‘Yeah.’ I shake my head, unsure of what the hell just happened. ‘I can’t believe it either.’
‘It was Amelia,’ Helen says, ‘wasn’t it? That man had Amelia in his arms, didn’t he?’
‘Helen, you’re drunk,’ I say.
‘Come back,’ she shouts, holding a pointed finger in the air. ‘Come back here!’ She begins to run after the shadow. ‘We saw you. We know you have the little girl.’
She stumbles on the uneven ground and falls. Her knees land on some jagged stones. It must hurt but she’s on her feet again in an instant, ready to keep running. I grab her hand and pull her back roughly. She trips again and I let go. This time she comes down on her back and hits her head. She doesn’t get up. She lies still with her mouth gaping and she’s making a rattling noise when she breathes. Her eyes are wide with shock and glassy from wine, but there’s a sparkle of excitement dancing in them too.
‘Helen. Take some slow, even breaths,’ I say. ‘You’re winded.’
‘Susan, I saw . . .’
‘Stop it,’ I growl. ‘You’re drunk. Look at you. You can’t even stand up, for God’s sake. And you’re talking gibberish.’
‘No, no, Susan.’ Helen’s arm shoots up and she grabs my hand so tightly it pinches. She tugs on my arm, dragging me forward until I have to bend in the middle and the fog of her wine breath hits me in the face.
‘I know what I saw. Trust me,’ she says, looking up at me. ‘You were right, Susan. Amelia is still alive. We have to go to the police. We have to tell them. This is such good news. Oh Susan, I wish you’d seen her too.’
‘Oh Helen.’ I shake my head. ‘I wish you hadn’t.’
Chapter Fourteen
NOW
I wake up on the couch with a splitting headache. Light is glaring in through the window. I had to take down the ugly polka dot curtains that came with the cottage when we moved in because there was mould growing around the stitching and I was worried it would make Amelia sick. I replaced them with cheap, flimsy ones when the renovation budget ran over. I’m regretting that decision now as my eyes sting.
Clattering cups and banging plates let me know Paul is preparing breakfast. I wonder if he’s getting ready to go running or if he’s just back. I sit upright and a wave of dizziness washes over me. I grab the edge of the couch and steady myself. Memories of last night play over in my mind. Helen drinking too much. The navy-black water in the deepest part of the lake. The sinister sense of someone watching us. And, of course, Amelia. Helen thinking she saw my little girl has rattled me. And now I can’t get out of my head the look on Helen’s face as I walked away.
‘You’re awake,’ Paul says, walking towards me with a glass of water in his hand.
‘No thanks,’ I say as he stretches his arm out to me. ‘I’ll make some coffee in a minute.’
He sighs and places the glass of water on the coffee table in front of me. He puts two paracetamol tablets on the table next to the glass.
‘Here, you should take these,’ he says. ‘They’ll help your hangover.’
I’m not hung-over. Helen guzzled the lion’s share of the wine last night while I barely managed a glass, but I don’t bother to explain as my husband stares at me, exaggerating his disapproval as he shakes his head. I wait for him to blame Helen’s bad influence. He doesn’t.
It takes me a moment to realise Paul is in regular clothes instead of his running gear, which I’ve come to think of as his second skin. Low-cut jeans hang off his hips in a way they used not to. He’s lost weight that he really didn’t have to spare. An old grey T-shirt with a Ribena stain on the side, from the time Amelia spilled her juice on him just after we moved in, makes him look sloppy and careless. My usually dapper husband is slowly falling apart.
‘Are you not going running this morning?’ I ask.
Paul looks at me as if I’m making him as sick as the smell of eggs wafting around is making me.
‘How could I leave you here on your own?’ he says. ‘The state you were in. I thought you’d throw up and choke on your own vomit or something.’
‘Excuse me?’ I gasp.
‘You were hammered last night, Susan,’ Paul says. ‘Or should I say this morning, when you fell through the door.’
‘I was not,’ I say, swiping my hand through the air to dismiss Paul’s irritating assumption.
‘Really?’ he blinks. ‘You were shaking all over and you couldn’t string a sentence together, for God’s sake. And you were paranoid as hell, shouting at me to close the door in case someone saw you come home. To be honest, I’m surprised you even remembered where you live, you were that out of it.’
