We present an extract from Tell The Truth, the new thriller by Karen Fitzgibbon.
Marion McMahon is a woman awaiting trial who hides a secret that could clear her name — yet she refuses to speak. Because, somehow, prison is safer. Juror Stephanie Fitzgerald, trapped in a stale marriage, finds herself drawn into a risky flirtation with a fellow juror during the trial of Tadgh McMahon's murder. But jurors are meant to judge the truth — not become part of the story. When PI Lana Bowen is asked by an ex-colleague to speak to Marion, she senses something is deeply wrong. As she digs deeper, Lana must decide how far she is willing to go — and what she is willing to risk — to uncover the truth.
She cursed the fact she was wearing silk pyjamas as she stumbled along the trail in her bare feet. The pants were too long in the legs and she kept having to hike up the hem for fear of tripping. Glancing over her shoulder she couldn't see a thing, the night was so dark, but she felt that he was close, she could sense his foreboding presence, along with the dank smell of fear in the air. She bunched up the sides of the fabric with trembling fingers as she increased her speed, her breath coming in short sharp gasps, strands of damp red hair clinging to her skin. Her foot hit a sharp edge and she winced in pain as she fell forward, landing hard on her right knee, tearing fabric and cutting the skin on impact, her left hand slamming into the ground to protect herself. She heard something snap and a piercing sting radiated up her arm. She squeezed her eyes shut and bit on her lip to stop the scream that threatened to escape.
Her wrist was broken, she was sure of it, the bone at the base of her hand pushing against the skin, the surrounding flesh swelling in front of her eyes. She wiped the sweat from her brow with her uninjured hand and slowly stood, carefully putting weight on her bruised limb. She winced at the soreness but it was just about bearable. Besides, pain was something she had endured many times before. Physical pain she had become accustomed to – it was the mental torture that broke her, the game-playing, the name-calling, the constant threats.
Keep moving, you fool, run through the pain! It will be much worse if he catches up with you!
She could hear the roar of the ocean as she left the path and made her way towards the cliff's edge. At least the surface was soft grass here and she could move more freely. She had better be careful, though – it wasn’t as dark up here but it was still difficult to make out where the verge ended. If she could just get to her neighbour’s house, she would be safe. It was a bit of a distance, but she could do it if she kept her pace.
She caught a flicker of movement up ahead, something shadowy moving towards her. Her heart jumped inside her chest and began a slow and steady beat, the rhythm like a death march. Was it him? It couldn’t be … how did he do that?
She stopped, unsure what to do next.
"Baby, it’s me, don’t be frightened, please! I’m sorry, OK?" a voice called out into the dark night.
Jesus, it is him! How the f**k had he managed to get ahead of her? She was done for now, no chance of survival. She had angered him by running – he would take her home and he would finish her off. She was already in bed when he arrived home from work shouting for her to heat his dinner. He had hit her after, slapping the back of his hand into the side of her head when she carried his empty dish to the sink. For no reason at all – at least, not one that she could think of. She had lost her balance, hitting her hip against the edge of the sink, dropping his plate into its ceramic base. He had laughed at her, made light of it – "Sorry, love, didn’t mean to do that!" – but she knew he was only getting started. That glint in his eye always meant trouble – he enjoyed playing with her, enjoyed her torment, just waiting for her to slip up. And in that moment something snapped inside her. She couldn’t live this life anymore. Sooner or later he was going to kill her. It was time for her to fight back. What did she have to lose? He had taken everything from her anyway, hadn’t he? He had stripped her of her independence, her dignity and her self-worth. She had nothing left. So, she hit him with the closest thing that she could find – the iron poker resting at the side of the AGA. The steel rod connected with his back as he poured boiling water into his cup. He had roared like a lion, spilling the water from the kettle, scalding his hand.
Then, she ran, in her bare feet. No shoes in the house. Another rule.
"Come on, come home, we’ll talk it out, OK?" his voice soothed, getting closer now.
"Don’t you come near me, I swear – just stay the f**k away from me!"
"Baby, don’t be like that, come on!"
His words were gentle, but the tone was harsh and threatening. She had heard it many times before. He was getting close, she could just make out the shape of his face, his eyes. She imagined the usual menacing glimmer dancing behind the lids. She searched around her for a weapon, anything that might help in her defence. She fixed her eyes on a rock, more like a large stone, lying on the cliff path.
"Come on, sweetheart …"
He was close now, there was barely a few metres between them. "I didn’t mean to hurt you …"
He repeated the words she had heard many times before. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, it won’t happen again, I promise you. He reached for her and she pushed his hand away and spat in his face. His lip quivered, a movement so slight a stranger might miss it, but she recognised it as a signal of his increasing anger. He wiped the spittle away with the back of his sleeve.
"Stupid, f**king bitch!" he hissed. "You are going to pay for that!" He grabbed the hair at the back of her head and slammed into the bridge of her nose with his forehead.
She fell back onto the soft grass, dazed, tiny lights dancing behind her eyes. She was momentarily stunned. Hot tears stung her eyes. He was glaring down at her, a maniacal smile playing on his lips, rhythmically tapping the side of her leg with his heavy boot. Were there two of him? She thought she could see a shadowy shape behind his shoulder. She must be imagining things. She had to do something, he was going to kill her this time, she was sure of it. She reached out and grabbed the stone with her right hand and with as much force as she could muster she swung back and slammed it into his knee. But the stone was heavier than she had imagined and she barely made an impact.
"Poor helpless bitch, you’re no match for me!" he snarled as he glared down at her and he shoved his boot into her stomach, a smile playing on his lips. He was enjoying this.
She closed her eyes and waited for the worst to come. It was hopeless, she was a fool to ever think she could oppose him. Just be quick, she prayed, let it be over with soon.
Then she heard a thump, followed by a loud gasp. She opened her eyes just in time to see him stumble backwards, close to the edge. He tried, and failed, to keep his balance, arms flailing in the air above his head. She heard him roar out her name as he disappeared over the cliff, and then it was eerily quiet until his body slapped onto the rocks below. She crawled over to the edge and peered down into the darkness, barely able to make out his unmoving frame, the waves lapping around his lifeless form. It was over. He couldn’t harm her anymore.
She pushed back from the edge with her elbow, then turned her head and saw the shadow move towards her, the shine of a knife dangling in the air, blood dripping from the tip. She couldn’t see the face, the head shrouded in a dark hood. She watched as the knife was thrown over the cliff.
A pair of eyes turned to look at her and a gloved hand reached out to help her up.
She shook her head, no.
Her rescuer took a long look over the edge of the cliff before turning and running towards the path.
She lay back on the grass and let the tears fall.
Tell The Truth is published by Poolbeg Press
