‘IS DEAD,’ I shouted. ‘And everybody let me think I’d lost my dad. He lied to me. You lied to me. I can’t believe this.’ I was up then, my head spinning.

‘Your mother thought Laurie had died, Tamara. You were only one year old. She had a chance to start a new life. George loved her, he loved you. She wanted to start again. She didn’t think you needed this hurt.’

‘And that makes it okay?’ I addressed Mum, even though Sister Ignatius had defended her.

‘No, no, I didn’t agree with it. But she deserved to be happy. She was so broken when Laurie died.’

‘But he’s not dead,’ I shouted then. ‘He’s living in the bungalow, eating sandwiches and apple pie every bloody day. Rosaleen knew he was alive.’

Mum broke down at that and Sister Ignatius held her tightly in her arms, her face revealing her heartbreak. I stopped then, realising that it wasn’t just me that was lied to. Mum had just found out the man she loved hadn’t died after all. What kind of a sick joke had they all been playing?

‘Mum, I’m sorry,’ I said softly.

‘Oh, darling,’ she sniffed, ‘maybe I deserve it. For doing this to you.’

‘No. No, you don’t deserve this. But he doesn’t deserve you either. What kind of sicko must he be to pretend to be dead?’

‘He was trying to protect her, I suppose,’ Sister Ignatius said. ‘He was trying to give the both of you a better life, one that he couldn’t give you.’

‘Arthur said he was badly disfigured?’ Mum looked at me then. ‘What…what does he look like? Was he kind to you?’

‘Arthur?’ I snapped to attention again. ‘Arthur Kilsaney? He’s Laurie’s brother?’

Mum nodded and another tear fell.

‘It’s just one thing after another with you all,’ I said, but not as angrily this time. I hadn’t the energy.

‘He didn’t want to go along with it,’ she said, drained now too. ‘Now it makes sense to me why he was so against it. He said he wanted to always be your uncle. We never said he was my brother. Not until you just assumed it and then…’ she waved her hand, sensing the ridiculousness of it all.

Weseley arrived in the room then. ‘Okay the garda?are on their way. Are you all right?’ He looked at me. ‘Did he hurt you?’

‘No, no, he didn’t.’ I rubbed my eyes. ‘He saved me from Rosaleen.’

‘But I thought he…’

‘No.’ I shook my head.

‘I locked him in his bedroom,’ Weseley said guiltily, producing the room key from his pocket. ‘I thought he was trying to hurt you.’

‘Oh, no.’ My main anger passed then. I felt sorry for him. He had been defending me. He had been reaching out to me giving me gifts. He’d remembered my birthday. My eighteenth birthday. Of course he had. And how had I thanked him? I’d locked him away.

‘Where’s Arthur?’ Sister Ignatius asked.

‘He’s gone to the bungalow, to Rosaleen.’

And then I remembered. The diary. ‘No!’ I scrambled to get up again.

‘Honey you should relax,’ Mum said trying to coax me back down again, but I jumped up.

‘He needs to get away from there,’ I panicked. ‘What have I been doing here all this time? Weseley, call the fire brigade, quick.’

‘Why?’

‘Honey, just relax now,’ Mum said, worried. ‘Lie down and-’

‘No, listen to me. Weseley, it’s in the diary. I have to stop it. Call the fire brigade.’

‘Tamara, it’s just a book, it’s only-’

‘Been right every single day until now,’ I responded.

He nodded.

‘What’s that?’ Mum suddenly asked, walking to the window.

Over the tree tops in the distance, plumes of smoke were drifting up into the sky.

‘Rosaleen,’ Sister said then with such venom, that it chilled me. ‘Call the fire brigade,’ she said to Weseley.

‘Give me the key,’ I said, grabbing it from Weseley and running from the room. ‘I have to get him. I’m not losing him again.’

I heard them all calling to me as I ran, but I didn’t stop, I didn’t listen. I ran through the trees and followed the smell, ran straight towards the bungalow. I had just lost the father who’d raised me. I wasn’t about to lose another.

When I reached the bungalow there was a squad car parked outside. I could see Rosaleen standing on the grass alongside her mother. Talking to her was a rather impatient garda, who kept asking her over and over if anybody was inside. Rosaleen was wailing, hands covering her face, and looking back at the house as though she couldn’t decide. Beside the garda was Arthur, who was barking at Rosaleen, shaking her by the shoulders and trying to get her to answer.

