The Truth Will Out Page 8

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘I don’t know how to be.’

  ‘Me neither. We need some time away, George,’ she said, knowing his feelings mirrored her own.

  ‘I’m going to Italy.’ He had rebooked his flight an hour earlier.

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘You sound far away.’

  That was odd: Harri was staying in the Clarence Hotel, which was only around the corner from her brother’s apartment. She was closer than ever, at least geographically, but then being close has nothing to do with geography: being close is a state of mind so Harri was far away and moving further with each passing moment.

  ‘George?’ She sounded fuzzy, as if she was drugged but she wasn’t – she was just numb to her very core.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re the eldest now.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said, bringing the phone back to his ear.

  ‘By more than two months,’ she whispered. ‘You’re older by at least two months and a lifetime.’

  George allowed the tears to fall. He was alone and it was okay to cry because their world had ended and his twin sister had died.

  ‘Let’s not talk for a while,’ she said.

  ‘No, Harri.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  ‘It’s your name.’

  ‘It’s someone else’s name.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘George, I can’t breathe. Let me be, I’m begging you.’

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  She turned off her phone, lay down and disappeared.

  George woke to a blinding light. He batted the sun-bleached white shutter back in place while shielding his tired eyes. The required level of dullness restored, he slumped back on his bed. On the pillow next to him lay his phone. Seven missed calls. Go away, Dad. The unreliable shutter attempted once more to creep away from the window. He slapped it back into place. Don’t make me break you.

  He checked his watch on the pretty white faux-antique locker. It was after two. He had missed a meeting in a local vineyard, a meeting he had been attempting to arrange for weeks, yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. The previous night he had sat alone in the local village bar while locals spoke about him, muttering aloud about the drunken Irishman and debating why he looked so shattered. They had assumed he didn’t speak the language so he had listened to them comment on his sadness, his floppy hair, his expensive suit, and even managed to enjoy two women arguing over who had the best chance with him. He had given them a smile of encouragement. He liked it when women were attracted to him – it appealed to his masculinity and vanity.

  However, he had remained where he was at the bar and all the while continued to drink. He drank until he could no longer feel his legs. A stranger who disliked his hair but coveted his suit was forced to carry him to the entrance of his hotel. He had attempted to tip the guy but he was polite and refused, even though earlier he had asserted that the Irishman was a waster.

  Now in the cold light of day George’s head hurt and he was in no mood to talk business. He stood up – and stepped into vomit. Oh, nice, George, very nice. He cleaned the floor after which, exhausted, he returned to his bed. He must have drifted off into the deepest sleep. He didn’t hear Aidan arrive; he didn’t even hear him when he banged his suitcase against the door frame, then against his bad knee. ‘Oh, bollocks, that hurt!’ He didn’t hear the kettle being boiled for a badly needed coffee. ‘Bloody Ryanair! How do you manage to run out of coffee?’ Nor did he hear the shower run or Aidan dancing under it. ‘Hot, hot, hot!’

  When George eventually woke up, he saw the back of a head. What the hell? He was about to panic when he noticed a familiar tattoo. ‘Aidan?’

  ‘Five more minutes,’ he mumbled sleepily.

  ‘Aidan.’ He nudged him.

  ‘Three more minutes.’

  ‘Aidan!’ he roared into his ear.

  Aidan shot up in the bed. He took a second or two to orient himself. ‘What?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m your boyfriend. You’ve had some bad news. I’m here for you.’

  ‘You’re calling what happened “bad news”?’ George asked incredulously.

  ‘Well, dear, it’s not good news.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘Of course I should.’

  ‘I don’t want you here.’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’

  George sat at the side of the bed with his head in his hands. ‘Aidan, I can’t do homotastic witty repartee today.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to, mostly because you’re not very good at it.’ He smiled at George who allowed himself a grin. ‘Good. Let’s take a walk.’

  ‘I don’t feel like walking.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll hire you a wheelchair.’

