Don't Look Back (9 page)

‘Why do you keep rubbing your throat?' he asked.

I wasn't conscious of doing this, but as soon as he pointed it out I realized why. ‘I had that nightmare again, the one where I'm choking and it feels like I'm dying. It was so real, worse than it's ever been.'

‘It's all this stress over Patrick,' he said. ‘Is there any point me telling you again to just stop?'

My reply was to burrow further into the seat. Harry didn't nag me. He'd made his feelings perfectly plain, but then so had I; my search wouldn't end until I found my brother. When we reached my house I heaved a sigh and flung open the passenger door. I walked up my front drive trying to dodge the cracks in the flags, the way I used
to do.
If I don't step on a crack, Patrick will be happy and Mum and Dad might stop arguing. Maybe Mum will learn to love me
. Before I had time to insert my key the front door opened. My mother was standing on the doorstep bristling with expectation, her eyes slicing into me.

I held up both hands as if to deflect a blow. ‘I've made progress, but it might take a bit more time.'

My mother stayed silent as I stepped inside, which I always found worse than being roared at. I walked into the living room and sat down in a chair, inhaling the scent of lemon polish. The room was spotless as usual, hardly homely, the wood sparkling like glass. I joined my hands in my lap, feeling like I was five again, in trouble for something. My mother remained standing, waiting for me to speak.

‘I know how worried you are about Patrick and … I didn't want to tell you until I was sure but … I think he's playing our game, Mum, the one where I follow his footsteps.'

Her face immediately brightened. ‘I remember how much you loved that game. Patrick was always so clever like that. And how close are you to reaching him?'

I was momentarily stunned. Mum was reacting as if all this was totally normal. I searched her face, but she only seemed interested in my answer. ‘Well … Harry's been helping me and we know from one of Patrick's neighbours that he's been working, but she didn't know where. We
think he might have been taken on at a place called Benedict House.'

‘Benedict House?' she repeated.

‘You know it?'

She pursed her lips and nodded slowly. ‘The Benedicts were one of the oldest Catholic families in Britain.'

‘Were?'

‘I'm not sure they're resident any more. I heard the family broke up or even died out. They have some arrangement with the Church to take care of the estate.'

‘What could Patrick be doing there?'

‘I really don't know. The house is overgrown and crumbling … like the house that time forgot.'

I grimaced at this awful cliché, wondering if she was trying to annoy me, but she seemed strangely distracted. I wondered how we could be so different. I was tall and skinny with dark hair and olive skin; she was much shorter and quite stocky, with fair flyaway hair that seemed to frizz when she was angry. She always seemed to be angry when I was around, and today was no exception. I should have been used to it, but it still hurt.

Her mouth crimped. ‘You'll go there and bring him home, Sinead.'

This wasn't a request but an order. Remembering my recent conversations with Harry I had a compulsion to put the record straight. But it wasn't easy. I'd never stood up to my mother over Patrick, and my heart was thudding violently. I cleared my throat and managed to
hold her gaze without flinching, but my eyes widened nervously.

‘This is the last time I'm … going to do this, Mum. I think Patrick needs to stand on his own two feet more and I need to … kind of … find my own life.'

‘Find your own life?' she echoed with contempt. ‘Life is about looking after family. If the situations were reversed, Patrick wouldn't abandon you.'

But the situations aren't reversed, and Patrick is draining my life blood.

‘I'm not
abandoning
him,' I said, ‘just trying to make him take more responsibility for himself.'

My mother switched to sweetness, her voice falsely cloying. ‘You and Patrick were so close when you were children – everyone would comment on it. He loved you so much, Sinead, and he still does. I know he has his …
issues,
but remember how things used to be. Remember your golden childhood.'

I tried to recall this golden childhood. When Patrick was in a good mood everywhere appeared sunny and bright, full of dancing rainbow colours, but whenever his dark mood descended the world would instantly turn black. Seeing his features turn ugly and brooding always made me want to crawl under a stone and hide.

My mother sniffed. ‘What's brought on this change of heart?'

