Let Them Lie Read online

  Let Them

  Lie

  Florence Gillan

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, businesses, organisations and incidents portrayed in it are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2022 by Crimson

  an imprint of Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  Email: [email protected]

  © Florence Gillan 2022

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd. 2022, copyright for editing, typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 97817819-702-4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  About the Author

  Florence Gillan is a retired teacher who lives outside Newry in the rolling hills of County Down with her husband Eugene, two dogs Honey and Rua, and a cat with no name. She spends much of her time in her native Sligo in the foothills of Benbulben. She has had a life-long passion for writing since penning her first novel, Trageties in France, at age nine. This is all the more impressive, given both her lack of knowledge of France and her inability to spell the word tragedies.

  Let Them Lie is her debut novel.

  Acknowledgements

  Paula Campbell of Poolbeg made my dream come true when I received her email telling me she wanted to publish my story. Throughout the entire publishing process, she has been a source of calm reassurance and guidance.

  The refining and polishing business was undertaken by my wonderful editor Gaye Shortland. I’ve learned so much and continue to learn under her guidance. Thanks, Gaye, for being so patient with me and helping to make this book the best version it can be.

  Thanks to Paul Maddern for his hospitality at the River Mill writers retreat in Co. Down. I went there for an opportunity to think and write but I gained so much more than that, not least the recipe for his delicious orange polenta cake. My children thank you, Paul.

  At River Mill, I met some wonderful writers who offered me sterling advice and encouragement. Thanks to Fíona Scarlett, Olivia Fitzsimons and Tracy Weller.

  To my first readers who were kind and tactful and encouraged me to keep at it. Thank you, Mo Gillan, Martina Hamilton, Madeleine Skoronski, and Fiona Ó Murchú for all your patience – and, Fiona, thanks for teaching me how to punctuate. Seriously, you’ve all been brilliant! I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Thank you to Colum Lynch for giving so generously of his time when dealing with a very camera-shy client who needed an author’s photo. You made the process painless.

  I’m grateful to my lovely extended family of brothers, sisters, in-laws, nieces, nephews, cousins and an amazing godmother, Annie. They have been fulsome in their encouragement and so delighted to learn that my book is to be published.

  Thank you to my fantastic friends, and my former colleagues in Bush PPS, far too many to mention. They have been my cheerleaders in all my endeavours. I appreciate all the fun and laughter you have brought to my life.

  My four children, Rachel, David, Mark and Sarah have read, critiqued, offered suggestions and improvements and have put up with my many IT meltdowns. The number of times I have managed to lose documents is legendary and my resulting hysterical panic was comic. Through it all, they have had my back and I am very grateful. As their mother, I’d like to take some of the credit for their awesomeness!

  Finally, Eugene my long-suffering husband, you have been a constant source of encouragement and pushed me into sending this story out. You mean the world to me.

  Dedication

  To the memory of my lovely parents, Mark and Mary,

  and my sister Helen and brother Frank

  PROLOGUE

  The box sat on his lap, and he stroked each item nestled within. He held them one by one to his face, inhaling the memories and images they evoked. Soon they worked their familiar magic, soothing him. He held the ring the longest, enjoying how it glinted in his dirt-engraved palm. It was small and delicate, too tiny for adult fingers and yet it had slipped off easily. He slid it on his little finger; it stopped fast at his knuckle, looking incongruous. He felt close to his little one, closer than anyone else could ever be, remembering how he drew her breath deep inside, renewing and making him whole.

  ‘Ye belong to your father, the devil, and ye want to carry out your father’s desires. He was a murderer from the beginning, not holding to the truth, for there is no truth in him. When he lies, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies.’ John 8:44

  CHAPTER 1

  April 2015

  Racing from the school at full tilt, trying to dodge the fat raindrops dribbling from the sky, Aoife prayed her boss wouldn’t see her. He’d want to discuss the latest suspension and she just didn’t have the time. She slid the car out of the car park and joined the snarl-up of traffic converging from all corners of Dublin. God, what a week! If only she could stay home curled up next to Connor, watching a movie and eating takeaway! Instead, she was heading home to Sligo for her dad’s anniversary. If it didn’t mean so much to her mam, she’d have made excuses. But to Mam, the loss of Dad still ached like a yanked-out tooth.

  Despite the passage of twenty years, the day he died was etched like scar tissue on Aoife’s consciousness. When he didn’t turn up at supper time, her mother had grown alarmed. Dad was a creature of habit, rising early every morning to milk the cows and in bed by ten thirty, worn out from his day. He was never late for a meal, always ravenous from working outdoors. Mam rounded up everyone in the locality to look for him. Aoife recalled the commotion all this drama created – it didn’t occur to her that something bad had happened; she was convinced he would return with an exciting tale to tell. Soon the yard had filled with neighbours holding flashlights and blankets, with women talking in hushed voices in the kitchen. He was found in the early hours of the morning. The memory of his still body being carried upstairs still caused her chest to tighten.

