Читать книгу The Girl Who Lied: The bestselling psychological drama - Sue Fortin, Sue Fortin - Страница 9

I walk round on to Beach Road and the familiar parade of shops greets me on one side and the Irish Sea on the other. The fishing boats are tied up on the shore and the tidal waters of the estuary slop back and forth.

Seahorse Café is on the end of the parade of shops. The buildings that make up the parade are stone-built to echo the traditional style of the area, as are the small-paned windows and wooden doors. Above the shops is the living accommodation. My parents’ flat, my childhood home, stretches over four shop premises. Along the parade is a paper shop, hairdresser’s, a charity shop and Seahorse Café, my father’s pride and joy. The village road runs adjacent to the shops and on the other side is ‘Wright’s Motorbike Servicing & Repairs’.

My dad’s car is parked in the bays outside the café. I have the keys, so I can use it while I’m here. Sean is sorting out the insurance for me. I’m not sure what my dad would say if he knew. He’d probably be horrified. The car is old, but you wouldn’t think so. My dad has cared for that car like it was his own flesh and blood. I give a small laugh at the expression and correct myself. He cares for the car more than his own flesh and blood.

Crossing the road to the bike garage, I take a deep breath before entering. I have no desire whatsoever to come here, but Fiona is taking the children to nursery and school so it’s down to me to collect the keys to Mum’s flat. I’ve yet to call Roisin, but I’ll do that once I have the keys, then I can let myself into the flat and phone her in private.

I hope it will be only Kerry there and I won’t have to see Jody Wright, his cousin. With any luck Kerry won’t even remember me, our paths had only crossed a couple of times in our teenage years. However, I’m sure Jody won’t have forgotten me, after all, we had been at school together.

Another feeling of disquiet settles over me. School days bring no comfort or feeling of nostalgia to me. I breathe deeply and exhale slowly, blowing away the dark memories from my mind.

A bell tinkles above the doorway as I open and close the door. It’s a small reception area with a coffee machine in one corner that has seen better days. Either side are two chairs and a small table with a selection of bike and motoring magazines, all looking well-thumbed and dog-eared. The sound of a radio filters through into the reception area from the open doorway behind the counter, accompanied by the sporadic sound of some sort of power tool and the clanking of metal against metal. Obviously, the workshop. I stand at the counter patiently, hoping Kerry will appear.

After a minute or two I call out a ‘Hello!’ trying to time it with a lull in the noise. It appears an unsuccessful tactic, so I decide to go round the rear of the building to the workshop entrance.

Picking my way through a couple of oily patches in the courtyard, to avoid any stains on my white trainers, I head towards the open double garage doors.

‘Hello,’ I call out as I enter the building. The smell of oil and petrol, mixed with a dirty, greasy sort of smell, hits me, catching in the back of my throat. There are a number of bikes in the workshop, all in various states of repair. One looks like it has been stripped right down to the frame; there are bits of motorbike lying alongside. I assume they are bits of motorbike. To me it’s a mass of metal and plastic.

To my right a curtain of thick industrial plastic strips separates one side of the workshop. A blond head pokes through, the face obscured by a white mask and a pair of thick protective goggles. Pulling the mask from his face, he speaks.

‘All right?’ he says looking over at me. ‘Can I help you?’

I swallow hard. I recognise the voice instantly. It’s Jody Wright. He doesn’t appear to recognise me. Perhaps I can get away with this.

‘Hi. I’m after Kerry.’ I turn my face from view, looking around the workshop as if trying to locate Kerry.

‘He’s upstairs in the stock room. I’ll get him.’ I can hear Jody’s footsteps come further into the workshop. ‘Oi! Kerry! You’ve got a visitor!’ His voice bellows out, followed by a shrill whistle.

A moment later, I hear the door at the top of the stairs open.

‘All right?’ comes another voice.

‘Someone to see you,’ says Jody.

I have no choice but to turn around this time. I look up at the figure standing at the top of the steps.

‘Hi…I’ve come to get the keys for Marie Hurley.’

Before Kerry can answer, Jody interrupts. ‘Hey, wait a minute! I know you.’ I turn and watch him take a few strides across the workshop, coming to a halt in front of me, whereupon he whisks his goggles from his face. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Curly Hurley!’ I stand there in silence as I come face to face with my nemesis of those wretched childhood days. ‘It’s me…Joe. Jody Wright!’ He grins at me, raking his fingers through his mop of longish blond hair. ‘We were in the same class at Rossway School. Mr Capper’s class, or Mr Crapper, as we used to call him. I sat behind you and Roisin Marshall. Come on, you must remember me.’

