Tell Me No Secrets (13 page)

‘And having a faith sets you free from all that?'

‘Yes, I think it does. It's real.' She clutches her chest. ‘Don't you believe in God, Euan? Don't you feel there's a power behind all this?'

‘I don't believe or disbelieve,' he tells her. ‘Opportunities come like waves on the beach. That's the nature of things. Is there a God behind it? I don't know.'

‘Master of your own fate, huh?'

‘I believe in personal responsibility.'

‘Really?' Her voice is light and I almost don't catch her next words. ‘Personal responsibility and integrity go hand in hand, don't they?'

‘I live my life as best I can. Keep moving forward.'

She glances at me, then back to Euan. ‘No looking back, huh?'

He shakes his head. ‘The past can't be relived, Orla. Nothing that was broken can be fixed. Nothing done, undone. What use is raking over old ground?'

‘Reparation . . .' She thinks for a bit. ‘Redemption.'

‘Can redemption be healing when others are hurt by it?'

She leaves his question to hang in the air until it grows heavy around our heads. Seconds tick by and I find it increasingly difficult to breathe in.

‘Am I missing something here?' Callum smiles uncertainly at them but isn't able to catch their eyes. They are staring at one another as if to look away will mean defeat. ‘When did it start to get serious?'

‘Callum, I think the DJ needs a strong arm to help him with some boxes,' I say, finding my voice at last.

‘That'll be me then.' He stuffs his mouth with crisps and heads for the door. ‘Back in a mo.'

‘Twenty-four years have gone by, Orla. We're not the people we were. If you carry out your threat you'll not only ruin Grace's life but you'll take her family down too. Can you live with
that
on your conscience?'

The only sound in the room is the fan in the corner of the kitchen. Wind is blowing in from the outside and the blades are flapping backward and forward. Finally, her eyes tilt and meet mine. ‘Still your knight in shining armour?'

I don't answer.

Her mouth twitches and she bites her lip, looks at her feet, points one foot, then the other and starts to revolve her right ankle as if warming up for exercise. Then she meets his eyes again. It's a look that says, do you really want to take me on? Euan doesn't falter. He stares right back at her and I love him for it.

‘So what's to be done, Euan? What's to be done?'

I jump in: ‘You leave. You walk through that door and never come back.'

‘But I've only just got here.'

‘This is my daughters' party that you're gatecrashing.'

‘Daisy said there isn't a problem with me being here.'

‘She is polite.' I say the words slowly and deliberately and Euan's eyes flash a warning. ‘She's hardly going to tell you to bugger off.'

‘Steady on, Grace!' Callum is back. He gives a forced laugh. ‘DJ sorted. Why don't we all retire to the pub?' He looks at his watch. ‘There's happy hour down at the Anchor until ten.'

‘I'm taking back Paul's invitation to Sunday lunch,' I continue. ‘You're not welcome in my house.'

‘Is it yours to take back?' She lifts her handbag off the floor. ‘This is not going to go away, Grace.'

She leaves the kitchen and I follow her, watch as she walks straight on to the dance floor towards Paul and the girls. They all look pleased to see her. Daisy grabs her hand and Ella even throws her arms around her. Within seconds she is moving in time with the three of them and they are all laughing together as if they've known each other for years. Then, arms in the air, she shimmies in front of Paul, blatantly provocative.

‘A lap-dancing nun,' Euan says in my ear. ‘I've seen it all now.'

Anger cranks up the heat in my stomach and I move forward.

‘Don't.' He holds my wrist. ‘She wants you to make a scene. Don't give her the satisfaction.'

I grit my teeth and wait for the music to finish. When it does, she kisses them all on both cheeks, saving Paul for last, both her hands resting on his upper arms and then she rubs down to his forearms and clasps his hands, cleverly letting go just before he begins to look uncomfortable. She heads for the door and I follow her out and down the steps to her car.

‘This is not going to go away.' She throws the words over her shoulder. ‘You know that, don't you?'

‘What happened that night will stay between the two of us,' I say. ‘End of story.'

‘Or would that be the three of us?' She looks back to where Euan is standing in the shadows. ‘You told him, didn't you?'

I don't reply.

‘Euan knows you did it. Am I right? And he's still fighting your corner. Or is it more than that?' Her voice lowers. ‘He gave you a look just now. What kind of a look was it?' She turns her head skywards, muses for a bit, snaps her fingers. ‘I know! Hungry. That's what it was. It was hungry.'

‘You should set off.' My teeth are clenched tight. ‘Even at this time you can meet traffic on the bridge.'

‘Honesty really is the best policy.' She tries her best to look regretful. ‘Set down your burden.'

‘Oh please!' I'm fast approaching breaking point. ‘Cut the sanctimonious crap! What are you suggesting? A cosy Sunday lunch where we all sit around the table and share our secrets? And when you make your confession to Paul, what
exactly
do you think is going to become of my marriage?'

‘Paul is a reasonable man. I think you underestimate him.'

‘And I think you should stop messing with my life!' I am shouting now. I can't help myself. The cautionary voice inside me reminds me that others might hear what I'm saying but I'm too angry to care. I want to force her into her car and watch her drive far, far away.

‘What makes you think you can stop me?' She unlocks the door. ‘My reasons are for the best, Grace. While yours? Can you say the same?'

‘Yes, I can. This is about my family.' I look away, distracted for a moment by Monica. She's watching us from the other side of the road, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

‘Sooner or later children have to learn that their parents are fallible.'

