The Truth Will Out Page 9

  It had been one full week since the revelation and although Harri had escaped to her modest Wexford crumbling cottage it was impossible to flee her new reality, no matter how hard she tried. Anxiety had become a staple part of her existence. It didn’t come on her fast and from nowhere, rendering her incapable of breathing and tormented by the fear of imminent death. Instead dread crept into her bones insidiously so that although she wasn’t blindsided or dizzy, it was constant. Concentration was increasingly difficult. Where are my keys? In my handbag – so where’s my handbag? I’m sure I left it by the door. Christ, where is it? On my shoulder. Right. Now, where was I going?

  She had gone out and filled a shopping-basket with books so that she could dodge irrational thought in her hideaway. I don’t exist. Not only do I not exist but I don’t exist in a horrible kip in Wexford. Reading had often been Harri’s escape. The plan was simple. She would read and read and read until she was numb and apart from herself. Genius. Unfortunately reading requires concentration. Ah, crap. Her inability to concentrate, compounded by a terrible restlessness, made escaping into a book impossible.

  Harri’s new jumpy disposition manifested itself emotionally and physically in the form of minor tremors and jitters. Once while she was attempting to apply lipstick she noticed her lip twitch. One twitch, two twitches and here comes the third. Oh, my God, I’m a bottle of vodka away from morphing into Sue Ellen Ewing. She felt completely shattered and constantly sick. When she did manage to eat, she suffered stomach-crunching cramps. If Harri could have run away from Harri she would have done so. Despite the bad state she was in, despite mounting confusion and anger, she didn’t want the people she loved to worry. Each day she would text the man and woman who had pretended to be her parents and her friends the same message. I’m fine. I need more time.

  Each day the man and woman who had pretended to be her parents and her friends texted back.

  Mum: We’re so sorry, darling. We love you.

  Dad: It’s your dad. We need to talk. Please call soon.

  Melissa: Jesus, Harri, where are you? I wish I knew what to say.

  Susan: Please come home. I miss you.

  Aidan: In Italy with George. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

  Aidan: Me again. Ignore last text. Talking through my arse. Sorry.

  Harri tried to clean the place to keep her mind off things but she was too tired. She tried to sleep but her mind was too restless. She tried to eat but not too much as she was afraid of shitting her pants. That really would be the icing on the cake. Her insides were raw and torn. Her eyes burned holes in her head, her skin dried and itched, and each moment that passed she felt a little closer to the edge of reason. Harri is dead and I’m a Jerry Springer guest. Go, Jerry! Go, Jerry!

  She was so tired and so incapable of rational thinking that familiar clumsiness ensued. When she was attempting to make a cup of tea, one twitch, jitter or tremor later the boiling water missed the cup and instead flowed from her hand down her arm to be soaked up by a gathered sleeve. You are fine. Do not let this get to you. You are better than this. She turned on the tap and placed her hand under it. Unfortunately it was the hot tap. You bast— Breathe. It’s fine, just turn off the hot tap and turn on the cold. Breathe again. She pulled at a tea-cloth to douse it in cold water and wrapped it round the scald and knocked a dish off the edge of the counter. It fell on to her foot, bounced and smashed on the tiled floor. Okay, just limp upstairs, open the bedroom window and fuck yourself out of it. She could have screamed but she didn’t. She could have roared obscenities but that required thought and strength, which she lacked, so she sat quietly on the hard cold tiles, nursed her burned hand and bruised foot and didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried once in the entire week.

  James pulled into the driveway just after seven. Harri had been sitting on the floor since four. She didn’t hear him approach. The back door was open and he was standing in front of her.

  She blinked. ‘James?’ she asked, as though she was unsure whether he was a vision or living flesh.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said, and sat down on the tiles opposite her. He took her hand in his and unwrapped the wet towel. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I burned it.’

  ‘Doesn’t look too bad.’ He smiled.

  ‘No, I suppose it isn’t,’ she agreed.

