The Liar's Sister (ARC)

by Sarah A. Denzil

  ‘Aye.’

  I shrug. ‘Well, what happened?’

  Reg exhales loudly through his nose. ‘Colin Murray came in and there were words.’

  I almost roll my eyes. Reg has that typical laconic Yorkshireman stereotype down to a T. ‘What were the words?’

  ‘Colin thought your sister was lying. And he thought she had put those two’ – he nods to where Emily and Rhona were sitting earlier – ‘up to the claims they made.’

  ‘Rosie did no such thing.’

  ‘Never thought she did,’ he says.

  ‘And you don’t believe Rhona and Emily either?’

  ‘What do I know?’ he replies. ‘It all seemed a bit far-fetched, like summat two teenage girls with overactive imaginations would come up with. But like I said, what do I know?’

  I nod and sip my drink, slowing down a little now that Reg has opened up. I need to remember anything important he might have to say.

  ‘My dad and Colin seemed to make up eventually, though, didn’t they?’

  He shrugs. ‘They became civil as far as I know.’

  ‘Did you hear any of their conversations here?’

  He shakes his head. ‘There weren’t any.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Colin would be on one side of the pub and John the other. If there was a private reconciliation, I never saw it. They just kept themselves to themselves. But after Samuel disappeared, there was less tension anyway.’

  It seems odd to me that they wouldn’t ever speak again. Why would Colin contain his animosity for my family without coming to a friendly agreement with Dad? Colin Murray was an all-or-nothing person. He was either a friend or an enemy, and yet he and Dad had reached some sort of unspoken agreement to allow them to share the same spaces in the village. It did make sense in a way. It just seemed out of character for him.

  The door opens and Peter walks in alone. When his eyes rest on mine, he grins. ‘Hello again.’

  ‘Are you a permanent fixture here?’ I ask.

  ‘I could say the same to you.’ He nods at Reg and then glances down at my drink. ‘Want another?’

  ‘Double vodka and Coke, please.’

  ‘You’re not messing around, Heather.’ His brown eyes widen but he orders the drink anyway, along with a pint of lager for himself. ‘Didn’t I see your car in the car park?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not driving home. I’ll walk.’

  ‘You were going to walk home on your own?’ He frowns as he leans against the bar, one elbow bent to flex his upper arm, tightening the linen blue shirt he’s wearing.

  ‘It’s still light out,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll walk you home. No arguments.’

  After being with me the day someone broke into our house and stole Dad’s gun it’s not surprising that he’s cautious.

  After a sip of his pint, he regards me with an intense gaze that makes me blush. ‘Care to tell me what brought you here again? Or are you after some alone time?’

  ‘Actually, I came to meet Rhona and Emily.’

  Peter grimaces in a comedic way, and I laugh. ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’

  ‘I know. It was a stupid idea. I wanted to find out once and for all if they were lying about Samuel. Turns out my interrogation technique could do with some work, because they got all defensive, called me a bad feminist and left.’

  Peter bursts into spontaneous laughter that makes me feel lighter. ‘They called you a bad feminist? Wow. That’s a low blow.’

  ‘Coming from them, yes, it certainly was. And now I’m back to square one.’

  ‘Back to square one for what?’ He climbs onto the bar stool next to mine, his body rotated in my direction, dangerously close to me. ‘What is it that you’re trying to find out?’

  I finish my second drink and move on to the one Peter bought me. ‘That’s an excellent question. The truth, I suppose. I want to know where Samuel went. I want to know what he did.’

  ‘Why? Isn’t that my crusade? As the younger brother.’ Long dark lashes brush the skin below his eyes as he blinks, and a warmth spreads through me. The kind of warmth that leads to bad decisions. The rare, addictive kind that feels even better when you’re well on your way to being drunk.

  We hold eye contact for at least ten seconds too long, and then he says, ‘Oh.’

  My gaze drops to the glass in front of me.

  ‘You and my brother?’

