My father’s voice was so calm, so quiet. ‘I said get back to the house.’ I looked to Andrew, who nodded. I had never seen him so defiant. He didn’t even look scared. Maybe he was used to bullies too.
I backed away, stood waiting just the other side of the bridge, trying to dress as quickly as I could in my gathered clothes. My father emerged a minute later, the tip of the gun dragging along the ground. He arrived in front of me, towering over me. ‘You’ll not see that boy again.’
I swallowed hard, tried to speak. ‘Dad, I—’
He slapped me across the face with such force I fell to the ground. My cheek stung like ice and fire all at the same time. He had never struck me before.
‘If you think I’m going to let you become a slut like your mother, running around after men, you can think again.’ He gripped my arm and pulled me to my feet, marched me back towards the house. I wanted Mum, wanted to tell her that we had to get away from him, that we should leave together. But after begging her to stay, I knew I couldn’t ask her to leave for me.
* * *
Later that night I watched from my bedroom window as he doused the bridge in petrol and set it alight, taking away my escape route. His wheels of control already firmly in motion.
A while later, once the flames had died down, once all that was left was a trail of white smoke to signal the destruction of my sanctuary, the start of a new reign, he came to my room, standing in the doorway as I lay in bed. I didn’t want to react, give him the satisfaction of acceptance or rejection. To him, from now on, I wanted to be nothing. In turn he chose his path too, stepping towards me, touching my arm. He squeezed it, letting me know that he was in control. I knew he meant to hurt me.
When he spoke, it was quietly and without emotion. ‘There are no lengths I wouldn’t go to in order to protect you, Chloe. I will never let you forget that.’ And then he kissed me on the forehead and walked away.
TWENTY-FOUR
It lasts at least two hours, the screaming and wailing, shouting and crying. I round on each one of them in turn, accusations and threats: threats to leave, threats that they’ll never see me again. Threats that I’m going home. All this time he was telling me that I might have been responsible for Andrew’s death, that I might have chosen to crash my car on purpose. It was all bullshit. The worst of all lies.
‘I’m not staying here,’ I say, as much for myself as them. ‘I can’t be here with any of you.’
‘Chloe, don’t be silly. It’s freezing out.’ My father rushes ahead of me, stands with his back to the front door. ‘You have nowhere else to go.’
‘I have my own home, Dad.’ I see my mother crying in the background. ‘I had my own life.’
‘You can’t go there. Stay here with us. I’ll help you, Chloe, I promise.’ He steps towards me. ‘Besides, you can’t be alone.’
‘Why not? You leave me alone all the time, telling me that Ben is here and not to worry. Anyway, where is he? I want to talk to him.’
‘To Ben?’ He seems confused, and he shares a look with my mother that makes me anxious about what they might know. ‘Whatever for?’
‘It doesn’t matter to you. Just tell me where he is.’
‘He’s gone. Left. I had to let him go.’
‘Why?’
My father sighs, takes his time answering as if he is perhaps trying to avoid it. It is my mother who speaks.
‘You might as well tell her, Thomas.’
I look to Mum, then to Dad. ‘Tell me what?’
He chews on his lip, contemplating, sets his hands on his hips. ‘We found him in your room. He was looking through your things.’
A shiver runs across my skin. ‘What?’
‘He’s taken a shine to you it would seem, and we can’t have that. But he won’t be troubling you again. You’re quite safe.’
What could he have been looking for? It only goes to prove what my father said is nonsense. Safe? Here? There’s no way I can believe that any more.
‘No, I’m not. I have to go. And anyway, maybe I won’t be alone at my house. Andrew might be there. After all, it’s not like he’s dead, is it?’ Another moment of shame crosses my father’s eyes. But I see now his only regret is that he has been caught in his own lie. And a thought comes to me. What if I had gone to my house and found Andrew there? What would my father have done then? ‘Tell me this,’ I say. ‘What did you think was going to happen further down the line?’
He seems confused. ‘I don’t understand?’
