Dear Vincent (15 page)

Shanaye nods once, then drops her head into her hands and sobs for real. I pat her back, too shocked and sick to cry myself. Poor Van. How do you live with that?

Come on Miss T, you know the answer right enough: You don’t. Impossible, when every time they look at you they see those rapists looking back …

Jesus
. I jump up from the seat and pace, trying to escape. Can’t think how all this screwed up Mum. Horror for her tangles with my anger. She still bloody punished Van for something out of her control.

I swing around. ‘So how does Dad fit into this?’

‘He married her, to help save face. The Church would not allow abortion and, anyway, her family were staunch Catholics. I think Paddy married her for Billy too — to atone for his suicide.’ She scoops up a leaf from the ground and strips it from its ribs. ‘But in an awful way he punished Kathy for Billy’s death. Men are right good at throwing all their sins and indiscretions back on us.’

‘He sure as hell punished Van too. So did Mum.’

‘Your mammy was in a real bad way after Billy’s death, especially once it sunk in that there was a baby coming. Paddy found her down by the banks of the Lagan late one night, stones already in her pockets. That’s when he insisted that she marry him. He promised he’d get her out of Ireland for good.’

‘
Mum
was going to kill herself? What the hell is this, a family curse?’

A random comment Mum hurled at Van after Dad’s stroke jumps out at me. They’d been arguing over Van’s refusal to sit with Dad.

‘Why should I?’ Van shouted as the argument caught fire. ‘You know he doesn’t want me here.’

‘Listen, missy, you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.’

At the time I’d put it down to emotional blackmail: Dad was in Van’s DNA. Now it all falls in place.

Shanaye’s voice draws me back to the present. ‘That kind of hurting’s hard. We were all shook up.’ She stands and stretches. ‘I know it’s overwhelming for you, darlin’. What say we head back and have a nice cup of tea to help swallow all this?’

‘If it’s okay I think I’ll stay and sit with Van. Just tell me how to get back home.’

She looks dubious. ‘Tara, you’re looking—’

‘Shanaye, I’m fine.’

‘It’s just that—’

‘Aunt Shanaye. I’m really fine.’

She shakes her head, disapproving, but in the end draws me a map on the back of my sketchbook. ‘Are you
sure
you’ll be all right?’

‘Really, I’m okay. Thanks for telling me.’

After several more assurances that I won’t do anything rash she disappears through the city of headstones. Finally I can make my way back to Van’s grave. The trouble is I don’t know how to get up close to it without the feeling that I’m trampling her. In the end I lie over top of her, belly down, cheek pressed against the grass and my fingertips in contact with the sun-warmed stone.

Oh, Van. How did it make you feel?
I was the cuckoo in the nest. The alien. Scratch me and my blood ran Orange.
But you were Mum’s daughter too. We both were. Spit-on images.
Two abominations cut from Medusa’s gut.

I don’t know how to feel about Mum. We lived in a
war zone of my parents’ making. They may’ve thought they got away, hidden halfway round the world, but the hate still ran strong in their blood. Can people live through things like that and not be filled with hate and rage?
Jesus bloody Christ! Gang-raped. They stole her future, fucked over her body and her mind.

Anger and disgust drowns everything, except the silent movie flicking through my head. The whites of her eyes. The thrashing limbs. The leers upon the faces of the boys, the men, the filthy raping bastards who held her down and forced themselves on her.
Seventeen
. The same age I am now. As Van.

How does she feel each day, pandering to doctors when she’d aspired to be one? Does she blame Van for that as well?
Of course.
Does she blame me?
I’ve been a slave to you; sacrificed my entire boggin’ life, Miss Hoity-Toit.
No wonder she hates me as well. Every achievement, every scrap of praise, rubbed her nose in what she’d lost. And if Dad blamed her, threw it in her face each time they argued, how could she ever heal? She was a prisoner, served up to Dad with the label
Damaged Goods.
All value gone. The only ones lower in the pecking order of her life were Van and me.

Was this what tipped the balance, Van?
This discovery that butterflies emerge from grubs?
We’re tainted. All of us. A family thing, just like poor Vincent.
Why not? His mother was unstable and depressed. Theo too. His uncle killed himself. What was his name?
Johannes
. Bloody hell.

I push myself up off the grass, feeling sick. I can’t believe I haven’t made this link before. When the hell does coincidence become a sign?
You want a sign?
I feel
the pull of eyes on me. Spin around. Three black crows perch in a tree, quite still. Vincent’s omens, dark and brooding, huddle on a branch like the three Fates.

