If I Tell

Gill PerdueIF I TELL Contents PrologueDay One 1. Jenny2. Laura3. Jenny4. Laura5. Laura6. Jenny7. Laura8. Jenny9. Laura10. Laura11. Niamh12. Jenny13. Jenny14. Laura15. LauraDay Two 16. Laura17. Niamh18. Jenny19. Laura20. Niamh21. Jenny22. Laura23. Jenny24. Laura25. NiamhDay Three 26. Laura27. Jenny28. Laura29. Jenny30. Laura31. Jenny32. Laura33. Jenny34. LauraDay Four 35. Niamh36. Jenny37. Laura38. Jenny39. Laura40. Jenny41. Jenny42. Laura43. Jenny44. Laura45. Niamh46. Jenny47. Laura48. Niamh49. Laura50. Jenny51. Niamh52. Laura53. Jenny54. Laura55. Laura56. NiamhEpilogue: Four months laterAcknowledgements About the AuthorGILL PERDUE is a writer and dance teacher. She worked as a primary school teacher for fifteen years and published four books for children. If I Tell is her first novel for adults and was on the Crime Novel of the Year shortlist for an Irish Book Award in 2022. Gill lives in Dublin. For Mum – who told us we could achieve anything, and who never made you put down the book you were reading. And for Dad – showman and sage. Love, always.Thank you both. Author’s noteDear readerI deal with some sensitive topics in my novel and I sought expert advice when writing. I have done my best to deal carefully and authentically with themes such as anxiety, gaslighting and the legacy of trauma due to sexual abuse. I hope that those of you living with these issues will not find anything in here to add to your struggles. The characters in this story arrive at a stronger place and, though I realize that healing is not something that comes easily, I hope that is a source of encouragement.With every good wishGill Every movement hurts. Blinking hurts. Breathing hurts.He tries to focus. It’s dark. Is it the same day, or has he slept? There’s a shaft of light slicing in under – under whatever the thing is that’s covering him. It’s all wrong.His right hand lies across his chest – moulded there, weighted with lead weights. He thinks about moving it. Any second now, he’s going to move it. He thinks the thought – move hand – and a small twitch happens at the elbow. This brings a crashing wave of hot pain, radiating from the sternum, along the ribs, across the chest and right up into his brain – into the cells of his brain. It feels as if the actual thought cells are shattered, smashed.He closes his eyes, the eyelids stiff and heavy, caked with something.He lies still. Day One 1. JennyInside, my mouth is jammed and crammed with blood and teeth and jagged helps that can’t get out. It’s daytime grey-morning early and I’m awake, but it feels like the nightmare where you scream and nothing comes out. And I’m sitting on a plastic chair and I have weird clothes on and they’re waiting. They’re waiting for the words.‘Hi Jenny, I’m Laura,’ says Laura, with her giant name badge on so it’s not exactly a shocker. ‘Did the nurses explain that I’d be coming in to talk to you this morning?’ And we both know that yes, yes, of course, they said it. How about one of us says something new, Laura? While we wait for the words.She waits, smiles encouragingly. A second ticks by on the blue plastic clock above the desk. And another. I press my lips together. I’m keeping my mouth shut tight, tight, just in case. If I open it, shrieks might fly out like bats, dripping blood. It won’t be words floating soft like clouds. No.She waits some more. Tries a different tack. Don’t trust her; you know you can’t trust her.‘So there’s nothing to worry about, okay? I’m a special type of garda. My job is just to chat to you, that’s all. Every day, I chat to people – women, men, boys and girls – young people just like you.’Tick. Silence. Repeat. Don’t. Tell. I am not telling. Not chatting.‘Jenny? Did you hear me? I want you to know you’re safe – okay? You – you seem to be – are you listening to something – maybe someone else? Jenny?’And I see her look at the other one, but they don’t see him. She can’t see him. Dumb bitch.No and No. You cannot trust her.‘And there’ – she points to the long-haired woman sitting on a chair in the corner wearing jeans and runners, not like a grown-up. The woman does a smiley face – ‘that’s Niamh. Niamh’s a garda as well. She’s going to listen and take notes. In case I miss anything. Okay, Jenny? It’s just us girls.’She moves her chair closer to mine. That’s probably not a good idea.‘So, Jenny, I was hoping we could chat and we can get to know each other a bit. But first I need to explain how it works, okay? So if I ask you a question and you don’t know the answer, then just say “I don’t know” – this is really important.’The tip of her tongue pokes out of her mouth as she swallows. Like she’s scared.‘So if I ask you what’s my dog’s name, what do you say?’I want to say bad dog, Laura, haha, because dogs have their names on their collars like you, Laura. But I don’t say that because the words are stuck. Laura does more waiting. Nothing comes out of my mouth. Good.‘Do you have a dog, Jenny?’ she says in that stupid grown-up happy voice. And something is hurting in my throat. Maybe it’s bleeding. It hurts so much when she says that about the dog, and I think the noise is me crying, but I can’t see. The mirror’s too far away.‘Do you have a dog, Jenny?’Waiting and waiting, and she is looking over at the Niamh woman. Niamh is not Niamh Cinn Óir because her hair is all wrong, it only has gold at the ends. That Niamh had long, golden hair.‘Don’t worry, Jenny, take your time. What I’m trying to say is that sometimes I make mistakes or say the wrong thing.’ And dumb Not Niamh goes something like indeed you do el