I try to think of an explanation for my behaviour, but I stop myself: I know whatever I say Paul doesn’t want to hear it.
It wouldn’t be unreasonable for any woman in my shoes to hit the bottle. In fact, it probably seems weird that I haven’t before now. When Adam died, days blurred into nights and weeks into months because I was drinking so heavily. I thought alcohol would take the pain away, but it only made it worse.
‘This is that Helen woman’s influence,’ Paul says.
And there it is, my husband’s answer to everything – blame someone else. I resist the urge to start an argument. I feel a headache coming on and I squeeze the bridge of my nose, trying to relieve some of the sinus pressure. The smell coming from the stove is overpowering. Paul and his goddam eggs every bloody morning.
‘She’s bad news,’ he continues. ‘Always hanging around here. Why? She barely knows us. She’s just a nosy busybody. I don’t want her here any more, Susan. Certainly not all the time.’
‘I . . . I . . . she’s my friend,’ I say, exhausted.
Helen has inserted herself into our lives so intrusively and so suddenly that Paul has every right to be frustrated about it. I can’t argue with that.
‘For fuck’s sake, Susan,’ he grunts. ‘I can’t do this.’
He picks up the paracetamol and tosses them into his mouth, washing them down with a large gulp of the water. He slams the empty glass back on the table with unnecessary force.
‘Helen is my friend,’ I repeat, staring at the glass.
‘A friend like Deacon?’ Paul says.
‘Oh Paul, don’t start this again,’ I groan, the pressure in my sinuses becoming worse.
‘Don’t you think it’s weird that you haven’t heard from him since the barbecue? Not once. And the cops said he’s not at his flat. But hey, he’s your friend so he’s a good guy, right?’ Paul hisses.
‘He is a good guy,’ I snap. ‘And I never said he was my friend. I expressly told you he’s a client. And he’s not obliged to check in on me,’ I mimic, raising my hands to add air quotes. ‘I haven’t had calls or texts from any of my other clients either, Paul, but you don’t seem to have any problem with that?’
‘Whatever,’ he shrugs. ‘I don’t trust him.’
‘You don’t trust anyone,’ I say. ‘Deacon. Helen. The cops, for Christ’s sake.’ I pause, unsure whether to say the next words. ‘Do you even trust me, Paul?’
‘We can’t get rid of Helen most of the time,’ Paul says, pulling a face and sidestepping my question. ‘And then when you’re drunk out of your head, she finally pisses off and leaves you on your own. Bloody hell! What kind of friend abandons someone like that? Especially when you’re grieving. You really do have the best of friends,’ he adds sarcastically, before rushing back to the stove and the sudden smell of burning eggs.
‘I’m not grieving,’ I mumble, before he’s out of earshot.
I glance over my shoulder as Paul paces in the kitchen. He throws the eggs into the bin, tosses the burned pan into the dishwasher and uses his heel to slam the door shut, taking out his frustration on the appliance. His lack of respect for my pristine kitchen is infuriating, but I don’t say anything. My coming home so late last night must really have pissed him off. Maybe now he understands how it feels when he disappears for hours on end. The less attention I pay, the mor
e frustrated Paul seems to become as he cracks fresh eggs into a mixing bowl, takes a fork out of the drawer and whisks like crazy.
Finally, I pull myself to my feet and run my hands over my clothes, as if I can straighten out my emotions as I straighten out my blouse. My neck is on fire on my left side every time I turn my head. The last time I slept on a couch all night I was in college. I smile, despite the pain, realising I haven’t thought about my college days in a while. I rub the back of my neck, easing some of the tension, and run my hand through my hair. I wince as my fingers catch in the stubborn knots at the back. I remember I had an appointment to get my hair done a few days ago, which I forgot to cancel. The hairdresser never called me. But the whole village is talking about me, so I’ve no doubt they know why I missed the appointment. Bad hair is the last thing on my mind right now.
‘Today,’ Paul says, coming towards me with the spatula in his hand. ‘You need to talk to Helen today. I can’t cope with her any more . . .’ He pauses and his breath seems to get stuck in his throat as he edges closer to me. ‘What’s that on your hand?’
