Under Lying

by Janelle Harris

  ‘Oh, she’ll definitely leave us alone,’ I say.

  Paul smiles, unsure.

  ‘Do you think Larry will go to the police?’ I ask.

  ‘The police?’ Paul says. ‘C’mon, you’re working yourself into a state. Helen will come home when she’s good and ready. I wouldn’t worry about her. Anyway, like you said, she’s an alcoholic, nobody will believe a word out of her mouth.’

  ‘But do you think Larry will report her missing?’ I ask. ‘He seemed worried, and that’s only going to get worse the longer she’s gone.’

  ‘The only person missing is our little girl.’ Paul’s voice cracks. ‘Larry is out of line. Way out. He had no right to upset you. Aren’t we dealing with enough without our neighbours dragging us into their marriage problems? Larry and Helen are bad news, Susan. Do you believe me now? This is what I’ve been saying all along.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘Yes. You’re right. Bad news.’

  ‘So we’re agreed?’ Paul asks. ‘You won’t see Helen any more?’

  ‘I definitely won’t,’ I say.

  ‘Good.’ Paul kisses my forehead. ‘That’s good.’

  He stuffs his hands in his pockets and shuffles slowly towards the kitchen with his head low. I make my way up the stairs.

  ‘Susan?’ he calls when I’m halfway up. ‘You don’t think . . . nah, never mind.’

  ‘What?’ I turn round.

  Paul is standing at the bottom step drawing invisible circles on the tiles with his foot. His eyes are round and glassy and I know he’s thinking about Amelia. He’s always thinking about Amelia.

  ‘Nothing. It’s crazy. Never mind,’ he says. ‘Grab your shower.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like nothing.’ I walk back down the stairs, and as I reach the bottom step Paul gathers me in his arms and holds me tight.

  We haven’t been this close in days. Not since Amelia went missing. We sway back and forth for a while, and every now and then I feel a shudder in his chest and I know he’s silently crying.

  ‘You don’t think Larry and Helen had anything to do with Amelia going missing, do you?’ he finally says, rushing the words out with a single exhale.

  What happened to blaming Deacon? Paul is grasping at straws, I realise. He has no idea who took our daughter, or if anyone took her at all. I pull my broken husband a little closer to me and sigh.

  He lets go of me and takes a step back so he can study me, as if he didn’t have faith in his own theory until I didn’t disagree. ‘You don’t, do you?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Christ, listen to me.’ Paul shoves his hands into his hair and tugs. ‘This is insane. I’m accusing our neighbours of kidnapping, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Oh Paul,’ I whisper.

  Paul shakes his head. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s crazy, I know. I’m crazy. I mean it, Susan. I think I’m actually losing my mind. I just miss her so much and it’s killing me not knowing where she is. Not knowing if she’s even alive or . . . or . . .’

  It’s easy to become swept up in Paul’s hysteria. He’s so fragile right now, as though if I hug him too tightly he might snap like a twig underfoot.

  ‘Maybe it’s not so crazy,’ I say. ‘Helen was saying all this stuff about how she and Larry always wanted a girl, and she kept telling me how cute Amelia was.’

  ‘Amelia is adorable.’ Paul smiles and a sparkle dances in his eyes and I wonder what lovely memory of our daughter he’s thinking of.

  ‘Helen said I was so lucky to have a daughter,’ I add.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, raising an eyebrow, and I can tell he thinks that was an odd turn of phrase.

  ‘She kept going on and on about it,’ I say. ‘As if she was obsessed or something. I thought it was just because she was drunk.’

  Paul clears his throat and I know he wants to reiterate that Helen is trouble, but he doesn’t say a word. I’m on a roll and I have his full attention.

  ‘You said it yourself – Helen and Larry barely know us. And we invited them into our home. We invited everyone. It was my idea. I just wanted to fit in around here. I’m sorry, Paul. I’m so sorry.’

  He doesn’t reply. His eyes are focused on the floor but he’s listening. He’s processing. I know because the vein in his neck that pulsates whenever he gets upset or stressed out is going crazy.

  ‘It does sound mad. You’re right about that,’ I say, ‘but maybe it only sounds mad.’

