Her Mother's Lies: A gripping psychological thriller with a stunning twist

by Rona Halsall

  She thought about that now and could still feel the hollowness of his absence inside her, the heavy dread that made her slow to get up in the morning, never sure which mother she’d have that day – the smiley fun one or the crying, shouty one.

  The only positive thing was Anna being next door some of the time. Martha had grown quite fond of her, looking forward to her visits as she’d liked to bring Martha little presents of books and toys and sweets, like a surrogate gran.

  Whatever had happened fifteen years ago, it had smashed Martha’s life apart. Was it really all her dad’s fault, like she’d heard her mother say? What had he done to get beaten up like that, and why had her mother thought she wasn’t safe either? It was something that had troubled Martha over the years, but her mother refused to talk about it, and she’d stopped asking.

  Martha sighed and finished her coffee. She’d never know unless she could speak to him, and although she’d tried, she hadn’t been able to find him. He’d disappeared. Maybe he’s dead? That seemed the logical conclusion, the reason why he hadn’t come to Cornwall with them, but if that was the case, surely her mum would have said? Perhaps she’d ask Fran again. It was years since she’d last raised the subject and she was an adult now. Surely she was old enough to know what had happened, then maybe she could make sense of the past and get on with her life.

  If Mum will let me.

  That’s what it came down to – getting permission.

  Well, that’s going to end. Things were going to be different, she decided. Izzy’s right. I deserve my own life. I’ve let Mum control me for far too long. Maybe this really was her chance to get away, escape from a place she hated, go and find somewhere she could call home with people she could count on as proper friends. Somewhere she felt comfortable.

  But what about Mum? She sighed and knew that she could never leave her on her own. Her conscience wouldn’t let her, whatever her head was telling her to do. And her heart wouldn’t let her either. The love between mother and daughter was a strange thing, one that transformed over time, but it was what her life was built on. They were part of each other, and life without her mum would feel… wrong.

  She stood to clear her breakfast things away and noticed the time. It was almost eleven and she stopped, midway to the sink, frowning. Where is Mum? She was always up and about by now. A cold realisation slithered down her spine and she dropped her cup and plate on the worktop, ran up the stairs.

  ‘Mum! Mum!’ she shouted, but there was no response, not a sound.

  She flung open the door to her mum’s bedroom and dashed over to the bed, where her mother was still asleep. Her eyes caught the bottles on the floor. Both of them empty. Her heart flapped in her chest. ‘Mum!’ she shouted, shaking Fran’s shoulder, but she was floppy as a rag doll and unresponsive.

  Diabetic coma.

  It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and she went through the drill, checking that Fran was still breathing, making sure her airways were clear, before heaving her into the recovery position. She pulled her phone from her pocket and rang an ambulance, explaining the situation to them as she had over a dozen times before.

  That was the moment she made a decision. This is the last time. The very last time she’s going to put me through this. It wasn’t as though her mum didn’t realise what she was doing to herself and what the consequences might be. Selfish, stupid, drunk… she thought before she burst into tears, rubbing her mum’s shoulder as she waited, hoping that it wasn’t too late.

  I’m going, she decided with a sniff, forcing her tears to come to a shuddering stop. When this was over, and her mother was stabilised, she was going to grab hold of her life and escape.

  Seven

  Martha

  Two days ago

  It was evening and Martha was lying on her bed, exhausted. She listened to the familiar ringing of Messenger, and just when she wondered if Izzy wasn’t going to answer, her face appeared on the screen.

  ‘Hiya, hun. How you doing?’ Izzy smiled, then frowned, leaning forwards, eyes scanning Martha’s face. ‘Has something else happened? You okay?’

  ‘Jeez, what a day!’ Martha sank onto her pillows, letting go of the tension that had kept her together throughout her ordeal. ‘Honestly, it’s all gone to shit.’

  Martha explained about her mother and the hours she’d spent in hospital, the words rushing out of her like water flowing down a drain. She crumpled, like an empty vessel, once her story was told.

