Under Lying

by Janelle Harris

  I neglect to mention that at the time my mother gave it to me I stuffed it under my bed for months on end, horrified by the sight of the kitsch thing.

  ‘Ah, lovely. Thank you,’ Connelly says as Helen leans over the coffee table, lifts the biscuits and hot cups off the tray and places them on the table.

  Helen clears away the untouched sandwich and glass of now lukewarm water and sighs as she looks at me. ‘I made your coffee extra strong, Susan. You need it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, relieved as she walks back towards the kitchen.

  ‘Paul goes out running a lot,’ Langton says as soon as Helen is out of earshot.

  ‘Yes,’ I agree, reaching for the cup of coffee nearest to me. It’s much too hot to drink.

  ‘Has he always been a keen runner?’ Connelly asks.

  I smile. Connelly’s approach is much softer. More likeable. He manages to ask the same questions as Langton but in a more human way.

  ‘As long as I’ve known him. Yes,’ I say.

  ‘And how long is that?’ Langton asks.

  What a strange question, I think as I stare her down with bloodshot eyes and I’m sure my expression tells her as much.

  She elaborates awkwardly. ‘Are you married long?’

  ‘Four years,’ I say. ‘Five this summer.’

  ‘And how did you meet?’

  ‘We bumped into each other in a coffee shop, but it took him a long time to finally work up the courage to ask me out.’

  ‘A true romance.’ Connelly smiles. ‘Ah, young love. You can’t beat it, can you?’

  ‘Did you know Paul before that?’ Langton asks.

  I shake my head, distressed. ‘I’m sorry, these questions . . .’

  Connelly shoots Langton a look that warns her to back off. I’d put money on her next question being about Paul’s past. And I’m certainly not about to discuss that. Not now. Not ever.

  ‘Are you a runner too?’ Connelly asks, impressively deflecting, and I let on as if I don’t notice him pulling rank.

  ‘No. Just Paul.’ I answer his question but I keep my eyes on Langton.

  I don’t like her and I definitely don’t trust her.

  ‘Paul is training for the Dublin marathon,’ I explain. ‘He’s run it every year since we’ve been married, and every year he tries to beat his previous time. He’s fast. Top two per cent, or something like that.’

  ‘And is he going to run it this year?’ Langton says.

  It’s not what she says but the way she says it that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. She doesn’t only think I’m a bad mother. She thinks Paul is a lousy father too. As if we’re self-absorbed parents who deserve to lose a child. Paul busy running. Me busy trying to fit in. Amelia didn’t stand a chance.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘Maybe. We haven’t discussed it. Paul was training hard before . . .’ I cough and take a mouthful of coffee. It’s scalding and it stings as it makes its way down my throat like liquid fire.

  ‘Do you know where he runs? The route?’ Langton says.

  ‘Not really. Down by the lake sometimes. The road into town isn’t safe. There’s lots of bends and blind spots. I don’t like him running there. I’ve asked him not to.’

  ‘How far does he run?’ Langton continues. ‘Four, maybe five kilometres?’

  ‘God no.’ I shake my head. ‘Ten most days. Fifteen sometimes.’

  ‘But it’s only a couple of kilometres to the lake and back,’ Langton says.

  ‘Yeah . . . and . . .’ I twitch.

  ‘And where does he pick up the remaining thirteen kilometres?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, my eyes seeking out Helen in the kitchen.

  She has her back to me as she leans over the sink, washing dishes that have been there for days.

  I want to believe Langton is trying to make conversation until Paul comes home. I want to believe she’s simply taking an interest in my husband’s hobby, but there’s something about the determined glint in her eyes that tells me this is more than just an awkward chat. She makes me uneasy and maybe I’m too tired to hide it.

  ‘Are you married?’ I ask, a single eyebrow raised accusingly.

  I glance at her wedding finger and I don’t see a ring. But that doesn’t answer my question. Maybe she doesn’t wear her ring at work.

  Her eyes meet mine and she shakes her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Kids?’ I mumble, the word passing my lips before I have time to think.

  Langton remains silent but I don’t miss the twitch of her lips. She’s a mother all right.

