Fragile Lies Read Free Page A

as a thief. A deliberate criminal act had been committed, not by them but by a vagrant who believed he had the right to violate their property before staggering drugged and drunk into their path. They will not be held responsible for the consequences. Too much is at stake: reputations, marriages, investments, friendships, their future.
    When she reaches her house the outside lantern is shining. She steps into the amber glow and glances at her watch. It is later than she thought. Stolen property, stolen hours; thievery has many faces. She opens her front door and closes it quietly behind her.

PART ONE

Chapter One
    D ublin Echo , 10 January 2002

    P OLICE SEEK INFORMATION ON HIT-AND-RUN ACCIDENT

    T he parents of a young man critically injured in a hit-and-run accident which took place on 20 November 2001 between 11 p.m. and midnight on the approach to the Great South Wall have renewed their appeal for witnesses. Killian Devine-O’Malley (18) remains in a coma, having suffered serious head injuries, a cracked pelvis and severe bruising to his body.
    Shortly after midnight on the night of the accident a telephone call was received by the emergency services from an anonymous female caller. The Gardaí have appealed to this woman to come forward to help with their inquiries. They are also anxious to contact any persons who were in the vicinity at that time and may have noticed anything suspicious, especially the occupants of a silver car, make unknown, which was seen on the pier shortly before the accident occurred.
    The victim is the son of financial analyst Jean Devine-O’Malley and screen writer Michael Carmody, best known for his cult teen TV series Nowhere Lodge.
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    B rahms Ward , 9.30 p.m.

    Y our name was in the papers again this morning, Killian. Eddie used the same photograph. Not one of your best, I’m afraid. The Gardaí have sent out another plea for information. No response, as yet, but we live in hope. I rang Eddie and thanked him for the coverage. He’s good at keeping your name to the forefront. Killian Devine-O’Malley. Your mother’s name, not mine. Eighteen years of age, hazel eyes, short auburn hair, freckles, of medium build, loved.
    Did it shock them, that headline, when they opened the paper this morning? I’ll bet it curdled their milk, snapped and crackled their crispies. They probably hoped you’d fallen into the great void the media leaves behind when the headline changes. But Eddie is a pal and he’ll stay on your watch until there is an ending to your story.
    I saw their car that night. I know it was the one. Only problem was that I was too preoccupied to notice anything that would later prove invaluable in tracing it, no toy dog nodding in the back window, no furry dice dangling from the rear view mirror. Nothing except a fleeting glimpse of silver, steamy windows and an arm raised protectively. No wonder my information is gathering dust in a police file.
    I’d been searching for you, Killian. High and low along the pier, the same hopeless search. I shouted your name until I was hoarse. You never answered. I left too soon … too soon. I was thinking about the deceived when I left them to their pleasure. You were the only thing on my mind that night but, just for an instant, I found myself wondering. A wife, a husband, who knows? There had to be the deceived, the trusting partner waiting at home, counting down the hours, believing lies, excuses, the false smiles of reassurance. Why else would they hide in furtive places? Why else would they drive away and leave you crushed like a wind-blown leaf under the wheels of their car? Hit and run. The crunch of metal on flesh, no competition.
    Can you hear me, Killian, wherever you are? Is my voice reaching beyond the black drift of your mind? Are you sleeping in the past, reaching into the present, dreaming of the future? Is your memory short term, long term, long forgotten? Are you listening to me, my lost boy? My foolish … foolish