The Lying Game

by Ruth Ware

  The words – they’re so close to Luc’s that for a minute I can’t say anything in response, I just stand, gasping, like he’s slapped me. And then I curl my fingers into fists, trying to control myself, and I turn to leave.

  ‘Goodbye, Owen.’

  ‘Goodbye?’ He steps towards me, through the slick of risotto still on the floor. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘What I want,’ he says, his voice trembling, ‘is for our relationship to be a priority for you. Ever since Freya, I feel like I’ve been last on the fucking list – we never talk any more – and now this!’ And I’m not sure if he means Salten and Luc, or Fatima, Thea and Kate … or even Freya. ‘I’m sick of it, do you hear me? I’m sick of coming last!’

  And suddenly, with those words, I am no longer sad and afraid, I am angry. Very, very angry.

  ‘That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? It’s not about Luc, or Kate, or some stupid packet of fags. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that you can’t bear the fact that you don’t come an automatic first any more.’

  ‘How dare you say that?’ He is almost incoherent. ‘You lied to me, and you’re trying to make it my fault? I’m trying to talk to you, Isa. Don’t you give a shit about us?’

  I do. Of course I do. But right now I am at the limit of what I can deal with. And I cannot deal with this. If Owen pushes me, I am very, very scared that I will tell him the truth.

  I shove past him and go upstairs where Freya is sleeping, and I begin stuffing things into a bag with trembling hands. I’m not sure what I’m packing. Nappies. A clutch of underwear and baby vests. Some tops. God knows if I will have anything to wear. Right now I don’t care, I just want to get out.

  I pick Freya up, feeling her stir and grumble against me, and slide her into a woollen cardigan, protection against the summer night air. Then I pick up the shoulder bag.

  ‘Isa!’ Owen is waiting in the hall, his face red with suppressed anguish and fury. ‘Isa, don’t do this!’

  ‘Owen, I –’ Freya is squirming against my shoulder. The phone in my bag beeps. Thea? Fatima? I can’t think. I can’t think.

  ‘You’re going to him,’ he bursts out. ‘Kate’s brother. Aren’t you? Is that message from him?’

  It’s the last straw.

  ‘Fuck you,’ I snarl. And I push past him, and slam the flat door behind me, making Freya startle and wail. In the hallway I tuck her kicking legs into the pram with shaking hands, ignoring her increasingly siren shrieks, and then I open the communal front door and bump the pram furiously out of the house and down the steps.

  I am barely out of the front garden when I hear the door open and Owen comes out, his face anguished.

  ‘Isa!’ he cries. But I keep going. ‘Isa! You can’t walk away from this!’

  But I can. And I do.

  Even though the tears are coursing down my face, and my heart is close to breaking.

  I keep walking.

  THE WEATHER BREAKS as the train pulls out of Victoria, and by the time we leave the London sprawl behind and the train enters the countryside, it is lashing with rain, and the temperature has dropped from a sultry pre-storm humidity to something closer to autumn.

  I sit there, numb and cold, holding Freya to my breast like a living, breathing hot-water bottle, and I’m unable to process what I have done. Have I left Owen?

  This is not the first argument we’ve had, not by a long chalk. We’ve had our quarrels and squabbles like any other couple. But this is by far the most serious, and more than that – it’s the first we’ve had since having Freya. When I gave birth to her, something shifted in our relationship – the stakes became higher, we consciously spread our roots, stopped sweating the small stuff, as if realising that we could no longer afford to rock the boat so often for her sake, if not for our own.

  And now … now the boat is tipping so perilously, I’m not sure if I can save us both.

  It’s the unjustness of his accusations that burns in my throat like acid. An affair. An affair? I’ve barely been out of the house alone since Freya was born. My body is not my own any more – she is glued to me like Velcro, sucking out my energy and my libido along with my milk. I am so exhausted and touched out that just summoning up the desire to fuck Owen is almost more than I can cope with – he knows that, he knows how tired I am, how I feel about my slack, postnatal body. Does he honestly think I tucked Freya under my arm and hauled myself off for a passionate, illicit affair? It’s so ridiculous I could laugh, if it wasn’t so outrageously unfair.

