Under Lying

by Janelle Harris

  ‘Has Helen said anything?’ Deacon asks. ‘Will she go to the cops?’

  ‘She was drunk,’ I say.

  ‘And . . .’ His eyes widen, scared.

  ‘And nothing.’ I take some deep breaths, calming down. ‘She’s not going to be a problem.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ I say. ‘I have to be sure, don’t I? After the bloody mess you made.’

  ‘Okay.’ Deacon smiles, but he’s still shaking. ‘Good. That’s good.’

  The flash of his slightly crooked teeth irritates the hell out of me, but I smile too and count backwards from five in my head.

  ‘Where did you get the crayons and colouring book?’ I ask.

  Deacon’s smile fades and he doesn’t reply.

  ‘And the bleach too?’ I ask. ‘Where did you get that?’

  He still doesn’t open his mouth.

  ‘The takeaway pizza?’ I growl, my teeth pressed together as I force the words out between them.

  Deacon’s shuttered eyes watch me with uncomfortable intensity. I’m screaming inside as I stare back at him.

  ‘Jesus, Deacon. How often have you been going out?’ I finally explode. ‘Where do you go? It’s not like you can pop to the local Tesco. And do you take her with you? Or do you leave her here all alone? Oh Christ. I don’t even know which is worse.’ I drag my hands through my hair as Deacon stares without blinking. What the hell is wrong with him?

  ‘Nearly two weeks.’ He finally moves his eyes off me and casts them towards the bedroom door again. ‘It’s been hard, and this is the first time you’ve been back since the night I brought her here.’

  ‘It’s not easy for me either,’ I say. ‘I can’t be seen, you know that.’

  ‘Would you even be here now, if you hadn’t seen me last night?’ he snaps back, his voice too loud for the tight space of the kitchen. ‘Is that the only reason you’re here? To warn me to be more careful? Do you even miss her at all?’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ I hiss, keeping my voice much lower than his. ‘Don’t you dare ask me that. We both knew this was going to be hard.’

  ‘Not this hard, Susan. I never dreamed it would be this hard.’

  ‘Well, that was your mistake,’ I say, wondering which of us is more stupid – Deacon for agreeing to help me, or me for considering him capable of helping.

  ‘I think we should stop,’ he says. ‘I think . . .’

  The bedroom door creaks open and there’s a sharp squeal of excitement as little legs in pink flannel pyjamas hurry towards me.

  ‘Mammy. You’re here,’ Amelia shrieks as she throws herself against me.

  I crouch down and her warm, chubby arms wrap around my neck. I nuzzle my face against her golden curls and take a deep breath. My heart pinches. Amelia smells like honey and spice and not the summer fruits I was expecting. Deacon must have bought shampoo for her on one of his apparently many shopping trips.

  He bends down to Amelia’s level. ‘What are you doing out of bed, young lady?’ he whispers, tilting his head to one side to exaggerate his curiosity. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I heared peoples talking. It’s Mammy. My mammy is here.’ Amelia’s arms grow a little tighter around my neck. ‘Is Daddy here too?’ she chirps.

  ‘No, sweetie,’ I say. ‘Daddy’s not here.’

  Her small body begins to quiver in my arms and she sniffles. ‘I want my Daddy,’ she whispers, so softly if my face wasn’t right next to hers I wouldn’t hear her words.

  ‘How about a story?’ I ask, scooping her into my arms as I stand up. ‘You love stories, don’t you? I have a new one all about duckies. Would you like to hear it?’

  Amelia nods.

  ‘Good,’ I say cheerfully. ‘Let’s get you back to your special bed and we can snuggle and have story time.’

  ‘It smells funny,’ she says, as if it’s a secret or she doesn’t want to hurt Deacon’s feelings.

  ‘C’mon now. I’m sure it can’t be that bad,’ I say, and I dot a gentle kiss on the top of her head. Deacon puffs out and I can feel his disapproving glare follow us as I carry my daughter back to the bedroom. Amelia is going to keep asking questions and I don’t trust him to come up with right answers. I need to hurry up. Move faster. This must end soon, for Amelia’s sake.

