Liars: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Frances Vick

  David, shivering in his little nook at the beginning of the hills, shrank from the swearing, thought Coffin?

  ‘We don’t know they’re from him,’ the mother answered shortly after a pause.

  Jenny, completely visible in the kitchen window, gave an exasperated snort. Angry. She was angry? Why? Her mother… her mother must have done something. Invited someone bad over maybe, or… the truth pinched and hurt him; soon he’d have to face it, but he didn’t want to. Not yet. No. The mother. Sal? The Bad Man said she was called Sal. She’d said something to scare Jenny. It was her, it was her—

  ‘Well, who else are they going to be from? Mum? They’re pictures of you and me. Look!’ She was brandishing a fistful of photos. ‘You and Kathleen. You and me – Marc was the only person who had them, and now they’re here, and how d’you think they got here? Tell me that?’

  ‘Maybe it’s a nice thing—’ Sal started weakly.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Mum, Marc doesn’t do “nice things”! Why are we here? Why did we come here? To get away from Marc! It’s meant to be a secret where we are, and if he knows then we’ll have to move again, won’t we?’

  And David, crouched in his nook, groaned quietly. Seen from this horrible new angle, his noble gesture hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Had been probably the worst idea he’d ever had.

  ‘… still could be a nice thing,’ Sal was saying.

  ‘It’s not nice, it’s weird, Mum; it’s a threat is what it is,’ Jenny replied.

  ‘Maybe it’s his way of saying sorry?’ she replied defiantly. ‘Maybe that’s what it means?’

  ‘In a coffin? Look at it! He’s carved fucking crosses on it, and here’s a “J”. Look at it!’

  And David winced and moaned again. His lovingly carved birds looked like crucifixes. His golden ‘J’ was a threat. How could he have got this so wrong? Maybe she hadn’t understood what he’d been talking about in the graveyard after all? Maybe – horrible thought, the worst thought – they weren’t as attuned as he believed? Maybe—

  ‘We have to call the police. At the refuge they said that if he contacted us we’d have to call the police.’ Jenny sounded tired, exasperated.

  ‘No! No, you’re not doing that,’ the woman sounded more definite than he’d ever heard her before. ‘He’s on probation, and I won’t do that to him, not over something silly like this. He’d lose his job and everything. No, can’t do that.’

  Jenny let out a little huff of frustration and anger. ‘So, what, you want to move again, do you?’

  ‘Well, it’s not like we know anyone here, is it? Not the friendliest of places.’ She was whining, but there was something in her voice that suggested she felt she was on firmer footing. ‘I’ve not met anyone in all the time we’ve been here, and it gets lonely, I’ll tell you.’

  ‘We’ve only been here a few weeks. And you never leave the house, do you? Why don’t you get a job? And I don’t want to move again! We wouldn’t get another house anyway – they only put us on the priority list because of Marc, and if you don’t want to call the police on him—’

  ‘I won’t,’ Sal said firmly and threw her cigarette stub out of the window before shutting it.

  David couldn’t hear anything now. Hoping that they wouldn’t look out of the window and spot him, he moved stealthily down the side of their garden towards the shed that stood adjacent to the back door. He couldn’t see them any more, but at least he could hear better. Jenny was saying something about the council.

  ‘… move cause what did they say? We’d be “making ourselves voluntarily homeless”.’ Her mother must have said something then, because Jenny’s voice crackled with anger. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said,’ the woman’s voice, though quieter, rang with a kind of rusty authority, ‘I’m the adult here. I’m the one in charge, and I want to go back home.’ She lit another cigarette, pushed open the window again.

  ‘We’re not going back home,’ Jenny said, her voice wobbling, close to tears. ‘That’s not happening.’

  ‘All this, just to get your own room,’ the woman grumbled. ‘Never thought of me, leaving my friends and everything. It’s all about you, isn’t it?’

  ‘He beat the shit out of you, Mum! Did you forget that?’ Jenny shouted.

  ‘And none of that happened until you started… acting up. Being cheeky. Accusing him of God knows what—’

  ‘I didn’t make anything up.’ Jenny was beginning to cry harder now. David’s heart hurt to hear her. ‘You know I didn’t. You know what happened.’

