The Lies We Told

by Camilla Way

  She hesitated. “Look, this is going to sound crazy, but I think it’s Tom. I think Tom did all this.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “Tom? Why?”

  Quickly she told him about Emily’s visit, the panic and fear she’d seen on her face when Tom had called to say he was on his way over. “She had the most awful scars on her back,” she said, shuddering as she remembered Emily’s disfigured skin. “She said it had happened before she left home all those years ago. Mac, I think Tom’s got something to do with why she’s too scared to go back to her family. The look on her face when she thought he was coming over—seriously, she was absolutely terrified. And before—when my flat got broken into—Tom turned up straight afterward out of the blue. Then he called me and said he’d been around to yours the morning you were attacked. He’s been in London every single time something weird or awful has happened. Surely that’s got to be more than a coincidence?”

  Mac stared at her. “I’ve known him for years. I just . . . I mean, why would he . . . ?”

  The door opened at that moment and Clara started in surprise. “Alison!”

  Her neighbor stood in the doorway, one hand still on the handle. “I’ve been discharged, so I thought I’d come and . . .” She trailed off, her eyes shifting nervously from Clara’s face to Mac’s to the floor.

  “Are you okay? Were you hurt?” Mac asked, breaking the surprised silence.

  Alison shook her head. “No, not really.”

  In the harsh brightness of this room she seemed even more wraithlike than ever, Clara thought, but her face, scrubbed clean now, looked far younger and prettier without its customary mask of makeup. Clara stared at her wordlessly, not knowing what to say to this woman who had saved her life yet had always been so prickly and antagonistic toward her. “The police told me what you did,” she said at last. “I don’t know what to say. . . .”

  Alison shrugged. “It was the people downstairs who found you. It was them, really, not me.”

  Clara nodded. “Still . . . I mean, thank you—it doesn’t seem enough somehow, but thank you.”

  No one said anything for a moment or two, until Alison mumbled, “Well, anyway . . .” She moved as if to leave, and Clara and Mac exchanged a glance.

  “Wait,” Clara said, then with effort pulled herself out of bed, wrapping her thin gown around her as she went to her. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.

  But instead of answering, Alison suddenly blurted, the words escaping from her mouth almost involuntarily, “Have they found Luke? Is there any news?”

  And it was the desperation, the misery, in her eyes that made something click inside Clara at last. She stared at her. “Something happened between the two of you, didn’t it?”

  Mac glanced at her in surprise, but Clara kept her eyes on Alison, who scowled, her gaze shifting away. “No,” she said, “don’t be stupid.”

  A beat or two, then: “Alison, I just want to know. I think something did happen, and I think that’s why you’ve always been so weird toward me.”

  At this, Alison’s face changed, her chin dropping to her chest, and Clara understood now that her spiky belligerence had merely been a cover for something else, that she was far more vulnerable than she’d first appeared. “Look,” she said gently, “I’m just asking you to tell me the truth. After everything that’s happened, I think I deserve that, don’t you?” Clara waited, her gaze never leaving Alison’s face.

  Finally she spoke. “Nothing happened,” she muttered. “Not really.”

  Clara nodded. “But you wanted it to?”

  Alison shrugged.

  “How did it start?” Clara asked.

  At this, Alison burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. “Come and sit down,” Clara said, leading her to a chair.

  “My boyfriend left me,” Alison began, her voice thick, the pain clearly still sharp. “Luke and I got chatting on the stairs one day. Then I got locked out of my flat and he invited me in for a beer.” She glanced up at Clara. “You were out.”

  Clara sighed. “Go on,” she said.

  “He was so nice to me, and I thought . . .” She colored now. “He told me I was pretty, that I’d find someone else.” She wiped her nose with the cuff of her jumper and gave a loud sniff. “Then after that, he’d stop and chat if he saw me. I gave him my phone number and he’d text me. Nice stuff, you know? Telling me I was . . . Well, anyway, it started to mean a lot to me, the attention—you know. . . . He’d pop up to see me now and then when you weren’t in.”

