Under Lying

by Janelle Harris

  I stuff a slice of bacon into my mouth to buy myself time while I try to think where I left my wallet.

  ‘Do you just want one bottle of champagne?’ Adam asks.

  ‘Eh, yeah,’ I say. ‘That stuff’s expensive. Actually, maybe Prosecco.’

  ‘Okay. One bottle. Of cheap Prosecco,’ he says, holding in a laugh. ‘I can tell by your face that you’ve no idea where your wallet is, so you can just pay me back when I get home. And clean up, yeah? This place is disgusting.’

  ‘Hey,’ I moan, tossing my empty plate into the sink where it clinks against Adam’s. ‘Who made you the boss?’

  He shrugs cockily. ‘So don’t clean. I won’t be the one who has to listen to Mam’s moaning about the state of the place when she gets here.’

  ‘Ugh.’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘I hate it when you’re right.’

  ‘I’m always right,’ Adam laughs, snapping the towel from my shoulder before racing towards the bathroom. ‘And I’m always first in the shower.’

  ‘Arsehole,’ I shout after him as he locks the door.

  Several minutes later Adam is by the front door, wearing the same hoodie as me, except his fits him. He has the strap of his fancy and expensive camera slung over one shoulder and my hot-pink umbrella is tucked under his arm.

  ‘Before you say anything . . . I left you hot water,’ he smiles.

  Lightning flashes and engulfs our entire living area in a purple-blue hue for a split second, followed almost instantly by a loud clap of thunder.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Sue,’ Adam says as he opens the door. ‘I won’t be long. This is going to be the best birthday ever. I promise. See you soon.’

  The wind slams the door shut behind him with an aggressive thud and I shake my head, wondering how my twin brother and I have grown up to be such different people.

  Three hours later I’m hot and clammy from cleaning. My fingers feel flaky and grubby where the inside of the cheap rubber gloves has started to crumble against my skin because I’ve been scrubbing so hard. My efforts have paid off; the kitchenette is spotless. The countertops actually sparkle. I sorted and put away all my clothes. In the process, I found a black cocktail dress I’d forgotten about and decided to wear it tonight. Adam won’t be showing me up in his suit after all, I think. My bedroom is clean and tidy and I even changed the sheets on my bed, realising it’s pretty disgusting that I can’t remember the last time I did that.

  Exhausted, I peel off my gloves and throw them in the bin. I thought Adam would be back ages ago. I wonder if he’s lost track of time taking photos of the storm. I hope he got some good shots. I decide I’ll try to get my hands on his camera when he’s not looking and have the best ones printed off and framed. I haven’t had a chance to get him a birthday present yet, so this would be perfect.

  I make the most of having the flat to myself. I spend ages in the shower, and when I get out I put Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the telly and plug in my hair straightener in the living room. Adam would go crazy if he caught me. I’ve already burned several holes in the carpet in my room, and he says the landlord will freak and we’ll lose our deposit when we move out. Adam worries about all the wrong things, I think, staring out the window at a tree blowing furiously in the storm. I try to take my mind off my overzealous brother hunting for a great shot. I pull on my little black dress over greyish-blue underwear that used to be white, and flop on to the couch to make a start on my make-up.

  I must have fallen asleep, because when I open my eyes again the thunder and lightning have stopped and the rain has reduced to a depressing drizzle. Adam was right not to cancel the party. I was worrying over nothing. The storm has blown over in time. Bubbles of excitement pop in my tummy as I look forward to the night ahead.

  When my phone rings I expect to find my brother’s name onscreen, but I’m not surprised to see my mother’s instead – I was expecting her to be here at least an hour ago. The weather must be playing havoc with the traffic, I think. I try to hit answer but I’m sleepy and uncoordinated. The ringing stops and seconds later my phone beeps, informing me that I have a voice message. I listen.

  ‘Sue, it’s Mam. Please, please call me as soon as you get this. There’s been an accident. A terrible accident.’

  Chapter Five

  NOW

  TEN DAYS LATER

  The news comes on the telly and I close my eyes and cover my ears with my hands. ‘Blasted thing,’ Helen says. ‘I’ll turn it off.’