He drops the spatula on the coffee table. Runny uncooked egg trickles off the top and on to the polished mahogany. I groan inwardly and hide my disgust.
‘What?’ I turn my hand over to examine my palm.
Dried blood is trapped in the lines and creases on my fingers. I see more blood around my nails and across my knuckles. It’s flaking and brown and revolting.
‘Oh Jesus, Susan, what’s happened to your head too?’ Paul points.
His eyes are wide with concern and I notice how bloodshot they are. His cheeks are puffy and red. He must have been crying in the kitchen before I woke up.
‘Nothing, it’s nothing,’ I say dismissively, curling my fingers into my palms before I shove my fists into my pockets.
‘It’s in your hair.’ He reaches for the back of my head and I feel him pull on the same knots that were bothering me moments ago. ‘Oh Christ, you’re bleeding.’
Paul takes his hand back and examines small flecks of blood that have come loose from my scalp and stuck to his fingers.
‘If it’s bad you might need stitches,’ Paul says, placing his hands on my shoulders as he tries to turn me around to investigate the back of my head. ‘What happened? Where did you fall?’
‘I didn’t fall,’ I say, holding my ground and shrugging his hands off me.
‘You really expect me to believe that?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do. I expect you to listen to me, Paul. But, to be honest, I don’t care any more if you do or you don’t. I’m tired. So tired. I’m going for a shower and maybe a lie-down.’
‘Susan, you disappeared for half the night, and you’ve come home with blood in your hair and on your clothes.’ Paul points at my cream blouse. ‘Don’t you think I deserve some sort of explanation?’
I take a step back and my teeth grind. I really thought I’d cleaned myself up when I got home last night. But I was tired and I guess I missed a bit. I glance at the tiny patch of blood on my blouse.
‘Oh for God’s sake, Paul. It’s two drops,’ I groan.
‘Susan . . .’ He says my name in a sing-song voice. I really hate it when he does that. Mostly because he uses the same melodic approach to call Amelia’s attention to something dangerous or to correct her behaviour, and I’m not his child to scold. But also because it makes him sound like a smug prick and it’s super irritating.
‘Fine,’ I say, throwing my hands in the air in mock surrender, knowing he won’t let this go, and I really need a shower. ‘As I said, I didn’t fall. Helen did. Last night, down by the lake.’
‘You went to the lake?’
‘Yes, Paul.’ I exhale. ‘You’re not the only one who thinks about Amelia all the time. Yes, I went to the lake. Is that bloody okay with you?’
‘Of course, Susan.’ His stiff shoulders relax. ‘I didn’t mean . . . it’s just . . . I didn’t know.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t know,’ I sigh. ‘You’re never here.’
I can’t resist the dig, and I’m somewhat satisfied when I see it get to him. I flop back on to the couch and think about Amelia. I can tell Paul is thinking about her too. His breathing is laboured. His eyes are closed as he shakes his head. Our house is such a different place without the sweet voice of a little girl lighting up every room.
‘What happened?’ Paul finally asks, sitting next to me. ‘How did Helen fall?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘She was drunk,’ he says.
‘Yeah. She was drunk,’ I nod. ‘She’d had a full bottle of wine at our house earlier and she was guzzling her way through the second down by the lake when she stumbled on some rocks and banged her head.’
‘Oh God,’ Paul says, covering his mouth with his hand.
‘I must have got some of her blood on me when I helped her up, but I wasn’t paying attention, to be honest. I just wanted to make sure she was okay.’
‘So this is Helen’s blood?’ Paul looks disgusted as he points at the crimson stain on my blouse.
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re not hurt?’
‘No. I’m not.’
‘Well, that’s good, then,’ Paul sighs. ‘And is Helen okay? I mean, it must have been a nasty bang if she got blood on you as well as herself.’
‘Paul, I’m tired and stressed out. I really just want to get in the shower.’
‘Sure.’ He nods, but there’s a look in his eyes that unsettles me. ‘We can talk more about this later.’
