Tell Me No Secrets (14 page)

‘I can't, Mo. When I walk I fall over.'

‘That's because you've hardly been eating anything.' She reaches down into her shopping bag. ‘I made you some cheese and onion scones and some melting moments.' She holds out the goodies towards me. ‘Smell that and tell me you're not hungry?'

She's right. Hunger shouts in my belly and knocks my reluctance sideways.

My mum appears at the door with a tray of tea. ‘Any luck?'

‘She's just tucking in now, Lillian,' Mo says, squeezing my hand.

If my mum is insulted that my appetite has been rekindled by Mo's food rather than her own, then she hides it well. ‘Good! When you're finished eating I'll run you a hot bath. I can change your sheets while you're busy in the bathroom.'

Mo stands up. ‘Shall I send Euan through later to cheer you up?'

‘What an excellent idea!' my mother says, all bright and breezy. ‘I expect you've missed out on some school work that he can help you with.'

‘Yes,' I say to Mo. I dip a melting moment into my tea and catch the softened piece in my mouth before it falls. ‘Please ask him to come through.'

Euan and I started going out on the night of Orla's party back in May. And the evening before Guide camp, I lay awake with the sensation of his kisses in my mouth and his hands on my hair and back. He's knocked on the door every day since the tragedy but my mother has told him I'm asleep. I'm not but it's easier to pretend. I am afraid to sleep because every time I do, the nightmare starts; every night the same one, the same outcome.

I know that I can't lie in bed for the rest of my life but neither can I go back to my old life and act as if nothing has happened. I know that when I explain what I need to do, Euan is the one person who will be on my side.

‘And Orla called in several times this week,' my mum is telling Mo. ‘Grace was sound asleep but we chatted for a bit. She's being sensible about it.' My mother glances over at me. ‘She's putting it behind her and getting on with her life. She left you another letter, Grace. Have you read it yet?'

I don't answer. It's the fifth letter she's written to me. I've ignored all of them – I'm not even reading them now – but she still hasn't got the message. I don't want anything to do with her. The thought of seeing her again is abhorrent to me. It's not that I blame her. I don't. I blame myself. But Orla is a reminder of the worst person I can be.

I finish eating, have a bath and wait for Euan. As soon as I see him, my heart fills. I jump out of bed and throw myself against his chest, put my mouth into his neck and breathe deeply. ‘I've missed you.'

He hugs me to him. I'm wearing a cotton nightie, not very thick. I am suddenly shy, knowing that he can feel every part of my body through it. I slide under the covers again, pull them up to my chin.

‘I brought you some sandwiches.' He sits down on the bed and passes me one, egg mayonnaise and pickle, and bites into the other himself. We eat in silence for a few minutes.

When we're finished he leans over to kiss me. I hold his shoulders.

‘I did it.' I say it quickly before I lose my courage.

‘Did what?'

‘I killed her.'

He frowns at me. ‘Who?'

‘Rose.' I remember that there has been no suggestion that Rose's death was anything other than accidental. ‘It was my fault.'

‘Just because you were her patrol leader it doesn't make it your fault.'

‘No. I did it. I actually did it. It was a mistake.'

‘You did what? What was a mistake?' He's shaking his head at me. ‘How?'

‘I pushed her, Euan. I pushed her hard and it was raining and she was tiny.'

He backs away.

‘The ground was slippery and the pond was deep and she couldn't swim.'

He's staring at me as if I've lost my mind.

‘I didn't know she'd fallen into the water. It was dark and Orla and I were arguing and—' I stop, remember what we were arguing about – Euan. But later, she told me that she was lying. ‘The thing is . . .' I hold my hands out.

He's staring at me, waiting for the rest.

‘I need to make it better.'

‘Make what better? You didn't kill her!'

I climb out from under the covers, kneel on the bed and start from the beginning. I give him all the details: the depth of the pond, her hand on my jacket, me turning around, unable to make out what she's saying, bawling into her face, then pushing her hard, down the bank, going back to my tent, not checking that she was there. I tell him everything except what Orla and I were arguing about.