  ‘How about standing up?’ he suggested. He sensed she’d been on the floor a while. She looked terrible – thin, pallid, drawn.

  ‘My legs are numb,’ she said.

  ‘That’s okay. I’ll lift you.’

  ‘I might fall,’ she said. If I do, I hope I land on my head.

  ‘I promise I won’t let you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she mumbled. Having stubbed her big toe, smacked her face against a press door, jammed a pair of tweezers into her eye and now this latest burned-hand-bruised-foot combo, she was becoming accustomed to short, sharp bouts of pain.

  He lifted her up in his arms and took her from the kitchen into the small sitting room that looked out on to the overgrown back lawn. He placed her on the sofa and closed the tatty curtains to shield himself from the state of the garden.

  ‘I’m making you dinner,’ he said, and went into the kitchen, leaving the door open so that they could talk.

  ‘I can’t really eat,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll make something light.’

  It would want to be bloody light. Two people, one bathroom, this could be a long night. ‘Please don’t fuss,’ she begged.

  He came back into the room. ‘Neither of us will. Okay?’

  She smiled. ‘Susan called you?’

  ‘Susan, George, Aidan, Melissa and your dad. Actually, your dad called about nine times.’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I went to the apartment. Your passport was in the kitchen drawer so I took a chance.’

  ‘Melissa’s right – this place is a shithole,’ she said, looking at the crumbling plaster.

  ‘Yes, but it had potential.’

  Harri was tired but she noted that he had used the past tense. ‘I suppose it had.’ Just like we once had.

  Later he insisted that she ate propped up on the sofa. She managed a good few spoonfuls, seemed grateful, then went to the bathroom and stayed there for some time.

  ‘Harri, let me in.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘You really don’t want to be in here.’

  ‘You’re scaring me.’

  Oh, my God, he thinks I’m trying to kill myself. ‘Do you think I’m trying to kill myself?’

  ‘No.’

  Silence.

  ‘Yes.’

  Silence.

  ‘No. Well, maybe. Jesus, Harri, I don’t know. Are you?’

  She sighed, her head in her hands. ‘I have the runs.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So do you still want to come in?’

  ‘No. No, no. I’m fine. I’ll be in the sitting room.’ James suffered from a weak stomach.

  Twenty minutes later Harri returned and slumped on the sofa.

  ‘Sorry,’ James said.

  ‘Do you really think I’d hurt myself?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered honestly. ‘Would you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Earlier I considered throwing myself out of a window.’

  James smiled at her. ‘So why didn’t you?’

  ‘I was too tired.’

  ‘I’m so sorry about the whole bloody lot of it,’ he said.

  Harri nodded. ‘Me too.’

  Just after the word ‘me’ and exactly on the word ‘too’, Harri’s carefully constructed dam burst and she was crying loud and hard with streaming eyes, nose and mouth. But mostly she leaked grief. She grieved for the dead girl who had given birth to her. She grieved for the mother she’d always known and for that woman’s dead baby gir
l. She grieved for her father, the stranger, the one she thought she knew, and the architect of this most terrible deceit, who felt somehow lost to her. She grieved for her twin, who was now no relation. She grieved for the man she’d loved and lost, even though he was rocking her. She grieved for all that she used to be and for all that she never was. Harri Ryan cried in her ex-fiancé’s arms for hours that night and when she was spent, completely and utterly drained, she fell asleep so soundly that she didn’t wake when he lifted her awkwardly, nearly dropping her, or when he placed her on the bed, moving her roughly so that he could wrangle the duvet from under her. She didn’t wake for another fourteen hours but when she did the man she’d lost was waiting for her.

  Melissa hadn’t really had time to talk to Gerry until he had surprised her with a babysitter and a meal out. The babysitter was a fifteen-year-old neighbour who, four weeks previously, had been caught sleeping with her boyfriend by her mother, whom Melissa had befriended while on maternity leave. Melissa didn’t worry about what would happen when she left the house. Hey, kid, use our bed. I don’t give a stuff. I’m going out. She dressed quickly, left the girl with a stash of biscuits and some DVDs and hightailed it out the door to the restaurant where her husband was waiting.