  Chapter Seventeen

  NOW

  I didn’t think anything could smell worse than the larder cupboard but the bedroom succeeds. This time I know the smell is definitely damp and I wonder if it’s coming from the floor, the walls or both. I flick on the light and stare at the couple of mattresses on the floor. The bedroom is small. Each mattress is pushed against the opposing wall to create a narrow pathway between them. I have to turn sideways and shuffle in the door so I don’t stand on either bedding. Not that it would matter much if I did, they’re both already disgustingly grubby. I try to put Amelia down, but she wraps her arms tighter around my neck and tucks her legs around my waist so her feet meet behind me.

  ‘C’mon on now,’ I say, ‘be a good girl and get to bed.’

  ‘I am a good girl,’ Amelia says, lifting her head from my shoulder to look at me.

  ‘I know you are, sweetheart,’ I smile as a wave of guilt washes over me. ‘You’re the best girl. You’re my best girl.’

  I close my eyes and tighten my grip on her little body. And for a fleeting moment I think about barging through the front door of this horrible flat with my daughter in my arms and never looking back.

  ‘Mammy, you’re squashing me,’ she complains.

  My eyes shoot open and I relax my grip.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I say, my voice breaking as I try to feign composure.

  Just a few more days, I tell myself. A few more days.

  ‘Why are you doing big huffs and puffs?’ Amelia giggles. ‘Like this . . .’ She tucks her chin into her chest and takes a deep breath, holds it for a second and puffs it back out. Her warm, minty breath dances across the air and caresses my face.

  ‘Like that?’ I say, my heart aching.

  ‘You’re silly, Mammy,’ Amelia laughs and kisses my nose.

  She laughs again and kisses one cheek, then the other, and finally she kisses my forehead.

  ‘I love you, sweetheart.’

  ‘I love you too,’ she smiles. ‘Story time now.’

  I nod.

  She untangles her legs from around my waist and her arms relax around my neck. She slides out of my arms before I’m ready to let her go and scurries on to one of the mattresses.

  ‘Is this your bed?’ I ask.

  Amelia tucks her feet under her and simultaneously shakes her head. ‘My bed is a princess bed,’ she explains, eyeing me with uncertainty.

  I think of the plastic frame Paul made me buy when we moved Amelia from a cot into a bed last year. It’s neon pink and the headboard is shaped like a crown. It doesn’t match anything in her bedroom, but Paul insisted our daughter needed a bed fit for royalty. I was hoping we could get rid of it when we moved into the cottage, but Amelia loves the gaudy thing.

  ‘That’s Deacon’s bed,’ she says and points to the mattress across from her. ‘I’m having a sleepover at Deacon’s house.’

  ‘A sleepover?’ I say, the words jarring.

  ‘Yup,’ Amelia nods.

  ‘Well, isn’t that fun,’ I smile.

  I’ve never discussed sleepovers with my nearly three-year-old. Deacon must have offered her that explanation. I forgot how easy it is to settle the mind of a curious little girl. The pressure in my chest eases and I relax slightly. Maybe I could bring over some of her toys next time I visit. I’m certain I can sneak some small things out of the house without Paul noticing.

  Suddenly, Amelia rocks on to her knees and bounces back, over and over, throwing her hands in the air. ‘Story, story, story,’ she demands, clearly losing patience.

  ‘All right, all right,’ I smile. ‘I really am a silly mammy today, aren’t I? Let’s get that story started.’

  She m
oves over and makes room for me beside her on the mattress. Deacon’s jumper is folded behind her, creating a rather impressive pillow. One of his shirts is balled up at the end of her bed and I guess he’s using it to cover her when she falls asleep.

  ‘Here, Mammy,’ Amelia smiles excitedly. ‘Read this one?’

  ‘Oh, look at that,’ I say, as she pulls a hardback storybook out from under Deacon’s jumper pillow.

  ‘Deacon buydid it for me,’ she explains, running her fingers over the bright cover.

  ‘Did he now?’

  ‘Yup. Yesterday. At the suvermarket.’

  ‘You were at the supermarket?’ I say calmly.

  Amelia nods. ‘To buy stories.’

  ‘Isn’t Deacon very kind.’ I groan inwardly as I try not to let my frustration show.

  ‘Are you cross, Mammy?’ she says, her little body stiffening as her bottom lip begins to quiver.

  ‘Of course not,’ I say, taking the book from her.