  It was early evening and the sun was still warm. The little cobbled streets were busy with people walking dogs, couples strolling and some with kids in buggies. The old were holding hands and taking it slow, breathing in fresh air.

  George and Aidan sat just inside an empty café watching the world go by. George had been quiet.

  ‘Have you seen Harri?’ he asked, after careful consideration.

  ‘No,’ Aidan said. ‘She checked into the Clarence for two days, checked out and she hasn’t gone home.’

  ‘What about Melissa or Susan?’

  ‘They’ve heard nothing either.’

  ‘She can’t talk. She can’t think. She needs to be gone for a while.’

  ‘Like you?’

  ‘But she’s not like me. Is she?’

  ‘George …’

  ‘I always knew we were different but still we were the same.’ He paused to collect himself. ‘I’ve lost the part of myself that I liked most.’

  ‘You haven’t lost her.’

  George shook his head. ‘Did I tell you that she said she knew? She told Uncle Thomas that deep down she’d always known.’ He bit his lower lip, remembering. It had been at that very second he had regained the use of his legs and run. ‘You know what I knew? I knew I had a twin sister. What I didn’t know was that she was dead.’

  ‘Harri is not –’

  ‘Harri is dead, Aidan. They didn’t even give her replacement a different name. How fucked up is that?’

  ‘It’s pretty fucked up,’ Aidan was forced to agree.

  ‘I keep trying to get my head around it but I can’t. My whole life has been a gigantic and pretty fucking mesmerizing lie.’

  ‘Okay, I’m the drama queen in this relationship and it just won’t work with two.’

  ‘You think I’m being dramatic?’

  ‘I think that you and Harri may not have shared a womb but you have shared a life, every memory and every milestone. You grew up in one another’s pockets, finished one another’s sentences. You speak in code, for God’s sake. No one gets you the way she does, not even me, and no one gets her like you. So history has been rewritten but history is just a list of facts. You and Harri are real and who and what you are together has not changed.’

  ‘Nice speech,’ George said.

  ‘Thanks. I practised on the flight.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘I know. It will take time to get your head around it but after that it really is up to you, both of you,’ Aidan said, taking his lover’s hand and kissing it.

  He didn’t mind that George pulled away quickly. George hated public displays of affection. It made him uncomfortable. Aidan was tactile, and although mostly he kept his affection in check, sometimes he slipped. Often this would end in a fight but tonight George was too tired for that so instead he pulled his hand away slowly and stared at the passers-by without another word. Later they walked back through the old stone village to the hotel, where they ordered room service and ate di
nner in bed before making love. Afterwards they turned away happily. Aidan was out cold in no time. George lay awake, having slept away most of the day.

  I can’t talk to her. She doesn’t want me to. What can either of us say? If nothing has changed why does nothing feel the same?

  Gloria was a surprise. She had managed to hold it together exceedingly well and beyond her husband’s wildest expectations. She cried, of course, but the deep, dark depression that had once all but consumed her was absent. She was upset but not clinically so. Duncan was grateful for that. His kids were in chaos and so they should be. He understood. He knew it was something they had to be allowed to go through. He just wished he could fast-forward time so that they would understand and see that all was well and they were loved. Then the Ryans could be a happy family again.

  To Duncan it seemed odd that Harri hadn’t asked any questions. She had sat silently in the aftermath of her brother’s flat-footed flight.

  Harri had all but disappeared inside herself. After an hour of silence she’d asked for a taxi. Further silence ensued, the taxi had arrived and her mother kissed her tearfully. Duncan had hugged her so tightly she’d thought her arms would snap. Father Ryan had said he was sorry for all the pain she was about to feel. He reminded her that she was viewed as a miracle and that she was held dear. Harri hadn’t stopped to ask any questions. Her mind was too full to accept answers. She’d just wanted out.

  The taxi man had talked about the cost of concert tickets. ‘A hundred-odd euro for George Michael, me hole, do you know what I mean, love? Don’t get me wrong, he’s good, but he’s not that bleedin’ good. I could get seen to for half that, no offence, love. I mean to say, tickets to a gig or a good seeing-to? A seeing-to wins every time. No offence, love. After all, a reality is a reality. Of course George Michael knows all about that. Are you with me?’ He had laughed away to himself and hadn’t even noticed that the girl in his back seat was crying.