  I wait a couple of seconds before I lower my hands and open my eyes. ‘Thank you,’ I say, choking back tears. ‘I just can’t listen to them talk about Amelia any more. It’s too hard.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ Helen says, placing the remote control on the coffee table next to a freshly made sandwich.

  ‘Are there reporters still outside?’ I ask.

  She walks over to the window and parts the drawn curtain just enough to peek through. ‘Nope. No one. Oh wait, hang on . . . a girl with a fancy camera. I think she’s taking pictures of the house.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Will I tell her to go away?’ Helen asks.

  ‘No point,’ I shrug. ‘She’ll just come back later. Or tomorrow. They always do. There’s always someone here, isn’t there? If it’s not the cops, it’s the press, or a curious neighbour. I wasn’t prepared for this. I didn’t know there would be so many people. So many questions. I can’t breathe.’ I tug at the collar of my blouse, loosening it, but it doesn’t help and I still feel choked.

  ‘Ah Susan,’ Helen says as she lowers herself on to the sitting room couch next to me. ‘How could anyone prepare for this? You’re doing great. And you don’t have to answer anyone’s questions. Not if you’re not up to it.’

  I can see her thigh brush against mine and she places her hand on my knee, but I don’t feel her touch. My whole body is numb, everywhere is stiff and without feeling – except for my head. My head hurts. It pulses like it might explode as I replay in my mind the image of my teenage neighbour pulling Amelia’s cardigan out of the water.

  ‘Susan, won’t you eat something?’ Helen asks, her voice slicing into my thoughts.

  I shake my head. Food is the last thing on my mind as I stare at the blank television screen where an image of Amelia shone back at me moments ago. I don’t remember Paul giving a photo of Amelia to the police or the reporters. Did he give them a photo of me too? I know he’d never provide one of himself. Paul can’t abide having his photo taken.

  ‘Susan.’ Helen says my name in a sing-song voice. ‘You haven’t eaten in days.’

  ‘What day is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Tuesday,’ Helen says. ‘It’s Tuesday, today. Can you remember the last time you ate? You must be hungry. Please just try a little bite. I’m worried about you.’

  I shake my head as I glance at the ham sandwich and glass of ice water in front of me on the coffee table. The food turns my stomach as if it has sat there for days. I guess Helen must have brought it from her house. I don’t have any fresh bread. Or ham. But my fridge is full of food. Mostly lasagne and quiches.

  ‘Anything that will hold for a couple of days and keep you going,’ my well-meaning but nosy neighbours say when they arrive at my front door carrying a tray of home-made offerings.

  I always accept the food that I know I’ll never eat, and I manage the words ‘thank you’ before I close the door without inviting them in.

  The only people who have been inside my house since Amelia disappeared are the team of police and Helen.

  Helen is here almost all the time. She arrives early in the morning and leaves late at night, when Larry finally finishes work on the farm and comes to walk her home in the dark. He usually stinks of gin and can barely stand up straight. And I can hear him shouting profanities at her before they reach the gate.

  Helen has taken on the role of a mother figure in my house. I’m not sure if she’s trying to help me or herself, and I’m too exhausted to try to figure it out. I have no idea how Pa
ul feels about her constant presence. Paul and I haven’t properly spoken in a while. He’s rarely at home. And when he is here, I barely recognise him and the way he’s acting.

  He took down all Amelia’s paintings from the fridge without asking me. I’m not sure exactly when I noticed they were gone. It may have taken me a couple of days. I was furious at first. And hurt. Then I found them under his pillow. But I don’t know why he keeps them there. He doesn’t sleep in our bed any more. He falls asleep on the couch or at the kitchen table, usually in the early morning, after pacing the floor for hours. As soon as he wakes, he pulls on running gear and leaves the house. He never says goodbye. The slam of the front door behind him is the only clue that he’s gone.

  Paul can’t seem to be here. And I can’t be anywhere else. It’s as if every piece of furniture reminds us of her. As if the walls whisper her name and torment us. Our little cottage that we’ve grown to love is lonely and enormous without the sound of childhood laughter filling it every day. Last night I watched my husband rock back and forth on a kitchen chair all evening. His hands covered his ears as he said our daughter’s name over and over while tears streamed down his flushed cheeks. I didn’t go to him. I didn’t try to touch him, or hold him or kiss him. I can’t bear to be near him. Paul, with his eyes of glacier blue and hair the colour of desert sand – just like Amelia.

