At no point can I picture Andrew, Ben, or Damien, or arrange the individual pieces of that night into any logical order that explains things. I can’t tell the story of how I lost my child. But I am becoming ever more certain about one thing: I had no intention of crashing with Joshua in the car. All along I have felt it, the doubt that I could do such a thing. Now I know that at some point on that night I held him close to my chest, tried to make everything right. I know with certainty that I didn’t mean to kill either of us. Otherwise there is no way that his loss would hurt as much as it does.
I know something else too. My father is still lying to me. Andrew, my husband, is alive. It is impossible to believe that my father doesn’t know that. He even told me he had arranged Andrew’s funeral, thrown flowers from the pier. My mother and Jess must also know. My whole family, for crying out loud. How could they lie about something so important? Is that what my mother wanted my father to tell me that night in the dining room? Did she want him to tell me the truth?
I leave the bus shelter and walk aimlessly despite the pain in my leg, passing shops and people and places I don’t know. I wish I had the letter from the lawyer with my address on it so I could go to my house. If I could find it, I would never leave it again. I want to lock myself in and stay there forever; hide away, pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. But I can’t remember where it is. Close to the beach, my father said when he saw that picture on Facebook, but no matter how many roads I walk down, none seem familiar.
The rain is beating down, my clothes getting wet through. I stand on the seafront in the shelter of an awning, a little shop selling Brighton rock. The ruined pier sits to my right, the other one further to the left. But the shop owner is watching me and I can’t stay here forever. I need somewhere to go, somebody to go to. But I have nowhere and nobody. Not a single friend I remember who I can call on. I can’t go back to my parents’ house after learning of their deceit and lies. And I can’t go home, because I don’t know where home is. Does such a place even exist for me any more?
I find myself at the Palace Pier, standing next to a kiosk that sells vinegary chips in cones with wooden forks. Garish lights flash above me, the pier illuminated and blurry in the thick wet air. I listen as the waves crash against the shore, echoing underneath the wooden slats as I walk. I pass a sign that promises all the fun of the fair, ancient shelters, peeling paint. The smell of rotting wood. The obnoxious buzz of amusements rounds on me, loud and caustic, songs playing on top of songs, mixed with the din of games and cheer. A lone man feeds coins into a twopenny slot. Another shoots baskets. Gulls swoop. I stumble on, and suddenly the sight before me raises a memory of my past, hitting me like the rain, heavy and consuming.
Shall we get our fortune read?
It is Andrew’s voice I hear, and although it’s only in my head, I can picture him as he was then, all those years ago. His hair bleached by the sun, the scent of his old sweater as I leant in. A teenager. I see the kiosk at which we once sat, the old gypsy with her crystal ball and headscarf, bracelets that jangled as she moved. He was a sucker for things like that. He loved the machine you put a penny in too, which spat it back out with the image of Brighton pressed onto the surface. We did it every time we came to the pier, I think. I remember that now, just like it was yesterday. Where are all those old coins now? Lost, no doubt, along with the memories we once took the time to make. I wish I could remember something more solid, rather than these snapshot postcards of the past.
I walk further, past Horatio’s Bar, down to the helter-skelter and the colourful horses of the merry-go-round. I go as far as I can, brace myself against the railings at the end of the pier. The waves grow louder. I look out to sea, the place where my father told me Joshua’s ashes were scattered. Is that even the truth? I can’t believe anything they’ve told me any more.
Because he didn’t stop there, did he? Oh no. He told me it was my fault. He implied that Andrew killed himself because of me, and that Joshua was dead because of my mistakes. How could he do that? To his own daughter. A father is supposed to protect his child, not lie and manipulate them. He wanted me to believe that I could have chosen to kill my child. It’s unimaginable, and yet the truth. I gaze over the railing at the white swell of the waves, feel the spray on my face. And as I stand there, the wind buffeting my body, I can’t help but wonder if it wouldn’t just be easier if I ended this now.