  I nod my head. ‘He didn’t want to tell anyone because of the bullying at school.’

  ‘Why didn’t I ever notice?’ Peter says softly. Then he laughs. ‘It’s probably a good thing I never knew, because I had a huge crush on you myself.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I’m suddenly aware of Reg again, but he seems to have tactfully taken himself to the other side of the bar and is chatting to a middle-aged man I don’t recognise.

  ‘Oh, come on. You know I had a huge crush on you.’ Peter has the kind of boyish grin that brightens up a room. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I was pretty jealous of my brother, even though he had all that trouble at school. And I had a thing for you, big time.’ He laughs.

  ‘Why were you jealous of Samuel?’

  He shrugs. ‘I guess it was because of the whole adoption thing. Samuel was the real son and I was the non-biological one. You could say I had a chip on my shoulder about it.’

  I nod. ‘Makes sense. I felt like that about Rosie sometimes.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It was always her the boys fancied. When I was feeling insecure back then, which was most of the time, I thought Samuel might only be going out with me because I was the closest version of Rosie he could get.’

  Peter reaches over to touch my hand. ‘Hey, stop selling yourself short, Hev.’

  When Rhona called me Hev it set my teeth on edge. When Peter says it, my heart pounds.

  ‘I should nip to the loo,’ I say, pulling my hand from his, stumbling from my stool. But my legs have turned into a substance that can no longer support my weight. Embarrassingly, I fall against Peter, and he has to grab hold of my arm to keep me from falling to the ground.

  ‘I think it’s time to get you home,’ he says. ‘Shall we call a taxi?’

  While I was drinking my third drink, I didn’t notice that the pub was slowly spinning around me, as it is now. Peter takes my weight easily, an arm wrapping around my waist, leading me to the door while pink faces stare in my direction. The room spins faster and my stomach lurches, but I manage not to be sick. I get the odd sense that I’m mumbling, but I don’t know what I’m saying.

  Outside the pub, Ian Dixon’s face comes into view.

  ‘You should be gone,’ he says harshly. ‘Get out of my village.’

  But as soon as I see him, he’s gone again. Was he there at all? Did that just happen? And if it did, why didn’t Peter get him away from me?

  I blink, and then I’m in the back of a taxi. My head rests against Peter’s shoulder and his lips are next to my ear.

  ‘You’re beautiful, Heather,’ he says. At least I think that’s what he says.

  ‘God, I drank so much,’ I mutter.

  ‘That’s what you get for ordering doubles.’

  My hand rests on his chest, feeling the hard muscle of a farmer beneath his shirt. His finger trails along my arm but he doesn’t lean in for a kiss, and that makes me feel disappointed even though I know I’m in no state to make good decisions, or even consent for that matter.

  ‘How did it go wrong …’ I mumble. ‘Three drinks.’

  ‘Six shots of vodka,’ Peter reminds me.

  I close my eyes because I can’t bear to see the scenery blurring all around me. When I open them again, Peter is getting out of the car. Did I fall asleep? Did I drool on him? Please say no.

  He opens my door and lifts me out. Suddenly Rosie is there and she’s glowering at me.

  ‘Seriously, Hev?’

  Glower, glower, glower. Did I say that out loud? Fuck. I think I said that out loud.


  ‘You’re saying everything out loud.’ She folds her arms across her chest.

  Peter helps me into the house.

  Mustn’t annoy big sister. Got it. Big sister has been through enough without me wrecking everything.

  ‘You’re not wrecking anything, Heather. You’re just drunk.’ There’s some shuffling, and then Rosie says, ‘Just put her down there. Thanks. Sorry about this.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘I’m getting you a glass of water, Heather. Do. Not. Move.’

  Peter’s face drifts away. Another cold glass that does not contain vodka is placed in my hand. I drain it. And then the world goes dark.

  Twenty

  Rosie

  Then

  In the week that followed the incident, which is what I decided to call it, the four walls of our bedroom become a prison. I couldn’t decide if they were there to keep me in, or to keep everyone else out. For a week I watched my sister get up every day and go to school. And for that week I resented her more than I ever had before.

