I march up the drive with a tightness in my chest, feeling like I might have stopped breathing altogether. I have a spare key for Claire’s house in my handbag but feel uncomfortable just letting myself in. She gave it to me, hoping it would prompt an exchange. It didn’t.
I ring the bell repeatedly, wanting to get this, whatever it is, over and done with as soon as possible. The cold hurts my hands and I can see my breath. Inside, I hear a child start to cry and I see the blurry image of an adult getting bigger through the frosted glass. Claire’s husband yanks the front door open and greets me with the kind of expression I reserve for door-to-door salesmen. I’m not sure why we don’t get along. It isn’t that we don’t have anything in common – we have Claire – so maybe it’s the opposite.
‘Hello, Amber. Thanks for waking the twins,’ he says, without even the hint of a smile. He doesn’t invite me in. My brother-in-law is a big man with small amounts of time and patience. He’s still wearing his overalls.
‘I’m so sorry, David, I wasn’t thinking. This might sound a bit strange but is Paul here?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Should he be?’ He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes. Being married to my sister has aged him. She calls him David so we do too, but everyone else calls him Dave.
‘His car is here,’ I say. David peers past me at the car on the garage forecourt.
‘Yes, it is.’ He doesn’t elaborate, and when I don’t say anything in response his frown deepens, as though it might break his face. He looks down at my feet and I follow his stare. I’m still wearing my slippers. Two grubby felt pug faces look up at me, their stitched eyes seem full of equal amounts of wonder and pity. They were in the kids’ section at the supermarket, but they fitted and I liked them.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
I think about his question and give him the most honest answer I can come up with. ‘No, not really. I don’t think I am. I need to talk to Claire. Is she home?’ He stands up a bit straighter and looks confused, then something ugly spreads across his features.
‘Claire hasn’t been here all day. I thought she was with you.’
Before
Wednesday, 13th November 1991
Dear Diary,
I’ve been ten for a whole month now and I’m not sure double figures feels any different really, even though Mum said it would. There’s still loads of stuff I’m not allowed to do, I’m still quite short and I still miss Nana every day. I’m so angry with Mum for lots of reasons, but especially because of what she did at parents’ evening tonight. She went on her own because Dad had to work late. Mum said he might sleep there again; he’s been working really hard lately. Because she didn’t have Dad to talk to, she got chatting to some of the other parents at school. When she got home, she was all excited, not because of my brilliant grades like a normal human being, but because she’d met Taylor’s mum and was so pleased to find out I’d made such a good friend. She went on and on about it, asking why I hadn’t mentioned Taylor. I said I didn’t want to talk about it and we sat in silence for a while.
Once Mum understood that I was in a not-talking mood, she got up from the table and made herself a Mojito. I don’t know what’s in it, but she calls it her ‘happy drink’. She made me a lemonade with lots of ice and a bit of mint on top so that my drink looked like hers. I took the mint out when she wasn’t looking. Then she got some chicken in breadcrumbs and crinkle-cut chips out of the freezer, which is my absolute favourite dinner that she makes. She got the ketchup from the cupboard and turned it upside down, then set just two places, using Nana’s best plates. Because Dad wasn’t there, she carried the little TV into the kitchen from his study and we watched Coronation Street while we ate, rather than having to try to think of things to say to each other. We were sort of having a nice time but then, just after her third Mojito (I was only counting how many in case it’s the Mojitos that are making her fat), she ruined everything.
‘So I’ve got a surprise for you, because you’re doing so well at your new school,’ she said. Her eyes were a little bit closed, the way they are when she drinks, so that she looks really sleepy even if it’s the middle of the day. I asked if it was dessert and she said no and looked all serious, asking if I had forgotten what the dentist had said about my teeth and sugar. I hadn’t forgotten, but I didn’t really care. Nana always made something for dessert; and not from a packet, she actually made things. Chocolate cake, Victoria sponge, sticky toffee pudding, apple crumble with custard. They all tasted amazing. Now that I think about it, Nana didn’t have any teeth left at all, she had fake ones that she kept in a glass by the bed when she slept. I’d still rather eat cake, even if my teeth do fall out like Nana’s. Mum asked if I was listening, which she does when I’m thinking so hard about something that I don’t hear what she says any more. I nodded, but didn’t reply out loud as I was still a bit cross that we weren’t having afters of any description. Then she smiled, with her eyes still half closed.