  ‘Susan, I know this isn’t easy for you,’ Connelly interjects. ‘We’re just trying to gather as much information as we can, to paint a picture for ourselves. It helps sometimes.’

  ‘Does Paul ever go running in the woods?’ Langton asks.

  I shift uncomfortably on the couch and turn towards Detective Connelly. He’s helped himself to a cup of coffee and half the plate of biscuits is gone. Telltale crumbs sprinkle his tie.

  ‘What woods?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s not really a wood,’ Connelly explains, using the back of his hand to brush the crumbs off his tie and on to my plush cream rug. ‘It’s really just overgrown agricultural land.’

  I squint, trying to visualise the area he’s talking about.

  ‘There are some tall trees on the far side of the lake, they stretch for a couple of miles before they reach the nearest farm,’ he continues.

  ‘It’s no place for a runner, up there,’ Helen says, once again returning from the kitchen area, this time wearing my rubber gloves, which are much too small for her. ‘It’s mucky and hilly up there. Paul’s hardly going to risk a broken ankle when he’s training for the bloody marathon. Susan, don’t worry, Paul hasn’t run off into the woods. Jesus.’ Helen squeezes my shoulder gently with a soapy, gloved hand before she walks back towards the kitchen sink, shaking her head and muttering under her breath.

  ‘Why are you asking these questions?’ I say, setting my coffee cup down before my shaking hand spills some.

  ‘There’s no body, Susan,’ Langton says. ‘Our divers have been over every inch of the water and there’s nothing.’

  ‘So . . . What are you saying? Have you come here to tell me you’re giving up? You’re just going to stop looking? Is that it?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not,’ Connelly cuts in, his eyes burning into Langton’s like hot coals. ‘We’d never give up looking for a missing person. Least of all a child.’

  ‘Susan, we want to find Amelia,’ Langton says, following Connelly’s lead, and I think I can hear her voice breaking. ‘But we do have to tell you that the divers are pulling back. I’m sorry. It will probably be on the news later, when the reporters notice, and we wanted you and Paul to hear it from us first.’

  ‘Amelia is two.’ I begin to cry. ‘She’s two years old and you’re sitting on my couch eating biscuits and telling me that you’re not going to look for her any more?’

  Langton’s face is laced with emotion.

  Angry, tearless sobs burst out of me. ‘She’s a baby. Just a baby.’

  Helen hurries back. She looks like she might cry too.

  ‘Susan hasn’t been watching the news,’ she explains, making it obvious she’s been listening to our conversation all along despite busying herself with the washing up.

  ‘I can understand,’ Connelly says, tilting his head to one side and looking at me with knowing, sad eyes. ‘Reporters can be unintentionally insensitive.’

  ‘Unintentionally my arse,’ Helen snorts.

  Connelly shifts slightly as he switches his attention to Helen. The leather couch squeaks under him and the noise hangs in the air for a moment.

  ‘They took photos of Amelia from Susan’s Facebook page,’ she says, audibly disgusted. ‘The cheeky bastards. They splashed them in all the papers. How is that unintentional, huh?’

  Connelly’s forehead wrinkles and he shakes his head.

  ‘Some of the loc
als even gave interviews to the papers about this poor family.’ Helen points a single finger in my direction. ‘People around here barely know Susan and Paul, but that didn’t stop them talking. The papers don’t care. They just want a headline. They’ll print any old nonsense.’

  ‘Susan, I can assure you everyone wants Amelia found,’ Connelly says. ‘The Gardaí, the press, your neighbours . . .’

  He’s speaking to me but looking at Helen. I can see him losing patience as he tries to quench her fire with calm words and a firm tone. But Helen is on a roll.

  ‘And is any of this going to help find Amelia?’ Helen goes on. ‘No. Of course it’s not. Reporters just want a story. They’re using a missing child to sell bloody papers. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘I can understand how upsetting that must be, Susan,’ Connelly says. ‘As you know, we issued a statement when the case first broke, asking the media to show discretion and respect your privacy.’

  ‘Well, the media ignored you,’ Helen grumbles.

