Between the Lies

by Michelle Adams

  ‘You need to lie down. Let me help you.’

  With his help, I make it up the stairs. I lie on the bed, the lights down low, rain pattering softly against the window. I stare at the picture of my family that I took from the album earlier and placed on the bedside table. What am I supposed to believe?

  In the photo albums, we looked so happy. The life I was looking at in those pictures doesn’t fit with the life my father described. Did I crash on purpose? I can’t even begin to believe that to be true. Don’t want to believe it. But if it is true, I now understand why my parents have been lying to me. Because if I tried to kill myself and my child, and I’m responsible for my husband’s death, I don’t deserve to remember either of them.

  SEVEN

  How many days have passed since that night I discovered I used to be a mother? I have no idea. Time has stood still like a stagnant pond, brackish and foul, unable to sustain life. I have been festering in this bed, slipping in and out of disturbing sleep littered with dreams of my dead son, listening to the sounds of family life continue around me. As if nothing has changed at all.

  They bring meals and medication, sit on the edge of the bed and try to slip pathetic morsels down my throat. A plate encrusted with last night’s untouched food still sits at my feet. People come and go, doorbells ringing, music and television. Last night I heard laughter in the hallway, the sound of the front door closing. I got up, peered from the window, saw Dr Thurwell leaving with an armful of folders. Discussing cases again. I stayed there to watch the red blur of his lights as he disappeared back to his own life.

  On that day when he came to see me in hospital, sitting on the edge of my bed, he asked if I was feeling any better. He asked if I was looking forward to going home, and if I felt like I was making progress. Whether or not things were getting to be too much, and whether I’d had any thoughts about taking my own life. I thought it was strange at the time, his concern that I might be feeling low enough to kill myself. As far as I could see, I was doing everything I could to survive. But now I realise it wasn’t strange at all: he assumed I’d already tried to kill myself once by crashing my car into a tree while my son was inside. Last night, as I watched him walking to his car, he turned back and spotted me, raised his hand to wave. I did nothing in return, edged back from the curtain, slipped back into the shadows. I didn’t want to be seen by him.

  But this morning my self-imposed isolation has come to an end. I can hear the heavy footsteps on the hallway floor outside my door, the brief knock, the handle being tested. My father stands in the doorway, his face cast in silhouette with the subtle yellow glow of the hallway lamp behind him.

  ‘You remember what is happening today?’

  I nod my head. His shoulders are slumped at the thought of what is to come. The police called to let us know they are eager to talk now that I am well enough. Just the idea that he has been delaying their case, keeping me locked up and out of their reach, makes me so nervous my limbs shake.

  ‘Now that you know the truth, Chloe, I can’t hold them off any more. Just keep in mind what we agreed. You don’t remember anything.’

  * * *

  That morning after breakfast, Mum pops out to get her hair done, and returns half an hour later, neatly coiffed and ready for the police. Their arrival is tensely anticipated, rippling through the house in energetic waves since we all woke up. Some of us haven’t slept. The hallway floor has been mopped and what I assume must be my father’s best suit is back from the dry cleaner’s and hanging over the door to his study. The scent of winter roses drifts past me in waves. There’s a vase on the hallway table that I saw Ben position there earlier on this morning. I watched him from the top of the stairs, lingering, waiting for what I didn’t know. He glanced towards the kitchen, then poked his head around the study door, giving my father’s suit a closer inspection than was necessary. When he saw me watching him he made an approach as if he had something to say. But at the last moment I heard my father’s footsteps and Ben changed his mind. What did he want to say to me? The smell of the flowers makes me feel sick.

  I remain on the sofa with my right leg up on a footstool while my mother works around me, plumping the cushions and setting a fire as if we were getting ready for Christmas Day. Dust circles the air. Jess is sitting with me, the television on in the background, a winter fashions special playing on This Morning. She asks me what I think of the outfits, tells me she thinks the polo necks make the models look chubby. She wants to make small talk, make her lies disappear. But I can’t concentrate on the television. Despite what she probably thinks, I’m not angry with her. I don’t have the strength. I may have intended to kill myself and my son. Nothing else has any meaning.

  My father passes by as we sit there, peers around the door, regarding us with concern. He approaches, stops in front of Jess, blocking her view of the television. Only when she can no longer see the screen does she bring herself to look at him.

  ‘We must create the right kind of impression, Jessica,’ he tells her, looking down at her baggy pyjamas. ‘Please go upstairs and dress appropriately.’ She begins her defence but he holds his hand up to show his inflexibility. He watches as she skulks away and then turns off the television.

  All morning I have been trying to decide what to do. Do I tell the police I can’t remember anything about the crash like he wants me to? Or should I tell them what I think I know? That maybe I am to blame. That maybe I was driving recklessly. That perhaps I even crashed on purpose. My father told me three times last night and once again this morning that any flashbacks I might be having are all in my mind, that it is something he has come across many times with other patients. But the memory of being in the car that night seems so real. Tangible, almost. These snapshots of broken movement are like an old movie, or a flickering of light shining from the past. Like stars; not really there any more, yet still they can be seen. ‘Just false memories, Chloe, the brain trying to get a handle on things,’ my father tells me. The thing is, I don’t believe a word he says any more.

  He sits down beside me, gives me a cursory inspection, his fingers meddling painfully at my head as he checks my dressing before his eyes settle on my face. I pull away, not wanting him to touch me. ‘Are you feeling all right, Chloe?’

  I nod, reach up to my dressing, pressing it to ease the discomfort. ‘My head hurts.’ My words are cold, sharp. I don’t want to talk to him any more than I want to talk to the police.

  ‘Are you anxious about the visit from the police today?’

  ‘No,’ I lie. He looks satisfied enough, but I know deep down he doesn’t believe me, any more than I believe him. ‘I’m going to go and get dressed too,’ I say, attempting to get up. But I turn to see him shaking his head, reaching one hand out towards my arm.

  ‘I think it’s best that you stay as you are,’ he says, straightening the neckline of the robe I’m wearing. He fluffs my hair, adjusts my hat to expose the dressing for all to see. I pull away, stare at him out of the corner of my eye. ‘There’s no point in hiding your injuries, Chloe. We want them to see how poorly you’ve been, not mistake you for a reliable witness.’ He sits back, frustrated by my resistance. ‘And there’s no point looking at me like that either. I know you’re upset, but I did what I did with your best interests in mind.’

  He leaves, taking his suit from the study door, calling to my mother to find his cuff links. The silver ones with the rubies in them. As he ascends the stairs he glances back just once at me, shaking his head with disappointment. But he doesn’t realise that I’m scared; scared that he is right. That I’m the one who caused the accident, and that by leaving my husband I gave him reason to take his own life. Scared because I don’t know how I’m supposed to live if my husband and son are both dead because of me.

  EIGHT

  My mother lets them in when they arrive. I listen as she takes their coats and asks if they’d like tea. They thank her, but refuse her offer of a drink. My heart is racing, no idea what I’m goin
g to say. A few days ago I was just a woman recovering from a car crash. Now I’m a woman who might have been trying to commit suicide with her own child in the car. What kind of person am I?

  ‘Head through that way,’ I hear her say. ‘You’ll find her just in there.’

  Their footsteps grow louder as they approach. They bring the scent from outside with them, that dirty smell of fog and winter that gets on your chest, delivers illness. Moments later two officers appear in the doorway, both wearing long winter coats. Their hair is damp, noses red, pink cheeks flushed against white skin. Cherries on cakes. One woman, one man.

  The man is small in stature, his frame slight yet overweight. It makes him seem out of balance, leaning back like a pregnant woman might in order to keep herself upright. Did I stand like that when I was pregnant? Is that why I thought it? I vaguely remember him from the hospital, the deep parting and white-grey hair. He nods at my father. ‘Dr Daniels, good morning.’

  ‘Good morning.’ My father walks over and holds out his hand. They shake and my father peers around to smile at the woman arriving behind. She is so different from the first officer: tall, young, delicate features. Her bright blonde hair makes me think of Andrew and Joshua. Her face is narrow and angular; she has a cold look about her. She doesn’t smile or speak, her gaze so strong I have to look away. ‘Officer Barclay, right?’ my father says.

  ‘Detective Constable Barclay.’ She reaches out, shakes his hand. ‘Good morning, Chloe,’ she says as she turns to me. Her wedding ring cuts into my skin as we shake. And with that a thought rises to the surface: where is my wedding ring? ‘Nice to see that you are finally well enough to speak with us.’ Still she doesn’t smile. She makes me nervous: her attitude, the way she stands, feet firmly in place. I wring my hands together to stop them shaking.

  ‘Welcome to you both,’ my father says. ‘Can we arrange for some tea or coffee for you? It’s freezing out today.’ There is a light frost on the ground, and the fog in the air is thick. You can’t even see as far as the swimming pool. The chill has infiltrated the house, and despite the crackling fire, all the walls seem just that bit too far away for the atmosphere to feel cosy. I look over at Jess, sitting on a footstool, wearing a pair of tight jeans and a smart blouse: dressed as my father demanded. She is nibbling on the quick of her thumb.

  ‘No, we’re fine, thank you.’ The male officer turns to look at me, a warm smile spreading across his face. ‘Miss Daniels, good morning. I’m DS Gray.’ I start to get up, struggling a little with my balance as I always do. Jess rushes to help me, and with her support I get to my feet and take DS Gray’s hand. His palm feels cold and sweaty all at once. ‘Please, sit down,’ he says.

  I tuck my robe under my knees as I sit, and just a moment later I notice my father pointing to my right leg. I set it back on the footstool, not sure whether it’s for the good of my health or the sake of appearances in front of the police.

  ‘My father tells me we have met before,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, twice, in the hospital,’ DC Barclay says. She pulls up a chair and sits down. ‘You don’t remember us at all?’

  ‘It was a difficult time for Chloe,’ my father reminds her. ‘She suffered an epidural bleed. She nearly died, Officer.’

  Without looking at him she says, ‘We are well aware of Chloe’s injuries, Dr Daniels. That is, after all, why it has taken us so long to be able to speak with her, piece together her version of events.’

  DS Gray takes over, lowering the tension. ‘Of course we appreciate these things take time. But I must say, you are certainly looking a lot better than you were in the hospital.’ When I study my reflection, inspect my injuries, I don’t think I look well at all; for a brief moment as I glance to my father, I wonder whether he isn’t just a little bit disappointed by DS Gray’s observation. ‘It’s a relief to finally have an opportunity to talk to you about what happened that night. We are really hoping to make some headway with this case, start to understand what happened.’ I nod, swallow hard. ‘I would like first of all, however, to offer my most sincere condolences for the loss of your son.’ I can’t look up and I don’t say anything. He must feel the tension creeping back in, because he is quick to move things on. ‘What we really want to try to establish is exactly what you remember.’

  I think of my dream, the flashbacks. My certainty that they truly reflect that night. But then I think of what my father suggested: the possibility that I intended to crash.

  ‘I don’t remember anything,’ I tell them, taking a split-second decision to do as my father has told me. I’m not sure I could take their judgement otherwise.

  DC Barclay pulls out a pen and pad, crosses her legs, tapping her kitten-heeled foot like a metronome. Tick, tick, tick. All the while she looks at me, seconds passing, waiting for me to speak. Her pen poised, her face expressionless.

  ‘Nothing about what happened before or after the crash,’ I add.

  DS Gray smiles, nods his head, as if my response has satisfied his expectations. ‘Of course, we understand, Miss Daniels. But it is our job to try and glean from you what might seem like the most insignificant of details, and turn them into a case against the person we believe was driving the second car.’

  I nod too, feel the need to reassure him, to come up with something. Funny how the police can make you do that. I feel like a child in the classroom, desperate to find the right answer, whatever that is.

  My mother walks in, a tray of tea in her hands, and I’m grateful for the distraction. She sets it down on the table and pours two mugs, topping both with a splash of milk. We are all silent, watching her actions as if they are ceremonial.

  ‘It’ll warm you up,’ she says as she hands both officers a cup. They thank her, take a sip, before setting the mugs down on the table. She looks to my father for approval, finds it in a curt nod of his head. DS Gray turns to me as my mother takes up position alongside Jess.

  ‘All I’d like to do is pose a few simple questions, see what you can recall and what we can jog back into memory, OK?’ I nod again and he smiles, flashing a set of crooked, stained teeth. DC Barclay seems to be noting down my every move, her pen scribbling frenziedly even when I’m not saying anything to warrant it. I try to keep still, avoid giving anything away. I realise I’m thinking as if I’m guilty. ‘So, I’ll start by asking if you can remember anything about the lead-up to the crash: where you were going and what you were doing on Ditchling Road.’

  I try to think of Brighton and the roads I must have driven around time and time again. I think of our trip back from the hospital, know there was nothing that seemed familiar on that day. I only know what my father has told me: that I left this house desperate and upset. ‘No, I’m sorry. It’s like I said, DS Gray, I really don’t remember anything.’ I can feel my head pulsating, the throb of my brain against my fractured skull.

  ‘You don’t remember if you were upset or angry when you got in the car? I need to try to establish your mood, the conditions leading up to the crash.’ He flicks through his notepad. ‘Your father told me that you left here sometime after seven in the evening. Is that correct?’

  ‘If that’s what he said, then I suppose so.’

  ‘And you can’t remember where you were going? What kind of mood you were in?’

  ‘Um…’ I hesitate, glancing across at my father standing behind the officers with one arm on the fireplace. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. I know what he wants from me. Silence. ‘No,’ I tell DS Gray. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Do you remember anything about a second car?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Whether it hit you or not?’

  ‘No.’ I bring my left hand up to my head, give my temple a rub. I’m struggling to find the words. The questions are coming too fast. The memory of driving recklessly on that night flies into my mind. I watch DC Barclay’s tapping foot. I can’t keep up. Tick, tick, tick go the seconds, slowing to a painful pace. I can hear her pen scratching against the s
urface of the pad.

  ‘Everything all right, Chloe?’ My father’s voice. I nod, my eyes down. Jess edges alongside me, squeezes my right hand, but I don’t grip it back. You’re a liar, I think as I glance at her. You knew I had a son and said nothing. She smiles, but my face doesn’t change. You’re all liars, I think again.

  ‘Chloe?’ asks DS Gray.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I look up at him, then to DC Barclay. ‘I’m really sorry that I can’t be more helpful.’

  DS Gray pauses for a sip of his tea, and DC Barclay takes over. ‘Do you remember if you went anywhere between leaving here and arriving at the site of the crash?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I think of the flashback, of me driving in the rain. Where was I going? Was I crying? I feel like I was crying.

  ‘And what about Damien Treadstone? Does that name mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’ I answer fast. She makes me nervous, as though I need to get this over with. Damien Treadstone isn’t a name I know. But then again, when I woke up I couldn’t even remember my own name. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Damien Treadstone is the registered keeper of the second car found at the scene. He has been charged with dangerous driving. There is evidence to suggest he was trying to overtake on a section of the road where it would have been clearly dangerous to do so.’ Her foot continues to tap and my heart beats faster and harder. I feel sick.

  ‘What sort of evidence?’

  ‘Tyre tracks, paint transfer from his car to yours. He is currently out on bail and denies all charges. But he hasn’t got an alibi for his whereabouts that night. That’s why it’s so important we get your version of events, Chloe. Your testimony could make all the difference. He would have been driving a black BMW 3 Series sedan.’ She waits for me to think. I reach for a tissue, wipe my eyes as I shake my head. ‘There’s no doubt that his car hit yours. If you could remember anything at all, it might really help our case.’