‘I'm feeling ill,' I answered. ‘I think my asthma's come back.'

I don't know what made me say this because I rarely managed to get any sympathy for myself. My mother did a spectacular eye roll. ‘It's all in your head, Sinead.' She muttered under her breath, ‘Maybe it always was.'

I looked at her indignantly. She knew how deeply my breathing problems had affected me, but now she was making out it was all in my mind.
What's going on?
I was still wary of challenging her, but Harry had made me feel stronger and more determined to take control. I took a breath. ‘What did you mean, Mum,
maybe it always was
?'

I saw a shadow of fear cloud her features. ‘Nothing. It was just a slip of the tongue.'

I couldn't let this drop. Something wasn't right, but it felt as if I was wading through quicksand. I straightened my back. ‘If my asthma was so trivial, then why did I always wake up choking? I still have nightmares about it.'

She pressed one hand against her brow. ‘You're being as dramatic now as you were when you were little, making a crisis out of nothing.'

‘It wasn't nothing to me, Mum. I remember slowly blacking out … my throat gurgling as I struggled to breathe … I knew what was happening; I knew I was dying.'

‘Rubbish!' she snapped. ‘You were too young to know anything of the sort.'

‘Dad took me seriously,' I said quietly.

My mother's eyes fluttered violently and she swayed a little as if she felt faint. She usually tried this if she
wasn't getting her own way, blaming it on her nerves, the heat or a sudden headache. Astonished that for once I'd out-manipulated her I stood and guided her into a chair, pretending concern. I even went into the kitchen to get her an aspirin and a glass of water.

She looked at me wanly. ‘You've made me so out of sorts, Sinead, coming home and dredging up things from the past.'

I didn't bother pointing out that she had summoned me home. I still refused to let her off the hook. ‘My asthma attacks?' I prompted.

She gave a small shudder and sipped the water suspiciously as if it had been poisoned. ‘I barely remember … you were an incredibly wilful child. You could hold your breath until you turned blue.'

This was news to me. I glared at her, a deep frown scoring my forehead. ‘But it can't have been deliberate, and I can't have been holding my breath. I was always asleep when it happened.'

She rubbed her thumbs on her temples, her expression pained. ‘Whatever you think
might
have happened, you must remember that in childhood nothing is real. Every shadow and sound in your room becomes a monster trying to hurt you.'

My voice grew shriller. ‘I don't
think
anything. I don't remember. I want you to tell me – you must know.'

‘I know how it feels to be a mother,' she replied, her tone injured. ‘I know about difficult choices and how you
have to trust your instincts to protect your child. You'll be a mother yourself some day, Sinead, and then you might understand.'

I'll never become a mother. I can't even imagine myself properly grown up, no matter how hard I try. I can't conjure any future for myself at all; I never have been able to.

The doorbell rang and relief crossed my mother's face. I went to answer it. I was so shocked to see Sara that I gawped at her and couldn't say a word.

‘Aren't you going to invite me in?' she asked.

I took Sara into the kitchen and motioned to her to sit at the table. I boiled the kettle and groaned inwardly, already sensing an atmosphere. I was no good at this suppressed-tension/walking-on-eggshells thing that other girls seemed to do so well. Boys just came right out and said why they were pissed off with you. I placed a cup of coffee on the kitchen table, making sure to use a coaster and wipe the drips from the spoon to stop my mother going ballistic. I noticed that Sara was dressed up. She was wearing a fitted floral dress that suited her curvy figure, and cork sandals with wedge heels. Her face was made up as well, smoky grey eyes and shiny lips.

‘You look really great. I love that dress,' I said, hoping that compliments would cover the fact that our friendship seemed to have waned. ‘Are you going out tonight?'

‘I'm meeting some of the girls from school; I thought you might join us.'

I wrinkled my nose with regret. ‘It isn't a good time right now. There's stuff going on at home … Mum's upset –'

I waited for Sara to ask why but she didn't. She looked at me closely. ‘No one's seen you for weeks, Sinead. It's like you've cut yourself off.'

