The Lies We Told

by Camilla Way

  To cover her confusion, she darted in front of him and opened the door, saying in a ridiculous, overly bright voice, “Okay, then! Nice to see you!”

  He nodded. “Bye, Clara.”

  And then he held out his hand, and thrown by the awkward formality, she took it, with a small, embarrassed laugh. She felt the coolness of his fingers in hers and something about the way he was looking at her now, his gaze so piercing it seemed to pin her to the spot, rendered her incapable of moving a muscle. He looked as though he was about to say something, but the moment stretched until the sudden sound of a motorbike revving outside broke the silence and his hand released hers, before he turned, and was gone, closing the door quietly behind him.

  TWELVE

  CAMBRIDGESHIRE, 1988

  Funny how it creeps up on you, how the occasional pick-me-up can morph so seamlessly into such a necessary, vital thing. The odd glass of wine used to be nothing more than a treat—a pleasant way to unwind after a long or tiring day, but slowly things began to change. I was never quite able to move on from that moment, you see, the second I turned to find Hannah standing in the kitchen, knowing that she had heard everything, that she knew everything. At night I would go to bed and wait in vain for sleep, only to relive over and over the shock of seeing her by the pantry door, the awful realization dawning in her eyes.

  During the weeks that followed, I barely let her out of my sight, terrified of what she might do. But to my confusion, she almost seemed happier than she had ever been. The concerned phone calls from school all but ceased; the lying and stealing petered out; life ran more smoothly than it had ever done before. I would torture myself for hours trying to work out what this meant. I was terrified of her telling Doug what she knew, aware that there was no way he’d forgive me for going behind his back and secretly contacting the very person he’d wanted out of our lives forever.

  Strangest of all, her relationship with her father began to change too. Now I would come across the two of them, heads bent close together, she sitting on his knee, a wide smile on her face as they chatted about her day. It made me feel sick to see Doug’s surprise and happiness at the change in his little girl. Occasionally she’d look up and our eyes would meet, and I would feel again that cold lurch of fear. It was as if she was deliberately torturing me.

  When the secretary of the child psychologist whose waiting list we had been on finally rang to schedule our appointment, I almost cried as I fobbed her off with excuses. Because of course there was no question of that now. How could I possibly risk a doctor delving into Hannah’s mind? How could I risk Hannah telling what she knew? I seemed to live in a perpetual state of cold terror: I had no idea what to do.

  So bit by bit, that end-of-day glass or two turned into three, then four. A bottle, sometimes more. I came to expect, then ceased to care about Doug’s disapproving glances. “Haven’t you had enough?” he’d say, when I’d reach for the wine yet again at dinner. Sometimes I’d see a closed, tight expression in his eyes when he noticed the empties piling up in the bin. But I never drank during the day, while looking after Toby, for example. I’d always, always wait until he was safely tucked up in bed for the night—at least at first. I couldn’t tell Doug, you see; I couldn’t tell him what I’d done.

  “She seems to have turned a corner, don’t you think?” he said with satisfaction one evening, after Hannah had obediently gone off to get changed for bed.

  I looked into my wineglass. “Hmmm,” I said.

  “Maybe she doesn’t need to see that shrink after all,” he added. “What do you reckon?”

  “Yes,” I said faintly. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll cancel it.” I made myself return his smile. When he went whistling out of the room, I poured myself another, extra-large glass, and drank it in three gulps.

  My only joy during this time was Toby. He was the one thing that made life bearable. Hannah knew that. She knew he was all I had.

  * * *

  —

  It was an evening in October a year later and it had been a long and tiring day: I’d slept badly the night before and Toby had been difficult for most of the afternoon—he was two years old by then. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t have a drink until both of the children were in bed, so I was doing my best to chivy Hannah along. Toby should have been asleep ages ago, but he was refusing to settle, so I’d brought him into the bathroom with me while I kept an eye on his sister.

