The Lies We Told

by Camilla Way

  On those early visits Clara would secretly, eagerly look for signs of Luke’s lost sister, but never found any. Emily wasn’t in any of the framed photos in the elegant living room, and only Tom’s and Luke’s old preschool paintings were lovingly displayed on the kitchen walls, autographed in their childish scrawls. She had sounded like such a strong and vivid personality from Luke’s description, yet even in the small attic room that had once been hers, no trace of Emily remained. She was so carefully deleted from the fabric of her family that it somehow made her all the more present, Clara thought. What had happened to Luke’s sister? she brooded; why would someone leave this loving family home so suddenly, then vanish into thin air? The question fascinated her because despite the Lawsons’ warm hospitality, the welcoming comfort of their beautiful home, she could feel the sadness that lingered there still, in the corners and the shadows of each room.

  Over the following three years Clara would hear Emily’s name mentioned only once. It was at a birthday party for Rose, the Willows full to bursting with friends from the nearby village, ex-colleagues of hers from the hospital, Oliver’s writer and publishing friends, and what felt like the entire faculty of the university he taught at. Oliver had been extremely drunk, regaling Clara with an anecdote about a recent research trip when suddenly he had fallen silent, staring down at his drink, apparently lost in thought.

  “Oliver? Are you okay?” she’d asked in surprise.

  He’d replied in a strange, thick voice, “She meant the world to us, you know, our little girl. We loved her so very much.” And then to her horror his eyes had filled with tears as he said, “Oh, my darling Emily, I’m so sorry, I’m so very sorry.” She had stared at him, frozen, until Luke’s brother, Tom, had appeared and gently led him away, murmuring, “Come on, Dad, time for bed now, that’s right, off we go.”

  * * *

  —

  At last Clara left London behind and joined the M11. It should take her only another hour or so to reach Suffolk. Would Luke be there? She gripped the steering wheel tighter and pressed her foot on the accelerator. Surely he would—he had to be. Unbidden, the e-mails she’d read earlier came back to her—It’s going to be soon Luke, your funeral’s going to be very soon—and she felt again the knot of fear tightening in her stomach.

  She reached the Willows as the sun began to set. As she got out of the car and gazed up at the house, cawing jackdaws circled above the surrounding fields in the twilight sky. This moment of stillness just before nightfall seemed to capture the place at its most magical. It was an eighteenth-century farmhouse, clematis and bloodflower clambering over its red bricks, an ancient weeping willow shivering in the breeze. On either side of the low, wide oak door, crooked crown-glass windows offered a glimpse into the beautiful interior beyond. It was a house out of a fairy story, enchanted and remote beneath this endless empty sky. She approached the door now, taking a deep breath before she knocked. Please be here, Luke, please, please, just be here.

  She heard the familiar sound of their ancient spaniel, Clementine, bounding to the door and then the latch being raised. It was Oliver who opened it. He peered out at her, not seeming to recognize her at first, clearly wary to have someone appear so out of the blue; they were so remote and alone out here. Finally, his expression cleared. “Good lord, Clara!” He turned and called behind him, “Rose, it’s Clara! Oh, do calm down, Clemmy! Come in, come in. What a lovely surprise. What on earth are you doing here?”

  She glanced over his shoulder to the cozy glow of the room behind him and felt the house’s familiar pull. She caught the smell of something cooking and pictured Rose in the kitchen listening to Radio 4 while she made dinner, a welcoming, irresistible scene of affluent domesticity, so different from the chilly semidetached in Penge she’d grown up in. But before she could reply, Rose came running up behind him. “My goodness, darling, hello! Where’s Luke?” She looked beyond Clara to the car, her expression pleased and expectant.

  Clara’s heart sank. Shit. “He’s not with me, actually,” she admitted.

  Oliver frowned. “Oh?” he said, then added gallantly, “Oh well, how lovely to see you anyway. Come in, come in!”

  But Rose was still smiling at her. “Why not?” she asked.

  “You haven’t heard from him, then?”

  “No, not since the weekend.”

  Before Clara could say anything else, Oliver was ushering her through to the kitchen. “Come in! Come in and sit down.”

