Brothers & Sisters Read online

  ‘All I know, is that a body has been found,’ Lizzie answered; she was as perplexed as he was. ‘Google it, see if anything’s up yet.’ Lucas was already opening his laptop. Lizzie had called him an Apple nerd when she first realised just how many Apple gadgets he owned. ‘I think I may head home for the weekend, see what’s going on for myself,’ she said. ‘That was my uncle Tim, he reckons I should go and cheer Mum up a bit.’ It was in saying it out loud that she confirmed to herself that it really was a strange request.

  ‘Really?’ His eyes were focused on the screen. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Their relationship hadn’t progressed to the ‘meet the family stage’ yet, but her family did know that she was dating someone that she really liked and Lucas had already told his parents about her too. Lucas had to admit that Lizzie’s family were beginning to sound quite interesting. He scanned the words looking for the story. His laptop or one of the many other gadgets, was never too far away from him. ‘Tools of the trade,’ he had said when she mentioned it. ‘Kilkenny?’ He asked as he scrolled through the Google answers.

  She nodded to confirm. ‘That’s the one,’ she said. ‘Don’t go drawing anyone’s attention to it though?’ Lizzie warned, she knew how the world of journalism worked from her many questions and observations of his lifestyle over the past six months. ‘If you start asking questions, the other reporters will start asking questions about why you’re asking questions, if you know what I mean,’ she said. She had seen it happen before where as soon as a reporter with Lucas’s calibre expressed an interest in a story, the whole industry followed. You didn’t get to have fancy apartments so close to the city by being mediocre. ‘I’m hopping in the shower,’ she added, she needed time to think, she had a feeling that there was more to Tim ringing her this morning than he was letting on.

  It had only taken Lucas fifteen minutes to find all the necessary details he would need to make a decision to follow a story. And from his brief investigation and strategic online searches, this was a story he could write and do well from, he decided. ‘Shit,’ he said out loud as images of the old, but beautifully kept country house rolled across his screen. His story spark was well and truly ignited and the familiar thrill of the elusive exclusive took hold. ‘There’s definitely more to the story than meets the eye,’ he said to himself, craning his neck towards the bathroom door to see if Lizzie had heard him. He shook his head and looked surprisingly at the detail.

  ‘What did you say?’ Lizzie emerged, showered, dressed and dried, rooting for her shoes. ‘Did you see my….?’

  ‘At the fridge in the kitchen,’ he answered. He remembered because he had tripped over them earlier when he was making the coffee. Lucas’s professional attention to detail carried through into his personal life and every inch of his own apartment reflected it. He had a photographic memory when it came to detail. He liked order; he liked to know where everything was.

  Lizzie smiled her thanks.

  ‘There’s more to this story than meets the eye, you know,’ he said again, keeping his attention on his screen.

  The smell of Chanel No. 5 wafted around the room as Lizzie rushed by, spraying her neck and dabbing her wrists.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, this time rooting for her phone.

  ‘It’s beside the bed, where you left it.’ He sighed, exasperated at how disorganised she was. ‘I was saying, there is a story in this, you know?’ he said, testing her reaction. He would love to cover it, but not until he knew for sure the angle he was going to take. In all the years he had been an investigative journalist, he was sure that no matter what the storyline was, there was always more to it, wasn’t the statistic that eighty per cent of murder victims knew their murderers? He was compromised for the first time in his career; his intuition was telling him to proceed, but for the first time ever, doubt niggled at him, that maybe he might lose something, or more precisely, Lizzie, if he did.

  ‘Well, yeah, I know,’ Lizzie answered, stopping this time to talk to him. ‘But…’ She hesitated. They hadn’t been together long enough for her to be in a position to ask him to make sacrifices for her, or had they? She wasn’t sure where they stood. She rotated the phone in her hand, flipping it back and forth nervously, thinking about how to say it.

  ‘But what?’ he answered, deliberately allowing his screen saver to power on.

  ‘What’s on the screen?’ she asked, her eyes flicking over his shoulder, sensing he was hiding something. His laptop sat open on the glass-topped table that was positioned in the walkway from the living to the bedroom. The only other items on the desk were a notepad, a pen and a mouse.

  ‘Just research,’ he said, taking his hands away from the desk, as though by removing them he didn’t look guilty.

