Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense (18 page)

E
veryone’s story has a beginning
. An instant when the earth moves. When ovum and sperm collide, collude, create. Biological facts are difficult to dispute. But afterwards, after the downward swim into light, what then? As Eva clawed the air, as she uttered her first mucousy cry, was she held briefly in a stranger’s arms? Or did she lie abandoned, welcomed into the world with a stone?

On her forehead there was a dent, so slight it was difficult to see, covered by purple skin, almost transparent. A shiny purple coin. A fairy kiss that was, according to her father, bestowed on her the instant she was born. When she was older, she demanded a more rational explanation and sensible Liz provided it. A fall from the high steps at the back of the house when she was waltzing around in her baby walker. Her hair was heavy, a curly weight over her forehead. A birthmark was easy to ignore. She never paid attention to it until the night her grandmother confided harsh secrets into her ear and Eva finally understood.

She’d been six months old when she first came to Ashton, a soft blanket replacing sackcloth and the unyielding earth.

‘A cocoon of love,’ said Liz.

‘A fairy princess,’ said Steve. They had been trying for a long time to conceive a child, vigorously at first, then with grim and timely discipline. Month had followed disappointing month, and the arrival of this frail miracle child into their lives was a cause for rowdy celebration. Her parents had deep roots in Ashton and their families, the Frawleys and the Loughreys, arrived in droves to raise their glasses and welcome Eva into their lives.

Steve sang ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’ and Liz’s sister, Annie Loughrey, played her fiddle until Liz, mindful of early-morning feeds and mysterious milk formulas, swept the revellers from her doorstep in the small hours.

Ashton was a small Wicklow backwater, and those who lived in its shade of spruce and beech prayed it would remain so. Steve’s garden centre was a familiar landmark with a reputation that brought customers from the hinterland and beyond. Next door, Liz ran the guest house, Wind Fall, catering to commercial travellers and hillwalkers. While the garden centre budded and blossomed with the demands of the seasons, the ordered serenity of Wind Fall never varied.

Eva woke each morning to the sound of her mother’s footsteps passing her bedroom door as Liz went downstairs to prepare breakfast for the overnight guests. She made no secret of her daughter’s adoption, fearing traumatic disclosures in school playgrounds or in the hothouse environment of family parties if elderly relatives drank too much gin. At night, Steve sat by her bed and uttered the magical words that began her story.

‘Eva’s Journey to Happiness’ was a fairy story of thwarted puppy love and family feuding: a vicious vendetta that forced a young girl and boy to give their love child to a convent of kindly nuns, who passed her on as a gift to her parents. Eva imagined herself as a parcel, wrapped in birthday paper and streamers. Her body tingled with sympathy for the puppy lovers and their desperate attempts to be together. But she remained untouched by any emotional reality, settling down to sleep afterwards with the same sense of exhausted contentment she experienced after the telling of ‘Rapunzel’ or ‘The Sleeping Beauty’. Maria, her cousin, suffered regular crises of identity and confessed to Eva that she harboured deep suspicions that she too was adopted. It would explain everything. A swan in a nest of ugly ducklings. But that was during her teenage years, the war years when all Maria wanted from life was to muck out stables and vow eternal devotion to horses.

For Eva, horses served only one function: bearers of dung for her father’s precious plants. Maria hated the smell of roses and walked unheedingly over seedling beds until Steve barred her from entering the garden centre. Eva and her cousin were the same age – best friends, incompatible and inseparable.

When Maria grew tired of feeding sugar lumps to her favourite horses and mucking out stables at the Ashton Equestrian Centre, and Eva was not needed in the garden centre, they played in the long meadow grass or swam on summer evenings in Murtagh’s River, soft sloshing mud between their toes, snapping rushes on their bare skin, the flow of water, boggy and brown, rippling over their shoulders. Sensations that belonged to a small space in summer yet, later, looking back to those days, they seemed to span the whole of Eva’s childhood.

One evening, they saw Maria’s older sister, Lorrie, walking hand in hand with Brendan Fitzsimon through the long grass in Murtagh’s Meadow. They sank down in a hollow by the riverbank and failed to notice the girls hiding behind the bushes. A spasm of shock swooped through Eva as Lorrie lifted her slender knees and Brendan lay between them. Eva flattened her body deeper into the earth. When she looked across at her cousin, the glazed brightness of Maria’s eyes and the flushed bloom on her cheeks reflected her own feelings. They began to giggle convulsively, hands clasping mouths, as they crawled away, terrified a snapped twig or the waving ferns would betray their presence.

