Amanda Brittany - Tell the Truth

Seven months she’d carried the little stranger, and now she’d stopped hoping Jude would call. She’d accepted he never would, and any love she’d first felt for their unborn child had been replaced with fear. Thoughts of moving away, starting a new life, were a distant memory. She hadn’t got the strength to move on – not right now. Perhaps she should have told her GP she dreaded the birth of her child. But how do you explain something so awful? How do you say those words?

She clung to the rapidly fading glimmer of hope that maybe, when she held her child in her arms, her motherly instincts would kick in. Burst through and outweigh anything she’d ever felt for Jude. Maybe their baby would become the love of her life, and together they would start a new life somewhere else.

Twigs snapped behind her. She turned, but there was nothing to see. She knew it was Dillon. She’d seen him several times over the past few months, when they would drink lemonade and talk. She had learnt not to ask too many questions about his home life because each time she had, he’d clouded over and clammed up.

He was an imaginative, animated boy, lighting up as he described the monster in the lake, and the werewolves in the woods – giving Laura’s life a much-needed magical boost. He’d been flattering too – telling her he could talk to her more easily than he could to anyone else. And he’d loved her paintings.

Laura had enjoyed painting since childhood, and despite dropping out of university, she’d loved studying art. And now painting had become her go-to – her escapism from her grief and isolation.

‘They’re fecking brilliant,’ he’d said, scanning her walls. (They’d taken ages to put up – a rebellious act against her parents.) ‘Maybe you could paint one of me and me sisters?’

‘One day,’ she’d said.

‘Dillon,’ she called now, her gaze skimming over the cluster of trees, blinking as a beam of sunlight hurt her eyes. ‘Is that you?’

The sun drifted behind a fluffy white cloud, and Laura pulled on her cardigan and shivered. ‘Dillon, don’t be silly,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Come and talk to me.’

He appeared on the bank behind her, and she patted the ground moaning as she twisted her baby bump, a twinge crossing her stomach. ‘Sit with me,’ she said, and he ran and dropped down beside her, stretching out as the sun crept out once more – his hands behind his head like a pillow, and eyes closed.

‘Did you know the mayfly only lives twenty-four hours?’ he said.

‘I did not know that,’ she said with a smile.

‘And did you know the dragonfly doesn’t bite or sting? Although it looks pretty scary.’ He pulled himself to a sitting position, and she noticed his eyes were bloodshot and red.

‘Are you OK, Dillon?’

‘Yep, course. Why?’ He avoided her gaze.

She placed her hand on his arm. ‘You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?’

‘I said, I’m fine.’ He pushed her hand away. ‘Don’t go all soft on me, Laura.’

‘OK, sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy. So tell me more about the dragonfly.’

He rubbed his face hard, and his eyes shimmered. She wanted to ask again if he was OK, but felt it might scare him away.

‘Did you know fox pups stay with their parents until they’re seven months old? They make great parents. I like foxes. I often see one out here.’

‘You’re so clever. How do you know all this stuff?’

He shrugged, and turned to look at her, eyes serious.

‘What is it, Dillon? Please tell me.’

‘I can’t. If he knew …’

‘Who knew?’

He dropped his head, fiddling with his fingers. ‘You have to promise on your baby’s life you won’t say anything.’

‘OK.’

‘It’s just … sometimes I find my sister Bridie in the cupboard. I hear her sobbing sometimes because it’s dark in there, and she can’t get out. Ma has the key.’

‘Oh my God, Dillon,’ she said, her heartbeat speeding up.

‘Ma says me da puts her in there before he heads off to work, as a punishment. And ma says she daren’t get her out because he’d go mad, and hit her.’ He paused, now picking at a scab on his knee. ‘But Bridie’s only little, Laura.’ The scab came away in his fingers, and blood trickled. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me da. He’s always been a bit of a shouter, but now it’s as if the divil’s gotten into him.’

Laura studied the boy, shocked something so awful could be happening – was he telling the truth? He’d never mentioned anything like it before.

‘I swear on my sisters’ lives it’s true,’ he said, as though he knew what she was thinking.

Laura’s mind spun. ‘Shall I come over?’

‘Jaysus and all his angels, no.’ Dillon narrowed his eyes, and wiped away the blood on his knee with his sleeve. ‘You can’t come to the farmhouse, Laura.’ He shot to his feet. ‘If Da or Ma find out I’ve been talking …’ He looked towards her, fear in his eyes. ‘There’s nothing you can do, anyway. I once called the Guards on Da, because Ma said he hit her. But Ma wouldn’t let them in. Denied it, and they just believed her. Never came back. I just needed to tell someone, Laura, but there’s nothing you can do. Promise you won’t do anything.’

‘OK, I won’t. I promise. Sit, please, Dillon,’ she said. ‘Tell me more about the wildlife.’

A sudden stir in the trees seemed to unsettle him. ‘I’d best get going,’ he said, and before she could say another word, he made a bolt for it, and it wasn’t long before he was out of sight.

Laura edged forward on her bottom, and dangled her bare feet in the clear, cold water, as a swan drifted by. Ten minutes passed in a daze, as she thought about Dillon, Caitlin, and Bridie. Were the children OK? Did Dillon even go to school? He’d told her he did, but she couldn’t be sure – he was often about during the day. Should she try to find out more about the children’s life at home? Introduce herself as their neighbour, perhaps?

It was almost seven, and she knew she would need to move fast if she wanted to get to the farm and back before dark. She dried her feet on the grass, slipped them into flip-flops, and grabbed her hessian bag.

It was dusk by the time she found the farm, a dilapidated two-storey farmhouse. A couple of run-down sheds stood nearby, and a small apple tree grew near the lake, near a moored rowing boat. She remained a good distance away, obscured by trees, watching as a small, dark-haired woman of around her own age gathered towelling diapers from a makeshift washing line. Hens darted around her feet, almost toppling her over, as she folded the diapers into a wicker basket.

Laura wanted to go over, introduce herself, but her legs refused to move; the woman looked stern, unapproachable, and anyway, she’d promised Dillon. As she watched on, the last of the sun went down, coating distant trees like liquid gold. The woman wedged the basket onto her hip, just as the front door was flung open, and a little girl toddled out, her head full of dark curls – one of the braces of her red dungarees was undone, flapping about as she moved.

‘Bridie!’ It was Dillon, following her out. He lifted her up and swung her round and round, and the little girl giggled.

From what Laura could see, they seemed happy enough – a normal family. A little rough around the edges, but she knew that much.

The woman looked about her, and ushered Dillon, with the girl tucked under his arm, inside, as though she sensed a storm coming. Moments later the door slammed behind them. If it hadn’t been for the hens scurrying about, pecking the ground, it would have felt as though nobody lived there at all.

The sun had dipped behind the horizon, and Laura hitched her bag further onto her shoulder, and turned for home. But as she stepped forward a searing pain made her tense. She grabbed her stomach, and bent over.