When I'm finished he says nothing for a few seconds and then, ‘That doesn't prove you did it.' He is tense, his lips tremble as he speaks. ‘It doesn't, Grace. You're making it sound logical but there are other scenarios that are just as logical.'

‘Like what?'

‘Like you pushed her away and she went back to the tent. Then later on, when you were asleep, she got up and went out again.'

‘Why would she do that?'

‘Because she wanted to talk to one of the other girls, because she was looking for something, because she was sleepwalking!' he says triumphantly. ‘I watched a programme about it. Loads of people sleepwalk.'

I want to believe him but I can't. I know what I did and I know what I have to do now.

‘If I didn't do it then why would she be visiting me?'

‘Visiting you?'

‘Every night since it happened, I have dreamed about her.' I screw up my fists and keep my voice steady. ‘And every night when I wake up, she's standing at the bottom of the bed and is trying to tell me something.'

‘For fuck's sake! This is bollocks.' He grabs hold of me. ‘You're upset. You're imagining it. It's like the monster under the bed. It isn't real!'

I start to cry. It makes me angry – what use are tears? – and I bang my fists on the bed. I can't do this on my own. ‘Listen, Euan, please. I need the dream to stop. You have to help me.'

‘Help you how?'

I tell him.

Twice he draws away from me, once he says quietly, ‘This is mad, Grace. Totally fucking bollocks.' But he strokes my hair as he says it and I know that he will help me. Maybe against his better judgement, but he will help me.

He leaves soon after and for the first night in over a week I am able to fall asleep without dreading it. The nightmare comes as it has every night since I found her body. I'm standing on the bank of a river. I'm surrounded by the ominous shadows of pine trees that stretch up as high as a five-storey building. The sky above me rumbles and rain buckets down on to my head but somehow I never grow wet. The water lingers briefly on my face and hair then rolls off to make a puddle around my feet.

I wait for her, patiently. I listen, turn a full circle, try to anticipate her shape in the gloom until suddenly she's there in front of me, wet through, the hem of her coat waterlogged and dragged low around her knees. She is trying to tell me something, but as she talks she slides away from me. I reach for her hand and catch hold of the tips of her fingers . . . for a second I have her . . . and then she slides down the bank, and into the water.

I throw back the covers, sweating, gulping a breath. My insides plummet but still I am compelled to look up. She is standing at the bottom of my bed, water dripping from the ends of her hair, eyes the colour of mud. Her mouth moves. I lean forward, con centrate, try to lip-read but still I can't make out what she's saying. But this time, I'm able to tell her something. We watch each other for the longest moment and then I blink and she is gone.

7

‘Wasn't it funny Orla turning up like that?'

I don't answer. I'm round at Monica's. I'm returning the food containers she brought to the girls' party. We're at the breakfast bar in her kitchen. The work surfaces gleam. Utensils hang in regulation rows on hooks beneath the cupboards. Canisters are labelled – tea, coffee, sugar – and sit squarely behind the kettle. There's an absence of dust, of clutter, of spilled milk or peeling paint behind the rubbish bin. There's no egg clinging to the front of the dishwasher or mashed potato trodden into the floor tiles. It's like a show house. And Monica is perfect to show it off. Her hair is always sleek and sits on her shoulders, kicking up and out like a cheerleader's foot. Her make-up is carefully applied, her smile the same.

‘Ground control to Grace.' Monica hands me a cup of freshly brewed coffee. ‘I said wasn't it funny, Orla turning up like that?'

‘I didn't ask her, if that's what you're implying.'

‘What does Orla have on you?'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘If looks could kill, I'd have been certifying her death.'

‘She gatecrashed the twins' birthday party. I didn't appreciate it.'

‘You didn't know she was coming? Really?' Her eyebrows are plucked to within an inch of their life. She's trying to read me, catch hold of the lie and wring its neck. I guess it's part of the training. Doctors are used to patients being evasive.

‘Has my dad made an appointment to see you?' I say, suddenly remembering about the blood on the hankie.

