‘Do you want a drink of something?’
‘No, I’m OK, can’t stay long, have to pick up the twins,’ she says, sitting down at the table. I take some kitchen towel and mop up the spilt drink before sitting down opposite her, my seat still warm from before. I can’t help staring over her shoulder at the dead bird just outside the door.
‘So?’ I ask, without meaning to sound abrupt. My exchanges with Claire aren’t the same as the conversations I have with other people. It’s like when you turn on the radio and they’re playing the song that you were already humming inside your head. You can’t possibly have known what was coming, but somehow you did. That’s what it’s like with Claire.
‘So . . . I’m worried about you. I thought maybe we should talk,’ she says.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you? You don’t look fine. You’ve been ignoring my calls.’
‘I’ve been busy. I have a full-time job.’ I study her face for a moment, stalling for time as my mouth rejects each form of words my mind suggests. She looks so much younger than I do, as though her face has forgotten to age over the last few years. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all.’ I wish I could tell her the truth, share the sort of secrets that normal sisters share, but I wouldn’t know where to begin. We have everything and nothing in common and our mother tongue doesn’t contain that kind of vocabulary.
‘Do you remember the boy I dated in my last year at university?’ I ask. She shakes her head. She’s lying and I already regret bringing it up.
‘What was his name?’
‘Edward. You didn’t like him. Not that that will jog your memory, you never liked any of them.’
‘I liked Paul,’ she says. I ignore the past tense.
‘I bumped into him on Oxford Street, yesterday, one of those crazy coincidences I suppose.’
‘I think I do remember. Tall, quite good-looking, very sure of himself.’
‘I don’t think you ever met him.’
‘Is there a point to this story? You’re not going to have an affair, are you?’
‘No, I’m not going to have an affair. I was just making conversation.’
I stare at the table for a while, wishing she would just leave, but she doesn’t.
‘How are things with Paul?’
‘You tell me, you’ve spent more time with him than I have lately.’ I’m surprised at my choice of words, which are far braver than I’m feeling. We’re sailing into unfamiliar territory here. I’m aware that I’ve started speaking in a language she doesn’t understand and for the first time we might need an interpreter. She stands to go, removing her coat from the back of the chair. I don’t try to stop her.
‘I’ve obviously caught you at a bad time, I’ll leave you to it.’ She opens the back door before turning back. ‘Remember, I’m only around the corner,’ she adds before leaving.
Her final words feel like more of a threat than a comfort. I listen as she walks down the side of the house, the sound of crunching gravel getting fainter until I hear the gate slam shut.
My thoughts return to the robin. For a moment I believe it must have come back to life and flown away, but as I get closer to the glass, my eyes find its brown body lying motionless on a carpet of green. I can’t leave it there, broken and alone. I open the back door and wait a second or two before stepping outside, cautious not to disturb the disturbing. It takes me a while to summon enough courage to reach down and pick up the bird. It’s lighter than I imagined, as though it is made of nothing but feathers and air. The thud as its tiny corpse lands at the bottom of the bin echoes the sound of it hitting the glass and I can’t shake the feeling of guilt that’s come over me. I step back inside and wash my hands, soaping and scrubbing my skin beneath the scalding water three times. When I have dried them, I turn the tap back on and do it all again and again until there is no soap left. I push my hands, still wet this time, into my pockets and try to stop thinking about them. I feel strange about dispensing with a life as though it is rubbish. There one minute, gone the next, all because of one wrong decision, one wrong turn.
Now
Wednesday, 28th December 2016 – Morning
It’s becoming harder to separate the dreams from my reality and I’m scared of both. Even when I do remember where, I don’t know when I am any more. Morning has broken and there’s no afternoon or evening any more either. I have escaped time and I wish it would find me again. It has a smell of its own, time. Like a familiar room. When it’s no longer your own you crave it, you salivate and you hunger for it, you realise you’d do anything to have it back. Until it is yours again, you steal stolen seconds and gobble up misused minutes, sticking them all together to make a delicate chain of borrowed time, hoping it will stretch. Hoping it will be long enough to reach the next page. If there is a next page.
