Between the Lies Page 7

  ‘I have to talk to you, Chloe.’ I cling to the tree, the bark rough against my skin. ‘Please don’t be frightened.’

  But it’s too late for that. ‘I can’t see you. Who are you?’ I move towards the fence, and as I do, I see a hand stretch out and a figure steps forward, closing the gap between us, his face still in shadow. But then torchlight flares left and right, following the sound of my voice, and the stranger pulls back, disappearing into the mist.

  The sound of urgent footsteps comes quick against the gravel as my parents rush up the driveway. Seconds later I feel my father’s slippery grip taking hold of my arm. My mother is only a couple of steps behind.

  ‘Oh God, Chloe. Look at you.’ He grabs my face, his fingers investigating my head wound, turning my chin left and right. ‘Who were you talking to? Are you hurt?’ He whips off his jacket, draping it about my shoulders. My head feels set to explode.

  In the distance I hear a car engine rev into life, the scuff of tyres on the road. I push past my father just in time to see the faint blur of two red lights, like smudges of watercolour paint. But my parents hold me firm as the car pulls away.

  Who was that? What did he want?

  ‘Get her inside,’ my mother says, her voice close to panic. ‘Quickly, Thomas.’

  ‘Somebody was here,’ I tell them, looking over my shoulder as they hurry me back towards the house, ushering me like a prisoner.

  We erupt into the hallway and my father slams the door shut behind us, setting the security chain in place. Rain strikes the window. Upstairs, Jess’s music is playing. I catch sight of my face in the mirror, my lips tinged blue, my hair stuck in damp clumps to my cheeks. My sodden hat drips from my mother’s clasped hand. They push me to sit on the bottom step of the stairs as a crack of thunder splits the sky.

  My mother pulls off my wet muddy shoes and runs to the living room, returning a moment later with a thick tartan blanket. My father pulls his wet jacket from my shoulders, showering me with ice-cold droplets. ‘There was somebody in the graveyard,’ I tell him again. ‘A man, he knew my name. He knew me.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that now,’ he says, shaking his head, his wet shirt stuck to his skin. He rubs at my arms, still surveying me for injury. ‘It’s just the churchyard. It’s given you the creeps, that’s all. There was nobody there.’ But despite his insistence, I know that isn’t true.

  My mother sits down next to me and pulls me close, wrapping the blanket tight around my shoulders. She hands me a tot of something strong and I knock it back. Brandy, I think, as the heat chases down like fire to my stomach. She rocks me, tries to calm my nerves. And the way she holds me, the way I can feel the movement of her chest as she breathes; it’s like being a child again. In that instant I remember falling down the stairs, breaking my ankle. I can even see the spot where I landed, the small break in the balustrade that was a result of the impact. On that day she cradled me in her arms just like she is doing now while we waited for my father to come home. The accident wasn’t her fault, but still it happened in her care, and she accepted the guilt of responsibility, bore the weight of my father’s judgement.

  As I look at her face now, I realise there is something about the person who nurses you, who changes your diaper, who sings you lullabies before you are even old enough to know you’re making memories. They imprint themselves on you, make their spirit part of your existence. Sometimes it is only a mother who can make things better. But with that knowledge comes an overwhelming regret: not only was I unable to save my own child, there is still, according to my father, a chance that I am the one who chose to end his life.

  I turn to her, certain in this moment of maternal connection that she will listen, that she will believe me and understand. ‘There was a man out there, Mum. He spoke to me.’ But she just pulls my head into her body, holds me tighter still. ‘He knew me,’ I say, more to myself than anybody else.

  ‘Hallucinations, Chloe,’ my father says. Then: ‘Why did you run off like that?’ I feel his clumsy fingers needling at my shoulders, the left one still sore from the crash. ‘We can help you through this, but only if you trust us. Isn’t that right, Evelyn?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ My mother tops up my brandy and I drink it down. ‘It’ll do her good,’ she urges when my father tuts disapprovingly. Then she takes the glass and pours another shot, knocks it back herself.

