Sometimes I Lie: The gripping debut psychological thriller you can’t miss in 2017

by Feeney, Alice

  I hear someone come in – a man, I think, based solely on the faint smell of body odour. Whoever they are, they don’t speak and I can’t tell what they are doing. I feel fingers touch my face without any warning and then someone opens my right eye, shining a bright light into it. I’m blinded by white until they let my lid close again. Just as I start to calm down, they do the same to my left eye and I feel even more disoriented than before. Whoever it is leaves shortly afterwards and I am glad. I never would have thought lying in bed could be so uncomfortable. I’ve been on my right side for over six thousand seconds, I lost count after that. They should turn me soon. Nothing good ever happens when they leave me lying on my right side, I think it might be unlucky.

  I feel something drip on my face, something cold. Then it happens again. Tiny drops of water, landing on my skin. It feels like rain but that doesn’t make any sense. Instinctively, I open my eyes and see the night sky above me. It’s as though the roof has been lifted right off and it’s raining inside my room. I can open my eyes, but I can’t move. I look down to see that my hospital bed has become a boat floating on gentle waves. I tell myself not to be afraid, this is a dream, just like the others. The rain falls harder and the sheets that are pulled over my limp limbs start to feel damp and cold. The body that I am estranged from starts to shiver. Something moves beneath the sheets and it isn’t me. The girl in the pink dressing gown emerges from the covers at the foot of the bed and sits herself up so that we mirror each other. Her hair is already dripping wet and she still doesn’t have a face. She can’t speak but she doesn’t have to, silence is our common language. She chose it, I live with her choice. She points up at the black sky and I see the stars, hundreds of them, so close that I could reach up and touch them, if I could move. But they’re not real. They’re assorted luminous stickers, which start to peel off and fall down onto the bed, pointy corners of white plastic curling up at the edges. There are star-shaped holes in the sky now. The little girl starts to sing and I wish she wouldn’t.

  Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream.

  She takes her hands out from under the sheets and I see a flash of gold on her wrist.

  Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…

  She grabs the sides of the bed that has become a boat and starts to swing from side to side. I try to tell her not to, but I cannot speak.

  Life is but a dream.

  I close my eyes before she tips us over completely. The water is cold and dark. I cannot swim because I cannot move, so I sink helplessly deeper into the black like a flesh-coloured stone. I can still hear her distorted voice beneath the waves:

  Life is but a dream.

  There is a loud beeping sound and a lot of watery noise but I’m no longer underwater. There are voices I recognise and faces I don’t.

  My eyes are open.

  I can see the doctors and nurses fussing around me.

  This is real.

  Then the voices are silent, except for one.

  ‘That’s VF, we need to shock.’

  Those aren’t my initials.

  ‘Stand back.’

  The faces disappear and all I can see is the white ceiling.

  Everything is white.

  I close my eyes because I’m scared of what they might see. Then I hear my dad’s voice at the end of the bed.

  ‘Hold on, Peanut,’ he says. It’s like hearing a ghost.

  I open my eyes again and he smiles at me, I realise that I really can see him. He looks so old to me now, so frail, so tired. Everything else is white, it’s just me and my dad and I feel the tears start to roll down my cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened,’ he says. I want to tell him that it’s OK but I still can’t speak. I want to hold his hand one more time, but I still can’t move.

  ‘If I had any idea that that would be the last time we would speak, I never would have said those things. I didn’t mean them. I love you, we both do. We always did. Life is but a dream.’ He turns to leave and he doesn’t look back. I am her again; that little girl desperately trying to keep up with her father. He’s slower than he used to be, but he still leaves me behind.