Out of earshot they flung themselves on the ground, rolling wildly over the grass. ‘Disgusting, oh my God, it’s so disgusting.’ They gasped, breathless and giggling, vowing they would never ever allow any man to do such awful things to them. As their blood cooled they became thoughtful. Maria wondered if her parents did it.

‘You bet your life they do,’ Eva replied. Maria’s brother was six months old so it seemed a safe enough assumption to make, even if it was impossible to imagine her fragile Aunt Claire squashed beneath Uncle Jack, who auctioned cattle and had a voice as loud as a drum being played too fast. Her parents did not need to do it because they had adopted her. She felt proud of Liz and Steve. It set them apart from everyone else, gave them a dignity that removed them from damp riverbanks, trampled grass and noises that still sang inside her head.

Soon afterwards, she asked her mother how long she had stayed with the puppy lovers before she was sent to the convent. She wanted Liz’s practical answers rather than the gentle rambling stories Steve would offer.

‘Six months,’ Liz said. ‘You were a delicate child.’ Suddenly, her words had a hollow ring, an echo Eva could not penetrate. For the first time the full significance of ‘Eva’s Journey to Happiness’ dawned on her, and she understood how she, and not the rebellious Maria, became the swan in the nest of the clamorous Frawley and Loughrey clans. But this realisation did not fill her with curiosity about her past. She loved her parents and questions as to why, when, where and how she came to share their lives were irrelevant.

W
hen Eva completed
her Leaving Certificate examination she decided to study horticulture. Steve was suspicious of his daughter’s need for diplomas and degrees.

‘Haven’t I taught you everything you need to know?’ he demanded, shaking his head when Eva outlined her plans for the future. ‘You don’t need a fancy piece of parchment to tend a sick rose. A diploma won’t heal an ailing hydrangea if you can’t give it the loving touch.’

Her father’s ability to personalise his plants and shrubs was an endearing trait, but on the subject of parchment Eva was adamant. She wanted to become a garden designer and host her own television series. Frawleys of Ashton would be the perfect backdrop, she said.

Steve shuddered away from such ambitions, imagining bossy television producers ordering him around his beloved rose arbour and cameramen trampling his geraniums. He was a simple son of the soil, content to live his life selling his bedding plants, fruit orchards and weeping willows.

When Eva emerged from horticultural college, waving her fancy piece of parchment, she decided the time had come to modernise and expand his business. A new, state-of-the-art computer was installed. It reduced Steve to palpitations every time he laid his hands on the keyboard. She drew up a three-year marketing programme, forcing him to watch graphics and spreadsheets flicking across the screen. She submitted a proposal to RTÉ for her television series and waited in vain for a reply. When she suggested buying the field next to the centre and turning it into a landscaped show garden with her design service and a coffee shop attached, he shook his head firmly.

‘People want to dig their own gardens,’ he argued. ‘It’s therapy, fresh air, good exercise.’ His voice held more than a hint of suspicion that Eva was undermining his authority.

She told him about the time pressure young couples were under, how they were too busy to feel the soil under their fingernails. They had parking bays and gravel lawns and terracotta pots on patios. Those with gardens wanted water features and Zen layouts and lakes of exotic fish swimming under delicate water lilies.

‘Not my customers.’ He shook his head decisively. ‘They want to pot and plant, to see the familiar flowers unfold with the seasons. It’s the best therapy they can get.’

Her grandmother advised her to strike out on her own. As the owner of the Biddy’s Bits ’n’ Pieces chain of souvenir shops, Brigid Loughrey was a shrewd businesswoman who had made a fortune selling garish tri-colour mugs, shamrocks and shillelaghs. She had no problem tackling the intricacies of the World Wide Web and blocked her ears when anyone dared mention retirement.

‘You’ll never be able to move your father,’ she told Eva. ‘Steve runs his garden centre the way he wants it and forcing his arm will do neither of you any good. There’s no sense burying your ambitions in Ashton, especially when you’ve so many excellent ideas.’

‘What good are my ideas when I’ve no money to put them into practice?’ Eva asked.

‘Then borrow,’ replied Brigid. ‘How do you think I started my first shop? By emptying my piggy bank?’

Eva was still contemplating her future when Frank O’Donovan, a distant relation to her father, died. Eva had never heard of him until Steve read the death notice in the
Irish Independent
and decided to attend his funeral. Her parents left Ashton the following morning and Eva, busy throughout the day in the garden centre, was shocked when a phone call from Anaskeagh Regional Hospital informed her that her parents had been injured in a car accident. The nurse quickly reassured her there was no need to worry. It was a minor accident; Liz would be discharged in the morning and Steve transferred to a Dublin hospital within the next few days. Eva left immediately, driving westwards, obsessively repeating the nurse’s words but unable to find a crumb of comfort in her crisp, clinical reassurances.

