The Liar’s Daughter (ARC)

by Claire Allan

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But it might help them understand why

  someone killed him.’

  She’d looked away, stared out of the kitchen window. It

  dawned on me that my revelation had given me a very strong

  motive for wanting him dead.

  ‘You don’t think it was me, do you?’ I’d asked.

  ‘It would be understandable if it was,’ she’d said in a quiet

  voice.

  I took a deep breath and steadied myself to admit the one

  thing that I’d not been able to say out loud before.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ I said. ‘But I wish it was. From the bottom of

  my heart, I wish it had been me.’

  Stella turned to face me, her eyes brimming with unshed

  tears. ‘I’m glad it wasn’t,’ she said slowly, deliberately, ‘but I would’ve supported you if it was.’

  I nodded, my face blazing again. I could not speak.

  She sat down beside me and took my hand. ‘Can I ask some-

  thing else?’

  I nodded once more.

  ‘If he hurt you, do you think he could’ve hurt her, too?’

  ‘Who? Heidi?’

  I thought of how she hated him. How she always seemed to

  hate him. How I always thought it was because he was intrin-

  sically linked in her mind to the death of her mother. I might’ve

  given it passing thought in the past, but to be honest I’d done

  my best not to think about Heidi at all over the last ten years.

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  But I knew she had never left his side, even as she grew up.

  They had never become estranged. Not like me. She still visited

  him. She may not have loved him, or even liked him, but she

  felt a duty of care to him and she acted on that. Would she

  have done that if he had hurt her in the same way?

  But then I think of how messed up I was. How confused I

  had been about what love meant, and care and family. I think

  of how many times I’d told her no one else wanted her. That

  she was alone. That she’d be better off dead. My face blazed at

  the memory. I had been such a vindictive bitch. Even when I

  was old enough to know better.

  I had goaded her through her life, and even when I came

  back to see Joe at her behest, I had still been unable to resist

  goading her. Acting like a child. Breaking that stupid doll.

  And all the time refusing to acknowledge that she could be

  hurt, too. That she might have endured some of what I had.

  Except he had left me, hadn’t he? He stayed with Heidi. From

  the moment her mother had died when she was nine and a

  half, he had been a constant. He must have thought he had

  died and gone to heaven, I think, and my stomach tightens and

  turns and guilt and fear wash over me.

  We’d both been guilty. My father and I, of destroying her.

  I could no longer look at the breakfast I’d been eating. I

  could no longer think beyond Stella’s words. Had I been so

  wrapped up in my own pain that I’d failed to see what was

  most likely going on under my nose? If I had spoken up all

  those years ago, could I have stopped him from hurting her?

  I’d turned all the hate and hurt I felt for him towards her.

  And that, ultimately, makes me complicit in his crimes.

  If she was pushed to put a pillow over his head and end his

  life then I was as guilty as if I had handed her the pillow myself.

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  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Ciara

  Then

  I told someone once. A school friend. Someone I thought I

  could really trust. Someone I was sure would understand.

  I think I was maybe sixteen or seventeen. Going through

  one of my rebellious phases. Dying my hair (and my scalp) jet

  black with cheap home hair dye. Wearing too much eyeliner

  and lipstick much too dark for my complexion. Rolling my

  eyes and swearing when my mum asked where I was going

  and when I would be home.

  Speaking back. Stealing from her purse. Enough for a carryout

  from the offie. A three-litre bottle of the cheapest, most disgusting cider money could buy. I’d pool my resources with the people

  I regarded as friends, so we had enough to get pissed and have

  enough cheap cigarettes to smoke ourselves hoarse.

  We weren’t original in our rebellion. We joined the other

  underage drinkers up on Derry’s historic walls, sitting on benches or on the cold cobbles and smoking and drinking into the wee

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  hours. Being rowdy. Making what my mother would call a ‘holy show’ of ourselves.

  There was always someone to ‘get off ’ with, too – and that

  was part of the rebellion. Random, meaningless sex acts that

  fulfilled some sort of need, I suppose. That was before I admitted that boys were not my thing – before I realised that sex didn’t

  always have to feel shameful, intrusive and wrong.

  When we were suitably pissed, and sated from our teenage

  fumbling, we would have those big philosophical discussions

  that only really seem very important at two in the morning

  when the rest of the world has gone quiet. We’d say things we’d

  never say in the light of day. Things it seemed easier to say

  under the soft cover of the stars.

  Jude. That was her name. Short for Judith. She was shorter

  than I was, but her presence was larger. Everyone wanted to

  be Jude’s friend and when you were in her company, she had

  a way of making you feel like the most important person in

  the world.

