The Girl Who Lied. Sue Fortin
Erin? You there?’ Ed is knocking on the door.
For a moment I’m paralysed as I stare at the door and then back at the laptop. ‘Erin!’ He’s more insistent and there’s a note of agitation in his voice. ‘Are you okay?’ He bangs harder on the door.
Adrenalin kicks in and I grab the laptop, turning it upside down, hoping the tea hasn’t reached the vital components. ‘Won’t be a minute!’ I call out. I rush through to the bedroom and into the small en suite. Grabbing a towel, I wipe at the keyboard.
‘Erin!’ He’s definitely gone past the agitated stage now.
I stand the laptop upside down, like a tent and hope it’s enough to save it from permanent damage. ‘I’m coming!’ As I bustle past the table, I upright the offending cup and throw a tea towel on the table to soak up the remains of the tea. Unfortunately, most of it seems to have gone on the laptop.
When I open the door, Ed is standing there, his face taking on a pink tinge. His mouth is set in a firm line and there’s the familiar crease between his eyebrows he gets when he’s annoyed.
‘I was just about the break the door down,’ he says.
‘Sorry, I was in the bathroom.’ I step back so he can come in. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. I thought you were going out with Ralph.’
‘Yeah, well, Ralph is busy,’ he says. ‘I wanted to check on you anyway. Come back to mine if you’re not well. It’s much nicer than here.’ He waves his hand around with disdain. Ed has never made any secret of what he thinks of my living accommodation. It couldn’t be more different from his plush bachelor pad on the fourteenth floor with views of the Thames.
‘I’m okay here,’ I reply. I think of the laptop in the bathroom and check my watch. Thirty minutes until Roisin’s deadline.
‘Don’t be daft,’ says Ed. ‘I insist. Come back to mine.’
‘I just want to go to bed.’
‘Perfect. You can go to bed in much more comfortable surroundings than this.’
‘No, I mean here. I just want to go to bed here.’
‘Really, Erin, you’re so stubborn at times.’ The note of irritation is back. He picks up my jacket and handbag. ‘And silly. Now come on.’
I feel like a child as he ushers me out of the door. ‘My stuff,’ I say in a final act of protest.
‘Your overnight bag is still in my car. You put it in there this morning. Remember?’
He’s right. I did put it in the boot of his car earlier. I could kick myself. I glance at the clock. Twenty-five minutes to the deadline. Even if we get through the rush-hour traffic and to Ed’s apartment by six, there’s no way I can make a phone call to Roisin. Not with Ed there. I’ll have to nip to the loo and text her that I’ll call tomorrow. Hopefully that will hold her off from whatever it is she has planned.
County Cork, Ireland
Kerry wiped the petrol tank of the Yamaha with the polishing cloth. It looked good. His latest commission was to spray-paint an image of the human rib cage down the centre of the black tank and pop in a few mini skulls sitting on the rib bones. Unusual, but effective. He liked the less-than-ordinary private jobs he got in. Bike mechanics might be his trade but spray-paint artwork was his passion. A bike tattooist, if you like.
Draping a soft cloth over the tank to protect it, Kerry checked his watch. It was after six. He should call it a day soon. His cousin, Joe, had already finished and Max, Joe’s dad and owner of the workshop, wasn’t in today. That had given Kerry time to get the paint job finished.
Locking up behind him, Kerry left by the rear of the workshop. He only lived in the flat above but he wanted a quick smoke before he went up. Despite it being the middle of May, the day had been a particularly wet and dreary one. Kerry gave a little shiver, the sea breeze drifting in from the Irish Sea chilling his arms. He rolled a cigarette and, standing on the path, he looked across the High Street and to the service road opposite, which ran behind the parade of shops.
He saw something. At first he thought it was a pile of black bin bags that hadn’t been put in the commercial wheelie bins, but as he took a draw on his roll-up and looked closer, he realised it was someone kneeling down, bent over something. Or rather someone.
The person kneeling raised their head and flicked their hand towards the end of the service road. Then, as if sensing they were being watched, turned to look over their shoulder at Kerry.
‘What the…?’ said Kerry, instantly recognising Marie Hurley, not least because of her distinctive bobbed auburn hair.
She jumped to her feet and began running towards him. ‘Kerry! Kerry!’ she shouted. ‘Help me. Please.’
Kerry chucked his half-smoked cigarette to the ground and dived across the road. He caught Marie as she bundled into him in a blind panic.
‘It’s okay, Mrs Hurley,’ said Kerry, holding onto the tops of her arms. ‘Mrs Hurley. What’s wrong?’
She looked up at him. Her face was paler than normal, if that was possible. Her eyes were wide with fear. ‘It’s Jim,’ she said. ‘He’s had a fall or something.’ She pulled away from Kerry and then, taking hold of his forearm, started dragging him back down the service road. ‘He’s bleeding. Come quickly.’
Jim Hurley was indeed bleeding, badly. A dark crimson pool of blood was leaking out from under the back of his head. One of his arms was twisted underneath his body, which was sprawled flat out on the tarmac.
Kerry snatched his mobile from his pocket and dialled the emergency services.
‘Get a blanket and some towels,’ he instructed Marie, while he waited for his call to connect. He reached over and tried to locate a pulse in the man’s neck. It was there. Weak, but there.
The operator answered the call and after a few minutes’ exchanging information and advising on basic first aid, she assured Kerry the ambulance was on its way. Marie reappeared with a blanket.
‘Is he going to be okay?’ she asked as Kerry draped the pink candlewick bedspread over Jim’s body.
‘The ambulance will be here soon,’ said Kerry. He had no idea if Jim was going to be all right. He bundled the towel up and placed it at the side of Jim’s head.
‘If you can’t see where the wound is, then don’t move him,’ the operator instructed. ‘He might have spinal-cord injuries. Wait for the medics. Keep the towels either side of his head to stabilise him.’
‘I think I can see part of the wound,’ said Kerry. ‘It’s right at the back of his head. It looks pretty deep.’
‘Just leave the towel there. Don’t apply pressure. You could end up causing more damage.’
Kerry was no doctor but the trickle of blood from Jim’s ear that appeared didn’t look good to him. Marie was standing over her husband, looking down on him in a trance-like state. She was probably in shock.
‘It’s okay, Mrs Hurley. Come and kneel down. Hold his hand,’ said Kerry. Marie glanced around. ‘The ambulance will be here very soon. Come on, now.’ Marie nodded and, kneeling down, she took Jim’s hand, making soothing noises and offering reassuring words. Kerry suspected this was as much for her own benefit as for her husband’s.
Jim’s breathing was becoming shallower with each beat of his heart. Kerry willed the ambulance to get a move on. Rossway village was a bit out of the way, ten miles south from Cork itself on the Irish coast and the roads were twisty and narrow. Not exactly the easiest of routes to be throwing an ambulance around.
The sound of an empty bottle being knocked and rolling across the road made Kerry look up. He thought he saw something move in the shadows of the evening sun. A cat jumped out from behind one of the wheelie bins, trotted across the road and then sprang up onto