by Simon Lelic
She looks exhausted, Susanna thinks, as though she too hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in the whole of the past fortnight. Although it’s no wonder. A strange bed, in a stranger’s house. Her father’s, yes, but still a stranger. And more than that there is everything Emily has been through. Five days she was in that lockup, with just a single water bottle in her bag and nothing to eat but a pair of Snickers bars she’d brought with her for the journey.
The journey. The trip away Adam had promised her, when all he’d ever intended was for Emily to wither in that room, and to be tortured as she did so with Susanna’s lies. When Susanna barged her way inside and her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the sight of her daughter was bad enough: Susanna’s certainty, in that instant, that she was too late. Emily lay motionless on a blanket, too weak even to raise her head. And when Susanna stumbled to her daughter’s side and discovered Emily was still breathing—that was when she saw it. The wall behind her. The pictures, the notes, the newspaper stories: the shrine Adam had erected to Susanna’s past. All for Emily. That was what Adam meant when he claimed the “solution” he chose for Susanna’s daughter was the simplest. The most obvious. The most painful. She would die, but first she would suffer—and effectively at her mother’s own hand.
When Susanna thinks about that, she cannot help but be glad Adam died himself. Except . . . would he have told her? At the last. Was he about to? And was Adam responsible for what happened, really? Was he not a victim as well? He paid a price for what he did, certainly, one Susanna can’t help thinking was too high. Does that excuse him, though? Can what he did be excused? Or is Susanna getting confused now between what can be excused and what can be explained?
All she really knows is that it is her fault as much as anyone’s. She failed her grandson. She failed Jake. She failed Emily. But her daughter, Susanna is determined, may yet be saved.
“No.”
“Em? Emily, wait.”
Her daughter has spotted Susanna approaching from the shadows. Neil told Susanna it was too soon, that Emily still needed time to come to terms with things, but Susanna could no longer keep away. She’d absorbed Emily’s rage once her daughter had become strong enough to voice it; she’d accepted Emily’s insistence that she wouldn’t be coming home after leaving the hospital, and even facilitated her moving two hundred miles away to stay with her father. And she’s kept her distance. For more than a week, almost two, she’s stayed away, granting Emily the space she’d demanded, not even pressing her daughter to give her the chance to explain. That hadn’t been easy, any of it—least of all facing up to Neil. And in the end it had become too hard. Life without her daughter: it wasn’t something Susanna could accept.
“No,” says Emily again. “You shouldn’t be here. I told you not to come!”
“I had to, Emily. Don’t you see? I had to. The way we left things, without even talking things through . . . I couldn’t live with that, Em. I couldn’t.”
Emily rubs at her arm. It was badly sprained, Susanna knows, where Adam seized hold of her when she tried to run. When, confronted with those pictures on the lockup wall, Emily had finally realized the truth. Adam had grabbed her and held her in place, forcing her to see what he wanted to show her—to listen as he told her his tale. The injury should have healed by now, though, and Susanna has to wonder how much of the pain is actually in her daughter’s head. Not that this makes it any less real.
“Does it still hurt?” Susanna says. “Your arm? Because I’ve got some paracetamol in my bag if you—”
“It’s fine.” Emily lets her arm fall to her side. “Just leave me alone, Mum. Please. Just go.”
That word. Mum. Susanna almost weeps when she hears it. It is the first time Emily has said it to her since Adam. And though it is clear Emily does not want Susanna there, she has at least stopped backing away.
“Please, Em, I—”
“Emily! Call me Emily! I’m not a kid, you know. Why do you always have to treat me like some little kid?”
“I’m sorry. Emily? I am. About that, about everything. That’s what I needed to tell you. I was wrong. Completely and utterly wrong. I lied to you and that’s unforgivable. I know that. I do. But I’m asking you to forgive me just the same.”
Emily has forced herself tall. And for the first time in her life, Susanna sees it. How grown-up her daughter is. How much stronger she is already than Susanna ever was herself.
“Why should I?” Emily answers. “Why should I even listen to you? You lied to me. My entire life, you lied to me. I have a father. I had a brother. Jake. I mean, that was my brother’s name. Right, Mum?”
Susanna can do nothing but nod her head.
“And Jake’s grave,” Emily presses. “That’s it just there in the ground behind you. Right?”
This time Susanna closes her eyes.
“It’s like I don’t even know who I am anymore,” Emily says. “I don’t know who I was. I don’t know who it is I’m supposed to be!”
“But . . . nothing’s changed, Emily. You’re exactly the same person you always were.”
“I’m not! And neither are you! All this time, Mum. All these years I used to boast about how honest you were. Can you imagine?” Emily makes a noise like she can’t believe it herself. “I don’t get how I could have been so stupid.”
“No!” Susanna blurts. “You mustn’t do that. You mustn’t blame yourself. I’m the one who lied, Emily. I’m the one who should have told you the truth.”
“So why didn’t you?”
Again it is a question Susanna should be prepared for. And she’s thought about the answer, of course she has, but the logic has become so tangled over the years it is impossible to tease it into words.