‘I mean how were you going to keep this up? How could you expect to maintain this lie without me finding out?’
He waits, raises a hand. I shy away from it, but still he brings it to my face, cups my cheek in his massive palm. ‘Oh Chloe. You poor thing. You really have no idea who you were married to, do you? It’s easy enough to maintain a lie if the person involved is complicit.’
I take a moment to catch my breath. ‘What do you mean?’ My words are quiet because I think I already know. I just don’t want to believe it. ‘I’m not complicit.’
‘Not you, my love. Andrew. One cheque, that was all it took. I left it blank.’ He shakes his head. ‘But every penny was worth it if it bought you your freedom.’
And that’s the moment I can’t take it any more. My eyes feel hazy, my head light. I have no fight left, no energy. I sink into a heap on the floor, and after a while, and a lot of fuss on my mother’s part, my father is at my side again.
‘It was an opportunity for you to make a clean break from a man who did nothing but ruin your life,’ he says. ‘It was for the best, Chloe. You are better off away from him.’
He scoops me up unchallenged, carries me to bed. I lie there for an indistinguishable number of hours in the dark, alone. My mother knocks on the door a couple of times, begs to be granted access. At some point she comes in, gives my head a wipe with a cool towel, tucks me in and kisses me on the cheek. My father too. I feel the squeeze of a blood pressure monitor and it gives me a lucid flashback to the hospital. I am lying supine in bed, a man hovering over me, touching my head. I see my father, recognise his beard. ‘I’ll make it all better, I promise you, Chloe.’ Then I’m asleep again. Lights come on, go out. I slip away, lost once more.
I stir when I hear the floorboards outside my bedroom creaking as somebody passes over them. It’s Jess, I think, the footsteps too quick to belong to my mother, too light for my father. Only Jess doesn’t ask permission or knock on the door. She opens it, steps in, closes it behind her. She sits down at my side, the mattress sinking, her presence disturbing my position.
‘I’m sorry, Chloe. I feel like I lied by default.’ I wonder how she’s got the nerve to say that. By default? She lied to my face when I told her about the boy in my dreams. She could have told me about Joshua, yet she said nothing. But my thoughts are patchy. I can’t quite focus on telling her how I really feel. She brings the cold with her, a chill across my skin. She wipes a tear from her cheek. ‘They lied to me too at first. By the time I found out the truth it was too late, and I thought if I told you then it would only make things harder.’
‘You lied,’ I tell her, suddenly finding my voice. The words come out fast and jumbled, but in my head at least they make sense. ‘Not by default. You should have told me. You had the choice to tell me, but you took his side.’ I feel her nodding her head in quiet, desperate agreement before she stands up and walks towards the door. I speak just as she reaches for the handle. ‘I’ve come to expect lies from him. I’m beginning to remember the way he used to behave, his need for control. But you? You said we used to tell each other everything, Jess. You told me that you hoped I could trust you again. How can I trust you if you’re prepared to lie to me about something as important as this?’ She fights back tears, clings to the door for support. ‘You should have told me what you knew.’
She turns to face me. ‘And if I did, would you tell me what you know, Chloe?’ Her words are enough to silence me. ‘I heard you talking to Dad. I know you
can remember parts of the accident, that you’re searching for your old life as if you still loved Andrew. You aren’t telling us the truth either, so you have no right to demand it from me.’
‘I did love Andrew,’ I protest, sitting up.
She shakes her head, irritated. ‘Whatever you say. But you of all people should understand that sometimes it’s better not to know the truth. That sometimes lies hurt less.’ And with that she closes the door behind her, leaving me alone again in the pale light of the bedside lamp.
* * *
My mother bustles into the bedroom the following morning while I am still asleep. She draws back the curtains and smiles at the day outside as if nothing the night before happened the way I remember it. Do I remember it? She turns around with a cup of tea in her hand, the steam rising in front of her face.