I lunge at them, clapping my hands. ‘Geddout!’ Drive them, squawking, from the tree. But all they do is move on to the next tree and regroup, glinting eyes still fixed on me. ‘What do you want?’
Have to get out.

I take one last glance at Van’s headstone, and am caught again by the barrenness of the inscription.
So alone.
Did she sit there, watching Royan and Shanaye’s family banter while the contrasts ate away at her? Did she see that it doesn’t matter how welcoming they are, they already have a complete family unit; that they don’t need us?

The date on the stone calls to me.
July 12th
. On Friday it’ll be five years since our world stopped.

Hah! Hah! Hah!
the crows screech. They know they’ve reeled me in to this place, this time, to play the story out. Eye for eye. Tooth for tooth. Life for life.
Is that what you’re saying then?
That it’s inevitable? That I came here to join Van, to
really
join her?
Hah! Hah! Hah!

I grab my backpack and run, through the cemetery lawns, into open countryside, heading back the way we came. Can’t stop. Need to keep the pounding up to block the chorus in my head.

It’s not until I reach a small estate that I slow down. There’s a group of young mothers waiting for a bus, so I stop a little down the road, turned away from them. When the bus arrives I fumble with the unfamiliar currency, show him Shanaye’s map and climb aboard. The driver says he’ll tell me when to get off, so I sit back
and try not to think.
Not likely.
Eventually, I drag my sketchbook out and start to draw the faces of the people on the bus, surprised when the driver announces that we’ve reached my stop.

There’s a seedy little internet café at the end of Shanaye and Royan’s street. I go in to check my Facebook page. Still no word.

I walk back to the house with my head down to hide my tears. I thought, by finding out the truth, that the misery deep inside might ease. But things have gone from strange to bloody indescribable. Everything’s turned upside down and there’s no going back.

SHANAYE IS FOLDING ANOTHER
huge pile of washing when I reach their house.

‘Tara! Thank the Lord. I’ve been worrying. How are you, love?’

I slip into a dining chair and she passes me a pile of socks to pair. ‘Okay — though I still have lots of questions.’

‘I’ll make a cuppa then.’ She smiles. ‘Tea’s our
cure-all
. Meantime, fire away.’

‘Okay … What did Van do after you told her about Mum?’

Shanaye shudders. ‘It was awful. She went right in on herself. Wouldn’t talk. She took off with this boy she’d met — he was a real dead-beat, drink, drugs, the works. She’d come home late or not at all, so bollixed she could hardly stand. We tried to talk to her about it, but that just made it worse.’

‘Did you ever hear back from Mum after that letter Uncle Royan wrote?’

‘So you saw that, eh?’ Her lips tighten. ‘She said the poor kid would have to earn the money for her ticket home. It wasn’t long after Paddy’s second stroke, if you remember.’

‘Why didn’t Van have a return ticket?’

‘I’m not sure, but I suspect she cashed it in. We were going through a lean old time and the poor darlin’ hated not being able to contribute. But when she asked for help, Kathleen told her they were broke. If we’d had the money we’d have paid. As it was, we ended up borrowing to pay for the stone.’

‘I’m so sorry. I can give you some money …’

‘Oh, what’s a few more pounds when the need is there? We rub along. It’s not like we’re any different from our neighbours and friends.’

‘How long after Van heard back from Mum did she—’ My tears are one small word away.
I’m coming, Van. Only three days.

‘She told us she was going to trip around with her new friends. I was struggling with the baby, she was keeping us up at night. We didn’t think through the possible consequences …’

‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘I’ll never stop blaming myself, love. Poor Royan. He still has nightmares after identifying her.’

‘There’s nothing to feel guilty about.’ I’m glad they have each other. ‘I saw on a bit of paper that she died at some ancient site?’

‘That’s right. It’s called
Cnoc na Teamhrach
— The Hill of Tara.’

‘The
what
?’

Shanaye rests her hand on my shoulder. ‘Aye, I know. It seems particularly cruel.’

‘Not cruel,’ I manage to croak out. It means she thought of me. Planned that once I found this out, I would
know
. ‘Where is it?’

‘About forty minutes north of Dublin.’

‘Down south?’

She nods. ‘The boyfriend drove her there and dropped her off — the devil take his soul. He didn’t even stay to see if she was safe.’

‘What’s there?’

‘They say it once was the true seat of the High King of Ireland. There are standing stones, burial tombs, ring forts and barrows, the whole works.’

