The Liar’s Daughter (ARC)

by Claire Allan

that hymn ‘Be Not Afraid’. He used to sing that, after my

  mother died. I remember that.’

  As soon as I say it I want to take it back. I don’t want any

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  memories from then. From that time after she was gone and things just became worse.

  ‘That’s a grand one,’ Father Brennan says and Marie nods.

  ‘But don’t feel you have to use it,’ I say as I hear a squeal

  from my baby echo through the hall. ‘I mean, Marie, maybe

  you would know more.’

  Lily is quiet again. I’m still incredibly uncomfortable. I feel

  as if all my nerve endings are fizzing.

  ‘Father, you’ll know, no offence, I’m not a big churchgoer,

  so I’m fine with whatever you choose.’

  I wonder, could I make my excuses and escape for some

  fresh air? I don’t care that the sleet has now turned to snow. I

  just need to breathe.

  I make to stand up.

  ‘Now, have you thought about the Prayers of the Faithful at

  all?’ he says, stopping me. ‘Would you want to say them, or are

  there any friends or relations who might? I know some people

  even like to write them themselves, within reason, though. This

  is a Mass, after all.’

  I shake my head. I don’t want to say them or write them.

  I’d be happy to drop him off at the cemetery gates and be done

  with the whole thing.

  ‘I can sort that out, Father,’ Marie says, her voice solemn.

  ‘Now, can I check family names? You know I’ll be wanting

  to mention you all in the homily – and I’d hate to leave anyone

  out. So there’s yourself, Heidi and Ciara, of course. Marie, you

  were his wife.’

  ‘They were divorced,’ I say. ‘More than twenty years ago. He

  was with my mother, until she died. Natalie. Her name was

  Natalie.’

  I’m shocked to feel tears spring to my eyes at the mention

  of her name. Then my stomach lurches. He won’t be buried in

  the same plot as her? Oh Christ, I don’t want him there. I don’t

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  want him near her. I feel a panic build in me. I should’ve said to the undertakers. But surely Ciara wouldn’t want to give any

  legitimacy at all to Joe’s relationship with my mother? She

  wouldn’t want them buried together. But I should check anyway.

  To be sure.

  I hear a wail from Lily again and I have to close my eyes

  and force myself to sit on my hands not to run directly to her

  and pull her from Ciara’s arms.

  Marie pales, looks at me like I’m quite mad. I hear Marie

  say something, which I can’t catch because there’s a buzzing in

  my ears, and I blink to try to bring myself back into focus.

  ‘Sorry?’ I ask. ‘What was that?’

  I see Father Brennan has turned a funny shade of puce.

  ‘I don’t know how you don’t know this, Heidi. But Joe and

  I were never divorced. We were separated yes, but legally and

  in the eyes of the Church, we were still very much married.’

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  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Heidi

  Now

  Still married? After all these years? I don’t understand. My brain doesn’t process what Marie is saying.

  ‘I suppose we just never got round to it, and there didn’t

  seem so much of a reason after . . .’ Her voice trails off.

  I know what she means to say. That there didn’t seem to be

  much of reason after my mother died. Marie’s replacement was

  gone – no longer a threat.

  Joe didn’t ever have another serious relationship after that.

  There was no one who wanted to usurp her role as Joe’s wife

  and clearly she was happy to retain the title.

  ‘The notion of divorce never really rested easy with Joe,’ she

  says and I truly wonder if I am going mad.

  This man who left his wife, his daughter, and inveigled his

  way into my family, into my mother’s bed – wasn’t really

  comfortable with the idea of divorce? He’d a funny way of

  showing it.

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  ‘Yes, well, he was a religious man, a good man,’ Father Brennan says, and I can no longer sit and listen to these platitudes or

  resist the urge to run to my daughter.

  I get up without speaking, because I don’t trust myself not

  to say something that will be used against me in the future.

  I am furious like I have never been furious before. I can feel

  the anger surge in me as if it is running through my very veins.

  I’m angry not only on my behalf, but also on behalf of my

  mother – who loved him. Who trusted him. Who sat down

  and wrote in her will that this man she had known just over

  a year could stay in the house she owned until he remarried

  or passed away. This man who had no intention of ever remar-

  rying. Or unmarrying anyone.

  I wonder, did my mother, my beautiful, trusting, kind-hearted

  mother know that he had never divorced Marie? That he found

  the idea of divorce uncomfortable. That he was a hypocrite of

  the highest order – knelt at the altar rails every morning and

  prayed while he betrayed, lied to and hurt everyone he came

  into contact with. How could Marie be so calm? How could

  she be so forgiving of him? After all he had done?