  Once they were sitting and he was pouring wine, she couldn’t help but query his intention. ‘Gerry?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  He grinned. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I’m just sorry about the other night.’

  ‘You say it like it was a one-off,’ she reminded him.

  ‘I don’t want to fight.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘So let’s not.’

  ‘Okay, let’s not.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I really need help with the kids.’

  ‘Fine. Now are you done?’

  She grinned. ‘I am.’

  They clinked glasses and drank.

  They had ordered and were awaiting starters before she got around to telling him about Harri and her implausible predicament.

  ‘Whoa!’ he said, hands up. Gerry was all hands. ‘I know you said they adopted her but …’

  ‘I didn’t say they adopted her – I said they replaced her.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Put down your hands, Gerry. You look like you’re attempting the Mexican wave.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying they had a daughter who was born alive.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Therefore there was a birth cert.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘She died a few minutes after birth.’

  ‘So there was a death cert?’

  ‘Never completed.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Gerry, don’t be dense. A couple of months or so after the child was born and died, Harri, our Harri, was born in some field or barn or ditch in Wicklow. Duncan somehow got his hands on her and then he collected his twins’ birth certs.’

  ‘What about the death cert?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So the birth cert became Harri’s – our Harri’s? Is that really possible?’

  ‘Well, it happened so it must be,’ she said.

  ‘It’s true, stranger things have happened. After all, who ever thought the Terminator would become an American state governor or Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Man, would get killed by a fish? The world is mad!’ Gerry laughed, then shoved a large piece of bread into his mouth.

  The waiter put a plate in front of him. When he had finished serving, Gerry looked at his wife. ‘Duncan and Gloria Ryan are dark horses,’ he said.

  Melissa thought about it for a moment or two. ‘Yes, I suppose they are.’

  ‘What are the chances of us having a little rough-and-tumble later?’

  ‘Very low.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll have dessert.’

  ‘Well, maybe,’ she said, thinking aloud.

  ‘Look, we either are or we aren’t. You know I hate having sex on a full stomach.’

  ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll have the banoffi.’

  ‘But it’s been a while.’

  ‘The waiter’s on his way over,’ he pressed.

  ‘Have the banoffi!’ She hated being pressed.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, smiling at the waiter.

  ‘You don’t have to look so bloody pleased,’ she huffed.

  He ignored her. Gerry loved a good banoffi.

  22 June 1975 – Sunday

  All through Mass the only thing I could think of was Matthew, Matthew, Matthew! Father Ryan seemed to go on for ever. I’ve no clue what he said but no doubt he was sitting atop an invisible high horse. I saw Dr B standing at the back. He looked uncomfortable, as though he was loitering and didn’t belong. Maybe he doesn’t, but he has a right to bore himself to death as much as anyone else. When I leave home I’m never going to Mass again. I’m never going to Mass and I’m eating cake for breakfast. I can’t wait.

  I saw HIM standing left of Dr B. I can’t believe he has the neck to come to church. He had his hat in his hands and they were clasped. What a creep. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. He took Communion but Dr B didn’t. That says it all. This world is a sad, sad place. How can obviously good people be made to feel abnormal and those full of badness allowed to feel they fit in? Is it normal to be twisted? Is it normal to cause torment? Maybe, but I can’t decide where God is supposed to fit in.

  Father Ryan has almost taken up residence in the house. He was back again this afternoon. Mam has agreed to go to prayer meetings. She feels bad about her marriage falling apart. She feels bad that she’s let God down by protecting herself and me against the bastard from Hell. That’s what Matthew called him when I told him what he did to my mam. I never said what he tried to do to me. It doesn’t matter. I stopped him. It really doesn’t matter. Father Ryan has spoken to HIM and he told Father Ryan he wouldn’t hurt her again.

