The Liar’s Daughter (ARC)

by Claire Allan

  Everyone had to learn that lesson, no matter how painful.

  ‘You’re awful pale-looking,’ Kathleen says.

  We are sheltered together on the back porch of my mother’s

  house. I’m sucking on my e-cig but it’s still not quite hitting

  the mark. I remind myself it’s better than nothing.

  Kathleen has ‘tapped’ a sneaky cigarette from Pauline, who

  swore she didn’t smoke but always has a box in her bag ‘for

  emergencies’. My aunt is clearly not an experienced smoker –

  she splutters and coughs as she tries to inhale the warm smoke.

  ‘Out of practice,’ she says when she’s got her breath back.

  ‘But it’s either this or a double vodka.’

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  I am shocked. With her new sensible appearance, her conserv-ative take on life and the rosary beads she had pulled from her

  bag and insisted were to be placed in my father’s hands when

  the coffin was opened, I didn’t see her as the double-vodka type.

  I don’t even see her as the single-vodka type, if I am honest.

  Her hand is shaking ever so slightly as she lifts the lit cigarette to her lips one more time and inhales again, exhaling more

  naturally this time.

  ‘It’s all too much at times, isn’t it?’ she asks, looking out at

  the small patch of lawn that makes up my mother’s garden.

  ‘It is,’ I agree, asking for a drag of her ‘proper’ cigarette,

  enjoying the hit of the warm smoke at the back of my throat.

  ‘I’m nervous. Of seeing him again, you know. Is that silly?’

  ‘Is that what has you so shaken up?’

  I nod. I’ll not tell her about the set-to I’ve just have with

  my mother, even though the sting of her hand still burns at

  my cheek.

  ‘Among other things,’ I say wryly.

  ‘Do you think they have any evidence?’ Kathleen asks. ‘I

  mean, you see these shows now on the TV and they always

  catch the killer. There’ll be a hair, or a fingerprint, or a drop

  of blood or something . . .’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. I’m trying not to think about

  it much. I’m still hoping they’ll come back and say they made

  a mistake.’

  ‘Do you think they will?’ Her eyebrows raise. ‘I thought it

  was all pretty conclusive at this stage. They wouldn’t release his body if there was any question.’

  Her expression sags again as she speaks. Almost as if she

  allowed hope to flicker in for the briefest of seconds before

  the reality of where we are sets back in.

  I suck on my e-cig before sending a billow of fragrant steam

  into the air.

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  ‘I don’t get the impression they are minded to drop the investigation any time soon,’ I say.

  She sniffs at the air, drops the half-smoked cigarette to the

  ground and grinds it out with the heel of her shoe.

  ‘What if they can’t pin it on anyone? What do you think

  they’ll do? Will it be worse if we don’t ever really know what

  happened?’

  She looks sad. Lost. Dad was her only sibling. She has him

  on some unobtainable pedestal and while I’d love to knock it

  out from under him and tell her the truth, not even I would

  be that cruel.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say with a shrug.

  I can’t think straight any more. I’m exhausted with thinking.

  I’m exhausted by it all.

  My mother’s voice from the kitchen, announcing that she

  needs us to discuss a floral tribute, disturbs us. I take one last drag from Kathleen’s cigarette before handing it back to her.

  ‘I suppose we should get on with this,’ I tell her.

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  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Heidi

  Now

  I’m back at Aberfoyle Crescent, picking through a house that

  has been picked through by the police a number of times

  now. There is dust from where fingerprints have been taken.

  Things have been placed back on the chest of drawers, or

  on shelves but just not quite in the right order. Kathleen

  wanted me to pick up some things for the wake. A framed

  picture of Joe at the library, one of his silk hankies to place

  in the pocket of the suit jacket he is to be laid out in. His

  prayer book, so that she can help Father Brennan choose

  some of Joe’s favourite readings from the Bible or prayers for

  the funeral service.

  I’ve been looking for it for twenty minutes now, looked in

  all the usual spots, but it can’t be found. I don’t actually recall the last time I saw it, but then it had become such a part of

  him, I’d almost stopped noticing it at all.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I tell her over the phone. ‘But I haven’t

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  seen it and I’m not sure where else to look. Unless maybe the police put it somewhere?’

  ‘Why would they do that?’ she asks, an accusing tone in her

  voice.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answer. All I know is that I can’t find it and

  I don’t want to be here for any longer than I need to be.

  I hear Kathleen have a muffled conversation with someone

  in the background before her voice comes back on the line.

  ‘Ciara seems to think she saw you with it, but sure, maybe

  she’s mistaken? These things happen.’

  There’s a tone in her voice that lets me know she doesn’t

  quite believe me.

