The Lies We Told

by Camilla Way

  He wiped his face and exhaled a long breath. “I’m all right. Ignore me. It’s just being here, seeing his stuff again, you know?”

  She nodded, sitting down next to him. “We’ve got to believe that he’s going to come back to us,” she said, trying to put some conviction into the words he’d used to comfort her so many times before. “We’ve got to keep going, try to keep positive.”

  “Clara,” he said, turning his face to hers, and the expression she saw there was so strange, so desperate, so unlike any she’d ever seen there before, that she felt a chill.

  “What?” she said. “What is it, Mac?”

  He held her gaze for a moment, before finally dropping it. “Nothing.” He took a gulp of air and stood up. “Nothing. You’re right. Got to keep positive.” He took her hand and pulled her up. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  She nodded, and together they went back down to finish unloading the van.

  * * *

  —

  When Rose next appeared, she looked very different, her hair neatly brushed and her makeup carefully applied. She smiled at them as she came into the room but made no mention of the scene earlier. “I hope you’ll stay for dinner?” she asked.

  Mac and Clara exchanged glances. “It’s getting rather late, Rose. The traffic . . .”

  Her face fell. “But maybe you could stay the night? Oh, please say you will. It would be so lovely to have you here.”

  “Well . . .” Rose’s face was so beseeching that Clara shot Mac a questioning look.

  “Of course,” he said, shrugging. “If you want us to.”

  For the first time that day, Rose’s face brightened with something resembling her old, charming smile. “Oh, wonderful! Mac, you can have Luke’s room, and Clara can have Emi—the spare room.”

  After a pause Clara turned to Oliver and asked as casually as she could, “Have you heard from Tom recently?”

  He shook his head. “No. Not for a few days, actually, though that’s not unusual. Why do you ask?”

  She looked away. “Oh, no reason.”

  He nodded absently and the moment passed, but she wondered what Anderson’s inquiries were leading to, whether her suspicions would be proved correct. It was almost too terrible to think about, that it could be Tom who was behind everything, that the person responsible had been amidst them all along.

  The evening passed slowly. They sat down together for a meal—a halfhearted affair of sausages and mash—and though Clara and Mac did their best to make conversation, the strange, stiff atmosphere between Rose and Oliver remained. There was a sense of waiting, of impending doom, and they were both relieved when Rose took herself off to bed early, Oliver padding up not far behind her.

  Clara and Mac took their drinks into the living room. “My God,” Clara said, flopping onto the sofa. “I had no idea they were in such a bad way.” She shook her head miserably. “I feel so sorry for them both.”

  “I know.” Mac nodded grimly, taking the armchair opposite her. “They look terrible. Do you think they’re even eating properly? Maybe we should try to get them some help, contact their GP or something. . . .”

  Wearily she rubbed her eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about Tom. I wonder where he is, whether the police have talked to him yet. I tried to call Anderson earlier, but he didn’t pick up.”

  “Do you really think he’s involved?” Mac asked her doubtfully. “It seems so . . .”

  “Yes,” she said emphatically. “I really do.”

  There was silence for a while, both of them lost in their own thoughts. A fire Oliver had lit earlier crackled in the grate, an unwelcome reminder of what had happened at her flat only three nights before. Even Clemmy seemed on edge tonight, restlessly pacing the room, ears pricked as though alert to something they couldn’t hear.

  Finally Mac asked cautiously, “How are you feeling now about what Alison told you?”

  She sighed. “To be honest, it just made me wonder what the hell else Luke was up to that I didn’t know about. Which reminds me,” she added, getting to her feet again. “Remember that picture of the girl I found in Luke’s filing cabinet?”

  “Yeah. Any idea who she is yet?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I haven’t had a chance to really think about it. Hang on—I’ll see if I can find it.”

