Her Perfect Lies (ARC)

by Lana Newton

  ‘Can you control him? Honestly? I don’t think you drive the horse. The horse drives you.’

  The horses took them off the beaten path. They didn’t follow the main tourist track but made a turn at one of the smaller trails. The Xander lookalike she was on danced on the spot in excitement and for the first time that she could remember, she felt herself relax. There was something special about moving fast on a horse, the feeling of total freedom she found intoxicating. Her hair blowing in the wind, Claire pointed at everything she saw. A sparrow zooming through the skies, a magpie floating above their heads. A few times they spooked a crow and watched with a smile as it flew away, and once or twice they spotted a rabbit in the bushes and had to stop to take a closer look. It was so quiet and peaceful, as if it was just the two of them and not another soul for miles around. Claire almost forgot her worries.

  Paul looked happy riding his old chestnut mare next to her, as if the aloof, monosyllabic man of the past few months was gone and in his place was someone who laughed a lot, teased her mercilessly and didn’t take his eyes off her. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked. What was that expression in his eyes? She could feel her heart beating fast.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you expect me to fall off my horse. Like you want to make sure you don’t miss it when I do. Why don’t you have your camera ready?’

  ‘I don’t want you to fall. I’m looking at you because I want to make sure you’re okay.’

  ‘But shouldn’t you look where you’re going? Otherwise we might end up … in the river!’ she cried, pointing ahead. The river didn’t look particularly wide, but Claire was worried. She didn’t want their trip to be over just as she started enjoying it. ‘Do we have to turn back?’

  ‘Only if you want to.’

  ‘I want to keep going. But how do we get across?’

  ‘Horses can swim, you know.’

  As if they understood English, the horses entered the water. Claire shrieked.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not deep here,’ said Paul.

  The horses crossed the river and emerged on the other side, walking side by side like two old lovers.

  ‘Why are you grinning?’ he asked. ‘Is it because we didn’t drown?’

  ‘It’s just … There’s no one here. It’s so beautiful.’ She marvelled at the river and the forest, at the trees hugging the water, their branches like arms reaching for the sky. She marvelled at Paul and how elegant he seemed in the saddle, how easy he made it look, as if he was born to ride, like a cowboy or a drover.

  ‘I know.’ He smiled like he was solely responsible for the natural beauty of the farm. As if he had built it with his own two hands. ‘And there is someone here. There’s a man fishing.’ Paul pointed at the man wearing a camo jacket, crouching on the ground with a small fishing rod in his lap.

  ‘Where did he come from?’

  ‘There’s a village nearby. We are not completely in the wild.’

  ‘He looks like he’s part of the forest. No wonder I didn’t notice him.’

  Side by side they rode through the trees. Only the birds could see them, and there were many birds – herons and crows that looked wise with years, and scarlet-chested robins like bright ribbons on the grass. ‘I never had a chance to thank you for saving Dad. I don’t know what I would do had something happened to him.’

  ‘No thanks necessary. I’m glad I was in the right place at the right time. I knew he wasn’t himself after the police had questioned him. He seemed upset and his eyes were red like he’d been crying.’

  ‘I didn’t know the police had questioned him that day.’ In astonishment, Claire pulled on her reigns. The horse stopped.

  Paul nodded. ‘They looked like two bloodhounds following a scent. After they spoke to Tony, they wanted to see you. I told them to come back later.’

  Suddenly, all the beauty around her vanished as if it had never existed and only the darkness remained. ‘Dad never mentioned it to me. Why wouldn’t he tell me?’

  Her smile frozen on her face, she made small talk for the rest of the trip but her heart wasn’t in it. When they got back to the stables, she could barely remember what they had talked about. What could the police have possibly told her father to make him try to take his own life? What was traumatic enough to drive him to do what he did? She could only think of one thing – they must have told him his daughter was responsible for his wife’s murder. They must have proof of her guilt. And they would be coming for her.