  While Rose bustled about putting the kettle on and Oliver chatted about a new book he was researching, Clara leaned down to stroke Clemmy, and wondered how to begin.

  Finally, Rose placed the tea on the table in front of her and, sitting down, said mildly, “So, my darling, where’s that son of ours?”

  Clara took a deep breath. “Nobody’s seen Luke since yesterday evening, around seven thirty,” she told them. “He e-mailed me to say he was coming home, but he didn’t turn up and he doesn’t have his mobile on him. He had an important interview today, as well as a big meeting at work . . . but nobody’s heard anything from him.” She looked from one to the other of their faces. “It’s not like him and I’m so worried. I thought he might have come here, but . . .”

  Oliver looked perplexed. “Well . . . perhaps he’s gone to stay with friends, or . . .”

  Clara nodded. “The thing is, and it might be nothing, but he’d been getting these weird e-mails lately, and a few things had started to happen. A break-in at our flat, and dodgy phone calls, and, well, photographs. We hadn’t wanted to worry you, so . . .”

  “Phone calls? Photographs? What sort of photographs?” asked Rose in bewilderment.

  “Whoever it was had been following Luke, taking pictures. I think they were just meant to scare him.”

  Rose’s face suddenly drained of color behind her carefully applied makeup. “What did the e-mails say?”

  “They weren’t very nice,” Clara admitted. “Quite threatening, saying they were going to come after him, talking about his funeral . . .”

  “Oh God. Oh dear God.” Rose put a trembling hand to her mouth.

  “I don’t—,” Clara began, but was interrupted by the sound of floorboards creaking overhead, then footsteps on the stairs. She looked from Rose to Oliver in confusion. For a strange, chilly moment she wondered if it was Luke she could hear—the disquieting thought occurring to her that his parents had lied to her, that Luke had been here all along. It took her a second or two to recognize the man who appeared at the kitchen door as Luke’s older brother, Tom.

  They stared at each other blankly for a moment before Tom said, “Clara! What— Where’s Luke?”

  She watched Tom as he listened to his father explain the reason for her visit. She had never quite been able to get a handle on Luke’s older brother, and had always found him a little stiff and pompous. Perhaps it was because the rest of the Lawsons were so welcoming that Tom’s reticence was more noticeable, but it had long seemed to her that he kept himself a little apart from his family, that there was an aloofness there that almost bordered on disdain. And though he’d always been polite enough to her on the rare occasions that they met, she’d never managed to break through his reserve.

  It was unusual to find Tom at the Willows at all, in fact. Although he lived relatively nearby, in Norwich, he was not as close to Rose and Oliver as his younger brother was, visiting far less frequently than Luke did. Unlike Luke, physically he took after their mother rather than Oliver, inheriting her high cheekbones and blue, almost turquoise eyes—though apparently none of her natural warmth. She remembered Luke telling her once that Tom had split from a long-term girlfriend a year or so before, though Luke hadn’t known why. That’s Tom for you, he’d said. Closed bloody book when it comes to that sort of stuff.

  “He’s probably just drunk somewhere,” Tom said now with the elder-sibling dismissiveness she knew drove Luke crazy.
>
  She bit back a rush of irritation, and managed to murmur politely, “I hope so.”

  “But what about this stalker person?” Rose asked anxiously.

  Tom shrugged and, going over to his parents’ extensive wine rack, helped himself to a bottle. “Probably some unhinged ex of his,” he said, reaching for a glass. “God knows he’s had enough of those.” He glanced at Clara then and, perhaps catching her annoyance, looked a little abashed and added more kindly, if patronizingly, “I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. I really wouldn’t worry.”

  Rose gripped her husband’s arm. “Oh, Oli, where is he? Where is he?”

  “Tom’s right. He’ll turn up,” Oliver murmured, putting a comforting hand over hers, but though his voice was reassuring, Clara saw the worry in his eyes.

  She got to her feet. “I’m so sorry for upsetting you all like this,” she said miserably.

  “What will you do now?” Tom asked.

  “I’ll call the police as soon as I get home, if he’s still not back. He’ll have been missing for twenty-four hours by then, so hopefully they’ll take it seriously,” she added, looking around for her bag.