  Then

  Thursday, 22nd December 2016 – Morning

  ‘And if you’ve just joined us on Coffee Morning, welcome,’ says Madeline. ‘So far today we’ve been talking honestly and openly about adultery. We’ll be discussing here in the studio why some women feel they could never turn a blind eye to a cheating partner, while others have chosen to forgive and forget. We’ll also be talking to women who cheat. I’m joined now by Amber, who says that you can never really know a person, including yourself. Amber, tell us more,’ says Madeline, before rolling her eyes and checking her script to see what’s next on the show. She looks up at me then: ‘Well? What have you got to say for yourself?’ Her voice changes with each word, as though her batteries are dying. Then she is sick all over the desk in the studio. She looks up, wipes her mouth and carries on.

  ‘Amber?’ Paul’s voice is now coming out of Madeline’s mouth.

  ‘Amber?’ I sit up in the bed. ‘You were having a nightmare,’ says Paul.

  I blink into the darkness. My skin is covered in sweat and I don’t feel right.

  ‘You’re OK now,’ he says.

  But I’m not. I pull off the duvet and run to the bathroom. I grip the toilet bowl with one hand and hold my hair out of my face with the other. It doesn’t last long. I hear Paul get out of bed and I close the bathroom door.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks from the other side of the pine border.

  ‘I’ll be fine. It’s cold, go back to bed, I’ll be there soon,’ I lie. It isn’t long before he retreats without protest.

  I flush the toilet, wash my face and watch myself brush my teeth in the mirror. A crazy woman stares back so I look at the floor instead. I spit out the toothpaste, tiny bits of red mixed in with white, then wipe my mouth. My index finger and thumbs come to meet and my hands move up to my face. I pull at each of my eyebrows in turn and sprinkle tiny bits of hair into the sink. Only when I can count ten tiny black pieces of myself on the white porcelain do I stop. There always have to be ten. When enough time has passed I turn on the cold tap and wash myself away.

  I open the door as quietly as I can and check on Paul. He’s already gone back to sleep, gentle snores escaping from his open mouth. I take my dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door and creep along the landing to my little study. Everything is neat and tidy, just how I left it. I take out my white gloves and my fountain pen and stare at the blank sheet of paper. I’m too tired to think of what to write and then I remember Mrs MacDonald from school and her Three Things rule. The words come and I smile to myself:

  Dear Madeline,

  I hope you’ve been enjoying my letters so far. I know how much you like reading letters from your fans.

  I am not a fan.

  There are three things you should know about me:

  1. I know you’re not the woman you pretend to be.

  2. I know what you did and what you didn’t.

  3. If you don’t do what I ask, I’ll tell everyone who you really are.

  I’ll keep writing until you get the message. Ink doesn’t last for ever of course, so let’s hope we don’t have to hear from each other for too much longer. If the ink runs out, I’ll have to find another way to make you listen.

  ‘What are you doing? Why didn’t you come back to bed? What’s with the magician gloves?’

  Paul is peering round the study door in just a t-shirt and his boxer shorts. I’ve been caught.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d make a late start on the Christmas cards but my hands were cold,’ I stutter.

  He gives me a strange look. ‘OK. Well, Mum has just texted, she thinks the doctors are trying to kill her. I’m going to have to go back up there.’

  I didn’t think she knew how to text.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now. She needs me.’

  ‘I�
�ll come with you,’ I offer.

  ‘No, it’s all right. I know how worried you are about work at the moment. I won’t be away long.’

  He retreats from the door before I have time to reply. I hear the shower being turned on and the boiler rumble to life. He’s not in too much of a hurry then. I fold my letter, place it in the red envelope and put my white gloves back in the drawer. I walk past the bathroom, the door is a little ajar and steam is already billowing out in a bid to escape. I peer through the damp cloud and see my husband, naked in the shower. It’s been a while since I have seen him this way and I feel a curious mix of rejection and relief. I move quickly towards our bedroom and take his phone from the side table next to the bed: 06:55 – I hadn’t realised how late it was, it still feels like the middle of the night. I type Paul’s password into his phone. I remember the first time I tried to guess it a few months ago, putting in our wedding anniversary, my date of birth and then, finally, his. Of course it was all about him. I open his text messages. The last one was over twenty-four hours ago, from me. There are no texts from his mother. I hear the shower stop. I put the phone down, climb back into bed and face the wall. I listen as he dries himself, gets dressed, sprays himself with deodorant, does up his belt and refills the pockets of his jeans with loose change.