  When she reached Luke’s old bedroom, she went straight to his filing cabinet, which they’d wedged in the corner earlier, two bags of Luke’s clothes balanced on top of it. She riffled through his papers before she came to the manila envelope. When she returned to the living room, she slid the pictures out and passed one to Mac.

  “I wonder who she is,” he said as they both stared down at the stranger’s beautiful face.

  “Must have been someone else he was shagging,” she replied. “I mean, it has to be, don’t you reckon?”

  “I guess. Seems a little young, though—”

  But just at that moment they heard a noise from outside. Clemmy sat up, her hackles raised, a low growl emanating from her throat. Clara’s chest tightened in fear. There it was again, followed by the sound of a car door slamming. “What was that?” she asked, alarmed.

  They sat very still and listened, their eyes widening when they heard footsteps crunching on the gravel outside the front door, followed by a loud barrage of knocks. They looked at each other. “It’s half past ten,” Mac said. “Who the fuck would be out here at this time?”

  A moment later they heard a key being put to the lock, followed by the sound of someone swearing, a voice saying, “Mum? Dad? Why’s the door bolted?”

  “It’s Tom!” Clara said, another jolt of fear shooting through her, while Clemmy continued to growl.

  The hammering intensified. “Mum? What’s going on? Let me in!”

  Fear nestled in Clara’s chest. What was he doing here? Did he know she’d told the police about him? Had he come to hurt Rose and Oliver? When Mac got to his feet, she put a hand out to stop him. “Wait,” she said. “What if he—”

  “I can’t leave him out there battering the door in.”

  She followed him into the hall and watched as he drew back the bolts. When he opened the door, Tom stood staring back at them in amazement. “Mac? Clara? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “We brought some things of Luke’s up after the fire,” Clara replied, her heart still pounding.

  He nodded distractedly. “The fire, yes, my God, are you okay? I couldn’t believe it when I heard—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thank you,” Clara replied. She tried to smile, but it died on her lips. Nobody moved.

  Tom glanced past them. “Where are my parents?”

  “They’ve gone to bed,” Mac told him. “They asked us to stay tonight. They’re actually in a pretty bad way, mate. We don’t want any trouble.”

  Tom stared at him. “Trouble? What are you talking about? Look, I’ve had a long day. I’ve just been questioned by the fucking police for three hours and I need a drink.” Pushing past them both, he strode into the kitchen. Following him, they watched as he took a bottle down from the wine rack. He poured himself a drink and downed it, then immediately poured another, watching Clara steadily above the rim of his glass.

  Clara and Mac exchanged a glance. “Tom, what are you doing here?” Mac asked again.

  Tom considered him for a moment. “Well, not that it’s any of your business, Mac, but I’ve come to talk to my parents.”

  There was a belligerence about him, a wildness she’d not seen before. She thought about how Mac had said he’d gone off the rails as a teenager, and she saw in him for the first time now a slightly unhinged, unpredictable quality. “They’re asleep,” she told him.

  He finished his second glass and continued to stare at her. “Are they? Are they really, Clara? Well, maybe it’s time they woke th
e fuck up.” He slammed his glass down on the table and went into the hall. Raising his voice, he shouted up the staircase, “Mum? Dad? Wakey wakey!”

  Rushing over to him, Clara put a hand on his arm and cried, “Tom! What are you doing?”

  “Something I should have done a very long time ago,” he replied, then raising his voice again, called, “Get down here now! It’s time to wake up.” He looked at Clara and muttered, “It’s time we all fucking woke up.”

  Without another word he strode into the living room and flung himself onto the sofa, where he sat motionless, morosely staring ahead.

  Clara watched him in horror. Should she call the police? Glancing at Mac, she began to edge back toward the hall, to where she’d left her bag hanging over the banister. If she could just get to her mobile without him seeing, she could go somewhere out of earshot and call 999. Without thinking, she let the photograph in her hand drop.

  But before she could escape, Tom leaned forward and picked it up. “What’s this?” he asked.

