Between the Lies

by Michelle Adams

THIRTEEN

  I listen to the phone ringing downstairs, shrill and loud, begging to be answered. Then my father’s sombre muffled voice, an agreement of some sort. I hear him coming up the stairs, the wood creaking under his weight. He knocks on my door, opens it without waiting for a response.

  ‘I have to go to work, Chloe. Something very important has come up with one of my patients.’

  I don’t answer, don’t know what to say. I focus on the edge of the pillow, the floral lace trim. A few minutes later I hear the front door closing, and for the first time in days I am alone.

  I go downstairs and find the letter from Treadstone’s lawyer propped up on the bare mantelpiece, the weak fire still simmering behind the guard. I stare at the debris of my father’s anger, swept into a pile at the side. I crouch, search around for my wedding ring, but I can’t find it amongst the broken china and wilting flowers. I grab a coat and step outside.

  The fog is liquid as I walk through the back garden, ever changing, as if the land is breathing. Several times I have to stop, uncertain where I am going as I head up the path towards the river. I’ve left the light on in the kitchen as a guide for my return, but as I look back now, I’m not convinced I can still see it.

  Then coming towards me I see Ben. He has a spade in one hand, a bag of something that looks heavy in the other. I tell myself to turn back, to hide until he is past. The idea that it could have been him last night won’t leave me, but he has seen me.

  ‘Chloe,’ he says, holding up the hand with the spade. ‘Wait there.’ He hurries towards me, his breath fogging white on white. ‘Is everything all right?’

  I wrap my coat around me, hug my arms in close. ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Your father?’ He sets the bag down, a dull thud on the ground. ‘I heard him earlier. He sounded angry.’

  I shake my head, adjust my woolly hat. ‘No,’ I say, feeling embarrassed. ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he repeats, taking a step closer. ‘If he hurt you, then—’

  ‘I said it was nothing,’ I tell him again, averting my gaze. He moves closer to me and I back away. ‘Ben, what do you want? I get the impression you have something you either want to say or ask. What is it?’

  He is quiet then, seems less confident than only a moment ago. I keep thinking about what Jess said, about him trying to kiss me. The stables are just a short distance away. What is he thinking? About us, there, his lips against mine? Is that really how it happened?

  ‘Chloe, at some point, I’d really like us to talk. I want things to go back to how they used to be.’

  ‘What do you mean, how they used to be?’ He’s wrestling with some mental rumination, can’t quite decide, it seems, on whether or not he should say what’s on his mind. Whatever it is, it troubles him. Troubles him enough to approach me at night? ‘Was it you in the graveyard last night?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Was it you who tried to speak with me?’

  He shakes his head, flabbergasted almost by what I say. ‘I’ve been trying to speak to you for days, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I do really need you, Chloe. Everything’s gone to shit without you.’

  I recoil. Needs me? I barely even know him. But then again, I barely know anybody, least of all myself. What was it exactly that we used to share that he seems intent to rekindle?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, beginning to move, picking up the pace into a run. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Chloe, wait,’ he calls after me, but I just keep running, scared to face whatever truth from my old life he might want to revisit.

  I push on, past the paddock, and the stable block full of horses. After several minutes of walking blind, I reach the clearing in the woods where the trees thin out and the riverbank slopes gently down, submitting to the edge of the fast-flowing water, the only break in the perimeter fence.

  I stand there for a while, watching as the current rushes along in front of me, submerged reeds floating like silk scarves on a breeze. The river is wide at this point, chopped in two by a weir. I was expecting to see the bridge that led to the old mill, but all that’s left are the remnants, dangling rotting and green in the water. The rest of the wood is black, charred like the old logs from a fire. I get as close as I dare to the fast-flowing water for a proper inspection, concluding that it is no longer passable from this point.