  Clara nodded. “And did something happen between you?”

  Alison met her gaze and shook her head. “No.”

  There was another silence, and Clara wondered if the younger girl would clam up again, but it seemed instead that she wanted to unburden herself now that she’d started. “I wanted it to,” she admitted. “I told him that I was falling for him.” There was a flash of anger in her eyes now. “I really thought he felt the same way. But then he changed, started being funny with me, acting like it had all been in my head, that he didn’t think of me like that. And I was so fucking angry with him. . . .”

  “So that was what all the loud music was about, the dirty looks on the stairs,” Clara said.

  Alison glanced away. “He made me feel good about myself for the first time in ages. Then there you’d be, the two of you, so happy together, rubbing my face in it. I wanted to make him see how bad I felt. And I guess I thought that him and I could be together if it wasn’t for you.”

  As Clara listened, she felt the creeping heat of anger inside her. Stupid, stupid Luke. What had probably meant nothing more to him than a little harmless flirting had clearly meant much more to this silly girl.

  A silence fell as Alison crossed her arms defensively in front of her, her pale face closed and truculent once more.

  “Look,” Clara said. “You helped save my life. I’m not about to give you a hard time for flirting with my boyfriend. Trust me, Alison, whatever went on between you and Luke is the least of my problems.”

  Alison nodded.

  “Will you be all right?” Clara asked.

  She got up. “Yeah”—she shrugged—“course I will.” She made toward the door but, once there, said stiffly, reluctantly, “I’m sorry, all right?”

  Clara nodded, and she and Mac watched as Alison closed the door behind her.

  TWENTY-TWO

  CAMBRIDGESHIRE, 1997

  I’d kept the newspaper cuttings. I don’t know why. Doug had no idea, of course—he’d have been livid if he’d ever found them. We were supposed to forget all about it, pretend we’d played no part in the whole horrible tragedy. But it didn’t seem right to throw them away. I felt I owed it to her—Nadia—to remember, that I shouldn’t get away guilt free or ever be allowed to forget what happened that day. Her poor family. Her poor mother. They never found out the truth. And I had to live with that—we all did. So I hid the cuttings in between the pages of a book tucked away at the top of the bookcase in our bedroom. I never looked at them; I didn’t need to. I knew what they said by heart.

  But after I overheard Hannah on the phone to Emily, after it all fell into place, I took down the book—a thick Jackie Collins I was certain neither Doug nor Hannah would ever want to read—and there they were, the two separate folds of newspaper, yellow with age. It had been sixteen years since I’d last read them. I smoothed out the first one and even the headline brought it all back, those awful feelings, the guilt.

  East Anglian Gazette

  25 April, 1981

  FEARS GROW FOR LOCAL MISSING WOMAN AND CHILD

  Police have discovered no new leads on the whereabouts of Nadia Freeman, 19, from Bury St. Edmunds and her three-week-old baby, Lana. Ms. Freeman is said to suffer from complex mental health issues that had intensified following the birth of her daughter in March.

 
Nadia’s mother, Mrs. Jane Freeman, 56, said, “We are all desperately worried for my daughter and granddaughter. They are both so vulnerable. I want Nadia to know that she’s loved, that we will help her, no matter what she’s done. I only want to see my daughter and my baby granddaughter again. We are all so dreadfully worried.”

  Police are urging any members of the public with information to come forward.

  It’s that bit from Nadia’s mother that’s so awful to read. Knowing the pain she must have felt, the uncertainty. Knowing I could at least have given her the information to end her suffering, that it had been my own selfish desires that had prevented me from doing so. The picture of Nadia, too, is almost impossible to look at, but I force myself to. That young, pretty face, so familiar. Those eyes that haunt me still.

  The second article, written a month later, is almost too much to bear, but again I make myself read it. Why should I get to hide it away? I owe it to her to remember.

