Our history teacher, Miss Gibson, or Gibby, as we called her, should have arrived in the class but there was no sign of her. The box was large and light. It made no sound when I rattled it. One of the girls who’d gathered around my desk asked to see what was inside. I wanted to take it to a private place but I was caught in the hub of their curiosity. Karin sitting two desks away, had removed herself from the speculation.

Quickly, before Gibby arrived, I ripped off the paper and lifted the lid. Another box was inside it, wrapped in a different layer of gilt paper. Then another box, like nesting Russian dolls they emerged from one another, each one neatly wrapped. The girls no longer believed it was a large basket from Bodyshop. Perhaps it was a pendant, earrings, maybe, they giggled, an engagement ring from my anonymous admirer. Alan O’Neill had joined the group. He seemed as curious as the others and my nervousness grew. I willed Gibby to arrive and scatter us. She was always punctual but the classroom door remained closed. The girls cheered each time another box was revealed. The last layer of paper was off, the tiny red box opened.

The blade glistened, silver sharp. A girl snorted with laughter, the sound magnified by the silence of those who stared from the blade to me, a slow realisation dawning. I dropped the box. The blade clinked when it hit the floor. Karin’s head was bent, her face hidden. Her nails made a low sawing sound as she slid them along the desk. How could she have known? Long sleeves hid the plasters on my wrists, long socks covered my ankles.

This time I would not run from the classroom. I picked up the blade, placed it back in the red box and left it on my desk. I gathered up the wrapping papers, the discarded boxes, and pushed them into the litter basket. Gibby arrived, rushing late, accompanied by Vonnie Williams. I didn’t need to read Vonnie’s elated expression to understand why our history teacher had been delayed.

I left the school immediately after the last class ended and ran home through Gracehills Park. Jenny called to my house a short while later. I told my mother to send her away. Neither of them paid any attention to my frantic command. My door was locked but Jenny banged on it until I allowed her in.

‘You’re the only one who knew.’ My pillow was damp with tears. ‘I trusted you.’

‘You know I wouldn’t share spit with that bitch.’ She forced me to sit up and face her. ‘There’s only one way you can deal with this.’ She rolled up the sleeve of my blouse. Her breath hissed when she saw the most recent cuts. ‘As long as you keep doing this she’ll dominate you. Have you the courage to stop? I believe you have. Prove me right.’

Like the drawing on the blackboard, no one was held responsible but Karin’s name was whispered along the class grapevine. Students began to ignore her. Vonnie Williams, aware that she might be isolated in the chilliness surrounding Karin, ended their friendship. I felt no pleasure as I watched Karin’s growing isolation. I too was isolated, not by silence or by being ignored, but by the skinning of my most intimate secret. The victim and the bully, bound together by the one crime.

Chapter 48

On Friday I hire a van and drive to Pembroke where I take the ferry to Rosslare. It’s a long drive to the Dingle peninsula and I’m anxious to see my son. It’s late in the evening when I reach Slí na hAbhann. Brian discovered the craft centre when he was cycling through the peninsula with Peter Brennan two summers ago. That’s when he decided to drop out of college and set up his pottery. I don’t have a favourite child but Brian stirs something deep and emotional within me. Perhaps it’s his single-minded creativity. I had it once when I was very young and, now, I hope to find it again. I park the van and make my way towards the courtyard.

Lights have been switched on in the workshops and studios. They twinkle from windows and speckle the dark depths of the mountain slopes. I hear the rush of the river that inspired the name Slí na hAbhann. It lies below us, a tumbling rush of water heading towards Dingle Bay. Brian is unaware that I’ve arrived. I watch him through the pottery window. He’s glazing something, his attention concentrated on each meticulous stroke. He looks broader, more rugged. My son, the mountainy man. I won’t cry, not now. Plenty of time for that later.

The glazing is done and I’m in his arms, swept up on the fervour of seeing him again. I admire his ceramic award and he proudly replaces it on a plinth. He shuts the pottery door and we walk the short distance to his cottage. Its sparseness used to worry me. I’d arrive with cushions and cutlery, lampshades, pictures, crockery, rugs, and bring them home again.

He prepared a casserole. It’s been slow cooking for hours, he says, as he removes it from the oven. A wood burning stove warms the room. He opens the wine I brought with me and when we’ve eaten he shows me the video of the craft award ceremony. This is the full version, instead of the short video I’d seen of him walking to the stage for the presentation.

I see her at a table, a necklace of moonstones at her neck. Her smile is rapturous as she rises, hands high, and claps my son who stands, self-consciously, and holds up the award. She’s sitting between Liam Brett and Jimmy French, one of the weaselling Core reporters. Jessica is there also, and Gina from Admin. But Karin Moylan is the only face I see.

I watch the video until the end. Brian clears the dishes from the table and then, almost as an afterthought, he says, ‘You can expect a call from your friend Karin. She’s hoping to link up with you over the weekend.’

The shock of her name on his lips freezes me. He’s comfortable imparting this information, no guile or hidden inferences.

‘How do you know Karin Moylan?’ I ask.

I’m unsure if it’s the glow from the stove or the wine or the charm she would have used to flatter and disarm my son but Brian looks decidedly flushed.

‘She’s been here twice. Bought something each time. She really likes my stuff.’

‘When was she here last?’

‘A few days ago. She says the two of you go way back.’

‘We do. But she’s not my friend.’

‘Not your friend?’ He stops, puzzled. ‘Why would she lie about something like that? She knew all about Alaska and you and Dad splitting up. She was delighted when I told her you were coming back for the weekend.’

‘She won’t be ringing me, Brian. And if she does I’ll hang up on her. I don’t trust her and I don’t want you to have anything more to do with her. Promise me you’ll let me know if she comes here again.’

‘I don’t understand. How am I supposed to stop customers coming into my pottery?’

‘She hates me for something that happened a long time ago.’

‘Like what?’

‘We fought over someone we loved. It hurts too much to go into details but you need to trust me on this one. Don’t make her welcome here.’

He’s not convinced. Our night together has turned sour. He wants more information than I’m prepared to divulge. How can I tell him the sordid truth? I want to contain my past, not brandish it like a fan that flicks over to reveal… what? No, I can’t go there. I never will. Did she love Jake or did she use him as a settlement for a debt I’ll never be able to repay? I feel a sudden and unexpected urge to protect him. He’s playing with Shard in Donegal this weekend. That’s why I’ve chosen this time to collect what I need from Sea Aster. It’s easier this way. The bleakness in his voice when we talk reminds me of Ali’s comment. Walking through quicksand. He keeps apologising for lying to me. He needs absolution. To ease the memory of his deceit in my forgiveness.

‘I self-harmed when I was a teenager,’ I tell Brian. ‘I was going through a difficult time and I believed it was the only way I could cope with the pressure.’