  Maybe she liked that she always had some sort of a connec-

  tion to him – one more than sharing a child together, which

  was clearly not enough for her – but to be his wife? To have

  had, all these years, one up on the woman he left her for? My

  hands are curled into fists and I know I’m stomping up the

  stairs to find my daughter in this unfamiliar house, and I know

  I have to calm down before I reach Lily because she will feel

  the tension radiating off me in massive waves.

  I reach an open door at the top of the stairs where Ciara is

  cooing at my daughter and for a second I feel myself relax, but

  then I notice the small, navy leather-bound book at her side.

  Joe’s prayer book, tatty and well thumbed. Prayer cards and

  Mass cards poking out. A thick elastic band holding it all together.

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  ‘Where . . .’ I start as her eyes dart to mine. ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Like you don’t know, Heidi. I don’t know what games you’re

  playing or why you’d pick now of all times to play them, but

  this is hard enough without you making it harder.’

  Confused, I look at her. She is angry. I see that. I see the

  same anger that I’m feeling in my veins reflected in her. I see

  the almost imperceptible shake of her hands, hear the slight but

  definite tremor in her voice.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say, struggling to control

  the tremor in my own voice.

  ‘It was here, Heidi. In your bag. In that bloody baby
bag.

  Right there, where I couldn’t miss it when I went to change

  Lily.’

  ‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘It wasn’t. I didn’t have it. I haven’t

  seen it for days.’

  Lily starts to whimper again. Clearly, she can feel the tension

  growing anyway, even if I’m not holding her. This room feels

  like all the air is being sucked out of it. Ciara stands up and

  I’m a scared child again, looking up at her and trying to under-

  stand her but not being able to break through the walls she

  has thrown up.

  ‘You’re mad!’ she spits. ‘Fucking mad! Just like your mother

  before you. She had to wreck things and here you are messing

  with our heads now. Making accusations. Hiding things. Jesus

  Christ, Heidi! How far will you go? How far have you gone?

  You complete fucking loony bin. Why the police haven’t carted

  you off long before now is beyond me. It’s beyond anyone.’

  Before I know it, before I even have the chance to think

  about it, my hand is raised and moving, and I have to use every

  ounce of strength in me to stop myself.

  ‘Fuck you,’ I hiss, my hand tingling with the unspent force

  of a slap directly across her face.

  Ciara just glares at me. Anger radiating from her.

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  ‘I’ll take this with me,’ she says in short staccato beats, lifting the prayer book from the bed. ‘And thanks for giving me one

  more thing to tell the police about,’ she adds, sidestepping me

  and leaving the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  My breath comes rushing out of my body as I crumple onto

  the bed beside my daughter and try to soothe her, and at the

  same time try to soothe myself.

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  Chapter Forty

  Heidi

  Then

  I was given my first mobile phone for my fifteenth birthday. My

  grandparents, who I knew had very little, had saved up and bought

  me a Nokia. They might as well have given me a million pounds.

  I felt spoiled. And so grown up as I plugged it in for the

  first time and charged it before spending half an hour tapping

  in the details of the few friends I had from school, as well as

  my grandparents’ landline number.

  It rarely rang, of course, because calls cost so much money

  we were almost afraid to use the phones. Text messages were a

  little less expensive, so I exchanged those with my friends. Silly little things about homework, or who we had a crush on, or

  to arrange to meet at the bus depot on Foyle Street before

  wandering around the shops.

  This phone, basic as it was compared to the phones that exist

  now, was a lifeline. It meant that when I went home I was no

  longer confined to long nights with just Joe for company. I

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  would escape to my room, close the door and engage with my friends. I’d asked Joe if we could get a computer, maybe even

  get the Internet at home. He’d refused. Said I could go to the

  library and use theirs. But the thought of spending more time

  under his eye was more than I could take.

  At least, at that stage, his night-time visits had stopped. Not

  that it meant he treated me any better. In fact, there were times

  when he just seemed even angrier at me. Fed up with me. I

  suppose I didn’t serve him any purpose any more. I was just a

  drain on his resources at that time.

  God, it was so messed up. Because, of course, I was glad the

  abuse wasn’t happening any more. But I was fifteen years old

  and craved the affection of a father figure. I tried to make him

  like me. I cringe now when I think of it. Weep for the poor

  child I was.

  I never told my friends. I would die if they knew. When they

  talked about their first boyfriends, their clumsy first experiences of kissing and more, I stayed quiet. I had no interest in finding

  a boyfriend. I had no interest in kissing anyone, never mind

  having sex. It baffled me that some of them seemed to enjoy

  it so much.

