Tell the Truth: Or they’ll tell it for you…

‘Oh my God,’ I said, looking at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s gone midnight. I’ve kept you up.’

‘No problem,’ she said, rising. ‘It’s been fun. Better than a blind date any day.’

Five minutes later we hugged goodbye and, from my front door, I watched her stagger towards her house. Once she was safely inside, I closed and bolted my door, hating that I was alone – and hating even more that I hated being alone. I flumped down on the sofa, and picked up my phone, moving my index finger over the screen. Would Lawrence be up? Would he mind if I called? He’d said we could be friends.

I squeezed my hand into a fist. It was a ridiculous idea. If I called him after midnight he would be put out. He’d always told me he needed his beauty sleep if I ever woke him in the night desperate to talk about Mum.

I reached for the half-drunk bottle of red, unscrewed the lid, and refilled my glass. As I drank, I couldn’t expel Lawrence from my head. How happy we’d been in the early days. We’d met at an art exhibition I’d put on for Mum, in a small gallery in London. He’d bought a study of Lough Gill in Ireland.

‘It’s the lake mentioned by Yeats in his poetry,’ he’d said, locking me in with his grey gaze.

‘You like Yeats?’ I’d asked.

He’d nodded, and there was something about him that had captured my interest. Maybe it was simply because my mother had read Yeats and other romantic poetry to me when I was young.

I finished the wine and, my good sense heading out the door, brought up his number on my phone. I pressed call. It rang and rang, and I was expecting it go to voicemail when it was picked up. ‘Lawrence Templeman’s phone.’

It was a woman. American. Why has a woman picked up his phone after midnight?

‘Hello,’ she continued when I remained silent. ‘Is that you, Rachel?’

Damn you, caller-ID. ‘Sorry, yes, who is this?’

‘It’s Farrah.’ It was as though I should know exactly who she was. ‘Lawrence is asleep, I’m afraid. I heard his phone and, well …’ She paused. ‘Is everything OK? Is your mother OK?’

I bristled. Why had Lawrence told this woman, whoever she was, about my mum?

‘Is Grace OK?’ The sudden thought of a strange woman in the same house as my daughter angered me.

‘Yes, she’s been asleep since seven, bless her heart. She’s an absolute delight. You must be so proud.’

I wanted to yell that I was coming to get my daughter, and how dare Lawrence let her into Grace’s life without my permission? But I said nothing.

Farrah clearly picked up on my silence. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Listen, I shouldn’t have called.’ My voice trembled, and I knew it carried a slur. ‘I’ll ring back in the morning.’ And before she could respond, I ended the call.

A surge of tears hit my eyes as my thumbs thumped the screen and I sent a text to Lawrence:

How dare you let someone new into Grace’s life without telling me!

Oh God, would Farrah read the text? I let out an exasperated wail, raced upstairs, chucked my phone onto the bedside unit, and threw myself onto the bed like a lovelorn teenager. The room spun.

Eventually sleep saved me from my chaotic emotions.

Later, I woke from a vivid nightmare, certain something had stirred me. I was thirsty, my head throbbed, and the quilt was tangled around me like a cocoon. I normally planted a glass of water on my bedside table if I’d been drinking, but in my silly stupor a few hours earlier, I’d forgotten. I was still in my clothes.

I lay for a few moments listening, but the only sounds were familiar creaks of the old building, and the distant rumble of a train. It was odd how when Grace wasn’t with me, I felt more insecure.

I untangled the quilt, sat up, and swung my legs round, stuffing my feet into my slippers. I needed water before my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

Flicking on the bedside light, I picked up my phone: 3 a.m.

I thought again about Lawrence. Were there photos of Farrah on his Facebook timeline that I’d missed? I dragged my fingers through my hair, still feeling pretty pissed. Water could wait. I clicked into Facebook on my mobile.

It was then that I saw it – another friend request. My heart bounced around my chest.

Ronan Murphy: CONFIRM/DELETE REQUEST

I clicked on his profile. As before, he didn’t appear to have any friends. His profile picture was another view, a mountain this time – and I knew it was Benbulbin in Sligo. The cover picture was of a building that reminded me of a workhouse, and it had a sign outside that read ‘Glastons Insurance. Dublin’.

I scrolled down his timeline. Just one status update:

Ronan, Ronan is no good

Chop him up for firewood

But this time I noticed he’d sent me a message.

Chapter 7 (#ulink_6c00a13a-10b8-5b72-b5d9-439e035aed82)

September 1999

Incessant rain hammers against the window – a clap of thunder rings out. It doesn’t wake him.

One strike to his head, so he doesn’t fight back – but now he wakes, dazed – tries to speak – no words come out.

I plunge the knife deep into his flesh – once, twice, three times. The blood sprays and spurts like a bright red fountain, covering me – metallic on my lips.

He’s holding on to life – too young to die – refusing to let go, reaching up to me, eyes pleading. He thinks I’ll stop. Poor Ronan.

I lurch forward. The knife goes in one final time – deeper, and I twist, hearing his ribs crack.

They’ll know it’s me this time, but I don’t care.

Ronan Murphy deserves to die.

Chapter 8 (#ulink_cd6549e7-761b-5c09-82fa-c7e03b6c5039)

March 1987

Kneeling in front of the loo, Laura buried her head in her hands, waiting for another wave of nausea to hit. It would soon pass, once the digestive biscuit she’d eaten on waking took effect.

She rose, padded to the sink, and splashed her face with cold water. This would be so much easier if Jude was with her – but he hadn’t replied to her calls. And she’d already stayed at her parents’ house longer than she’d envisaged, unable to find the strength to put it on the market and move on. For now the woods and lake felt different to when she was a lonely child. She liked the solitude. The isolation.

She’d received a couple of letters from acquaintances at university, asking if she was OK, was there anything they could do, but she hadn’t replied. Paralysed by the twin poles of grief – the loss of the parents who never loved her, and Jude not changing his mind – she found she couldn’t reach out them.

She headed down the stairs, tightening her robe, knowing her face was the colour of dough. She needed to shower, to clean her teeth, but first, some coffee.