Liars: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Frances Vick

  Freddie didn’t know what to say. He faked another ice cough, excused himself to go to the bar for a glass of water. The barman looked concerned.

  ‘No, it’s OK. Something went down the wrong way that’s all. You know, while I’m here can I have two gin and tonics? And double them.’

  ‘Two gins. Stat!’ He was really, really, very cute. ‘What’s the problem?’

  Freddie glanced over his shoulder at Jenny, texting again, turned back. ‘You’ve seen The Stepford Wives?’

  ‘The original or the remake?’

  ‘Oh, God, the original, of course.’

  ‘Got it on Blu-Ray.’ He nodded at Jenny, now absently drumming each perfect nail on the tabletop. ‘“I’ll just die if I don’t get that recipe… I’ll just die if I don’t get that recipe…”’

  ‘She’s not quite at the Nanette Newman stage. But, yeah. Listen, £500 for a shirt. That’s nuts, right?’

  The barman nodded sagely, pointed at his own shirt. ‘EBay. £2.’

  Freddie resisted the urge to propose to him, right then and there, and reached for his money, and was told that the drinks were on the house.

  I’ll have to come back here, he thought.

  Back at their table, Jenny was looking at her phone again.

  ‘Is that David?’

  ‘Yes, he just wants to know when I’ll be back, that’s all. I didn’t say I’d be this late. I thought I had, but he says I—’

  Buzz buzz.

  ‘It’s not late though, it’s—’ Freddie peered at his own phone, ‘not eight yet. I got you another drink.’

  She flushed. ‘I better not.’

  ‘Oh come on, just this last drink, and then we can go and get food. David can meet us there? It’ll be nice.’ Gin always made Freddie expansive and sociable.

  She hesitated, relented. ‘OK. I’ll just see what he says.’

  She pulled her phone out of her bag, and Freddie saw that it was bristling with missed calls. ‘I’ll go outside. Can’t hear in here.’ Still flushed she was scampering away from their table now, the phone in her hand, vibrating like an angry wasp.

  Within a minute, she returned, suddenly tired. ‘I have to go, sorry. Catherine needs me. I seem to be the one person who can calm her down at the minute. David said she won’t let him give her her pills; she’ll only let me do it. He’s frantic. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘I thought she was in hospital?’ Freddie asked.

  ‘Only for tests,’ she answered, gathering her coat,

  ‘Oh.’ Freddie tried not to look too woebegone. ‘OK, well, say hi to David from me, and tell him I hope his mum feels better soon.’

  ‘Yes. Oh, and David was sorry he couldn’t meet up with us. He said some other time.’ Her face was averted. When he stood to give her a quick hug goodbye, she felt stiff, tense.

  He watched her leave, and tried to unpick his thoughts. He felt terribly guilty. If David was a survivor of abuse, then surely he had every right to his privacy, every right to make and maintain an environment that made him feel safe and kept him well. On the other hand, Jen was riddled with tension that increased with every text, every call she received from David; she was intimidated into cutting her evening short. The new haircut, the posh clothes, the acrylic nails, didn’t quite disguise how tired her face was in repose, how thin she was getting, the little quiver of her hands when she reached for her phone.

  Freddie thought about this while he finished both drinks and then gave into the temptation to begin researching ‘Controlling Relationships’ on his phone.

  Ten Tell-Tale Signs You’re in a Controlling Relationship

  1. Isolating you from friends and family

  Yes.

  2. Criticising your dress sense

  Well, all of a sudden she cared about designer clothes, which was weird.

  3. Making you feel and/or placing you in debt

  ‘So you’re going to be a kept woman?’ That slight start, the vehement denial.

  4. Using guilt as a tool

  ‘Catherine needs me.’

  5. Spying, snooping on you

  Looking through her phone. Constant texting – where are you, where are you?

  6. Overactive jealousy

  Well, he was very suspicious of Matt. But then Matt had turned out to be creepy, so…

  7. Thwarting your professional or educational goals by making you doubt yourself

  Slagging off the counselling profession as a pyramid scheme. ‘Letting’ her give up her job so she could care for Catherine and work on her dissertation. These two things cancelled each other out, but David was controlling, not necessarily consistent…

  8. Makes you feel that you’re unable to make your own decisions

  ‘He said he knew it’d be like that.’