I gave a tight smile. ‘I've just been busy, you know me, so much to do and never enough hours in a day.'

‘So you're not avoiding us? Some of the girls think you're being really … standoffish.'

Her tone had a definite edge and my face grew hot. ‘I am not standoffish. I've a lot on at the moment, stuff I can't get out of.' Her sceptical glance made me defensive. ‘Besides, it's not as if I won't see everyone again. Most people are staying on at school.'

Sara carefully put down her cup. ‘Not everyone.'

Our kitchen was stifling and I picked up a place mat and fanned myself. ‘Why? Who's leaving?'

She looked at me so strangely that I cringed inside. She seemed angry, let down and sad, all at the same time. ‘Me, Sinead – I'm not coming back to school.'

‘Don't be daft,' I answered, now confused.

‘I'm going to college to do a vocational course in social care.'

‘But … why didn't you tell me?'

Sara began counting on her fingers in a really sarcastic way. ‘Well, I texted you six times and called you five times, but you were always too busy, always desperately rushing somewhere.'

‘If you'd just explained why –'

‘I wanted to tell you face to face.'

Something stuck in my throat; Sara was so angry with me and school wouldn't be the same without her. And now I had to confront my fear that this really was the end of the road for our friendship.

‘I'm really happy for you,' I muttered. ‘I just didn't see it coming.'

Sara shook her head at me in a way that implied I was beyond hope. ‘You never see what's under your nose, Sinead; you're just too busy steamrolling your way through life, trampling everyone in your path to save time … but you don't know what for.'

I tried to laugh this off but it was difficult because she sounded so final. ‘Surely I'm not that bad?'

Her voice was dangerously low. ‘What about the way you treat Harry?'

Guilty feelings stirred inside me but I chose to ignore them. ‘What about Harry?'

Sara rummaged in her bag. I think she was inventing an excuse not to look at me. ‘Everyone knows how he feels about you … and how you just string him along.'

‘He's a big boy now, Sara, and makes his own decisions. Anyway … he's a good friend and I really care about him.'

‘Not the way he cares about you,' she answered pointedly. ‘You should let him go, Sinead, so he can find someone who –'

She stopped abruptly and my eyes went wide as the
penny dropped. Finally I understood the tension that was always present when Sara was around Harry and me. She resented my relationship with him because she wanted him for herself, but why did she wait until now to let me know? Until she was ready to dump me?

‘Is that what this is about, Sara? You like Harry?'

Her face momentarily lit up but she quickly put her head down. ‘I just don't like to see him used –'

Guilty feelings rose inside me. ‘I've never encouraged him … and … I'm sorry if you're jealous.'

‘I'm not jealous,' she answered, taking out her compact and rubbing more lip gloss expertly on her lips. ‘I actually feel … sorry for you. You're going to end up isolated and really lonely.'

I didn't want her to see how much she was getting to me. ‘I'm sorry I let you down,' I said sarcastically. ‘Sorry I'm not a better friend, sorry I have the emotional range of an android, but I've been busy with Patrick … He isn't the easiest person … and now he's –'

‘There you go again.' Sara got up, slinging her bag over one shoulder in a way that told me she wanted to end the conversation and was determined to have the last word. ‘Patrick is always your excuse.'

‘Excuse for what?' I asked angrily.

‘Excuse not to live.' She gave me one last crushing glance before she walked out of my house and left me staring at the wall.

Harry picked me up just before midday to take me to Benedict House. As he drove I studied his profile, Sara's words still in the back of my mind. The weird thing was he seemed especially attractive today and I feared this might be because I knew Sara wanted him. The decent thing would be to tell him once and for all not to waste his time hoping for romance between us, but something prevented me from being honest. Only five miles from the city were fields filled with corn as tall as a child, jaunty scarecrows and Lilliput houses with doorways that would barely come up to my chin. I even saw a sign for an old forge and a museum of farm vehicles, which couldn't have been the most exciting attraction in the world.