  Paul’s eyes shoot up to meet mine.

  ‘Just look at them,’ I say. ‘Helen is a miserable alcoholic pining after her grown-up children who clearly want nothing to do with her, and Larry is a stereotypical, detached farmer. It’s a bloody film script. Could easily all be an act, couldn’t it?’

  Paul takes a deep breath, holds it for a while and then puffs it back out while shaking his head sadly. ‘Blaming them is too easy, Susan. C’mon. We’re better than that. I don’t think our neighbours are the answer.’

  A laugh rattles in the back of my throat. ‘You’re right. It’s mad to even think about it.’

  ‘We just need answers, Susan,’ Paul says. ‘We need to know where Amelia is. Before we both lose our minds.’

  ‘But Helen is missing. And Amelia is still missing . . .’

  I stop and let Paul figure out where I’m going with the equation.

  He cups my elbow with his hand. ‘C’mon, let’s get you a coffee, and then you need a shower. You’ll feel better after a shower and a lie-down.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  NOW

  I thought Paul would never leave the house. He was fussing over me all day like a mother hen. He kept wanting to make me coffee or rub my back. He even tried to kiss me in the kitchen. I barely managed to pull away in time. The closer he gets, the more I unravel. He kept asking if I was okay. Seriously, could he ask anything more stupid?

  To get rid of him, I eventually resorted to laying out fresh running gear on the bed for him, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to go for a night run to clear his head.

  ‘I’ll be all right on my own,’ I had to assure him over and over. ‘I could actually use a little me time. I think I’ll drive into the city. Do some late-night shopping,’ I said, telling a half-truth. ‘I’ll pick us up some biscuits. We can have them with tea later.’

  I play my conversation with Paul over in my head as I drive away from our cottage and down the dark and winding country roads.

  It was such a mundane conversation, but it’s the first time in days we’ve actually spoken about something other than constant police updates or what the neighbours are saying now. It’s the first time we’ve made plans for the evening, but I’m certainly not looking forward to it. The idea of sitting in the kitchen having tea and biscuits like a regular couple is torture.

  Joining the motorway into the city, I start to panic. I consider turning around at the next exit and going home. My mind is swarmed, thinking about the last time I saw my daughter, about the police, Helen, Paul, biscuits. I scream. My hot breath fogs up the windscreen and I veer towards the hard shoulder, before snapping myself out of it and accelerating to merge with heavy evening traffic like a regular commuter. The street lights shine through the sunroof, casting a dirty yellow shadow into the car. Cars and trucks whizz by in the outside lane and my grip on the wheel tightens as my heart races. I feel so visible. So vulnerable. As if every passing car can see what I’ve done.

  At the shopping centre I park underground, grab some shopping and walk a couple of kilometres into a less than savoury part of the city. My sense of direction isn’t the best and as I round corner after corner I begin to worry that I’m completely lost. Finally, a neon blue ‘Open’ sign flashes in the distance and I recognise the chipper. And more importantly I recognise the grungy flat overhead. Bingo!

  Nervous, I glance over my shoulder. There are some junkies shooting up in a doorway across the street. I freeze when I notice them, but quickly realise they’re oblivious to anything other than the needles in their a
rms. There’s no one else around, no one to see me. I find myself wishing I’d brought a jacket with a hood, and I make a mental note for next time. I hurry around the side of the chipper, pull open the stiff side door and race up the concrete steps two at a time.

  The flat door comes into view at the top of the steps. I stop running, catch my breath and slide the key out of my pocket and into the lock.

  ‘Hey, it’s me,’ I say, the door rattling as I fight with the key in the stiff lock.

  ‘Fuck this thing,’ I mumble under my breath.

  ‘Deacon,’ I say, pulling the key out and knocking on the door. ‘Hey, hello . . . Deacon?’