  ‘If he’s such a bad lot, why d’you go back there all the time then? If you’re scared of him? If he’s done these terrible things to you? Why d’you go there all the time?’ Sal jeered. ‘Can’t keep away, can you?’

  ‘I went back to get our stuff! The stuff you’re always on about – the photographs, all the things you left that you moan about! I’m going back for you!’

  ‘Right.’ There was a twisted glee in the woman’s voice, a ‘got you now’ smugness. ‘You’ve been back all those times to get “our stuff”, but you never get any of it, do you?’

  ‘I tried but he caught me!’ Jenny was sobbing; her words ran into one another in hitching, tumbling starts. ‘He caught me and he hurt me and—’

  ‘He caught you. Right.’

  She was all satisfied sarcasm, and David could imagine her pinched profile, her set, mean mouth. Her nasty, cold expression as she watched her weeping daughter with amused detachment. Horrible. The woman was even worse than he’d imagined. And the man – this Marc man – he, too, was not just bad, but vile. Somehow, horribly, David had made a bad situation even worse, had inadvertently reopened wounds that had only just started to heal. He’d brought this evil to Jenny’s front door.

  The door slammed then, and he could hear Jenny getting on her bike, heard the squeak and sigh of the wheels. Her mother followed, but didn’t try to stop her. She lit another cigarette and smoked it on the doorstep muttering to herself. Then she went back inside, and David heard the TV being turned on, the canned laughter from some sitcom. When he got up, his head swam, and he couldn’t feel his feet. He muttered to himself: I’m sick. I’m sick, but he couldn’t be. There was no time to be sick, no time left for anything. He had to reverse this terrible thing he’d caused; he had to right every wrong there was.

  David knew where Jenny was likely to be going, but he didn’t want to let too much time and distance form between them, and so he ran back home, quickly changed into dry clothes, and emptied his money box: £15. He might need more.

  The quiet tidiness of the kitchen told him that Mum was still asleep. As usual, she’d left her purse out when she came back from the pub last night. David rarely took money from her purse, and it always made him feel bad when he did, but something told him that today was going to be Significant, and morality had to take a backseat to necessity. He opened his mother’s purse: £20 and change. He took the note and left the coins, telling himself that she’d probably think she just spent more than usual at the pub – that was if she noticed at all. And anyway, any money he took from her wouldn’t be spent on Tony; that had to be a good thing, right?

  Outside, the damp air had turned cold. The mist permeated his clothes and clung to his face, and his limbs felt weakly heavy as he got on his bike and raced towards the station. The dull throb of a stitch spread from his side to his chest, making breathing difficult, and twice he had to stop, gasping, by the side of the road, the traffic pelting past fast, and that rogue thought pushed at him again – I’m sick, I’m sick – but it was a weak thought, a thought he couldn’t afford to have.

  This time he bought a return ticket and, in the train, he worked hard to smooth his mind, calm down. He kept his face carefully blank, and stared out of the window, trying to think of nothing at all, as grey-brown countryside slid past, flat, wormlike. Just ahead were the grimy, unlovely city suburbs; the industrial estates, the empty One Bedroomed Executive Flats built on a pro
mise of prosperity, the lonely billboards: ‘Your Ad Here!’

  He knew where she would be going. He knew what to do. He knew where he was going. There was no need to worry. He closed his eyes then and let the map of the city spread through his mind; found his path through the city centre, through the crowded market, and past Pretty Windows. Up the hill, past The Fox and straight to the house where Marc lived. By the time the train drew into the station, wheezing like an aged beast, he was so calm that he almost didn’t notice how much he was shaking.

  Saturday in the city was a new experience for David. The crowds, the noise and the music all threatened his composure. It was dizzying, largely because nothing about it made sense… Some streets were all crowds, while others – seemingly identical to David – were virtually empty. The crowd flowed, eddied, clashed and dawdled; it almost seemed to have a collective mind – a hive mentality that David couldn’t tune into, and would never be part of. He was relieved to get away from the centre, relieved to be walking up the hill towards The Fox. Here there were no crowds, and no one on the streets. It was like a plague town.