‘I asked Taylor’s mum if Taylor could come here to play one night next week. And she said: “Yes.” Won’t that be nice?’ She finished her drink and put the glass back down on the table, then looked at me with a big, stupid smile on her fat face. ‘We’ll do it on a night when your dad is at work, so it’ll be just us girls. It’ll be fun, you’ll see!’ I was so mad, I couldn’t think of anything at all to say to her. I stood up from the table, without being excused, then ran up the stairs to my room, picked up the doorstop and closed the door. I even left some of my crinkle-cut chips. I thought I was going to cry, but nothing happened.
Taylor cannot come here. I haven’t decided whether we should even be proper friends yet. I’m so angry with Mum. There are so many things I hate about her but these are the three biggest reasons I can think of at the moment:
1. She drinks too much.
2. She lies all the time, like when she says we won’t have to move again.
3. She wishes I was like the other kids.
I’m not like the other kids. Mum has ruined everything. Again.
Now
Wednesday, 28th December 2016
My parents have finally arrived at the hospital – I hear their voices long before they enter the room. They’ve endured a rare breed of marriage, the kind where the love lasts over thirty years. But it’s the kind of love that makes me feel sad and empty, a love based on habit and dependence, it isn’t real. The door opens and I smell my mother’s perfume; too floral, too strong. I hear my father clear his throat in that annoying way that he does. They stand at the end of my bed, keeping their distance as always.
‘She looks bad,’ says Dad.
‘It probably looks worse than it is,’ Mum replies.
It’s been almost a year since we last spoke and there is absolutely no affection in their voices.
‘I don’t think she can hear us,’ she says.
‘We should stay a while, just in case,’ says Dad, sitting down next to the bed, and I love him for that. ‘You’ll be all right, Peanut,’ he says, holding my hand. I imagine a tear rolling down his cheek, then down to his chin, where it hangs in my imagination, before dripping down onto the white hospital sheet. I’ve never seen my father cry. The feel of his fingers wrapped around my own triggers a memory of us walking hand in hand when I was five or six. Claire had yet to enter our world back then. We were going to the bank, and he was in a hurry. He was often in a hurry. His long legs took giant steps and I ran to keep up with his walk. Just before we reached the bank, I tripped and fell. There was a bloody gash on my knee and thin ribbons of blood danced their way down my leg, then joined forces to stain my white sock red. It hurt but I didn’t cry. He looked sorry but he didn’t kiss it better and I can still hear his voice:
You’ll be all right, Peanut.
Without any further words, we hurried to the bank a little more slowly.
They took much better care of Claire when she arrived. She was like a shiny new precious doll, I was already broken and scratched. My
dad’s nickname for me was Peanut. His nickname for Claire was Princess. I don’t hate my parents, I just hate that they stopped loving me.
The air in the room is thick with silence and remorse, then the door opens again and everything changes.
‘How are you?’ asks my sister. I hear Paul answer and realise he’s been in the room with us the whole time. It’s even more awkward than I thought, Paul and my parents never did get along. Dad thinks writing isn’t a real job and that a man without one of those isn’t a real man. ‘Any update?’ asks Claire.
‘They said she’s stable now, but it’s still too soon to know what will happen,’ he says.
‘We just need to stay positive,’ she says.
Easy words for her to say.
There are so many questions I want to ask. If I’m stable, I presume that means I’m not going to die. Not yet anyway, we all die in the end, I suppose. Life is more terrifying than death in my experience, there’s little point fearing something so inevitable. Since I’ve been lying here, what I fear the most is never fully waking up, the horror of being trapped inside myself for ever. I try to quieten my mind and focus on their voices. Sometimes the words reach me, sometimes they get lost on the way or I can’t quite translate them into something that makes sense.