  Unlike me, she could apply her winged eyeliner perfectly

  and her blood-red lipstick never found its way onto her teeth.

  She could drink an entire bottle of cider without having the

  need to throw up, or find a quiet place to have a pee.

  But as well as being, seemingly effortlessly, cool, she was also

  a good listener. She showed a maturity beyond her years and

  it’s fair to say I hero-worshipped her. In hindsight, she was

  probably my first girl crush.

  So I’d found myself worse for wear one night, having one

  of our deep and meaningful conversations sometime after 1

  a.m., when I told her what I didn’t dare tell anyone else.

  I’m not sure what I expected. Perhaps a hug. Perhaps she

  would cry and tell me she was sorry something so awful

  happened to me. Perhaps she would offer to come with me to

  the police. Perhaps she would just understand.

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  Instead, I saw a look of disgust on her face. Maybe even disbelief. I can still see her now, dragging on her cigarette before dropping it and grinding it into the ground under one of her

  trendy ox-blood DM boots.

  ‘That’s really fucking serious, Ciara,’ she’d said, shaking her

  head.

  I waited to see what she would follow it up with.

  She’d simply shaken her head and walked away. I was left not

  knowing what I’d done wrong. Wondering if sh
e thought it

  was my fault. Feeling like I was dirty and horrible all over again.

  Jude kept her distance after that. Slowly but surely I was

  sidelined from her group, from my ‘tribe’ of so-called friends

  who drank on the Walls. I was too damaged even for society’s

  misfits.

  I promised myself then that I’d never tell anyone again. And

  yet, I’d told Stella and the world hadn’t ended. Now I owed it

  to Heidi to tell her, too.

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  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Ciara

  Now

  Two days have passed and I’ve come to Aberfoyle Crescent to

  start to sort through my father’s belongings. Heidi is due to

  meet me here, to discuss what happens next.

  Like her, I now just want to get this all over and done with.

  I want the past put in the past. So much makes sense now that

  didn’t before.

  I’m not sure how I’ll look her in the face when she arrives.

  I can feel my palms sweating, despite the biting cold. I don’t

  want to be back in this house at all. I can’t imagine how Heidi

  has kept coming here, kept facing her trauma over and over

  again. If it wasn’t for my mother and Kathleen badgering me

  to make sure they had access to Dad’s things, I’d have been

  happy never to come here again.

  The house is icy, unwelcoming. No one has put any heating

  on in here in days and the temperature hasn’t taken its time to

  drop, cold and damp settling into the very fabric of the building.

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  The big clock in the hall still ticks loudly. I can just hear the low hum of the fridge but aside from that, the house is silent.

  I can feel it though, for the first time. The badness of this

  place that gave Stella the creeps. I’d assumed she’d felt my pain, but it was possible much worse had happened here.

  I see a picture of Natalie, a slightly older version of the

  woman Heidi has become, smile down from the wall. I wonder

  if I should’ve given Natalie more of a chance. For the two years

  she’d been in my life I’d treated her with nothing but absolute

  disdain. I’d hated her, although all she ever did was be kind to

  me. She was soft-spoken, like Heidi. Meek. Unaware of her

  own beauty. She’d try to engage with me, even when she was

  ill. Even when it was clear she was dying. I turned my back

  on her every time.

  She’d tell me she understood. It must be hard for me, she’d

  say. I remember her saying that, sitting in the armchair in the

  living room, little more than a bag of bones. Her face grey, her

  eyes sunken. I remember her hands, long bony fingers. Bruises

  on the back of her hand, livid blue-and-green. Specks of blood

  from cannula sites. Her fingernails were still painted the palest

  pink. A pink I’d have asked her about if I hadn’t hated her so

  much. The faintest wisp of hair escaped from a pale lilac head-

  scarf.

  What a bitch I’d been not to give her a chance, even when

  it was clear that she didn’t have much time left.

  The same chair still sits in the living room. I can almost

  conjure her image in it. I wish I could talk to her now. Apologise for how I’d been with her. Apologise for not protecting her

  daughter.

  I’m so lost in my memories that I jump when I hear the

  key turn in the lock behind me. Heidi walks in, carrying a

  sleeping Lily in her car seat and that ever-present changing bag.

  She huffs and puffs as she puts the seat down and wriggles out

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  of her puffy jacket. Of course as soon as she puts the jacket down she shivers, wraps her mustard scarf around her neck

  more tightly. She looks unwell, the colour of the scarf draining

  her pale skin. There are dark rings under her eyes. I think of

  her mother again, or how alike they look, my stomach twisting.

  ‘Well,’ she says brusquely, ‘you wanted me to meet you here

  and here I am.’