  ‘But you’re making your cross face, like this,’ she says, imitating me.

  I drape my arm over her shoulder and slide her closer to me, tucking her hip against mine. ‘I’m just so excited to start this lovely story,’ I say.

  Amelia snuggles into me and the heat that radiates from her little body feels gloriously familiar.

  ‘The Ugly Duckling,’ I begin, reading the cover.

  Chapter Eighteen

  NOW

  Deacon pushes open the door of the small bedroom as soon as he hears Amelia’s shrieks. The sliver of light shining in through the open door slices into the dark room like a piece missing from a chocolate cake. My eyes squint and adjust to the sudden intrusion of light. Deacon’s hair is messy and sticking up and he has no shoes on. I guess he fell asleep in the lounge and Amelia’s crying has woken him.

  ‘Shh, shh,’ I say, stroking her hair as I try to settle her back to sleep.

  Heavy sobs shake her whole body as she cries in her sleep.

  ‘What happened? What’s wrong?’ he asks.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ I whisper. ‘You’ll wake her.’

  Deacon looks at Amelia asleep in the crook of my arm. ‘But she was crying,’ he says, concerned.

  ‘It was just a bad dream. She’s gone back to sleep.’

  ‘Sounded awful,’ he says, running a shaky hand through his hair. ‘I thought she was hurt. I’ve never heard her cry like that before.’

  ‘Well, she’s fine,’ I whisper. ‘Kids have nightmares all the time.’

  Deacon shakes his head. ‘But she’s been sleeping well. She misses you, of course, but she’s never woken hysterical like that before. Poor little kiddo. I hate to hear her so upset.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, sliding my arm out from behind Amelia and lowering her head back against the pillow.

  She tosses and turns for a moment and I hold my breath, thinking she’s going to wake up and tell Deacon what just happened, but she settles quickly. She tucks her knees into her chest and her fitful crying seems to ease as she curls herself into a ball. I reach for the shirt on the end of the bed and cover Amelia with it. She snuggles into the soft cotton.

  ‘See? She’s fine now,’ I say.

  Deacon sighs. His worry is palpable. I watch his hand on the door handle, hoping he won’t push the door open further and let in more light. Or worse still, come over to check on Amelia. His hand slips off the handle and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I realise my heart is racing.

  ‘C’mon,’ he says. ‘Let’s let her sleep.’

  ‘Can you give me a minute?’ I ask, crouching to stroke Amelia’s hair. ‘I just want a few more minutes with her.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready,’ he says. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, hiding how on edge Deacon’s choice of phrase makes me. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

  He turns and walks away, shaking his head again.

  I stand up and creep to the door, pulling it closed after him. I leave just enough light shining into the room to allow me to see what I’m doing. I race back to the mattress and lift the bottom of Deacon’s shirt to expose Amelia’s foot. My eyes widen and I jump back, horrified. The cut is so much deeper than I meant it to be and blood is trickling down her foot and gathering behind her little toes. I only meant to prick her heel ever so slightly, but it was dark and she kicked just as I pressed the razor against her skin. No wonder she screamed. My poor baby.

  I keep my eye on the slightly ajar door as I quickly pull out Paul’s tie, which I’d tucked into my bra earlier. I specifically chose this white one with the baby-blue pinstripe, which I bought him last Christmas. Not because it’s his favourite, although that’s an advantage as lots of his clients will have seen him wearing it – I chose it for its light colour and silky fabric that will absorb blood easily.

  I scrunch the tie into a ball and dab it against Amelia’s heel. She winces and pulls her foot away from me. I hold my breath and wait to see if she cries.

  ‘Shh, shh,’ I whisper, stroking her hair some more. ‘Good girl. You’re a good girl.’

  She hums contentedly.

  ‘Susan,’ Deacon calls from the kitchen. ‘Do you want coffee?’

  I hurry to the door and peek out, afraid he’ll come to fetch me.

  ‘Coffee would be great. Thank you,’ I grin brightly. ‘Just give me two more minutes. She’s not quite asleep yet,’ I lie.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, taking the lid off the kettle and sticking it under the tap.

  The noise of the water running followed by the clink of cups soothes me and I can feel my pulse slowing. But I know Deacon won’t stay distracted for long.