  ‘We’ll talk more about this tomorrow,’ my father says. ‘Here, this will make you feel better, help you relax.’ He hands me a tablet, and in my confusion I swallow it unquestioningly, with yet another glug of the brandy.

  ‘But the car,’ I tell them. ‘I saw a car.’ I look to my mother again, certain she will help after her display at the dinner table. She wanted me to know the truth, didn’t she? Surely she wouldn’t lie now. Not again. ‘Didn’t you see a car pulling away?’

  ‘What car?’ my father interrupts. ‘There was no car. Tell her, Evelyn.’

  My mother’s left eye twitches, crow’s feet extending towards her cheeks. She strokes my face, offers me a smile. My head is already feeling light. What was the tablet he gave me? ‘No, Chloe,’ she says, as calm as she can be. ‘I didn’t see any car.’

  You always said your parents were liars, that if they had been truthful with each other it would have been easier from the start. It was as if you thought they were to blame for what you had become, as if there was some flaw that ran through you, created by them, all the way down to a rotten, decaying core.

  But I disagree, Chloe, because without them you might have become something else. Something I would have loved less. I like your flaws, your needs, your weaknesses. They complement my own. You smiled when I told you that, but I came to realise that behind your smile, you were hiding how you really felt. You pitied me, didn’t you? You thought me weak because I had accepted my own flaws. You wanted to fight against yours, run away from who you really were. You always hoped it would be different for you.

  But I never tried to hide anything. I told you over and over how I felt inside. For me you had become something palpable, a mass growing inside me like a tumour. No, that’s wrong. Like an organ, something necessary in order to keep going. Something I never knew I needed yet couldn’t live without. I could feel you in every heartbeat, every shiver of my skin. You became my life. My reason for being.

  Without you I was empty.

  I’m sorry that I said I wouldn’t rest until I had ruined your life. I didn’t mean it. It was just nonsense, I promise. I’m desperate, that’s all, desperate for you. Doesn’t love make you feel like that? Please try to forget that I told you I’d take everything you have. I didn’t mean that either. Let’s put all this nonsense behind us, start again. I’ll forgive you too. I only want you to be happy. You told me you loved me once, and I know you still do. All we need is to be together. As long as you tell me that you are mine for ever, everything will be just fine.

  ELEVEN

  After we’ve dried off, we settle down in front of the fire in the living room and my father tells me about the funerals. Simple affairs, he says, the ashes scattered together from Brighton pier into the sea. A heartbreaking day. They tossed flowers into the waves, pink and purple gerbera daisies. Some yellow like the warmest sunlight. They will take me there, he promises, to say a proper goodbye. We’ll take more flowers. Once I’m stronger. Once I’m ready.

  He produces a simple gold band from his pocket and sets it down on the table. ‘My wedding ring,’ I say, picking it up, slipping it over my shaky finger. But I am quick to take it off again; it is strange to wear something to which I don’t feel connected, though I get the briefest flash of what I think must have been my wedding day: Andrew in church, me walking towards him. My father takes the ring from me and I watch as he puts it on the mantelpiece.

  ‘We’ll just leave it here, and when you’re ready, you can take it back.’ He reassures me that soon enough the hallucinations will stop, that I will return to normal. I will feel better, he says. I will be a
ble to move on. ‘Now, Chloe, lie back on the couch. That’s it, feet up.’

  My mother is fussing around us, covering me with a blanket. My eyes are heavy, my head sore. I don’t feel present. I am drifting again.

  ‘Close your eyes and listen to my voice. I’m going to take you back. I want you to tell me what you can remember … Sorry, what did you say?’ Is he talking to me? Did I say something? ‘Yes, of course, Evelyn.’ He’s speaking to my mother. ‘She’s nearly asleep. Just stop your fussing and give me some space to put this right.’