  She stopped in her tracks. “Nothing. Just a photo of Luke’s I found,” she said nervously. “I don’t know who it is. I found it in—”

  Tom frowned in confusion, then looked at her strangely. “You don’t know who this is? What are you talking about? This is Emily, of course. This is my sister, Emily.”

  There was absolute silence. And then Mac and Clara said at exactly the same time, “What?”

  “My sister.” He stared down at it. “I didn’t know Luke had this picture of her. I thought my darling parents destroyed every last trace of her. Guilt can make you do all kinds of crazy shit, after all.”

  But Clara wasn’t listening. “Emily? This is Emily?”

  Tom looked back at their astonished faces in surprise. “Well, yes. Of course it is. Why? Who did you think it was?”

  “But I’ve met Emily,” Clara said, her voice rising in panic. “This isn’t . . .”

  “You’ve met . . . ?” He stared at her. “No, you haven’t. She disappeared twenty years ago. How could you possibly have met her?”

  She glanced around at Mac, but saw he was looking now for something in his bag. “I was contacted by someone who said they were Emily,” she said, turning back to Tom. “I met up with her in a bar; she came to my flat. If this is Emily, then who have I been meeting?”

  They stared back at each other.

  “Clara?” Mac had pulled out his laptop and was turning it on. After a moment he brought it over to them. “This is the person you’ve been meeting, isn’t it?” She looked down at the laptop screen, and there was a picture of Emily, or at least the person who’d said that she was. It was a slightly blurred photo taken of her profile, surrounded by a crowd of people.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked Mac.

  He flushed and looked away. “I took it. When you said you were going to meet her in the bar that first time . . .” He met her astonished gaze. “I was worried!” he said defensively. “I know you didn’t want me to come with you, but I needed to make sure it wasn’t a trap, that you weren’t meeting someone dangerous. I’m sorry. I waited in a doorway down the road from the bar. Then when she left you, I followed her, just to check where she was going. It all just seemed so suspicious.”

  Her eyes widened. “I did see you that night, then! I thought I’d imagined it.” She turned back to the picture. “Where did you follow her to?”

  “Shoreditch tube. I had my Leica around my neck as usual. When she was buying a ticket, I took a picture of her, but she turned around and saw me. I just brazened it out and kept walking, got on the tube, and went home.”

  Clara stared at him in horror. “What camera did you say it was?”

  “The Leica, the one that—”

  “Went missing from your flat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could she have followed you home that night?”

  He thought about it. “I suppose. I didn’t see her, but it was busy, rush hour—there were a lot of people.”

  “So she could have followed you. She could have broken in later and stolen it from your flat, knowing you had her picture stored on your camera?”

  “I guess so,” he said.

  “So if this person isn’t Emily,” Clara said, “then who the fuck is she? Who have I been meeting with?”

  It was at that moment that Tom spoke again. He was still looking at the picture on the laptop screen. “I know her,” he said. “I know this woman.” They turned to stare at him. “I met her when I was qualifying in Manchester, about—what?—ten years or so ago. Her name’s Hannah.” He shook his head in confusion. “But I don’t understand. Why is she pretending to be my sister?”

  “How did you know her?” Mac asked.

  “She answered an advert for a room in a house I shared. We gave the room to someone else, thank God, but after that, she seemed to be everywhere. Wherever I went—supermarket, pub, or gym, or whatever—there she’d be. I’d turn around to find her staring at me. If I approached her, she’d just walk off. It was really fucking weird. Then suddenly, she disappeared. Vanished out of the blue and I never saw her again.”

  Clara listened to him in amazement. “But who on earth is she? None of this makes any sense.”

  At that moment they heard footsteps on the stairs, and Oliver and Rose, crumpled and dazed in their dressing gowns, came into the room. “What’s happening?” Oliver asked. He started in surprise when he saw his son. “Tom? What are you doing here?”

  Clara glanced at Tom, then said to Rose and Oliver, “Something really strange is going on.”