  9. Calls you several times a night

  YES!

  10. Using threats or violence

  No.

  He sat back, feeling that this last ‘No’ was a bit of an anticlimax. Did he want Jenny to be hurt? Jesus, Fred. No, no, of course not. But David checked all the boxes but that one. Freddie read through the list again; his right hand was tinted white and red from clutching his phone so hard, and in his gin-soaked mind he thought – if David isn’t violent now, he will be soon. That was the way things went with men like him… secretive strange men who lived with their mothers and stayed virgins until their twenties. He was a jealous man, an angry man... Jenny had admitted that already.

  The beginning of a migraine throbbed behind his eyes.

  The place was filling up now, and the music was louder. A group of men stood close to the table, their glances making it obvious that he should leave to make way for them, and so Freddie wobbled upright, waved to the barman, and started walking back home, hoping the cool air would sober him up a bit. Halfway home he caved in and called a cab.

  Back home he made himself a sloppy sandwich and ate it over the sink while texting Jenny:

  Lovely to see you, let’s not leave it too long next time? and yes let’s sort out a playdate soon for you me and D? NO GIN! I already feel like shit xxxx

  Then he went to take a shower.

  She hadn’t replied by the time he got out, and so he called her – once, twice, three times, each time leaving an exaggerated groan as voicemail. When his phone pinged, it was a text from an unknown number.

  Don’t call again.

  Jenny? Freddie wrote back. What’s wrong you OK?

  It’s David. Don’t call her again.

  Freddie froze, then began shaking with adrenaline. He dialled David’s number and the call was answered without a word. ‘What the fuck?’ Freddie spluttered. ‘You can’t—’

  But David had already hung up, and when Freddie called back, the phone had been turned off.

  28

  Freddie spent the next few hours reading up on domestic violence and coercive relationships. He read harrowing accounts of imprisonment, manipulation, rape, and the more he learned, the more he realised that Jenny could be a poster child for the cycle of abuse; she’d had no father and an alcoholic, neglectful mother, an abusive stepfather, and now she was all alone in the world, ripe for the picking for any abusive nut job who told her they loved her. It was textbook. How in hell could Freddie have let this happen? What kind of a person just sat back, wallowing in their own hurt feelings while their friend was suffering through… god knows what?

  Feverish guilt drove away the last mists of gin, and by the morning, he knew what he had to do.

  The next morning Freddie called in sick to work, and drove back to the village, full of paracetamol and vigorous, righteous anger. Now he parked near enough to David’s house so that he could spot him leaving, not close enough so he’d be spotted himself, but he had no idea if David would leave the house at all. He slouched in the passenger seat for two uncomfortable, boring hours, watching the curve of David’s drive for any activity. Cops in cop shows always hated stakeouts, and now Freddie knew why… cops on cop shows also had the foresi
ght to bring coffee and donuts with them. Freddie had nothing but half a bottle of flat Coke and a phone full of articles about abuse.

  Finally, at 2 p.m. David’s BMW nosed out from behind the conifers. Freddie ducked down to hide the ginger beacon of his hair, and managed to maintain a partial view of the BMW disappearing down towards the slip road leading to the motorway. If he was going that way, chances were he was going to the city, which would hopefully give Freddie enough time to see Jenny, talk to her, and make her see sense.

  He made his way up the drive and towards the door, trepidation increasing with each step. His chest was clenched, and despite the spring warmth, the hairs on his arms stood stiff. Claudine ambled out of a flower bed and pushed her head against his legs. He picked her up, happy for the warmth, appreciating the purr. ‘What’s the news, kitten?’ he asked her, clattered the mermaid’s tail door knocker against the wood. ‘Cover me. I’m going in.’

  Jenny opened the door, dressed in dungarees and an old T-shirt. Very much Old Jenny and not Sleek Stepford Jenny, which had to be a good thing.

  ‘Freddie! How come you’re here?’

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course I’m OK, why wouldn’t I be? Why aren’t you at work?’

  ‘Took a sickie. Can I come in, then?’

  ‘Of course.’ She sounded ever so slightly unsure, but stepped back to let him into the gloomy hallway, where he almost collided with a tremulous pillar of cardboard boxes. The top one wobbled, fell and spilled out papers, scarves, a small knitted hat.