  “Come on now, Hannah,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time, while Toby played on the floor, making a relentless brrrrmmm brrrrmmm brrrrmmm noise while he pushed a toy car around my feet. “Get out of the bath now—it’s getting late.”

  She glanced at me dismissively. “No, I’m not ready to yet.”

  My anger seemed to come from nowhere. I was usually so careful to keep her onside, but I was tired, a little hungover from the night before, and there was something in the look she shot me, the disdain in her eyes, that just made me snap. “Get out of the bath right this minute,” I shouted so loudly that Toby jumped and started to cry. “I’m sick of you disobeying me!”

  With infinite slowness, a maddening smirk on her face, she did what she was told. It seemed to take her forever, and I was suddenly desperate for a drink. I passed her a towel. “Go and put your night things on,” I muttered. “I’ll be two minutes.” I left the room and headed for the stairs, thinking only of the cold bottle of wine I had waiting for me in the fridge.

  After I’d poured myself a glass, I stood at the sink savoring that first gulp. I could hear Hannah talking to Toby, their voices getting louder, which meant they must have left the bathroom. I closed my eyes, summoning my last scrap of energy, then knocked back the rest of the glass. That was when I heard the scream. I ran from the kitchen, the bottle still in my hand, to find Toby lying at the bottom of the stairs. I heard myself shouting his name as I knelt down beside him. Time seemed to stop; I was senseless with panic. The relief I felt when he got up and threw himself into my arms was indescribable. “Are you okay?” I asked as he screamed hysterically. “Oh, my darling, are you okay?” Frantically I checked him over for broken bones, but miraculously he seemed unharmed.

  I have never known fury like it. When I looked up, I saw Hannah sauntering down the stairs toward me, a serene smile on her face. I admit that in that one brief second I wanted to kill her. “What did you do?” I screamed. “What the hell did you do?”

  “Nothing, Mummy,” she said.

  “Did you push him, Hannah? Did you push your brother down the stairs?”

  She reached the bottom step and considered me. “Nope. He fell,” she said, then shrugged. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  And then I did it. I slapped her. I had never once raised a hand to either of my children before, but everything seemed to boil up inside me in that moment. My handprint left a livid red mark on her cheek. “You little bitch!” I shouted. I was completely beside myself; all I could think about was the fact Toby could have died. “Don’t you ever touch my child again. Do you hear me?” I was screaming so loudly I didn’t hear Doug’s key in the door.

  “Beth?” He stood in the hall in his coat, a look of horror on his face. “Beth. What the hell are you doing?”

  When she saw her father, Hannah began to cry. “Mummy hit me, Daddy! I didn’t do anything! Toby was sad because Mummy was gone so long. She went to get her wine and she never came back—and then Toby fell and Mummy hit me! She hit me and I don’t know why!”

  I shook my head in disbelief and turned to Doug. “She’s lying. I was only gone a moment. She pushed him!”

  His eyes still wide with shock, Doug bent down and took Toby from me, gathering him in his arms. “Okay, little man,” he soothed, “it’s okay. It’s okay now.”

  “No!” I shouted at him. “No, it’s not okay! Nothing is okay! She pushed our son down the stairs!”

  His eyes fell to the bottle of wine th
at in my panic had fallen to the floor. “You’re drinking?” he said. “You’re looking after our children and you’re drinking?”

  “Don’t you fucking dare say this is my fault,” I said, my voice shaking. “I’ve had one drink. I was gone less than a minute!”

  I sank to my knees and pulled Toby away from Doug’s arms. “Darling,” I said, “tell Daddy what happened. Did Hannah push you, honey?”

  But Toby was too hysterical to answer. “Want Daddy,” was all he said, turning back to his father and burying his face in Doug’s chest. “Want my daddy!” Meanwhile, Hannah’s own sobs rose to a fever pitch.