I can smell my lost time. And something else. I have been alone for a while now. Paul has not returned and nobody has been in my room since I started counting the seconds. I stopped at seven thousand, which means I have been lying in my own shit for over two hours.
The voices come frequently, to wake me from my dream within a dream. They’re starting to sound familiar to me. The same nurses come into my room, check I’m still breathing and sleeping, then leave me alone again with my thoughts and fears. I’m not being fair, they do more than that. They turn me, I’m not sure why. I’m on my left side at the moment, which is how I liked to sleep when I had a choice in the matter. Having choices is something I used to do. Most of the shit is on the inside of my left thigh. I can feel and smell it. With my mouth forced open I can almost taste it and the thought makes me want to gag, but that’s just another thing I can’t do. The tube down my throat has become a part of me I barely notice any more. I picture myself as a newly invented Doctor Who monster: part woman, part machine; skin and bones entwined with tubes and wires. I want them to clean me before Paul comes back. If he’s coming back. The door opens and I think it is him, but the smell of white musk informs me it isn’t.
‘Morning, Amber, how are we feeling today?’
Let’s see, I feel like shit, I’m covered in shit, I stink of shit.
Why do these people keep talking to me? They know I can’t answer and they don’t really believe I can hear them.
‘Oh dear, don’t you worry, we’ll soon get you all cleaned up.’
Thank you.
Two of them clean me. They’ve never introduced themselves, so I don’t know their real names, but I’ve made up my own. ‘Northern Nurse’ sounds as though she is from Yorkshire. She has a tendency to mutter quietly to herself while she works and even then her vowels sound large in my ears. Her hands feel rough and rush to do their work. She scrubs my skin as though I am a dirty pan with stubborn stains and she sounds perpetually tired. Today she is accompanied by ‘Forty-A-Day Nurse’, the clue is in the name. Her voice is hoarse and low and she sounds permanently cross with the world. When she stands close to me, I can smell the nicotine on her fingers, taste it on her breath, hear it in her lungs. I listen to the sound of their plastic aprons while they clean me, the slosh of water in a bowl, the smell of soap, the feel of gloved hands on my skin.
When they are done, they turn me on my right side. I don’t like being on my right side, it feels unnatural. One of them brushes my hair, she holds it at the root, so the brush doesn’t pull. She’s trying not to hurt me any more than I already am. It reminds me of my grandmother brushing my hair when I was a little girl. Northern Nurse cleans the inside of my mouth with what feels like a small sponge, then she rubs some Vaseline on my lips, which feel dry and sore. The smell tricks my brain into thinking I can taste it. Sometimes she tells me what she is doing, sometimes she forgets. What I really want is some water, but she doesn’t give me any of that. I don’t know how long it has been now, but I’m already settling into my new routine. Funny how quickly we adapt. A flash of memory ignites and I think of my grandmother when she was dying. I wonder if she was thirsty. The wheels on the bus go
round and round.
It is later, I don’t know how much, when he arrives. His voice crashes through the wall I have built around myself.
‘They let me go for now, but I know they think I hurt you, Amber. You have to wake up,’ he says.
I wonder why he didn’t say hello before he started making demands of me. But then I realise I didn’t hear him come in, he could have been here a while, he could have said more, perhaps I just wasn’t listening. His voice sounds as though he is doing a bad imitation of himself. I can’t quite interpret his tone, which seems wrong, given that I’m his wife. Surely I should know the difference between angry and scared. Perhaps that’s the point, perhaps they are the same.
I remember him leaving with the police. He doesn’t talk about that, no matter how much I wish that he would. Instead, he reads me the newspaper, says the doctor thought it might help. All the stories are sad and I wonder whether he skipped the happy ones or whether there just aren’t any happy stories any more. He stops talking altogether then, and I resent the words he doesn’t speak. I want him to tell me everything that has happened to him while we’ve been apart. I need to know. Time is marching on without me since it left me behind and I can’t catch up. I hear Paul stand and I try to fill in the gaps myself. The police can’t have arrested him, because he’s back here, but something is wrong. He’s still in the room but he’s been stripped of sound. I picture him staring at me and I feel self-conscious about how I must look to him now. All I ever seem to do is disappoint him.