  On the night of revelation George had run all the way home and screamed the truth to Aidan. Aidan had waited until his boyfriend was calm enough before calling Susan, who, after an hour of oohing and ahing and oh-my-Goding, phoned Melissa.

  ‘I’ve known them since they were kids,’ she’d said weakly.

  ‘I know you have.’

  ‘No,’ Melissa had gone on. ‘No way. This is Dublin, not Hollywood.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Harri’s not Harri?’

  ‘Harri is Harri. She’s just Harri Two: The Return.’ In other circumstances Susan’s comment would have been funny, but neither woman laughed.

  ‘It’s just not possible!’ Melissa exclaimed.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘Maybe today – but in 1970s Ireland …’ Susan said, remembering the time well.

  ‘It’s just so macabre.’

  ‘You know what’s really weird?’ Susan wondered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I could be my business partner’s mother.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’ve just turned forty-six, Harri’s thirty, the dead girl in the woods was seventeen.’

  ‘Oh, that’s so … that poor girl.’

  Soon after that the phone call ended. Neither party slept well, disturbed by their friend’s tragedy.

  Harri didn’t answer her phone except that one time to George. She left the Clarence when Aidan managed to track her down. When the coast was clear she returned to her apartment, packed, locked up and drove to the cottage in Wexford she had bought with James, the one that Melissa had deemed a moth-eaten money pit. Melissa was right, but that was okay because for the first time in seventy-two hours Harri could breathe. She was cold and uncomfortable but she could inhale and exhale easily and, for now, that was good enough.

  21 June 1975 – Saturday

  Dr B is avoiding me. I can’t believe it. He hasn’t been fishing at the pier, and yesterday in town he crossed the road when he saw me. I don’t understand. If he keeps it up I’m not sure what I’ll do but I’ll do something because he needs to cop on. Having said that, I haven’t a clue what to do. I’ll think about it.

  HE’s still living somewhere else. I don’t know exactly where and I don’t care. Mam seems to be doing okay. Her face has healed nicely and she’s enjoying working in the Crow’s Nest. She says the staff are good fun. I’m glad. Cleaning is a spaz of a job and I swear I’d hate it, but if she’s happy I’m happy. Just please, God, make sure she doesn’t break and bring him back home.

  Sheila is fighting with me. I can’t believe it. She says I’ve been flirting with Dave. She’s obviously gone a bit bell-jar – in other words, she’s a mental case. I don’t flirt with Dave – I interact with him more kindly now than before because I feel sorry for him. I pity him. Poor Dave is not my idea of the ideal man. But Sheila is going nuts. I really don’t get it. She says I lean a lot when I’m around him. What does that mean? Maybe I lean because I’m taller than him. Sheila is getting weirder and more annoying by the day.

  I’ve been spending more time with Matthew. We talk a lot, and he keeps finding reasons to touch me – my hand, my elbow, my shoulder, my face. Every time he does I feel like throwing up but in a good way. Stupid, I know, but true. Yesterday after we’d finished work he walked me home through Devil’s Glen. We talked about the things we loved. I told him about my inexplicable desire to leave this place even though, when I think about it, I love it. He talked about wanting to be heard. I asked him what he meant but he said he didn’t know and he was sick of living in the shadows. Children should be seen and not heard!!! That’s what his dad always says.

  Poor Matthew, he’s been silent for so long. In school he says a lot of it is silence. He makes me weak. When we talk I feel weak. What’s that about? When I’m with him the most mundane incident seems almost magical, and when he’s not there, what I would have thought interesting is now dull. I crave him. What’s that about? Maybe I’m going mental. He talks, and I listen like I’ve never listened before. He smiles and I light up. PUKE. I know I sound like an idiot but it’s true, I can’t help it. Sometimes I disgust myself and I want to run away, but then I wouldn’t see him and that would be bad, really bad. I look at him and my stomach flip-fl ops. Sometimes that’s uncomfortable depending on what I’ve eaten.

