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

by Feeney, Alice

  Mr Skinner dragged me by my blazer to the headmistress’s office. I hadn’t been inside of this one yet but I wasn’t scared. They’re all the same and they can’t do anything to me, not really. It was all very dramatic, like I was in a film or something. Except that if it had been a film, I would have been the hero. Instead, because it was real life, I was the bad guy who had to sit on a hard chair in the corridor and wait there while they called Mum.

  Taylor appeared with the nurse – she’d bumped her head when I pushed her out of the way to save her. She didn’t look very happy. Her face was all red and puffy from crying, but she was all right, thanks to me. The nurse told her that her mum would be there soon to pick her up. The nurse didn’t say anything to me and neither did Taylor. We’ve never run out of words to say to each other before and it made me feel sad. I asked her if she was all right but she just stared at the floor. I was about to ask her again when she spoke.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ she said.

  Which I thought was very ungrateful.

  ‘Why not?’ I asked her.

  ‘Because you have to use this,’ she said pointing to her head, ‘not these.’ She held up her hands. ‘What do you think they’ll do to me if you’re not here? You’ve ruined everything.’

  Her words made me feel sad and cross at the same time. I could see she was upset, so I just kept quiet and stored up my crossness. There was so much inside me that it made a pain in my tummy.

  Taylor’s mum arrived and gave Taylor a big hug. I was really worried that she’d be upset with me too, but she gave me a hug as well, so I knew that she still loved me. I think she does love me. Not as much as she loves Taylor, but quite a lot. She asked me if Mum was coming to get me and I said that I didn’t know. Taylor’s mum and my mum don’t really talk any more since the bracelet incident.

  Taylor’s mum spoke to the headmistress in her office. We could hear every word through the glass door, which made me think that the PRIVATE sign on the outside was pretty stupid. The school couldn’t get hold of my mum or my dad and in the end they let Taylor’s mum take me home.

  Taylor didn’t talk to me as we walked out of the school or as we got in the Volvo or even when we arrived outside my house. Taylor’s mum looked at me in the back seat as though she didn’t understand what I was still doing there, but then I asked her if she could come with me and explain to Mum what happened because I was scared. Her face changed then, like it went all soft and her big green eyes looked sad and kind at the same time. She told Taylor to stay in the car, not that Taylor had even taken her seat belt off, she was just staring out the window. She didn’t even say goodbye.

  Taylor’s mum followed me up the path and knocked on the door, the doorbell hasn’t worked for a while. When nobody came I looked up at her and she smiled down at me. She’s so pretty and kind and her outfits always match as though the clothes she wears are meant to be worn together. She knocked again. Then when nobody came, she asked if I had my door key. I said I did but told her that I was still scared, which wasn’t even a lie because I was a bit. I knew Mum and Dad would be really angry. I’d also made a promise to Nana that nothing like this would ever happen again. Now that she’s dead, I don’t know whether it means I broke my promise or not.

  I called out for Mum once we were inside but nobody answered. Then I saw her. Just her feet at first, sticking out from behind the sofa, as though she was hiding but not doing a very good job. When I got closer, I saw that she wasn’t hiding. She wasn’t moving, her eyes were closed and her face was in a big puddle of sick on the carpet. I screamed for Taylor’s mum because I was genuinely scared. Mum looked like she was dead for real, just like when she was all broken at the bottom of the stairs. There was a horrible smell too. The sick was all down her chin and on her clothes. Taylor’s mum said not to worry and that Mum wasn’t well but would be OK. I had to help her get Mum upstairs, then she told me to go and get Taylor from the car. I could tell Taylor didn’t want to come in but she did. She still wouldn’t talk to me though.

  We sat on the sofa and Taylor’s mum told us to put the TV on and to stay downstairs. I turned it on, but neither of us really watched it, the sound was too low to block out the noise coming from above. Taylor’s mum took my mum into the bathroom to clean her up. Mum cried very loudly and then she started shouting all kinds of things.

  The three things she shouted that I remember the most are:

  1. Fuck you. (She said that a lot.)

  2. Get out of my house you bitch. (It’s not her house, it’s Nana’s.)

  3. I don’t need your bloody help.

  The third one was the silliest of all because clearly she did need help from someone.

  I’ve never heard Mum speak to anyone except Dad like that before. She also called Taylor’s mum a snob. A snob is someone who thinks they’re better than you. I don’t think Taylor’s mum thinks that, even though she is a much better person than my mum, she’s the best mum ever. It was a horrid afternoon, but a little secret part of me was pleased because it meant we’d all forgotten about me being suspended.

  Taylor and her mum didn’t leave until Dad got home. He said ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’ a lot, like he didn’t know any other words to say. Then when they left he asked if I wanted chicken nuggets for dinner. We ate sitting on the sofa in front of the big TV, which was still on but still not being watched. Dad forgot the ketchup but I didn’t say anything. He didn’t make Mum any dinner and I think I know why. While we sat there not watching TV and eating our chicken nuggets without ketchup, I realised for the first time that Dad probably wishes Mum was dead just as much as I do.