  ‘The press will always print the strongest story,’ Langton says, keeping to the facts and keeping emotion out of her tone. ‘It’s their job at the end of the day. It can be very distressing, for any family. It’s certainly not ideal, but it is all very normal under the circumstances, I’m afraid.’

  Helen nods. She opens her mouth ready to speak but the two Gardaí stare her down and she closes it again, obviously thinking better of it.

  ‘We will of course issue another statement this afternoon, after the divers pull back,’ Langton says. ‘It will most likely dominate the news channels and papers tomorrow. It will be online too, of course. You and Paul need to be prepared for that, Susan.’

  ‘It said on the news that she drowned,’ I say. ‘One reporter stood on the verge of the lake and pointed into the water as he said, “She went to her watery grave.” Watery grave,’ I snort with disbelief. ‘Those were his exact words.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Connelly sighs, reaching for the last biscuit. ‘The media can be damn right cruel sometimes.’

  ‘And in the absence of facts they often run with their own, do they?’ Helen says, unable to help herself butting in again.

  ‘What do you think, detective?’ I tilt my head to one side, watching him eat, my own stomach churning. ‘Do you think my baby drowned?’

  Connelly doesn’t answer me. Instead he takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze, as if he’s offering me his condolences. I wonder if that’s his answer.

  ‘When will Paul be home?’ Langton asks suddenly, her eyes small and curious.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I drag my hand away from Connelly and wrap my arms around myself. ‘I honestly have no idea.’

  ‘It really would be good if we could speak to you and Paul,’ Connelly says.

  ‘I know. I know,’ I say.

  ‘Susan, this is our third visit to the house,’ Langton says. ‘Last time we stayed for almost two hours. Where does Paul go in all that time? Where is he right now?’ Langton folds her arms and shakes her head.

  ‘Running,’ I say. I let my head fall forward and I barely have the energy to keep my eyes open. ‘I told you, he goes running.’

  ‘For two hours?’ Langton asks.

  ‘For however long he wants,’ I say, lifting my head to meet Langton’s gaze. ‘For however long it takes to outrun the pain.’

  ‘Okay, Susan,’ Connelly says, ‘take a moment. Catch your breath.’

  He reaches for my cup of cooled coffee and passes it to me without a word. I take it, but I don’t want coffee. The china is tepid and more comfortable to hold now. I stare at the black liquid as my whole body shakes.

  Every part of me knows Langton and Connelly are playing me. Their good cop, bad cop routine is faultless. I want to slap Langton across the face and I want to bear hug Connelly, as if he can make everything all better. It’s textbook stuff and they pull it off brilliantly. I understand the technique. I just don’t understand why they’re using it now. On me. My child is missing. Surely, they know I have nothing to hide.

  The front door creaks open and Paul appears. He’s wet from head to toe. His running pants and vest cling to him like a wetsuit. His face is gaunt and stubborn dark circles sit under his eyes.

  ‘Langton. Connelly,’ Paul nods, clearly more familiar with their names than their faces. I doubt he knows who is who. I doubt he cares. He kicks off his mucky runners on the porch before stepping inside.

  ‘Coffee, Paul?’ Helen asks.

  ‘Water. Water would be good. Thanks,’ Paul says. His face is flushed and strands of his wet hair are sticking to his forehead.

  ‘Paul,’ Langton says. ‘We have some questions.’

  ‘More questions? But still no answers, eh?’

  ‘Paul, please,’ I say, standing up.

  I’m about to walk over to him, but he raises his hand and I know he doesn’t want me to come any closer. He never wants me to get close now.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to sit down?’ Connelly asks.

  ‘In a minute,’ Paul says. ‘I just ran fifteen kilometres, I need a shower, a change of clothes and a glass of water.’

  ‘This won’t take long,’ Langton says.

  ‘Neither will this,’ Paul replies, taking the stairs two at a time.

  ‘Paul, they only need a few minutes,’ I call after him.

  Paul pauses mid-flight and turns around. ‘A few minutes is a long time, Susan,’ he says, his eyes vacant, as if his body is present but his mind is somewhere else entirely. ‘A lot can happen in a few minutes. For example, a child could drown.’

  I stare at my husband. He stares back, and neither of us bother to hide our growing resentment of each other in front of the detectives.