  I decide to follow the river, certain that there must be another point where I can cross somewhere further upstream. But as I move through the forest, memories begin to surface, stirred into existence by my shady surroundings. It’s the moisture on my skin, the way my hair is sticking to my face, bothering at my eyes. I recall the night of the crash, can almost feel the smack of the branches in my face, the sharp edges of broken wood tearing at my skin as I pushed my way through. And the feeling I get is the same as this morning when I woke from the dream to the sensation of cold air and the taste of rain. That night is coming back to me, just like my father said it would. My dreams are not just dreams, but memories of the life I used to live. Of the night I lost my son.

  A little further along, knitted into the greenish brown of the undergrowth, I find a dilapidated stile that forms the start of a public footpath. I climb over, picking my way through heavy growth and overhanging branches. The rush of the river slows, narrows like a diseased artery, just as somehow I knew it would. I tread carefully, picking my way across the stepping stones, my left foot slipping into the cold water as I fail to balance on the slimy surface of the rocks. I haul myself to the other side. It’s less than a minute before I see the mill coming into view.

  My eyes scan the crumbling walls, the old wheel, its green bottom half just breaking the surface of the water. It’s in a state of disrepair so great that I am sure one false move could bring the whole thing tumbling down like a deck of cards. The smell of damp wood and algae greets me. Water runs down the walls, pours through a hole in the roof. The upper floors are disintegrating, giving a clear view through to the sky. Rotten boards are scattered at my feet in angry, disorganised piles. Plants grow out from gaps in the walls, and light shoots through like a maze of brilliant lasers.

  I tread carefully, gripping the dusty surfaces of the huge metal gears as I pull myself along, and after some effort I arrive on the other side of the room, where the vertical shaft disappears above. Drips of ice-cold water strike my face as I look up towards the hole in the roof. It’s dark and difficult to see, but slowly my eyes adjust to the low level of light ebbing through the canopy of trees. And there, right alongside the vertical shaft, is the thing that a distant memory told me I would find.

  One corner of the floor is lined with old flour sacks, the faded imprint of Willow’s Mill a nod to the previous function of this broken-down place. A dirty floral sheet is laid over them; a sheet that the old me took from my parents’ home and brought to this place. The edges are tinged green with mould, the years of damp leaving watermarks across the rest of it. Despite how it looks, I duck beneath a thick wooden beam to take a seat, shuffle about to make a well for my body. And as I sit, I remember how this place used to feel to me, how I used to come here with Andrew. I remember him when he was no more than a boy, when he was my escape from the life I lived with my parents.

  This was the place I ran to when I needed somewhere to hide. It is enclosed on two sides by external brick walls from which sections of mortar are now missing. The other two sides are bordered by giant wooden beams, creating an open box no bigger than a small double bed. On one of the beams sits an old knife and fork set that I stole from home, and next to that a blue plastic beaker. An old Pony Club badge clings to a splinter in the wood. An unopened carton of juice, the sheathed straw loose because the glue has dried up. I pick it up and turn it over, the expiry date from over ten years before. I place it back on the beam, alongside a faded unopened packet of crisps. The objects are a testament to my time here, just like the carving of my name in the wood of one of the beams. Chloe Alice Daniels. A
nd alongside that I see two sets of initials, bound by a crudely shaped heart. CD and AJ.

  When I was young, I used to send messages to Andrew to join me here. I was only fifteen when we met, but I can recall sitting here in the cold and damp, the security I used to feel when I nestled against him, my head resting on his shoulder. It was an escape from the shouting and crying and fighting at home. It was always so simple with him. Back then at least.

  But now I know that I left him, a decision that resulted in his death. I have his blood on my hands, the taste of it in my throat.

  FOURTEEN

  I leave the mill and the ghosts of my past, head back towards the river. I cross, the mist still thick this close to the water, and begin to pick my way through the trees, push on towards the house. Everything is growing against me, so I double back, follow the easier path in the opposite direction towards the road, my plan to return to the house via the village.

  As I emerge from the trees it is still, quiet, the villagers hibernating for the winter. I’m thankful for the solitude; I must look a mess, with twigs in my hair and leaves stuck all over my boots.