  And yet, furious as I am, I’m forced to admit that on some level … he’s right. Not about the affair. But as the train forges south and my anger cools, a kernel of guilt begins to form inside of me. Because the core of what he is saying is this: I have not been true to him. Not in the way that he means – but in other ways, just as important. Ever since the day we met I have been keeping secrets, but now, for the first time in our relationship, I am doing more than that: I am outright lying. And he knows it. He knows that something is wrong, and that I am covering it up. He just doesn’t know what it is.

  I wish I could tell him. I wish it like a hunger in the pit of my stomach. And yet … and yet a part of me is relieved that I can’t. It is not my secret, so it’s not my decision to make. But if it were? If it were only me involved? Then … I don’t know.

  Because although I don’t want to have to lie to him, I also don’t want him to know the truth. I don’t want him to look at me, and see the person who did this – a person who lied, not just once, but repeatedly. A person who concealed a body, who colluded in a fraud. A person who, perhaps, has helped cover up a murder.

  If it comes out, will he still love me?

  I am not sure. And it makes me feel sick.

  If it were only Owen’s love I was risking, I would take the chance. At least, that’s what I tell myself. But it’s his career, too. The disclosure forms you sign when you join the Civil Service are long and detailed. They ask about gambling habits and finance, about drug use and, yes … about criminal behaviour. They are looking for levers – things that could be used against you, to blackmail you into releasing information you shouldn’t, or to force you to commit fraud.

  They ask you about your partner. They ask about your family and friends – and the higher up you get in the organisation, the more questions they ask, the more sensitive the information becomes.

  The final question is basically – is there anything in your life that could be used to bring pressure to bear on you? If so, declare it now.

  We have both filled these forms out multiple times – me every time I have changed department, Owen each time his security clearance in the Home Office has got higher. And I have lied on them. Repeatedly. The fact that I lied at all is grounds for dismissal. But if I tell Owen the truth, I make him party to the lie. I put his neck on the line as well as mine.

  It was bad enough when what we did was only concealing a body. But if I’m an accessory to murder …

  I close my eyes, shutting out the darkness and the rain that beats on the carriage windows. And I have the sudden feeling that I am out on the salt marsh, picking my way over an unfamiliar track. But the ground isn’t firm beneath me – it’s soft and wet, and every false step I take, I am straying further from the path, and sinking deeper into the salt-soaked mud. Soon I may not be able to find my way back.

  ‘Did you say Salten, dearie?’ says a cracked, elderly voice, and I jerk awake, Freya startling convulsively against my heart and yelping crossly.

  ‘What?’ There is drool at the corner of my mouth and I swipe it away with Freya’s muslin and blink at the old lady sitting opposite me. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘We’re just coming into Salten, and I heard you tell the ticket inspector that’s where you’re getting off. Is that right?’

  ‘Oh, God, yes!’

  It’s so dark, I have to cup my hands around my eyes as I peer through the rain-spat
tered window, squinting at the dimly lit platform sign to be sure I’m at the right stop.

  It is Salten, and I stagger upright, grabbing for bags and coats. Freya wriggles sleepily against me, as I wrestle the door open one-handed.

  ‘Let me hold the door,’ says the old lady, seeing me struggling to get Freya into her pram and the rain cover buttoned down.

  The guard’s whistle is blowing peremptorily as I bump the pram down onto the wet platform, the rain lashing at my coat. Freya’s eyes open wide in affronted horror, and she lets out a squawking yell of indignation as I sprint down the platform, coat flapping, hoping to hell that Kate is waiting.

  She is, thank God, along with Rick, the engine running, the windows of the taxi steamed up with their breath. And this time I remembered to pack the car-seat adaptor, so I can strap Freya in as he starts up the rutted track towards the village.

  There is no room for conversation, over Freya’s increasingly inconsolable howls of wrath at being woken from a warm dry sleep by this chilly rainy assault, and although her wails pluck at my skin like claws, part of me is glad that I don’t have to make small talk with Rick. All I can think of are the drawings, Ambrose’s letter, the roses, the blood on my hands.

