The Girl Who Lied Page 3

  ‘She can’t cook properly, she’s a danger to herself.’ Fiona gives a weary sigh. ‘Not so long ago, she left the frying pan on the stove and burnt right through it, setting off the fire alarms. There was smoke everywhere. The fire brigade turned up, it was chaos. Since then, I’ve been cooking for her. She’s lovely, though, so I wouldn’t mind her moving in. After all, she is the reason we came home.’

  I nod, remembering the day well when Fiona and Sean packed up their little family in London and headed back home to care for his recently widowed mother. I had managed to hold back my tears until the car and removal lorry disappeared around the corner.

  Funny how Fiona regards it as coming home, whereas I look on her return as leaving home. To me, home means a place of love and fond memories, a feeling of being safe and cared for. Coming to Ireland is not coming home for me.

  My thoughts turn to Roisin’s email again and my stomach lurches as the fear that has pitched up and taken residency gives another kick. I had thought I’d tell Fiona about it but now I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I can get this sorted without her knowing. She has a lot on her plate at the moment, what with Dad and Sean’s mother. I’ll tell her only if I have to. I’m sure I can handle this. At least, I hope I can.

  Fiona’s mobile phone cuts through my thoughts. From this side of the conversation, I guess it’s Sean. I busy myself with making another cup of tea while she wanders off into the living room for more privacy.

  She returns a few minutes later.

  ‘Sean’s going to call by the hospital at some point in the night to check on Mum and Dad.’

  ‘What exactly happened? How did Dad end up falling down the steps?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m still not entirely sure. Apparently, Mum was in the café tidying up at the end of the day and Dad went upstairs with the day’s takings to put them in the safe for the night. When he didn’t come back down, Mum went out to look for him and found him at the foot of the stairs.’

  ‘Was there anyone else there? Did they see anything?’

  ‘No, just Kerry from the bike shop across the way.’

  ‘What time did all this happen?’

  ‘Soon after six,’ says Fiona after a moment’s thought. ‘That’s what time he always puts the takings in the safe. Of course, we’ve no way of knowing if that’s what he did.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Mum can’t find the key for the safe, so we can’t check to see if Dad fell before or after he went upstairs. There was no bag beside him.’

  ‘You don’t think he was robbed, do you?’

  ‘We just don’t know,’ says Fiona. ‘It’s all a bit worrying.’

  ‘Doesn’t Mum know where the key is so we can check?’

  ‘No. She can’t remember,’ says Fiona. ‘I tried to ask but she was so distracted with Dad, I didn’t like to push it.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where the key would be or even if there’s a spare one?’ I ask half-heartedly.

  Fiona gives a wry smile. ‘You know what Dad’s like. Top-secret information that is.’

  ‘I’ll have a look round when I’m at the flat,’ I say. Much as my feelings towards my father are stifled, the thought that someone mugged him is not nice.

  ‘To be honest, that’s the least of our worries at the moment,’ says Fiona.

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’ I force myself to conjure up the compassion I know should be there. I change the subject to divert this uncomfortable acknowledgement. ‘How are Molly and Sophie?’

  ‘The kids are grand,’ says Fiona. A smile spreads across her face at their mention. ‘Molly is coming up to the last term of nursery. She goes off to school in September. She’ll be in junior infants, and Sophie will be going into fifth year of senior infants.’

  ‘So, two more years and then secondary school.’

  ‘I know, I can’t believe how the time has flown,’ says Fiona. ‘Remember when Sophie was born, she was such a scrap of a thing. All that red hair against her lily-white skin.’

  ‘She looked like an alien,’ I say, thinking back. A lump makes a bid to establish itself in my throat. I feel Fiona’s hand cover my own and hear her soft words.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘It’s been a long day. Don’t go upsetting yourself, now. You can’t change anything. It will all be fine. I promise.’

  When I go up to bed shortly afterwards, I stop and peep in the open door of Molly’s bedroom. The five-year-old is fast asleep, her fair curls fan the pillow like a golden starburst. Molly has been lucky to inherit her mother’s colouring, but not so lucky with the curse of the Hurley curls.

  I can’t resist looking in on Sophie, who is snuggled down under the duvet. Admittedly she doesn’t have the Hurley curls, but she most definitely has the ginger colouring, or auburn, as Mum likes to call it.

  I touch my own hair, the colour I have grown to love, a dark-orangey brown, the curls haven’t quite won the same affection and, every day, I’m grateful to whoever brought hair-straighteners to the mass market. I can remember the absolute relief I felt on my fourteenth birthday when Fiona gave me a set as a present so I would no longer have to use the household iron in an attempt to banish the unruly curls. The ironing effect didn’t quite have the staying power and by lunchtime my hair had usually sprung back up into its familiar coils, much to the amusement of my classmates.

  Fiona has always made things better. Right from making cakes when I felt fed up, taking me to the cinema to see the latest film, walking me to and from school when no one would walk with me because I’d fallen out with Roisin, to helping me fill in an application form for college and helping me find student digs.

  Muffled footsteps on the carpeted landing bring me from my thoughts. Fiona appears at my side.

  ‘I was just looking at them. Fast asleep. Oblivious,’ I whisper.

  ‘Oblivious to everything,’ she says, putting her arm around my shoulder. ‘Is everything all right? Apart from the obvious…Dad.’

  I feel my resolve weaken. I want to tell her about Roisin. Fiona will know what to do. She always has and before I can check myself the words are out.

  ‘Fiona, there’s something I need to tell you.’

  ‘Aha, and what’s that?’ says Fiona, unhooking her arm and pulling the bedroom door closed. She stifles a yawn.

  Fiona looks tired. Even her hug had the air of exhaustion around it. Now isn’t the time to burden her with news of the email.

  ‘I’m glad I came back,’ I say quickly.

  She gives a smile. ‘I’m glad as well. So is Mum. And Dad will be too.’

  I don’t challenge this. It’s my turn to give out the hugs now.

  Chapter 3

  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. Rois
in 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.’