  ‘Grab a shower, Paul,’ Connelly says. ‘We’ll wait.’

  Chapter Six

  NOW

  Paul makes his way downstairs more than thirty minutes later. He’s changed into jeans and a T-shirt that’s lost its shape from too many washes. He doesn’t sit. Instead he stands, facing Connelly, Langton and me with his arms folded across his chest. His eyes are red and puffy and I wonder if he’s been crying in the shower again.

  ‘So, to what do we owe the pleasure of today’s visit?’ He glares at the Gardaí sitting in front of him as if they’re responsible for our daughter’s absence.

  ‘Paul, we understand your frustration,’ Langton begins.

  He cuts her off before she has a chance to say another stupid word. ‘Really?’ He tilts his head to one side. ‘You understand what it’s like to hold your newborn daughter in your arms and whisper into her tiny ear that you will always protect her and keep her safe?’

  ‘I have kids,’ Langton confesses.

  ‘So you do . . . you do understand.’ Paul sways on the spot. ‘You know what it feels like to love someone – this little child who burst into your life – more than you ever thought it was possible to love someone.’

  ‘Yes.’ Langton swallows, and at least she has the good grace to blush. ‘I love my children. Yes, I do.’

  ‘Good,’ Paul nods. ‘We’re all supposed to love our kids until the day we die. We’re not supposed to lose them. We’re not. But it happens. It does happen. And then what? What the hell are you supposed to do then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Langton says. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  Her sincerity jolts me. I don’t quite know why.

  ‘Paul, where did you go running today?’ Connelly asks.

  ‘I ran into town.’ He glares at me, defiant. Amelia sometimes looks at me with the same expression. I pull my eyes away from him and drop my gaze.

  ‘Did you talk to anyone?’ Connelly asks. ‘Did anyone see you?’

  ‘I was running, detective. I wasn’t out for a chat.’

  ‘Okay,’ Connelly nods.

  ‘But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?’ Paul says. ‘Because you passed me on the way here. Langton, you had the courtesy to wave, at least.’

  ‘I don’t recall,’ Connel
ly says sharply.

  Connelly clasps his hands and drops them into his lap. His eyes narrow as he glares pointedly at my husband. The squidgy around the edges, father-like man is so different around Paul than he is around me. He’s stern and authoritarian.

  I don’t like the version of Connelly that Paul seems to bring out. And I can’t help but wonder what he knows about Paul that makes him dislike him so much.

  ‘Well, I recall just fine,’ Paul says, his face redder than when he came back from his run. ‘You nearly ran me off the road. Now, what the hell is going on here? You’re asking me questions about where I’ve been when you damn well saw me out running. You’re calling around to my house every second day and distressing my wife.’

  He takes a deep breath as if he’s run out of oxygen. Neither Connelly nor Langton speak. Hostility hangs in the air like a dark rain cloud ready to burst.

  ‘Paul, please,’ I say, my voice cracking like static on the radio. ‘This isn’t helping anyone.’

  He doesn’t even look at me.

  ‘Will I tell you what’s really going on here?’ he continues. ‘You two can’t do your fucking job. Where is my daughter? Where is she? You know as well as I do she’s in that bloody lake, why has no one found her yet? Why can’t you bring her home? Please, just bring her home.’

  ‘Paul, sit down,’ Langton says.

  Connelly shifts to the armchair next to us and makes room for Paul to sit beside me. I feel the heat of my husband’s body radiate against me. And I want to move away. I’m already sweating.

  ‘They’ve tried to find her, Paul,’ I say. ‘The divers. The police. The volunteers. You know they have. But they can’t.’ I turn towards Connelly. ‘You can’t, can you? That’s what you’re going to tell us, isn’t it? You’re not here to tell us that the divers can’t find Amelia. You’re here to tell us that you can’t find her either. You really have no idea where our daughter is, do you?’

  Paul begins to cry. I watch his slender body curl and shrink.

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about how scared she must have been,’ Paul sniffles, dragging his arm under his nose. ‘When she fell into that fucking lake. The water is freezing. She can’t swim. We were going to start her in lessons soon. Weren’t we, Susan? We talked about it.’