Sometimes I Lie

Then

Monday, 19th December 2016 – Evening

I get off the train and make my way along the quiet, suburban streets towards home and Paul. I’m still not convinced anything can be done to save my job, but maybe this will at least buy me enough time to do what I need to do. I won’t tell him. Not yet. I might never need to.

It wouldn’t be the first job that I’ve lost since we’ve been together. My career as a TV reporter came to an abrupt end two years ago when my editor got a bit too friendly once too often. He had a rather hands-on approach. One evening his hand slipped right up under my skirt and the next day someone keyed his BMW in the staff car park. He thought it was me and I never got on air again after that. I never got groped again either. I quit before he found an excuse to fire me and it was a relief to be honest, I hated being on TV. But Paul was devastated. He liked that version of me. He loved her. I got under his feet at home all the time. I wasn’t the woman he married. I was unemployed, I didn’t dress the same and I no longer had any stories to tell. Last year, at a wedding, the couple sat next to us asked what I did. Paul answered before I had a chance to. ‘Nothing.’ The somebody he loved became a nobody he loathed.

He said it made it hard for him to write, me being at home all the time. He had a fancy shed built at the bottom of the garden, so he could pretend that I wasn’t. Claire spotted the advert for the Coffee Morning job six months ago, she sent me the link and suggested I apply. I didn’t think I’d get it, but I did.

I stumble up the garden path and feel inside my handbag for my key. I’m puzzled by the sound of music and laughter inside the house. Paul is not alone. I remember that I tried calling him this afternoon but he never answered and didn’t bother to call me back. My hands shake a little as I open the front door.

They are sitting on the sofa laughing, Paul in his usual seat, Claire in mine. An almost empty bottle of wine and two glasses pose for a tedious still life on the table in front of them.

She doesn’t even like red.

They look a little shocked to see me and I feel like an intruder in my own home.

‘Hello, Sis. How are you?’ says Claire, getting up to kiss me on both cheeks. Her designer skinny jeans look as though they’ve been sprayed on, petite pedicured feet protruding beneath them. Her tight, white top reveals a little more than it should as she stands up. I don’t remember seeing it before, must be new. She dresses as though we are still young, as though men still look at us that way. If they do, I don’t see them. Her long blonde hair has been straightened within an inch of its life and is tucked behind her ears as though she is wearing an invisible Alice band. Everything about her appearance is neat, tidy, controlled. We couldn’t look more different. She stands too close, waiting for me to say something. Her perfume infiltrates my nostrils, my throat, I can taste it on my tongue. Familiar but dangerous. Sickly sweet.

‘I thought you were going out after work tonight?’ says Paul from his seat.

His eyes narrow slightly at the sight of my shopping bags, some new outfits folded neatly in a cradle of tissue paper inside. I silently dare him to say something. It’s my money, I earned it. I’ll spend it on what I like. I put the bags down, noticing the deep red grooves the plastic handles have carved into my fingers.

‘Something came up,’ I say in Paul’s direction, before turning to Claire: ‘I didn’t know you were coming round. Is everything all right?’ I know what’s going on here.

‘Everything’s fine, David is working late, again. I came over to see you for a girly chat, but I forgot that unlike me you have a social life.’

She’s trying too hard, her smile looks like it’s hurting her face.

‘Where are the children?’ I ask. Her smile fades.

‘With a neighbour, they’re fine. I wouldn’t leave them with anyone unreliable.’ She turns to Paul, but he just stares at the floor. Her lips are stained from the wine and her cheeks a little flushed; she has never been able to handle her drink. I see it then, the look in her eyes; that flash of danger that I’ve seen before. She knows I’ve spotted it and that I haven’t forgotten what it means. ‘I should go, it’s later than I thought,’ she says.

‘I’d invite you to stay, but I need to talk to my husband.’ I meant to say Paul, but my subconscious deemed it necessary to change the script.

‘Of course. Well, I’ll see you both soon. Hope everything is OK at work,’ she says, picking up her coat and bag, leaving her half-drunk glass of wine on the table. As soon as the door closes, I am overwhelmed with regret. I know I should go after her, apologise, so she knows I still love her, that we’re OK. But I don’t.

‘Well, that was awkward,’ says Paul.

I don’t respond, don’t even look at him. Instead, I double-lock the front door without thinking then pick up Claire’s glass and walk out to the kitchen. He follows me and stands in the doorway as I tip the crimson liquid into the sink. Dark red splashes stain the white porcelain and I turn on the tap to wash them away.