  She looks nervous, fidgety. She clearly doesn’t want to be

  here. I’m tempted to tell her she’s not the only one.

  I feel awkward now. Lumpen and heavy. Misplaced.

  ‘I’m not sure what your plans are for the house,’ I start.

  ‘Estate agents will be out at the start of next week to value

  it and get it on the market,’ she says, looking around as if she’s seeing it for the first time. Looking anywhere as long as it isn’t at me.

  I swallow. ‘We’ll do our best to sort through his things. As

  quickly as we can. Get out of your hair. I know Kathleen wants

  some things. The police said they’ve all the stuff they need, so

  there’s nothing stopping us from getting on with it.’

  ‘Take whatever you want,’ she interrupts, her voice cold. She

  delves into her jeans pocket and pulls out a sheet of paper,

  folded in two. ‘Those are the only items I want from here –

  anything else is yours if you want it. Once you’ve had your

  pick, I’ll get someone in to do a house clearance. Dump or sell

  all the other stuff. I’ll sort through the junk in my old bedroom

  too, but there’s little I want from there. Probably my dolls – you know, for Lily. Of course, someone smashed Scarlett.’

  She looks at me for the first time that day. She is accusing

  me. Suddenly it’s as if I’m fourteen again and this precocious

  nine-year-old with the awful haircut is looking up at me, looking

  so needy and pathetic and wrapped up in her own selfish world.

  I blush purple. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, the words sticking in my

  throat. I am mortified. ‘So very sorry. I was a bitch. I’m such

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  a bitch. I was just angry and hurt and wanted to hit out at someone or something . . .’

  ‘At me,’ she says, glaring at me. ‘You wanted to hit out at

  me. You’ve always wanted to hit out at me. For whatever I did

  to you. I thought we might be past it now, but the last few

  days . . . nothing has changed, has it? You’ve not changed. You’ve not matured. You’re as spiteful and manipulative as you ever

  were. You’re still all about playing mind games.’

  ‘I broke the doll and I’m sorry for that. I really am. But I’ve

  not been playing any games. Not this time. Look,’ I say, ‘I just

  want to get this over with as much as you do. Can we just do

  that? There’s been enough hurt.’

  ‘Really? We’ve finally reached a limit? Good to know after

  all these years we’ve crossed that hallowed threshold. We just

  needed to blame missing prayer books on me, talk about me

  behind my back to my husband and have my mother’s grave

  opened against my wishes.’

  Her eyes are flashing with anger, her voice harsh. Lily is

  starting to stir in her chair, no doubt disturbed by the angry

  tone of her mother.

  ‘Heidi, the prayer book was in your bag. I found it there. I

/>   didn’t disregard your wishes. I didn’t know them. Everything

  was so messed up. I’ve apologised for breaking your doll. If I

  could turn back time . . . And yes, I’ve talked about you behind

  your back, but I’m sure you’ve said a few choice words too,

  about me.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Why are you lying? Why do you keep

  lying? Why can’t you just admit it was you who killed him and

  you’ve been doing everything in your power to point the finger

  of blame at me since?’

  I see her body tense, her hands ball into fists. I fear she won’t

  stop herself from lashing out this time.

  Before I know it she is lunging at me, pushing me as hard

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  and fast as she can against the wall. My back hits the plaster-work first, my head second – a sickening thud, the force of

  which causes me to bite into my tongue. I taste blood, feel my

  legs buckle. I try to centre myself, looking up to see her glaring at me, a fist raised, poised to come at me. I lift my hands, block her assault. Scream at her to stop.

  She lashes out again, furiously. I can see she is crying.

  ‘You’re making everyone think I’m mad. You’re turning my

  own husband against me. You have to stop! You have to stop!’

  I can see years of pain on her face and I almost, almost, want

  to lower my hands and let her take out her rage on me. I’d

  deserve it. I could have saved her even if I didn’t save myself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I blurt through my tears. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t

  mean to. I’m sorry. He hurt me too, Heidi, he hurt me too!’

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  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Heidi

  Now

  ‘He hurt me too.’ Ciara’s words cut through the noise. They

  cut through the thumping in my heart and the rush of blood

  through my veins. They cut through Lily’s crying. They cut

  through my anger and pain.

  I hear them and immediately I freeze. I register their meaning.

  I stop, drop the hand that was in mid-flight to my side. My

  anger seeping from me, through my feet, through the floor,

  leaving as quickly as it arrived.

  ‘He hurt me too,’ she’d said again. It is enough to change

  everything.

  I look at her. At the expression on her face. For the first

  time, I see the same pain in her eyes that I see in my own