  ‘My God! That’s awful.’ Izzy shook her head in disbelief. ‘Is she going to be okay?’

  Martha sighed. ‘I don’t know, and the worst thing is, it’s all my fault. We had a blazing row and she always has a drink when we’ve argued and once she starts she can’t stop, then she forgets to take her medication. Forgets everything, really.’ She was silent for a moment, considering. ‘But I suppose that’s why she drinks. She can’t cope with reality.’ Her shoulders ached and she rubbed at a sore spot, trying to ease out the knots. There was no logic to it really, no way to make it sound like rational behaviour, and she wasn’t looking for a psychological lecture from Izzy on the root causes of alcoholism. Better to shut up.

  She looked away, unsure what she felt about the situation, so conflicted it felt like she had two people living inside her – one furious at her mum’s self-destructive behaviour, the other compassionate, understanding that she was struggling with demons that Martha couldn’t understand. She found another knotty muscle and worked at it while she spoke. ‘She’s never been any different. Especially since Dad disappeared. And she’s always been a bit…’ She scrunched up her nose. ‘I don’t know what you psychologists would call it, but she’s definitely emotionally needy. Clingy. Hates being alone.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s so bloody tiring.’

  ‘Well, that sounds like dependent personality disorder.’ Izzy gave a flap of her hand. ‘Obviously not a definite diagnosis.’ She fixed her gaze on Martha. ‘Maybe now she’s in hospital you could mention it to her consultant? See if you can get some counselling arranged for her.’

  Martha nodded. ‘Not a bad idea. I’ve got to talk to them about her drinking as well because I’m pretty sure she just denies it’s a problem when they ask.’ Her jaw tightened. ‘I have to be honest. This is the final straw now. I’ve had enough. It’s time to stop avoiding all these problems and tackle things head on. I can’t live like this.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Have you thought about what I said yesterday, though? About leaving?’

  Izzy’s question made Martha look up, a rueful smile flitting across her lips. ‘Yeah, well, in theory it’s a great idea. But the reality is I’m not going anywhere for a while.’ She heaved in a breath. ‘Turns out Mum’s got a few new medical problems that need sorting out.’

  Izzy frowned. ‘Oh no. I’m so sorry to hear that.’

  Martha turned onto her back, looking at the ceiling, unable to meet Izzy’s concerned gaze. She knew if she did, she’d just burst into tears, and she was so sick of crying. What she needed was to talk. ‘Her feet are a mess, they said. She hasn’t been attending her appointments with the podiatrist, and when she’s drunk, she bumps into things, and because nobody has seen the state she’s in, it turns out she might be developing gangrene in her toes.’ Martha squeezed her eyes shut and was quiet for a few seconds. ‘They said…’ She nipped at her bottom lip, wrestling with her emotions because saying it made it real. ‘Oh, Izzy, they might have to amputate.’

  ‘Oh my God! That’s awful.’

  Martha nodded. ‘I know. She might be in a wheelchair, depends how bad it is.’

  ‘Bloody hell, that serious? How will you manage? Is your house even suitable?’

  Martha couldn’t bring herself to address the practicalities, the myriad problems that lay ahead, didn’t feel she could cope with any of it. Should I call Anna, tell her what’s happened? It was her house after all, and if it needed modifying for a wheelchair, or a stair-lift, then she’d have to be invol
ved. Then she remembered that Anna was abroad at the moment and in the past few years, even when they’d highlighted problems, precious little maintenance had happened.

  Izzy was basically the only person Martha could rely on. She turned to look at her, but she’d disappeared from the screen.

  ‘Izzy? Izzy, are you there?’

  ‘Yes, yes, sorry, someone at the door.’ Her face reappeared. ‘Amazon delivery. A book for my course that I’ve been waiting for.’ She tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘Sorry, what were you saying?’