  I jump as I feel Helen’s hand press firmly on my shoulder.

  ‘Jesus, Susan. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say, shaking a little.

  My heart is beating furiously, and I’m aware of the sound of my blood coursing in my veins as it swishes inside my aching head.

  ‘Where’s Paul today?’ Helen asks quietly, looking at her watch.

  ‘Running,’ I reply, hating how defensive I sound. ‘Paul likes to run.’

  ‘I know. But he’s been gone a long time, even longer than yesterday. Do you want me to send Larry to go look for him?’

  I shake my head. I don’t need Larry to look for Paul. I know where my husband is. It’s the same place he’s been every day for the past ten days. He’s down at the lake. And I know what he does there; he stands at the water’s edge and waits for Amelia, as if she’ll float up to him, take his hand and come home.

  ‘You shouldn’t be alone, Susan,’ Helen says. ‘Paul should be here with you. I know he needs the fresh air and time to clear his head, but I haven’t seen him much since . . . since . . . well—’ She clears her throat. ‘I just think you need each other at a time like this.’

  I pull my shoulder away from under Helen’s hand and turn so I can look her in the eye.

  ‘He thinks she’s dead, you know,’ I say. ‘Paul thinks Amelia drowned. He thinks she fell in looking for those damn ducks.’

  Tears prick the corner of Helen’s eyes. She hasn’t cried in front of me. Not once. She’s probably the only person in the whole village who hasn’t broken down and offered me their condolences, as if they’re so damn sure my baby is dead. But I can tell she wants to. I can tell Helen wants to cry her eyes out, because it’s just so bloody wrong that a beautiful little girl was running around the garden on a sunny afternoon and suddenly she’s not here any more.

  ‘You can say it, you know,’ I sigh. ‘Everyone else has. I’ve heard the rumours. People saying I’m a bad mother. I blow into the village, more concerned with making friends and keeping up appearances than watching my own daughter.’

  Helen shakes her head and the tears she’s battled to hold back begin to fall. ‘Listen here to me, Susan Warner. You are not a bad mother. You loved that little girl. It was an accident. A tragic accident. No one is to blame. No one.’

  ‘You think she’s dead too, don’t you?’ I swallow. ‘You think she drowned, just like everyone else in this miserable village.’

  ‘Susan, it’s been ten days,’ she whispers, reaching for my hand. ‘I can understand you clinging to hope. Lord knows, I’d do the same myself. But . . .’

  ‘Someone took her, Helen,’ I snap, pulling my hand away before she touches me. ‘Someone stole my baby.’

  ‘Who, Susan? Who would take a little girl from her own garden with the whole neighbourhood watching?’

  ‘A monster.’ I drag my hand through my hair, my fingers catching in the knots. ‘Someone has my daughter, Helen. I’m going to bring my baby home. And I’m going to make the bastard who took her pay. I’m going to make him pay for everything he’s done. He deserves to pay, doesn’t he?’

  She nods and tries to smile as she reaches for my hands and lowers them slowly. Her fingers curl around my palm, attempting to be positive, but her wrinkled brow and cloudy eyes tell me how fearful she really is.

  A couple of firm knocks sound on the front door. Helen lets go of me, and it’s only then I realise I’ve been holding my breath.

  ‘I’ll get it, if you like?’ she says as she runs the tips of her fingers under her eyes to catch some tears.

  I nod.

  ‘Hello,’ she says, opening the door of the cottage to a man and woman.

  I stand up as soon as the man speaks. I recognise his voice and I make my way to the door.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say. ‘Have you news? Have the divers found something?’

  ‘May we come in, Susan?’ Detective Connelly asks, his voice steady as always, offering no clues about what he’s thinking.

  I nod and walk back to the couch, pleading with myself to remain calm.

  ‘Can I get anyone tea or coffee?’ Helen asks, and I guess she’s realised the strangers are the Gardaí assigned to Amelia’s case.