  The only sound apart from my footsteps is a car behind me, the headlights on full beam, casting me in a strange yellow glow. The driver seems anxious, perhaps because of the weather, his speed too slow. I pick up my pace to get out of his way, but as he passes, I lose my concentration and slip off the edge of the kerb, twisting my ankle as I fall to the ground.

  A memory of my past momentarily descends over the present. I remember lying in a road like this, the grit of the tarmac beneath me, the screech of tyres as a vehicle sped away. I think I was in a park, the sound of a lawnmower revving in the distance. Hedgerows rising up all around me, the smell of roses carried on the heat and humidity of summer. Is this memory from the day of the crash?

  I pick myself up and head back towards the house. But as I near the gate, with the oak trees peeping through the haze of fog, I stop. A man is fiddling at the latch, a briefcase at his side. He keeps pressing the buzzer over and over.

  He turns when he hears me, greets me with a wide smile, all teeth and finely lined eyes, as if he has spent a summer at the beach. He reaches down to pick up his briefcase, the other hand up for a wave as he ambles towards me. He is underdressed for the weather, wearing a light jacket and a scarf draped casually around his neck. Even in my mother’s thick woollen coat I am freezing.

  ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘How are you?’

  As he approaches, I realise it’s the doctor who was here the other night, the one who works with my father and whom I met at the hospital once before.

  ‘Hello again,’ I say. ‘Dr Thurwell, right?’

  ‘That’s right. I wondered if you’d recognise me.’

  ‘You’re the only person I’ve seen other than my family in the last week or so.’ I offer him a smile. ‘You were here the other night.’

  ‘Yes. Your father and I often meet after work to discuss important cases. It’s part of my training.’ He pauses as I shiver from the cold. ‘Chloe, if you don’t mind me asking, just how long have you been out here? You look freezing, and very pale.’

  ‘I went for a walk.’ I look down at my wet clothes, a smear of mud on my coat. ‘I fell over.’

  He slips off his jacket and offers it to me, cautious and slow as if to demonstrate he poses no threat. Like somebody might approach a stray dog they were trying to help when they really didn’t want to get bitten. ‘I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but I don’t think you should be out here after everything that’s happened.’ He motions to my head. ‘Why don’t I give you a hand getting inside?’

  It takes a while to remember the code for the gate, and I have to make several attempts before I manage to open it. I keep an eye out for Ben, but he’s nowhere to be seen. We enter the gloom of the hallway, my face cold, my fingers blue. I hand him his jacket and he shivers a little as he threads his arms back into the sleeves. He has to rub his hands together in an effort to warm up, and I find myself doing the same.

  His hair is short, a dark chestnut brown, the curls picked out by the moist winter air. He is younger than I assumed now that I see him close up, probably not much more than mid-thirties. The cut of his suit reminds me of my father’s: a classic fit, not too fashionable, designed to make him appear older than he is, more credible. He looks kind, with soft features, and there is something about him that I like, something reassuring. That same feeling he instilled in me at the hospital. His smile, I think. Maybe that’s what it is.

  He catches sight of himself in the mirror, pulls a face of mock-horror. He flattens out the kinks in his hair as best he can, running his fingers through the thick curls. I remain by the door, watching his movements. ‘Is your father here?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. ‘He’s already left for work.’ I hang the spare keys back on the hook, and throw my coat over the banister. ‘About an hour and a half ago.’

  He presses his lips together in disappointment. ‘I just came from there. I thought he’d taken the day off.’ I see him gazing at my cheek, scratched no doubt on a tree branch. Then he looks down, notices my hands. ‘You’ve hurt yourself,’ he says.

  I hold out my hands, let him see. I can feel myself cast in his shadow as he inspects the damage, my small hands swallowed up in his. I look down at my palms, which are dirty with grit, two grazes on the heels that appear wet and weepy. ‘And what about here? May I?’ He lets go, reaches up to touch my chin. When I don’t resist, he tilts my head back, lifts my hat. His touch is light and I feel the quickening of my heart as he moves in close.