  Chapter 22

  Claire expected to see the familiar police car parked by the house, waiting for her. But to her surprise, the driveway was empty. Before she did anything else, before she changed her clothes or had her dinner, she wanted to speak to her father. She needed to know what the police had said to him the day of his attempted suicide and why he hadn’t said anything to her.

  His room was quiet. The TV was off, the radio mute, his bed empty. She could hear the murmur of running water coming from the bathroom and Helga’s muffled voice as she admonished Tony for not doing his exercises. Claire was about to leave when she saw an empty tray on Tony’s bed. Reaching for the tray, she noticed his phone tucked under his pillow. Under normal circumstances, she would never dream of going through her father’s phone. But something made her stop in her tracks and stare at it for a moment. The phone was playing a YouTube video. Tony must have forgotten to switch it off. She would do it for him, so it didn’t drain the battery. That was the excuse Claire made as she picked up her father’s phone, looking for answers that no one would give her.

  Waiting a moment to make sure the water was still running and her father wasn’t about to appear in front of her, she paused the video and quickly navigated to his messages. What am I doing? she thought, horrified at herself. She could see a few dozen messages from herself and some from Helga, asking what Tony wanted for dinner. Unable to stop, she scrolled down.

  What she saw next made her freeze, her hand at her mouth, as if she’d been confronted by a ghost. Illuminated on the little screen were messages from the familiar overseas number. The number she had once believed belonged to her mother. Her hand on her heart, her face white, she opened the conversation.

  You haven’t paid me yet.

  You will get paid in full. Please stop the phone calls to my daughter. I no longer require your services.

  I want more.

  More what?

  More money.

  Why?

  You hired me to impersonate someone who’s been murdered. I wonder, is it something the police would want to know? What about your daughter?

  Call me.

  Stupefied and unable to think straight, Claire threw the phone as far as she could and ran out of the door. What did the messages mean?

  * * *

  ‘They don’t mean anything,’ said Paul, who had rushed home from work when he heard Claire’s trembling voice over the phone. She must have sounded like she was about to have a breakdown because he abandoned an important surgery and ran to her side. They were sitting opposite each other at the dining table, just like they did on Claire’s first evening home, except now she was sobbing uncontrollably and Paul was struggling to make sense of what she was saying.

  ‘He paid someone to call me and pretend to be my mother, long before the police told us about … about Mum. Why would he do that?’

  ‘There must be a logical explanation.’

  ‘How did he know my mother was gone? Even before the police told us about her murder, he knew but pretended he didn’t.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he …’

  ‘What?’ asked Claire. Paul didn’t reply. Just like her, he didn’t seem to have any answers. Shaking, struggling to get the words out, she continued, ‘There’s more. Remember the silver charm we found in my parents’ house where they discovered my mother …’ For a moment she couldn’t speak. Paul patted her on the arm. ‘I think she was wearing it when she was murdered. And I’ve seen it before.
The first time I met Dad in hospital, he dropped his wallet. All the contents spilled out and I saw a charm bracelet with charms just like the one we’ve found.’ When she closed her eyes, she could still see it, curled up under the hospital bed like a small shiny lizard. She remembered the cold feeling in her hand when she picked it up. How could she not have thought of it before? ‘Why would he have the bracelet my mum was wearing the day she was killed?’ It occurred to Claire she had never asked her father where he was when her mother was killed. Never having doubted him before, she didn’t have a reason to ask. She knew he had his car accident on the same day and assumed he wasn’t with her mother. He was driving – where? Or from what? Grabbing the table, she tried to steady herself. Her head was spinning from all the questions swirling around in her head and she felt a cold chill running through her, even though the radiator was on and it was boiling in the house.

  ‘Maybe she wasn’t wearing it that day. Maybe the charm had always been there, in the corner. And your father kept the bracelet because he wanted to have something that belonged to your mum.’

