‘So, what? You two thoug
Istare unblinkingly at Alex, frozen in shock.
‘That’s all I know,’ he adds quickly. ‘I didn’t know about the, ah, prison bit. And I didn’t know for sure that you were Hannah. Not really. I just suspected it. A lot.’
I exhale, finally releasing the pain that had been building in my chest.
But the fear that Alex already knew everything is immediately replaced by the dread that I haven’t been anywhere near as careful as I thought.
Because he clearly knows something.
‘Look, my sister really wanted this house,’ he says, ‘even though if it went much above the asking, she’d have been priced out.
So she comes to see it, calls to make an offer – but she’s told it’s been withdrawn.
And this is right afterwards. Same day. It makes her think something’s gone on, like an off-market sale or the seller’s just testing the market – which pisses her off.
Those Harrington Properties guys, they’re in Sips every morning.
Soph knows them. But all they’ll say is that it was a real sale and the house didn’t sell.
Which only confuses her more. Out of curiosity, she looks up the Land Registration place—’
‘Registry,’ I mutter.
‘—and sees that the house was purchased by a Hannah Flynn back in 2016. A Hannah Flynn who must still own the house, because it didn’t sell.
But then you move in, saying your name is Ellie and that you bought the house.
But there isn’t a new owner and, ah, that stuff about Paris …
’ Alex looks apologetic. ‘Neither of us believed it. Sorry.’
I’ve been so stupid. So ridiculously stupid. So worried about my name and my past that I messed up the simplest thing.
All I had to do was say I was a tenant. Tell them I was renting the place. That the owner was going to sell but changed her mind and decided to become a landlord instead.
I can’t believe how much energy I’ve put into hiding my identity these last few days – and the stress and anxiety it’s cost me – when, right from the get-go, Alex and Sophie knew what I was saying couldn’t be true.
‘So, what? You two thought I was the owner but lying about it?’
‘That was Sophie’s alternative theory,’ Alex says. ‘That Deirdre Harrington had warned you that your next-door neighbour was pissed off about the house being taken off the market and you did it to avoid a confrontation.’
‘I wanted to avoid it so much I was going to use a fake name forever more?’
Alex makes a face. ‘I didn’t say it was a good one.’
‘What was her first?’
He hesitates. ‘She thought – and still thinks – that you’re a squatter.’
‘What?’
‘And she’s told the guard that. Murphy.’ He’s blushing now. ‘I’m sorry. She really wanted this house and she’s been searching for one for years. I think it’s making her a bit crazy, to be honest.’
No wonder Garda Murphy wants to see my ID.
‘And what was your theory?’
‘Well, when you didn’t want me to call the guards,’ Alex says, ‘after someone literally let themselves into your house in the middle of the night, I started thinking that maybe you didn’t want anyone to know your name, because you were hiding from a bad situation or something …
’ He pauses. ‘And, look, I won’t tell her what you told me, don’t worry.
Really.’ A small smile. ‘Although we’d better get our stories straight about what your name is, or we might run into trouble. ’
‘Has she googled me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you?’
‘No.’
I study his face when he says this, and it seems genuine.
But the easiest way to prove Sophie’s crazy squatter theory would be to find a photo of what the actual owner looks like.
Although, if Sophie had found something, she’d have surely mentioned it to her brother. My friend in Denver, the nutritionist with a million Google hits, might have saved me yet again.
But if she did, it was a temporary reprieve. After this conversation, Alex definitely will look me up.
I would if I were him.
‘So what happened?’ he says. Then, quickly, ‘I mean – with the sale. Did you just change your mind?’
‘No, I …’ I take a deep breath. ‘I’ve owned this house for nearly ten years, but I only found that out last week.’
His eyes widen. ‘What?’
‘Yeah. Deirdre, the estate agent, found out around the same time I did. The seller wasn’t actually the seller. That’s why it was withdrawn.’
‘But how is that possible?’
‘Just before … before everything happened, I met this guy. What I didn’t know at the time was that he was married.
Well, in the process of separating. Intending to get a divorce.