  Martha stared at her for a moment, her flow interrupted, hurt that her friend hadn’t been listening. It’s my problem, not hers, she reminded herself. I need to stop whining and get on with it. She swallowed her disappointment. ‘I’m going to be her carer now. I’ve got to be, or they won’t let her out of hospital. And whatever she’s done… whatever I’ve moaned about, she’s still my mum.’ She shrugged, as if that was all it would take to remove the burden of worry that clung to her. ‘Looks like I’m stuck here now. So I’ll just have to learn to make the most of it.’

  Izzy stared back, clearly lost for words at this sudden turn of events. Martha could see the pity in her eyes and looked away, swamped by a feeling of utter defeat.

  ‘Sometimes life is just so shit.’ Martha’s voice was little more than a whisper. ‘I’m not sure why I bother. It would be easier…’

  Izzy’s eyes widened, mouth hanging open for a moment. ‘Don’t say that. Please don’t even think that. I’m always here for you, hun. Always.’

  Silence crept into the space between them, nothing obvious to say, and Martha studied Izzy’s face, knew that she properly cared about her. At least she’d found someone she had a connection with, even if she was hundreds of miles away.

  ‘Can you imagine, though, if Mum can’t even walk properly. I’ll have to be with her all the time. Stuck here.’ Martha’s chin wobbled. ‘I can’t bear to think about it.’

  Izzy reached out her arms in a virtual hug. ‘I’m here for you, Martha. Honestly, I am. We’ll get you through this.’ She sat back, lips pressed together, looking determined. ‘Thing is, you don’t know yet how bad your mum’s going to be, do you? It’s all maybes at the moment. Early days, you know? She might start to recover much better than they expected.’

  Martha nodded, so grateful for a bit of positivity when all she could see was problems and more problems. ‘Yeah, I know. And thanks, Izzy. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  Izzy gave her a lovely, warm smile. ‘Friends for life, hun. That’s what we are. So just you remember that. You’re not on your own.’

  Martha managed a fleeting smile then frowned as her phone gave a little buzz. ‘I’ve got to go, Izzy. I’ve a call coming in and it might be the hospital.’

  ‘Okay, let’s have another chat tomorrow or whenever you want.’ Izzy waved her hand. ‘Any time, just call me any time. Doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of the night, okay?’

  Martha nodded, and they said their goodbyes.

  The other call was indeed the hospital, giving her an update on her mum’s condition, as promised. Apparently, she was comfortable, whatever that meant, and Martha would be welcome to visit tomorrow when she could talk to the consultant and discuss what would happen next.

  She ended the call, lay back and thought about Izzy and how grateful she was to have her in her life. It had been a gradual thing, the blossoming of their friendship. After they’d met, they’d started sending silly dog GIFs on Messenger, adding jokey messages. Before long they were asking each other for advice about this and that and their conversations progressed to video calls. In time, Martha had started to confide in her friend, and having someone to talk to about her troubles had been a godsend. Sometimes, she wondered if she was downloading too much of her emotional baggage, but Izzy always encouraged her to talk, which wasn’t surprising given her background and ambitions.

  Izzy had trained as a mental health nurse but had decided to do a psychology degree, so she could become a therapist. She was perfect for the job, Martha thought, as she could always persuade Martha to open up. It had felt unnatural at first, laying herself bare, because she’d never had a confidante and was not used to explaining her feelings or even talking about them in any depth. But Izzy had a way of wheedling things out of her and had been so supportive and helpful she didn’t know what she’d do without her now.

  Feeling more positive, she got up and went downstairs, thinking she’d get some bits and pieces together for her mum, given that she’d be in hospital for a little while. She studied her Mum’s workspace, the clutter of papers scattered all over the table, almost consuming her computer. She had no idea how she managed to work like this, in such a disorganised mess. Behind her was Fran’s drawing board, pens and inks and other art paraphernalia. Martha studied the picture she’d been working on for the cover of Anna’s latest children’s book. Fairies and dragons, in a magical design that seemed to be alive, the images popping out from the paper.

