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

by Feeney, Alice

  I must try to remember.

  My mind races through a catalogue of recent memories but every file is blank until I am back at the pub. I only drank lemonade, I’m sure of it. I went to the bathroom, I came back and I was going to leave soon. But then . . . nothing.

  My eyes search the room again. I see a framed photo next to the bed and my body forgets how to breathe. My own younger self looks up at me, laughing at how foolish I have been. A young Edward has his arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her a little too close, although she looks as though she doesn’t mind. I remember the photo being taken. It was my graduation. A few days before I broke up with him. I didn’t want to, I had to. He’s kept it all this time. The boy in the photo has grown into a man I don’t know. A man I’m now very afraid of. And somehow I’m in his flat and my clothes are on his floor.

  I don’t want to remember.

  This isn’t right. I have to get out of here but I don’t even know where I am. I’ve been such a fool. I pause my self-revulsion momentarily to take in my surroundings. Everything has a look of filth about it. There are newspapers on the floor, unopened post, an empty bottle, unwashed clothes, dirty plates, an open pizza box on the carpet with some chewed bits of crust. The musty air is stifling and I can see a thick layer of dust on every surface. There’s a machine in the corner. I’m not sure what it is at first, but then I recognise its outline as an old-fashioned sunbed. None of this makes any sense.

  My eyes find my own clothes once again, abandoned on the stained carpet. My body feels bruised and persistently protests as I cover myself up with the clothes I can find, forgetting the ones I can’t. I spot my handbag and search inside for my phone but it isn’t there. Instead, I find the unopened pregnancy test kit and feel the nausea rise up my throat. I look around again, scanning through the debris of a life I’m unfamiliar with and spot my phone on a table. I check the date and time, it’s still Friday. The sound of the shower stops and I freeze. My legs switch to autopilot and start to move, forcing me to stumble towards the only door in the room.

  I turn the handle and pull it open to reveal a long, narrow hallway. I can hear him whistling behind a door at the other end. The dirty brown carpet is almost completely hidden by stacks of old newspapers and there’s a strong smell of damp. I notice the two large cork boards on the walls and I recognise them instantly, he had them in his room at university. They were covered in photos of the two of us back then and they still are, but more recent pictures have been added to the collage now too, this time just of me. Me outside work, me reading a newspaper on the Tube, me sipping coffee at a café down the road from my home less than a week ago – I recognise my new coat. There must be over a hundred photos and my face stares out from every one. I make myself look away. I have to get out. Now.

  I see what looks like a front door between the room I am in and where he is. I know I’m running out of time as I stagger along between the wall and the highly piled detritus. It’s an effort to steady my hands enough to unhook the chain and let myself out into the blacker darkness. I’m outside but high up, some sort of walkway within a large block of flats. I turn briefly to look at the number on the navy-blue door I have just walked through, then I start to back away. I don’t even stop to close it behind me. I enjoy the shock and pain of the cold air, I feel it sneak inside my sleeves, down my top, up and under my skirt. I blink back the tears. I don’t deserve anyone’s pity, not even my own.

  Before

  Tuesday, 15th December 1992

  Dear Diary,

  We’re all at home together now, Mum, Dad and me. I’m still suspended, not that anyone cares. Dad has stopped going to work. He says it’s so he can look after Mum because she’s not well, but he sits downstairs all day watching TV while she stays up in her bedroom. He says I’m old enough to be told the truth and that Mum was pregnant before she fell down the stairs and that the baby died. That’s why she drank so much she was sick and why she was shouting at Taylor’s mum that afternoon. I thought people only shouted rude things when they were angry, but Dad says some people do it when they are sad.

  I didn’t know Mum was pregnant but I’m glad that she isn’t any more, it’s disgusting. I asked Dad if she would get pregnant again and he said no because they had to remove something from her tummy in the hospital. I was pleased about that. They can’t even look after me properly, so it doesn’t make any sense at all for them to have another child. I’m a bit worried that they might adopt a fake brother or sister to make Mum happy again. I don’t want one of those either.

  Dad is always having to pop out for this or that, but sometimes he comes back with nothing at all. I think he should start making lists so he doesn’t keep forgetting things, that’s what Nana used to do. He asked me to keep an eye on Mum while he went out to get some bread, milk and a lottery scratch card. That was tricky, because I didn’t want to look at her. The bedroom door was slightly open so I decided to keep watch from there with one eye closed like Dad said. I thought she might like to hear me singing, seeing as she missed the Christmas concert this year. So I made up a funny song, which I sang to her from the landing.

  What shall we do with the drunken mother?

  What shall we do with the drunken mother?

  What shall we do with the drunken mother?

  Early in the morning?

  I even made up a little dance to go with it, miming drinking from lots of bottles. She didn’t laugh, so maybe she was still sleeping. She sleeps a lot. Dad says the sadness tires her out.

  When Dad got back he said we needed to have a little talk. He had forgotten the milk again but I didn’t tell him because he already looked very worried about something. We sat at the kitchen table and at first I thought he’d forgotten what he wanted to talk about, but then he pulled a face and said we have to move house again. I told Dad that I don’t want to move again but he said that we have to. I asked if it was my fault, for getting suspended and he said no. He started to explain but his words got all jumbled up on the way to my ears because I was crying without meaning to.

