Under Lying

by Janelle Harris

  I shrug. ‘I guess.’

  He paces faster, his mind obviously racing.

  ‘Usually they ask the husband, don’t they?’ he says. ‘But, well . . .’

  ‘Helen and Larry have three sons, Paul,’ I tell my husband. ‘I don’t think it’s our place to interfere.’

  ‘Yeah. You’re right,’ he says. ‘I’m just trying to help. I feel so damn useless.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘But I’m sure if the reporters, or the Guards for that matter, want to know anything about Helen, they’ll speak to her family. It really is nothing to do with us.’

  Paul stops pacing suddenly and wraps his arms around me, pulling me close to him. I flinch. I wasn’t expecting his hug.

  ‘How did this happen?’ he says. ‘How the hell did all this happen?’

  I wrap my arms around his waist. ‘Shh,’ I say. ‘Shh. Shh.’

  ‘I can’t turn on the bloody radio or telly without hearing Amelia’s name. And now Helen’s too,’ Paul says. ‘The place is heaving with reporters and camera crews and cops. It’s like living on a fucking film set. Except it’s real. Everything is real.’

  Langton and Connelly spoke to us about the media shitstorm Helen’s death will bring our way. They said the police haven’t mentioned Helen and Amelia in the same statements to the media, but that won’t stop them making the connection. Reporters will be dying for a quote, they warned. In the absence of any leads they’ll probably just print something said by some overzealous local know-it-all. Langton told us not to be surprised if tomorrow’s front pages feature a picture of Helen on one side and Amelia on the other, along with some sort of emotional or distressing headline: ‘Lake Lives Lost’ or ‘Local Lake, National Horror’. I can see the tacky phrasing in bold print already.

  My mind wanders to my half-packed suitcase under my bed.

  ‘Do you think things have calmed down in the village?’ I say. ‘Maybe you could try going for a run now.’

  ‘No.’ Paul shakes his head. ‘I’m not feeling it.’

  ‘You sure?’ I prod. ‘Could be good for your head.’

  ‘No,’ Paul repeats. ‘My head is a mess. I keep connecting the dots. Larry, the barbecue, Amelia, and now Helen. I was so focused on goddam Deacon I didn’t see what was happening right under my nose.’

  ‘They brought Larry in for questioning, Paul,’ I say. ‘That’s not the same as saying he’s guilty. I told you Helen was drunk and falling all over the place. Who’s to say anyone is responsible? This could all be a tragic accident, you know.’

  ‘An accident,’ he grunts, and I can feel his heart beating furiously against my cheek as I cuddle into his chest. ‘This is no bloody accident. It’s a matter of time, Susan. Just a matter of time until they charge the monster responsible.’

  Paul breaks away from me and walks into the living area. He folds his arms and faces the window. I follow him and stand alongside him to stare outside too. I know this view by heart, but something about the rural landscape takes my breath away now. Grassy fields stretch out endlessly, divided into haphazard squares by wild hedging like a patchwork quilt of emerald and teal. The bright blue sky is punctuated by the odd fluffy white cloud. Directly across the road from our cottage are eight or nine black and white cows huddled with their heads low, munching on grass – completing the picture of a lazy summer’s day in the countryside. It’s hard to imagine just metres beyond our line of vision is the chaos the discovery of Helen’s body has brought to the unassuming village of Ballyown.

  ‘I can’t believe it, you know,’ Paul sighs. ‘Larry was here with Helen. In our home. We invited him in. I thought he was a nice guy.’

  He begins pacing again. I can see the built-up anxiety he hasn’t run off this morning is torturing him.

  ‘No you didn’t,’ I correct. ‘You said he was a bit of an arsehole.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Paul breathes out and lowers himself to sit on the bottom step of the stairs. ‘A normal arsehole though. Like a pain in the arse neighbour. Not a psychopathic arsehole who commits murder.’

  Paul’s words hurt. The feeling surprises me.

  I look at my husband crouched on the stairs. His slender legs are too long and cumbersome for the bottom step. With his feet on the ground, his knees come halfway up his chest. It can’t be comfortable, but he sits like a statue. I don’t even know if he’s breathing. I glance at the photos on the wall and remember the day Adam took them. I remember how everything changed after that day. Especially me. And I allow Paul’s words to trickle off me, just as the rain ran down my window that afternoon. I’m not a psychopath, I tell myself. I’m just a little broken.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  NOW

  Paul falls asleep on the couch sometime in the afternoon, with the help of some sleeping pills the local doctor prescribed for us both after Amelia went missing. Paul has been going through his like Smarties. Two to be taken ten minutes before bed, every night. I don’t have any trouble sleeping. And Paul has been too emotionally fucked up to notice that I’ve been crushing my share into his water when he gets back from running, timing how long he’ll sleep. The most he naps for during the day is an hour, even with the damn pills. I’ve had to put up with him moaning about his headaches most evenings, probably the result of a double dose every day, but his incessant grumbling will be worth it soon.