  Back at the Mill, there is water on the floor, puddles beneath the door jambs. Rain has forced its way in through the rickety windows and is pooling on the uneven boards, and around the window frames.

  ‘Kate,’ I try, over the top of Freya’s wails and the sound of the waves against the jetty, but she shakes her head, points at the clock which shows almost midnight.

  ‘Go to bed,’ she says. ‘We’ll talk in the morning.’

  And I can only nod, and take my sobbing child up the stairs, into the bedroom where we stayed, where my sheets are still on the bed, Luc’s bed, and I lie there on my side, listening to her frantic snorting and gulping slowly calm themselves … and I drift into sleep.

  I WAKE EARLY, lying still while my eyes adjust to the light in the room. The room is bright, in spite of the early hour, but it’s a cold light, chilly and diffuse, and looking out over the Reach I see that a sea mist has drifted in up the estuary to wrap the Mill and its surroundings in a fine grey gauze. There is a cobweb across part of the window, jewelled with microscopic droplets, and I watch it for a while, reminded unsettlingly of the clinging nets in Salten village.

  The air is cold on my arms, and I pull up the blankets and roll over to check on Freya, uncharacteristically quiet in the cradle beside me.

  What I see makes my heart seem to stop in my chest, and then restart, thumping at a hundred miles an hour.

  Freya is not there.

  Freya is not there.

  Before I can think I have stumbled out of bed, shaking as if I’ve been given an electric shock. I’m searching in the covers of the bed – stupidly, for I know I put her down in the wooden cradle last night and she’s not even crawling yet, let alone able to climb out and crawl into bed.

  Freya. Oh Jesus.

  I am making little whimpering noises in my throat, unable to believe she’s not here, and then I burst out of the room and down the corridor.

  ‘Kate!’ It’s meant to be a shout, but panic makes the word stick and choke in my throat, and it sounds like a strangled cry of fear. ‘Kate!’

  ‘Down here!’ she calls, and I stumble down the wooden stairs, barking my heels, missing the last step and staggering into the kitchen so that Kate looks up from where she’s standing at the sink, her surprise turning to concern as she sees me standing there, wild-eyed and empty-armed.

  ‘Kate,’ I manage. ‘Freya – she – she’s gone!’

  Kate puts down the coffee maker she has been rinsing and I see, as I say the words, her expression turning to a look of … can it be guilt?

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, and she points to the rug behind me. I whirl round – and she’s there. Freya is there. Sitting on the rug with a piece of bread in her fist, and she looks up at me and gives a shriek of happiness, throwing the mushed-up toast onto the rug and holding out her arms to be picked up.

  I snatch her up, my heart thrumming in my chest as I press her to me. I can’t speak. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kate repeats guiltily. ‘I – it didn’t occur to me you’d worry. I must have woken her up when I used the bathroom, because I heard her when I came out – you were still asleep and I just thought –’ She twists her fingers. ‘You always look so tired. I thought you’d like a lie-in.’

  I say nothing, letting my racing heartbeat subside, feeling Freya’s small pink fingers tangle in my hair, smelling the baby-smell of her head and feeling her weight in my arms … oh God. It’s OK. Everything is OK.

  My legs are suddenly weak with relief and I sit on the sofa.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kate says again. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes. ‘I should have realised you’d wonder where she was.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I manage at last. Freya pats my cheek, trying to make me look at her. She knows something is wrong, she just can’t tell what. I force a smile as I look down at her, wondering what’s happened to me, what kind of person I am becoming, if my first reaction on finding my child gone is to imagine she’s been snatched. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say to Kate. My voice trembles a little, and I take a deep breath, trying to calm my breathing. ‘I don’t know why I panicked so much. I’m just … I’m kind of on edge at the moment.’

  Her eyes meet mine in rueful acknowledgement.

  ‘Me too.’

  She turns back to the sink.