  “That’s actually a myth, you know,” Tom replied.

  She blinked. “What is?”

  “That you have to wait twenty-four hours. You can report someone missing whenever you like—the police still have to take it seriously.”

  She picked up her bag, ignoring his know-it-all tone. “Well, anyway, I’ll be off now,” she said. “Mac’s back at the flat, calling around the hospitals. Just in case,” she added, seeing Rose’s alarmed expression.

  “Oh God, oh dear—I don’t . . .” Flustered, Rose got to her feet.

  “I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Clara said with more conviction than she felt. “Tom’s right, he’s probably just had a heavy night and is sleeping it off somewhere. I’m only going to ring the police to be sure.”

  Rose nodded unhappily. “Will you phone me when you’ve spoken to them?” She and Oliver looked so fearful suddenly that Clara wished she hadn’t come. For the first time since she met them, their characteristic energy and vitality seemed to slip a little, and though they were only in their sixties still, she caught a disconcerting glimpse of the frail, elderly people they would one day become.

  “Of course,” she said firmly. “Straightaway.” Quickly she hugged Rose, then kissed Oliver on the cheek before raising her hand and giving Tom a brief wave of farewell. “I’ll speak to you soon. I’m so sorry, but I better head back now.”

  As soon as she got in her car, she phoned Mac. “Any news?” she asked.

  “No. The hospitals say no one’s been admitted who fits his description—no one who hasn’t already been identified, anyway.” He paused. “I take it his mum and dad haven’t heard from him?”

  “No,” she said quietly.

  “Shit.” There was a silence. “How’d they take it?”

  “Not brilliantly. Rose was very upset.”

  “Fucking hell, I’m going to kill that stupid bastard when I see him.”

  She gave a weak laugh. “Oh God, Mac. Where the hell is he?”

  Mac didn’t reply for a moment and then, in a voice completely unlike his, said, “I don’t know, Clara. I really don’t know.”

  FIVE

  CAMBRIDGESHIRE, 1987

  Our son, Toby, was born a few weeks before Hannah’s sixth birthday, and from the very first moment he was a joy. I adored being his mother, the way his eyes would follow me around the room, how he’d reach for me as soon as I drew near—the almost telepathic way we communicated. It was as though we were one person; he seemed to melt into me when I held him, his little head tucked tightly under my chin, the skin of his body warm against mine. I felt as though finally I was loved and needed in the way I’d always dreamed of being. We adored each other—it was as simple as that—and yes, I guess it did make Hannah feel pushed out a bit.

  But I tried hard to make her feel included. I followed the advice in every book I could find about sibling rivalry, did my best to show her she was just as loved as her brother. It almost always backfired. “Today we’re going to have a Hannah and Mummy day,” I told her one morning over breakfast. “What would you like to do?” I asked her brightly. “Anything you want!”

  She stared balefully back at me as she shoveled Shreddies into her mouth, but didn’t reply.

  “Swimming? Cinema?”

  Still nothing.

  “Shopping for a new toy?”

  She shrugged.

  “Shopping it is, then!”

  We drove to the nearest town with a large toy store in its center. “We can go for tea and cakes first,” I suggested. “Isn’t this fun? Us girls together? You’re such a big girl now, perhaps we can choose a pretty dress for you.” She stared out the window while I prattled on.

  The shop was one of those lovely old-fashioned ones selling tasteful and expensive handmade toys for the sort of parents allergic to plastic. It wasn’t the kind of place I usually shopped in, but I’d wanted to buy Hannah something really special and original. We wandered the aisles, but though I pointed out countless dolls, games, and stuffed toys, she barely glanced at them, gazing back at me with undisguised boredom. I began to lose my patience. “Come on, love, you can have anything you want. Just take a look!”

  It was at that moment that I spotted, at the far end of the shop, someone I used to know from the village I grew up in. I completely froze, my heart pounding at such a strange and unexpected shock. I ducked my head and turned quickly away, hurrying along another aisle. I couldn’t face the questions that would have been asked, the inevitable fishing for details as to why Doug and I had left so suddenly all those years before, severing all links with a community I’d been a part of my entire life.