But instead I sink to the floor, my body flat against the wet boards of the pier. I let one hand slip through the railings, reaching down towards the water, towards the place where I can only assume Joshua’s ashes are. They should have waited, I think to myself, before they held the funeral. They should have waited for me to say to goodbye.
They should have told me the truth.
By the time I leave the pier, the light is fading, another weather front moving in, clouds swollen and grey out at sea. I know I have to confront my father, tell him what I know. He won’t be able to lie to me then. I walk through the streets, asking for directions from strangers, until I find the clinic where he works. It’s a large place, an old Victorian mansion, which even has some patients who stay overnight. I move through the unmanned reception, following the signs to my father’s office. I climb the stairs, the pain in my leg eased; I can’t feel anything any more. I am going to demand the truth. I am going to make him tell me the truth. But before I reach his office I see Guy standing in the corridor, talking to a nurse.
‘Chloe?’ He smiles at first, a set of notes in his hand. ‘What are you doing here?’ Then he notices my pale face and red eyes. I am shaking from the cold. Maybe anger. His smile disappears. ‘Chloe, what’s wrong?’
‘Where’s my father?’ I demand. He hands the nurse the set of notes and pulls me aside.
‘He’s already left.’ His voice is low. ‘And in a hurry, too. Something about a problem at home.’ I’m close to tears again. I need the truth and now my father is gone. ‘Chloe, tell me what’s wrong? What are you doing here alone?’
‘He’s lying to me.’ I feel Guy edging me towards a seat. ‘No!’ I shout, the eyes of the nearby nurses suddenly upon us. They think I’m a patient. I must look crazed. ‘I have to find him. He has to tell me the truth.’
I’m close to breaking, so I don’t stop him when he takes hold of my arm, firm but not in a way that hurts, and leads me towards the door. ‘Not like this you don’t,’ he whispers as we walk away from the crowd of onlookers. ‘Let’s talk in private.’
We walk until we find a quiet corner with a deep windowsill. We wait for a small crowd of people to pass. They’re laughing, cheerful. The sight of them makes me feel sick; the thought of everything I’ve lost, all the untruths I’ve been told. After the last of the group disappears around a corner, Guy turns to look at me.
‘It’s all lies,’ I tell him. ‘Everything he has told me is a lie.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘My husband’s alive, Guy. My father told me that he killed himself because of me, but he didn’t.’
He stands back, runs his fingers through his chestnut hair. I notice a few white strands creeping through at the temples. Then he reaches for my hand and gently pulls me to my feet. He starts walking, taking me with him. ‘We can’t talk about this here. Not when it concerns your father. Tell me everything in the car.’
He guides me down a rear staircase, quiet and away from the crowds. We exit into a gale, the rain eased, and cross the car park. In the car, before I can stop him, he calls my father to explain that I am with him. That we are on our way back. To that house, to that place where they have blinded me to the reality of my life. Reality, I think, laughing to myself. What even is that? It means nothing any more.
TWENTY-TWO
To my surprise, as we drive into Rusperford, Guy doesn’t turn left past the church, the road that would take us to my parents’ house. Instead he turns right into the Old Ghyll hotel, a sprawling outcrop of Tudor elegance nestled on the edge of the village
, where, according to Jess, we sometimes used to eat at Christmas.
He pulls open the weathered wooden door and I listen as it grates against the uneven slate floor of the porch. I know instantly that I have heard this noise before. We sit at a table next to a roaring log fire, the smell of burning wood strong and heady. A Christmas tree twinkles behind me, decorated with rich gold ribbons and clusters of fir cones decked with bells. Underneath there are presents without names, and all around me I hear the gentle hum of contentment: the clatter of plates, the chink of glasses, the crackle of wood as the fire burns and the wind lures the flames up the chimney. But disappointingly, despite my certainty that I’ve been here before, no specific memory comes to mind.