On the approach road to Anaskeagh, a tractor in front of Steve had suddenly stalled. Although her father had managed to brake in time, the driver following behind had skidded on the wet surface and ploughed into the back of his car.

It was late when Eva reached the small country town. Liz was sitting by Steve’s bed. His arm was broken and X-rays had revealed a number of cracked ribs. Eva stared at the intravenous drip feeding into his arm and the closed screens surrounding his bed.

‘I was so scared. Don’t you dare do anything like that to me ever again,’ she scolded him, then started weeping fiercely. Steve winced from her embrace, his body still in shock from the impact of the collision.

‘It’s not the end of the world, pet. I’ll be right as rain in a day or so.’ He offered her a tissue with his free hand and stroked her head. ‘Sure, isn’t it hard to kill a bad thing?’

Eva was blowing her nose when she became aware that another person had entered the ward and was standing at the foot of the bed. She noticed his eyes first, a penetrating blue stare that had an unsettling familiarity, yet she couldn’t think where they might have met.

‘Good heavens, Greg! It’s so late.’ Liz rose to her feet and warmly greeted the stranger. ‘I didn’t expect to see you back here again.’

‘I wanted to make sure everything was okay before I returned to the hotel.’ His eyes swept over Eva and he gave an apologetic nod when Liz introduced him as the driver who had been behind them when the crash occurred. He had been discharged earlier and, apart from a bandage around his left hand, he seemed unscathed.

‘It’s been a most unfortunate day for all of us,’ sighed Liz. ‘But Greg’s done everything he can to help us through it.’

‘If there’s anything else I can do—’ He glanced enquiringly at Steve, who shook his head, his body in spasm when he tried to cough.

‘For starters, you could try practising the rules of the road,’ Eva snapped, hearing the painful rasp of her father’s breath. Recalling her terror on the long drive to Anaskeagh, her voice shook with anger. ‘I hope you’re satisfied with your day’s work. You could have killed my parents with your careless driving.’

‘I’ve already made my apologies to them and I’m glad to have an opportunity to apologise to you in person.’ He made no effort to defend himself. ‘I’m sorry you had to hear such frightening news over the phone. I can only imagine the shock you got—’

‘You’re right – it was a shock,’ she interrupted, suspecting that such an abject apology was simply a ruse to diffuse her anger. ‘Hopefully you’ll remember that the next time you drive too close to the car in front.’

‘There’s no need to be so upset, Eva.’ Liz’s grave voice calmed her down. ‘Greg has accepted full responsibility for the accident and we’ve sorted everything out between us. All that matters is that we’re alive to tell the tale.’

‘If there’s any way I can make amends…’ His voice trailed away as he shoved his hands into his pockets, the shock of the accident visible for an instant on his face. After he said goodbye to her parents she rose and followed him outside to the corridor.

‘Thank you for stopping by to see them,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry for sounding off in there. I’m not usually so rude when I meet people for the first time.’

‘Then, perhaps, when all this is over, you’ll have a chance to prove it.’ When he smiled he no longer seemed so intimidating, just intriguingly familiar with his long, intense face and finely boned cheeks.

‘Have we met before? You look familiar but I can’t remember where or when…’

He shook his head emphatically. ‘We’ve never met before. If we had, I’d remember you.’ He made no effort to hide his meaning and Eva, responding, boldly returned his gaze.

‘Then why do I feel as if I know you?’ she asked.

‘You’ve probably seen me on television.’ He sounded embarrassed by this admission of celebrity, self-consciously pushing his fingers through his thick brown hair. ‘I work on a current-affairs programme.’

‘Of course –
Elucidate
. You’re Greg Enright! I can’t believe I didn’t recognise you.’

‘It happens all the time.’ He laughed ruefully. ‘I’m not instantly recognisable, just vaguely familiar. People usually suspect I’m their child’s teacher or their window cleaner. It’s not good for the ego but I’m used to it.’

‘I suspect very few politicians would agree with you.’ She smiled for the first time since receiving the call from the hospital. ‘No wonder Liz forgave you so readily.
Elucidate
is her favourite programme. She enjoys seeing politicians shrunk to size and drenched in acid. Do you live here?’

‘No. I’m from Dublin. I’m doing a feature on a day in the life of a rural politician. It’s boring but occasionally necessary if we’re to avoid accusations of only concentrating our reports on the capital city.’ He shook her hand, grinning as a nurse passed and ordered him out of the hospital. Visiting hours had ended an hour ago. ‘Is there any chance you might recognise me the next time we meet?’ he asked when the nurse had returned to her station. He still held Eva’s hand, the signals passing between them unmistakable. ‘I’ll recognise you, Eva Frawley. But not vaguely, believe me – not vaguely.’

