BooksBarbecue
Back Darkest Truth Save as PDF

Darkest Truth

Catherine Kirwan
Chapters (54)
  1. COVER
  2. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  3. DEDICATION
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. EPILOGUE
  54. Acknowledgements

COVER

cover

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Catherine Kirwan grew up on a farm in the parish of Fews, County Waterford. She studied law at UCC and lives in Cork where she works as a solicitor. Darkest Truth is her first novel.

DEDICATION

For Michael and Breda Kirwan

PROLOGUE

She hears the bus, the hiss and chug of it, behind her. The 203 from Lehenaghmore. Two minutes early. An omen, she thinks. She sticks out her right hand, shoulder high, one half of a crucifix. The other she plunges into her anorak pocket. She left her phone and purse at home, but her bus pass is where it always is. Palming it at the driver as she boards, she keeps her head low. No chat. No reply to his ‘how’s it going?’ No acknowledgement of his ‘suit yourself, love’.

The bus is almost empty. You don’t go into the city centre on a damp Tuesday night in January unless you have to. She chooses a seat in the middle, equidistant from the other two passengers. They take off after a minute’s dawdle, and the lights are in their favour for the first couple of junctions. Another omen, she thinks. But at the end of Summerhill South, the light is red. Doesn’t matter, she thinks, nothing does.

In town, at the last stop, she waits. The other two passengers say ‘thanks’ to the driver as they get off. She wants to say it too, this final courtesy, but silence is safer, and the driver is busy anyway, filling in a form. He hardly notices her, she thinks. She doesn’t see him watch her cross the street to the river. She doesn’t see him shrug and tap his breast pocket and step off the bus and light up a cigarette. She doesn’t know that he’ll remember that smoke. She doesn’t know that he’ll regret it.

She reaches Patrick’s Bridge. At the pedestrian light, she almost looks north, towards MacCurtain Street and the Everyman Theatre. She looks east instead, towards her destination. As soon as the road is clear, she makes for the other side. One more crossing, she thinks, and I’m there. She speeds up, then slows again, recalling that she’ll have to pass the Opera House. Don’t think, she says aloud. As the glassy bulk of it looms into view, she registers that the place is dark tonight. For a second, she’s glad.