Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense (32 page)

A
sign
on the door of the politician’s waiting room told her to enter and take a seat. His reassuring face beamed down on her from an election campaign poster. An independent candidate, soliciting the population of Anaskeagh to cast their number-one vote in his direction. Her father. Albert Harrison-Grant. She had seen his birth certificate, read his life story in newspapers, heard it from the mouth of Beth McKeever. Not easily – nothing about this had been easy – but Eva had pleaded, demanded, insisted on the truth, and Beth had eventually breathed his name, nightmares in her eyes. Eva had seen them, attuned to every expression that flitted over her aunt’s stricken face. But that was another story and, perhaps, Beth would tell it to her another time. Their relationship was still too tender to challenge new truths.

The queue in the waiting room moved swiftly. Albert Grant must be an efficient administrator, Eva thought. However long his constituents wanted to gripe about their social-welfare benefits, savage dogs or difficult neighbours, they were smoothly ushered in and out with the minimum of delay. She wished the queue would move more slowly… wouldn’t move at all… she wanted to run from this most momentous of meetings, yet she stayed sitting between a skinny man who smelled of cigarettes and a woman whose baby clawed at Eva’s hair with sticky fingers.

The thin man emerged from the clinic and held the door open for her. She entered a spacious room with a large desk, neatly organised with stacked trays of forms, a telephone and laptop, and, in front of him, a foolscap pad open on a fresh page. He filled his chair, a heavily built man who rose, his hand outstretched, to greet her. His broad smile faltered when he looked at her. Was he seeing a ghost? Eva wondered. A slender wraith who tormented his dreams?

‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.’ His smile was puzzled as he waved her into a seat in front of his desk. ‘You must be a stranger in our little town.’

‘My name is Eva Frawley,’ she said. ‘I’m here to film a documentary.’

‘May I ask who will be the subject of this documentary?’ No longer smiling, he stroked a finger across his chin and regarded her thoughtfully. ‘If you’ve come to ask questions about those slanderous allegations that were made against me, I must remind you that the matter is now in the hands of my legal team. Any further attempt to accuse me—’

‘The documentary is about me.’ She cut across his bluster. ‘I’ve come to Anaskeagh to search for my roots.’

‘My apologies, Ms Frawley. Usually it’s American tourists who are on that trail. If you give me the name of your family I’ll do everything I can to assist you.’

‘Thank you,’ Eva said. ‘My problem is that I don’t have a name. I was the baby who was born on Anaskeagh Head, and my father has never come forward to claim me.’

She heard a clock ticking on the wall behind him, the door of the waiting room opening then closing, and his hard, explosive gasp as he pushed himself to his feet and walked to the window.

‘I’m afraid no one in this town can help you,’ he said eventually, his back to her. ‘That tragedy happened so long ago and, although every effort was made to contact the unfortunate mother, we failed―’

‘I’ve traced my mother,’ Eva interrupted him. ‘She’ll be part of my documentary.’

‘What are you saying?’ He was unable to hide his shock when he faced her.

‘My mother told me all about that terrible night.’

‘That’s not poss—’ He cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple jolting. ‘Who is your mother?’

‘I promised her confidentiality until the documentary is aired,’ Eva replied. ‘But we both hope you’ll participate in the filming.’

‘Why on earth should you think that?’

‘You were the voice of the people at that time. I’m sure you must have some memories you’d like to share.’

‘All I remember is the appalling publicity that was visited on our town in the aftermath of that tragedy. I’ve no intention of revisiting that time or participating in your documentary, Ms Frawley.’ He sat down again, legs crossed, one swinging over the other. A nervous habit Eva recognised. This man was a biological detail in her life, but this fact would never bind or bond her to him. Blood was not thicker than water, she thought. Not in this case. She wondered if he was trembling inside, as she was, his monstrous past escaping from whatever murky hole it occupied in his memory.

‘I’m afraid I can’t assist you any further.’ He stood, their meeting over. He did not offer her his hand. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve many constituents waiting to see me.’

She held his gaze until he looked down at his desk. His hands were trembling, she noticed. He folded his arms across his chest and waited for her to leave. In that instant, as Eva’s biological father dismissed her, Steve, the father she adored, had never seemed so near, the image of him so vivid, so strengthening, that she was able to speak with chilling composure.

‘Thank you for your time, Mr Grant. Tracing one’s roots can be a joyful experience, but it can also be a horrendous ordeal if the person we long to meet fills us with revulsion. My mother’s story is harrowing but she
will
tell the truth so that the man who raped her can be brought to justice. She was only a child, you see, innocent and terrified. Now she’s ready to talk – and the world is ready to listen.’