The following morning Liz insisted she was well enough to attend the funeral. Frank O’Donovan was a local farmer and the church in the centre of Anaskeagh was crowded. The O’Donovan family filled the top pews, a large clan gathered to unite in mourning. Towards the end of the service, one of the O’Donovan daughters stood on the altar to give the eulogy. She wore a navy dress with a plain navy cardigan and her voice was filled with emotion as she spoke about her father. A nun, murmured Liz, working in a health centre in Malawi and home for the funeral. Another sister had returned from London and a brother had made the journey from Australia for the first time in twenty-four years. They reminded Eva of her own relatives, an Irish diaspora scattering and uniting to grieve or to celebrate as the occasion demanded.

Frank O’Donovan was buried in a country graveyard at the foot of a high headland. The lush slopes gradually rose upwards into a formidable rocky outcrop that loomed above the small town. The peaks were clearly visible on this fresh windy day, but Eva could imagine it cloudy and shrouded in mist, a hovering presence dominating the lives of the population.

Later, in a local hotel, the mourners gathered to shake off the chill of the graveyard, enjoying sandwiches and steaming whiskey toddies. Catherine O’Donovan, the recently widowed wife, sat in her family circle, flanked by the nun and a middle-aged man. The prodigal son from Australia, Eva guessed.

‘Would you like to meet the O’Donovans?’ Liz asked. She seemed subdued, uneasy in the presence of so many strangers and anxious to be back with Steve in the hospital. When Eva shook her head, reluctant to partake in the ritual of condolence when she didn’t know the family, Liz made no effort to dissuade her. ‘Then I’ll say goodbye to Catherine and we’ll be on our way.’

The arrival of the
Elucidate
television crew created a sudden silence in the bar. Unperturbed, Greg Enright led the way to the cordoned-off area that had been reserved for the funeral group. He shook hands with an elderly man whose thick mane of white hair gleamed under the lights. Obviously the local politician, Eva thought. She had noticed him shaking hands at the graveside, his expression concerned as he placed his arm around Catherine O’Donovan and escorted her back to the limousine. He was equally at ease in front of the camera, joking with the camerawoman, ordering her to focus only on his good side. Greg was in deep conversation with him as she passed and didn’t notice her. Judge Dredd in action – the erring politician’s nightmare.

T
he following Saturday
, in the rose arbour uprooting bushes, Eva heard footsteps and knew, without turning, that Greg Enright was behind her. When she faced him, aware that she was flushed, her hair wind-blown, he exaggeratedly raised his eyebrows – his trademark gesture, which signified sardonic disbelief when seen on television – and stretched out his hand. ‘Recognise me, Ms Frawley?’ he asked.

‘Vaguely,’ she replied. ‘What took you so long, Mr Enright?’

‘I left Anaskeagh four hours ago,’ he admitted. ‘The journey usually takes five.’

‘Still driving too fast, Mr Enright?’

‘Not any more, Ms Frawley,’ he replied. ‘I’ve arrived at my destination.’

That night they dined in Ashton’s only restaurant. He talked about his career, his future plans, his reputation. His admirers called him righteous and rigorous, a committed journalist who stopped at nothing to expose the truth. Those who disliked him claimed he was an opinionated, self-serving muckraker. He was twenty-eight years old and his only responsibilities were to his fish aquarium, which he managed with meticulous devotion, and to his mother, an independent widow who tolerated his fortnightly visits as long as they did not clash with her bridge evenings or the
Late Late Show
. He lived alone in a small apartment in The Liberties, with Christ Church Cathedral behind him and the downward sweep to the Liffey in front. He had his music, his books, his workstation, a futon and a streamlined kitchen in which he loved to cook. His future with
Elucidate
was clearly traced on an upwardly mobile graph.

Eva teased him, calling him a bloodhound who sniffed in the footprints of other people’s sins. They laughed together, at ease in each other’s company.

‘Tell me how it feels to have the power to destroy people?’ she asked.

‘People can only be destroyed if they have something to hide.’ Greg was suddenly serious. If that was wielding power, then so be it. He accepted it without being moved, intimidated or suppressed by its responsibility. ‘That’s why I always tell the truth,’ he said. ‘And why you must believe me when I tell you I’ve fallen in love for the first time in my life.’

How easily the words settled between them. How easily they were reciprocated. She watched him watching her and felt the same anticipation reaching her in waves, as if being close to each other released something unguarded, dangerous, thrilling.

They returned to Wind Fall where Liz, protective of her only daughter, subjected him to the same grilling he gave his
Elucidate
interviewees.