  ‘Show me,’ she said, sensing his reluctance. Her earlier mood darkened.

  ‘It’s just work, Lizzie, that’s all,’ Lucas said. He pushed his mouse, showing her the screen. A picture of Fitzpatrick Farm was in the largest window.

  ‘Is that…?’ She studied the country house that dominated the screen.

  ‘Fitzpatrick Estate,’ Lucas finished her sentence. ‘Do you not recognise it?’ For a moment he thought he had found the wrong information, he hadn’t had a chance to verify. He would do his fact-checking when she left for work.

  ‘I was never there; I don’t know what it’s like,’ she answered, scanning the rest of the pictures as she spoke. She tried to decipher his writing on the notepad as she stood over him.

  ‘Seriously,’ he said, he found it hard to believe, ‘you were never here, in this stately home, the home of your family ancestors?’

  ‘No,’ she answered.

  ‘Have you even seen a photo of it?’

  ‘Nope,’ she answered. It had never occurred to her that it was something she should have asked more questions about, not until now. ‘Is that the body?’ she asked as she noticed what looked like a photo of a bronze statue curled in a foetal position on the grass.

  ‘Eh, no,’ he answered, reluctant to explain. ‘It’s actually, eh, a photo of a Russian pilot.’ He looked from the screen to Lizzie and back to the screen again. ‘Sergeant Lazerov, I think. He was a pilot in the Second World War.’ He breathed deeply, trying to figure out what he would say next. He could tell by her expression that she didn’t understand. ‘Like I said, it’s just research.’ He reached to touch her hand and she didn’t pull it away. ‘It’s just that like our friend here,’ he pointed back to the photo of the pilot, ‘the body in Kilkenny had been there for some time, preserved by the acidic conditions of the soil, apparently.’ What he didn’t tell her was, that as a journalist, to mention the Second World War, however remotely relevant, in any story would almost guarantee a national headline, if not an international one, he just needed to weave it into relevance if he wanted to make some money from it. ‘He was found in 1998, I think,’ he added.

  Lizzie didn’t know how to react. She knew he had a profound sense of curiosity, that was what made him a brilliant journalist, she supposed, but it just seemed a little too close for comfort that Lucas would even consider getting involved in a story about her family, she had seen what he had covered in the past and she didn’t rate her mother or uncle Tim as the type of people he would have reported on before.

  ‘I better get to work,’ she said, looking at her watch, one eyebrow raised, not knowing what to say next or, for that matter, not knowing how to feel.

  ‘Are you, okay?’ he asked but didn’t wait for the answer. ‘Are you coming back later?’ He stood up, holding both her hands in his. He had a feeling he had blown it.

  ‘I’ll ring you,’ she paused. ‘Later,’ she added, unsure of what she would do. ‘I just want to…’ She stopped speaking as his phone rang. He pulled it from his jeans and looked at the screen. It was an Irish number, he noticed, so did she. ‘You had better take it, it might be important.’ She couldn’t help sounding annoyed. She grabbed her bag and left, hearing him answer as she closed the door behin
d her.

  Chapter 14

  September 1970

  If a person is missing it means they are not able to be found. At least that’s what my dictionary says. And that makes sense, because it is nearly six months since my uncle has vanished into thin air, like a wicked wizard, evaporating in a puff of smoke, and nobody is looking for him. Not the Gardaí, not my mother and especially not me. Tim says he’s not coming back, but he doesn’t say why; I sometimes wonder if he knows something I don’t but don’t ask him. Patrick’s cottage still stands down the path from the house and his clothes still remain flung across his chair as though he is just down the fields. My father doesn’t look for him either, as though he already knows he can’t be found.

  Somehow the burn of the September sun has turned the fields golden with the weight of the rays beating down on them and our house shimmers in the sunset up on the hill as though a light from heaven is trained on it. Microscopic grains float and dance across the countryside in the evening breeze and I sit on my perch baking and dehydrating in the meadow waning with the heat but I leave my jumper on, I’m afraid to take it off, afraid of what is underneath From this angle I can see the world. It’s my place to be.