  Once he was at the top of the hill, he took a moment to catch his breath, close his eyes and sink into Jenny’s mind. Once he felt connected to her again, he opened his eyes, nodded to himself, and made his way down the alley towards the small overgrown backyard, and crouched behind wheelie bins parked at the edge of the fence. A slat was missing, and through the gap, David could see the garden, the back door, a little of the kitchen window. The vague shapes of two people standing by the sink.

  ‘How’d you get our address?’ Jenny said. Her voice was high, strained. She sounded so young.

  The Bad Man – Marc – laughed, and sauntered out of the kitchen holding a laundry basket. Slowly, insultingly slowly, he picked up damp underwear, and pegged it fussily on the line.

  ‘How?’ Jenny almost shrieked. She was standing on the doorstep now. David could see half of her pale face, saw the tension rippling down her body to one tapping foot.

  Marc looked up at the weak sun, and grinned. ‘Warming up a bit,’ he said. ‘How’s your neck by the way?’

  Jenny took a step forward. ‘How’d you find us?’

  ‘Want a cup of tea?’ Marc asked.

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘Well, I want one.’ Marc walked back inside to put the kettle on. David didn’t hear anything else until he was stirring his tea, ending with a cheerful little ‘tink tink’ of the spoon on the cup. Then he wandered back out into the garden, smiling. He clearly wasn’t intimidated. ‘Spring,’ he said.

  ‘I mean it! Tell me or I’ll get you breached,’ Jenny shouted and the air fizzed.

  This threat to his probation seemed to rattle him ever so slightly. ‘Watch it,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me or I’ll call them!’ Her voice was slightly steadier now. David willed her all his strength, and peered through the gap. She stood straight, brave as a warrior.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, love, but I don’t have your address,’ he said, oh so reasonably. ‘And I don’t want your fucking address. Listen, I’ve got to go to work in a bit, so talk sense if you’re going to, or fuck off home, wherever that is.’ He put his tea down on the step and resumed putting up the washing.

  ‘The coffin?’ Jenny managed. ‘With the pictures in it?’

  ‘I honestly have no fucking clue what you’re on about. What pictures?’ Marc sounded bored.

  ‘The ones in Mum’s photo album! The ones—’

  ‘Oh, that photo album you tried to rob from my house? Along with my money? Is that what you mean?’ His voice had an edge to it now.

  ‘It was ours!’ Jenny’s voice cracked a little. ‘Mum wanted the pictures back; they’re ours!’

  ‘You didn’t take it when you moved out, and they’re in my house, so they’re mine, aren’t they? Not that I care about them, but the money wasn’t yours and you tried to take that, didn’t you?’

  ‘You owe us—’

  ‘I don’t owe you anything. You left and blagged yourself a nice new life. I owe you fuck all. Seriously, get the fuck out. I’m telling you. Try and breach me and I tell them how you robbed me,’ he snarled.

  ‘How did you get our address!’ she shouted.

  ‘I haven’t,’ the man hissed, and moved towards her, not quickly, but it was enough to produce a little yelp of fear. David saw her dart into the kitchen, and come out with one hand holding a paring knife, the blade was about four inches long, and sharp looking.

  Marc stared blankly at her, but stopped dead. ‘Put that down.’

  ‘Leave us alone!’ Jenny shouted at him. ‘Don’t come round ever again!’ Her voice cracked. She sounded like a little girl, fiercely frightened, but used to defeat, and David winced at that, and his clasped hands squeezed together, and he tried to send Jenny strength, calm. You’re better than him, you’re better than him, please believe you’re better than him. You’ll beat him, you will.

  When Marc tried to grab her hand, she lunged at him clumsily. The knife sliced into the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, and she let out a little cry and dropped it on the ground. Marc stepped on the blade, and kicked it angrily away towards the garden wall. Then he grabbed her with his good hand and dragged her close, fingers digging cruelly into her wrist.

  The pain of this, and the pain of defeat, made her cry, big, angry tears, and this humiliation transferred itself to David, sinking into his mind, his bones. He closed his eyes, shook his head. When he opened them, he saw that the knife had skittered within his reach.

  ‘I’ll fucking kill you if you come round again! I will!’ Jenny sobbed.