‘He’s in the workshed!’ she finally shrieked.

‘He’s not, I looked!’ Arthur yelled.

‘He has to be!’ she shrieked. ‘He has to be. He always locked his bedroom door when he went to the workshed.’

‘Who?’ the garda was saying over and over again. ‘Who’s in the house?’

‘He’s not there.’ Arthur’s voice was hoarse. ‘My God, woman, what have you done?’

‘Oh my God,’ Rosaleen was shrieking over and over again. Her mother was softly crying.

Sirens were wailing in the distance.

I ignored them all. I ran past them unnoticed, down the side passage and in through the back door of the bungalow. Smoke was everywhere, filling the halls, so black and thick that as soon as I inhaled it I was choked. It sent me to my knees, retching and gasping, stinging my eyes so badly I rubbed them over and over but it only made them worse. I placed my cardigan across my face. I had soaked it in cold water from the outside tap and put it across my mouth and nose to help me breathe. Peering out from one eye, I felt my way along the wall. The plastic beneath my feet was dangerously hot and sticky, so that the rubber in my trainers was sticking to it. I kept to the sides of the hallway, where it was tiled. I felt my way along the wall to his bedroom door. When I placed my hand on the metal door handle it burned me so badly I let go and cowered over, cradling my hand, coughing, eyes stinging, retching, hand burning. The open door at the end of the hall relieved the hallway at least of some smoke and I knew it wasn’t far. I could always run out the door.

I shoved the key in the door, hoping the whole thing hadn’t melted, and I turned it. Stepping back, I used my foot to push down the handle and the door swung open. More smoke followed me in and I pushed the door closed. The corners of the photographs were curling with the heat. I couldn’t see any fire, just smoke, thick black heavy smoke that hurt my lungs. I tried to call out but couldn’t, just kept coughing over and over, hoping he’d hear me, that he’d know I was there.

I felt my way along the bed, felt his body, felt his face. His beautifully scarred face, ruined just like the castle, which carried such a story I was drawn to it and not repelled. His eyes were closed; I could feel his eyelids. I shook him, moved my hands all over his body to try to wake him. Nothing. He was unconcious. Behind me I felt intense heat, felt fire. It would quickly close in on me, in this room of photographs. I pulled at the net curtains, bringing a little light into the grey smoky room. I felt around to try to open the windows. They were locked. There weren’t any keys. I picked up a chair, threw it at the window over and over to smash it, but I couldn’t. I tried to pull at him, but he was too heavy. I tried to get him to his feet. I was getting tired, running out of energy, feeling dizzy. I lay down beside him, trying to wake him. I held his hand, the two of us huddled together on the bed. I wasn’t going to leave him.

Suddenly I dreamed of the castle, of a banquet with a long table filled with pheasant and pig, everything dripping with grease and sauces, wine and champagne, the most delicious duck and vegetables. Then I was with Sister Ignatius and she was shouting at me to push, but I didn’t know what to push. I couldn’t see her but I could hear her. Then the darkness faded and the room was filled with such wonderful light, and I was in Sister Ignatius’ arms. Then I was in the field of glass, running, running, with Rosaleen hot on my heels. I was holding Weseley’s hand just like before only it wasn’t Weseley, it was Laurie. Not as I knew him from today but as I first saw him in the photographs, handsome, young, mischievous. He was turning round and smiling at me, his perfect white teeth opening and closing as he laughed, and I realised then how alike we were, how I’d always wondered why I didn’t look like Mum or Dad, and now it all made perfect sense. His nose, his lips, his cheeks and eyes-all were like mine. He was holding my hand and telling me we were going to be okay. We were running together, laughing and smiling, not worried at all about Rosaleen because she couldn’t catch us. Together we could outrun the world. Then I saw my father, at the end of the field, clapping and cheering us on as though I was a child again, at the community races in the rugby club. Laurie was gone and it was me and Mum for a moment, legs tied together in the three-legged race, just like we used to do when I was young. She was anxious-looking, not laughing but worried, and then she left and Laurie was back. We were running, tripping up, and there my dad was, laughing and cheering, beckoning us forth, arms open and ready to catch us when we fell across the line.