Amanda Brittany - Tell the Truth

Dear Miss Hogan,

It’s come to our attention that you are carrying our son’s baby. We realise you are probably concerned and distressed too and so we would like to offer you the money to have a termination in a private clinic and a lump sum for you to make a fresh start; on the condition you no longer contact Jude. He has a bright future ahead of him, which I’m sure you already know, and I’m also sure you want a similarly bright future for yourself, without trying to raise a baby on your own. We all agree it’s for the best if you and he have no more to do with each other. It was foolish of you to get into this predicament. But it’s easily rectified. Please contact us at your earliest convenience, so we can arrange an appointment.

Sincerely,

Bruce Henshaw

She ripped the letter into shreds, dropping to her knees as she sobbed. How could they?

The tears stopped eventually, and she laid her head down on the floor and closed her eyes, small sobs escaping as she drifted off to sleep.

It was dark when she woke. Realising she’d slept all day, she blinked to clear the sleep from her eyes and stretched her aching limbs. The pain from reading the letter had subsided, replaced with anger.

She walked through the house, moonlight touching the dark lounge as she made her way through the shadows and the pockets of pure black. She moved closer to the window and looked out at the lake. Someone was out there – just as they had been on the first night. She’d dismissed it then as a trick of the light, but tonight, there was no doubting the silhouette she’d seen.

The solitary figure would have unnerved her once, but she didn’t care any more. Come and get me if you dare. You can’t hurt me. I’m already destroyed.

The figure darted behind a tree, as though he’d heard her thoughts.

‘Who are you?’ she called, her words trapped behind the triple-glazed glass. Without a second thought, she raced to the kitchen and picked up a carving knife. ‘Right, you bastard,’ she whispered, heading for the patio door, and throwing it open. ‘It’s time someone paid.’

She stood for some moments, her robe dancing about her ankles in the wind, her eyes skittering around the area, knife clenched in her hand. ‘What the hell do you want?’

A silent figure peered from behind the tree. It was too dark to make out his features.

‘I’ve got a knife,’ she yelled, raising it like a warrior. ‘And I’m not afraid to use it.’

‘I just want to talk,’ a voice called back. He sounded young, a teenager perhaps. ‘Wanted to find out who’d moved in.’

‘Come here then.’ She clenched the knife tighter, but as he approached and stepped into the light, she knew she wouldn’t use it. He was just a child, no more than twelve – scruffy and unkempt, his dark hair tangled, his face grey with grime.

‘Dillon O’Brian,’ he said, hands deep in the pockets of grubby jeans. ‘That’s me name, case you was wondering.’

She looked into the woods. ‘Where do you live?’

He took his hands from his pockets and pointed eastwards. ‘Lough End Farm, with me ma and da, and Bridie and Caitlin.’ He was Irish, his accent thicker than her own, and his green eyes looked dull and vacant.

Laura remembered the farm from her childhood. It had stood empty for years – was empty when she set off for university. ‘When did you move in?’ she asked.

‘Almost two years now.’ He sniffed, and wiped his cuff across his nose. ‘Bridie’s a year old, Caitlin’s two months. They cry a lot.’

She placed the knife on the patio table, keeping her eyes on the lad, who nibbled at his thumbnail and scraped his heavy boots through the leaves and twigs.

‘So you want to talk,’ she said.

‘I do. Yeah.’

‘About?’

He shrugged. ‘I just …’ He stopped, screwing up his nose, and nodding towards the house. ‘Did you know the couple who lived here?’

She nodded.

‘They would tell me to piss off if I came up this end of the woods. They thought they owned it, but I told ’em they can’t own a fecking wood.’ He kicked a stone, and it flew up and hit the patio table, the clatter echoing into the darkness.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘But they thought they could do what they liked.’

‘How did you know them?’

‘They were my parents.’

‘Christ! I thought I had it bad.’ His face broke into a smile as he glanced towards an owl on a branch of a high tree, its eyes wide and haunting, and then he looked back at Laura.

‘I’m Laura,’ she said. ‘Do you want a glass of lemonade or something?’ And deciding the boy could do with a treat she added, ‘I’ve got chocolate biscuits.’

He shook his head. ‘I should get back before Da notices I’m gone. Ma always says he’ll beat the shite out of me if I’m too long.’

‘Surely not.’

He shrugged. ‘He hasn’t yet, but I ain’t risking it. Listen, can I come by again some time? Would you mind?’

She smiled. It would be good to have the company. She was already feeling the isolation of the place. ‘I’d like that,’ she said.

‘Grand,’ he said, and took off, small and wiry, zigzagging through the trees.

February 2018

I hated Sundays as a child. The thought of school the following day meant my hours at home were ruined, whatever we did. If I’d had my way, I would have stayed with my mother every day, watching her paint.

Sometimes, although never in depth, she would talk about her parents. ‘We were never close,’ she told me once, touching my cheek. ‘Not like us, Rachel – we’re different. It’s you and me against the world.’

‘I love you, Mum,’ I would say.

‘Love you more,’ she would reply, as I leant my head on her knee.

If I was honest, I wasn’t a fan of Sundays even now, especially today. Grace would be with Lawrence until six o’clock, and I had nothing planned. Plus I was woozy and fatigued from drinking too much. And with the weird things that had been happening, it really did have all the hallmarks of being a pretty rotten Sunday.

Needing someone to talk to, I’d messaged Zoe and Angela at four in the morning. Why I thought they’d be awake, I had no idea. But now the sun was up, its rays streaming through the kitchen window, and they still hadn’t replied – I thought maybe they were miffed I’d disturbed their sleep.

Lawrence hadn’t replied to my stroppy text either. Had Farrah deleted it, or perhaps suggested he shouldn’t respond to his crazy ex?

Nibbling on a piece of dry toast, swallowing it down with sweet tea and painkillers, promising myself I would never drink again, I stared, trancelike, out of the kitchen window. My eyes fell on the summerhouse where I worked most weekday mornings, and I wondered what right I had to offer psychological help to others when I couldn’t seem to manage my own life at the moment. Tomorrow, Emmy would arrive on her morning off from the TV studio, and I wasn’t even sure I could face her.

Perhaps I should move out of Finsbury Park – start again somewhere new.

We’d moved nearer to central London when I worked in Kensington, and Lawrence worked in the finance district as a Software Development Engineer. Later, when he suggested we didn’t need my salary, and I could be a stay-at-home mum, I’d had no objections. I adored spending time with Grace – being a mum. But after a while I missed working. So, over-riding Lawrence’s objections at the time, I set up a business from home to fit around Grace.

I stared down at my phone. I hadn’t opened the message from Ronan Murphy, convinced that if I did, whoever had sent me the request would know I’d looked at it. But now I needed to know.