  It’s something to do with a man called Will. Nana was supposed to talk to him before she died, but she forgot to and now we have to move because people keep forgetting things. Dad said Mum’s sister is very cross about Nana not talking to Will. I didn’t even know Mum had a sister. Dad said I met her a few times when I was really little but I don’t remember her at all. Dad said Mum’s sister hadn’t spoken to Mum or Nana for years, but when Nana died she decided she would like half of her house. I asked if we could still live in the other half, but Dad said no, it didn’t work like that. I asked if we could stay if he matched three things on the lottery scratch card, he said he’d already scratched it and we hadn’t won.

  This all made me feel very sad, so I asked Dad if I could go upstairs and read in my room for a while and he said yes, so long as I was quiet and not to disturb Mum. He said we had to take very good care of Mum because she was even more upset about all of this than we were. I don’t see why I should take care of her at all. She was meant to look after Nana and she didn’t do a very good job because the cancer killed her. I can’t help thinking lately that if someone better, like Taylor’s mum, had looked after Nana when she was ill, she would have got better and still been alive now. Everything would still be good and we wouldn’t have to keep moving house. This is all Mum’s fault, even if Dad is too stupid to see it. Mum has ruined everything for everyone and I’ll never forgive her.

  Now

  New Year’s Eve, 2016

  The sound wakes me, I’ve heard it before. My bed is tilting me backwards, so that my feet are pointing up towards the ceiling and the blood rushes to my head. They lift me a little further towards the very edge, I’m scared I might fall and that nobody will catch me, but then they carefully let my head lean right back and I feel the warm water and gentle fingers on my scalp.

  I’m having my hair done today, I didn’t even need to book an appointment! I can smell the shampoo and pictur
e the suds and, if I try really hard, I can convince myself for a few seconds that I’m at the hairdresser’s, that life has been restored to my version of normal. I try to extract some pleasure from the experience, I try to relax, try to remember what that means.

  I think about time a lot since I lost it. The hours here stick together and it’s hard to pull them apart. People talk about time passing but here, in this room, time doesn’t pass at all. It crawls and lingers and smears the walls of your mind with muck-stained memories, so you can’t see what’s in front or behind you. It eats away at those who get washed up on its shores and I need to swim away now, I need to catch up with myself down stream.

  ‘That should feel better, all the dried blood gone,’ says a kind voice, before wrapping a towel around my head. I imagine blood staining white porcelain and an ever decreasing red orbit until another part of me is washed away.

  ‘I’ll do that, I imagine you must be very busy, I don’t mind,’ says Claire. She’s been watching, so quiet I didn’t even know she was here. The nurses like her, I can tell. People do tend to like the version of her she lets them see. They put the bed back upright and leave us alone. Claire dries my hair, then plaits it the way we did for each other when we were children. She doesn’t say a word.

  ‘You’re here early,’ says Paul, coming into my room just as she’s finishing.

  ‘Still can’t sleep,’ says Claire.

  It looks like I’m sleeping all of the time, but I’m not and even when I do sleep, people are always coming and going. Turning me, cleaning me, drugging me. Edward hasn’t come back for a while, at least I don’t remember him being here. I tell myself that he might leave me alone now, then maybe I’ll wake up for real, for good.

  ‘Something weird happened last night,’ says Paul.

  ‘Go on,’ replies my sister. I preferred it when they had the rule where he arrived and she left. They’re spending too much time together now and nothing good can come of that.

  ‘I charged Amber’s phone, but there was no contact number for anyone called Jo.’

  ‘That’s strange.’

  ‘I called her boss, thinking he’d be able to give me her number. He was very nice at first, but then got all agitated and said he couldn’t give it to me, because he doesn’t know anyone called Jo.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ says Claire.

  I know that she does.

  ‘Nobody at Coffee Morning is called Jo. I asked him if maybe it was a nickname or something, told him that she was definitely a friend of Amber’s from work. Then he got all flustered and tried to find a polite way to tell me that Amber didn’t have any friends at work.’

  Please stop.

  ‘How strange.’

  ‘I’m starting to understand why she quit, the guy sounded like an arse.’

  Please stop talking.

  ‘She quit?’ asks Claire.

  Don’t say another word.

  ‘Sorry, she told me not to tell you; I forgot.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She just wasn’t happy there any more.’

  ‘No, I mean why didn’t she want you to tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Then

  Friday 23rd December 2016 – Evening

  I can’t make eye contact with the taxi driver as we pull up outside my home. I could see him repeatedly looking at me in the rear-view mirror as he drove me away from the block of flats, unable to tell whether it was disgust or concern in his eyes. Maybe it was both. I hand over the cash and don’t wait for the change, mumbling my thanks before climbing out and closing the door. The first thing I see as the cab drives away is Paul’s car parked outside. He didn’t tell me he was coming back tonight. He’s hardly been in touch at all.