‘Oh really?' My eyes are back with Orla. I'm nodding. ‘Is that what this is about? Fallible parents?
Your mother?
Is that it, Orla? Is it
my
fault your mother slept around? Is it
my
fault you went into competition with her? Just exactly how many boys did you shag in fourth year?'

She flinches.

I don't stop. ‘There was Dave Meikle, Angus Webb, Alastair Murdoch.' I count them off on my fingers. ‘Oh, and then of course there was Euan, wasn't there? That one was just for me.' We are right in each other's face, close enough to fight for the same molecules of air. ‘If you want to take the blame for Rose's death, you go right ahead but you are not dragging me into it.'

‘I don't have to drag you into it. You're already in it and I'm going to tell the truth whether you like it or not.'

She opens the door with a flourish and climbs into her car. I want to kick the tyre but I don't. I deliberately take a step backward. I need her to leave. Right now. Retaliation is not an option. The engine starts up and she drives off.

‘What is
she
doing here?' Monica has crossed the road and is standing beside me. She is pale, her eyes wide open and anxious. ‘What did she want? Why are you mad with her?'

I want to say,
What's it to you, Monica? What's it to you?
But I take a deep breath and say breezily, ‘You know Orla. Always likes to wind everyone up.'

‘Me for sure,' Monica says. She is visibly trembling, her jaw judders and she tenses it still. ‘We hated each other's guts. But you were her friend.'

‘Well, not any more.' I walk away. ‘You coming inside?'

Miss Parkin is sitting on a wooden bench. ‘She must have got up during the night to go to the toilet.' She shakes her head and more tears run down on to the collar of her blouse. ‘I thought we were far enough away from the pond. I thought we were.' She keeps repeating this over and over. ‘I thought we were. I thought we were far enough away. I knew she couldn't swim but I thought we were far enough away. A hundred yards or more; that's far enough, isn't it?'

Sergeant Bingham is a big man with hands twice the size of my dad's. He rests one on her shoulder. ‘I'm sure you did your best, Miss Parkin. Accidents will always happen. Tragic, for sure. Absolutely tragic.'

‘Grace?' She looks over at me, pleading. ‘Why would she leave the tent? You didn't hear her, did you?'

I try to speak, to say something comforting, but I can't. We're in the police station. Orla is on the bench opposite me, Miss Parkin is to the right. They've wrapped us in blankets. Orla has shrugged hers off but mine is still tight around me because I can't stop shivering. Rose is dead. Sweet little Rose who wouldn't harm a fly. And I've killed her. I feel like my skull is cracking and will soon splinter into a million tiny pieces that will never find their way back together again. I'm holding my jaw tight, jamming my teeth together but it doesn't stop them from chattering. The policewoman tries to make me drink some sweet tea but I bring it straight back up again.

Orla looks perfectly composed. I want to collapse and let the words pour out, just tell the truth and take my punishment but Orla holds me with her eyes. Her will is like iron. Every time I feel myself falter, she draws my gaze back to her and encloses us both in her determination.

My parents arrive and my dad gathers me up in his arms. I shut my eyes tight and press my face into his tweed jacket. He smells familiar and strong, like he always does, of wood shavings and coffee and I start to cry again. He hugs me tighter, rocking me backward and forward.

‘Your daughter and her friend Orla found the younger girl's body,' Sergeant Bingham tells them.

My mother gasps. ‘In the name of God!' she says. ‘How could such a thing happen?'

‘It seems to have been a tragic accident,' the policeman tells her. ‘Your daughter did a sterling job of trying to resuscitate Rose but it was to no avail. Most likely she had been in the water all night.'

My mother gasps again and clutches her hand to her mouth.

‘I'm afraid Grace is in shock and will need some time to come to terms with it.'

‘Sarge?' The policewoman sidles up to him. ‘Rose's father is here.'

I don't want to look. I don't want to see his face but something makes me open my eyes. My right eye is pressed into my father's coat but my left sees him. He is standing with his hands in his pockets. He is completely still. I watch as Sergeant Bingham breaks the news and as long as I live I will never forget what happens next. Mr Adams drops to his knees and when Sergeant Bingham tries to lift him to his feet again he resists and starts to bang his head on the floor. The sound is loud and hollow like the crack of an air rifle.

‘Mr Adams. Please. Let's help you up, sir.'

Rose's dad is beyond hearing him. He has started to cry; gut-wrenching sobs that find an echo in my own chest.

I am allowed to go home. I climb into the back of the car and Sergeant Bingham has a final word with my dad.

‘We may need to talk to your daughter again,' he tells him. ‘It will be for the procurator fiscal to decide, of course, but it seems to be a straightforward case of death by misadventure.'

The story is covered in the local paper.

‘GIRL DROWNS ON GUIDE CAMP', the headline screams, in inch-high bold print. And underneath:

To the left of the text, there is a small black and white photograph of Rose's father. He has a look on his face – both wild and blank. He is what my mum describes as distraught. To the right is a huge colour photograph of Rose. She is wearing a white blouse with a sweetheart neckline and a red cardigan. She doesn't have all of her front teeth and her gappy smile is wide and uncomplicated. She looks very much alive and the memory of how she was when I last saw her makes my heart shrivel.

I lie in bed. I can't get up. I try but I feel dizzy. This goes on for over a week. My mum tries her best to stay patient with me but by the end of the third day I see that all she wants is for everything to be back to normal. She tries to persuade me to make an effort, have a bath, come downstairs for tea – but I can't.

On the eighth day, Mo comes to my room. She cradles me in her arms and I cry on to her pinny. ‘What happened was terrible, Grace. Terrible. But what's all this about you not getting up?'