‘Yes, it was a little strange coming home to find my husband and sister enjoying a cosy night in together.’ The memory of the wine I drank myself earlier slurs my words a little. I can see from Paul’s expression that he thinks I’m being ridiculous, or jealous, or both. It isn’t that. I’m scared of what this means, finding them like this. I’m pretty sure she knew I wouldn’t be here and she’d offloaded the kids, so she’d planned it. I can’t explain it to him, he wouldn’t believe me, he doesn’t know her like I do or understand what she’s capable of.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I meant you, just telling her to leave like that. She came round here to see you, she’s feeling really down.’

‘Well, maybe she should phone first if she really wants to see me.’

‘She said she did, several times. You didn’t return any of her calls.’ I remember that Claire did call today, twice. The first time during my chat with Matthew, as though she had known something was wrong. I turn to face Paul but the words won’t come. Everything about him in this moment seems to irritate me. He’s still an attractive man but elements of the life he has chosen have left him worn and used, like a shiny piece of silver that becomes dull and tarnished over time. He’s too thin, his skin looks like it has forgotten the sun, and his hair is too long for a man his age, but then he never did grow up. I can see from the set of his jaw that he’s angry with me and for some reason that turns me on. We haven’t had sex for months, not since our anniversary. Maybe that’s how it will be from now on, an annual treat.

I turn to face the oven, my fingers forming the familiar shapes. I didn’t used to do this in front of him, but I don’t care any more.

‘Did something happen at work today?’ he asks.

I don’t reply.

‘I don’t know why you stay there.’

‘Because I need to.’

‘Why? We don’t need the money. You could try and get a job in TV again.’

A layer of silence spreads itself over the conversation, smothering the words we always think but never say. Radio killed his TV star. I continue to stare at the oven and start to count under my breath.

‘Will you stop doing that? It’s nuts,’ he says.

I ignore him and carry on with my routine. I can feel him staring at me.

The wheels on the bus go round and round . . .

All we seem to do lately is argue.

Round and round . . .

The harder I try to hold us together, the faster we fall apart.

Round and round.

I’m not someone who cries, I have other ways of expressing my sadness.

The wheels on the bus go round and round . . .

I wish I could tell him the truth.

All day long.

A memory from my childhood switches itself on inside my head. I wish it wouldn’t.

‘Are you OK?’ Paul asks, finally leaving the doorway.

‘No,’ I whisper and let him hold me.

It’s the truth, but not the whole of it.

Before

Monday, 16th September 1991

Dear Diary,

Today was an interesting day, I started at a new school. That is not very interesting, it happens quite often, but today it felt different, as though maybe things will work out this time. My new form teacher seems nice. When Mum meets her, I bet she’ll say, ‘Mrs MacDonald likes her food, doesn’t she?’ Mum says that sort of thing a lot, it’s her way of saying someone is overweight. Mum says it is important to look your best, because even if people shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, they still do. Mrs MacDonald is older than Mum but younger than Nana was. She introduced me to the class without making a song and dance of it like teachers normally do, then told me to take a seat. There was only one empty desk at the back of the room, so I sat there. As first days at school go, today was OK. Mum says we’ll definitely stick around this time, but she’s said that before.

The class are reading the diary of a girl called Anne Frank, but they’ve only just started, so I haven’t missed too much. The girl at the desk next to mine let me share her copy. She said I should call her Taylor, which is actually her surname, not her first name, but whatever. I noticed the dusting of chalk on her blazer and I already know she’s one of those kids, the sort the others don’t like.

For our homework, we have to write a diary entry every day for a week, a bit like Anne Frank, but she did it for much longer. The best part of this is that we don’t even have to hand it in, because Mrs MacDonald says diaries should always be private. I thought about not doing it at all, nobody would know, but Mum and Dad are arguing again downstairs so I thought I may as well give it a go.

I don’t think my diary is going to be as interesting as Anne Frank’s. I’m not a very interesting person. Mrs MacDonald says if we get stuck with what to write, we should just think of three honest things to say about ourselves. She says that everyone can think of three things and that being honest with yourself is more important than being honest with others. So, here are my first three things to share with you (they are all true):

1. I’m almost ten.

2. I don’t have any friends.

3. My parents don’t love me.

The thing about the truth is that it sucks.

My nana died of cancer. We moved in with her when she got sick, but it didn’t make her better. She was sixty-two, which sounds old, but Mum said it was actually quite young to die. I used to spend a lot of time with Nana, she always took me to cool places and listened to me. She never had a lot of money, but she gave me this diary last Christmas. She thought writing down how I felt might help me deal with things. Nearly a whole year has gone by and I didn’t listen, but now I wish I had. I wish I had written down all the things she used to say, because I’ve already started to forget them.

I think my parents used to love me, but I disappointed them so often that the love got rubbed out. They don’t even love each other, they argue and shout at each other all the time. They argue about lots of things, but mostly about all the money that we don’t have. They also argue about me. They were so loud once that one of our old neighbours called the police. Mum said it was all very embarrassing and, when the police left, they argued even more because of that. We don’t live there now, so Mum says it doesn’t matter any more and that people should mind their own business. She said it would be a ‘fresh start’ when we moved here and, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to make some new friends?’ She hadn’t noticed that I didn’t have any old ones.