  East Anglian Gazette

  30 May, 1981

  BODY OF MISSING LOCAL MOTHER FOUND

  A coroner’s verdict of suicide has been reached in the case of 19-year-old Bury St. Edmunds woman Nadia Freeman, whose body was found a fortnight ago on the beach at Dunwich, by dog walkers. Earlier sightings had put Ms. Freeman at a known suicide spot, “Widow’s Cliff.” She was last seen less than a mile away with her baby daughter, in a distressed state. Extensive searches are being held by police for the body of her three-week-old daughter, Lana, but fears are growing that the baby might have been washed out to sea. Nadia had been suffering from poor mental health at the time of her disappearance.

  So there it was. I knew what had really happened to Nadia, of course, knew what really led to her death. And now, sixteen years later, the truth was about to come out. Why else would Hannah befriend Emily Lawson, if not to punish us all for what we’d done?

  TWENTY-THREE

  LONDON, 2017

  Mac smiled encouragingly at Clara from the driver’s seat of the battered Ford Transit van. “Ready?” he asked. As they turned the corner out of Hoxton Square onto Old Street, the boxes of Luke’s belongings—his records, books, and clothes that had survived the fire—along with the few pieces of his furniture she’d been able to salvage slid and bumped heavily against one another in the back. She hadn’t known what else to do with his things. Her landlord, a middle-aged and heavily Botoxed Russian, had been clear he wanted the flat vacated sooner rather than later. “Decorators coming tomorrow,” he’d said, eyeing her disapprovingly when she’d met him at the flat, as though he suspected the damage to his property was more down to carelessness on her part than anything else. She and Mac had packed up her and Luke’s stuff in one grim and depressing afternoon, and while Mac’s had seemed the most sensible place to store her own belongings, Zoe not having the room, they’d been at a loss at first about what to do with Luke’s.

  “How about taking them to Suffolk?” Mac had suggested. “Rose and Oliver could look after them until . . .” As his sentence tailed off, their eyes had met briefly, then skittered away. The unanswerable question of how and when this nightmare would end had hung in the air between them.

  “I better start looking for somewhere to live,” Clara had said into the silence, turning back to the box she was packing with books.

  “You know you can stay with me for as long as you need to, don’t you?” Mac had said.

  She’d nodded. “I know. Thank you.”

  “Have the police been in touch?”

  “Anderson rang earlier. He said they’re doing more door-to-door inquiries, looking at CCTV, and so on. But it all feels pretty hopeless, to be honest.” She’d got up then, to carry the box to the door, where she paused, staring down at it for a while. “I don’t know what to do,” she’d said. “Perhaps I should go and see my parents for a while, although I need to go back to work soon. . . .” She broke off. It felt entirely impossible to comprehend a future beyond the question of where Luke was, her life on perpetual, agonizing hold until he was found.

  Now, as they edged slowly through the Saturday afternoon traffic, her gaze flickered unseeingly over Kingsland Road. It would take them a couple of hours to get to Suffolk, and she sat back and closed her eyes, her tired mind mulling over the past two days. Once she’d confirmed that her keys had indeed been taken from her bag in Mac’s spare room, Anderson had said little to indicate they’d come any closer to finding who’d been responsible for the break-ins. On the subject of Tom, the detective sergeant had remained tight-lipped. “We are pursuing that line of inquiry, yes,” was all he’d say on the matter.

  Although Mac had an impressive selection of new locks fitted to his door, her sleep had been plagued by dreams that someone was trying to break in, nightmares from which she’d jerk awake several times each night, heart thumping, to begin each new day feeling more exhausted than ever. As the van progressed through east London, she closed her eyes, her thoughts turning yet again to Emily. There’d been no word from her in the few days since they’d met, and Clara found herself thinking of her increasingly often. What if Emily had vanished again? Should she tell Rose and Oliver about her, or should she trust Luke’s sister that she would contact them herself very soon? Her tired mind struggled to find answers and finally she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

  * * *

  —

  After she and Mac stopped for lunch, an accident on the motorway meant they didn’t arrive at the Willows until five. A cool breeze stirred the air when they knocked on the door, and Clara shivered inside her jacket as they waited. After a while they knocked again, but when there was still no sign of Rose and Oliver, she glanced at Mac in confusion. “Do you think they’ve gone out?”

