Lying in Wait(69)

‘I’ll get the keys soon and then you can come over for dinner, Ma. You’ll love it.’

I was woken early the following week when Ma came into my room. Her hands were shaking. ‘There’s another letter, with a parcel. From Annie. It’s for you.’

I turned the package over in my hands. The postmark was Athlone. The wrapping on the parcel was torn on one corner and, without ripping the paper away, I could see it was a set of oil paints in a clear plastic case.

Dear Karen

I wrote to ma a few weeks ago and im sure you probabley herd about it. i bin thinking about you a lot and I know I should have writen to you and da as well. i know I done a terrible thing running away and leaving you all to worrie about me and i keep tinking about that art set i never got you like i said i would. im never going to be able to make it up to you for the trouble I coused but I hope youll get to use these paints some time. the thing is I herd that someones bin loking for me and I think its you. if you love me your to leave me alone don’t worrie about me im safe and happy and even thow I miss all of youss even da I know he never ment to be croull to me.

Its bette that you let me do my owen thing. One day I mite surprise you and pae a viset but please don’t look for me. ill come to you when im readie.

Love your Annie.



I passed the letter to Ma, who read it out to Da. He looked at the shapes of the letters and said for the first time that I could recall, ‘I wish I could read.’

‘Amn’t I forever offering to teach you?’ said Ma. ‘But you were always too proud.’

‘Not any more,’ he said.

They held each other and it was as if they were losing Annie all over again, but they’d found each other. I left them alone and went to my room.

She was in Mullingar, or thereabouts. She had to be. Someone I showed the photo to had recognized her and reported back. I wondered if it was the shifty-looking fella in the betting shop. He had been really uncomfortable about the whole thing. I wondered why she wouldn’t let me into her life. I knew from the letter to Ma that she had a new name, so she had probably made up a history for herself that didn’t match the truth and, when I thought about it, it made sense.

I rang Bridget. I expected her to be frosty with me, but she sounded more relaxed. I told her about the letter.

‘She’s in Mullingar, or somewhere around there. Do you still have the photo I left? Will you keep an eye out for her?’

‘Yeah, of course I will. I’m glad you’re a bit closer to finding her.’

‘I’ll probably leave her alone now. She doesn’t want to know me, but I’m sort of less annoyed with her now, if that makes any sense?’

‘Yeah.’

There was a pause.

‘Have you seen Laurence?’

I could answer honestly: ‘No, haven’t seen him since I last talked to you.’

‘Right.’

‘Why?’

‘I think … I’m sorry I was suspicious of you two.’

‘It’s OK, it must have seemed weird.’

‘Yeah, it’s just that I think he wants to get back with me.’

I inhaled deeply. ‘Yeah?’

‘Josie spotted him down the town in Athlone on Saturday. I think he was probably thinking of coming to my house, but he lost his nerve. He probably didn’t know I’d moved to Mullingar.’ Bridget was breathless with excitement.

‘But he never went to your folks’ house?’

‘No, you know how nervous he can get, and after what happened last time I don’t blame him. I rang him last night and left a message, but the bitch of a mother probably never passed it on. I’ll ring him in work tomorrow.’

I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice. ‘Great, that’s great. I’m really pleased for you. Honestly,’ I said, dishonestly.

I didn’t ring Laurence and he didn’t ring me. I moved into my new apartment, and as I unpacked my boxes and suitcases and surveyed my new home, I looked at the set of paints, posted with Annie’s letter from Athlone. They were oil paints. Annie had forgotten that I hated using oils. I took out the letter again. I had saved all the parcel wrapping. I looked at the clear plastic package that the paints had come in. It was a far cry from the antique box that had sat in Clarks’s window, but maybe she was only buying what she could afford. I looked at the postmark again. Athlone, dated Saturday three weeks ago. Something bothered me. Hadn’t Laurence …?

As I went over the details in my mind, I felt a fever develop until I thought my head might explode. The question was suddenly painfully obvious. Had Laurence sent the letter – not just this one, but the first one too? Had he copied Annie’s handwriting from the notebook I’d let him borrow? I remembered him telling me and Bridget about being forced to forge other boys’ school reports back in the day. He was really good at it. He must have taken note of every detail I had told him about her and used them all to convince me that Annie was still alive. I phoned him at the office.

‘Laurence?’

‘Hi!’

‘Hi.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, I just need to ask you something, and I need you to be really honest with me, OK? I mean, if the answer is yes, well, that’s fine, but I just need to know.’