Between the Lies

by Michelle Adams

He sits down on the windowsill and folds his arms across his chest. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he says, his voice soft. ‘But it doesn’t look to me like anybody has been living here for a while now. I don’t think we are going to find Andrew here.’

  But if he isn’t living here, where the hell is he?

  I climb the stairs and Guy follows. I find some of my clothes in my old bedroom and a bottle of perfume on the dresser. I spray a little on my wrist. It’s the scent of my old life, the old me. It’s an unwelcome reminder of just how far removed I am from the life I used to live. I rub my wrist against my trouser leg to get rid of the smell. I search the cupboards but find nothing that might have once belonged to Andrew.

  I move towards a second bedroom, brushing my fingers across the panel of the door where two ragged holes have been drilled into the wood. I see a name plate in my mind, something that used to hang here: Joshua’s Room in carved rainbow lettering. Somebody has since taken it away. I can feel Guy behind me, willing me on as I push the door open.

  An acidic sickness rises to my throat as I look around the room. I swallow over and over as I step inside, but the lump will not go down. Instead it chokes me as I gaze at the blue bed, the chipped paintwork, the mattress stripped of sheets. To the side of the bed I see a small cupboard, the same peeling blue paintwork. Nothing on the top. Limp curtains frame the window, the elephant pattern tired and dated. I look up at the only picture on the wall: alphabet building blocks spelling out his name: JOSHUA. I edge away from it, against the bed. A tear breaks free from my eye. I don’t know if I’m crying for Joshua and the life he lost, or me and the life that was taken from me. It might very well be both.

  Guy draws the curtains wide, pushes open the window as far as it will go. A cold draught whips through, snatches up the material. Over that I can hear the chug of a bus and the chatter of shoppers in the street below.

  ‘This was his room,’ I say. I pull open a drawer, find it empty. ‘But his stuff is all gone.’ Who has been here and taken his things? My parents? Andrew?

  Guy remains by the window, his hands twitching at his sides. For a moment he appears unsure, as if he doesn’t know whether to approach me. He brings one hand up to his head, rubs at his brow, and then—as if it’s a last-minute decision, to try to do the right thing—he comes towards me and wraps his arms around me.

  The feeling of his body against mine is so good, so strong and solid. I find comfort in the warmth of his touch and the rhythm of his chest as he breathes. Because here on the edge of my old life, I have never felt the loss of myself more keenly. The loss of my son. And at that moment Guy’s touch and presence might be the only thing that keeps me from breaking. It feels like Andrew in the old mill all over again, the only thing capable of saving me from the pain of what my life has become.

  ‘Maybe your parents cleared the house while you were in hospital.’

  He brushes a tear from my cheek, and as I look up, his hand still on my skin, our eyes meet. For a second he stares at me, our faces only an inch apart. I can feel his hesitant fingers on my back. There’s something in this moment, expectation and possibility. I freeze, unsure what I want. Even what I need.

  Then his grip tightens against me, his instincts taking over. He pushes me back against the cupboard, his movements slow but certain. His hands move up into my hair and I can feel the weight of his body against mine. He kisses my lips, slowly at first, then more urgently. I feel his stubble graze against my skin, the sensation rippling through my body as he presses up against me.

  It has been so long since somebody held me like this, craved me in this way. Even Andrew at the end didn’t want me like this. At least I don’t think so. I kiss him back, feel the closeness, the connection of skin against skin. I fumble at his clothes, kiss his neck with desire. His body fits together with mine as he hoists me up onto the chest of drawers. My scarred right leg is painful and hot, his actions almost forceful. But then as he pulls on my hair to tilt my head back I feel something return to me, a sensation I have felt before, the tingle on my scalp as a hand moves through my thick, unruly hair. Something familiar, a situation just like this. And that’s when a vision of Ben comes to me, leaning in to kiss me in the stables of my parents’ house. Just like Jess told me. When was that? I draw back abruptly. This man is not my husband.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ I say, pulling away. ‘It’s not right.’ I have an urge to stop, not to cheat. It surpasses my desire to be close to Guy. But is this even cheating? Am I still married? Does it count even if I am?