Emily talks into the silence. “You always said that being truthful was all that mattered. That we should be honest with ourselves, with other people, with each other. With each other, Mum! Or are you going to stand there and deny you ever said that? Are you going to lie to me again?”
“No, I . . . You’re right, I did say that but—”
“So how was this any different?”
Susanna exhales. “It wasn’t,” she says at last. “It shouldn’t have been. But Emily, please . . .” She reaches for her daughter and Emily slides quickly away.
“You were saying?”
Susanna’s outstretched hand floats in front of her. “Just that . . . you were so young,” she says. “I told myself I was protecting you. That I was keeping the truth from you because I didn’t want to burden you. I wanted you to have a fresh start. I wanted us both to have a clean beginning.”
Susanna can see her daughter is about to interrupt. She holds up her hands.
“But that wasn’t all. I see now, I admit: that wasn’t all. By lying to you, by running away, really I was trying to protect myself. To lie to myself. I was so sad, Emily. Just . . . so sad. Your brother . . . I failed him. I loved him as dearly as I love you and it’s my fault he died. You’re right. It was. All of it . . . everything . . . with Adam, with you . . . It’s all completely my fault.”
Susanna cannot stop herself weeping. It’s been so hard. She was so happy—so mindlessly, complacently happy—and then it all fell apart. Even when Emily came along, when it seemed like she was finding her feet again, she always knew the floor would one day collapse from under her. That’s why she has been stepping through this new life of hers so lightly: not making friends, not going out, doing her best, from a personal perspective, to avoid leaving even the faintest impression. But in the end the floor gave way anyway. The problem wasn’t how lightly or not Susanna was stepping. It was the baggage she was carrying with her.
The tears flow so freely now it’s as though she is bleeding, as though every wound she has ever borne has coalesced into one. But as Susanna cries she feels something touch her shoulder, and when she looks up she sees that her daughter, reaching out, is cryi
ng too.
“You should have told me, Mum. I thought we were friends. I thought if you needed to, you could tell me anything. I thought you trusted me.”
“Oh Emily. Oh my girl. My brave, beautiful girl. I do trust you. I do. And I’m sorry I betrayed your trust in me.”
Susanna attempts to draw her daughter close. When Emily this time allows her to, it is as though they have broken through a wall.
* * *
• • •
They walk side by side, their footsteps heavy on the gravel pathway. As they pass Jake’s grave they pause to look.
“What was he like, Mum? How do I . . . I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about him. About any of it. That’s why I’ve been coming here. To try to . . . to make sense of . . . of everything, I guess, but . . .” Emily ends by shaking her head.
“That’s something I’ve been struggling with myself,” Susanna tells her. “Some things, the things people do—they don’t make sense, not when we’re on the outside looking in.”
“But that’s not enough. When something bad happens, you can’t just shrug your shoulders and move on.”
For an instant Emily is the little girl Susanna walked with on Brighton Pier. Young, yes, but precocious; already full of questions about the world. How was it that Susanna so misjudged her? How was it that all this time she failed to have faith in her?
“I’m not saying we shouldn’t try to understand,” Susanna says. “Just the opposite. What I’m saying is, it’s not always possible, not to the extent we would like. And even when it is, we need to learn to look at things—at horrible things sometimes, awful things—from a different perspective. From the beginning. From the start. Not the way we usually do, which tends to be . . .” She pauses, searching for the words.
“Back to front,” Emily finishes.
Susanna smiles. “Exactly.”
They move off, toward the cemetery gates, leaving Jake’s grave behind them.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” says Emily, out of the blue. “I was such an idiot. With Adam. If I hadn’t trusted him . . . if I hadn’t believed what he said . . . I even fell for him! And he’s like . . . what? My nephew?”
She shudders, violently.
Susanna threads an arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “Hey,” she says. “Hey.” She squeezes gently. “It’s not your fault. Do you understand me? And I’m the one who’s supposed to be apologizing to you. Remember?”
There is a smile in Emily’s expression struggling to get out.
“Adam knew exactly what he was doing,” Susanna tells her. “With you, with me. He manipulated us both. Although, at the same time, he was also being controlled in a way himself—compelled by events he played no part in.”
She feels Emily stiffen. “You make it sound like you feel sorry for him. He tried to hurt you, Mum. He tried to hurt both of us.”
“He did,” Susanna says. “You’re right. But in a way I also hurt him. Life did.”
Emily has come to a stop. “Are you saying . . . What are you saying, Mum? That you forgive him?”
“No. I don’t know. I suppose all I’m saying is, try not to hate him, Emily. That’s all. For your sake as much as his.” It is advice Susanna has repeatedly offered to herself. On occasion over these past two weeks, she has even found herself able to follow it.
They walk on. Emily isn’t satisfied, Susanna can tell. For the moment, though, her daughter has lapsed into a brooding silence.
“Your friend,” Emily says, after a while. “Ruth. Is she all right? What’s going to happen to her?”
Susanna has been wondering the same thing herself. The threat of prosecution has gone away but that doesn’t mean Ruth won’t suffer. When a rational human being becomes responsible for another person’s death, it isn’t possible to escape without scars. Susanna is as much aware of this as anyone.