  ‘Want a coffee?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Kate puts the machine on the hob, and as we both sit there, listening to the silence before it begins to wheeze and hiss, she says, ‘Thanks.’

  I look up, surprised.

  ‘Thanks for what? Shouldn’t I be saying that?’

  ‘For coming down at such short notice. I know it’s a lot to ask.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I say, although that’s not true. Choosing Kate may have been the last straw between Owen and me, and that’s frightening. ‘Tell me … tell me about the police,’ I say instead, trying not to think about what I may have done.

  Kate doesn’t answer straight away; instead she turns back to where the moka pot is hissing and takes it off the heat, pours out two small cups, and brings one across to me. I put Freya back down on the rug, as I take it, careful not to put it anywhere her soft chubby hands can reach.

  ‘That fucking Mark Wren,’ Kate says at last, as she curls onto the armchair opposite. ‘He came to see me. Full of this must be a difficult time for you, but he knows. I don’t know what Mary’s told him, but he knows something’s not right.’

  ‘So the body … it’s definitely been identified?’ I ask, even though I know it has, I’ve seen the newspaper reports. But somehow I need to hear it from Kate’s lips, see her reaction as she tells me.

  There is nothing I can glean from her expression, though, as she nods in weary confirmation.

  ‘Yes, I think so. They took a DNA swab from me, but they know it’s pretty much a certainty. They said something about dental records, and they showed me his ring.’

  ‘Did they ask you to identify it?’

  ‘Yes, I said it was his. It seemed … well, it seemed foolish not to.’

  I nod. Kate’s right of course. Part of the Lying Game was always to know when the game was up, when to bail out. Rule Five – know when to stop lying. Throw in your hand before the shit hits the fan, as Thee used to put it. The trick was to know when you’d got to that point. But I’m not sure if we’ve succeeded this time. It feels like the trouble is coming no matter what we do.

  ‘So what next?’

  ‘They’ve asked me to come in and make a statement, about the night he disappeared. But that’s the thing, we need to decide – do I tell them you were all here?’ She rubs her hands over her face, the shadows beneath her eyes brown against her olive skin. ‘I don’t know what to say for the best. I could tell them I ca
lled you, when I found Dad was missing – asked you to come over. We could back up each other’s stories – just say we were all here, but there was no sign of Dad and you left early. But then they’ll ask you all for statements too. It all comes down to what the school knows.’

  ‘What the school knows?’ I echo stupidly.

  ‘About that night. Did anyone see you leave? If I say you weren’t here and people find out you were, it could all backfire.’

  I understand. I try to think back. We were in our rooms when she came to find us, but Miss Weatherby, she saw our clothes, the mud on my sandals. And she said something, in her office, something about us breaking out of bounds, about a witness …

  ‘I think we were seen,’ I say reluctantly. ‘Or at least, Miss Weatherby said we were. She didn’t say who. We didn’t admit anything – well, I didn’t, I don’t know about Fatima and Thea.’

  ‘Fuck. So I’ll have to tell them I was here that night, and you were too. And that means you’ll all be dragged in for questioning, probably.’ Her face is white, and I know what she is thinking – it’s not just the worry about the distress this will cause to the rest of us, there’s a more practical, more selfish element to it too. Whether four sets of stories can hold together under questioning. Whether someone might crack …

  I think about Thea, about her drinking, about the marks on her arms, about the toll that this is taking on her. And I think about Fatima, and her new-found faith. Sincere repentance, she said. What if that includes confession, as part of making things right? Surely Allah can’t forgive someone who continues to lie and cover up?

  And I think too about the pictures. Those bloody pictures in the mail. About the fact that there is someone else out there who knows something.

  ‘Kate,’ I say, and I swallow, and then stop. She turns to look at me, and I force myself on. ‘There’s something I have to tell you. Fatima and Thea and I, we got … we got some pictures. In the mail. Copies. Of drawings.’

  Kate’s face changes, and I realise she knows already what I am going to say. I am not sure whether that makes it easier, or harder, but I force myself onwards, bringing the words out in a rush so I can’t lose my nerve.