Despite feeling myself flinch, I remain composed. I’m older now. I’m in control. I can handle this.

Straightening up, giving him the benefit of my five-feet-eight-inches’ height, I look at him unsmiling. ‘How could I forget?’

‘Nearly didn’t recognise you without your curls,’ Joe says, nodding towards my poker-straight hair, which hangs loose over my shoulders. ‘Do you remember my cousin, Kerry? He used to come and stay sometimes during the summer.’

I give a shrug. ‘A bit.’

Kerry is watching me. He has blond hair, not dissimilar to Jody’s, actually, casually parting in the middle with longish layers giving a sort of dishevelled look. He wears a pair of blue overalls, which hang from his waist and bear the scars of many a battle with a paintbrush. The black t-shirt has suffered a similar fate, together with a rip at the left sleeve, revealing some sort of tribal-pattern tattoo around his bicep. He smiles at me and descends the steps.

‘I thought you looked familiar, I was just trying to place you,’ he says. ‘You were at Shane’s eighteenth birthday party, weren’t you?’

I nod, impressed with his recall. Shane is one of Joe’s older brothers. ‘That’s right. There was a big group of us.’ I shift on my feet. The desire to take a trip down memory lane is furthest from my mind.

Joe gives a laugh and carries on energetically. ‘There are quite a few of us Wrights. Kerry probably just blended in. One summer he came to stay and never went home, I don’t suppose me mam even noticed an extra person at the dinner table.’ I nod this time. He carries on enthusiastically. ‘What you up to these days? It must be about ten years. You disappeared without a trace.’

‘Working in London,’ I reply, really having no wish to get into this conversation. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude but what with my dad and everything…’ I wave my hand airily, hoping I don’t need to explain. I’m relieved when Kerry speaks, ending Joe’s desire to revisit our childhood days.

‘Yes, of course, you’ve got more important things to do than reminisce about the good old days. You’ll have to excuse my cousin’s enthusiasm,’ says Kerry, giving Joe a playful whack on the arm with back of his hand. Kerry ferrets around in the large side pocket of his trousers and after a moment produces a set of keys. He holds them out to me. ‘How is your dad?’

‘Not good. He’s stable, but they’re waiting for the swelling to go down before they can assess him further. He’s taken a nasty bang to his head. Thanks for asking.’ I take the keys from Kerry, his rough hands with grubby fingernails briefly brush my own well-moisturised and manicured fingers. ‘Mum said you helped her yesterday evening?’

‘It was nothing,’ replies Kerry shrugging. ‘I just happened to be out the back there. I called the ambulance and then locked up the flat. As I said, nothing really.’

‘Thank you, anyway. Mum really appreciates it. We all do.’

‘You should come down the pub one night and meet up with some of the old gang,’ says Joe.

Looking at him for a moment before I speak, I can’t think of anything less I want to do. ‘I’m only here for a few days, so probably won’t have time. And besides, if I wanted to catch up with everyone, I could have done that by now on Facebook.’ I give a little laugh, which I so don’t mean and then, turning my back on Joe, direct a slight nod at Kerry before heading out of the dirty workshop. I’m just congratulating myself on getting one over my old enemy when I hear him call after me.

‘See ya, Bunny!’

For a split second I’m transported back to my school days. Bunny is the nickname Joe used for me. A loose connection between the colour of my hair and carrots, which still appears to amuse him. I force myself to walk on and not acknowledge his parting shot.

*

Roisin’s heart pumped an extra beat. There was Erin Hurley walking across the green, heading straight to where Roisin and her mam had parked their car. Roisin had got Erin’s voicemail but it had come too late. She hadn’t been sure Erin would come but fate had intervened and made it impossible for her not to. The incident with Jim Hurley, unfortunate as it was for Erin, was fortunate for Roisin.

Suddenly, Roisin thought of her mam and how she would react. She looked across the roof of the car as they got out. Her mam, Diana, was having a good day today. She was calm. She was talking clearly. Thinking rationally. She had even been smiling a lot. Roisin was under no illusion that it was all about to end in a matter of seconds.