  I watch the combine as it treks, inch by inch and row by row, swallowing up the golden grasses, then spilling them out crumpled and cut to sunbathe for a day on the ground, drying and shrinking to be collected again tomorrow. There is a certain satisfaction in watching the progression and I don’t want to leave till I see the field clear despite the discomfort I’m beginning to feel. I’m waiting a lot lately, waiting for summer to be over, waiting for Tim to leave for college and waiting till I figure out how I can go with him.

  My arms and legs weaken so I move to get comfortable. A swell of pain spreads across my stomach and I hold my breath willing the pain to leave me but it doesn’t. I turn on my side, desperate for relief but it doesn’t work. My muscles tense and the pain expands from my stomach to my back, violently. It shoots between my legs and finally washes away. I draw the deepest breath I can find in the airless dusky air, stunned by the sudden assault.

  There are only two rows left, I notice. Tim will be finished soon. I drag myself upwards to stretch the pain away when I’m attacked once more. This time the pain strengthens and wallops me with its might, forcing me downwards on the ground, back to where I just lay. A vice-grip tightens around me, ripping my stomach from the inside out. Nothing I do makes it better. The pain escalates and I wish I was dead, not because I can’t bear the pain but because, I think I know what the pain means. Then in an instant, like a tidal wave, it falls and retreats once more, leaving destruction in its wake; a tsunami of violence.

  ‘Tim,’ I cry as loudly as I can manage but my voice falls short of reaching him, like a paper aeroplane losing its direction and crashing to the floor. I curl sideways, unable to move as the wave brutally washes over me again, battering me with its spray.

  The long grasses rustle, waving wildly as though calling for help but the rhythm of the rotating barrel and scythe continues only ten feet away.

  ‘Tim.’ The pain forces me to cry. I still can’t move, he still can’t see me. My insides are being wrenched from me like nothing I have ever felt before. I reach inside my pocket, searching, and then I find it. I wait for the next tidal wave to pass and muster what air I have left, and blow, as hard as I can, and he hears me. He said he would.

  ‘Rose.’ He finds me, distorted on the grass. ‘Jesus, what is it?’

  ‘Oh Tim.’ The sinews of my neck protrude as I clench my jaw. ‘Something’s inside of me.’ I force the words from the roof of my mouth. I feel the wave approaching, gaining momentum as it arrives, intensifying and multiplying the attack from before. A fire shoots from my spine to between my legs and I roar out loud, viscerally.

  ‘Rosie, Jesus.’ Tim panics, unsure of what to do. The honeyed fields stretch for miles and we are closer to McGrath’s house than we are to our own. ‘Can you walk?’ he stutters.

  ‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so.’ My body is buckled, bent out of shape.

  ‘You’re too warm,’ he says, pulling at my clothes. ‘Water, we need water,’ he decides and darts back to the combine for his flask. Moments later he is back. ‘Here drink this,’ he says breathlessly as he returns. ‘It will cool you down.’ I manage to sip it in between the onslaughts. ‘Take off that jumper,’ he says, tugging again at the oversized jumper I wear. I let him pull it from my body, catching his shocked expression as his eyes land on my belly. ‘Rose,’ he says, more scared than I have ever seen him before.

  The swell inside my tummy is large now and I hide it underneath my clothes. And even though I had hoped that I was wrong, my small waif-like body has grown to accommodate the baby growing inside of me. I was waiting, waiting for Tim to go to college and waiting to escape. Waiting for it to be over. Once again the cramp paralyses me and I hold my breath and wince.

  ‘McGrath’s is just there, we’ve got to get you there, isn’t Mrs McGrath a nurse?’ His arms scoop me up like the bucket on his tractor and I manage to hold on to him as he runs, bursting through Mrs McGrath’s back door.

  ‘Jesus, what’s the matter?’ Pushing back a chair from the table, Mrs McGrath jumps to my side. Tim places me on my feet and my insides erupt, spilling in puddles across Mrs McGrath’s kitchen floor. ‘Oh, Rose, my love.’ She looks at me sympathetically. ‘Get her upstairs, Tim, quickly,’ she warns.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I sob, ashamed as Tim places me on her bed.