  Now

  Friday, 30th December 2016

  ‘How are we doing, Amber? Still got some fight in you I see. I like that.’

  My hospital room seems a shade darker than before. I want to scream as Edward touches my face. I want to disappear so that he can’t see me or ever find me again.

  ‘And breathing on your own now, that’s such good news, well done you.’

  His fingers slide over to my right eye and he opens it. I can just make out the fuzzy outline of a person looming over me before he shines a bright light into my eye, leaving me completely blind. All I see now is white with a shower of moving dots. He does the same with my left eye and then my world returns to black.

  ‘I think you’re progressing a bit too quickly. Maybe we just need to slow things down a little.’

  I can hear him doing something but I don’t know what. Just when I run out of hope and accept my fate, I hear the door open.

  ‘How’s she doing?’ asks Paul. I don’t understand why he is so calm about finding this man in my room, but then I remember that all he sees is a medical professional.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not really the best person to ask,’ says Edward.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve met so many people . . . haven’t we spoken before?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m just the night porter . . .’

  The porter? I don’t understand.

  ‘ . . . and this is the start of the night shift, so you really shouldn’t still be here now.’

  ‘Should you?’ asks Paul.

  It’s silent for a moment and I’m scared of what will happen next.

  ‘I’ve just brought your wife back from a scan. Just doing my job.’

  You didn’t tell him you were my husband. Think, Paul, think.

  ‘I’m sorry, that was rude of me. I’m very tired, I apologise. You must see all sorts, working nights in this place,’ says Paul.

  ‘You’d be amazed the things that go on here after dark,’ Edward replies. ‘I don’t mind if you want to stay a little longer, say your goodbyes, but you’ll need to leave soon. Hospital rules, hope you understand. Don’t worry though, we’ll take good care of her while you’re gone.’

  Edward leaves and Paul and I are alone. He drags a chair closer to my bed and sits down. I have to find a way to tell him that the man he just spoke to is keeping me he
re. I don’t understand why Edward said he was the night porter or why Paul believed him. Claire comes into the room and for once I’m glad. She’s smart, she’ll figure this out.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Just some porter guy, he said we need to leave.’

  ‘He’s probably right, it’s late’ she says, sitting down next to Paul, no longer on opposite sides.

  ‘She moved her finger, you saw it too, she was pointing at something, I know it,’ he says.

  I remember now. I pointed at the EXIT sign. I thought it was a dream but they saw me!

  ‘I saw her finger move yes, but you heard what the doctor said earlier. There are coma patients who move their hands, open their eyes, even speak, but they’re still in a coma. Her moving is just like someone twitching in their sleep when they’re having a bad dream.’

  This is more than just a bad dream.

  ‘I think we need to stay positive, see what they say when the rest of the results come back—’

  ‘I think we need to be realistic,’ interrupts Claire.

  Nobody says anything for a while.

  ‘For what it’s worth, I don’t believe them either,’ she says eventually.

  ‘You think the doctors are lying to us?’

  ‘Not lying, I just don’t think they’re listening. It did seem like she was trying to communicate and they don’t know her like we do.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t she done it again?’

  ‘Have you even asked her to? What if she’s lying there hearing every word of this?’

  Claire takes my hand; her fingers are icy cold.

  ‘Amber, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.’

  ‘This is stupid.’

  ‘Maybe that’s too difficult.’ She lets go of my hand and puts it back down on the bed. ‘OK, Amber, we’re watching your right hand. If you can hear me, move your finger, just a tiny bit.’ I want to, I try so hard to, but he’s done something to me, I know he has. I focus all of myself on my right hand, I feel as though I must be panting with the effort, but nothing happens.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Claire.

  ‘Don’t be,’ says Paul. ‘I know you’re just trying to help. You’re probably right about getting some rest too, we should go soon.’

  Please don’t.

  ‘Five minutes, then we’ll go.’

  The three of us sit in silence for a while. I wish they would talk, I can feel myself slipping away to somewhere else and I could really do with something to hold on to. Claire speaks first.

  ‘We’re going to need to get some help if this is going to be a long-term situation.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘I hope it isn’t too, but if it is, we can’t do this on our own.’

  ‘Yes, we can, we’ll just take it in turns to watch her.’

  ‘For a few more days maybe, but then what? David is going nuts looking after the twins, it’s not like when my parents were around to help out. Are there any of her friends we can call?’

  Paul doesn’t reply.

  ‘She still has friends, doesn’t she?’ Claire persists.

  ‘She talks about Jo at work, they go out sometimes.’

  Their conversation stumbles and I feel sick. Claire recovers her composure before I do.

  ‘A friend called Jo?’

  ‘Yes, a woman.’

  I can almost hear her thinking.

  ‘Have you ever met her?’ she asks.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘No reason. Well, maybe she can help.’

  ‘I don’t have her number.’

  ‘Well, it will be in her phone, won’t it?’

  I hear Paul open something and then picture him going through my handbag, the room starts to spin one way and my bed turns in the other direction. I can hear her singing in the distance, the little girl in pink, but I have to stay here, I have to stop this from happening. Paul cannot go through my phone, there are things he must not see. I think I remember something bad. Something I shouldn’t have done that would make any husband angry if they found out. The memory feels real and is joined by another. Strong hands tightening around my throat again, fighting for breath, for the first time I think I remember why. The fears brick themselves up inside my head so that nothing else can get in or out.