  * * *

  That night I suffer a fitful sleep, my body fighting against the recurring dream. In it I am running through bushes, trees rising above me, searching a dense forest for Joshua. It is dark, approaching dusk, and at first I can’t find him. A thorn catches at my head, tears through the skin. Rain washes into my eyes. And then all of a sudden he is there before me, lying on the ground blanketed in a layer of wet, sticky leaves. Moments from death. Blood covering his face. I see my car, crushed against a tree, as if I am reliving the accident at a distance, watching from afar as my son bleeds out into the rotting forest floor.

  All night long I see the same thing, every time I close my eyes. It is the same dream as last night, but this time, when I wake up, something is different. It is as if I have brought the dream back with me over the threshold between sleep and wakefulness. I can still feel the chill on my skin, smell the rain. I can feel the tiny lacerations across my face and remember the way I sustained them when I fell into the undergrowth. Tonight it is as if what I see in my dreams is real.

  I throw off the sheets, my head hazy, heavy like a hangover. Goose pimples shiver in waves across my body as I edge back the curtain and peek outside. Darkness stares back at me, interrupted by a street lamp near the distant church. The fog rolls along in the glowing cone of light like whitecaps breaking against a rocky shore.

  I press a palm against the cold glass and streams of condensation rush away like liquid falling stars. Make a wish, I think, but what would I wish for if I could? My old life? Strange to wish for something I can’t even describe. I have no idea what it was like; how it used to feel. Should I wish for a marriage to a man who my father tells me was a failure, who even before the accident I had decided to leave? I wonder if I should wish to become the person I used to be before the accident, but what’s the good of that? She might have chosen to kill her son. I’m not sure I want to be her.

  I grab an old robe of my mother’s and wrap it around my body, slip my feet into a pair of her slippers. My leg feels better today, a little less sore than it did, as I creep downstairs.

  I move past the front door, feel the draught as it sneaks through the frame, brushing at my bare ankles. I press down on the handle to my father’s study, trying not to make a sound. As I am hit by the musty smell of old books, a memory jolts back to me, of sitting at my father’s desk. School work on a winter’s day, snow on the ground, a crow cawing. How things come back to you. How information can be triggered by just a smell.

  I sit down in his chair, the leather cold against the back of my legs. The desk is old, like a captain’s desk from an imperial ship. There is a monolithic statue to the side, glass, engraved with my father’s name along the bottom. I read the inscription: The Roberta Award of Excellence. Next to it sits a picture of the four of us, the award in my father’s hand. It seems familiar, although I’m not sure why. I stare at myself in the photo, my hair lighter, my face full and body curvy. I look along the bottom of the statue, find a date: just six months ago. My whole world has changed so quickly.

  I turn on the computer and wait in the cool glare of the blue light. As I stare at my blurred reflection in the screen, I remember seeing myself in glass like this, a kitchen cupboard maybe, as I stand at a cooker warming up milk. A tartan settee somewhere in the background; the sound of a baby’s cries. Me as a mother? My old home? It must be, but it remains heartbreakingly out of reach, just smoke from a previous life, a cloud.

  A request for a password pops onto the screen. I try our names, lower and upper case and different combinations, but none work. I try the four numbers from the outside gate but that doesn’t work either. I would try dates and birthdays if only I could remember them. When is my birthday? When was Joshua’s?

  ‘What are you doing?’ His voice startles me. I peer over the screen to see my father standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He is dressed in a blue dressing gown with a red quilted trim, his hair all over the place, fresh from sleep. It is as if I have stumbled into the private life of a stranger, caught in a place I have no right to be.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say as I push myself to my feet. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d mess about on the internet.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid this computer isn’t for messing about with.’

  I nod, a hot flush of embarrassment spreading across my cheeks. Seeing him reminds me of the night before, a night that ended without a clear memory. What was that tablet he gave me? Did he start a therapy session just before I slept? It’s a blur.

  ‘I suppose you don’t remember the day you managed to delete nearly all of my files?’ he asks me.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I lost a lot of work. You opened up an email, something to do with Pokémon if I remember correctly. It must have been a virus. I went ballistic,’ he says, his eyes sheepish. The hairs prickle on the back on my neck, a memory I can’t quite place. Just how furious was he? ‘But I learned a valuable lesson about backing up my work.’

