Tell Me No Secrets (30 page)

As I'm trying to translate the next sentence, I sense the blur of a shadow dart past the window. I freeze for a moment then immediately put everything back where I found it, apart from two of the newspaper clippings which I put into my pocket. Then I jump to my feet and look outside. I can't see anyone. I move my head from left to right and stand on my tiptoes but there is no one there to interrupt the roll of the grassy land as it slopes down to the shore. Satisfied, I turn back into the room just as a face jerks into view, filling the small window with a blank stare. I scream. It's a man. He is grinning; I am not. Two of his teeth are missing and the others are twisted and rotten. His head is shaved and he has a row of earrings from his left earlobe, upwards around the rim. It is Shugs McGovern, looking just as menacing as he did when we were teenagers.

I run through the house and try to get to the front door before he does. I don't make it.

‘All right, Grace?' We meet in the hallway. He comes inside, closes the door behind him. His voice is a croak and his right eyelid ticks repetitively. ‘Looking for someone?'

‘Orla.'

‘Still a friend of yours, is she?'

‘Not exactly,' I say, wondering what gives Shugs the right just to walk inside. As a child Orla hated him and took every opportunity to let him know it. And then the reason jumps out at me. ‘Delivering drugs, are you?' The words leave my mouth before I can stop myself.

‘She's been telling me a thing or two about you.' He is closer now and he shows me his teeth again. I step backwards. ‘You're not quite the prissy little wife you pretend to be, are you?'

My stomach turns over. I give him what I hope is a vague, unconcerned smile. ‘I'm leaving now.' I walk purposefully towards the door but he stands his ground between me and the only way out.

‘Where are you going?'

‘I really must be heading home.' I stop, try to keep my voice from shaking but I don't think I succeed. ‘Paul will be wondering where I am.'

Again, I try to get past him but he barges me with his shoulder and I lurch back against the wall. ‘Oops!' He widens his eyes in pretence of an apology then takes hold of a handful of my hair. ‘Still a natural blonde?' Snake tattoos wind down his forearms and around his wrists like rope. His fingers, like the rest of him, are squat and strong. He runs them through my hair from my scalp to the ends. I don't stop him. I have lost the feeling in my arms and legs and my brain is a muddle of fear and noise.

‘You always thought you were better than the rest of us, didn't you, Grace?' He is right up close. There's a yellowed bruise beneath his left eye. He smells of stale beer and cigarettes. I want to gag. ‘Snooty bitch.' His face is in my neck and he whispers, ‘Time for me to get my share. How about a kiss for Shugsie?'

The horror of his mouth on mine galvanises me. My knee comes up into his groin and he groans, doubles up. I reach past him to the door handle. His head is down and one hand clutches his groin, his other grabs in my direction but I'm through the door and up the hill as fast as I can. I'm not normally much of a runner but I'm fuelled by adrenaline and revulsion. I get to my car and lean on the bonnet, catch my breath and look back at the cottage. Shugs hasn't followed me. He is standing outside the door lighting up a cigarette.

As I go to open my car I notice that the window has been smashed and broken glass is scattered across the seats. ‘Shit!'

I say out loud and look back down at Shugs who is leaning up against the outside wall. ‘Bastard,' I say, under my breath this time, and then I see a small patch of blood on the floor. Murphy. He isn't in the car. ‘Dear God.' I look back at Shugs and then up and down the road, hoping that Murphy is on the grass verge, sniffing out rabbits or foxes but he isn't and although I spend the next couple of minutes whistling and calling, he doesn't appear. ‘What have you done with my dog?' I scream at Shugs but my voice is lifted away in the air and he makes no sign that he has heard me.

Murphy knows this area and could find his way home from here except for the fact that he has no traffic sense. He has simply never appreciated the danger of cars. I have visions of him lying bleeding by the roadside and I quickly brush the broken glass off the driver's seat on to the floor and start the engine. I drive home at a snail's pace, scanning the pavements and the side streets, the grassy patches and the shop fronts. Wind blows through the space where the window should be and I gulp back the tears, grateful for the sea air cooling my face.