  He steps away from me, straightens his clothes. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought you here. It’s my fault.’ He adjusts himself, uncomfortable, still aroused despite my resistance. ‘It’s not your fault, Chloe, it’s just…’ He pauses; looks towards the door. ‘Shh,’ he says, his voice no louder than a whisper, his finger to his lips. ‘Did you hear that?’

  At first I can’t hear anything, at least nothing other than the people outside, the ever-present seagulls. We wait in silence for a moment longer, and then I hear knocking on the front door, followed by a voice. Somebody is calling my name.

  Guy moves first, quick footsteps as he fiddles his shirt back into his trousers. I straighten my hair as best I can, check the damp dressing on my head is still in place. Then I follow him as he descends the first few steps. The voice calls out again.

  ‘Chloe, is that you?’ It’s a man’s voice. ‘Chloe, have you come home?’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Fear and excitement swell as I consider who it might be. Andrew? Damien Treadstone? Thoughts of the graveyard come to mind, DS Gray’s doubts and suspicions. But I have this gut instinct that the voice belongs neither to Andrew nor Treadstone. It is old, frail. It doesn’t sound like the voice that came at me through the mist.

  ‘Chloe,’ it says again. ‘Are you there?’ More knocking. I motion for Guy to open the door.

  Before us stands an old man, the weight of his hunched body balanced on a metal stick with four plastic feet. If it had been a wooden cane, all crooked and gnarled, he could almost be a caricature from a fairy tale. His hair is grey, swept back from his face in a deep comb-over. The wind has worked several wisps loose and they trouble at his mouth and eyes. In his other hand he’s holding a red umbrella, a pattern of little birds flying across the surface. I remember him immediately.

  ‘Cecil,’ I say, but it sounds like a question. ‘Cecil,’ I say again, more confident this time. I step forward and my response is enough to relax Guy, who until that point has been standing at the door like a nightclub bouncer, blocking the man’s path.

  ‘It’s good to see you, my dear,’ he says as he steps past Guy, giving him a nudge with the end of his stick so that he moves out of the way. He glances towards the damaged lock and the fragments of wood but makes no comment as he moves towards me. ‘I heard you up and down on the staircase. Recognised your voice.’ He’s in front of me now, reaching out with a frail hand. ‘Your father told me about the accident. I’m so very sorry, Chloe.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, surprised, part of me wondering what exactly he knows. Does he think Andrew is dead? Has Andrew been here recently at all?

  Cecil motions for me to move into the living room, and I step through, my mind racing. I hear footsteps following, the thud of the stick and the shuffle of cautious feet on the floor. Guy is trailing behind; by the time he arrives in the living room, Cecil is already sitting next to me on the edge of the tartan couch.

  ‘It’s been quiet here without you.’ The old man brushes the rain from his shoulders as if it’s dandruff. It splashes against the floor, glimmering on the polished wooden slats. I remember Andrew varnishing them right after we first moved in, a brief glimpse of a memory of good times. ‘I’ve missed you being around. When will you be coming back?’

  Unconsciously I bring my hand up to my hair. Cecil’s gaze follows the movement, noticing the dressing on my head, my shrunken, suffering frame. I know I still look a mess, but it isn’t that th
at bothers me. I’m more concerned that he will somehow realise that something has happened between me and Guy. I’m aware of the tingling of my skin, the red blush perhaps where his stubble grazed against my cheek.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. My father thinks it best if I stay with them for a while.’

  He nods. ‘Well, that does sound sensible.’ He takes a second glance at the dressing. ‘He told me about the knock you took. With something like that you really don’t want to rush things. When Alice slipped and broke her hip, she bumped her head and I couldn’t make sense of her for days afterwards.’

  Alice? His wife? I don’t want to let on that I can’t really remember her, so I carry on as if I am sure. ‘That was a few years back, wasn’t it?’ I guess.