  ‘The battery is dead,’ he says. The room slows down again but doesn’t stop spinning completely. ‘I’ll take it home tonight and charge it.’

  Then

  Friday, 23rd December 2016 – Late Afternoon

  ‘I can’t believe I just did that,’ I say.

  ‘Neither can I but I’m glad you did,’ Edward replies.

  ‘They’ll all be talking about me now, running off with a stranger halfway through the Christmas lunch.’

  ‘I’m hardly a stranger.’

  We walk into the bar and sit at the same table I sat at with Jo a few days earlier. I like this place, it feels safe, familiar, like nothing bad could ever happen here.

  ‘Things have been a bit difficult at work recently. I’d rather have a quick drink with an old friend instead of making polite conversation over warm Prosecco.’ I pause for a moment, knowing I need to say more. ‘That’s all this is though, two friends having a drink to clear the air.’

  ‘Understood,’ Edward replies. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘I’ll get them,’ I insist, taking my purse out of my handbag and leaving it on the chair. It’s heavy with all the things I didn’t want to leave behind at the office, things I might need. ‘A pint of whatever pale beer they’ve got on draught in that case.’

  ‘A pint it is, I’ll be back in a bit.’

  The bar is busy and I find myself staring at the black and white photos on the walls while I wait. My eyes find the date on the frame nearest to me: 1926. The place looks exactly the same. The world keeps on spinning, repeating itself over and over until something changes, which it doesn’t because we can’t. I do the maths and realise that the faces of the dead are smiling back at me. I look away. When I’m finally served, my feet seem to stick to the ugly patterned carpet, holding me back. I negotiate my way through the crowds towards the table, a pint of beer in one hand, a pint of lemonade in the other and two packets of cheese and onion crisps between my teeth. Edward’s expression alters slightly as I sit down. I can’t interpret the look so I ignore it.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say, raising my glass.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘So what are your plans for Christmas?’

  ‘Working sadly. I drew the short straw and have got a run of nights from Christmas Day until New Year.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘It’s OK. Staying up all night isn’t as bad as people think.’ A memory, loosened by his words, rises to the surface.

  ‘Do you remember my graduation?’ I ask and watch his face argue with a smile.

  It’s easy for a while, almost comfortable. We talk about holidays and countries we’ve visited during the years we didn’t know one another, safely navigating around mutual memories to stories that aren’t shared. Creating a little distance, restoring order. I think we might be in safe territory and start to relax a little.

  ‘Are you happy?’ he asks. His hand finds a place to rest on the table that is a little too close to my own. I withdraw both my hands to the safety of my lap and ball them into conjoined fists.

  ‘I love my husband.’

  ‘That isn’t what I asked.’

  ‘Edward.’ I won’t see him again, this is the last goodbye. He knows it too, but still persists in asking the question.

  ‘Are you? Happy?’

  I decide I’ll give him the answer, then I’ll finish my drink and go home.

  ‘No. I’m not especially “happy” right now. But that’s not because of my marriage.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Just life, I suppose. It’s hard to explain.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘I’ve made mistakes and now I’m paying for them.’

  Then

  Frida
y, 23rd December 2016 – Early Evening

  I wake up with a pounding headache and can’t understand where I am or what has happened to me. The last thing I remember was chatting to Edward in the pub. I sit up. The sudden movement makes the room sway as though I’m on a tiny boat in rough seas, but I’m not on a boat, I’m on a bed. The room I’m in is dark, the curtains closed. The dimly lit sight and smell of the place are foreign to me, a mix of stale belongings and sweat. I still don’t know where I am but I soon realise that I’m naked.

  Time stops for just a moment while I look down at my pale white body. Every single part of myself that is usually covered, hidden away, is now exposed. Things get very loud, very quickly inside my head. The bedroom I’m in is not my own. I stare down at the unfamiliar navy-blue sheets, I hear the sound of a shower in the distance and I try to decipher the strange taste in my mouth. I look around for my clothes and see them on the floor. I wasn’t even drinking, I only had lemonade. I didn’t do anything; I wouldn’t do this.

  I can’t remember.

  I try to move, pull myself up from the bed. I feel as though I’m in slow motion as I attempt to stand. Again the room starts to tilt and twist around me. I am liquid mercury trapped inside a maze. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to flow in the right direction. I bend my body forward, willing it to respond to my commands, the further I bend the more I fear I will snap. I hear a man whistling somewhere in the distance, the sound diluted by the crash of water being pushed out of a power shower. I feel sick. This cannot be real. I’m not the sort of person who would do this.

  I force myself to stand and I feel the ache between my legs. I don’t know whether it is real or whether I’m just imagining it. I try to shake the thoughts and the feeling and take a step closer towards the pile of clothes I recognise as my own. The room shifts again, trying to unbalance me. I look down at my bare legs and see a tattoo of blue green bruises on both my knees. Something very bad has happened.