  Father Ryan believes him. Father Ryan is a fool. So far she’s praying for forgiveness but she hasn’t allowed him back. All I can do is wait. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

  Last night, in Devil’s Glen with Matthew, it had all seemed so far away. He’d brought a blanket from the stables – it smelt weird – and he’d stolen three cans of beer from his dad’s fridge. I had one, he had two. I hate the taste of beer but it felt nice afterwards. We sat by the waterfall but not close enough to fall in, like that stupid couple six months back – she nearly died. They’re both fine now, but they broke up soon after it.

  The sky was black, not a star to be seen, and the moon was big and bright. Matthew put on a deep voice and said, ‘“Man’s colony on the Moon – a whole new generation has been born and is living there a quarter-million miles from Earth.”’ It sounds rubbish now but it was funny when he said it. He’s a massive 2001: A Space Odyssey fan. He said people either love or hate that film. He’s right. I think it’s a pile of shit.

  He’d brought a flashlight so we wouldn’t trip on roots while trailing home. We sat and talked and I told him about Mam and about school and about my teacher saying I had a great command of the English language but no self-discipline, I didn’t apply myself, and she wished I could learn to shut up in class. He told me about his mam and her death, and his dad and his dad’s girlfriends, boarding-school and a beating he’d once got with a cane. He showed me the scar on his hand. It was small but that’s probably because it happened a long time ago. Mostly he keeps his head down. He just tries to get by until he leaves school and home. He’s going to America. Why does everyone go to America? He says his dad will never let him ride the way he wants to. He’s too tall to be a jockey, he’s at least six foot. He says he doesn’t want to be a jockey but his dad won’t even let him near the bred horses. He wants to break
them the way his dad does and like his mam did. He says he’ll find a way to do it in America.

  I don’t know why his dad won’t let him – he’s brilliant with the horses. Even Henry says so. Matthew’s a natural, not like me. I’m still a bit scared but every day I like them more. He kissed me with tongue and he tasted of beer but it was way nicer than drinking the stuff. It was brilliant. We kissed and we kissed and we kissed until we were tired and sore. And still I would have kissed him some more. I’m running out of diary space again.

  Just to note: horses have their own personalities. It’s weird. Betsy is old and wise, calm and strong. Nero is young and foolhardy and excitable. Lovely Lucinda is a lady – she likes to be petted and she bows her head a lot. Paddyman joke-looks at you out of the corner of his eye and he likes his ears scratched but only for a minute or two. He’s randy too. He likes the ladies!!! At least, that’s what Matthew says. I really love my job. I can’t wait for tomorrow.

  9. Every time we say goodbye

  James rose at seven. He could never sleep after that and the idea of lying in bed staring at a ceiling never appealed, especially when it was apparent that this particular ceiling was all but coming down. He used the old shower, which had very little power. He finished up using a facecloth in the sink. He sighed as he looked around the old place, with the plaster crumbling and damp stains the size of a fat man’s jocks. He traced the black cracks in the Shires porcelain washbasin. The arched sash window would have been beautiful once but now the wood was rotten and the glass was on the verge of falling out.

  Within a minute the broken-down images faded and instead he saw a lost future and all that the bathroom could have been. He glimpsed the arched sash window restored to its former glory, a laminated warm wood washbasin with natural graining instead of black cracks. He saw a matching wooden bath in the centre of the room, big enough for two. A Raindance Rainmaker shower-head was perched above him, with its mood lights – and jets for an intense massage. Christ, I wanted that Raindance Rainmaker. Very few cottage bathrooms were big enough to carry it off but this one was. One in a million. When he had finished shaving and returned to the present he mourned the Raindance Rainmaker for some minutes more. Two feet in diameter, pressure assisted, it literally creates rain. Ah, well. Mourning a shower was better than mourning his soul-mate. At least, he had believed Harri was his soul-mate. After the two aborted weddings he was sure that her mind and body had sabotaged them for a reason and, aside from the recent revelation, it was still possible that the reason was she didn’t love him enough. Once again a woman he loved had abandoned him. He couldn’t go through it all again, that was for sure. He couldn’t let her steal the last shred of his dignity.