  Overhearing the whispered words of neighbours, as she sat huddled in the kitchen, she learned he had cracked his head on a stone wall in the top field. Perhaps he might have survived if they had found him earlier. He was last seen at lunchtime, so they thought the accident probably happened in the afternoon. It hurt to think of Dad lying out in the fields, alone in the cold and dark. Between concussion and exposure, he had no chance. The child Aoife had shivered with terror. She had never seen a dead body but it was the behaviour of the adults, rather than the stiffening body upstairs, that upset her most. Mam, always so comforting, sat frozen, staring blankly. When Aoife ran into her arms seeking consolation, she was met with a stony stare. Later, as an adult, when watching the movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers, it reminded her of her mam that awful night. Of course, by that time she’d realised her mother was in a state of shock. The child Aoife, frightened and confused, sought her sister and brother, but Sam and Kate, each locked in silent misery, had no time for a bewildered ten-year-old.

  Her memories of
her dad were few but treasured. He was always busy with the farm but took time to play with her, chasing her and throwing her high in the air, setting her heart racing with excitement mingled with terror. As she grew older, he lost interest in horseplay, concerned perhaps that he would hurt her. But he took her on long nature rambles, encouraging her to look up the common and Latin names for the flowers, plants and trees they observed. When she succeeded in these naming games, he would wink at her and slip her a bar of chocolate, warning her not to let her mam know or he’d be a dead man. To this day she still could name most wildflowers and identify trees by their leaves. One day after she fell into a cluster of nettles and her leg stung hard enough to make her cry, he rubbed the stings away with dock leaves and explained about the plants he called nature’s medicine, so she learned about willow bark, feverfew, and meadowsweet. But she was enthralled when he dwelt on nature’s deathly side and warned of the perils of Digitalis purpurea (foxglove) and Atropa belladonna (deadly nightshade). She much preferred the Latin names as they conjured up an intoxicating mash-up of wonder intertwined with fear, much as his horseplay had done when she was a small child.

  After he died, her memories of him dwindled until all that remained was a recollection of a benign presence, shrouded in a thick cloud of cigarette smoke, hovering on the outskirts of her childhood. Sam took on the vacated role of father and protector. With Kate and her mother burdened by grief, she turned to Sam in those early days and his fierce protective kindness sheltered her.

  A blaring horn jerked her back to the present. God, how she wished she could have got out of this family get-together. She’d have brought Connor, but practicality demanded that he stay in Dublin to get his thesis finished. Marking the anniversary meant everything to Mam. She loved having the family together and, in anticipation, spent hours baking and preparing the house for visitors. It was lovely to see how her quiet, almost timid mother blossomed. Making this pilgrimage was a small price to pay when it made Mam happy.

  The lights of the oncoming cars scorched her eyes. Night driving was not her thing. Connor didn’t seem to mind; he usually took it on, knowing how she hated it. Instantly she felt comforted, thinking about Connor. They had met three years ago at her birthday party, which Connor had crashed. Aoife smiled at the memory. Passing her door and hearing music and laughter, he just rocked up, acting as if he belonged. By the time she realised no one knew him, he had charmed her. Odd, because he wasn’t her type, the opposite of the sporty guys she usually dated. But, tipsy as he was, he impressed her with his subversive humour and easy-going vibe. He asked her to a concert, and she agreed. After all, she liked the band and had nothing to lose by attending.

  Six months later they moved in together and she felt an instant sense of belonging. Connor was the opposite of her practical self. He loosened her up, shook the seriousness out of her, and encouraged her to try new things. They had travelled, done parachute jumps and treks in the jungle, all at his instigation. He pushed her outside her comfort zone and opened her up to the joy of spontaneous adventure. After three years of cohabitation, they were now ready to take the next step and get married. Strange that the moment Connor became her fiancée their relationship entered its rockiest phase. The attitude of Connor as a boyfriend, which inspired and widened her horizons, now frustrated her. Did every engaged couple go through this period of adjustment? Getting married was a serious business and her practical side came to the fore, whereas Connor acted as though getting married was just a chance to party and celebrate. No doubt they would have a meeting of minds before too long. Hopefully, tonight Connor would take her absence as an opportunity to begin completing his thesis. Hopefully! Then they would be free to plan the wedding.

  It was in this lighter mood that she drew up outside her mother’s house. The soft light glowing from the porch illuminated the old two-storied farmhouse. Her mother must have heard the crunch of the car on the driveway for she stood in a pool of light in the doorway, waving eagerly.

  As Aoife got out of the car, she was pulled into a warm embrace.

  ‘You’ve got thin!’ Agnes accused her, squeezing Aoife’s arms as if to check for wasting.

  ‘Thanks, Mam, that’s what I’m aiming to be.’ Smiling, she hugged her mother back.