  ‘I won’t try to use it again. I’m sorry.’ I attempt to leave, a sudden urge to get out of the room. I step forward, but so too does my father, blocking my path with his oversized frame. He rests his hand on the chair. I have no choice but to remain where I am. He motions to the computer.

  ‘Did you manage to get into it?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know your password.’

  He swivels me around, his fingers digging into my clavicles. The left one throbs. He edges me back into the seat.

  ‘I’m disappointed, Chloe,’ he says, pushing the chair forward, trapping me as the arms line up alongside the desk. He leans over my shoulder and reaches one pointed finger towards the keyboard. His beard tickles the side of my face, sends a shiver across my skin. ‘You should have been able to guess the most important thing to me in the world.’ I watch as he taps in the word FAMILY. ‘There you go. But please, don’t go rooting around in the documents. There are many confidential files in there, and it wouldn’t be right for the patients under my care.’ He gives me a pat on the shoulder, sending a bolt of pain down into my arm. The damp air is getting to the aches and pains that have set in since the accident. ‘And whatever you do,’ he adds with a wink, ‘please don’t open any emails.’

  As he disappears into the kitchen, I open up Google. What am I hoping to find? Something about me, or something about the people lost to me? Something about the man who might have been responsible for killing my child? I start by typing my own name.

  I get a mixture of results, most of which seem to spring from Facebook. There are a few people with the name Chloe Daniels, but I can’t find any profile belonging to me. So instead I type in my sister’s name, assuming she will have a profile and also that we would be friends. I search the list. No Chloe Daniels. But I do find my profile. My name is Chloe Jameson. Even the name I thought I had doesn’t really belong to me. Something as simple as that and they kept it from me. But why wouldn’t they tell me my married name?

  And there is a picture: me with Joshua, exposed shoulders shiny against a blue sky. The intense blue gives me the impression I might have been on holiday when it was taken. It is recent, I think, judging by the fact that Joshua looks to be around eight years old, the age I know he was when he died.

  I can’t see much else on my profile because it seems I was a private person, most of it closed to strangers. I can’t see my friends list, and only a handful of historical updates are visible. There are a
few pictures of me, though, some with Joshua when he was younger; some of Andrew too. He looks fresh-faced, not at all like the drinker my father described. And we don’t look like we were falling apart either. There is a picture dated only eight months ago, and we are together, smiling, and close. It is hard to imagine how behind those faces there are problems so severe that I wanted to leave my marriage. Leave him. Terrible enough that either of us would even consider taking our own lives.

  My father walks back through with two cups of tea. He hands me one, then pulls up a chair and sits down next to me. ‘What woke you?’ he asks. ‘The cold? More bad dreams?’

  ‘I guess a bit of both.’ I shiver as a draught winds in through the old window behind me, the curtains swaying as it brushes them aside. ‘Why is it so cold in here?’

  ‘Heating kicks in just after six thirty. Nobody is usually up at this time.’ I look down at the computer, see that it isn’t yet five o’clock. ‘Care to tell me what was in your dream?’

  ‘The usual stuff.’ He folds his arms, waits for me to explain. ‘The accident. I saw Joshua, lying on the ground. I couldn’t help him.’

  He takes a long breath. ‘Perhaps that’s my fault for telling you the details of what happened. Your mind has started working overtime, trying to piece together the facts. But don’t worry about these dreams, Chloe. They’ll pass. It is just the mind’s way of trying to process everything you are learning. This is why we kept some of the details from you at first. It’s a hard process of acceptance that you are going through.’ He nods at the computer. ‘Did you find anything interesting?’

  Although I don’t really trust him, don’t know if I should be talking to him, he remains one of the only links I have to my past. Telling him might help me recall something important. ‘I guess I’m looking for answers, trying to work out who I am. Or at least who I was.’