“Ruth will be OK,” Susanna says. “I’ll make sure she is. I’ll try to, anyway. The same way she’s always tried to take care of me.”
“I’d like to help,” Emily says. “If I can. I mean, I don’t know how exactly, but when we get home, if there’s anything I can do . . .”
When we get home . . .
Susanna stops walking. They are at the gates now, on the threshold of returning to the world. And until this moment, Susanna didn’t know which way they would turn. Which way Emily would, rather.
“Home,” Susanna says. “Does that mean . . .”
“It means I love you, Mum. It means I’ve missed you. Dad, he’s great. Quite . . . serious, I guess. And sort of quiet. Almost old before his time. Was he always like that?”
Susanna isn’t sure whether to smile or cry. “Not always,” she says. “No.”
“He’s been so kind to me,” Emily goes on. “So . . . attentive, I guess is the word. And I’d like to visit, to get to know him better. But this isn’t home. You know? Home’s with you, Mum. Where you are.”
The tears come, then. Susanna cannot stop them.
“Oh Emily,” she says.
She pulls her daughter in tight, hugging her, holding her—wondering how she will ever let her go.
What will survive of us is love.
—Philip Larkin
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Within weeks of starting work on this novel, and following a freak impact injury to my neck, I suffered what turned out to be a series of strokes. I was incredibly lucky: not only was the underlying cause (a damaged vertebral artery) identified very quickly, all the major symptoms I experienced were gone within a few days. The recovery, though, took much longer—even longer than it took me to finish the book—and I am indebted to so many people for their incredible help and support during what proved to be a very challenging year. I cannot offer praise enough to the amazing staff at the Royal Sussex County Hospital here in Brighton. Thank you in particular to Dr. Nicki Gainsborough, as well as to Dr. Marius Venter at Charing Cross Hospital in London. Thanks as well to my amazing friends and wonderful family for their patience, love and support. There are too many of you to list here but hopefully you know who you are. Above all, love and thanks to my wife, Sarah, to whom this book is dedicated. It simply wouldn’t have been written without her.
Caroline Wood has been my agent now for almost ten years, and I cannot think of anyone I would rather have in my corner. Thanks to her, and indeed to everyone at Felicity Bryan Associates. Thanks as well to Katy Loftus and Amanda Bergeron, my two incredible editors. And special mention to Jane McLoughlin and Caroline Pretty, as well as the fantastic teams behind Katy and Amanda at Viking and Berkley. I am constantly amazed by the depth of your talents.
As every crime and thriller writer will tell you, ideas for prospective stories are two a penny.
When you are constantly on the lookout for inspiration, almost everything (and everyone) you come across has the potential to find its way onto the page. Why isn’t a loved one answering the telephone? What might have happened if that driver hadn’t spotted that red light in time? And why did that woman shrug off that man when he tried to wrap an arm around her shoulder?
There are plotlines everywhere. The problem most of the time (for me at least) is that the vast majority of these ideas remain just that: fuzzy, malformed suggestions of possibility that close in on themselves just as rapidly as they open up.
The real treasures, conversely, are those ideas that immediately give rise to new ones; that grab hold of you and then refuse to let go until somehow you’ve wrestled them onto the page. Those are the ideas that writers dream of (or not, more’s the pity) and that have more than a fleeting chance of becoming a fully fledged novel.
I recall exactly the moment the idea for The Liar’s Room first sank its teeth into me. My wife and I were sitting at the dinner table, and we were discussing her decision to begin training to become a counselor. After working as a journalist, and then spending ten
years as a full-time mother, she was eager to do something new, something challenging, and something that might help other people.
I think it’s a great idea, I told her. You’d be terrific at it. And I can definitely see how rewarding it would be. How demanding, too. But . . . er . . . hold that thought, will you? I’m just going to get a pencil and a piece of paper. There’s something I need to jot down . . .
Because that’s the other thing about us writers: behind every supportive husband (or wife) lurks a greedy, inspiration-hungry obsessive. We exhibit the most appalling traits, most notably with our loved ones, of blanking out completely when they are talking to us, or even wandering off midway through a conversation, only to reappear looking haggard several hours later.
But on that occasion I simply couldn’t help myself. A counselor, you say. So just you and a stranger in a room. A stranger with a past. A shameful past, perhaps? And what if you—the counselor—had a secret past, too? What if you were afraid of your client, and they in turn couldn’t trust you. What if the stakes were higher than you could have possibly realized—and (this was the clincher) only one of you would make it out of the room alive . . .
Talk about sinking its teeth into me.
I started writing The Liar’s Room the very next day. As things turned out, the next twelve months didn’t pan out in quite the way either my wife or I had envisaged (if you’ve read the acknowledgments in this book, you’ll understand why)—but all things considered, the novel came together almost as swiftly and ferociously as that initial idea. Truth be told, during a very difficult period, I had enormous fun writing it. If you enjoy(ed) reading it even half as much, I’ll consider it a year well spent.