Amanda Brittany - Tell the Truth - Or they’ll tell it for you…

‘He still refuses to get help, so for my own sanity I walked out on Tuesday.’

‘You’ve done the right thing, lovely,’ I said, fishing a tissue from my bag and handing it to her. ‘You’ve done everything you can.’

‘Thanks. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate your support,’ she said, dabbing her cheeks. ‘And I know I sound a bit cold flirting with Connor – but I need the distraction, and I suppose the comfort. It’s been hell with Hank for a long time.’

‘You have to do what’s right for you,’ was all I could muster.

‘Life’s short and all that,’ she said.

It wasn’t until later, as I relaxed on a lounger, that I looked at the friend request I’d received earlier. My heart sank as I opened it. I was expecting a long-lost friend, or even a boyfriend wanting to meet up because he’d heard about my breakup with Lawrence – but it wasn’t a name I recognised.

David Green: CONFIRM/DELETE REQUEST

It was no big deal, I told myself. Lots of people got requests from strangers. But then I’d never had anything like it before. My anxiety rose, though I couldn’t put my finger on why.

The temptation was too much. I clicked on his profile. David Green’s profile picture was an image of a lake. His cover photo was of a row of grey houses with red front doors, the words ‘Mandan Road, County Sligo’ at the foot of the picture. He had no friends that I could see, and his timeline only revealed one status update:

Here comes a candle to light you to bed

Here comes a chopper to chop off your head

Below the words was a cartoon gif of a blazing fire.

I shuddered, trying to convince myself it must be a mistake, or some kind of joke. But my heart hammered in my chest. I was born in County Sligo. My mother grew up there. Was it a coincidence? And if so, why did I suddenly feel so vulnerable?

July 1995

The flames dance like magical beings – telling me I’m right – telling me they deserve to die.

They’d left the back door open, so it was all so easy.

And now I can see David from my window. He can’t get out of the bedroom. I wedged a chair under the door handle.

‘Help!’ he cries as he presses on the glass; well, I think that’s what he’s yelling. I can’t be sure. I’m too far away to hear.

‘Nobody will help you,’ I whisper.

He looks down and I wonder if he’s going to leap from the bedroom window, but the fire grips his pyjamas, and his face changes shape as he cries out in agony. He slips out of sight.

I draw the curtains, rest my head on the pillow, and close my eyes.

February 1987

Laura let herself into the house she grew up in. It was hers now. The house her father built, with its oversized windows and oddly angled sloping roof, far too modern for the stunning surroundings. The towering trees and wildlife looked on and laughed at it – that’s what she’d thought as a child.

A flick of the light switch illuminated the lounge, the paintings on the walls, the vases cradling dead flowers. The wealth was tangible. Her parents had had far too much: spoilt children wanting more, more, more. Except they’d never wanted her, had they?

Laura flung her denim jacket onto the sprawling leather sofa, and attempted to push the creases of the journey from her orange kaftan. She’d been staying at a hotel in Sligo Town for two weeks. Now she was here, and the shock of her parents’ death was slowly wearing off, bubbles of anger rose in her chest.

She dived towards the drinks cabinet, poured vodka into a cut-glass tumbler, and placed it to her lips. With a jolt, she remembered.

You’re pregnant. You fool.

She abandoned the drink and padded towards the window, barely able to see into the darkness – just a reflection of the room and her still-willowy shape. She would be isolated here, in this ridiculous house she’d inherited, along with far too much money. She would sell soon – once she felt she could move on with her life.

Thoughts of Jude swam into her head. ‘There’s been an accident,’ she’d told him three weeks ago. And when he took her into his arms, she’d buried her head in his shoulder, breathing in the smell of his Brut aftershave, and Consulate cigarettes. She’d hoped at that moment he’d changed his mind. That he would put her and their unborn child before his law degree, before his monstrous parents. That he would care enough to stay.

‘They’re in intensive care,’ she’d gone on. ‘Will you come to Sligo with me? I need you, Jude.’

He’d pulled away, his grey eyes cold – the shock of finding out a few days before that he would be a father still reflecting on his handsome face. He looked too young to be a parent, but then she was young too.

‘You know I can’t, Laura. I’m sorry. Please think about a termination.’ He’d said it so softly, that the word termination didn’t sound so bad. But the truth was, she was already attached to the baby growing inside her – even if it was only the size of a peanut. This would be her and Jude’s child.

She’d cried as he pulled on his jacket, and dragged his woollen hat over his dark curls. And with a final, ‘I’m so sorry,’ he opened the door, and disappeared into the night.

Controlling her desire to race after him, she’d dashed up the stairs to her rented room, flopped onto her bed, and cried into the early hours.

The following morning, her holdall slung over her shoulder, she headed for Connolly Station, and boarded a train for the three-hour journey to Sligo.

She’d told no one she was pregnant. Not that there was anyone to tell. The people she’d rented with had never been close, and although she had friends at university in her first year, falling for Jude meant she’d let them slip away. Even before uni, growing up in her parents’ isolated house meant she’d had few friends – and part of her liked it that way.

As the train rattled along the tracks, she placed her hands on her stomach, imagining her child with Jude’s curls and cute nose, rather than her straw-like hair and sharp features. But it would have her blue eyes – an amazing child that Jude wouldn’t be able to resist, once he’d had time to reflect. He would love their baby. They would be happy. The three of them.

‘Your mother’s gone,’ the nurse had told her when she reached the hospital. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

A crushing numbness took over. She’ll never love me now. Her eyes ached, but no tears came. She’d dreamt that one day she would be close to her mother – that they might even become friends. It had been a ludicrous dream.

The nurse touched her arm gently. ‘Would you like to see your father?’ she said, after a few moments. ‘Although I must warn you, he’s in a poor way.’

The week that followed had been long and painful. Her father was attached to drips, and the beeps of the monitor penetrated Laura’s head, making it ache. He had been an arrogant man – so vain. Yet now he was swollen and bruised, and she cursed the wicked thought that invaded her head, as she sat by his side. You deserve this.

But still she visited each day, waiting for it all to be over.

‘Why?’ she asked him on day five, a question that spanned so much. But he never woke.

Why did you always drive so fast? Had it been for Mum? Her mother had loved the wind in her hair, as he treated back roads like racetracks.

Laura had been told the woman coming the other way had died instantly. That the child strapped in the back had survived. A child lost her mother because of you.