  Martha’s heart melted a little, her anger at her mother subsiding. No wonder she can’t cope with reality if her mind’s busy with stuff like this. She traced the outline of the dragon, marvelled at the detail. There was no doubting her mum’s talent, it was just a shame she couldn’t put it to better use. Clients didn’t appreciate missed deadlines, however talented you were.

  She sat in her mum’s chair in front of the computer, something she’d rarely done. This space was sacred, and her mum hated her going anywhere near it. She’s not going to know, Martha told herself, realising it was an opportunity to have a bit of a reality check where their finances were concerned.

  Fran didn’t talk about money. Not properly. She’d mention she was a bit worried sometimes and Martha would give her some cash for whatever it was she was worrying about, but the big picture, what state the household finances were in… well, that was a mystery. Carefully, Martha started lifting bits of paper, trying to work out whether there was an order to the apparent chaos, and to her surprise, she found that there was. The papers on top of the desk related to potential and existing projects that her mother was either thinking about or working on. As she’d said, nothing too exciting or lucrative there. Underneath these papers, though, was a battered red folder, with ‘Bills to Pay’ written on it.

  With trepidation in her heart, Martha looked at the folder for a moment. Do I really want to know? With everything else that’s going on. Really? She took a deep breath and pulled out the thick wedge of papers, started to flick through them, her eyes narrowing as she read. Final demands. Letters about bailiffs if money wasn’t paid. Statements from loan companies that made her gasp when she saw how much interest was being applied and the size of the debt.

  Quickly, she stuffed everything back in the folder and slipped it under the papers where she’d found it, jumping up from the seat as if she’d been burned. She scurried upstairs, away from the evidence of their impending financial meltdown. My God! Why didn’t she tell me? But then, what could Martha do? She gave her mum most of her earnings anyway, only keeping what she needed for travel and clothes and the odd treat. The real problem was her mum’s income taking a nosedive these last few years, but still she couldn’t work out why they’d be in so much debt.

  She stopped at the doorway to her mum’s bedroom before venturing in, her heart thudding a little faster, even though there was nobody to witness the intrusion. She wasn’t allowed in her mum’s room, not unless she was invited. Or in the event of an emergency. Her mum was very private like that. Martha suspected it was because she hid her stash of drink in here and didn’t want Martha finding it. She looked around, the unholy mess dragging at her shoulders. The floor was littered with clothes, left where they’d been taken off, every surface piled with books and ornaments and magazines. Cardboard boxes containing goodness knew what stacked under the window. It was going to need a good clean and tidy before her mum came home, because in its current state, the place was surely a health
hazard.

  Martha’s hands gravitated to her hips. How can she sleep in this? She shook her head, her nose scrunching at the smell of body odour and bedding that needed a good wash. She walked over to the window and opened it to let in some fresh air. Get some nightclothes together for hospital, that’s the priority, she told herself, deciding that housework could wait for another day, too exhausted to contemplate it now.

  A sudden burst of noise made her jump and she realised it was her mum’s phone – something she needed to take to the hospital so they could stay in contact. She dashed over to where the noise was coming from and found the phone on the floor beside the bed. It stopped ringing before she could snatch it up, and she tutted when she realised she’d missed the call. Fran never locked her phone because she kept forgetting her code number, and the name of the caller came up on the screen.

  Greg.

  She frowned. That was her father’s name. The father that her mother had told her to forget because he was a loser and was no longer a part of their lives. Martha stared at the screen, then gave herself a mental shake, aware that she was jumping to a ridiculous conclusion. Probably a client. In which case, she needed to explain the situation with Fran’s health.

  She returned the call, listened to it ringing, but nobody answered and when an automated voice asked her to leave a message, she disconnected, thankful that he hadn’t replied. In reality, she was in no fit state to have a rational conversation about anything and she put the phone on the bedside cabinet while she gathered some clothes together.

  Once her mum’s bag was packed, she put it in the hallway, ready for the next day, when she’d go and visit. Then she remembered the phone and went to retrieve it. Should I try ringing him again? The very idea made her heart race, panic swelling in her chest as she thought about a conversation with a stranger, having to explain everything.