  ‘How will you get there? Train?’ I ask.

  ‘No, quicker to drive.’

  ‘I thought the car needed its MOT?’

  ‘Dave says it’s ready now. I’ll just collect it from the fore-court. I’ve got the spare key.’

  ‘Did he text you too?’

  ‘No, he called last night. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’

  He has an answer for everything.

  He kisses me goodbye and tells me that he loves me. I tell him that I love him too. Well-worn words that have shrunk and lost their meaning. I lie perfectly still as I listen to the sound of my husband leaving me, it doesn’t last long. When the front door closes, I get out of the bed and watch him walk away from behind the bedroom curtain.

  I follow in Paul’s footsteps, head down to the kitchen and turn on the light. My throat is dry so I pour myself a glass of water to take back upstairs. I stop in front of the oven and check that it is off twelve times, clicking my fingers with my empty left hand. I notice the red light of the answering machine flashing away on the sideboard in the hall. The only people who have ever used the landline are my parents, and even they don’t call this number any more. My index finger hovers reluctantly over the PLAY button, almost too scared to make contact, as though it might burn me. I swallow a gulp of water, letting it wash away my fear, then I push the button. It’s Paul from two days ago. So he did call to tell me he was at his mum’s. I don’t know how I missed the machine flashing, I walk past it all the time. I delete the message and then pause over the PLAY ALL button. I shouldn’t need to hear his voice again, but I do. I close my eyes as the familiar sound of my father’s voice fills my heart and ears. Hello, it’s me, Dad. Call me back when you get this, Peanut. He hasn’t called me that for such a long time. The tears I have been managing to suppress fall freely from my eyes. They make tracks down my cheeks and cling to my chin for as long as they can, before dropping down onto my nightshirt to form damp stains of sadness. I’ve saved this message for so long now. Paul says it’s morbid, he doesn’t understand. Out of some instinctive curiosity, I pick up the phone and hit the LAST NUMBER DIALLED button. After several rings, I hear a click and then a pre-recorded message speaks in my ear. I slam the receiver down, glaring at it as though it’s to blame. I’ve never called Claire from this phone.

  Then

  Thursday, 22nd December 2016 – Morning

  I’m a few minutes late for work. Madeline is already in, but it doesn’t matter, not today. I still feel disorientated, as though I might be dreaming within a dream. I checked the bottom of Paul’s wardrobe after he left. The pretty pink bag and its black lacy contents were gone, he’d taken them with him. I doubt they were a gift for his mother.

  I sit quietly at my desk as the rest of the cast assemble. Colleagues say, ‘Good morning,’ and I nod back, it’s like listening to a stuck record. I don’t feel like making conversation today, polite or otherwise, and my morning hasn’t been particularly good. When I think nobody is looking, I study the faces of the women in the office. They all look blinkered, a little weary, a lot lost. A collection of people treading water, trying to stay afloat in an unpredictable sea. They’re not my friends, not really; we’d all push each other under if it meant we wouldn’t drown. I conclude I have nothing to worry about; they can’t see the real me, they can’t even see themselves.

  Madeline comes out of her office to bark at someone and I catch her eye. She’s talking to them, but she’s staring at me, and for a moment I’m convinced that she knows. There’s a terrible taste in my mouth that I just can’t get rid of. The nausea rises up through my throat once more and I head for the toilets, doing my absolute best to appear calm. As soon as I’m inside, I burst through a cubicle, flush the toilet and lean my head over the bowl just in time, hoping that nobody will hear me. It’s just bile, I haven’t eaten anything. I wonder if it’s nerves or guilt or both. Either way I need to fix myself and fast, I don’t have time for this. I hear Jo’s voice outside the door. She thinks I should pop to the chemist before we go on air, there’s one not far from our building. I think she’s right. I wait a while, to be sure that it’s over, then I open the door and wash my hands, relieved to see that I’m alone again.

