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Back Darkest Truth Save as PDF
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

But there was nothing that signified her interest in film and theatre, and nothing hidden under the bed, around the back of the wardrobe, or taped underneath the drawers. I got down on my knees and moved along the wall, feeling the edges of the skirting board and carpet as I went, checking for a loose section or corner, but there was none. Deirdre had stripped her physical surroundings of every item that might have reminded her of Jeremy Gill. Was that significant? According to her father, at one stage she had been his number one fan. Or was that just Sean’s version? Maybe Gill was a lot less important in Deirdre’s life than Sean imagined. Yet she had left a coded message apparently identifying him in her suicide note. If that’s what the note meant, she had to have done it deliberately. And, if it had been deliberate, there was a chance that she had left something here too.

I sat on the floor, in the corner at the end of the bed. In front of the window, there was a cheap wood veneer desk, where Deirdre had probably done her schoolwork. The desk had two drawers that I’d already checked: empty, both inside and underneath. I got up again. I slid out the top drawer and laid it on the desk. I did the same with the second drawer, and got down on my knees and felt around at the back of the opening. There was something wedged there. I shone my iPhone torch into the aperture. It looked like a mechanical instruments box. I took the ruler out of the drawer and used one hand to prise out the box with the ruler and the other to pull the box from its hiding place. Finally, it came free.

I laid the box on the desk. It was battered, dented and scratched with the initials ‘DC’ but, more than anything else that I had seen of her so far, it was the box that brought Deirdre to life for me. I could almost hear her laughing in school corridors, almost see her passing notes in class.

From my handbag, I took a roll of small plastic bags that I had brought from home. I tore off two and put a bag on each hand, improvising gloves, not wanting to contaminate or damage whatever I might find.

I opened the box.

5

I had been hoping for something written, a diary or a letter, and not this collection of meaningless detritus. But I told myself that what was inside the box had to have been important to Deirdre, things she had wanted, or needed, to hide away and keep; and that I owed it to her to give the objects my full attention.