B
eth was
at home when her uncle phoned. He wanted to see her in his clinic immediately. The waiting room was empty, magazines scattered, the faint whiff of perspiration still lingering in the air. When she entered he tried to lock the door. The key fell between them with a clang. He pushed Beth aside when she bent to pick it up.

‘I can manage,’ he said. ‘I can manage.’

‘Locking the door won’t keep the past from being exposed,’ she said when the lock clicked. ‘I wondered how long it would take you to contact me.’

‘I want to know what game you’re playing,’ he said.

‘Wrong question, Albert. I don’t play games.’

‘That young woman… It’s all your doing. You’re determined to destroy me. It won’t work. You’re a vicious liar, but you won’t get away with it. Just you listen to me for a change―’

‘No, Albert,
you
listen to me. I came here tonight to talk to you about my childhood. I believed I was a victim but I’m not. I’m a survivor who stayed silent for too long. Not any more. I want you to know how it was… Your touch always on my skin, your shadow walking behind me. And how, when I was no longer around to abuse, you took my sister’s innocence – Sara’s sweet, lovely innocence – and you destroyed her.’

She heard his deep intake of breath, saw the quick, uncontrollable flush on his cheeks. His fingers trembled as he lifted an envelope opener and turned the blade in his hand. When he looked up again his eyes reminded her of a dead fish. Frozen on a slab but still staring.

‘She came here to confront you and you told her about Lindsey. How did you know? Even my secrets…
Nothing
was safe from you!’

‘What did she expect, coming here with her ridiculous accusations? Did she honestly expect me to sit by and allow my reputation to be ruined by the ravings of a crazy woman?’

‘And Lindsey? You built up her trust, knowing I’d never have allowed you within breathing distance of any of my children.’

He slapped his hand hard on the desk. ‘Your daughter also wanted the truth. If you’re trying to destroy me, you’re playing a dangerous game. Stop and think before you say anything else.’

‘I’m not going to destroy you, Albert. All I intend to do is tell the truth.’

‘And what truth would that be, Beth?’

‘The truth about the Anaskeagh Baby.’

‘Bitch… I’m warning you for the last time. This farce has gone on long enough.’ He moved swiftly towards her. For a moment she thought he was going to strike her. Close to him she could smell his fear – rank, like something exposed after a long burial. She winced when he gripped her wrists, his nails digging deep into her skin. His breathing was so laboured she thought he would keel over from a heart attack. Would that make her a murderer? It was a burden she would carry willingly.

‘Let me remind you of the real truth, Beth.’ His voice grew louder. He still held her in his grasp, even when she struggled to free her arms. ‘I gave Stewart an opportunity to make something of himself. We’re a small community, suspicious of outsiders. I smoothed the way, even persuaded Fashion Lynx to take him on – and now, just when he has it all together, you want to ruin him? What kind of vindictive wife are you? I could lift the phone to my contacts on the ACII board this instant and they’ll pull the plug on your pathetic factory so fast you won’t have time to blink. And that’s exactly what I intend to do if you dare threaten me again with your foul insinuations. You are evil incarnate. Filth…
Filth
! You carried it within you even as a child… The soul of evil.’

‘No, Albert. I carried innocence and you trampled it under your feet. And Sara too…’ Her voice broke. ‘She finally found the courage to confront you and you destroyed her again. May God forgive you. I know I never will.’

‘What do you know about God?’ he shouted. ‘When did you ever raise your hands in prayer? Filth… Filth. How dare you tarnish your sister’s memory with disgusting lies? She was a beautiful woman but weak. Delusional, hysterical… Claiming she was that mother―’

‘Your daughter is in Anaskeagh, Albert.’ Beth stared coldly at him. ‘But you know that already. I’ll be by her side when she leads the television crew to Anaskeagh Head. I’ll take her to Aislin’s Roof so that she can film our daughter’s birthplace. That’s where it happened, Albert. A hard cradle rocked our daughter into life. I’ll show her the rocks that sheltered me and the path I walked on my way to O’Donovan’s farm.’

‘Jesus Christ, you’re every bit as crazy as your sister!’ His fury came towards her in waves. ‘Are you trying to kill your mother? Have you any idea how ill she is? She could die any minute – too much stress and her heart will give out—’

‘I
will
tell our story, Albert. Every single ugly word of it. I will name your crime and I will name you. And when you’re in jail you’ll find out how many supporters you have left.’

The strength left his body. He staggered back to the chair and stared at her, speechless. For the first time she saw him as a withered old man. Not elderly or stately but
old
with liver warts on his hands, his teeth bared in a grimace, too white and perfect for an old man’s face. He rubbed his eyes, as if to banish her from sight. Or perhaps to stem tears of shame, of regret? She would never know. As she walked towards the door the words he spoke were barely audible. ‘Liar… Bitch. You’re not the mother.’