  ‘We’re doing a clear-out,’ Jenny explained, kicking the scarves out of the way. ‘There’s some building work starting in a week, too.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Freddie was determined to keep his manner as normal as possible. All the articles about abusive relationships said this was essential. Let the victim take the lead in disclosure. Don’t push, but be as accepting and open as possible.

  ‘Yes. The plan is to knock through the larger living room, the small sitting room and the kitchen, as well as a couple of the smaller rooms upstairs. But they’ve been used for storage since the beginning of time, so, there’s a lot of work to do…’ She sounded a little bit more animated, describing all the changes, and led him past some more boxes, past the conservatory – half-demolished and covered with tarpaulin – and into the kitchen proper. ‘So, the conservatory’s going altogether, and that room will be knocked through, and made wider. And we’re going to do something about the garage. We haven’t decided what yet though.’

  We we we we we. ‘God. Lots of work,’ Freddie managed.

  ‘Yeah. Well, it needs doing.’ She looked about vaguely. ‘But you know, once you get started, there’s no end to it. And the planning department are being, well, you know…’

  ‘Mmm,’ Freddie answered. He’d never, ever in his life thought he’d be having this conversation with Jenny of all people. What was next? Cushion covers? Ocado deliveries?

  ‘So everything’s OK?’ Freddie said carefully.

  ‘Well, yes. Why wouldn’t it be?’ She seemed to be slightly nervous.

  With immense effort, Freddie tried to remember his research. Resist asking too many questions… allow space for her to talk about her own feelings.

  ‘So, what’s in the boxes?’ he managed.

  ‘Oh Lord, you’ve seen Hoarders, right?’ I don’t know. There’s books, there’s clothes, there’s all sorts of stuff. Catherine kept everything. So did Piers. I think David doesn’t really want to part with it all either – that’s why he’s putting it all into storage.’

  ‘Is he here?’ Freddie asked casually, sipping boiling tea.

  ‘No, he’s at the storage place now to take a look at it. He wants to make sure they’re above ground, just in case they have, you know, rats or something. He doesn’t want anything to get gnawed at.’ She grinned, but it didn’t illuminate her face, just made her look more tired. ‘Fred what’s wrong? You didn’t skip work to talk to me about Hoarders.’

  ‘David called me last night.’ He watched her face stiffen, then arrange itself into bland ease.

  ‘Oh, OK? And…’

  ‘He told me not to call you. He—’

  ‘What was that?’ Jenny half rose.

  ‘I know, right?’ Freddie exclaimed, all his careful self-training gone. ‘He said I couldn’t call you ever again—’

  ‘No, listen,’ Her thin face, her corded neck – it all communicated incredible, sudden strain. ‘The car. Shit, he’s back. Fred, just… go upstairs. Please?’

  ‘Why?’ Freddie said stoutly. ‘Why aren’t you allowed to have a friend over? What’s he going to do if he sees me, hit you?’

  ‘It’s not that I’m not “allowed”. It’s complicated. He’ll just get upset, and I really don’t need that.’ She was pleading with him. ‘You can come back down later once he’s gone again. We’ll talk properly, and I’ll explain things, I promise, but please, Fred, for me?’ She pointed towards the stairs. ‘Take your coat with you!’ she hissed.

  And Freddie did as he was told, making it to the landing and ducking into the nearest bedroom just as David put the key in the door.

  It was the same room that he’d been in a few months ago, now housing more boxes, as well as the same two packing cases and the same ugly wardrobe dominating the corner by the window. Freddie edged towards that, his heart clattering in his chest, the sour taste of adrenaline at the back of his throat. All he could hear from downstairs was the muted bass of David’s voice, and the half-imagined nervous treble of Jenny’s. He braced himself for an explosion of anger, footsteps on the stairs, David marching in. A dramatic confrontation, furious argument, and a filmic denouement with Freddie rescuing Jenny, both of them running like children down the drive to safety... that would be great. But none of that happened. Instead Freddie spent the next half hour wedged between the wall and the wardrobe, miserably aware that he needed the toilet.