It’s been such a long time since my family were all together like this so it seems strange that we are reunited around my hospital bed. We used to spend every Christmas together, but then that stopped. I’m the centrepiece of this family gathering but I’m still invisible. Nobody is holding my hand now. Nobody is crying. Nobody is behaving as they should and it’s as though I’m not here at all.
‘You look really tired,’ says Claire, the caring daughter. ‘Maybe we should go and get some food?’ Nobody speaks and then my father’s voice breaks the spell:
‘Hold on, that’s all you have to do.’
Why does everyone insist on telling me to hold on? Hold on to what? I don’t need to hold on, I need to wake up.
Paul kisses me on the forehead. I don’t think he’ll go with them, but then I hear him walk to the door and follow them out of the room. I don’t know why I am surprised about being abandoned, I always have been. Claire takes everyone I love away from me.
I hear rain start to fall hard against the invisible window in my imaginary room. The watery lullaby helps distract my mind from my anger, but it’s not enough to silence it.
I won’t let her take anyone else away from me.
A silent rage spreads like a virus in my mind. The voice inside my head, which sounds so much like my own, is loud and clear and commanding.
I need to get out of this bed, I have to wake up.
And then I do.
I can still hear the sound of the machines that breathe for me, feed me and drug me so that I cannot feel what I must not, but the wires are gone and the tube has been removed from my throat. I open my eyes and sit up. I have to tell somebody. I get out of the bed and run to the door, fling it open and rush through, but I fall and land hard on the ground. That’s when I notice how cold I am, that’s when I feel the rain. I’m scared to open my eyes and when I do, I see her, the faceless little girl in the pink dressing gown, lying in the middle of the road with me. I can’t move my body and everything is still, like I’m looking at a painting.
I can see the crashed car and the damaged tree, its thick roots come to life and snake over towards me and the child. They wrap themselves around our arms and legs and bodies and squeeze us together, pinning us to the tarmac where I fell until we are almost completely covered and hidden from the rest of the world. I sense that the child is frightened, so I tell her to be brave and suggest that maybe we should sing a song. She doesn’t want to. Not yet. The rain starts to fall harder, and the painting I’m trapped inside starts to smudge and blur. It feels like the rain is trying to wash us away, as though we never were. The water falls so hard that it bounces off the tarmac into my mouth and up my nose. I feel myself start to drown in the dirty watercolour, then, just as quickly as it started, it stops.
Stars cannot shine without darkness, whispers the little girl.
My body is still being held in place by the roots of the tree, but I turn my head up to see the night sky. As I stare up at the stars, they become brighter and larger and more real than I have ever seen them. Then the little girl starts to sing.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star, if you’re down here who’s in the car?
The roots release me, an army of goosebumps line my arms and I look over to where the child is now pointing. Sure enough, there is a shadow of someone inside the car. The driver door opens and a black figure gets out and walks away. Everything is silent. Everything is still.
The sound of a lock turning brings me back to my sleeping body in my hospital cell. Everything I could see and feel disappears. The nightmare is over, but I’m still afraid. There was someone else in the car that night, I’m sure of it. And now there is someone in my room and everything feels very wrong.
‘Can you hear me?’ It’s a man. I don’t recognise his voice. Fear floods through me as he walks towards the bed.
‘I said, can you hear me?’ he repeats. He’s right next to me when he asks the same question a third time. He sighs and takes a step back. He opens something next to my bed and then I hear the sound of a phone being turned on. My phone. I hear the security code that I never change; whoever this person is, he’s listening to my voicemail. There are three messages, faint but audible. The first voice I hear is Claire’s. She says she is just calling to see if everything is OK, but her tone suggests that she already knew that it wasn’t. It’s followed by an angry message from Paul: he wants to know where I am. Then the stranger in my room plays the third message and it’s his own voice on my phone.