‘Good morning,’ she says. She’s bordering on skittish, her fingers tapping at the edge of the mug. I notice that despite the early hour, she has done her hair, make-up too. She has painted the rims of her eyes dark and her lips pink and glossy. A meshwork of fine lines attests to a life spent outside, and at the hands of my father. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’
‘I don’t care about the weather.’ I pull my knees in tight to my chest with the covers draped over me. ‘I’m leaving this place today.’
She shakes her head, smiles at what I can only assume she takes for my naivety. ‘Try to be reasonable, Chloe. Last night you were out of control, trying to run away. But that was last night, and today you are better, I can tell. And outside the air is crisp and the day is new. Every day is a—’
I stop her because I suddenly know what’s coming. A memory of lying here in this bed, my mother sitting beside me on the edge, making meaningless promises. ‘A new day. Yes, Mum. I’ve heard it before.’ I recall how it became her motto during my teenage years, after that night I begged her to stay. Later I adopted it as my own, used it to comfort Joshua after Andrew had had a particularly heavy night on the booze, promising that the day ahead would be different. It never was, and Joshua knew it. What a way to spend a life, a catalogue of broken promises, dashed every time by the one person who was supposed to love you the most.
‘In which case you should be starting to believe me by now.’ She smiles and sits down on the edge of the bed, setting the mug of tea on the bedside table.
‘Believe you? Are you kidding me? I’m leaving, Mum, getting out of this place. You lied to me. All of you. I can’t be here any more.’ She looks away, embarrassed. ‘He told me I was responsible for my husband’s death.’
‘I know, and I’m so sorry.’ She reaches for me, her hand on mine. ‘I wanted him to tell you the truth about Andrew. I promise I did.’ Her words give me hope, but then I catch the silence of the briefest pause. There’s a ‘but’ coming. ‘But then when your father reminded me of everything you had been through with Andrew, I thought maybe it would be for the best if you simply couldn’t remember. Anyway, you know how he is, Chloe. I didn’t dare go against him.’
A layer of sweat glistens on her brow. How can I be angry with her? It’s true that my father has complicated and controlled both of our lives.
‘Maybe you thought what you were doing was for the best, but now I’m telling you it wasn’t. You know the right thing to do would be to tell me where Andrew is.’
‘But he took the money, Chloe. Why would you want to find him?’
‘I need to work out what happened that night. I need to know why I didn’t show up when I was supposed to meet him. You know he’s a suspect, don’t you?’
Her eyes widen. ‘A suspect? Andrew?’ She looks away, thinks about it for a moment. ‘Well he always was very volatile. He was no good right from the start.’
But I know now that this isn’t true. I have remembered some things about the man I married. Those moments we shared in the old mill; our trips to the pier. It’s not much, but it’s enough to know it wasn’t all bad. And when I stood on the pier and looked back towards the beach, I remembered something else. The dream I had, of being with Joshua overlooking the water. I am certain that was the same day I decided to leave. It was the same day Joshua told me that every day was the same, that nothing ever got easier. I made the decision to leave that very night. But I didn’t leave because I hated Andrew. I left because we all deserved something better. Nobody more than Joshua.
‘Anyway, suspect or not,’ my mother is saying, ‘there are more important things to address right now. Get yourself up and dressed. Your father is waiting for you downstairs.’
‘I’m not going to—’
But she doesn’t let me finish. ‘Chloe, you have to.’ And in that moment, there’s none of that team spirit she was searching for last night. ‘If you don’t, he’ll just come up here and get you. The outcome will be the same either way.’
TWENTY-FIVE
At first I thought that perhaps Mum was under his spell, going along with his plans through fear. But now she doesn’t seem scared at all. I’m shaking as I watch her leave, terrified of the idea that what is happening here is unstoppable. That I don’t have a choice. I don’t trust her despite her assurances that everything will be OK if I just let them help me. I don’t trust her when she says she’s on my side, that my father is to blame, that she is simply following orders.