  I was midway through a text chat with one of my friends

  about how she had let her boyfriend touch her boobs, under

  her clothes, when a new message buzzed its way into my inbox.

  For a moment I allowed this small feeling of smugness to

  wash over me. I was, sort of, popular. My phone was buzzing.

  With a sense of great anticipation I opened the new message

  to see it was from a number I didn’t recognise.

  You’re nothing but a mad little bitch. Everyone hates you.

  I recoiled from the phone as if it had actually burned me,

  tossing it to the end of my bed. Then I scrabbled to reach it

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  again, to look at the number, which I wrote down on a piece of paper. I figured I’d ask around at school to see if anyone

  knew who the number belonged to, but then I realised they’d

  all ask questions. They’d all want to know why I needed to

  know and I’d be too embarrassed, too scared that they would

  tell me the message was the truth, to show it to them.

  I read it over and over again. My heart thumping. Was that

  why bad things happened to me? Because I was mad? Because

  I deserved to be punished? I covered my ears to try to drown

  out the voices in my head, which was about as successful as

  you would expect, and I curled myself into a ball on my bed

  and wondered if Ciara had been right all along. I should just

  kill myself and be done with it.

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  Chapter Forty-One

  Heidi

  Now

  Alex walks into the bedroom moments after I hear Ciara stomp

  downstairs. I’m scarlet with rage and embarrassment. What will

  she be saying now to everyone? To Father Brennan?

  ‘Erm . . . what’s going on? Ciara’s very upset,’ he asks me.

  ‘She says you raised your hand to hit her.’

  There’s a look of disappointment about him. It actually

  emboldens me. Angers me further. That he is isn’t automatically

  on my side. Why is no one ever automatically on my side?

  I’m ashamed that I raised my hand, but I’m not sorry. What

  she had said had been vile.

  ‘I didn’t actually hit her!’ I protest. ‘She deserved a slap across the face but I stopped myself.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Heidi! It’s her father’s wake. She’s down there

  bawling and giving out in front of everyone. What will they

  think of you? Is it not bad enough that our every move is

  being watched anyway?’

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  ‘They can watch all they want, Alex,’ I spit back at him.

  ‘Something fucked up is going on in all this and I’ve had

  enough of trying to keep the waters smooth.
She accused me

  of stealing Joe’s prayer book – of hiding it in Lily’s changing

  bag so they couldn’t see it to choose stuff for the funeral.

  ‘She called my mother mad. And me, too. She says I’m crazy.

  I’m not the crazy one or the one keeping secrets, Alex. Marie’s

  just told me that she and Joe never even got divorced! After

  mum died, they just didn’t bother. How on earth am I supposed

  to react to that? Just sigh and accept it as not as messed up as

  it really is?

  ‘And I’m sure they are setting me up for this. They want

  everyone to think it was me. That I killed him. Everyone is

  looking at me as if I did it. Ciara more or less said it outright, that she believes it was me.’

  He sits down, his head in his hands. His long fingers brushing

  through his hair before he straightens himself and takes a deep

  breath.

  ‘You can’t hit someone over a prayer book, no matter how

  much you might want to. She’s grieving too, you know. Emotions

  are running high but you have got to at least keep them in

  check. And, God, I know the news about the divorce must be

  a shock, but this is all so messed up. All of it. I don’t think

  anything would surprise me any more. And they can’t pin it

  on you if you didn’t do it,’ he says. ‘I’ll not let that happen.’

  I take his hand. ‘I don’t see how you can stop it, Alex. I’m

  not stupid. I know all the signs are pointing at me. This is

  how it goes, you know. Every time I think I have a chance

  at happiness . . .’

  I feel a tear slide down my cheek, which I brush away. It

  hurts; my skin is still so raw from all the tears I’ve cried over

  the last few days. I know I’m falling apart. Physically and

  mentally. And there’s nothing that can be done to fix it.

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  I look at him. He looks as wretched as I do. I’m wracked with guilt for putting him through all this. He did not sign up

  for any of this. This exceeds the ‘better or worse’ clause of our

  marriage by miles.

  ‘There is so much going on here. I know it. Whispers and

  the doll . . . and the prayer book . . . and Ciara. She’s poison

  but she plays the game well. The police don’t even seem to

  have glanced in her direction.’

  ‘They’re watching us all, Heidi. Don’t you see that? We’re all

  going through this. I know you’re overwhelmed and they’ve