When I get home, I park haphazardly and go inside to get help. But as I run through the hallway to the back of the house I see Murphy lying on the kitchen floor. Daisy on one side of him and Ella on the other. He is loving the attention and when he sees me he doesn't bother to get up but settles for a thump-thump of his tail on the ground. I fall down on to him and rub my face in his coat. ‘You came home!' He licks me appreciatively. ‘Clever, clever boy.'

‘We tried calling you but your phone is off.' Paul comes over to greet me. ‘Did Murphy run away from you? What happened?'

‘My car was broken into.' I lean back on my heels to look up at him. ‘The window was smashed and there was blood inside. Is he hurt?'

‘Your car was broken into?' Paul touches my forehead. ‘Are you okay? Did they take anything?'

‘I'm fine and no, they didn't take anything.' I give the dog another hug. ‘Murphy must have escaped through the window.'

‘He just has a small cut on his head but it's stopped bleeding now. Wasn't it lucky that Orla found him?' Daisy says and my spine snaps up straight. ‘He could have been run over.'

I get up quickly, turning as I do so. She is standing there. She is wearing a summer dress, off-white, off the shoulder. It has blue forget-me-nots around the hem. She looks fresh and flirty. She is holding one of my best crystal glasses, twirling the stem in her fingers. She goes to the dresser, takes out another glass, fills it up and hands it to me.

‘Champagne,' she says. ‘I wanted to celebrate my return to the village. I hope you don't mind?'

Anger is rising inside me like a geyser. She is in my house, fraternising with my family, pretending to have saved our dog. She must have come back to the cottage for her meeting with Shugs and seized the opportunity to break into my car and steal Murphy. The knife block is to the right of me. I could reach it without even moving my feet. I could grab the biggest one; the one I use for slicing through pumpkin and squash. I could hold the wooden handle and push the blade into her. I could push until her blood flows. I wonder what it would feel like, whether I would have to push hard or whether the blade would slide in easily. I wonder whether she would scream. ‘Where did you find Murphy?'

‘Out on the pavement.' She takes a sip. ‘Lost.'

‘How did you know he was our dog?' My tone is flat, unfriendly. I feel Paul and the girls looking at me and then looking at each other.

‘He has a collar with your surname and phone number on it.'

‘Well, thank you.' I take the glass from her hand. I think about the photos of my family on the floor of her bedroom: the shrine to her teenage self. ‘You can go now.'

‘Grace!' Paul laughs uncertainly. ‘I invited Orla to stay for a drink.' He puts an arm around my shoulders and shakes me gently. ‘She just did us a huge favour bringing Murphy back like that.'

‘Actually, Paul, she hasn't done us any favours.' I sound cool. Inside I am boiling. ‘She should leave now.'

Orla touches Paul's arm, lightly, almost a stroking movement. ‘I don't want to cause any trouble.' She makes wide eyes at him, manages to look both innocent and vulnerable and while Paul is nobody's fool, Orla's act is Oscar-winning.

As I watch his face soften, a bitter taste washes through me. ‘You really are a piece of work.' I make a decision. I know I'm risking her upping the ante – if I take a stand against her then she might shout out the truth about Rose's death – but what I've just seen in her bedroom, the damage to my car and the way she's worming her way into my family's affections, feels more urgent than a twenty-four-year secret. I point towards the front door and say quietly, ‘Get the fuck out of my house.'

‘Grace!'

‘Mum!'

Paul and the girls are staring at me. The girls are open-mouthed and Paul is frowning and shaking his head. Orla reels back as if she's just been struck, her face fearful, her eyes filled with tears.

Paul takes my arm and leads me into the hallway. ‘What on earth has got into you?'

‘Orla is not our friend,' I tell him. ‘She's dangerous and she's, she's' – I think of an appropriate word – ‘unstable. She's unstable, Paul. And she's manipulative and deceitful. She is twisted and evil and would happily have killed our dog. She will destroy our family without batting an eyelid.'

‘What?' Paul is incredulous. ‘Where is this coming from?'

‘She smashed my car window. She hurt Murphy.'

‘How can you know that? Did you see her?'