  I have pulled open every drawer in his room and in the living

  room. Opened every cupboard and wardrobe looking for it. As

  the clock moves closer and closer to the time Joe’s remains will

  be brought back to Marie’s house, Kathleen is becoming more

  frantic. I’m tempted to tell her it’s okay to use whatever prayers she sees fit. It’s not like Joe will be able to hear them anyway.

  ‘I didn’t see his prayer book,’ I tell her truthfully. I’ve not

  seen it days, come to think of it. ‘I’m not sure what Ciara saw

  me with, but it wasn’t that.’

  Kathleen sighs. ‘Why is nothing going right?’ she says, and

  I’m not sure for a moment or two if she expects an answer.

  ‘Look, I think maybe just get here to Marie’s. Joe’s remains will

  be back soon and we really do need to give a united front.

  Things are bad enough as it is.’

  Her negativity weighs heavy on my mind as I drive to Marie’s.

  Not even picking Alex up from work and having him sit beside

  me can calm my nerves. I notice that I’m gripping the steering

  wheel tightly. The rhythmic swiping of the windscreen wipers,

  battling the sleety rain, gives me something to try to concentrate on, to time my breathing with. Neither Alex nor I talk.

  I’ve never been in Marie’s house before, but I can’t imagine,

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  despite what she has said, that I’ll be made to feel welcome there. And up until now I didn�
��t think it possible that I could

  feel any less welcome than I already have over the last few days.

  Marie lives in a terraced house in Lower Creggan. Her home

  is clearly her pride and joy, the small front garden beautifully

  manicured and tended. Flower beds and garden ornaments guide

  us along the concrete path to her front door, which Alex knocks

  on while Lily and I shiver behind him.

  The door opens and Marie is standing dressed all in black,

  face solemn. ‘Alex,’ she nods at him before looking at me. ‘Heidi,’

  she says, offering me a half-hearted kiss on the cheek. ‘Come

  in,’ she says as Kathleen calls out, ‘We’re through in the living

  room.’

  We follow her through a small hall into her lounge, where

  I notice a row of sympathy cards lined up on her mantlepiece,

  declaring how very sorry people are for her loss. It strikes me

  as more than a little odd, given how long ago their marriage

  ended, but I realise that saying anything to that effect wouldn’t

  be received well. So I keep quiet and let Marie continue acting

  the part of the grieving ex-wife with aplomb.

  ‘Here, let me help you with your things,’ Kathleen says, taking

  the changing bag from me and trying to help me out of my

  coat, even though I’m more than able to take it off myself.

  Marie adds, ‘Ciara has just nipped out to the shop but she’ll

  be here soon. As will Father Brennan. Joe should be home in

  about an hour.’

  She looks fidgety, on edge. Her nervous energy adds to my

  own.

  ‘I’ve cleared the box room upstairs for him,’ she says. ‘Ciara

  asked that the house be closed, so I figured we wouldn’t need

  that much room.’

  ‘Thank you for doing this for him,’ I say, because it feels like

  the right thing to do.

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  ‘Why wouldn’t I do it? It should be from his own home, but I’ll do my best for him. And I suppose this was his home

  for a time, and most of that time it was a happy home.’

  Her tone is sharp, her comments pointed. I want to turn and

  leave, but that would only give them something else to think

  badly of me about.

  ‘Of course,’ I mumble and turn my attention to my still-

  sleeping daughter, taking her out of her car seat and slipping

  her out of her snowsuit.

  It feels too warm in Marie’s living room. I can’t have Lily

  overheating. It’s bad enough that I can feel the first prickles of sweat on the back of my own neck.

  The doorbell rings, a sharp, shrill noise that, given that we

  are all on our nerves at the moment, makes us jump. Marie

  takes a deep breath as if settling herself and goes to answer the

  door. I hear her tone, markedly more welcoming than she was

  with me.

  ‘Come in, Father,’ she says. ‘You’re very good to come, and

  this not even your parish.’

  ‘Sure, he’ll be buried from his own church, even if he couldn’t

  be waked from his own home. How’re you all holding up?’

  Father Brennan speaks in hushed tones. A soft Donegal lilt

  that I sometimes swear they train priests in at the seminary in

  Maynooth.

  ‘As best as can be expected,’ Marie replies, although to me

  she appears to be in her element as chief mourner. ‘Sure, you

  go on in to the living room and I’ll bring through some tea.’

  He walks into the room, nodding, as always, to me and then

  lifting one of his long, pointy fingers and trying to tickle a

  still-sleeping Lily under the chin.

  ‘A blessing in these dark times,’ he mutters.

  I resist the urge to slap his hand away.

  Father Brennan is a small man, whose shoulders always seem

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  to slump and whose head always seems to be nodding in some perpetual motion so it looks, at least, like he is always listening to you. Joe had a great deal of time for him. I did not. Something about him gave me the creeps – perhaps it was the way he

  regarded me up and down every time he saw me.