  Mrs McGrath has a quiet voice and a sympathetic manner. She is a slight woman with hair gathered in pins to the back of her head. ‘Your baby is coming, sweetheart, I’ll be with you but you’ve got to be brave.’ Mrs McGrath already makes me feel better, even though I feel the worst I’ve ever felt. She quickens her movement and instructs Tim to go outside. Before he does, he looks at me and I can see his eyes glisten with tears, just like mine. Mrs McGrath spreads newspapers on her bed and removes some of my clothes. I do my best to stifle my sobs as I’m swept away with agony and when Mrs McGrath tells me to push, I do, feeling the tidal wave wash out of me, tearing me from my insides out and bringing with it a sensation of relief.

  A wail erupts from the bed, piercing, shallow and wet and I realise it’s not from me. It’s from the four-pound baby boy screeching wildly in Mrs McGrath’s blood-covered hands.

  ‘A little boy,’ she says, wrapping him in a towel.

  I can’t move, I’m frozen with fear and silence stills us all.

  ‘It’s all going to be okay, Rose, you’ll see,’ Mrs McGrath encourages me and places the bundle on my chest. ‘I’ll just fix you up.’ She smiles.

  ‘I can’t go home. Father will kill me with his bare hands.’ I have waited silently and finally my words form and slink out of my mouth.

  ‘Shush now pet, we’ll figure something out,’ she says. Her hands are soft and kind and she rubs the baby’s back as he lies on me. She uses the baby’s towel to wipe my eyes. Her eyes study me and the baby and I can tell she’s uncomfortable about something.

  We both hear a commotion outside. The voices sound strained.

  ‘I’ll just be a minute, Rose.’ She takes the baby and lays him beside me. ‘While he’s sleeping, you should close your eyes. Your body needs to recuperate,’ she says before she creeps out of the door. I am mesmerised by the perfectly formed baby that lies by my side. I speak to him softly and I think by the way that he opens and closes his eyes that he can hear my voice. I am amazed something so precious has come from something so bad and warm tears prick down my cheek.

  *

  ‘What do you mean it’s none of my business, you are in my bloody house, boy?’ Mr McGrath was in the kitchen shouting at Tim.

  ‘It’s okay, Thomas, it’s okay,’ Mrs McGrath calms the men with her arrival. ‘I’ll explain everything,’ she warns her husband with a look. ‘In a moment.’

  ‘Is she okay?’ Tim says impatiently.

  ‘She is,�
� Mrs McGrath reassures him. ‘Where’s George?’ she asks her husband.

  ‘He’ll be back in minute,’ Thomas answers.

  ‘Okay, I need you to send him back out, think of something for him to do,’ she speaks calmly, giving most of her instructions with her eyes. ‘Tim, you have some questions to answer.’ Her voice is stern, almost accusatory.

  ‘Can I see her?’ Tim asks. Thomas looks at his wife for an explanation but she doesn’t give one. ‘She’s sleeping, as soon as she wakes up,’ she says, answering Tim. ‘Tim, go into the front room, would you?’ She shows him where the door is. ‘I don’t want George asking questions about why you are here.’ Thomas lifts his hands in confusion as Tim follows her instructions. ‘Thomas, will you make some sweet tea and toast and bring it up to the bedroom, as soon as you send George back out.’ Thomas nods, still confused. ‘I’ll be up in the room waiting for the tea, Thomas, and Tim, I’ll be down to you as soon as I make sure they’re okay,’ she says.

  *

  The baby is awake and his black eyes flicker open every few seconds as though the room is too bright. His mouth opens and closes like a bird waiting to be fed and I am amazed at his instincts to search for my breast. I am stunned, in awe that something so beautiful, so fragile and small, could be because of something so awful. Is that the way it’s meant to be? His skin hangs on his body like it’s his big brother’s shirt that he will grow into. He whimpers so silently. I hold him tightly, afraid that he will fall.

  ‘There’s something spilled on the kitchen floor.’ Mrs McGrath stalls on the stairs when she hears her son’s voice. ‘I nearly slipped on it,’ George says loudly.

  ‘Just throw a few newspapers on it George, would you?’ she calls from the step, waiting to hear him do it.

  ‘Actually George,’ Mr McGrath says from the hall, ‘you may round up the mares in the top field. The wind is to be strong enough tonight and I don’t want old Fitzpatrick up here tomorrow complaining of the noise they were making.’