‘I know you want to speak to your father, Chloe, but let’s take a break here first, OK?’ Guy sets down two glasses of red wine. ‘I didn’t know what you would want.’
I sip the wine, feel the rush of alcohol, the warmth as it hits my throat. The tingle of the flames is sharp against my skin, and I’m grateful for the comfort after spending hours in the cold. Guy takes my coat and loops it over a hook on the wall behind him so that it will dry in the glare of the fire. He pulls his chair close. ‘Now, what the hell happened today? You weren’t making any sense earlier, and your father sounded frantic.’
‘I’m not sure where to start.’ I can feel myself getting upset again. He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his own. His skin feels warm, his touch heavy. Protective almost.
‘Just start with what happened today.’
At first I hesitate. But then, as I begin by telling him how I sneaked from the house, about Ben and the possibility we shared something, all the details come streaming out. I tell him everything my father has told me: that my husband died, that I had left him and that it was my fault he was dead. I tell him how my father withheld the fact I have been called as a witness. I tell him what DS Gray told me regarding the inconsistencies at the crash site, the police’s doubts, and how Andrew is still alive. About Joshua’s blood being found on my clothes. That my father led me to believe it might be my fault that my son is dead. That I killed him.
Guy picks up his red wine and knocks it back. I fiddle at my hair, try to cover up my dressing with my woolly hat. I feel like I have just confessed, that feeling of immense relief. It’s surpassed only by the worry concerning how my confession will be received.
He rubs his chin, then sits back in his chair, his fingers woven together like a basket. ‘That’s quite a lot of information. Why would he lie about something so massive? It’s not like he could keep it up. You’ve been called to court, for goodness’ sake.’
I nod to agree. ‘Why would he even say it in the first place? He told me they had scattered Andrew’s ashes. That there had been a funeral.’
He pulls at his hair, runs his hands through it. He looks as confused as I feel. ‘I’m not sure, but you yourself told me that your husband was perhaps a difficult man. That you had problems and that he was a drinker. Perhaps he was trying to protect you. If it was your husband in the other car, he might have a point.’
Is it possible that Andrew is a threat I need protection from, and that my father’s lies are designed to stop me looking for him? I haven’t experienced any flashbacks to give me cause to fear my husband. But then again, I remember almost nothing from that time.
‘But it’s not just what my father said, is it? It’s what the police said. That the accident doesn’t make sense.’
‘Tell me again what you mean by that. What did DS Gray say exactly?’
‘That my injuries weren’t consistent with me wearing a seatbelt, but that I was wearing one when they found me. That I had Joshua’s blood on my clothes. It doesn’t make any sense to me. But the scary thing is, I know he’s right. I know that I got out of the car that night. I can remember walking through the trees, the rain. I can remember Joshua on the ground…’
I break off, and he waits patiently while I blow my nose and wipe my eyes.
‘The most likely explanation is that this Treadstone character is clutching at straws,’ he says. ‘His car was there. It had the keys in it. Let him call you as a witness. Let them throw anything and everything they like at you. I don’t think it matters, because all you have to do is tell them what you know. There is more than enough evidence to place him at the scene of the accident.’
‘Do you think I should have kept quiet about what I remembered?’
‘I didn’t say that. But your memory isn’t clear, and if he is guilty then he deserves to pay for what he did. It’s not fair that he might go free on the basis that you can’t remember what happened. From what you’ve told me, I’d say the evidence is stacked against him. Plus it most likely was him in the graveyard the other night. Either that or this other guy who works for your father. I think it best you try and steer clear of him based on what the police said.’
And whilst what he says makes sense, and up until a few hours ago I would have agreed, now I can’t help but wonder if it could have been Andrew calling my name that evening.
‘I guess you’re right,’ I say. I glance down at myself, at my hand-me-down clothes and wet shoes. In contrast he looks so well put together, a nice shirt with a pullover on top. People must be wondering what the hell he is doing with me. I look as if I have just been saved from drowning, pulled to the shore and gasping for desperate breaths. ‘I feel so stupid, you having to bring me home like this.’