  He sits down and doesn’t even try to make small talk, some-

  thing for which I am eternally grateful. He speaks, of course,

  when Kathleen comes into the room, asking her how she is.

  Telling her it’s an awful business altogether and that he is here

  for her should she ever need his counsel.

  She thanks him for his time, sits down and straightens her

  skirt, and we fall into silence while waiting for Marie to arrive

  with the tea.

  ‘Maybe I should offer to help,’ I say to no one in particular.

  ‘I’m sure she has it under control,’ Kathleen says.

  I interpret that as a clear message that I’m not wanted in

  Marie McKee’s kitchen. The front door opens again and I hear

  Ciara shout her hellos as she comes in. Once she takes her seat

  in the living room I will feel truly outnumbered.

  I try to remind myself to breathe.

  Ciara comes in, closely followed by her mother.

  ‘Did you really not find that prayer book?’ Ciara asks as if

  I’d not looked hard enough, or had hidden it just to be difficult.

  ‘I looked high and low and couldn’t see it,’ I say. ‘I’ve not

  seen it in days.’

  Marie sighs deeply. ‘That’s a shame, you know.’

  ‘I could have sworn I saw you with it. The day he died?’

  Ciara’s tone is accusatory.

  I shake my head. ‘No, you have to be mistaken. I did see

  his diary, when I was with you, but you took it from me,

  remember?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says, ‘because you were prying in it. I remember

  now.’

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  I blush. I want to say something back to her but I’m aware we have an audience and none of that audience would naturally

  fall on my side.

  Father Brennan’s head turns between the two us, as if he’s

  watching a tennis match and it’s Ciara’s turn to serve.

  He interjects, ‘Sure, never worry,’ clearing his throat. ‘I knew

  Joe well. We can still make his requiem Mass a fitting one. I

  know these must be very difficult times. Very difficult, indeed,’

  he says with a shake of his head. ‘But we do owe it to Joe to

  try to remain civil to him and I must say, to you all now, that

  if anyone feels they wish to chat to me, privately, the sanctity

  of the confessional is as good a place as anywhere to get some-

  thing off your chest.

  ‘We know that something very disturbing happened, perhaps,

  as it has been suggested, with some good intention behind it.

  A merciful release from the suffering that may have awaited

  Joe, but that suffering has to go somewhere. And it will eat at

  the heart of us all, not least the person responsible. God is good, He is forgiving, even of the most serious of sins. But you must

  repent.’

  I don’t dare speak. I am holding so much inside that I’m

  afraid to.

  It seems I’m
not the only one. We descend into silence, only

  disturbed by Lily waking and starting to fuss. She needs her

  nappy changed and I lift her bag.

  ‘Where can I change this little one?’ I ask Marie, grateful for

  the reprieve.

  Ciara is on her feet. ‘I can take her and change her for you,’

  she says. ‘You can sit here and talk to Father Brennan about

  the Mass, since you knew my father better than anyone. I’m

  sure this wee dote won’t mind her auntie Ciara changing her.

  Won’t you not?’ she says, cooing at my daughter as if she has

  been a permanent fixture in her life.

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  She seems terribly eager to get out from under the glare of Father Brennan’s eyes.

  I want to tell her to leave my baby alone. Not to touch her.

  But I’m aware I’m already walking on eggshells and causing an

  even bigger scene could be disastrous.

  ‘Ah now,’ Ciara soothes as Lily wriggles in her arms. ‘There’s

  no need for that! I’ll just get you a fresh nappy on,’ she adds,

  reaching for the baby bag.

  I don’t want her taking it – it has my phone, my purse, other

  random items from my life inside.

  ‘I’ll get you a nappy and wipes,’ I say, trying to take the bag

  from her.

  ‘Now, Heidi, I’m sure I can figure out what is what myself,’

  Ciara says, turning and walking upstairs with my baby and my

  worldly belongings.

  I am frozen to the spot, unsure of how to react to this ambush

  but aware that four sets of eyes are looking at me and waiting

  for my reaction, including Alex, who I need to believe in more

  than anything. I try to settle myself, turn and nod towards

  Father Brennan and Marie before taking a seat beside them.

  Father Brennan clears his throat, a guttural sound that has a

  hint of phlegm about it. I feel mildly queasy.

  ‘I know how difficult this must be,’ Father Brennan says. ‘But,

  Heidi, maybe you might know what his favourite readings were,

  or maybe his favourite hymns. I’ve a soloist from the choir who

  is available to do some singing if you want?’

  I try to focus on what he is saying but I’m distracted listening

  for the sound of crying from upstairs.

  ‘Heidi . . .’ I hear Marie speak my name.

  ‘Sorry . . . I, no. I can’t think. He always, I suppose, he liked