  He frowned. “They knew we were coming, though. Bit weird, isn’t it?”

  Walking to the side of the house, she cupped her hands to peer through the window, and it was only then that she noticed its shutters were closed. She tried to think if she could remember having ever seen them like that before, and realized that she couldn’t. When she looked up at the higher windows, it seemed that the house was in total darkness. “Mac,” she said, “this is really strange. . . .”

  It was at that moment that they heard a sound from within, followed by Rose’s nervous voice. “Hello? Who is it, please?”

  “It’s us, Rose. Mac and Clara,” Mac called. “Are you okay?” They heard bolts being drawn back and finally the door opened.

  The Rose who peered out at them looked so gaunt and ill that Clara gasped. “What’s happened?” she asked anxiously, feeling suddenly afraid. “Why are the windows shuttered and the door bolted? Are you all right?”

  Rose stared at her strangely before nodding. “Yes. Yes, of course.” She opened the door wider and, glancing quickly behind them from left to right, added, “Come in, both of you. Please, do come in.”

  Even in the dark gloom of the interior, Clara could see that the house’s sad air of disarray had worsened since last she’d visited. When they reached the kitchen, she and Mac paused inside the door, shooting nervous glances at each other as Rose silently filled the kettle, then stood motionless, staring blankly down at it in her hand. “Rose,” Clara said, going over and gently taking it from her, before leading her to a chair at the cluttered table. “Are you sure you’re okay? I’m worried about you.”

  “Worried, darling?” Rose asked faintly. “About me? Why should you be worried about me?” She began to cry then, the tears streaming down her pale, makeupless face. “It’s I who should be worried about you.” She put her hand to her mouth as a sob escaped. “After what happened to you—” She glanced at Mac. “To both of you. I’m so sorry. I’m so dreadfully sorry.”

  Clara knelt down next to her and took her hands. “Sorry? Oh, Rose, why are you sorry? None of this is your fault. How could it be?”

  At that moment Oliver appeared, their dog, Clemmy, at his heels. Mac
stepped forward to greet him but received barely a glance, as though Oliver could see nothing or no one but his wife. “Rose,” he said, his voice full of tenderness, “oh, darling, why are you crying? Don’t cry, please don’t cry.” He went to her and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him and for a long moment held him in her gaze, something that Clara couldn’t read passing between them, and then, to Clara’s astonishment, Rose very slowly and very deliberately removed his hand from her shoulder and got up. She stared back at her husband, a look on her face of such coldness, of such breathtaking dislike, that Clara felt her heart jolt in shock. And then Rose turned and left the room, leaving the three of them to stare silently after her.

  * * *

  —

  Later, as they were unloading Luke’s belongings from the van, Clara said quietly to Mac, “What the hell is going on?”

  He shook his head. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  At Oliver’s request they brought the boxes and furniture up to Luke’s old bedroom. When they reached his door, Mac opened it and stopped. “Christ. I haven’t been up here for years,” he said. He wandered over to a skateboard propped against the wall, then looked up at a Beastie Boys poster above the bed, the words “Fight for Your Right to Party!” emblazoned across it, and smiled sadly. “The times we spent up here, smoking out of the window, smuggling up beer, talking about girls. This used to be my second home.”

  He sat down heavily on Luke’s bed and, to Clara’s surprise, put his head in his hands, his shoulders heaving as he began to cry.

  For a moment she stood, stricken. She realized she had never seen Mac cry before; that throughout the days since Luke had gone missing, he had remained unfailingly strong—far stronger than she herself had. It had been he who had comforted her, who had listened to and looked after her. The thought of him giving in to the despair that had threatened her so often made dread rise inside her. She went to him. “Mac,” she said, “it’s going to be okay.”