  ‘Indeed it was.’ He looks away, down towards his ring finger, on which he wears a dull and scratched band. It’s loose, spinning as he touches it. Where is my wedding ring now? I wonder. ‘Always thought I’d be the first to go, God bless her.’ He closes his eyes a moment, lost in the memory. ‘Not that we didn’t have a long life together to be grateful for. Eighty-three was a grand age, and more than our dear Lord blessed upon your boys.’

  My boys? The use of the plural gives rise to a degree of suspicion; I’m sure in that moment that my father has told Cecil that Andrew is dead. If that’s the case, it would be impossible for him to have been back here since the crash.

  ‘God rest their souls, I’ve been praying for them, Chloe, and for you too.’ Cecil shakes his head, memories of loved ones brought simmering to the surface. He fiddles a small crucifix out from inside his jumper and gives it a light kiss. Then he opens his eyes from a place of quiet contemplation and turns to take a look at Guy. ‘And who might you be?’ he asks, his tone shifting, harsher and less friendly.

  Guy appears anxious, fidgety. He nibbles on the edge of his index finger. ‘I’m a friend of Chloe’s, and one of her father’s colleagues.’ He smiles, but somehow it manages to seem forced and awkward. He leans against the wall, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. I assume after all the talk of my husband and child that he must be feeling guilty about what we almost did upstairs. I feel awful, and so stupid. I’m supposed to be here mourning my child, searching for my husband, and in a moment of desperation I ended up kissing the man who had offered to help.

  It seems to take forever for Cecil to avert his gaze. But eventually he does, turning back to me. ‘I think staying with your family is a good plan. Your father did tell me that that’s where you were when he was here last week.’ I exchange a glance with Guy, both of us realising that it must have been my father who cleared the house. Really, who else would it have been? Cecil brings a hand up to his head as if he’s confused. ‘I guess it could have been a couple of weeks ago now. With you not being out on your daily milk run, I’ve lost track of the days. I really have missed your afternoon visits.’ He smiles at me, strokes the back of my hand.

  A multitude of memories concerning my old routine are still missing. But now as I think about what Cecil said, I think I can recall dropping by his house every day, delivering him a pint of milk if he needed it.

  ‘After getting home with Joshua, right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  It feels good to know I was connected to Cecil in this way, something kind and neighbourly, an effort to help somebody in need. Perhaps it was because he was old and infirm. Maybe because I knew he was lonely. But I don’t really believe it was only for those reasons. Instead I am sure I used to go there because I was lonely. We had both lost our spouses, even if it was in different ways. I think I used to go there because he understood me.

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about my old routine?’ I ask. He waits for me to elaborate, his eyes narrowing a little, a deep crease forming between his eyes. ‘It’s just that I can’t remember all that much, Cecil. Anything you can tell me would be a great help. Like things I used to do, places I used to go. Perhaps people I used to talk about.’

  He rubs one of his arthritic hands against his chin. Guy sits down on the arm of a chair, crosses one leg over the other. ‘To be honest with you, Chloe,’ Cecil says, ‘you were quite a private person. You didn’t seem to have many friends, but there was this one girl you talked to a lot. Her name was Sara, I think. You used to speak to her every day.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I think she worked with you.’

  I can’t remember anybody called Sara, but if she used to work with me, she should be easy to find. If she really was such a good friend, maybe she will know where I can find Andrew, how I was feeling before the crash.

  I stand up purposefully. I need to uncover the truth of those days before the accident. Once I do that, I might be able to understand my life, find a way to move forward. ‘Cecil, I hate to rush you off,’ I say, holding out a hand to help him to his feet. ‘But we really have to be going. My father is expecting me home.’

  When I return to the lounge after seeing Cecil out, I find Guy still sitting on the arm of the chair. He looks out of place and uncomfortable. I notice that his shirt is still partly untucked at the waist.

  ‘Chloe, about what happened. I should—’ he begins, but I cut him off. I don’t want to hear what he has to say.

  ‘You don’t need to apologise,’ I say, a flush of embarrassment spreading up my neck and into my cheeks. What happened wasn’t his fault, and I wanted it just as much as he did. I stare out of the window, at the people, the noise; so many lives right there within reach. Not one of them is mine. ‘You don’t owe me anything, Guy.’