He said. He bought this house. That’s what he told me.
What he didn’t tell me is that he’d put it in my name.
I think probably because he was trying to keep it out of the divorce.
To protect it. He might have thought we’d live in it together, I don’t know. We broke up soon after, so.’
‘But how did he do it without you knowing?’
‘No idea,’ I say. ‘I never signed anything, so it had to have involved forgery, I think? He took my passport once – to book a surprise trip, he said. And then, well, I don’t know if he plain forgot about it or had the ego to think he’d find a way around it, but it only came to light when he tried to sell the house and had to produce the deeds. ’
‘And he didn’t try to, like, pressure you into giving it back to him?’
‘He did test the waters,’ I say, ‘but I wasn’t having it. And he couldn’t push me, because I could just, you know, report what he did. Reveal his fraud. So we made a deal. I don’t contact them or kick up a fuss about what he did, and I get a mortgage-free house.’
‘“Them?”’ Alex repeats.
‘Him and his wife,’ I say. ‘He went back to her, afterwards.’
I’m embarrassed about this and embarrassed that, of all the things I’ve just revealed to Alex, this one stings the most. It’s so pathetic, but I can’t turn it off.
I can’t pretend that what hurts more than anything is that the man who is responsible for every bad thing that happened to me decided, ultimately, that I wasn’t worth his time after all.
Or that what I’m most angry about, even now, is how he was able to arrive in my life, blow it to pieces and then return to his with no harm done.
‘Why didn’t you let the sale go ahead?’ Alex asks. ‘Take the money and run?’
‘You mean apart from the fact that I was an unemployed, convicted criminal with no money and nowhere to live?’
‘They all sound like reasons to sell to me.’
I shake my head. ‘Even if we’d gone sale agreed the day of the viewing, it would have been weeks or months before the sale went through.
And who knows when I’d have actually received the money.
You know how these things go. People pull out.
They can’t sell their own house. They find somewhere better and change their mind.
But here was someone saying to me, You have your own home and it’s mortgage-free.
Here are the keys. I didn’t have to think twice. ’
‘And now what? Someone’s mad about that?’
‘Who would be mad? Besides your sister.’
‘Another thwarted house-hunter,’ Alex suggests. ‘Someone who wanted to buy the house and is hopping mad that they couldn’t. Maybe this is some kind of campaign to force you into selling. Or … could it be the guy who bought it? Your ex?’
I feel a ripple of unease but, when I try that explanation on for size, it doesn’t quite fit.
‘He’s in Australia,’ I say. ‘And the last thing he’d want is to antagonize me. He made me sign something promising I wouldn’t, remember? I bet his wife doesn’t even know about this. He’d be trying to keep it that way.’
‘Reporters, then? Could it be a journalist, trying to get a story?’
Him asking this makes me think he has googled me. Or maybe he’s just assuming that whatever I did to end up in prison would be newsworthy, that a woman like me – white, educated, middle-class – being charged with anything would generate at least a few column inches.
And he’s right.
I generated thousands. But thanks to the passage of time and my catnip-to-the-media friend in Denver, Colorado, they’re buried pretty well these days.
I know they are, because I check every day.
‘They tend to post a note through your door,’ I say, ‘or try to get your phone number. Not break in in the middle of the night and then come back the next day to scatter your coffee granules.’
‘Well then,’ he says. ‘I’m all out of ideas.’
We sit in silence for a beat.
‘There might be someone else,’ I say.
‘Really? Who?’
‘Tonight, when you called me, I was at a pub in town, at a meeting of the Murder House Club.’
‘Is that like the Babysitters Club?’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘How do you know about the Babysitters Club?’
‘Soph was obsessed with the books. So much so that she started her own club. Only she took a fifty per cent cut from all her babysitters and they had to work for her exclusively.’
That doesn’t surprise me in the least.
‘These guys aren’t babysitting,’ I say.
Briefly, I fill him in. But I’m selective.
I tell him about going to Deirdre to complain about the listing still being up, and her mentioning them.
The Facebook page, finding a picture of this house alongside some decades-old rumours.