‘If he had I wouldn't tell you,' she says. ‘Patient confidentiality.'

‘I realise that, but maybe you could prompt him into coming? I'm worried about him. When I was with him the other day he coughed some blood on to his hankie. My mum thinks it's coming from his stomach.'

‘He usually sees another doctor in the practice but' – she gives a reassuring nod – ‘I'll have a word.'

‘Thank you.' I almost mention Ella and the pill but don't, because apart from the fact that I don't want Monica to have the opportunity to give me a lecture on parenting, I'm tired. I didn't get to bed until 2 a.m. and then I slept fitfully. ‘Are you up in the middle of the night cleaning?' I look around the pristine kitchen and sigh. ‘Seriously, Monica, I don't know how you do it. You put the rest of us to shame.'

She pulls her back up. ‘I wasn't brought up like you.'

‘Eh?' I have a sudden and intense craving for a cigarette and I wonder whether Euan has any hidden at the back of the cupboards.

‘You were completely spoiled.' She pauses.

I don't say anything. I'm still thinking cigarettes. If he's hidden them anywhere they'll be down in the cabin.

‘You had a surfeit of everything,' she continues, sitting down opposite me. ‘Whereas I had to bring myself up. My parents' marriage was a shipwreck for as long as I can remember. All they had time for was their own self-indulgence and misery.'

‘I'm sorry.' I take a mouthful of coffee and rest the warm cup in my hands. ‘I didn't know.'

‘And it wasn't just your own mother who looked after you like you were a princess.' She's glaring at me now. ‘But you had Mo,
as well
. Mo. She was such a favourite with everyone. Everybody loved her.' She stops talking, looks into the middle distance and says quietly, ‘I was glad when she died.'

‘What?' That wakes me up and I jerk up straight, watch the coffee rise in the air like a wave and spill down on to the walnut worktop.

She looks at me blankly. ‘How could I ever have competed with her?'

‘You couldn't possibly have wished her dead!'

‘I didn't say I wished her
dead
,' she shouts. ‘I said I was glad when she
died
. No.' She holds up her hand. ‘I wasn't
glad
when she died but I wasn't as bothered as I should have been.' She sighs. Changes her mind again. ‘Oh, I don't know what I'm saying.' She drops her head into her hands and starts to cry. ‘Jesus, don't tell Euan. He'd be gutted. Please.'

‘I won't.' I'm genuinely shocked not just by what she's said but by the way she's breaking down. I haven't seen her lose control since Orla's sixteenth birthday party. I don't know whether I should go round the table and hug her. I settle for placing a hesitant hand on her shoulder; a couple of seconds and then I pull away. ‘I think you need to rest more.'

‘Listen!' She grabs my hands and looks at me with the kind of desperation that I associate with myself. ‘Orla is bad news. I know that you were friends with her but you have to keep her away from the village.' She's squeezing my hands and I try to wriggle them free but she tightens her grip. ‘I want you to know that if you need any help dealing with her then I'm willing.'

I don't need any reminding that Orla has to be kept from the village. My head has not let me forget it since I came back from Edinburgh. Orla turning up at the girls' party was just another nail in the coffin and now that she's wangled an invite to lunch, my fate is all but sealed. ‘Please, Monica,' I say. ‘Let me have my hands back.'

She lets go immediately, sits back and takes a few breaths. Her lips are still moving but now she's keeping the words to herself.

I wipe the coffee spill, rinse the cloth and put it back beside the sink. ‘Do you have any cigarettes?'

‘Garage. Top shelf. Behind the pots of old paint.'

I go into the garage and find the cigarettes. There're eight left in the packet. They look past their best but still better than nothing.

When I come inside again Monica hands me a lit match and opens the back door. ‘You know about Orla's mother and my father?'

I light up and draw the smoke into my lungs. It's not going to help my headache but when the nicotine hits my bloodstream I feel a different sort of energy that might just see me through the rest of the morning. ‘I saw them in Edinburgh together. He was kissing her. It took me a while to put two and two together, though.'