‘No. But I know what she's capable of and there's no one else it could be,' I say, agitated now. ‘And Shugs McGovern was at her house. He had gone there to sell her drugs.'

‘That seems remarkably far-fetched.' He is struggling to believe me. ‘How would you know that? And as far as your car is concerned, there have always been occasional acts of vandalism in the village. I'm not sure why you want to blame Orla for this one.'

‘Because she did it!' I clasp my hands together and briefly consider whether I should tell him about her room, the photographs and the rest. But then I remember that if I tell him that much, it will inevitably lead to me telling him about Rose and I can't do that. I hold his hand and say, ‘I know this seems ridiculous. I know it looks as if I'm making it up but I'm not, Paul. I'm really not. Please trust me. Will you?'

He starts back and then half smiles at me. ‘Of course, I trust you.'

‘Then, please, ask her to leave.'

He holds my eyes for a couple of seconds. ‘Okay, I will.' He sighs. ‘But let's try to do it politely.'

We both go back through to the kitchen. The girls have recovered from my outburst.

‘Look, Mum!' Ella is holding up a patterned T-shirt. ‘Look what Orla bought us!'

Daisy has one too, a different colour and design but the same expensive cut. And when they notice the label, Ella squeals and Daisy runs over to give Orla a hug.

‘Belated birthday gifts,' Orla says, light as a hummingbird, brazen as a vulture. ‘And for you, Paul.' She kisses him, once on each cheek and holds out a glitzy, book-shaped package. ‘I was going to bring this on Sunday to thank you for your hospitality but' – she gives me a pointed look – ‘I bumped into Grace's mum this morning and she told me you're going fishing.'

I don't react. So she has found out that Sunday lunch is off? No problem. Euan and I will arrange some other time to meet her, deal with her, do what has to be done.

‘Well . . .' Paul inclines his head but doesn't take the present from her. ‘I appreciate your generosity, Orla, but we have things we need to press on with here.'

‘What things?' Ella says. ‘Just open it, Dad!' She takes it from Orla's hand and tries to put it into his. ‘It's a present!'

I have an almost overwhelming urge to grab the package, push it back at Orla and bundle her out on to the pavement, but I daren't because I have to let Paul handle this. He has asked me to be polite and while I'm desperate to be rid of Orla before she does any more damage, I don't want to alienate Paul in the process.

Ella, impatient with the delay, tears the wrapping off the package. His present is the autobiography I bought for him and mistakenly left underneath the table in the restaurant in Edinburgh. ‘That's such a good choice!' Ella says. ‘Dad wanted this book, didn't you, Dad?'

I catch Orla's eye as it lights up with triumph.

‘I did,' Paul acknowledges and Orla preens herself in front of him, managing to look both coquettish and angelic.

She has quite a range and I can't help myself say, ‘You've missed your calling. You belong on the stage.'

Paul gives me a troubled look but Orla carries on as if she hasn't heard me. ‘And this is for you, Grace.' She tries to hand me a box. ‘For old times' sake.'

I push her aside. ‘I'm not prepared to accept it.'

‘But it's just right for you! Here.' She removes the lid and holds it up to my face. As soon as the scent hits the back of my nose, it jump-starts a memory so intense that my heart stops and my stomach turns over. I can't breathe or speak. I can do nothing more than stare at her.

‘Is it okay? It was always your favourite, wasn't it?' She acts stricken. ‘Lily of the valley. I haven't got it wrong, have I?'

I'm next to the pond; Orla is screaming. Rose is lying on the ground. Her face is bloated and the blue veins across her temples stand out against her grey pallor. Limbs dense, chest still, eyes staring at nothing. Dead. Because of me.

Dizziness closes down my thoughts. I take a laboured breath and feel beads of sweat break out on my forehead. For a few seconds I lean forward with my hands on my knees and then I snatch the box of soap from her, open the patio door and throw it out into the garden.

When I turn back into the room, Paul is addressing Orla. ‘I don't know what's going on here but clearly you are upsetting Grace and I'd like you to leave now.' He turns to the twins. ‘Girls, give me the tops and go upstairs.'

‘But . . .' Ella clutches hers to her chest. ‘Do we have to?'