alex moves to her and not me, sitting

  beside her and wrapping his arms around her.

  ‘It looks very peaceful,’ he says, his voice shaky. ‘He looks

  very peaceful. He must have just gone in his sleep. I’m so sorry.’

  I watch them as if I’m watching a TV show. Without emotion.

  Without a feeling it is real.

  I hear a shout from the top of the stairs. A cry out. A ‘Daddy’

  – it’s the most vulnerable I have ever known Ciara to be.

  Stella appears at the top of the stairs, her face as ashen as

  Alex’s. ‘I think we should call an ambulance,’ she says.

  ‘But if he’s dead . . .’ I blurt. My voice sounds funny.

  ‘I think it’s still protocol,’ she says.