How I thought it might be one of them trying to get inside.
Steve and the group’s weird, abrupt departure.
‘He could be the guy I saw on Sunday,’ Alex says when I’m done. ‘Is that why you asked me and Soph if something had happened in your house?’
His timeline is wrong, but I don’t see the need to correct it.
Instead I say, ‘It seemed like Sophie was about to say yes, but you said no.’
‘Only because I thought she was shit-stirring. And I’m sure that’s all it was. She’s never mentioned anything to me about something happening in here. And I think she’d have said so. If it’s true, I don’t think she knows.’
I feel like that’s probably true.
‘But this Murder Club,’ Alex says. ‘They sound like the best candidate so far for whoever’s been coming in here. Are you going to go to another meeting?’
I shake my head. ‘My plan is to stay as far away from them as possible.’
‘But you should tell Garda Murphy about them, right? I know you probably don’t want to see her ever again, but—’
‘I have to see her. Thanks to your sister, I need to report to Dundrum Garda Station with photo ID.’
‘Shit,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘Why is that bad, though? Are you on, like, probation or something?’
‘The last year of my sentence was suspended, so there are conditions. But they’re just things like keep the peace and don’t get into trouble. It’s more that, the moment I show it to her, she’ll know who I am. Who I really am.’
‘And that’s bad because …?’
‘Because then she’ll know who I am.’
‘Sorry, Hannah, I’m not trying to be dense here, but I’m not really getting why that’s a problem. What difference will it make?’
Hannah.
I like how it sounds. I miss my name.
‘I don’t know if it’ll make any difference,’ I admit. ‘I just don’t want it to happen. I don’t want people to know where I’ve been.’
Or what I did to get sent there.
‘But why—?’ he starts.
‘I just wanted to be anonymous,’ I say, my voice rising. ‘OK? That’s all I wanted. And not even for ever, just for a while. Just here, while I got myself back on my feet, until I felt like I was in a position where I could sell the house. After everything, I don’t think that’s too much to ask.’
A beat passes.
Then Alex says, ‘It’s getting late. We should start on the clean-up.’
‘You can go. Leave the stuff and I’ll do it myself. Really.’
‘Yeah, that’s not happening.’ He stands up. ‘But you can make a start on it while I fit the safety chain. Presume you’re OK with me drilling a couple of holes in your door?’
‘Have at it.’ I stand up too.
‘And, ah, look …’
Alex looks physically uncomfortable, which makes me uncomfortable, because I know what’s coming next is something I’m not going to want to hear.
‘I know conversations like this are excruciating,’ he starts, ‘but I’m just going to say it anyway.
If the reason you haven’t called out a locksmith is money, I honestly don’t mind—’
‘Alex,’ I warn, cutting him off.
He holds up his hands. ‘OK, OK. I just wanted to say it. Oh – before I forget, you know about Thursday evening, right? The Dundrummed meet-up?’
‘Please don’t say Dundrummed.’
‘Don’t say that to Sophie,’ he says, grinning slightly. ‘The name was her idea.’
Of course it was.
‘It’s in Sips. Five o’clock. There’s an invite in the group. You should come.’
Spontaneous aches pulse from both my temples. ‘Do you remember any of the conversation we’ve just had?’
‘The conversation we’ve just had is why I think you should go,’ Alex says. ‘You need a break. You need some fun. It’s after hours, so the cafe will be closed. We’ll be out the back, in the courtyard. There’ll be food, I’m told. And alcohol.’
‘And your sister, who hates me and knows my real name.’
‘She doesn’t hate you. She’s just upset about the house. And she doesn’t actually know anything.’ He pauses. ‘Just think about it, OK?’
I say I will, but I’m lying. I’ve already decided and the answer is hell no.
It’s not the only thing I’m lying to Alex about.
As I watch him set off down the hall to install my new safety chain, I can’t help but feel a bit sorry for him.
Believing me so willingly and not asking for more than I was willing to share.
He probably thinks I’ve just spilled my guts, but I haven’t even come close to revealing the whole awful, ugly truth.