‘How did she know about it?’

‘I’m not sure. But those last few days before she left she didn’t spend much time with us. We were trying to get her help, but she didn’t want to know.’

‘Did she leave any kind of note? She sent me a really ambiguous letter.’

‘The night before she left she came into our bedroom and kissed us both. Told us she was feeling better. That she loved us. That she’d settled things inside her head. We were such eejits we thought it was a positive sign — until the police said that it probably meant she’d already made up her mind.’ The breath she expels is more shudder than sigh.

‘You have to listen to me, Shanaye. It’s really not your fault.’ I lean forward. ‘It was always going to come to a head.’ Van was a time bomb waiting to go off. All Shanaye and Royan did was try to help.
Too
much, too late, Miss T.

My head is throbbing now and my eyes want to close even though it’s only early afternoon. When Shanaye orders me to take a nap before the kids get home, I go without a fight. I’m still jetlagged; at home it’s the middle of the night.

The trouble is my brain won’t stop. I don’t know how to deal with the bombshell about Mum. Wish I didn’t know. Hate is so much easier when you’ve had the perfect role models. Do I really have to reassess my entire life — dredge up compassion for her even though she gave Van none?
The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children
… Even bloody Shakespeare knew: you can rail against your parents all you like, but you can’t change your DNA. Is this how Van felt? That her broken heart pumped a rapist’s blood? That nothing she could do would ever change that fact?

And what of this Hill of Tara? What the hell I am supposed to make of
that?
Is it something I should know about? Some key to help me understand her dying thoughts? Van always loved a game. Loved inventing stories to deflect the pain. She’d find me crying in the corner over something Mum or Dad had said and somehow would remove the sting. Then she’d shoo me off. Protect me from the carry-on.

Oh my god
,
I’ve been so blind
. The battles I remember — I thought they were all about her but so many times they’d started in on me before Van stepped in to deflect their blows. She wasn’t fighting for the joy of it; she was fighting for me. Countless times she could’ve walked away but didn’t.
That’s what big sisters do. Enter the lion’s den, even when you know there’s no way out.
That’s crazy.
Aren’t we all?
You could’ve left.
I stayed for you.
Oh great. So now I have to carry that guilt too?

I scrabble up and sink my head between my knees. Breathe deeply in and out to halt this nausea. It’s my fault. Mine. I held her there. Trapped her. Used her love so I could feel some control. I’m no better than Dad. Than Vincent, laying all his hurts and doubts at Theo’s feet, looking for rescue.
My life is threatened at the very root. My steps are wavering.

They say people who talk of suicide don’t go through with it, but that’s simply not true. I looked it up. The thing is, even if Vincent didn’t pull the trigger the will to die was always there. The seed.
Three days to go.
I feel Van call to me.
Come take my hand.
But I’m not you. I’ve lived first-hand the pain that suicide brings.
Not pain. Release. Relief for everyone. You’re the one final reminder of their shitty past. Give them a break.

I can’t stand it! I escape downstairs and offer to help Shanaye with the chores, relieved when Uncle Royan and the kids return. There’s homework to supervise, dinner, dishes, four picture books for Helen and Billy, then two chapters for the twins. By the time their lights go out my body’s craving bed. Not so my brain.

I join Royan and Shanaye in the kitchen and carefully compose my face. ‘I’d like to see the Hill of Tara.’

Dread infuses their smiles.

‘I’ll drive you,’ Royan says.

‘There’s no need. I’ll take a bus.’

He shakes his head. ‘Oh no you won’t. It’s not negotiable.’

‘But—’

‘Tara, darlin’,’ Shanaye says. ‘There’s no use arguing.
We mean to keep you safe.’

I love them for their care, though I’m sure they’ll be relieved when I’m gone. ‘Okay. But only if you let me pay for petrol.’

Royan grins. ‘You’re as stubborn as your ma!’ He offers me his hand to shake. ‘We have a deal.’

‘Could we go Friday?’

‘As soon as that?’ He looks at Shanaye. ‘Love?’ She nods. ‘Well, okay then, Friday it shall be.’

I kiss them both goodnight and go into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Shanaye taps lightly on the door.

‘I’ve something that might help, Tara. I’m betting you could do with a good rest?’ She opens up the cabinet above the basin and reaches for a pill bottle at the very back of the top shelf. Takes something out. Opens her hand to reveal a small blue pill. ‘The doctor gave me these after everything with Van. They’ll send you off.’