  To make things worse, the wardrobe door wouldn’t stay shut. Every few minutes Freddie pushed it to with one finger, wincing against the creak, and every few minutes it would swing open again, the sound monstrously loud in the silent room. David was bound to hear it if he came up the stairs and, if he came into the room, he’d see Freddie immediately… If he moved that bag of papers and the hand weights a bit – pushed them further back – that might make the door stay shut. Was it worth it? As if furnishing a reply, the door groaned open again. Freddie shuffled forwards. The bag was spilling with shopping lists, phone messages… ‘Vet called re Tinker’ said one. ‘Gruyère if possible?’ said another. A birthday card opened to a pop-up wine glass with ‘It’s Wine O’clock!’ printed in cartoon bubbles. ‘T ALL LOVE C’; a decade-old copy of the Telegraph. Jenny hadn’t lied: this family really did keep everything. An old copy of the Radio Times from 1992 slipped out and a photograph fell out from its folds… a blurry woman in brown, faintly familiar looking. Freddie tried pushing the bag in further. The door still wouldn’t shut because there was something caught in the hinge; Freddie wiggled it free. A photograph of a stone-faced baby, furiously asleep in a cot, a pink bow on its bald head. On the back in blue biro was written ‘Jenny’s first Xmas ’93’. He felt time stop with a jolt.

  Some people are born with the happy knack of discerning the grown adult in a baby’s face, but Freddie wasn’t. A baby was a baby as far as he was concerned, just like a cat was a cat and a dog was a dog… and anyway, Jenny didn’t have any baby pictures. Marc had destroyed them all. The only picture she had was the one that he, Freddie, had had framed for her. But the date was right… He peered at the picture, trying to make sense of it. It was her. It had to be.

  If this was here, what else was here?

  He put the baby photo down on the floor, and then, carefully, as silently as possible, he reached into the bag again, finding nothing of any meaning until, among the receipts and general detritus, he found a newspaper clipping. A recent one.

  17th January 2017

  Pol
ice are investigating after a woman’s body was discovered this morning.

  Emergency services were called to the village of Marston at 7.30 a.m.

  Local sources have identified the dead woman as Sally Holloway, aged 43, of Dene’s Walk, Marston.

  A police spokeswoman said: ‘The woman died some time in the evening of 16th January. The death is not being treated as suspicious and formal identification has not yet been made.

  A report will be prepared for Her Majesty’s coroner and the woman’s family are being supported at this difficult time.

  The back of the clipping was covered with blocky capitals. A list:

  16 Edi 628 9:08 HHN 502 9:23 LGG 746 9:38.

  No dates.

  He put this next to the baby photo.

  ‘Precious Memories!’ was still nestled in the corner of the wardrobe. There’d been another newspaper clipping in there too, hadn’t there? Something about fly-tipping, but he’d only looked at one side of it.

  From downstairs he heard the French windows open, heard David in the garden, talking loudly about a patio, about garden furniture. The soft burr of Jenny’s voice told him that she was there, too. If they were both outside, they weren’t likely to hear any rustling of papers from the upstairs bedroom. Freddie thought quickly. Here was his chance – maybe his only chance – to properly look through David’s strange set of mementos and get real, genuine evidence that he could present to Jenny and save her. Already, with the baby picture and the newspaper clipping, David was looking distinctly stalkerish.

  With one shaking finger, Freddie pressed the ‘Precious Memories!’ rusted release catch, opened the lid and began scanning the random, unconnected pieces of trash that now seemed a lot less random. There was some sinister underpinning to these carefully curated items. Something that made them precious. The dirty chiffon scarf. A series of train tickets that had been carefully laminated. One, a return ticket, was surrounded with doodled hearts. There was a pink Post-it note with Jenny’s handwriting on it – he could tell it was hers because she’d never wrote the @ symbol properly; she just wrote a normal ‘a’ and circled it. It seemed to be a list of train times. A photograph of a patch of ground and, in the far corner, was a little cross with the words TINKER written on it. Some pinkish gravel in a sandwich bag was sellotaped to a piece of cardboard. And, yes, here was the newspaper clipping he’d seen before – Freddie noticed how yellowed it was – the print had smeared and the folds were cracking. David handled this a lot. David thought this was important enough to keep hidden and keep going back to. Freddie turned it over and read.