  I got up and went to Hannah. “What’s wrong with you? What the fuck is wrong with you?” My anger and guilt and fear mingled, fueled by the wine I’d drunk.

  I felt Doug’s hands grip my shoulders as he pulled me away from her. “Stop it, Beth!” he shouted. “This isn’t helping. Go and calm down. I’ll deal with it.”

  I looked at Toby, still clutching Doug and sobbing, the satisfied glint in Hannah’s eyes, the puddle of wine on the carpet, and ran from the house.

  THIRTEEN

  LONDON, 2017

  Clara was still thinking about Tom when Mac called to say he was on his way over. She stood at the window while she waited, recalling the unsettling intensity of Tom’s gaze, the peculiar texture of the air between them as they’d stood together in the hall. Try as she might, she couldn’t work him out. He was such a strange mixture of contradictions. At times during his visit, she’d seen flashes of sympathy in his eyes, yet there still remained that strange reserve, the feeling that he was scrutinizing her intently. Mac had mentioned him going off the rails in his teens, but she couldn’t imagine him ever losing control, or being vulnerable or lost. And then there was the distance he kept between himself and his parents, an ambivalence toward them that bordered on disdain, which had always seemed especially cruel after they’d suffered so much already. On the other hand, he’d cared enough about Clara to travel some distance to see her, to check that she was all right. It was all entirely baffling.

  Beyond her window, the sky hung tepid and sallow over Hoxton Square. She watched as a group of achingly hip twentysomethings appeared at its farthest corner, on a wave of energy and laughter. They passed an elderly man, his chin nearly on his chest, edging with painful slowness along the pavement, a blue plastic bag dangling from his fingers, until at last he crept off down a side street to be swallowed by the council estate that lay beyond view of the square’s bustling restaurants and bars.

  She turned and considered her flat, its disorder reminding her now of the day she and Luke had moved in—the excitement they’d felt as they’d unpacked their belongings and talked about the housewarming party they were planning that weekend. She remembered how happy she’d felt at the prospect of their living together, of waking up every morning next to him.

  Her gaze traveled now over their ransacked belongings: the stuff they’d chosen together when they’d first moved in, gathering bits and pieces from markets and junk shops, slowly and lovingly transforming the small, modern white-walled space into somewhere that felt more like home to her at last than anywhere else she’d lived before.

  She was dragged from her thoughts by the intercom’s buzzer. A few minutes later Mac looked around himself in dismay as he stood amidst the chaos of her flat. “What did the police say?” he asked. “I mean, they must think this is linked to Luke’s disappearance, right?”

  “They’re not commenting either way. Maybe whoever it was . . . I don’t know, but it seems to me they were looking for something.”

  “What the fuck for, though?” He picked up a broken ashtray from the floor and gazed down at it. “Christ, Clara, what if you’d been in? There’s no way you’re staying here anymore.” His worried eyes met hers. “Get some stuff and come to mine.”

  She remembered then the photographs she’d found and went to fetch them. “Look at these,” she said, watching him closely as he slid the pictures from the envelope and stared down at the unknown woman’s face.

  “Who’s this?” he asked.

  She eyed him suspiciously. “You don’t know? Really?”

  “No. Never seen her before. Why?”

  “At a rough guess I’d say it’s someone else Luke was shagging behind my back,” she said bitterly. “I found them hidden in the office.”

  “No way, Clara,” Mac said with complete certainty. “He would have told me. I know he would. He said Sadie was the only one.”

  “Yeah, well, Luke’s a liar, isn’t he?” she said quietly. “He’s lied to me and he’s probably been lying to you too.” She took the photos from him and angrily stuffed them back into the envelope. “He probably wanted to sneak a look at them whenever I was out. I mean for fuck’s sake”—she gave a short, exasperated laugh—“it just keeps getting better, doesn’t it? What else am I going to find? A secret wife tucked away somewhere? A couple of kids?”