I start to drift when there is nothing to hold on to. The voices in my head are louder than the silence in the room. The loudest is my own, reminding me constantly of all the things I have said and done, all the things I haven’t, all the things I should have. I can feel it coming. There are always ripples in the water before a big wave. I’ve learned already to just let it take me; far easier to surrender and let it wash me up when it’s good and ready. I fear one day the dark water will swallow me down for good, I won’t always be able to resurface. Switches are either on or off. People are either up or down. When I’m down, it’s so very hard to get back up and this is the furthest I’ve ever fallen. Even if I could remember my way back to normal, I don’t think I’d recognise myself when I got there.
‘I wish I knew whether you could hear me,’ says Paul.
I feel dizzy and, as I try to tune in to his words, they crackle and distort. His tone twists into something aggressive shaped and I hear the legs of his chair screech across the floor as he stands, like a warning. He leans over me, his face so close, examining my own, as though he thinks I’m pretending.
And then I feel large hands close around my throat.
The sensation lasts less than a second and I know instantly that what I felt wasn’t real, it can’t have been. A dark flash of a memory I’d rather forget perhaps, but even that doesn’t make sense, Paul wouldn’t do that. I try to make sense of what I just felt but I can’t remember what is real any more. Paul paces back and forth and I wish he’d be still. The effort required to listen to him walking around the room is exhausting. I don’t want to be afraid of my husband, but he’s not himself and I don’t know this version.
Claire arrives and a brief sensation of relief is obliterated by a wave of confusion. I expect them to argue again, but they don’t. I think he will leave now, but he doesn’t.
And when she was up, she was up.
There has been a shift of gear between them.
And when she was down, she was down.
It sounds like they hug each other. I stop myself hoping that she’ll ask what happened at the police station, it’s obvious from their conversation that she already knows.
And when she was only halfway up . . .
The plot thickens and continues on without me beyond this room.
She was neither up, nor down.
I feel jealous of what Claire knows. I feel jealous of everything.
When Mum and Dad first brought Claire home, all she did was cry. She needed so much of their attention and behaved in a way that demanded our lives orbit hers. Mum and Dad didn’t hear the tears I cried at night, they didn’t see me at all after that. I became the invisible daughter. Her screams in the night would wake us all, but it was Mum who got up to be with her. It was Mum who wanted Claire in the first place; I wasn’t enough for her, that’s clear to me now. Our family went from three to four, even though we couldn’t really afford it; there wasn’t enough love to go around.
Then
Tuesday, 20th December 2016 – Evening
I’ve been shopping. Food shopping this time. I unpack the frozen items first, then chilled, then the rest, rearranging things as I go, so that everything is where it should be. The larder requires the most work. I take everything out, every tin, jar and bottle. I wipe down all the shelves and start again, carefully arranging each item according to size, labels facing front. It’s completely dark by the time I’m finished. I can see the light is on in the shed at the top of the garden, which means Paul is still up there writing. Maybe he has turned a corner. I pop a bottle of cava in the fridge, it was a small victory at work today, but one worth celebrating. Project Madeline is most definitely off to a good start. I notice the half-empty white-wine bottle in the fridge door, I don’t remember seeing it there before. I don’t drink white wine and neither does Paul. Perhaps he used it for a recipe. I remove the offending bottle, pour myself a glass and start cooking. It tastes like cat piss, but I’m thirsty so I drink it anyway.
When the dinner is almost ready, I set places at the dining-room table we never sit at, put on some music and light a couple of candles. The only thing missing now is my husband. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s writing, but it’s past eight and I want to spend what’s left of the evening together. He won’t mind once he knows we’re having lamb, it’s his favourite. I head out into the garden, the cold slapping my cheeks. The lawn is a bit slippery in places and it’s hard to see where I’m going, the dim light from the shed struggling to light my way.