  It seemed as though she was the perfect one because she got to remain the apple of Dad’s eye. Whereas he could barely look at me. I’d disappointed him many times before, but this was the worst. In all truth, I wanted to die.

  The house was more morbid than it had ever been. Even Grandad moped upstairs, and Mum always had tears in her eyes when she came into my room. I felt alone. No one talked to me, or at least not how they did before. They were scared of me. Scared of what I might say or do, I suppose, in the same way that people are scared to talk to people who have lost a loved one or received a terrible diagnosis.

  Out of them all, Heather was the one I hated being around the most. She couldn’t look at me either, and I knew why. Every day I saw the resentment on her face. I knew exactly what she was thinking. I’d ruined it all. I’d broken this family apart with what I’d said when I came home from the woods.

  Heather has never been a person who’s found happiness easy. She thinks I don’t understand her, but I’ve always known her better than anyone else. She is her own worst enemy. She can’t find happiness because she thinks her way out of it. Grandad used to say that if you asked her a question, you’d be able to watch her brain have an aneurysm trying to find the best response. Even with simple decision-making she’d end up stuck, not knowing how to proceed.

  Every day I watched her trapped in her own mind as she tried to process what was happening. I hated it. I hated myself for putting her through it, and I hated her for making me feel like shit. She never said anything bad to me. She never told me that she didn’t believe me. Yet her expression would say everything she couldn’t articulate because of who she was.

  In fifteen years, I’d only ever known Heather to truly enjoy one thing – going to the Murrays’ farm. And now we could never go there again. I’d killed that part of our lives with just a few simple words. I’d ruined everything.

  ‘Rosie, do you want pizza for lunch?’ Mum called through the door.

  After the incident, Mum fed me so many M&S frozen pizzas and lasagnes that I’d already started to gain weight. It was weird seeing her nurturing side come out for once.

  ‘Just a sandwich, Mum,’ I called back, not wanting to add any more pounds to my frame.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just a …’ I sighed and swung my legs over the bed. They were wobbly from my inactivity over the last few days. It was as though I had the flu or something. Everyone expected me to stay in bed. Since the police had completed their interrogation, I’d barely moved. I felt like Grandpa in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

  I crossed the room and opened the door, making my way through the house to the kitchen. ‘A sandwich is fine.’

  ‘Oh, there you are, love. How are you feeling?’ Mum put on a bright smile and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She wasn’t fooling anyone with that fake tone of voice. She was a mess. She had dark circles underneath her eyes, and her cheekbones were sticking out from her usually full face. While I’d been guzzling down the pizzas and lasagnes, Mum had been practically starving herself.

  ‘I’m okay, I keep telling you that.’ It was supposed to be reassuring, but it came out all wrong, too harsh, too cold.

  She stared at me for a long moment before walking over to the cupboard to fetch the bread. ‘I’ll get on with that sandwich then.’

  The word ‘sorry’ was on my lips, but I couldn’t manage to get it out.

  Instead, I slipped out of the kitchen and switched on the television in the lounge. My phone, which had been found in the woods with my riding boot, vibrated and I pulled it out of my jeans pocket to discover dozens of unread messages that had been steadily accumulating since the incident. Now was as good a time as any to finally read them.

  OMG, U OK?

  Call me. I have to tell you something.

  Always knew he was a psycho.

  Check UR email.

  He’s done it before.

  Have you seen it?

  Seen wot? I sent back to Rhona.

  An immediate response: The website. Check UR email.

  Reluctantly I fetched my laptop from the coffee table and set it on my knee. I had no idea what Rhona was on about. After opening my inbox, I found the email in question, opened it and clicked on the link to a Tumblr site.

  When I read the title of the site, my blood ran cold.

  Samuel Murray the Satan Worshipper.

  What. The. Fuck.