He is shaking his head. ‘I don’t see it like that. I was happy to help. I understand what it means to lose somebody you love. I know how important it is to take time to grieve for something you can’t have any more. Something you can’t change.’ His eyes glaze over, and I reach across and touch his hand. It’s instinctive, a need to comfort. It draws him back, his eyes meeting mine. ‘My brother died when I was young. It’s hard to get over something like that. Still hurts now, even years later.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I like the contact, the connection, no matter how small, to another living person. But at the same time it makes me aware of the people around us. The hotel is full. Are they watching us? Am I doing something wrong, here with a man who isn’t my husband, now that I know my husband is alive?
‘Look, I’m so grateful for today, for your help and kindness. But I really need to speak with my father,’ I say. ‘I have to face him.’
‘Sure.’ He nods, finishes his wine, stands up. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you there. But if there is anything else you need, just call me, OK?’ He searches in his pocket, finds a pen, scribbles on the back of a cardboard coaster. ‘Don’t hesitate. Even if all you need is a friend. You seem like maybe you could do with one.’
He grabs my coat, holds it up as I slip my arms through the sleeves. I feel his hands run across my shoulders, smoothing the material into place. And to my surprise, I feel a pang of desire wash over me. It has been so long since I’ve been touched by anybody other than my family, felt the pressure of a man’s hands against my skin. I can barely even remember what it feels like. I think of that sensation I got when I saw my mother so close to Peter, the way his hand reached to her face. I remember Ben’s words, his implication that there is something between us that he wishes I could remember. Who was the last man who kissed me? Can I really be sure it was my husband? When I get back to the house I need to ask Ben what he meant, and just what exactly he wished I could remember.
I take a step away, embarrassed by my feelings, and slip the coaster into my pocket. A minute or two later we are back in his car and on the way to the house.
* * *
When we arrive, the gate is open, a police car on the driveway. The blue flashing lights remind me of the accident. The lights are on in the windows of the study and dining room, and somebody must hear the car approach because when Guy pulls up my father is already at the door, running towards us.
‘Oh Chloe, we were so worried,’ he bellows, rushing forward, taking me in his arms. He holds me so tight I can hardly breathe. I try t
o pull away but can’t.
‘Good evening, Dr Daniels,’ Guy says as he gets out of the car.
My father holds me out in front of him, ignoring Guy. ‘Why did you leave without saying anything? We were frantic. How did you even get out?’
He waits for my answer but I don’t offer anything, don’t want to even acknowledge his stupid questions. How did I get out? Why does it seem that the only thing that bothers him is that I outsmarted him? ‘I went to speak with the police,’ I say. ‘Then I came looking for you. Guy found me by chance.’
‘Oh yes,’ he says, indignant, still daring to be angry with me. Still ignoring Guy. He doesn’t yet realise that I know he’s been lying. ‘We know about the visit to the police. What was all that about? These two won’t tell us anything.’ He points towards two uniformed officers stepping from the house. ‘She’s back,’ he calls, and one of them gives a weary nod of the head. How tired of my amnesia they must be. My father thanks them, and after a quick check that I’m all right, they get in their car and drive away.
‘Oh Chloe, you’re back.’ I see my mother hurrying towards me from the house. As she approaches, I turn away from her. She appears so disappointed in that moment. She thought we had become closer, united by collusion. But you can’t fight on two separate fronts. You have to pick a side.
As if to shift things on, get the situation contained, my father turns to Guy. ‘Well, thank you so much,’ he says, moving forward to shake his hand. ‘How lucky that she saw you. I’d love to ask you in for a drink, but Chloe must be tired.’ But the way my father looks at me out of the corner of his eye, I know he has realised that something is wrong. He is no longer quite as confident as he was.
Between the Lies Page 13
