February 2018
I woke to sun’s rays streaming through a gap in the curtains, and dust particles raining down like a snow shower. I squeezed my eyes closed, having to think for a moment where I was. The sudden realisation I was in Ireland sent a mixture of relief and apprehension through my body. It felt good to be away from my normal life for a few days, but what would I find out while I was here in County Sligo? What would I discover at Evermore Farmhouse?
Then I remembered the friend request I’d received in the early hours, and shot up in bed, grabbing the top of my head, as though my brains might explode.
After a few moments I grabbed the journal I’d been keeping since Zoe suggested it.
I opened up the page where I’d jotted down the friend requests I’d received:
I added the latest one:
As with the other requests, it had been impossible to find anything online about Flora Phillips – there just wasn’t enough to go on.
I thought about what the odd variations on nursery rhymes could mean, and shuddered. They’d been so creepy, all suggesting someone getting hurt – the fire, the bump on the head, the fall down the stairs.
Suddenly everything that had happened played through my mind like a film on fast forward: the calls, the man who’d wanted to meet me at the Emirates Stadium, my mum’s despair when she’d seen the mysterious painting. The photos I’d found at her house.
I slammed closed my notebook. I needed to find out why my mother had kept secrets from me – what happened in Ireland when I was small. And what, if anything, did Evermore Farmhouse have to do with it?
I rose, stretched, and pulled back the drapes to see a clear, pastel-blue sky. There was no doubting it would be cold out, but for a moment, as I pushed my body against the warm radiator under the window, I kidded myself it was summer. That I could go down to the nearby beach in my shorts and T-shirt, and kick off my Converse and wiggle my toes in the warm sand – not too close to the water.
Benbulbin stood proud in the distance. My mum had read Yeats’s poem about the mountain to me when I was young. It was fascinating to see it for myself, the unusual shape that gave it its local name ‘Table Mountain’. Why had Ronan Murphy used it as his profile picture? Was it to lure me here?
I leaned forward, my nose touching the window, attempting to breathe in the peace and solitude on the other side of the glass – almost forgetting why I was there. Then the moment popped like a balloon, and I was back, ready to find out everything I could about my mum’s time in Ireland – everything I could about my past.
I showered, although it was more of a dribble, barely wetting my hair. The bed and breakfast was cosy, and the couple who ran it, friendly, but the place was dated, with swirling patterned carpets in oranges and browns, and a brown Dralon three-piece suite and a hefty-backed TV in the lounge. But then I wasn’t here for luxury.
My hair felt light under my fingers as I dried it, and I was thankful that Zoe had cut the weight from it. The nick she’d made with her scissors was now a scab waiting to fall. I dragged on the pair of jeans I’d discarded on the floor the night before, and a clean sweatshirt, along with thick socks and fur-lined ankle boots. My stomach let out a gurgle. I was starving.
The dining room was small, with an old-fashioned sideboard covered with a lace tablecloth, and laden with cereal, fruit, and juices. I served myself, and once I was back at the table a pleasant young waitress brought over a jug of coffee.
Fed and caffeine-fixed, I thumbed through the things I’d taken from my mother’s house: the photograph of me and the three other children at Evermore Farmhouse. The newspaper cutting about the crash that killed Jacqueline McCutcheon at Devil’s Corner – why hadn’t Mum told me more about my grandparents’ accident? Didn’t she want me looking into her? I pushed down a sudden anger rising inside me. I hated that she’d kept things from me. I hated that I felt I didn’t know her at all.
I left the bed and breakfast and hurried along the road towards my hire car, pulling on my parka. According to the satnav, I would be at Evermore Farmhouse in fifteen minutes.
The car took several attempts to start, and I growled inside, but it eventually spluttered into life, and I was on my way, heading along quiet narrow roads, winding my way into the countryside. The ride was pleasant, no snow to speak of, so I turned up the radio, and tried to enjoy the scenery.
It was gone ten when I pulled up next to a set of security gates, and my satnav announced I’d reached my destination – Evermore Farmhouse.
I got out of the car. There were no other buildings close by. No traffic noise – only the chirping of birds, and the rustle of wildlife in a nearby wood. I wasn’t afraid of the silence. In fact, I felt energised, full of determination.
I peered through the wrought-iron gate at a pretty farmhouse at the end of a cobbled drive, and pressed the buzzer. I waited … and waited, stomping from foot to foot. Nobody came, and my eyes fell on the side gate. It was ajar. I zipped up my parka, and, before my confidence evaporated, I opened the gate and walked up the drive.