  ‘No, thank you,’ the young female detective says.

  ‘Speak for yourself, Langton,’ the older man cuts in. ‘I’d appreciate a coffee, thank you.’ I watch his eyes sweep over the sandwich and water I haven’t touched. ‘Susan, you’ll have a coffee too, won’t you?’ he asks.

  There’s a distinctly father-like quality about him, and sometimes I feel as if he wants to wrap his arms around me and tell me everything will be okay. And I think I’d like it if he did. I presume he has children my age. Maybe he has grandchildren too. Grandchildren like Amelia.

  ‘Yeah, coffee,’ I nod, sitting down. ‘Coffee would be good, Helen – thanks.’

  ‘Ah good,’ Helen says. ‘And I’ll make some tea for myself. If you change your mind, Miss . . . Miss . . .’

  ‘Fiona,’ the female Garda says. ‘And, thank you, but I really am okay.’

  ‘Fiona,’ I repeat silently in my head, thinking how the name suits her. Fiona Langton.

  I’m sure the pair of Gardaí standing uncomfortably in my home have told me their first names before. Maybe many times. But I don’t remember. Detective Langton and Detective Connelly refer to each other by their surnames. It’s obviously an occupational habit. I wonder if they do the same outside of work. If they bump into each in the supermarket aisle, do they still assume the same formalities?

  Fancy seeing you here, Langton.

  Oh, I just popped in for some frozen peas, Connelly.

  I like Connelly. He’s considerably older than Langton. Old enough to be her father. He’s overweight, but his suit tells me he wasn’t always that way. It’s a tight fit and his jacket struggles to button up over his a-few-doughnuts-too-many belly. The tailoring is dated, and the pinstripe is wide and out of fashion. I suspect his suits are serving Connelly as long as he’s been serving the force. He wears black. Always. The only splash of colour is his fat tie that looks like it’s escaped from an 80s romantic comedy. But he smiles at me often and his eyes tell me how much his heart breaks every time he’s assigned to the case of a missing child. He squeezes my hand sometimes, and it feels as if he’s promising he’ll find my little girl.

  Langton is entirely different. She looks at me with unsure eyes and I wonder if she has children of her own. She’s about my age. At most she’s a year or two older. I think that might be unusually young to be a detective but I’m not well up on that sort of thing
. She has a neat, strawberry-blonde bob and fair skin, the kind that burns after just a couple of minutes outdoors in the summer. Freckles sprinkle across her nose like cinnamon on an apple tart and her lips are narrow and dark red – serious, always, like a stern headmistress. Her pencil skirts sit respectably below her knee and her jacket plunges tastefully, revealing a crisp pastel blouse. She oozes perfection. She looks like someone who has never had a bad hair day in her life. A woman who doesn’t make mistakes, and certainly not the type of mother who would ever lose a child. Her clear eyes sweep over my dishevelled appearance, which is a stark contrast against my perfect home. She tries, and fails, to hide her disapproval with professional composure, but I can feel her judging me, wondering how I could possibly be so negligent. Wondering how any mother could be so caught up by sudden bad weather that she neglected her own child. Wondering if this is all my fault. But, mostly, I see her wondering if I’m broken. And the answer is written all over my face.

  ‘Is Paul here?’ Connelly asks, lowering himself to sit next to me, and the cushion behind him puffs out in protest under his weight.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Okay.’ Connelly sighs. ‘Will he be home soon?’

  I shrug. I can feel Langton’s eyes burn into me and I should be embarrassed that my husband appears to have abandoned me when we need each other most, but I don’t have the energy.

  ‘We were hoping to speak to both of you,’ Langton explains, folding her arms.

  ‘Paul is out running,’ Helen says, appearing from the kitchen area.

  She carries my cherished, hand-painted china tray in her hands and matching cups with steam swirling out the top rattle and clink with each unsure step she takes towards us. There’s a plate of chocolate biscuits too. I don’t know where Helen found them. Maybe one of the neighbours dropped them in.

  ‘This is beautiful.’ Langton points to the tray that seems to fit effortlessly in my home.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, glancing at the blue swallows painted above bright green foliage that work their way across the china set. ‘It was a gift from my mother. A few years ago.’