  The more I read, the worse it became. The author of the site was claiming that several young women in Buckthorpe had gone to the police to accuse Samuel Murray of heinous crimes. In one case, he’d spoken in tongues while sexually assaulting a young girl. In another, he’d sacrificed an animal. I flinched as I scanned the gory details. The posts were already a few days old by this point and I couldn’t stop thinking about the villagers reading those words.

  Once I’d finished, I slammed the laptop shut and switched off my phone.

  When Mum brought me the sandwich, my stomach flipped and I threw up on the carpet. A deep sense of shame washed over me. Mum stared in horror before hurrying out of the room. A moment later, she was back with a tea towel, dropping it over the puke.

  ‘Come here, Rosie,’ she said, wrapping an arm over my shoulder. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’

  My legs wobbled all the way up the stairs to the bathroom. But Mum’s arms were strong. She kept me upright till we got there.

  ‘Do you want to wash your face?’ she asked.

  I sat on the edge of the bath and nodded my head.

  ‘Take your time.’ She patted me on the shoulder and filled the sink with water. ‘Here, it isn’t too hot.’

  I got to my feet and splashed the water over my face. Mum helped out by putting a damp cloth on the back of my neck. Then she handed me a towel and sat on the toilet seat, her posture and expression much calmer than before.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I just want to get back to normal.’

  ‘One day.’ She smiled. ‘But it’s going to take some time. That’s all.’

  ‘I heard you talking to Dad. I know that Colin Murray blocked the planned building on his land because he knew Dad’s company was involved. That’s going to lose us money, isn’t it?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Mum said, still calm and collected. ‘Don’t jump to any conclusions, okay?’

  ‘He had that bruise on his face when he came home from the pub.’

  Mum clicked her tongue. ‘Don’t worry about that. It was your dad’s fault for getting into nonsense. Drinking too much.’

  ‘What’s going on in here?’ The door opened and Grandad stood there, his tufty eyebrows drawn together like two bushy curtains. ‘Is this a WI meeting or a bathroom?’ He frowned at Mum and avoided eye contact with me.

  ‘We’re just leaving, Kevin.’ Mum rolled her eyes when she had her back turned to him, and I almost cracked a smile.

  Grandad moved
away to allow us out of the room, wafting his arms, pretending to shoo us through the door. I think, in his own way, he was attempting to be funny, but it just set my teeth on edge.

  ‘I hope you’re not sulking,’ he said to me.

  ‘Are you an idiot? She’s traumatised, Kevin,’ Mum snapped. ‘Just go and piss and leave us in peace, will you?’

  It felt as though it was me and Mum against the rest of the world, and I couldn’t help but smile for the first time in days. I’d been worried about how she’d react at first, but now I understood that she was my ally in this.

  Finally, for the first time since the incident, I could see a way out. There was a future for me, one where the past could stay in the past and I could move forwards. I accepted that I couldn’t control what was said on the Tumblr site. I had no control over anything that happened after that night. All I could do was try and move on with Mum’s help.

  At least that was how I felt for a fleeting moment, because the sound of a smashed window interrupted my hopeful thoughts. Mum rushed down the last few steps, almost tripping over her feet. Her breath came out in pants as I followed her into the lounge. In the centre of the room, on top of the carpet, was a rock with a piece of paper wrapped around it. Glass shards were scattered everywhere, on the floor, the coffee table, the sofa. Buster barked from the kitchen, and when he tried to run in, Mum shooed him back and closed the door.

  Heart pounding, I bent down and picked up the stone. Grandad walked in and surveyed the mess, his mouth hanging loose with shock.

  I unfolded the note.

  CHECK OUTSIDE.

  ‘Let’s get it over with,’ Mum said, taking my hand. ‘Come on, Kevin. We’re facing this as a family.’ The matter-of-fact way she spoke gave me a modicum of hope that everything was going to be okay.

  We made our way out of the lounge, through the hallway to the back door. Mum’s hand was cold in mine. I was sweating all over.