‘Mam,’ she called across to her. Diana looked up and smiled. Roisin didn’t return it. She flicked her eyes towards Erin. Her mother followed suit. Roisin watched the recognition spread across Diana’s face like a snow flurry. Her mother’s hand grappled for the car, resting on the front wing for support.

The athletic figure of Erin Hurley walked purposefully towards them. The curls might have gone, but the distinctive red hair was unmistakable as it reflected back the sun, almost challenging it to be brighter.

This was not how Roisin had wanted the meeting with Erin to happen. It was supposed to be just the two of them. Alone. On Roisin’s terms. Somewhere private. Not here in the middle of the village when she was caught by surprise.

Erin was only a few metres away and as she looked up, the recognition in her eyes was instant. The defiant look came a second later. She slowed her pace and came to a stop in front of their car. She fiddled with the bunch of keys she was holding.

‘Hello, Erin,’ said Roisin. She wanted to glance over at her mam to see if she was okay, but she didn’t want to break eye contact with Erin. Roisin had nothing to be ashamed about. She wasn’t the one who had done something so wrong. Roisin hadn’t caused her family this never-ending pain.

‘Hello, Roisin.’ Erin held Roisin’s gaze for a moment and then looked over at Diana. ‘Mrs Marshall.’

‘How is your father?’ Diana spoke with a removed tone to her voice. Roisin wasn’t sure her mam was really that concerned about Jim Hurley, but she asked as that was the polite thing to do.

‘Not too good at all,’ replied Erin.

‘I hope he makes a good recovery,’ said Diana. Her own recovery now in full swing. ‘Please pass on our best wishes to your mother.’

‘Thank you. I will.’

‘I take it you’ll be around for a few days?’ said Roisin, sensing this reunion was coming to a close.

‘That’s right, yes. Until I know he’s better and Mum is okay.’ The reply was stiff and cold.

‘We must catch up,’ said Roisin. ‘We have lots to talk about.’

‘If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know,’ said Diana, straightening her navy tailored jacket and dropping the car keys into her handbag.

‘We’re fine. Thank you.’ A terse response from Erin, which irritated Roisin more than it probably should. A flutter of anger made itself known in her stomach at Erin’s lack of gratitude. Old feelings of hostility broke free. Shame on you, Erin Hurley, for what you did.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked Erin, making her way round to the driver’s door of the car parked next to Diana’s. Roisin recognised it as Jim and Marie Hurley’s car. An old estate car they used for their weekly trip to the trade discount supplier.

Roisin was perfectly aware of the lack of concern in Erin’s voice. If anything, there was almost a mocking, challenging tone as she continued. ‘Don’t worry, I know we have things to catch up on.’ She made quotation marks in the air. Roisin got the subtext.

‘Good. I’ll look forward to it,’ said Roisin.

Without so much as looking their way, Erin reversed out of the parking bay and drove off up Beach Road. It was only once the silver estate car had turned the corner Roisin allowed herself to succumb to the tremors that rippled from the inside to the outside. She looked down at her hand. It was shaking. Adrenalin-fueled.

She took a deep breath. Slowly she exhaled. The feeling of control came back. She had to admit, she hadn’t expected Erin to have that effect on her.

She looked over to her mam. Roisin could tell Diana was fighting with her emotions.

‘You okay, Mam?’

Her mam turned to her. ‘I need to get a few bits from the shop. Why don’t you get what you need from the chemist and I’ll meet you back here in, say, fifteen minutes?’ She totally ignored Roisin’s question. Roisin knew the subject of Erin Hurley was off-limits.

She also knew her mam wanted her out of the way so she could stock up with sherry. Then the subject would have no limits.

Once again, Roisin cursed Erin Hurley for what she’d done to the Marshall family.

*

Diana turned the car into the drive, the gravel scrunching under the tyres. The Manor House looked down on them, casting its shadow across the drive. Roisin looked up at the home she had lived in all her life. It used to be filled with happiness, now it was empty and devoid of any warmth. She ignored the sound of the bottles clanking together as her mam came to an abrupt halt. The wheels ground into the stones. Diana cut the engine and, holding on to the top of the steering wheel, rested her head on her hands.

‘I suppose I should have expected her to turn up,’ said Diana, sitting back in the seat. Her fingers unfurled from the steering wheel. ‘It’s just she’s so brazen. Full of attitude. No shame.’