In bed, waiting for the pill to bring on sleep, I think about the story Max told me — though now it seems a lifetime ago. Survivor guilt, he said. Buried trauma that haunts you, maybe even poisons you, until you deal with it or else it ruins your life. It’s not so different from Mum and Dad — especially Mum. Except that Max pushed through it, found a way to love — like Royan and Shanaye, despite the terrors of their youth. What makes one person strong enough? No, not strong exactly.
Resilient
. Ah yes. What makes one person resilient while another slips a knot?

OVER THE NEXT TWO
days an executioner’s clock ticks off the hours in my head. Despite their attempts to draw me in, I shrink away from the family. It’s not my life. Never will be. I’m a foreigner. An awkward disruption in their lives.

No word comes from Johannes and my compulsive checking doesn’t help. I should know better. I thought we had something but I was wrong. I was convenient, no more than a short-lived diversion. Anyway, better this quick release — he’d soon have tired of me. I draft a dozen emails to Max, but how can he help when he’s half a world away?

I visit Van each day. Take flowers, clean off the lichen, generally buff up her stone. I tell her about the darkness creeping like a graphite glaze over my heart. She whispers back, counting down the hours.
Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Soon we’ll be together, just us two.

When Friday dawns I help ready the kids for school. Royan’s arranged for us to stay in Dublin overnight so I have time to see the sights. Now the day has come, I’m calm, at peace. The thought of joining Van is far more preferable to living on alone. I pack oil pastels and my sketchbook. The last things I secrete inside my backpack are a bottle of whiskey and Shanaye’s sleeping pills. There are twenty-five inside, I counted again yesterday. Enough to make sure I can end the pain. That’s all I want. To still this whirlpool in my head.

As we head out through the streets there are Union Jack pennants strung between the houses and milling groups of people — the men dressed in dark suits, white gloves and bowler hats, each sporting an orange
sash around their shoulders, some even brandishing ceremonial swords. The women wear their Sunday best.

‘What’s going on?’

Uncle Royan shakes his head slowly, expelling a long sigh. ‘It’s the Orangemen’s day. They parade about rubbing our noses in the fact they won the Battle of the Boyne.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It was in 1690 — the Proddy king William of Orange won a battle over James II. The bastards use it as a chance to stir up trouble every year.’

Jesus, Van, sign on bloody sign. Picking a date like this was bound to stick it to Mum. You never cease to amaze me.
‘You think there’ll be trouble today?’

‘I hope not, lass. I’ve given Shannie the hard word to keep the kids inside when they get home from school.’

‘No one’s ever going to let it go, are they?’

‘Never, lass. It’s part of who we are.’

No wonder Mum and Dad couldn’t put their pasts behind them; the whole damn country’s one big weeping scab. Van and I never stood a chance with the weight of all this history looming over us.

Once we leave the city, we drive towards the great divide between the north and south, through pretty villages and stone-fenced fields. What was Van thinking five years back? Had she already shopped for rope both thick and long enough to end her life? Was she lucid? Drunk? On drugs? Did the boyfriend stop off at the hardware store, not questioning the package she brought back? What if she didn’t mean to die, instead got caught up in dramatics that went horribly wrong?
Stop thinking, Miss T! Stick to the plan.

Beside me, Uncle Royan does his best to keep things cheerful, telling funny stories from his youth. The Kathleen he describes bears no resemblance to my mum: she sounds more full of life, sharp-witted, railing at the restrictions imposed upon her.

‘Actually, she sounds a lot like Van.’

Uncle Royan smiles. ‘Seeing Van, then you, is like looking back into the past. The two of you are Kathleen reborn.’

Is it possible Mum saw this too? She must’ve hated how Van threw away her opportunities when Mum had none. No doubt Van’s sleeping around pressed a truckload of her buttons too. And Dad’s. Not that it lets them off the hook. Exactly how much damaged viciousness is allowable before your quota’s up? At some point, surely, you have to take responsibility — decide enough’s enough. Like I’m doing now.

I force myself to focus on the landscape and am surprised how quickly Royan turns off the motorway. A few minutes further on we pull into a car park by an old stone building. My head pulses and everything inside grows tense.

We walk up to the site, where a huge ridge runs around the rim of a wide flat-topped hill. ‘They’re earthworks from an Iron Age hill fort called the Fort of Kings.’ Royan points to the perimeter, where the ridges rise beneath the grass.

I can’t comprehend this kind of age. Have never seen
anything
this old formed by human hands. ‘Old’ at home means three or four hundred years. The awe I feel is giddying.