  I search inside my handbag for a mint and spray myself with a spritz of perfume. I find my small compact mirror and examine different parts of my face in the glow from the street light outside the house. It’s the first time I’ve had to look myself in the eye since I woke up in someone else’s bed. Most of my make-up has rubbed off but my mascara has bled down my face. No wonder the cab driver was staring at me. I lick my fingers and rub the skin beneath my eyes before checking my reflection once more. I still look like myself, even though I am not.

  I step from the pavement onto our property, crossing an invisible border and closing the gate behind me, cementing the decision to proceed with caution. The air is so cold that the frozen wood needs persuading to shut all the way and burns the tips of my fingers in protest. I force myself to walk towards the house, leaving all the truths we haven’t shared out on the street. I survey the front of our home as I trudge up the gravel path. The place looks tired, unloved, in need of some attention. White paint has flaked in places, peeling away like sunburnt skin. Everything in the garden looks dead or dying. A thick trunk of wisteria ascends and divides into a network of dry brown veins all over the front of the house, as though it will never blossom again. I try to tell myself that maybe I haven’t done anything wrong, but the guilt of what I can’t or won’t remember slows my steps. Madeline has been dealt with but now I fear I’m facing something so much worse.

  I search for my keys in my bag, but I can’t find them so I ring the bell. I wait a while, then the cold nudges my impatience and I ring it again. Paul opens the door. He doesn’t say anything and we both just stand there as though I’m waiting to be invited into my own home. It’s cold so I step inside, pushing past him without meaning to.

  ‘You’re home late,’ he says, closing the front door behind me.

  ‘Yes, Christmas party. How’s your mum?’ I ask.

  ‘Mum? Yes, she’s fine. I think we need to talk.’

  He knows.

  ‘OK. Talk.’ I force myself to look up and face him.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you. Maybe it’s better if we sit down.’

  He doesn’t know but it doesn’t matter. I’m too late.

  ‘I might get a drink first, do you want one?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head and I retreat to the kitchen. I take a bottle of red, doesn’t matter which one. I hesitate as I reach for a glass, then I overrule my apprehension, one glass can’t do any harm. It’s all been for nothing anyway. He wants to tell me that it’s over, all that’s left to do is listen. It doesn’t even matter what I have or haven’t done, he’s already decided for both of us.

  I find the bottle opener and hold on to it, trying to steady my hands as I start to twist down into the cork, tearing it from the inside out. As my wrist turns, the irony snakes up around my arm, across my shoulder to my throat, strangling me so that the words can’t get out and the air can’t get in. Her name screams itself over and over inside my head. I need Claire. I need her so badly right now and I hate her at the same time. I thought today was a victory, but now it feels like I’ve been playing the wrong game. The sound of the cork being pulled from the bottle is less satisfying than normal. I hold it in my fingers for a second, from some angles it still looks perfect, you’d never know it was so damaged on the inside.

  Paul is sitting on the sofa that is normally for guests. I pause for a moment, then sit down opposite him in the seat that is habitually mine. I feel dirty and damaged but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘I’m not sure where to begin,’ he says. He looks nervous, childlike. I used to find it endearing, now I just wish he’d grow up, get on with it and spit it out. I don’t say anything, I won’t make this easy for him, regardless of where I have just come from or what I might have done.

  ‘I’ve been lying to you,’ he says. He still doesn’t look at me, just stares at a spot on the floor.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I wasn’t at Mum’s yesterday. I was before that, she did have a fall, but when I left yesterday morning that wasn’t where I was going.’

  I take a sip of wine. I realise now that I’ve been looking the wrong way before crossing a busy road. My patience expires and I need this performance to come to an end.

&
nbsp; ‘Who is she?’ He looks at me then.

  ‘Who?’ he asks.

  ‘Whoever you’re having an affair with.’ My hands are still trembling slightly so I put down my glass.

  Paul shakes his head and laughs at me. ‘I’m not having an affair. Jesus. I was with my agent.’

  I take a moment to process the unexpected information.

  ‘Your agent?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t want to tell you until I was one hundred per cent sure, I didn’t want to get your hopes up and let you down again.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’ve written another book. I didn’t think it was any good, didn’t think anything would ever be any good ever again, but they’ve sold it, they’ve sold it everywhere. I found out there was going to be an auction when I was in Norfolk, my head was so all over the place with Mum that I didn’t really believe it myself. But it’s real and they’re talking about a lot of money. They love it, Amber, there was a bidding war in the States too and things just got crazy, thirteen territories so far. And the best bit, there’s talk of a film deal. It hasn’t all been completely signed off yet, but it’s looking pretty good.’ He’s smiling, really smiling, and I realise I can’t remember the last time he looked this happy. I’m smiling too, it seems infectious and I can’t help it. But then I remember something I cannot forget.

  ‘There was underwear in your wardrobe. Now it’s gone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You bought lacy underwear for someone else. I found it. It wasn’t my size.’

  For a moment I can’t tell whether he is angry or amused by what I have said.

  ‘I bought underwear for you. It was the wrong size, yes. So I took it back. If you go upstairs right now you’ll find the same bag containing what I thought I’d picked up the first time, hidden in the same place. Or at least it was supposed to be hidden until Christmas. You didn’t really think I was having an affair, did you?’