  ‘Yeah, right. You and your knife, eh?’ Marc’s fingers dripped red onto the concrete. The other hand twisted her wrist sideways and up, an unnatural angle. ‘Anyone’d think you don’t love me any more.’ A quick jerk. That’s all it would take to break her arm. She made a sudden, brave attempt to wrench herself free, but his grip tightened further. David could see her red hand, the thin, exposed arm with its delicate bones, pulled, pulled further, surely almost about to snap.

  ‘I hate you,’ Jenny managed through her tears. ‘I hate you.’

  ‘You didn’t always hate me though, did you?’ You used to like a bit of a kiss and a cuddle.’ Marc jerked her arm down again now, gave the hand a vicious twist to the side. ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘You’re hurting me—’

  ‘Want me to kiss it better?’ He smiled like a shark, and let go.

  ‘I hate you!’ she sobbed again, cradling one arm with the other shaking hand.

  ‘If you hate me so much why d’you keep coming round? I could get the wrong idea, couldn’t I?’ He sounded out of breath now, tired. Drip drip. The blood pattered in coin-sized drops. He lifted his hand, looked at it, grimaced, and then pointed one bloody finger at her. ‘Right, I’ve had enough of this. Don’t try to rob off me, or chat any shit. And listen close, cause I won’t say it again – I’ve not been round yours and I don’t give a shit where you are, all right? Tell Sal that. And don’t even think about breaching me, or you’ll be lucky to have an arm left, you get me?’ He took one step towards her. ‘Get fucked off now, I mean it.’

  Jenny, whimpering, backed into the kitchen again. David heard her running to the front door, heard it slam.

  Then there was a silence, long, broken only by Marc’s heavy breathing. He stooped to the laundry basket, pulled out a tea towel and wrapped it clumsily around the wound on his hand. ‘Bitch got me,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Look at that. Bitch got me.’ He wandered around the garden shaking his head, looking like a wounded bear, before drifting back inside. David heard him turn on the tap, running his hand under it, cursing.

  David’s heart, pumping painfully, seemed to be sending blood solely to his brain, which pulsed, struggled, under the onslaught. It was hard to think clearly. When he looked down, he saw that he was holding the knife in one frozen hand, that it was slick with Marc’s blood. He had no memory of picking it up. He hid
the knife up his coat sleeve. From the house, he heard the front door slam and, after a few minutes, he tottered cautiously up the alley, down the street, and back towards the little park outside The Fox.

  He didn’t try to hide. Jenny wasn’t here any more; he knew it; he could feel it. He just sat on the bench, staring vacantly ahead, imagining the blood on the blade seeping into the lining of his coat. He sat on the bench for an hour or more. The temperature dropped, the sun began to set. Once or twice he saw Marc through the glass doors of the pub with his red hat on, swinging between the tables collecting empty glasses. One hand was bandaged, and a pink island of blood showed through the white. On cigarette breaks, David heard him tell one person that a jack had slipped when he was working on the car; another that a dog had bitten him. David, frozen, stared at Marc. He stared at everyone. Nobody stared back. Nobody seemed to notice him at all. He was invisible. He’d merged with the air; he was insubstantial as a ghost. He was nothing. He meant nothing. He was absolutely powerless.

  If he was nothing, he didn’t exist. And if he didn’t exist, he was absolutely free. He could do anything. Anything at all, and it wouldn’t matter. That was… interesting. A new perspective.

  He closed his eyes then, feeling each jagged piece of his soul shuffle, slide, and lock together like a Chinese puzzle box. In his shaken mind, a firm plan rose.

  44

  Marc seemed a little drunk when his shift was over, and unwilling to be alone. He stayed standing and smoking outside the pub door, gesticulating with his bad hand. Someone told him he might need stitches. Marc shook his head, no. Someone had given him some painkillers – ‘ones they give to cancer patients’ – he couldn’t feel fuck all! And he laughed, and so did his friends, and soon they all started walking down the hill to the city centre, to carry on drinking. David followed.

  For the next few hours chill turned to cold and the drizzle to a downpour, and David trailed Marc to pub after pub, watching him go in with one group of people, and leaving with others who would, in turn, be replaced with identical hangers-on: drunk, blowsy women, a teenager or two, balding, grim-faced men.