  They fell silent for a while, until, looking around himself, Mac said uneasily, “Why don’t we just get out of here? This place is giving me the creeps.”

  It was while she was in the bedroom shoving clothes into a bag that her mobile rang. “This is DC Mansfield,” the officer said when Clara picked up. “Can you come to the station? As you know, the press conference is this afternoon. It would be very helpful if you could say a few words.”

  Her heart sank. “I really don’t know if—”

  “I would urge you to, Clara,” she said. “This kind of appeal has more impact if it has the involvement of family and loved ones.”

  “But . . . wouldn’t his mum and dad be more—”

  “Unfortunately they’ve declined. Understandably they don’t feel up to it right now.”

  “Yes. I see. . . .” She thought about Rose and Oliver, of the agony they were going through, and then she thought of the abandoned van, the sickeningly bloodstained seat. “When do you need me?” she asked, glancing at Mac.

  * * *

  —

  They were on their way to the police station when Clara asked casually, “What do you think of Tom, Mac?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Tom? Why?”

  She shrugged. “No reason. He came over earlier, that’s all. Said he was in town meeting clients and thought he’d see how I was. I mean, you’ve known him a long time—what’s your take on him?”

  Mac frowned. “That’s odd. I would have thought all his clients were local to him.” He thought for a moment. “I suppose he can be a bit uptight, and he’s a bit of a loner, but he’s not a bad sort of bloke. I remember Luke telling me they were close when they were kids, but—”

  “Really?” She felt a fresh flash of surprise. They’d certainly never seemed particularly close. She hadn’t given it much thought before: not having any siblings herself, it wasn’t a relationship for which she had experience. She’d assumed the distance between the two of them was due to the five-year age gap, Tom’s habit of talking down to his younger brother, or their differing personalities.

  “Yeah,” Mac went on. “From what Luke said, all three of the kids were pretty tight before Emily left. I don’t know what happened, though. Like I said, Tom checked out of the family after she disappeared, and Luke and his parents became quite wrapped up in each other. Maybe that caused a bit of a rift.” He glanced at her. “I always got the feeling it upset Luke; I think he wanted to be closer to his brother growing up. Tom just didn’t want to know.”

  Clara considered this. How hurtful that must have been, to be rejected by his older brother, especially after losing his only other sibling so young. She realized that Luke had never really talked about his relationship with Tom and she hadn’t thought to ask. Uncomfortably she wondered now what else she might not know about her boyfriend, what other sorrows Luke might have been hiding, behind his cheerful smile.

  * * *

 
—

  When Clara and Mac arrived at the station, she was struck by the sense of urgency and purpose in the air. There were a number of new officers to meet, members of the Major Incident Team, including a family liaison officer and a press officer as well as a Detective Chief Inspector Judith Carter, a heavyset, rather austere-looking woman who explained to Clara that she was the senior investigating officer on the case, Anderson keeping back respectfully as they talked. Every one of the officers she met was friendly, reassuring, and grateful for her assistance, but still she felt entirely overwhelmed. Her natural compulsion to be helpful, to do the right thing, combined with the knowledge that if she messed it up, Luke’s life was at stake, made her heart pound faster and faster, a thick lump of anxiety building in her chest.

  Soon she was ushered into a side office where Anderson and the press officer went over with great patience what she would need to say, and before she knew it, she was hurried onward to another, larger room, a mic was fitted to her top, and she was directed toward a bank of tables in front of a blue screen, the Met’s insignia at its center. She sat between DCI Carter and DS Anderson, TV cameras pointed at her, a sea of eyes trained on her face. Mac stood to the side, and she tried to keep the reassuring warmth of him in her mind while she stared ahead, saying her piece to the cameras. But despite her determination to hold it together, to somehow compel a watching stranger to reach out and help, to make this horrible nightmare end and bring Luke safely back to her, her words stumbled and she clenched her fists so hard she thought her knuckles might burst through the skin.