‘Good evening, resident writer,’ I say in a silly deep voice as I open the door. My smile soon fades when I realise the shed is empty. I stand there for a while, looking around as though Paul might be hiding, then I glance back outside, peering around the garden in the darkness as though he might jump out from behind a bush and yell, Boo!
‘Paul?’ I don’t know why I’m calling his name, when my eyes have already informed me that he is clearly not here. I feel panic rise up my chest and tighten around my throat. He isn’t in the house either, I’ve been home for a couple of hours now, I would have seen or heard him. My husband who is always here has gone and I’m so consumed by myself, I didn’t even notice he was missing. I must not overreact. I’ve always had an overactive imagination and a tendency to fear the worst in any given situation. I’m sure there will be a simple explanation for Paul not being here, but the voices in my head are less optimistic. I run back to the house, slipping and sliding on the muddy grass.
Back inside, I call Paul’s name again. Nothing. I call his mobile. I hear a faint ringing sound from upstairs. Relief floods through me as I realise it is coming from our bedroom, maybe he’s having a nap, perhaps he wasn’t feeling well. I run up the stairs and push open the bedroom door, smiling at my own ridiculous panic. The bed has been made and he isn’t in it. He never makes the bed. Confused for a moment, I dial his number again. The familiar ringtone begins, I’m in the right room, but the sound is coming from the closed wardrobe. My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the handle. I tell myself I’m just being silly; I’m sure there is a perfectly normal explanation for all of this – Paul isn’t in the wardrobe, we’re not children playing hide and seek and this isn’t some horror film where there’s a body in the cupboard. I twist the handle and open the door to his wardrobe. Nothing. I dial his number again and see the glow of the phone through the pocket of his favourite jacket. The mystery of the missing phone is solved, but not the missing husband. I spot
an expensive-looking pink gift bag, partially hidden beneath the row of jeans and cotton tops that Paul calls his ‘writing uniform’. I pull it out and stare inside, carefully unwrapping the tissue paper hiding its contents. The black satin and lace feel foreign on my fingertips, the sort of thing I used to wear. A Christmas present for me perhaps. Not the sort of thing he normally buys. The bra looks a bit small and I check the label. It’s the wrong size, I hope he’s kept the receipt.
I come back downstairs in a daze and make sure the oven is off. In the middle of my routine, the now-empty bottle of white wine catches my eye and produces a moment of recognition. It’s one of Claire’s favourites. She’s been here. I put my hand over my mouth, run to the kitchen sink and throw up. When nothing more will come, I spit, turn on the tap and wipe my face with a tea towel. I check the oven three times, then grab my bag, quickly checking the contents. ‘Phone. Purse. Keys,’ I say, deliberately, out loud when my eyes confirm their presence, as though things are only real when we speak them. I start to leave but stop in the hallway, opening the bag again. ‘Phone . . . Purse . . . Keys,’ I say, more slowly this time, my eyes resting on each item long enough for me to believe what I’m seeing. Even so, I check them one last time before closing the door behind me.
Claire lives just under a mile away. It’s not too far to walk, but I should have worn a coat – it’s freezing. I hug my arms around myself as I march along, staring at the pavement. I get a faint whiff of gas as I pass a row of houses that all look the same; it snakes up my nostrils then down inside my throat, making me feel nauseous, so that I walk a little quicker. Claire has lived on this road for a long time, they own the house now, as well as the garage next door, where David works. The street is so familiar to me that I could walk from here to her front door with my eyes closed. But I don’t. My eyes are open and the first thing I see is Paul’s car. It’s quite distinctive. A second-hand green 1978 MG Midget, lovingly restored to its alleged former glory. He bought it with the advance for his first novel and he loves it almost as much as I hate it.
Sometimes I Lie: The gripping debut psychological thriller you can’t miss in 2017 Page 6