I used to make friends whenever we moved to a new place, but I always felt really sad when I had to say goodbye. I don’t bother now. I don’t need friends anyway. When people ask if I’d like to come to their birthday parties, I just say no thank you and that I’m not allowed, even though I would be. I don’t even show Mum the invites, I just put them in the bin. The problem with going to other people’s houses is that then they want to visit yours. Nana always said that books made better friends than people anyway. Books will take you anywhere if you let them, she used to say, and I think she was right.

After Nana died, Mum said we would redecorate but we haven’t. I sleep in Nana’s room in the bed where she went to sleep one day and never woke up. Mum said I could get a new bed, but I don’t want to, not yet. Sometimes I think I can still smell her, which is silly because the sheets have been washed loads and they’re not even the same ones. There are two beds in my room. The other one was Grandad’s, but he didn’t die there, he died in a home that wasn’t his.

I can’t hear anything which means they’ve stopped arguing, for now. What happens next is that Dad will open a bottle of red wine and pour himself a large glass. Meanwhile, Mum will take something out of the freezer for dinner and make herself a drink that looks like water but isn’t. I’m never going to drink alcohol when I grow up, I don’t like what it does to people. We’ll eat our microwaved lasagne in silence for a while, before one of them remembers to ask about my first day. I’ll tell them it was fine, talk a little bit about the teachers and my classes and they’ll pretend to listen. As soon as Dad has finished eating, he’ll take what’s left of the wine and go to his study. It used to be Nana’s sewing room. Dad renamed it but he doesn’t do any studying in there, he watches the little TV. Mum will wash up and I’ll sit in the lounge by myself watching the big TV until it’s time for bed. Then, at nine o’clock, Mum will tell me to go upstairs. She sets an alarm to remind herself to do this. Once I’m in bed and they think I’m asleep, they’ll start arguing again. Nana used to sing me a song to help me go to sleep when I was little. ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round.’ I didn’t used to like it, but now I sometimes hum it to myself to drown out the sound of Dad shouting and Mum crying. That’s pretty much my life. I told you it wasn’t as interesting as Anne Frank’s.

Now

Tuesday, 27th December 2016

I can hear heavy rain, like a relentless army of tiny fingernails tapping on the window, trying to wake me from this bottomless sleep. When each angry drop fails to break the spell, I picture it turning into a tear and crying its way down the glass. I think it must be night, it’s quieter than before. I imagine being able to stand up, walk to the window and reach my hand into the outside, to feel the rain on my skin and look up at the night sky. I long for that and I wonder if I will ever see the stars again. We are all made of flesh and stars, but we all become dust in the end. Best to shine while you can.

I am alone, but I keep hearing Paul’s voice in my head. Hold on. I’m trying to, but things keep slipping from my grasp. I don’t understand why he and Claire were arguing, they’ve always got on so well. My sister is younger than me but has always been one step ahead. I’m told we do look alike, but she is blonde and beautiful and I’m more of a dark-haired disappointing cover artist. She was the new and improved daughter my parents always wanted, they thought she was perfect. So did I at first, but as soon as she arrived into our family, I was forgotten. They never knew her the way I did, they didn’t see what I saw.

I feel myself start to drift away. I fight it for as long as I am able, then, just as I’m about to surrender, the door opens.

I know it’s her.

Claire has always worn the same perfume as our mother; she is a creature of habit. And she always wears too much. I can also smell a subtle waft of her fabric-conditioned clothes as she slowly walks around the room. I expect she’s wearing something fitted and feminine, something far too small for me to squeeze into. I hear her kitten heels tap the floor and wonder what she is looking at. She takes her time. She is alone.

She pulls up a chair and sits down close to the bed, her turn to read to me in mute now. I hear pages being turned sporadically, she came prepared. I can imagine her manicured hands holding the book on her lap. I start to picture my room as a sterile library, and myself as a ghostly librarian who imposes a sentence of silence on all who enter: Shhh! Claire reads fast in real life, so when I don’t hear the pages turn too often, I know she’s just pretending. She’s good at that.

‘I wish our parents were here,’ she says.

I’m glad they’re not.

She wishes they were here for her, not for me. They’d probably think it was my fault, like always. I hear her put the book she’s been pretending to read down and come to stand a little closer. My thoughts get louder until I am forced to listen, but they rush around my head and collide with each other, so I can never stay on one thought long enough to make any sense of it. Claire’s face is so close to mine now that I can taste the coffee on her breath.

‘You still have glass in your hair,’ she whispers.