I dress in warm clothes and a sturdy pair of trainers. When I arrive downstairs, I walk into a scene of relative chaos, consistent with what my mother told me earlier. A general lack of order that feels wrong: dead flowers scattered across the hallway table, a water spill that nobody has bothered to clear up. A few coats hang limply over the banister and another, mine from yesterday, lies in a mucky heap on the floor.
‘Where are they?’ I ask as my father looks up from his newspaper. He’s sitting on the velveteen couch, a bloodstain still noticeable on the cushion like a dirty brown smudge from where Peter treated my wound. The fire crackles as it burns. My head feels like a helium-filled balloon, the after-effects of whatever he gave me last night slow to leave my system. I’m aware now that I’m moving that I don’t feel entirely with it.
‘Jess is out with a friend.’ I remember her visit last night, the insinuation she made that I was keeping secrets. What does she think I know? ‘And your mother has just popped to post a letter. She’ll be back soon. Why don’t you take a seat? It’s important that we start to work together, get you feeling better after last night’s little outburst.’
I perch on the edge of a stool. ‘My husband is alive and you told me he was dead. How did you expect me to react?’
‘Well I never expected you to find out,’ he says, this time it would seem without any shame at all. ‘After all, Andrew took our money, Chloe. He left you.’ He sighs, nods his head as if he can’t get over the awful facts. ‘But I agree it was most unfortunate that you had to find out that way.’
‘I think that’s a bit of an understatement, don’t you?’
He closes his eyes briefly, flippant as he speaks. ‘Not really. After all, we were only following an agreed course of treatment. But I promise I can help you begin to feel better. I was doing very well at one point until the police started meddling and your mother let that old photograph slip through.’ His words are soft, resigned, and yet still they sound like a threat. He rests his elbow on the arm of the sofa, one hand on his chin. ‘We need to get back on track, Chloe.’
I’m not sure what he is suggesting here, but all sorts of thoughts are running through my mind. I thought at first he was a passive liar, somebody who was taking advantage of the situation, using my amnesia to soften my pain at losing my son, to exclude a problematic husband from my future. But the way he is speaking now, I feel like he has some sort of plan. Get back on track? What is supposed to have been agreed? Whatever it is, I want no part of it.
‘I was rather hoping we’d have something positive to tell your mother when she arrives home. I think it would be good to try to make a start right now. There’s no point in wasting any more time. But you
know that reconsolidation therapy only works if you are willing. Are you willing, Chloe?’
‘Willing to do what?’ What is he talking about? ‘What is reconsolidation therapy?’
He sighs, frustrated. ‘You know all about it, Chloe. We discussed it right at the start, when you first woke up. We made an agreement.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘That doesn’t change the fact that we discussed it. Reconsolidation therapy, Chloe. A proven way to move forward, to compartmentalise your feelings about the traumatic events of the past. It’s about putting those difficulties behind you and finding a better future.’
It sounds a bit like the blurb on the back of a self-help book. False promises. ‘Cut the bullshit, Dad.’
He clenches his jaw, then stands, sets the newspaper back on the chair. ‘Reconsolidation therapy is a way of dealing with post-traumatic stress, Chloe. It enables the patient or client to resolve their anxiety, move past whatever is holding them back. We discussed our options and you thought it would be for the best if you couldn’t remember what had happened. In some patients it actually facilitates a complete erasure of the traumatic event.’
‘You’re trying to tell me I chose this? I would never have agreed to that.’
‘I can assure you that you did. Isn’t that easier than having to deal with your loss? Your grief?’ He pours a small glass of water and opens the drawer of the antique bureau. He produces a small childproof bottle, taps out a tablet and offers it to me. ‘Let’s not waste any more time.’
‘What is that?’ I ask.
A flash of disappointment crosses his face. He holds out the tablet, expectant and waiting. Eventually he relents. ‘It’s propranolol. You’ve been taking it before each session,’ he says with a sigh. ‘It simply lowers your blood pressure, helps speed the process along. Now come along, lie back on the couch.’
Between the Lies Page 15