  ‘I saw you pick up the charm. Can I have it now?’ When Paul returned, she snatched the little dove from him but her hand was shaking and her tears were blinding her. It took a few minutes for her to calm down enough to make out the dark stain on the silver surface. ‘See here? It looks like blood. I’m pretty sure of it.’

  Paul took the charm to the window to examine it under the bright light. ‘You need to talk to him. He’ll explain everything. Everything will make sense, as soon as you talk to him.’

  ‘I can’t. I just can’t.’ Her teeth chattered from the horror of it all. ‘He always talks about leaving here, going away together. He’s obsessed with getting rid of you, so we can be the perfect family. It was him who told me about you and Gaby.’ Leaning on the table, she was all tears and red eyes and twisted limbs. She could hardly breathe, let alone talk.

  ‘You can’t face him like this. Let me give you a mild sedative,’ said Paul.

  ‘No, please. I want to be lucid. I don’t want my mind to be clouded.’

  ‘You are not lucid now. Look at you. What you need is a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow everything will seem different. You’ll see everything with fresh eyes.’

  To sleep until morning, to not think about anything, how could she say no? She longed to forget, and not until tomorrow but forever because her sudden suspicion was so horrifying and unbearable, she couldn’t live with it, couldn’t think of it and couldn’t put it into words, not even in her head, not even to herself in a tiny whisper.

  * * *

  Claire wished tomorrow would never come. But all too quickly it did come and she stood outside Tony’s room, alone and afraid, like she was lost in the epicentre of an earthquake. The tectonic plates of her existence had shifted and continued to shift even as she gaped in shock at the remnants of her life, at the Scrabble board abandoned on the table, at the books and the card games she had once shared with her father. Everything in her life had been a lie, like she was at a local fair, looking at herself through a mirror all distorted and wrong. She was a fly caught in a web of deceit. Was her father the spider? She didn’t want to believe it.

  Unable to get her head around the enormity of her fears, Claire spent the morning reading her father’s letters to Angela. She hugged her pillow close and wept because every word was love. The greater the love, the greater the betrayal, she thought, shuddering.

  Paul was right. She had to talk to Tony. But could she step inside his bedroom without stumbling, look him in the eye and not break down? Now that she suspected what he was, now that she saw right through him, could she hear his voice without crumbling into a sobbing mess?

  She wanted him to lie. It would be so easy for him. God knew he was a skilful liar. She needed him to tell her she was wrong, that it was her imagination playing tricks on her overtired brain. More than anything she wanted to hear that black was white and white was black. And she would believe him. She would believe him irrevocably. Because she couldn’t live in the world where the unthinkable was possible. She didn’t want to be a part of the world where the person she had loved the most had no soul.

  The door to his room was closed. That wasn’t unusual. He often asked her to shut it behind her. So he could hide his true face from prying eyes? She turned the handle but it wouldn’t give way. A cold fear numbed her, making her momentarily forget her doubts. He had already tried to take his life once. Would he do it again? The part of her that loved him unconditionally wanted to break the door down, to rush into his room and make sure he was okay. But there was another part of her, a voice inside her head that whispered, If he did it, so what? What a perfect way out. She didn’t like that part of herself very much.

  She stood with one hand on the door handle and another on her beating heart. Then she pushed the door harder and this time it opened. It was dark in the room. Tony always insisted on having his curtains tightly drawn. I need rest, he would say. But now she knew – monsters hid in the shadows. They didn’t want anyone to see what they truly were.

  The TV was on. The reflection of the screen played on his face. The images flickered red and blue, and his face looked distorted, like it wasn’t a face of a human being at all. She didn’t want to wake him, not yet, so she watched him sleep.

  Tony stirred in bed. His movement triggered the sensors and the night light came on. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up straight. He didn’t seem to notice her. She waited a few moments to see what he would do. He stretched and yawned and reached for a glass of water on his bedside table. When he took a few sips and placed the glass back, she said, ‘Are you awake, Dad?’