  Rose put her hand to her mouth. “What?” she said nervously. “What is it?”

  “I found this picture in the flat,” she said, passing it to her. “I thought it might be someone who . . . well, anyway, I didn’t know who it was.”

  Rose visibly flinched when she saw it. “Emily,” she whispered, her face stricken.

  Oliver came and stood behind her. For a moment the two of them looked down at their daughter’s face in silent anguish.

  “The thing is,” Clara said, “I was contacted just after the TV appeal by someone saying they were Emily.”

  Their eyes shot to her face. “What?” said Oliver faintly.

  “I met with her, or someone who was pretending to be her . . . but I found this picture in Luke’s filing cabinet not knowing that this was the real Emily.”

  Rose and Oliver had gone very white. “What did she look like, this woman?” Rose said, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “Here,” Mac said. “I have a picture of her.” He passed them his laptop.

  Rose began to shake uncontrollably. “Oh,” she said. “Oh dear God, Oliver.”

  “Do you know who she is?” Tom demanded.

  After a silence Oliver said, “Yes. We know who she is.”

  Rose’s voice was suddenly loud. “Oliver,” she cried. “Don’t! Do you hear me? Don’t you dare!”

  While the others watched, openmouthed, Oliver sank heavily into a chair. He still held the laptop in his hands. At last he sighed. “Enough, now, Rose. Enough.” He turned back to Tom. “This woman is Hannah Jennings,” he said quietly. “She’s my daughter.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE LAKE DISTRICT, 2017

  When I think of my old life, the one I left behind, it’s our village in Cambridgeshire I picture, the house we lived in for sixteen years—Doug, Hannah, Toby, and I. I sometimes wonder if our old neighbors ever think of us, if they remember the family that used to live between them in that quiet row of cottages below St. Dunstan’s Hill. But of course they do: how could they not? After all, for a while Hannah Jennings was a household name, the Jennings family front-page news. How, after so much horror, could anyone possibly forget who she was, and what she did?

  * * *

  —

  In my late twen
ties, when Doug and I still lived in Suffolk, I worked as a nurse on the pediatric ward at the General, where Rose Lawson was completing her specialist training in pediatric surgery. She must have been around thirty then, but she was already highly regarded in the hospital, and it was clear that all the senior consultants thought she had a bright future ahead of her. It must take a very special sort of person to be a surgeon, I’ve always thought, all those years and years of training, all that ambition and talent and single-mindedness you must need.

  On the ward she always remembered our names, would often stop to ask after our families, and chat to us about hers. She’d been married a few years, I think, to her husband, Oliver, and they had a beautiful baby girl named Emily. I remember once, one Saturday morning, bumping into them at the large Sainsbury’s in town. Doug and I were there together doing the weekly shop when I spotted them. Oliver was a tall, very good-looking man and they looked so happy, so close, laughing about something together, and I was struck by what an attractive, perfect-looking family they made. When Rose spotted us and came over, we smiled and introduced our husbands. I knew Oliver was a university professor, and I was a little in awe of him—both Doug and I were—but in fact he was nice, really. You could see he was quite sweet, a little shy even, despite all his success.

  We chatted for a while. Rose told us they’d just bought a huge house not far from our own village called the Willows, “a complete wreck,” she called it, and laughed about how they were going to have to spend years doing it up, and how they were both hopeless at that sort of thing. So Doug told them he was a builder and gave them a bit of advice, offered to come out and take a look at it, which they seemed very pleased about.

  On the way home I thought about them, about their gorgeous little daughter and how content they all looked. I’d stopped taking the pill not long after Doug and I were married, and the worry, the anxiety, had already firmly set in by then, because month after month, year after year, my period would turn up regular as clockwork, and I suppose, deep down, I knew by then that something was very wrong. So as we drove home, I thought about the Lawson family and closed my eyes and wished and wished with all my heart that we’d be as happy as they were one day.