The farmhouse looked more like the photograph sent by Ronan Murphy, very different from my mother’s paintings. The place had been renovated and extended since my mother took a brush to canvas. It was pale pink, and a trellis arch framed the front door where, I knew from the photograph, roses grew in summer. There was no sign of hens, or any animals come to that. It didn’t appear to be a functioning farm, and I wondered if it ever was. There were a few outbuildings, a double garage, and a patio in a shaded area near the lake with garden furniture, a tree barren of leaves, and a rowing boat moored nearby.
‘Can I help you?’
I stopped halfway up the drive, and turned to see a tall man of about sixty, with a shock of greying hair, heading towards me from the wood, a silky, black Labrador by his side.
‘Sorry … do you live here?’ I said. I knew I was trespassing.
He came closer. ‘Yes,’ he said. He was Irish, although his accent was watered down, and he seemed vaguely familiar.
‘I’m a bit lost,’ I said, not sure why I was lying. Why I didn’t come right out and tell him why I was there – proceed with questions I was itching to ask about the place. But something stopped me.
‘Where were you heading?’
Then it hit me. ‘Oh my God, you’re Felix T Clarke!’ I’d seen him before when he’d signed his novel in my local bookshop, and he’d written a few kind words too. Plus his photograph was on the back of all his books. He’d even played a cameo in the TV dramas based on his novels – a bit like Stan Lee in the Marvel movies, or Colin Dexter in Morse and Lewis.
He smiled, seeming pleased I recognised him. ‘That’s right,’ he said, glancing at the farmhouse. ‘I’ve been cooped up for the last few months hoping to get my next novel finished. My publishers are biting at my heels.’
I confess, I felt awestruck – much like the time I leapt across the organic veg in Sainsbury’s to ask for Robbie Williams’ autograph. Zoe had almost wet herself laughing when I’d zipped back to where she was waiting with my trolley, with a complete stranger’s signature – Mark Bristow, I think his name was.
But there was no doubting this was one of my favourite authors – here, right in front of me. He’d sold millions of books. The dramas were on prime TV.
‘Wow! Fancy seeing you here,’ I said, knowing I sounded ridiculous. After all, I was the one who’d arrived uninvited.
He smiled and stuck out his leather-gloved hand for me to shake, as his dog sniffed my crotch, which I tried desperately to ignore.
‘I adore The Inspector Bronte Mysteries,’ I went on, as he released my hand. ‘I’ve got all the novels, and the Blu-ray box set – although the early episodes are on Sky now, aren’t they? Probably should have saved my money. But they’re nice to have.’ I was rambling, but didn’t seem to be able to stop. ‘Lots of people don’t bother with Blu-rays these days do they? What with digital downloads – but I’m a bit old-fashioned. Although I own a Kindle and a Mac, and I never buy CDs any more, so I guess I’m not a complete technophobe.’
Another smile crossed his lips, as I came up for breath. ‘Who are you?’ he said, raising a brow.
‘Ah … well my name’s Rachel …’
‘Lovely name,’ he cut in. ‘There was a character named Rachel in one of my books.’
‘Yes, I remember – she disappeared.’
‘That’s right.’ He’d lost his smile, and was studying me with dark eyes. ‘So you’re lost?’
‘Yes … well, no.’
‘So, which is it?’
‘Well, the thing is … I’m doing a bit of family history research.’
‘And it brought you here?’ Another raised brow.
‘Mmm.’
‘Well I guess you’d better come in,’ he said, striding towards the farmhouse. ‘Duke,’ he called, and his dog followed. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ he said, disappearing inside.
I moved closer to the farmhouse, and peered through the window to see Felix with his back to me, filling a kettle. I placed my palm on the glass, but snatched it away immediately. It was as though it had burnt my skin. Dizzy, I grabbed the windowsill to steady myself, knocking a plant pot to the ground, where it smashed and soil scattered.
Flashes of distorted memories filled my head – blood pooling on the floor, a child, limp and motionless.
I gasped, tears in my eyes as I turned, stumbling away, my stomach turning and churning. Halfway down the drive, I bent over double, retching and coughing.
Are these real memories? Oh God, they can’t be.
I continued to stagger onwards, needing to get away.
‘Rachel!’ It was Felix.
‘I’m not feeling well,’ I called, not looking back.
I dived through the gate and into the car, tears rolling down my cheeks.
But even as I pushed my foot down on the throttle, desperate to get away, something told me I must go back.