  ‘But, Aoife, I think that you’re getting a bit too thin. I’m sure Connor doesn’t want to marry a stick because as sure as anything that’s what you’re becoming. At least I’ll have a chance to fatten you up this weekend.’

  Aoife groaned. ‘Mam, please don’t start! Where’s Sam?’

  ‘He’s locking up the sheds – the Caseys had loads of stuff taken from their outhouses recently, so he locks up all the time now. It’s sad to see how much things have changed. In your father’s time, a person never had to bother with locks at all.’

  ‘What about Kate, has she come, and did she bring the kids?’ Aoife asked, her eyes bright with anticipation.

  ‘She rang to say she won’t get here until tomorrow but you’ll be glad to hear she’s bringing Sandy and Colm with her.’

  ‘That’s great!’

  The two women walked into the house, Aoife weighed down with her case and a bag containing wine and cake.

  In the kitchen, she handed the bag to her mother.

  ‘You’re not a visitor, Aoife – you don’t have to be bringing stuff!’

  Aoife looked around at the old familiar things. Impulsively, she hugged her mother.

  ‘It’s good to be home, Mam!’

  Her mother beamed back at her. ‘I’m cooking a dinner – I know you city people have dinner in the evening so I expect you’re starving.’ Agnes, like most farmers’ wives, cooked the main meal in the middle of the day. Farming was hungry work, and the cold weather encouraged the desire for a hot meal. ‘Sit down there and we’ll eat as soon as Sam comes in.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t wait to eat with me! I told you I’d be late leaving Dublin and to go ahead without me.’

  ‘I know, pet, but Sam said he’d rather wait for you, so we could all eat together.’ Agnes smiled at her daughter and, whipping an apron around her expansive waist, set about producing the meal.

  Aoife, luxuriating in the atmosphere that drew her back into childhood, carried her case upstairs.

  The bedroom door was open, and a swathe of moonlight flooded the room. It gave a beautiful, austere feel to what was a very homely space. As soon as she hit the light switch the elusive beauty vanished. It had changed little since her childhood. Originally, she had shared it with Kate, but her memories of that time were dim. She was only thirteen when Kate went off to train for nursing in London. At first, the belongings of her elder sister had dominated the room but, as Kate removed more and more of her things, it became Aoife’s kingdom. As sisters, the age difference of four years created a gulf, but Kate was a benevolent sister who patronised her in a kindly fashion.

  Although the teenage Aoife had lived in this room, she had never fully displaced Aoife the child. Long-neglected teddy bears and small cuddly toys sat on the shelves, forgotten. The ageing wallpaper still acted as a busy canvas for the tattered remains of Nelly, Eminem and NSYNC posters. Every time she came home, she had meant to rip those dated posters down, but a nostalgic part of her refused to break the link with the girl she had been. So, she resisted attempts to redecorate and hung on to her time capsule. The bed was covered by the same brightly patterned quilt that she had wrapped around herself when studying for exams. Aoife felt glad that at least in this small corner of her life things remained the same.

  Downstairs she could hear the clatter of dishes, the lovely domestic sounds of home. She threw her bag on the bed and swiftly unpacked, hanging her clothes in the small wardrobe and putting socks and underwear in a drawer. Remembering it was Sam’s birthday, she took the card she had brought from her bag and slipped it into her back pocket.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, she burst through the kitchen door just in time to hear Sam ask, ‘Well! Is she here?’

/>   Racing over to him, she was immediately engulfed in a fierce bear hug. As a child, she had worshipped Sam, devoted to him in a dumb, dog-like way. To her, he was a hero. How did you look at a hero? Certainly not in the eye, so she had always hung her head and peeped adoringly up at him. Of course, over time she outgrew some of the awe, but never completely. It was through rose-tinted glasses she saw him even now. But she took the time to look him over more objectively. Sam was a big man, easily over six foot three, no longer the gangly youth he had been. His shoulders had expanded to match his length until he was a tank of muscle and sinew. His hair, once a scalded red, was now subdued with more than a scattering of grey. But his eyes were still as blue and clear as ever. Aoife had always considered her brother to be handsome, and at thirty-seven those looks remained. They stared delightedly at each other.

  Shyly, she pushed the card into his hand. ‘Happy Birthday, bro – sorry I forgot to post this.’

  He tore it open, scanned the brief message and grinned. ‘Hey, go on with you! I’m too old for birthdays. I told Mam I’d leave the house if she dared make me a cake, so she knitted me a jumper instead.’

  ‘Oh God, what’s it like?’ Aoife asked, knowing her mother had weird notions about colour combinations.

  He lowered his voice so Agnes couldn’t overhear. ‘Yellow and brown. I looked like an angry wasp. But I wore it yesterday, so she’ll be OK with me abandoning it for a while, I hope.’

  ‘I’m going to ask her to get you to model it for me tonight,’ Aoife threatened, laughing as he raised his fist in mock anger.