  I duck back in and close the door even more, making it almost impossible to see what I’m doing. I really wish I hadn’t left my phone in the lounge so I could use its light to guide me. I shuffle between the mattresses and make one last attempt to stop the bleeding. I press the tie forcefully against Amelia’s foot, and despite her twisting and turning I don’t ease the pressure. Finally, after counting backwards from sixty in my head, I let go. And wait. From what I can see the bleeding has stopped. I wrap Paul’s razor in some tissues and put it in my back pocket, then I stuff his bloodstained tie back into my bra.

  I cover Amelia’s feet with Deacon’s shirt. I’ve no doubt she will complain of discomfort tomorrow, but Deacon will probably assume she’s grazed herself on something in the flat. Standing up with shaking legs I run my hands over my clothes, as if straightening out my blouse and jeans can straighten out my conscience too.

  I lean over Amelia one last time and kiss her forehead. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ I whisper. ‘Someday you’ll understand. I know you will.’

  ‘Mammy,’ she calls with her eyes closed.

  ‘Um-hm.’ I wince, praying she doesn’t wake up fully.

  ‘I want to go home,’ she sobs sleepily, her voice a barely audible whisper.

  A single tear trickles down the side of my nose and splashes against her fair skin. ‘Soon, baby girl,’ I promise. ‘We’ll go home very soon.’

  I listen to her delicate breathing as she falls into a deep sleep. She’s beautiful. And I find myself wondering, as I often have before, how a little girl so wonderful and endearing could have been created by a man as vile and repulsive as my husband.

  ‘C’mon, Susan,’ Deacon calls again from the kitchen, a little louder this time. ‘Coffee’s ready.’

  ‘Coming,’ I say, pulling open the door and glancing back into the room at my angelic, sleeping toddler. ‘I’m coming.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  THEN

  ‘So that’s two Cokes, a strawberry milkshake and the sharing platter,’ the waitress says, scribbling our order on her small notepad.

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ Jenny nods, her smile wide and giddy.

  I wanted a vanilla milkshake but I don’t bother correcting the waitress. I don’t feel like talking, or eating. I’m sitting up straight on the uncomfortable red
leather diner bench and I’m smiling brightly, and I doubt anyone can tell how furious I am on the inside.

  Jenny is nestled against Deacon on the bench opposite me. His arm is draped over her shoulder casually and every now and then they kiss. Her left hand is flat on the table, in case I might for one second take my eyes off the huge engagement ring wrapped around her finger. The round sapphire stone sparkles under the diner lights and it’s surrounded by a cluster of diamonds like petals on a flower. It’s elegant and beautiful and not at all suited to Jenny’s flamboyant personality.

  ‘I just couldn’t believe it when he popped the question, you know?’ Jenny says, bouncing on the spot. ‘It was such a surprise. A wonderful, wonderful surprise.’

  ‘Yes. Definitely a surprise,’ I say. ‘You’ve only been going out eight months. It’s a whirlwind, that’s for sure.’

  ‘This won’t change anything.’ Jenny leans forward and I think she’s going to reach for my hand. I stiffen and drop my hands into my lap. ‘We’ll still see each other all the time. You’ll still have to come round to the flat for Wednesday Wine, and we’re still going to take that trip to Ibiza we’ve talked about.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say, my eyes shifting to Deacon, wondering if he’s going to say something equally as condescending as Jenny.

  He doesn’t talk. Jenny is talking enough for everyone, as usual.

  Our food arrives and I swirl my straw around the thick pink milkshake. I watch as Jenny finally pulls her hand away to reach for some chips and a chicken goujon.

  ‘You’ll be my bridesmaid, of course, won’t you?’ she says, her mouth half full.

  She washes chicken down with a large mouthful of Coke. I can see the food work its way down her throat. My skin crawls.

  I smile so forcefully my cheeks push up under my eyes. ‘Do you even have to ask?’

  ‘Oh good. I was worried,’ Jenny says.

  ‘Worried?’ I echo.

  ‘Yeah, you know, what with . . .’ Jenny begins.

  The waitress reappears at our table. ‘Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. You asked for vanilla, not strawberry, didn’t you?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say, my eyes fixed on Jenny. ‘I like strawberry too.’