  He startled and his eyes widened. For a second, he looked afraid and she enjoyed seeing his discomfort. She wanted him afraid, squirming and remorseful. Unable to take her gaze off his face, she imagined herself in her mother’s place. The fear, the disbelief, the sudden realisation when she had seen the knife in his hand. Claire felt the heat, the perspiration on her forehead, even though the heating was off and it was cold in the room. With horror in her heart she imagined the sudden pain, the life trickling out. She almost screamed.

  ‘I didn’t see you there. You scared me half to death. Is everything okay, darling? Why are you sitting in the dark?’ He grabbed the remote and put the TV on mute. Now it was just the two of them. No other voices in the room, nothing to distract her from the train wreck of her life.

  She couldn’t ask him. As much as she needed to, she couldn’t bring up her mother yet. She wanted to delay the inevitable, wanted a few more minutes of not knowing for certain. If her suspicions were correct, she wanted to know what had made him this way.

  ‘Tell me about your father.’

  Tony couldn’t see the expression on her face. He couldn’t see the terror, the distrust and the revulsion. As far as he was concerned, everything was fine between them. She was still the loving daughter and he was the doting father. Just like always. He started talking, uncertainly at first, then faster and faster.

  * * *

  Tony’s first childhood memory was that of his father screaming. He couldn’t remember what the screaming was all about, only that his dad sounded angry and the little Tony was afraid. There were other memories, too. Of his father pushing his mother, slapping her across the face, kicking her in the stomach, locking her in the bathroom and not letting her out till she lost her voice begging for mercy.

  Tony’s father was a respected police officer but no one at work knew who he really was. Never one to put himself in danger, stand up for the weak or say no to a bribe, his hobby was torturing those smaller than him. Every day at eight o’clock sharp he would get drunk and look for something to do. Since there wasn’t much to do in their sleepy town, he would amuse himself by beating his only son. He didn’t need an excuse or a provocation. All Tony had to do was be there.

  Young Tony had the procedure down pat. Play dead while his dad drank himself into a stupor, walk past him quiet like a
mouse, open the freezer, empty the ice tray into his mother’s favourite kitchen towel and press it to the part of him that needed attention on that particular evening. Only once did he ask his dad why he hated him so much. He was twelve and nursing a black eye. ‘Hate?’ roared his father, who had just woken up with a massive hangover and nothing to take the edge off. ‘Who cooks for you? Who brings you food when you can’t go out? Ungrateful brat.’ Tony wanted to point out he would be able to go out more often if he didn’t ‘walk into the door’ quite so much. But he knew when to speak and when to stop talking. When it came to dealing with his father, silence was golden.

  On his fifteenth birthday, Tony’s dad had taken him water skiing to celebrate. At first Tony was excited at this unprecedented kindness. And then he realised his father’s idea of fun was to drive his boat too fast, making young Tony beg for mercy, and then calling him a wimp. Up and down Tony went on his skis, gripping the handle tightly, until all feeling had left his fingers, while his old man laughed and revved the engine. Please, slow down, Tony pleaded silently. He didn’t want to show how scared he was, didn’t want to give his old man the satisfaction.

  Faster and faster they went. A little more, and the boat would take off like an aeroplane. And then Tony was catapulted up, flying through the air for what seemed like forever. When he finally crashed, it felt like his head hit a concrete wall.

  He was in hospital for days, drifting in and out of consciousness. Just how hard did he hit that water? He remembered waking up one morning and thinking, Mum would kill Dad for this. This time he’d crossed the line, and Tony couldn’t wait to tell her all about it. They would sit with their arms around each other, like they used to when he was small, he would cry a little, while she gently rocked him back and forth, back and forth. Then they would pack a small suitcase. They wouldn’t take much. Too many things would only slow them down. They would leave and never look back, travel across country on a train, and stay with a distant relative, somewhere Dad couldn’t find them, somewhere they could start a new, happier chapter in their life.