  ‘Does it look OK?’ I ask

  ‘Your head looks fine, but we need to wash the wounds on your hands,’ he says. I can smell his aftershave, something rich and spicy. I avert my eyes, aware of his proximity. He has another look at my hands, pointing to a small black lump near my wrist. ‘That’s a piece of grit. Come on, let me help you wash it out.’

  We go to the kitchen and he turns on the tap, tests the temperature of the water. He guides my hands underneath, flicks out the dirt and debris as the warm water washes over the broken skin. I stare at my ring finger as his fingertips move over it, the place where a wedding ring should be. He takes a wad of paper towel and bandages it around my hands.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘It’s only superficial. But if you’ve got some antibacterial cream, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to put a bit on the cuts.’

  We exchange an awkward smile and he takes a step back, as if he realises he might have overstepped the mark. My cheeks feel warm, embarrassed. It isn’t his presence that makes me feel that way. Not even his touch. It’s my vulnerability, my reliance upon him. He’s a relative stranger and yet I need his help; that’s how little of myself I have left.

  ‘I remember you from the hospital,’ I say. ‘You came to talk to me not long after I woke up. You asked me some questions.’

  Does he remember? A little wrinkle appears on the left side of his face as he smiles, almost as if he’s embarrassed. ‘You remember that? Indeed I did. I came to complete an assessment.’

  ‘But you’re not a neurologist. Why did you have to come and see me?’

  He looks away awkwardly, pushes his hands into his pockets. ‘It was nothing, Chloe. We just wanted to see how you were feeling about everything, that’s all.’

  It takes a while to realise what he means, the pieces fitting together one by one. To understand the reason a psychiatrist would come to assess me. ‘It was a suicide risk assessment, wasn’t it? Because people thought there was a chance I crashed on purpose.’

  He takes a big breath in, looks to the ceiling. His eyes meet mine. ‘Yes,’ he says quietly. ‘But honestly, it was all just part of the process. I never believed that theory for a second.’

  FIFTEEN

  I sit down at the table while he dries his hands on a tea towel. When he looks up at me, his expression is sad. ‘Chloe, I want to say how sorry I am about everything. I mean, really, I can’t imagine w
hat you must be going through.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He shifts awkwardly, puts his hands in his pockets. I point to the briefcase that he set down next to the kitchen door. I don’t want to linger on the past now, the possibility that what happened was not only my fault, but intentional.

  ‘Did you want to leave something for my father?’

  ‘Yes. He needs to review a set of notes ready for a departmental meeting tomorrow. He asked me to drop them off. He obviously didn’t realise he’d have to go into work. Will he be back soon?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ I think of his anger this morning, not sure I even want him to come home. ‘Do you want to call him?’ He nods, reaches for his phone. ‘You might as well use the house phone. You won’t get any reception out here.’

  I stay in the kitchen while he makes the call. After a few minutes he comes back in from the hallway.

  ‘He’ll be home soon,’ he says. ‘He asked me to wait with you. I’m sorry, but I mentioned that you had slipped over outside, and … well…’ He knows he has dropped me in it. ‘I think he felt guilty that he went to work and left you here alone.’

  ‘You don’t have to stay if you have other things to do,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’

  He lets go of a heavy breath. ‘You’ve had surgery for a bleed. Your father’s right, if you hit your head when you fell, then—’

  ‘Really, I’ll be fine.’

  But he shakes his head, pulls off his scarf, touches my arm briefly with gentle reassurance. ‘I’m more than happy to stay.’ He nods towards the kettle. ‘I take mine with milk and one sugar.’

  * * *

  I boil the kettle and set out the mugs. It sparks a reminder of another kitchen, making tea for somebody else. Who was it there with me? Andrew, in our old house, while things were still good between us?

  Dr Thurwell—Guy—must notice the difficulty I have with my coordination, because when the kettle clicks off, he gets to it first, helps me finish the job. I am grateful for the quiet, easy assistance, and we sit together at the kitchen table, where he tells me what he can about the risk assessment. He says that he knew it was a waste of time from the moment I spoke to him.