  Matthew asked me to meet him in Devil’s Glen after nine tonight. I’m scared. I want to go but I’m really stomach-flipping scared. I feel stupid like a kid. I want to go but what’s going to happen? Is he going to kiss me? What else? Will it be weird? I really, REALLY like him. I can’t stop thinking about him. What he likes, what he says, what he eats, even what he drinks and, of course, what he listens to. Just to note he hates the Bay City Rollers. He’s into David Bowie. I still like the Bay City Rollers but not as much as I did and that bothers me. Am I one of THOSE girls???? I want to go but I don’t want to go. When I’m with him I don’t feel myself and it’s nice but it’s not nice. I like alone-me and I’m not sure I like the me that’s me when I’m with him. Mam said once, ‘You can’t choose love. Love chooses you.’ I thought she was full of it. I might have been wrong.

  Dave found me sitting by the Eliana today. He said he’d come to apologize about Sheila fighting with me. That was nice of him. I told him it didn’t matter and she’d get over it. Sheila’s always been moody. I was reading and he asked if it was all right if he sat for a while. The pier is a public place and it’s a free country, so I said fine. I just continued reading and he stayed sitting beside me for the longest time. Just before he left he told me that he really did like Sheila but sometimes the things she said and did made him feel horrible. I told him that I think that’s what happens when you love someone – after all, look what happened to my mam when she met HIM. It made me kind of sad and now I’m not sure if I’ll meet Matthew. I really want to but what if it turns out badly? Then again I’m no coward. But I’m not a fool for anyone
either. Oh, I don’t know.

  8. All to forget

  Susan usually liked to spend Saturday lunchtime in the Avoca shop in Ashford. It was only a spin away in the car, the food was great and so was the shopping. She could stock up in the speciality supermarket, she could browse the cookbooks, the clothes, the novelties, but mostly she could salivate over the utensils. Susan loved utensils – can and jar openers, colanders, strainers, graters, thermometers, whisks and spatulas – of all of which she had multiples. She had a propensity to buy pastry and cake-decorating tools, too, despite her aversion to baking.

  Today’s the day, she had thought, on silencing her alarm clock. Time for a clear out. She got busy emptying overstuffed drawers. Susan liked to clear cupboards, clean toilets, hand-wash clothes, grout tiles or prune hedges when burdened by unwanted thoughts. She hadn’t engaged in a proper conversation with her husband Andrew in more than a week. Mostly he was gone before she got up and he didn’t come home until he was sure she would be asleep. Susan needed her eight hours – she couldn’t function without them. She’d usually be comatose by eleven thirty with the TV blaring or her glasses halfway down her nose and a book on her chest.

  Thank heaven for small mercies, he’d think, passing their room in favour of the guest room. He was tired and the game of avoidance was becoming more trying. Maybe that was why he’d overslept. Bollocks. He could hear the kitchen drawers rattling despite the staircase and wide hall that separated him from his wife. She was being loud on purpose, making a point or maybe attempting to remind him that she was still alive.

  Dying of thirst, he entered the kitchen quietly. Susan was sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by utensils. Neither spoke. Andrew poured himself a coffee. Susan continued to sort whisks from spatulas and colanders from strainers. Sunlight was streaming through the windows and it was warm enough to open the french doors, which led to a carefully kept garden. Andrew took his coffee and the newspaper out to the patio.

  The radio was on low, the disc jockeys debating their favourite version of Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’. Jeff Buckley won. They spoke of the young man himself in rapturous terms, declaring him remarkable, and agreed that his voice was best described as poignant. A girl used the word ‘evocative’, to which the others said nothing, but Susan could imagine them nodding in the studio. After that they spoke of Jeff’s untimely death and of the music world’s great loss. Suddenly Susan found herself crying for a dead rock star she’d never before heard of. I must Google him.