  Footsteps sound in the distance and I freeze, facing the door. Someone is coming up the stairs behind me. My heart pounds furiously as I stare straight ahead, hoping whoever is coming doesn’t see my face. The steps grow louder and finally someone brushes behind me and walks past as if I’m invisible. Panic crawls across my skin. I hadn’t bargained for another flat up here, or for neighbours. Seconds later, I hear a door nearby close and when I finally turn round the hall is empty, except for a black sack of rubbish slouching against the wall. It’s only when I’m alone again that I realise I’m not breathing. I open my mouth and inhale sharply. The smell of frying oil and fish from the chipper below combined with the mould and filth of the ancient hall carpet is repulsive and I close my mouth again quickly.

  ‘Deacon. Open the bloody door,’ I shout as I pound my fist against it, loosening some chipped paint, which flakes off and sticks to the fleshy part of my hand under my baby finger.

  Finally, the lock rattles on the inside and the door slowly creaks open. Deacon’s head appears, unsure, in the gap, but his lips curl into a smile as soon as he realises it’s me.

  ‘Shh,’ he says, placing his finger to his lips. ‘She’s asleep. I just got her down.’

  ‘Okay. Okay,’ I say, feeling scolded as I hurry inside and close the door behind me.

  I press my back against the timber, which is unpainted and rough on this side.

  ‘Who lives down the hall?’ I ask between deep, even breaths.

  ‘What?’ Deacon’s eyebrows wrinkle. ‘I don’t know. I’m hardly getting to know the neighbours, am I?’

  ‘I’m serious,’ I snap. ‘Someone lives there. They saw me just now. Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Susan, calm down.’ Deacon drags a hand through his greasy hair. ‘I doubt they care about you.’

  ‘Maybe not, but with my face all over the bloody news, what if they put two and two together?’

  Deacon pushes his shoulders back and stands taller. His stubble is days old and his shirt is half tucked in and half out of a pair of charcoal tracksuit bottoms, but I can tell from the stitching that they used to be black. I haven’t seen him look this enfeebled in years.

  ‘You’ve been on the news?’ he says, his voice low and painfully serious.

  ‘Not by choice, obviously,’ I snort. ‘But it goes without saying that the media are covering the case. Amelia is a missing child, for God’s sake.’

  Deacon’s jaw twitches. ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘Haven’t you been watching?’ I ask, peeling myself away from the door.

  He swallows. ‘No. I didn’t want her to see anything.’

  ‘Of course,’ I nod, feeling stupid. ‘Good thinking.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve spoken to the press,’ Deacon says. ‘You’ve always hated journalists. Ever since Adam . . .’ He trails off.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to them,’ I snap. ‘But that doesn’t stop them reporting. Anyway, Paul thinks we should make an appeal soon. He says people need to see that Amelia is part of a happy family.’

  ‘A happy family,’ Deacon snorts. ‘What a hypocrite.’

  I exhale sharply and roll my eyes. I don’t have the patience for another redundant conversation about my husband.

  ‘I brought you some stuff,’ I say, changing the subject.

  Deacon glances at the bag of groceries I’m carrying.

  ‘Good. Thanks.’ He takes the heavy bag from me and turns to walk into the kitchen.

  I puff out with relief and twist my hand over to examine where the plastic handles have gnawed away at my fingers. I rub my hand and take some time to look around. The flat is a shithole. The carpet is near threadbare and dotted with cigarette burns, and the brownish-green curtains are so filthy I can’t tell what colour they were originally. I chose this place from a listing of cheap, cash-in-hand accommodation advertised on the internet. I was never expecting a palace but how anyone, in good conscience, can charge rent for this dump is beyond me. No wonder the landlord didn’t even ask for references.

  At least it’s surface clean. Deacon has hoovered the carpets and I can smell lemon and bleach; he must have spent hours washing down every surface. There’s a blue beer crate turned upside down with a flattened pizza box on top to create a table in the centre of the floor. On top are a packet of crayons and a colouring book open at a half-coloured-in picture of a lion in the jungle. Everything is yellow. The lion, the trees, even the sky.

  ‘Coffee?’ Deacon asks when I follow him into the minuscule kitchenette.

  I shake my head and begin to pull groceries out of the bag Deacon has set down on the wobbly kitchen table.

  ‘Susan Arnold refusing coffee?’ Deacon laughs. ‘Well, that’s certainly a first.’

  I slam Paul’s biscuits against the counter and they crunch and break inside the wrapper. ‘It’s Warner. I’m Susan Warner. You know that. Why is it so hard for you to say it?’