  I feel much better after the show. Madeline, however, is not feeling at all well. She’s been waddling back and forth to the toilets throughout the morning and is covered in sweat. She thinks it must be food poisoning. I think it is far more likely to be the laxatives I put in her coffee just before we went on air. Madeline likes coffee, she drinks a lot of it, never says no, as long as it’s black. She also likes to drive to and from work. She thinks public transport is ‘dirty and full of germ-ridden commoners’. She’s in no fit state to drive herself home now, so I offer to, much to her surprise and Matthew’s approval. I don’t think she’s going to go for it at first but, after another impromptu visit to the lavatory, she seems to come round to the idea and I am glad.

  I carry her bag as we leave the office because she ‘feels too weak’ and I pretend not to know which car is hers when we reach the car park. She unlocks the black VW Golf, then passes me the key, before folding herself into the back seat, as though her car has metamorphosed into a taxi. She barks her postcode at me as I tap it into the satnav, then warns me to ‘drive bloody carefully’ and ‘watch for foreigners on the road’.

  She sleeps as I drive and I decide I like her a lot better like this. Silenced. The poison is trapped inside her while she sleeps, opposed to seeping from her lips when she is awake.

  I hate driving in London. It’s too busy and loud. There are too many people on the roads and all of them are in a hurry, though few of them have anywhere they really need to be. It’s better once we’re out of the city centre, the roads seem to widen and are less crowded.

  When the satnav suggests we’re only ten minutes away from our destination, the car makes a warning sound and an angry red symbol glows on the dashboard.

  ‘You’re almost out of petrol,’ I say, observing the narrowing eyes of my passenger, awake again, in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘I can’t be,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure there’s enough to get you home.’

  ‘Do I look worried?’ We make eye contact in the mirror again. I hold her stare for as long as seems sensible when driving at forty miles an hour, then look back at the road ahead.

  We don’t speak again after that, not until I turn left into the road where she lives. She barks at me again then, telling me where and how to park, but I don’t really hear her. I’m too busy staring up at the house she says is hers, unsure how to feel about what I’m seeing. I recognise this place. I’ve been here before.

&nb
sp; Before

  Easter Sunday, 1992

  Dear Diary,

  Taylor is on holiday with her parents for the whole of Easter and I feel miserable. I haven’t seen her since the last day at school and I won’t see her again until next Tuesday when we go back. She sent me a postcard. Mum barged into my bedroom with a big grin on her face to give it to me a couple of days ago. She thought it would make me happy. It didn’t. Taylor seems to be having a lot of fun without me and I don’t think she misses me at all.

  I’m not going on holiday this year, not even somewhere in England, Mum says we can’t afford it. When I pointed out that Dad has been working loads so we should have lots of money, she just cried. She’s always crying lately and she’s not fat any more; I wonder if maybe she’s too sad to eat. One night last week she was too sad to make lunch or dinner. I’m not allowed to touch the oven, so I just ate crisps and biscuits. I asked Mum if she was still sad about Nana and she said she was sad about everything.

  Mum said she’d take me to Brighton again one day next week if I was good. I asked her where she would take me if I was bad, but she didn’t laugh. I’ve reminded her that I’m ten and a half now, so I’m a bit old for the kids’ rides, but I don’t mind walking along the pier and I like the sound of the sea. Now that I am older, Mum has started looking for a part-time job, like Taylor’s mum. She hasn’t got one so far, even though she’s applied for loads. Every time she gets an interview, she wears her hundred-year-old black suit, puts on too much make-up, then comes home and drinks all afternoon. I wouldn’t give her a job either, she’s too sad and lazy. I had to wear the same shirt for school three days in a row before the holidays. She said it didn’t matter and that nobody would notice, then sprayed some disgusting perfume on me so that I stank of her all day.