She turned to confront him for the last time. ‘But I could have been, Albert,’ she said. ‘That’s the one and only truth we both share.’

She unlocked the door and walked out of his life.

‘
A
naskeagh Baby Seeks
her Roots’ was shown after the evening news on
Elucidate
. Viewers watched as Eva climbed over the rugged terrain to the shelter of Aislin’s Roof. She laid flowers under the slanting rock and spoke about Sara Wallace, the mother she would never know. Viewers followed Beth’s journey to O’Donovan’s farm and listened to Catherine’s recollections of that night. Jess, interviewed in her medical centre, described her joy when Eva was adopted by Liz and Steve, who also appeared on the documentary. Ashton looked tranquil and green, in stark contrast to the bleak earth where Eva had first laid her head. One question overhung the documentary. Who was the father? Beth faced the camera and said he was a respected and admired member of the Anaskeagh community. She was unable to name him as his crime was under police investigation. DNA, she said, could never be denied and, in time, when charges were heard and judgements made, his name would be known to all.

R
umours were rife in Anaskeagh
. In the pubs and restaurants, the shops, cafés and hairdressing salons, everyone asked the same question. How many men were respected and admired in their town? It had been twenty-seven years since the Anaskeagh Baby scandal. Were the names of men, now middle-aged, about to be pilloried once again? Then, like a cobra wriggling into a room, unnoticed until it rose and spat, a name was whispered. A fearful whisper at first but gaining volume. Albert Grant had been brought down once. Could it happen again?

Word spread that he had disappeared. Journalists and television crews gathered outside Cherry Vale and the politician’s apartment. Adding two and two and getting four, the media bayed loudly. Was Albert Grant the respected and admired member of the community mentioned on the documentary? Was that why he was in hiding? Conor read out a statement. His father had gone sailing – his favourite hobby – before the documentary had aired. How could it have anything to do with his departure? He was a seasoned sailor and he would set the record straight as soon as he returned to shore.

A search operation was organised. When his cruiser was located it was drifting, empty. Broadsheet headlines read ‘
Disgraced Politician Disappears
’ while the tabloids stated ‘
Sicko Sex Fiend on the Run
’. Rumoured sightings were reported. He’d been seen drinking champagne on the deck of a luxury yacht in West Cork. He’d been spotted on a beach in Spain, drinking an espresso on a pavement café in Rome. These claims grew more ludicrous as the days passed, but Beth knew he was dead. She had killed him as surely as if she had placed her hand on his back and pushed him violently from the deck of his boat into the ocean.

Did he hesitate before taking those final steps? she wondered. He was a coward and it would take courage to drop into the deep. He was manipulative so he would have weighed up his options, considered calling her bluff. His word against hers. The accusations of corruption fading into insignificance against the weight of a far juicier media scandal. The shock and odium. Paedophilia – the most hated crime of all. How could he prove his innocence when he’d looked into her eyes and seen her hatred made visible? The determination etched on her lips. Was the sea calm or sun-speckled when he finally decided it was over? Did the waves heave with violence when they claimed him or sink him gently downwards? Was Anaskeagh Head the last place he saw before the darkness came?

He was buried quietly when his bloated remains were washed onto the rocks of a distant coastline. Suicide or accidental death by drowning? The media pondered this mystery but they were already moving on to the next scandal. Anaskeagh was at peace again. A small town minding its own business.

‘The media hounded him to his grave,’ said Marjory when Beth called to see her after his body had been formally identified. She had endured the wait for news of his whereabouts with an unnerving calm. ‘My brother was a good man. He may have pulled a few strokes in his day but he never knowingly hurt anyone in his life―’

‘
Stop
.’ Beth pressed her hands to her ears. ‘Why must you keep up this façade? Don’t you owe it to Sara to accept the truth of what she told you?’

The two women stared at each other across the kitchen table. Marjory’s mouth puckered and tightened, as if she was forcing back a torrent of words.

‘I can’t… I can’t… endure it…’ She swayed, defenceless against the sobs that racked her thin frame.

Beth held her hands. When Marjory tried to pull away, she clasped her firmly until the old woman became still. The moment passed. No words were spoken. The body of Albert Grant, washed from its watery grave, had ended their story. Perhaps it would begin another, where forgiveness was not demanded but gently passed from one to the other in silence.

In the distance, the headland loomed, a bloated shadow falling silently as a shroud over the secrets of Anaskeagh. Life’s problems were not always resolved. Sometimes they were just contained until it was time to deliver them into the void.