Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(34)

I remember Reg. One of the pub’s regulars and a lovely old man. He lost his wife to cancer and his dog to the number seventy-three bus in the space of three weeks but he rarely lacked a smile or a poorly executed joke.

I say nothing though, just nod.

‘So I said you shouldn’t worry so much about everything – Reg and Bugs-fucking-Bunny would be fine, but that it was lovely you were such a thoughtful little girl and that I was proud of you.’ My face feels hot. I press my lips together, blink three times. ‘And you were, back then. You were such a little belter. So kind. A bit on the lively side sometimes, but never naughty, not like Jacqui, and well .?.?.’ He leaves Noel’s name hanging. ‘I mean, I know parents aren’t supposed to have favourites, but there was never any contest. What happened, Cat? Why are you so determined to be miserable?’

‘I’m not. Why are you so determined to convince yourself you’re happy? Is that what the Jag and your women and this stupid place does? Makes you forget that life’s essentially shit?’

He reaches for my hand, managing to graze the tips of my fingers before I snatch it away. ‘I know I’m not happy, Cat. How can I be? “You’re only as happy as your unhappiest child.” Ever heard that saying?’

My eyes prickle and I know I’m going to cry, or capitulate, if I don’t shift the tone of this conversation and do something drastic.

I pull the pin out of the grenade.

‘Did you sleep with Maryanne Doyle?’

He shifts. The light throws a shadow across his face and I lose his eyes for a crucial second. When they reappear, I swear he looks different. There’s an icy serenity about him. About as far away from sucker-punched as an accused man can be.

‘Well, did you? It’s not a trick question, Dad. It’s not multiple choice.’

‘Are we really going to do this?’ He almost sounds amused – like he’s heard the corniest joke ever for the hundredth time but still can’t help smirking. ‘I mean, don’t you ever get bored of this, Cat?’

Bored, no. Bone-weary, yes.

‘So tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m crazy, like you always do.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever used the word “crazy”.’

He hasn’t in fairness. ‘Maddening’, ‘antagonistic’, and on one occasion, ‘pure poison’, but never crazy.

‘I notice you haven’t used the word “no” either.’ My voice is shaky. I’ve been shackled to this narrative since I still had my milk-teeth but now that I’ve said it – now that it’s out there – it sounds fantastical, or at the very least, flimsy. ‘Say it, Dad,’ I urge him. ‘If you didn’t sleep with Maryanne Doyle, say “no”. Just answer the question.’

‘No.’ His eyes flare as icy serenity gives way to quiet fury. ‘No, I didn’t sleep with Maryanne Doyle. Just like I didn’t sleep with your Auntie Brona. Or Katy Keilty’s mum. Or your Irish dancing teacher. Or Cathy Hammond from the Flag. Or basically half the women you seem to think I did.’

Half? I very much doubt that. I’ll admit I was never one to discriminate when it came to accusing him – Auntie Brona still makes me boil with shame – but I know I was right about a lot of them. Just not the rank outsiders he’s been clever enough to name.

I steady my voice. ‘Then why did you lie about knowing .?.?.’

He grabs my hands across the table. ‘Enough, Catrina.’ I open my mouth but he puts a finger up to halt me. Another to my lips, shushing me. ‘I mean it now. Enough.’

Strong, calm, commanding. As if pacifying an angry dog.

But I won’t be pacified, not yet. ‘Because you did know her. We picked her up .?.?.’

He jerks his hand up and catches me by the jaw. It doesn’t hurt but the grip is tight and it stops me speaking. My skin hums underneath. To the rest of the bar it probably looks playful.

‘Is this ever going to end, Catrina? All this bullshit? You’d think you’d never put a foot wrong in your life. Can’t you accept that everyone has’ – he chooses his word carefully – ‘failings?’

‘Failings,’ I sneer. ‘MOTs fail. People make bad decisions, there’s a difference.’

He triggers the ‘M’ word. ‘Mum always forgave me, why can’t you? God knows you always followed her lead on everything else.’

Deliverance comes in the form of beautiful Xavier, incensed, and I mean Spanish incensed, about some woman claiming she gave him a twenty when he knows she gave him a ten. Dad stands up heavily, walks over to the bar, hands out, chin high, all ready to sort out the obvious misunderstanding, using nothing other than that iridescent smile and a touch of the McBride charm.

I pick up my bag and leave.

*

I should have told Dad that this isn’t about Mum. It’s not about forgiveness. It’s not about sleazy affairs or bunk-ups in the bar. It’s not about Katy Kielty’s mum or sexy students pulling pints.

It’s about murder.

It’s about the lie – the litany of lies – he told about Maryanne Doyle eighteen years ago and the fact she’s turned up dead just a short walk from his door.

But fear muzzled me, far more than his clasp on my jaw ever could. The fear of what he might unload if I kept pushing and the fear of losing him forever if I’m wrong.