Amanda Brittany - Tell the Truth

‘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.

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.

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.

Despite liking the quiet of the area, the house still felt far too big. Sometimes it was as though she was on display – an exhibit in a glass case. Why had her parents loved this house so much? Her father had said the window gave them a splendid view of the lake, and she supposed it did, but what about feeling vulnerable on the other side of the glass?

She drifted into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Should she try to get hold of Jude again? Was she beginning to act like a stalker? Never giving up when she knew, deep down, it was over.

She’d tried the number of his digs so many times, but either it went to answer machine, or his roommate answered and promised to pass on a message. But Jude had never got back to her. She’d even tried his parents’ house, but his father had picked up and told her with a bark to stop calling.

She made herself a mug of coffee – she’d gone off tea – and stood at the kitchen window sipping it. The kitchen looked out onto a lonely country road. It was a rarity to see a car pass by – it was too quiet at times, just as it had been when she was a child. She’d had no friends nearby back then, and travelled a fair distance to school by bus.

A postman appeared, cycling round the bend, and her heart almost lit up at the sight of another human being.

Maybe she should get herself a cat. At least she could speak to it, even if it didn’t answer – it was better than talking to herself, which seemed to be happening more and more.

‘It’s Postman Pat,’ she said, rubbing a hand over her stomach, which barely showed a baby was growing inside her. ‘He’s coming to see us, peanut,’ she added, as he propped his bike against the wall.

There was a clatter, as three letters dropped through the letterbox and onto the mat. She headed over and picked them up. There was a letter from her solicitor sorting out the ownership of the house and the money her parents had left her, a phone bill, and a handwritten expensive-looking envelope. She ripped open the final letter, her eyes filling with tears as she read the words: