Between the Lies

by Michelle Adams

  I can feel a lump in my throat, the bruising inside me swelling and choking. ‘I don’t know him, or anything about what happened.’

  ‘And you’re quite positive that you didn’t have any sort of relationship with Mr Treadstone prior to the accident?’

  ‘What sort of relationship?’ my father asks, incredulous. They both ignore him.

  ‘I don’t even know who he is,’ I tell her.

  She reaches inside her pocket and hands me a photograph. It’s a mug shot, a young man, bleary-eyed, with messy hair. I hand it back.

  ‘I don’t know this man.’

  ‘And you can’t tell us why you were driving along the Ditchling Road that night?’

  ‘No.’

  She takes a sharp breath in, lets it go. The fire crackles. ‘Are you sure you’re not keeping anything from us, Chloe? Protecting somebody?’

  All at once my father steps out in front of her, putting a blockade between me and the police. Jess hugs me close as I begin to cry. I don’t push her away; I welcome the comfort. I’m crying because DC Barclay is right. I am protecting somebody. Myself.

  ‘I think that’s quite enough,’ my father tells the officers. ‘Can’t you see what this is doing to her?’

  ‘OK, let’s leave it there.’ DS Gray stands up, turns to his partner, who puts her notebook away. They both appear annoyed. She’s nursing a dissatisfied look, the corners of her mouth turned down in a frown. She has skinny lips, the kind that are particularly good at expressing distaste; she can’t hide how much she hates me, how little she believes the things I say. ‘I’m sorry to have to come here and go over everything like this,’ Gray says, ‘but the CPS is pushing for a prosecution, and anything you remember has the potential to be useful at trial.’ He smiles at me, just enough to let me know that he is, in theory at least, on my side. ‘It must have been a very nasty knock that you took.’

  I sniffle back the tears. ‘So they tell me.’ Right now, my head feels like it is going to explode.

  ‘Well, just focus on your recovery, but if you do remember anything, I want you to let me know. Your doctor at the hospital told us that sometimes memory comes back in flashes, and over time. Really, Chloe, if there’s anything at all you just give me a call at the station.’ He hands me a card with his telephone number on it before he looks towards Jess, points a finger. ‘You look after your sister now, won’t you?’ I slip the card in the pocket of the robe.

  They turn to leave, walk through to the hallway. Just as I hear them arriving at the door I push myself out of the chair to hurry after them. Jess follows, anxious to stop me. By the time I reach the hallway DC Barclay is already outside, shrouded in fog and standing on the driveway. DS Gray is just moving through the front door.

  ‘DS Gray,’ I call, and he stops, turns back towards me. I feel the cold air hit, waking me up, drying my tears. ‘Can you tell me anything about him?’

  He closes his lips tight, lets out a breath through his nose. ‘Damien Treadstone?’ I nod. ‘Twenty-eight years old. Medical rep. Married. Not from around here. Lives in Maidstone, Kent.’

  ‘Does he have children?’

  He looks away, considers whether to tell me or not. He seems like he cares, like he doesn’t want to cause me unnecessary pain. ‘Yes. A son, two years old,’ he tells me.

  After they leave, my father comes back through to the lounge, loosening his tie, letting go of the tension in his breath. My cheeks are warm from the fire, yet still my body feels cold. The name Damien Treadstone rolls around my head, a mixture of anger and sadness. Whose fault was it? Mine, or his?

  My father sits down on the arm of the sofa, looks to my mother, who is sitting with her hands in her lap, not saying anything. ‘That went very well, I think,’ he suggests, and she nods her head like a dutiful dog. I realise I know, sadly, that of course she would do that. Jess was right. It’s not easy between them, never was, my father always in control. He looks to me before setting a heavy hand on my knee. I glance up at his face, find him smiling, relieved, as if the worst of it is over. He winks at me, buoys me up with a quick squeeze. ‘That was a very good start, Chloe.’

  * * *

  That night dinner is silent, the minced beef and mashed potato of a tasteless cottage pie sticking in my throat. Nobody is sure what to say, and every mouthful makes me feel sick. All I can think about is that I had a life I can’t remember, and the people who should be helping me have done nothing but lie to me about it. They tried to keep my past a secret. How can I trust them with my future if I can’t even trust them with the things that have already happened?

  Mum begins clearing away the plates, her hands shaky and her focus lost, something I’m starting to see as normal. She knocks back the rest of her wine under my father’s watchful eye before leaving the room, slightly off balance, the wine going straight to her head. She’s been edgy ever since the police were here, her eyes darting all over the place, unable to settle. Jess too is up on her feet, helping with the napkins and place settings. They don’t want to be around me, I realise, so they don’t have to explain themselves. They are embarrassed, I think, guilt-ridden. Seconds later I am alone with my father.

  ‘I know you are still angry that I kept the truth from you, Chloe.’ I give him a sideways glance, lost for words. Still angry? Does he think it’s that simple? I am experiencing every emotion right now. I don’t even know how I feel. ‘But please, do try to see it from our perspective. It was a terrible situation for us to be in.’ He settles back in his chair, slips off his glasses. His other hand taps at the table. ‘You must learn to forgive us, Chloe, so that we can help you move on. After all,’ he adds, and this time I notice that his mouth curls up into a strange, affected smile, ‘we are the only family you’ve got left.’

  NINE

  It is a horrible thought, the idea that this is it, that there is nothing else for me now. Have I lived the life I was due, destined from here on to linger in some sort of purgatory?

  My father is still waiting for an answer, nibbling on the frame of his glasses. ‘It’s not just that you didn’t tell me about them, Dad. It’s the fact that even now, even though I have seen their pictures, even though I know they existed, they still don’t mean anything to me.’

  I have been trying ever since I first found out to remember something about our life as a family. The sound of Joshua’s cry, the smell of his freshly washed skin. The feel of Andrew’s hand on mine. But I can’t recall anything. Even the things I think might be memories, like the image of me standing in church holding a bible, won’t come into focus, won’t reveal my son as an element of my past.

  My father raises his eyebrows, slips his glasses back into place. ‘Time, Chloe. Time is a great healer. And with time you will also begin to remember them.’

  ‘I hope so.’ It is obvious that time can work wonders; you only have to look at my physical condition for that. I am still a mess, with scars decorating my body, ribs that were once broken still tight when I breathe, and according to my neurosurgeon an ongoing risk of seizures and cognitive impairment for at least another two years. But time has allowed me to walk again, talk coherently, and leave the hospital. Still, I know none of these things would have been possible without some sort of intervention. If I am to remember, I must do something to help myself rediscover my old life. And I must do it not only for me, but for Joshua; only by revealing the truth of the life I lived before will I know whether or not I intended to crash my car. Whether I killed my son. ‘But Dad,’ I say, ‘I feel like I need to be doing something towards getting well. I can’t just sit in this house for the rest of my life.’

  He tops up his wine, takes a sip. He seems relaxed. ‘I totally agree, which is why you have a physio appointment tomorrow. Plus we can sit down together for another therapy session and see if you can remember anything more about your life. About your boys.’

  I take a deep breath, knowing he isn’t going to like what I have to say. ‘It’s not just physio or talking I need, Dad. I
need to remember the past, and to do that I need to revisit it in any way I can.’ He folds his arms across his chest as a light breeze skirts past the curtains. The fire crackles. ‘I want to go home. To my home, Dad. Even if it’s just for one day.’

  He slips his fingers underneath his glasses, pushes them against his eyes to pinch away the tiredness. ‘We have discussed this before, Chloe.’ He takes a heavy breath in. ‘Several times in fact.’

  ‘I know we have. But you don’t seem to understand how much it would help me. All I have from my house are the clothes you packed.’ I pull with disgust at the twee grey cardigan I am wearing. ‘It’s as if I don’t have a life of my own any more. I feel so alone, Dad.’

  Since I discovered that I was once married with a child he has begun to tell me more about my life. He has told me how I studied law in London, and that afterwards I went on to work for a charity helping people with addictions; how I used to swim in the sea all year round. But none of these details feel real. They are elements of a life that no longer belongs to me. I can’t go back to work, or head to the beach and dive beneath the waves. They are both lovely ideas, but untouchable, intangible. I need to understand who I was, and who I still am. Discover what part I played in this mess.

  ‘I feel so unconnected to my own family. I need to go back,’ I continue.

  ‘We’re your family,’ he says. But he knows it is pointless; his words trail off into nothing and he reaches across the table towards me, takes one of my hands in his. ‘Chloe, we must try to focus on the future.’ It is his work voice, the sound of a stranger. This is how he speaks to me when I lie back on the couch and let him into my mind. It’s the kind of voice that might soothe your pain as he roots around inside your skull. ‘You’ll begin to do that here with us.’

  ‘But I can’t remember anything,’ I tell him. ‘I need to go there. Don’t you want me to remember my son?’

  He brings his hand up to my face and smoothes the back of his thumb across my cheek. The pressure sends a shooting pain up into the wound on my head. ‘I want you to think about this.’ He speaks slowly, his words drawn out, cautious as an animal coming out of hibernation. ‘Have you considered how you might feel if, when you return home, you are still unable to remember Joshua? What then?’ I sit motionless, unsure how best to respond. ‘At the moment you are able to excuse yourself this failing, based on a subconscious belief that the accident has resulted in huge gaps in your memory. But what about when you see the place in which you lived together? In which you bathed him, nursed him, cared for him while he was sick. What if he still means nothing to you then, what would you do? How would you feel? I’m only trying to protect you, Chloe. You are very fragile. We need to give things time.’

  At that moment my mother enters the room carrying an apple pie. The sweet smell seems out of place. Jess is behind her holding four bowls and a tub of stracciatella ice cream, whistling a tune that seems too cheerful for the mood of the room. They realise something is up the moment they walk in.

  My mother looks nervous as she sets the pie dish down, edging a small candle out of the way. She nibbles on her lip and tries hard not to look at either of us. Jess hangs back, lingering in the doorway.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mum asks eventually.

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about, Evelyn.’ My father pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and offers it to me. I realise I am crying, but still I don’t take it.

  ‘She’s upset,’ my mother says, still without looking at me.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ He reaches for her arm, encourages her to sit. ‘She wants to go to her house. She’ll be fine in a moment.’ He turns to me. ‘It just wouldn’t be a good idea. Not yet.’

  I should have expected this answer. Still, I have to find a way to move forward, so I try something else. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I say. ‘Maybe going to the house is a risk. But I can’t just sit here like nothing has happened. I have to do something. I have to acknowledge they’re gone. At least we should start organising the funerals. We can hold them here in Rusperford. They can be buried in the churchyard. Close to where I grew up.’

  My mother stops slicing the pie before she’s even finished with the first cut. Jess sets down the bowls and sits quietly in her seat.

  ‘Please, Dad,’ I say. ‘I have to start doing something practical. It will help me to accept things, start to move forward.’ I’m not even sure he hears me. Instead he just stares at my mother, a light shake of his head. She looks down into her lap. Her hands are shaking as if she is nervous, as if she has done something wrong. ‘Dad,’ I say, reaching forward. He turns sharply at the feel of my touch. ‘Tell me where their bodies are being held so that I can start making plans.’

  The mention of the bodies shakes my mother. She sets down her wine, reaches for the table to steady herself. My father turns to me, his face calmer.

  ‘Chloe, you have been very unwell. You had a bleed on the brain. It’s just not a good—’

  ‘But they were my family. My son. It’s my responsibility.’

  Jess pushes back her chair, hurries from the room. ‘Where are you going?’ my father asks her, ignoring me. ‘Jessica, you haven’t been excused.’ He leans across the table to get a better look as she flees through the hall. ‘We haven’t finished eating,’ he calls.

  ‘Oh Thomas, just tell her.’ My mother is on her feet, her voice desperate. ‘Just put an end to this, for goodness’ sake. I can’t stand it. I can’t, I’m telling you. I’ll break if it goes on much longer.’ She starts to cry, her face red as blood rushes to her cheeks, her chest rising and falling so fast she is practically hyperventilating.

  ‘Evelyn, I…’ my father tries, but he is lost for words. He brushes his fingers clean, then sets down his napkin before guiding Mum into her chair. When he tops up her wine, she swallows it down. ‘It’s OK, Evelyn,’ he says, his voice controlled, ordered once more. Work voice again. ‘Just relax. Really, it’s OK.’

  She starts to mumble something, then looks up at me. ‘I’m so sorry, Chloe.’

  But it isn’t her apology I want. I want to know what it is she is urging him to tell me. I want to know what my father is hiding from me. ‘What should he tell me, Mum?’

  ‘Chloe, not—’

  ‘No, Dad.’ A lucent glimmer of sweat washes slick across his brow. I take one more look at Mum but realise she is terrified, although I’m not sure of what. My father, or the truth? ‘What did she mean, Dad? Whatever you tell me can’t make things any worse.’

  ‘Very well,’ he stammers, his voice croaky. My mother rests her head in her hands, elbows on the table. ‘Chloe, you can’t begin to organise the funerals because they have already taken place.’

  TEN

  I am stunned and numb; I have no words. They have taken from me the last opportunity I had to honour my family. They are not only dead, they are now gone. Forever. It is over.

  ‘We wanted to wait, wanted you to be there, but it was touch and go. We thought we had lost you too. They told us to go ahead, to prepare for the worst.’ Now tears well in my father’s eyes, threatening escape. They mirror my own. ‘But I promise we can reconsider a visit to your house in a month or so. Once you’re up to it. Come on now, Chloe,’ he says as he reaches for my hands. ‘Say something, won’t you? Try to understand.’

  Instead I stand up, walk from the table. The burning wood snaps at my heels as if it too wants to snare me back in. Shadows flicker up the walls. I walk towards the front door, open it without a sound, slip into the thick mist that has descended upon the house since the earlier rains passed.

  I push through the fog, my scarred right leg burning with every step, winding along the driveway until I reach the edge of the graveyard that backs onto the front of our property. The soft grass is wet under my feet, leaving a residue on my trainers. Tombstones rise up ahead of me, grey lumps of rock shrouded in ivy, tinged black in places by the blush of moisture from the evening air. Are they buried here? Will I be able to find them? How is
it possible that I missed my own son’s funeral? But as I go to search for their names, I come up against the perimeter fence. In my desperation to leave, I had forgotten that I am enclosed on all sides.

  I hear the boom of my father’s voice coming from behind me, the rush of feet along the driveway. I inch away, staggering further into the mist as I weave in and out of a border of giant oak trees, desperate to avoid the two torch beams as they skip across the ground.

  ‘Chloe!’ I hear him call.

  ‘Chloe!’ my mother repeats. ‘Where are you?’

  I crouch behind a tree, wait for them to pass, their forms grey shadows in the distance. I am cold and shivering, the skin on my arms goose-pimpled and wet. I know I will have to go back to the house, but how can I when they have told such lies? How can I remain a part of their lives when they buried my son without my knowledge? When they took away my chance to say goodbye.

  I turn when I hear something behind me, some movement through the wet grass coming from the direction of the church. At first I take it for a rabbit, or a fox, snuffling along the ground. But then I hear it again, footsteps too heavy and slow for a light-footed animal. It is a person, but it isn’t my mother or father. The sound is coming from the other side of the fence, and I can see the faint glow of my parents’ torches still a distance away.

  ‘Chloe?’ A male voice. Somebody who knows me. I stand up, back away against the nearest tree. Fear grips me, makes my stomach turn. I look left and right but see nobody there, only the wispy tips of the churchyard willows dangling through the mist.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I whisper. Could it be Ben? He wanted to speak to me this morning, didn’t he? The trees answer first, their branches shivering against each other, rocked by a light wind. I feel raindrops misting my face. Then I hear the voice again, soft and cautious.