As soon as her words land in my ears, I feel myself being pulled back quickly. It’s like going through a very long dark tunnel, backwards. I find myself sitting on a high branch of a dead tree, I look down and notice I’m still wearing my hospital gown. I recognise the street beneath my feet, I live near here, I’m almost home. There’s a rumble of a storm in the distance and I can smell burning, but I’m not afraid. I reach out to touch the rain that has started falling, but my hand remains perfectly dry. Everything I see is the darkest shade of black, apart from a tiny light in the distance. I’m so happy to see it, until I realise that it isn’t a star, it’s a headlight. It’s joined by a twin. The wind picks up and I see a car coming down the road towards me, too fast. I look down at the street below and see a little girl wearing a pink, fluffy dressing gown in the middle of the road. She’s singing.

Twinkle twinkle little star . . .

She turns her head up towards me.

How I wonder who you are.

She’s got the words wrong.

Up above the world so sad.

The car is close now, I scream at her to get off the road.

It’s not the drugs. You’re going mad.

It’s only then that I notice she doesn’t have a face.

I watch as the car swerves to avoid her, skids, then smashes into the tree I am sitting in. The force of the impact almost knocks me from the branch, but someone in the distance tells me to hold on. Below me, time has slowed. The little girl laughs uncontrollably and I watch in horror as a woman’s body smashes out of the windscreen. She flies through the air in slow motion, wearing a cape of a thousand shards of glass. Her body lands hard on the street directly below. I look back at the little girl, she’s stopped laughing. She raises her index finger to where her lips should be: Shhh. I look back over at the body of the woman. I know that it’s me down there, but I don’t want to see any more. I close my eyes. Everything is silent, except the car radio, which is still playing Christmas songs from within the twisted metal shell. The music stops abruptly and I hear Madeline’s voice on the crackly airwaves. I sit on my branch and put my hands over my ears, but I can still hear her repeating the same words over and over.

Hello and welcome to Coffee Morning.

Nothing happens by accident.

I start to scream but Madeline’s voice just gets louder. I hear a door open and I fall straight from the tree, back into my hospital bed.

‘I’m back,’ says Paul.

‘I can see that,’ says Claire.

‘Which means you can go now. When I’m here, you’re not. That’s what we agreed.’

‘That’s what you agreed,’ she says. ‘I’m not leaving.’

Claire picks up her discarded book from the end of the bed and sits back down in her chair. Everything is silent for a while, then I hear Paul sit down on the other side of the room. It feels like we stay like this for a very long time. I’m not sure if I’m awake or asleep for all of it, I don’t know if there are moments that I missed. The hours are being stolen from me, episodes I wanted to see deleted before I’ve had a chance to watch.

I hear more voices, new ones. Everyone seems to be talking over each other at first, so that the words get tangled on their way to my ears. I have to concentrate very hard to straighten them out.

‘Mr Reynolds? I’m DCI Jim Handley and this is PC Healey. Could we speak with you outside?’ says a man’s voice from the doorway.

‘Of course,’ says Paul. ‘Is it to do with the accident?’

‘It might be best if we spoke alone,’ says the detective.

‘It’s fine, I’ll go,’ says Claire.

The knot in the pit of my stomach tightens as she exits the room. I hear the door click shut before someone clears their throat.

‘It was your car that your wife was driving night before last, is that right?’ the detective asks.

‘Yes,’ Paul answers.

‘Do you know where she was going?’

‘No.’

‘But you saw her leave?’

‘Yes.’

I hear a long, drawn-out intake of breath. ‘Shortly after your wife was brought to hospital by ambulance, two of our colleagues went to your home. You weren’t there.’

‘I was out looking for her.’

‘On foot?’

‘That’s right. I was at home the next morning when they came back.’

‘So you knew that police officers had been to your property the night before?’

‘Well, not at the time, no, but you just said they . . .’

‘The officers who came to your house yesterday morning were sent to inform you that your wife was at the hospital. The first set of police officers were sent the night before because someone had reported you and your wife arguing loudly in the street.’ Paul doesn’t say anything. ‘If you didn’t know where your wife was going, then where did you go to look for her?’

‘I was drunk, it was Christmas after all. I wasn’t thinking logically, I just wandered around for a while . . .’

‘I see that your hand is bandaged up. How did that happen?’

‘I don’t remember.’

He’s lying, I can tell, but I don’t know why.

‘We’ve spoken to some of the staff who were here when your wife was first brought in. They say that some of her injuries are older than those she sustained in the crash, do you have any idea how she might have got them?’

What injuries?

‘No,’ says Paul.

‘You didn’t notice the marks on her neck or the bruising on her face?’ asks the female police officer.

‘No,’ he says again.

‘I do think it’s best we speak to you somewhere more private, Mr Reynolds,’ says the detective. ‘We’d like to invite you to come to the station with us.’

The room is silent.