  Hiding behind a display of teddy bears, I looked around for Hannah, my heart sinking when I realized she wasn’t there. “Hannah!” I hissed. “Where are you!” At last I spied my former neighbor leaving and heaved a sigh of relief as Hannah appeared from around the corner.

  “I want to go home,” she said.

  I was too drained to argue any longer. “Fine. Have it your way.”

  It was as we were leaving that I felt the hand on my arm. I turned to see a middle-aged woman staring at me with obvious distaste. “You’ll have to pay for these,” she said, tight-lipped.

  It was then that I noticed her manager badge. “I’m sorry?” I asked.

  She held out her hand, filled with what looked like little wooden sticks. “She did this. I saw her,” the woman said, nodding at Hannah. “You’ll need to pay for them. Would you come this way, please?”

  I realized then that what she was showing me was the beautiful set of hand-painted wooden dolls from the eye-wateringly expensive dollhouse I’d pointed out to Hannah when we’d first arrived. Every single one of them had had its head and limbs snapped off. I looked at Hannah, who stared innocently back at me.

  We drove home in silence. When I unlocked the front door, I all but ran to Toby, grabbing him from Doug’s arms and burying my face into his comforting, warm little neck, hurrying up to my bedroom and shutting the door behind us.

  * * *

  —

  From the beginning, Doug and I dealt with Hannah’s behavior very differently. I still had the faint scar at the corner of my eye, the sight of Lucy’s empty cage stashed forlornly in our garage, to remind me just what she was capable of. Toby was a very clingy baby who hated to be put down, and occasionally I’d glance up to see Hannah watching us together, gazing over at us in such an unsettling manner that it made me shiver.

  So, yes, I guess I was a little overprotective of my baby son, wary and watchful of my daughter whenever she was near. As he was breastfed, I always had an excuse to keep him close by me, but soon Doug began to resent me for what he saw as me monopolizing our boy. “You’ve
made him clingy,” he’d complain when Toby would cry for me the moment Doug tried to pick him up. It was as though he thought I was deliberately keeping his son from him, but that just wasn’t true.

  Doug’s way of dealing with Hannah was to lavish her with attention, no matter what she did, as though he hoped the force of his love alone might steer her on the right track. If he came home from work, for example, and found her on the naughty step, he would—much to my annoyance—scoop her up and give her a biscuit, taking her with him to the living room to watch her favorite cartoon on TV, while I played with Toby in a separate room. Slowly our little family began to divide into two, with Toby and me on one side, Doug and Hannah on the other. It was true that she was much better behaved when she was with her father, but I sensed that she enjoyed the growing rift between Doug and me. I saw the spark of pleasure in her eyes when we argued, how happy she seemed when we ate our meals in offended silence.

  And through it all, through the constant worry over Hannah, the demands of caring for our baby son, and the thousand other pressures of daily life, the secret Doug and I shared festered. I had hoped that it would get easier, the guilt we felt—had hoped that time would help us to accept the part we’d played in the whole awful business back then. But a young woman had died that night, leaving behind a grieving family, parents to endure the agony of not knowing what really happened to her. And our guilt weighed more heavily every day, adding to the steady corrosion of our once-happy marriage. We could not forgive ourselves, it seemed, or each other, for the choices that we’d made.

  * * *

  —

  A few months before Hannah turned seven, Doug and I were summoned, yet again, to the school to talk about her behavior. We’d had a row earlier that morning and drove there in almost complete silence, Toby sleeping in his car seat behind us, Doug staring grimly at the road ahead. As we drove, I brooded over Hannah. Had I caused it, whatever “it” was? Had the pain of those years of childlessness affected how I’d bonded with my first child? I had felt so broken, so utterly alone back then; nobody had understood, not really—not even Doug. In my misery and isolation, had I put up such a self-protective wall between myself and the world that it’d made my heart harder, incapable of fully loving and accepting my daughter when she finally arrived? Is that what she sensed and railed against? I stared out my window, trying to fight my tears, until we finally drew up in front of West Elms Primary.