  ‘O-bloody-kay,’ Deacon says. ‘Jesus, Susan, it was just a joke.’

  He snatches the biscuits off the counter, opens them and broken pieces rain like confetti all over the floor. He finds an unbroken one and shoves it in his mouth.

  ‘These are nice,’ he says, crumbs spraying from his lips.

  ‘You’re disgusting.’ I roll my eyes, making a mental note to buy another packet of damn biscuits before I go home.

  I open the fridge and shove milk, butter and cheese in. ‘I didn’t know what you’d need, so I just got some essentials. Stuff to keep you going.’

  ‘There’s half a carton of milk still in there.’ Deacon points to the fridge. ‘And I can’t live on toast, Susan. I need proper ingredients, something I can cook with.’

  ‘Since when did you become Gordon Ramsay? How the hell am I supposed to know what you fancy whipping up? I thought you hated cooking.’

  Deacon ignores me and opens a larder cupboard behind him. A smell of decay or damp, I can’t tell which, wafts out. I begin to cough and back away. He shakes his head and fetches a sweeping brush with a broken handle out of the cupboard. He passes it to me before he stuffs another biscuit in his mouth.

  I look at the brush. At the floor. And then at Deacon.

  ‘Eh, you don’t expect me to clean this up, do you?’

  ‘It’s your mess,’ he says, frowning, and I know he’s talking about so much more than the crumbs on the floor.

  ‘Fine,’ I snap, sweeping up the crumbs. ‘But you should be thanking me. I’m bringing you the basics so you don’t starve. And I’m doing it with the cops, my husband and the neighbours from hell breathing down my goddam neck.’

  Deacon puts the packet of biscuits back on the counter, drags the back of his hand across his lips and wipes away the crumbs. ‘I know you’re under a lot of pressure, Susan. Don’t you think I feel it too? But if you would just let me text you . . .’

  ‘No!’ I bark and my teeth snap audibly. ‘You can’t text me. Don’t you fucking dare text, do you hear me?’

  ‘But, Susan, this isn’t how it was supposed to go . . .’ Deacon says, his arms slipping around my waist.

  ‘I know.’ I turn and press my chest against his. ‘But it will all be worth it in the end. I promise.’

  ‘I can’t do this much longer,’ he says. ‘I’m climbing the walls with boredom.’

  I stiffen and pull away.

  ‘What?�
� he says.

  ‘Is that why you were at the lake last night?’ I ask, turning my back on him so he can’t see the flash of temper burning in my cheeks.

  ‘Yes,’ Deacon says, and I can’t believe he’s not even trying to deny it.

  ‘You had one job. One simple little job,’ I hiss. ‘Throw Amelia’s cardigan in the lake and get the hell out of there.’

  ‘And I did,’ he says.

  ‘But you went back!’

  ‘She just wanted to see the ducks,’ he says, and I can hear him reach for the stupid biscuits again.

  ‘The ducks,’ I grunt.

  ‘Relax, Susan. I waited until it was dark. No one saw us.’

  ‘My neighbour saw.’ I turn back, swiping the biscuits out of his hand and throwing the packet against the wall behind his head. ‘Helen saw you, you fucking idiot.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ Deacon says, and instantly glances over his shoulder at the biscuits scattered all around us.

  I watch as his attention shifts to the bedroom door behind him. It’s slightly ajar and it’s dark inside but the light from the sitting room shines through the narrow gap. I want to slap him across the face and tell him that he has no right to look into that room. Not now. Not after he was so reckless.

  ‘That was you and Helen at the lake last night?’ Deacon switches to whispering.

  ‘Yes, it was me,’ I say, pressing my fingers above my eyes as I try to stay calm and keep my voice low. ‘And thank bloody God it was. Could you imagine if it was Paul? Or worse . . .’ I gasp as rage chokes me. ‘Langton or Connelly. Christ, I can’t even imagine the shitstorm. You could have messed up everything.’ I raise my arm and hold my thumb and finger millimetres apart as I shake my hand in Deacon’s face. ‘You were this close. This fucking close to making a mess of everything.’