  ‘But I—’

  I don’t mean to raise my voice, but I can’t help it. I hope Cecil is already out of earshot. ‘No, Guy. I should never have kissed you.’

  He nods his head, one hand brushing against his forehead as he lets go of a long breath. ‘Just listen for a moment. Let me at least say this.’ He seems distressed and urgent as he moves towards me, almost close enough to touch me. ‘I know that at the moment your life is complicated, and you have a lot on your mind. But I wouldn’t have kissed you back if I didn’t want it. I’m a grown man, I know my own mind.’

  ‘Guy, I’m here to find my husband and instead we nearly end up…’ I can’t bring myself to say it.

  ‘No, Chloe. Don’t do that. Don’t say it like it’s shameful.’ He reaches a hand out towards me before he seems to change his mind. ‘You don’t even know where your husband is.’

  I stare out of the window, see a couple walking past hand in hand, smiling at each other. Will I ever have that again? ‘It was shameful, Guy, and it should never have happened. I got carried away. Can’t we please leave it at that?’

  He takes another long breath, and stares at the floor, perhaps searching for answers, perhaps just unable to look at me. He’s so tall, broad-shouldered, but in that moment he appears small and shrivelled. ‘Is that what you want? To just forget it happened? To be tied to a life that doesn’t exist any more? Bound to a past that you can’t even remember?’

  Is it? I’m not sure. What I do know is that I have so many other things to think about right now, and the most important of all is finding my husband so I can start to understand what happened that night. I can’t get distracted by talking about a kiss that was never meant to be.

  ‘I can’t move on unless I understand the past, Guy. I need to find out what led to my accident in the first place, and in order to do that, I have to find Andrew.’

  ‘OK. So do you want me to take you back to your parents’ house?’

  ‘No. I want to call by my old work. Maybe this Sara woman is there. She might know where I can find Andrew.’

  ‘I’ll take you.’

  ‘No, I’ll find my own way there.’ I can’t ask for his help again, not after what just happened. ‘You’ve already done enough.’

  But he’s shaking his head. ‘Don’t be silly. How are you going to get there? Let me help you. After your recent surgery, you shouldn’t really be alone.’

 
; It’s difficult to admit, but he’s right. Even if I was to go on my own, what next? What would I do and where would I go after that? Back here? Back to my parents’ house? Neither of those options feels good.

  We cross the road together, climb into the car. We head towards the coast, towards the place where I used to seek solace. I feel his eyes upon me as we drive, but I keep my focus on the road ahead, taking in the sounds and sights of the shore. Trying to remember something of my life here. I stare out at the water, feel the chill of it against my skin. I feel an urge to get out of the car, walk down the beach and sink into the waves. The sea always could calm me, I know that now.

  ‘All I want to do is help you, Chloe. Help you find what you’re looking for. Right now, that is the most important thing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  As we pull away from the red lights he speaks once more.

  ‘Because once you do, I know that everything will start to make sense.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  I’m not sure where exactly I used to work, but I remember the name of the charity: Fresh Starts. Guy knows it, says it isn’t far from his house in Hove. All manner of thoughts are going round in my head. Will this trip to my old office reveal anything about my life before the accident? Will Sara be there? Will she be able to tell me anything more about Andrew, where I might be able to find him?

  We drive along the open seafront, the angry waves crashing against the shingle. ‘Do you remember this place?’ Guy asks as we pass a large hotel. The red-brick facade is dull in the greyness of the weather despite its ostentatious design. It needs the benefit of sunlight to illuminate its grandeur. I peer through the window as we pass a glass portico under which a concierge shelters, his boots shiny, his coat heavy and wet. I look up for the sign, find it gracing the front of the building on one of the higher floors: Brighton Metropole.

  ‘No,’ I tell him as I sit back in my seat. ‘Should I?’

  He shrugs his shoulders before reaching to shift down the gears. ‘Perhaps you would if you hadn’t suffered the epidural haematoma.’