Chapter Fifteen
NOW
I’m making my way up the stairs when incessant pounding on the front door threatens to knock it off its hinges. There’s no way Paul can’t hear it, but he doesn’t come from the kitchen to answer it. I know he thinks it’s Helen.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ I mumble under my breath and make my way back down the stairs, expecting to find someone from the police team at the door. ‘Just a minute. I’m coming,’ I shout as I quickly tuck the bloodstained part of my blouse into my jeans.
I swing the door open and flinch when I find Larry standing there.
‘Where’s Helen?’ he puffs, and a cloud of his tobacco breath hangs heavy between us.
I don’t know what to say. He takes a step forward and I move back instinctively but I keep my fingers curled around the doorknob. His broad shoulders occupy most of the doorway. He’s wearing his farm coat and wellies, but they’re pulled on over checked pyjamas. His face is blisteringly red. I turn to seek out Paul in the kitchen. He’s busy washing up and doesn’t look my way.
Larry’s hand smacks against the door and I lose my grip on the knob.
‘Is Helen not at home?’ I say, turning my head back so my eyes can settle on Larry’s shovel-like hand. His fingers are sprawled wide against the door and his arm is straight and rigid at the elbow.
‘Would I be here if she was at home?’ Larry wheezes, his laboured breathing demanding a better answer.
Paul appears behind me and places his hand protectively on my shoulder. ‘Everything okay, Susan?’ he asks.
‘I thought Helen would be here,’ Larry says, letting his hand slip off the door. ‘She didn’t come home last night. Never, not in twenty-five years, has she not come home.’
‘I’m sure—’ Paul begins.
‘You.’ Larry cuts across him, pointing his finger in my face. ‘This is all you. She’s changed since she’s been around you. She’s saying and doing things she never would have before. Picking holes in our marriage. Talking bullshit about painting the kitchen, and about the daughter she never had. That’s all your counselling talk.’
‘Helen isn’t my client,’ I say, standing straighter and folding my arms. ‘I don’t counsel her.’
‘You talk to her.’ Larry stomps his foot and his face grows even redder. ‘That’s enough. You’ve messed with her head.’
‘Larry, that’s very unfair.’ Paul takes a step forward, placing himself between Larry and me.
‘Well, I’m sure you can tell her that . . .’ I say, ‘when you find her.’
Larry turns his back sharply on Paul and me and storms down the path without another word. He flings open our crooked little red gate, almost knocking it off its hinges.
‘Susan. Where is Helen?’ Paul asks.
‘Okay, hang on,’ I say, tilting my head to one side. ‘A minute ago you were telling me to stay away from Helen, and now you want me to be her keeper?’
‘Her blood is on your blouse.’ Paul points to where my blouse is tucked inside my jeans. ‘And her husband has no idea where she is – for the first time in almost thirty years. It’s a bit weird, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘She’s an alcoholic,’ I snap. ‘They’re always acting weird. It’s actually very sad.’
‘Well, there’s that,’ Paul says. ‘I knew from day one she was a hopeless case. I don’t know how he stays married to her.’
‘Jesus, Paul,’ I say. ‘Can you please keep your voice down or her dickhead husband will hear you.’
‘Fuck ’em,’ he snorts. ‘He’s just as bad. Our daughter is missing, for God’s sake, and he’s storming round here like he owns the place. Who the hell does he think he is? And at this hour of the morning.’ Paul checks his watch. ‘It’s not even nine o’clock.’
I don’t reply. My eyes are on Larry’s back as the last few days play over in my mind like a tsunami, dragging my emotions on the crest of the wave. I keep watch until he turns a corner. Paul must have been watching too because he slams the door as soon as Larry is out of view.
‘Arsehole,’ Paul says, sliding his arm around my waist. ‘Oh Susan. You’re shaking like a leaf.’
‘I’m fine,’ I lie.
‘I really wish you’d tell me what happened last night. Susan, I’m not stupid. I know you and you weren’t yourself when you came home. What did Helen do? Did she upset you? Did she really fall, or did you push her? Did she say something about Amelia? Is that what happened? God knows I’d have pushed her under a bus long ago. Nosy bitch. I’m guessing the silly cow has run off somewhere to lick her wounds. Serves her right. She needs to learn to back off. Maybe now she’ll leave us alone.’
Under Lying Page 12