‘Come on, let’s go inside,’ said Roisin, opening the door. She wanted to distract her mam, to stop her going into a full rant. Roisin knew the routine. Anger followed by despair as the pain was numbed by alcohol. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea and some lunch.’

As Roisin took the shopping into the kitchen, she noted Diana peel off into the drawing room, the bag with the bottles chinking in time with her step.

Roisin made a pot of tea and hurriedly put together two ham sandwiches. It was probably futile. Diana would be well into the sherry by now, but she had to try. She couldn’t give up on her mam. All Roisin ever wanted to do was to save Diana from herself. For her to be the mam she used to be. And since Roisin had found that photograph, she thought she knew how. She could make things right. Roisin could make her mam happy again.

Diana was standing at the fireplace, in one hand a sherry glass, in the other a photograph of Niall. It was taken when he was sixteen. They were on a family skiing holiday.

Roisin placed the tray on the coffee table and, going over to her mam, she took the photograph and replaced it on the mantelpiece. Niall’s deep-blue eyes looked back at her, his ski goggles were strapped around the top of his ski helmet. Mam always insisted they wear helmets. She never took any chances. From when they were a very young age she had instilled in both of them the need to be safe. As a doctor who spent several years working in A and E, she had seen the result of many an accident where the injuries sustained could so easily have been avoided had the victim being wearing or using the correct safety equipment.

Roisin absently ran her finger across Niall’s face. It was as if touching his photo would bring a small crumb of comfort. She wished, like she had every day since the accident, that he had held the same regard for his safety as their mam had.

Roisin guided her mam to the wing-backed armchair beside the fireplace.

‘Here, sit down.’

The lid of the walnut art-deco drinks cabinet was down. The freshly opened bottle of sherry stood on the glass shelf, the lid beside it. Roisin replaced the lid.

‘I’ve not finished,’ Diana said, without turning to look at her daughter.

‘At least have a sandwich,’ said Roisin, putting the lid down and offering the plate to her. Diana took it, but her attention was caught by something else and she rested the plate on the arm of the chair.

‘What’s that sticking out of the sideboard?’ she asked, nodding to the other side of the room.

Roisin swore silently to herself. That was her fault. She had been rummaging through the box of photos the other day. She thought she had put them all back neat and tidy, just as her mam liked it. Roisin was certain Diana had developed OCD over the years. She never used to be this particular about things; it had only been since the accident.

Roisin jumped up quickly and went to put the errant photograph away.

‘Pass it here.’ Diana held out her hand.

Obediently Roisin delivered it to her mam. It was a photograph of Roisin and Niall when they were about five and seven. A school photo. They were both smiling brightly at the camera. Diana drank in the image before her.

She placed the photograph on her lap. As she did, her elbow caught the plate balanced on the arm of the chair. It fell to the floor, the sandwich hitting the parquet tiles, quickly followed by the plate, which broke into two pieces.

Diana didn’t give the plate a glance. Roisin knelt down and picked up the two halves. It reminded her of their hearts. Broken.

‘I’ll make you a fresh sandwich,’ said Roisin, standing up.

‘Don’t bother. I’m not hungry.’

As Roisin left the drawing room and closed the door gently behind her she could hear her mam sob. A guttural noise from deep within. A sound Roisin was all too familiar with.

Roisin took the crockery and sandwich out to the kitchen, choosing not to return to the drawing room. She was not sure she could deal with this today. After the sobs would come the blame. Her mam would say how she held Roisin partly responsible for what had happened. How Roisin should have said something sooner. How Roisin had let her down.

She slipped off her shoes at the bottom of the stairs and trod softly as she ascended the oak staircase, seeking solace in her room.

Her mam went through phases. Sometimes she barely drank at all and, during those dry times, she was easier to live with. However, when she befriended the sherry bottle, she became an emotional wreck. The sadness that emitted from her was so heavy Roisin felt she was drowning in it simply by being in the same room.

Roisin reached the top of the stairs and headed to the back of the house, where her bedroom was situated. Her mam’s sobs were now, thankfully, out of ear shot. She closed the bedroom door behind her and slumped onto her bed.

She needed a few minutes’ peace and quiet to work out what to do next. She needed to up her game. If she was to give her mam something to cling to so she could climb out of the pit of depression she had fallen into, then Roisin needed to make things happen.