I’m sorry about what happened, it’s only because I love you.
It feels like my whole body ices over. I hear a beep.
Message deleted. You have no new messages.
I don’t know this man. But he knows me. I’m so frightened that even if I was able to scream, I don’t think that I could.
‘I do hope you’re not lying there feeling sorry for yourself, Amber,’ he says. He touches my face and I want to shrink back down into the pillow. He taps me on the head repeatedly with his finger. ‘In case you’re confused in there by anything you’ve heard, this wasn’t an accident.’ His finger slides down the side of my face and rests on my lips. ‘You did this to yourself.’
Then
Wednesday, 21st December 2016 – Morning
I turn off the alarm, I won’t need it. I’ve hardly slept at all and it’s pointless trying now. The insomnia should be a symptom of my concern for my missing husband, but that isn’t what I’ve been lying awake thinking about. I keep remembering the dead robin, its tiny lifeless body. All night long, I kept imagining that I could hear its wings flapping inside the bin as though it wasn’t dead. I worry that perhaps it was just unconscious, that maybe I threw it away when it was only sleeping.
I stare at the vacant side of the bed. Still no news from Paul. There’s an empty bottle of red wine on the floor; I tried to drink myself to sleep but it didn’t work. Wine has become an over-prescribed antibiotic that my body has become immune to. I consider calling the police to report Paul missing, but I feel foolish. I wouldn’t know how to say what I’m afraid of without sounding crazy. Husbands don’t always come home at night, I know that, I’m a big girl now.
My mind switches from Paul to Claire. When she finally returned my calls, she sounded annoyed that I had accused her of knowing where he was. She said she’d been out with a friend and I had ruined her evening, then she hung up. She knows exactly what I’m scared of. I love them both but I can feel everything I’ve kept safe until now starting to unravel. One pull on the thread and they’ll fall through an unfixable hole. It might be too late already.
It’s still dark, so I switch on the light, scanning the room for anything that might resemble a clue. I remember the gift ba
g hiding women’s underwear in the bottom of Paul’s wardrobe. I retrieve it once more and take out the bra and knickers, flimsy panels of black satin, framed by lace. Definitely too small. I pull down my pyjama bottoms and use my feet to step out of them, whilst pulling my top off over my head. I leave the pastel-coloured pile of cotton on the floor and slip into the underwear, tags still attached, the sharp angled cardboard edges digging in my skin. I squeeze my breasts into the too small cups, then come to stand in front of the full-length mirror. It’s been a while since I’ve seen myself like this. The body in the reflection isn’t as bad as I had imagined. I’m not as ugly on the outside as I feel on the inside, but I still don’t like what I see. My tummy is a little rounder than it used to be, but then I mostly eat what I want now. I hate this body almost as much as I hate myself. It didn’t do what it was supposed to. It didn’t give him what he wanted. I don’t want to look any more so I turn off the light, but I can still see the ghost of my reflection. I grab my dressing gown and hide myself again, the new underwear pinching and biting my flesh beneath. The thought that it might not have been bought for me is too loud inside my head to be ignored, so I take it off, put it back where I found it and start the day again.
It’s still dark but I know this house, I can find my way in the darkness. The shed is Paul’s private place, but the tiny study at the back of the house is mine. A room of my own with just enough space for a small desk and a chair. I sit myself down and turn on the lamp. The desk was second-hand so contains secrets that I don’t know as well as secrets I do. There are four small drawers and one large one, which looks like a knowing wooden smile. I ease it open and slip on the white cotton gloves that I find inside. Then I take a sheet of paper, along with my fountain pen, and I write. When I am finished, when I am certain that I have written the right words and sure that I want them to be read, I fold the paper twice and slip it inside a red envelope. Then I shower, wash away any traces of guilt or concern, and get myself ready for work.
Sometimes I Lie: The gripping debut psychological thriller you can’t miss in 2017 Page 7