  I wait until I can hear snoring before I creep up the stairs. My fingers are trembling as I lock our bedroom door behind me to finish packing. I drop gently to my knees and fish under the bed for the handle of my suitcase. I smile as my fingers curl around the soft leather. Nearly there. I pull but the damn thing seems to be caught on something. I tug harder, determined. Finally, it releases and I tumble backwards, falling on to my bottom with a loud thud. The suitcase follows me, crashing against my chest as it spills Amelia’s and my clothes all around me. I don’t move, holding my breath and waiting to hear if the noise has woken Paul. My heart is beating so loudly I’m not sure I’d hear him walk up the stairs over the noise of my pulse, banging like a tiny hammer against my temple from the inside out. I stay very still and wait. Nothing. The house is eerily silent. I hurry to my feet and gather all the clothes and stuff them into the suitcase as quickly as I can.

  I dash across the room and open the sturdy oak window box that I bought and refurbished a couple of weeks ago. I lift out the folded ivory flannel blankets to find Paul’s favourite running shirt at the bottom of the box. Exactly where I hid it. I can smell it before I even pick it up. It reeks of old sweat dried into the lining. I grab the nearest blanket and wrap the shirt in it. It masks some of the smell. I hurry back to the suitcase and lay the blanket on top of the clothes, folding the ends back over itself like an envelope so Paul’s shirt won’t touch any of mine or Amelia’s things.

  The suitcase is heavier than I was expecting and as I hoist it on to the bed I notice the huge tear in the side that dragging it out from under the bed must have caused. Dammit. It’s gone right through the outer casing, but the lining is still intact. It should hold for now, I decide. I don’t have time to pack another suitcase. I can work something out later.

  There’s a notepad on my bedside table but no pen. My lipstick is there, next to my reading lamp. I pop off the lid. There’s something oddly satisfying about choosing Paul’s favourite shade, which I’ve never liked.

  I’m leaving you, I write in thick, chalky red lipstick. I try to sign my name but the lipstick snaps and all I manage is S U and a streak that flies off the side of the page. I snort and find myself wishing that my name began with F.

  I close my suitcase and notice Paul’s running clothes are draped over the end of the bed. Inspired, I kick off my shoes, shuffle out of my skinny jeans and unbutton my blouse. I pull on Paul’s running pants first. I’m surprised at how snugly they fit. Just like wearing a pair of my own leggings. They’re much too long but the soft material rolls up easily. His running shirt isn’t as good a fit. The shoulders are ridiculously broad and it’s lon
ger than some of my dresses, but I tuck the bottom into the waistband of the pants. Lastly, I fetch his tattered baseball cap. I’ve tried to replace it numerous times. Whenever I was stuck for a birthday present idea or something for our anniversary. I bought him caps in an array of colours over the years. But he’s too attached to this one to embrace change. He says it’s his lucky charm and he’s never run a race without it.

  It used to be dark green – the stitching still is, but the rest is a washed-out mint now. I gather my hair on top of my head and pull the cap on. The inside is rough like sandpaper against the top of my forehead and I don’t even want to think of all the years of perspiration this cap has suffered. Gross! I turn round and my breath catches in the back of my throat when I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I’m a miniature version of my husband. It’s actually uncanny. I’m shorter and curvier, obviously, but it’s fascinating how an outfit can transform you.

  I reach for my suitcase again and take a deep, satisfied breath as my fingers curl around the handle. I’m just twenty-eight steps, including the stairs, away from the front door. I’ve counted them many times since we moved in. But the next step feels more significant than ever. I tiptoe towards my bedroom door and press my ear against it. My legs tremble as I listen to . . . nothing. Silence hangs in the air. Testing me. Warning me not to make a sound as I leave.

  I turn the key and it groans in the lock like a nail scratching against steel. The painfully sharp noise pinches inside my head. I drop my suitcase and cover my ears, wondering how I got here. How I became this person. This monster. The moment passes, and I scramble for my suitcase again – if I pick it up quickly enough, the noise it made when it collided with the floor will be erased and I won’t have made a mistake. I won’t. I’m not Sue Arnold any more, I remind myself. She died the day of her twenty-first birthday. I’m Susan Warner now, and she doesn’t get things wrong.

  Calmer, more together, I listen for Paul one more time. Nothing. I wonder if three pills was too many this time. I didn’t think about adding one extra for good measure, it just sort of happened. I guess I was nervous.

  Drawn to attention by a noise from downstairs, I open the door and walk out on to the landing. I stare over the banister at the man I’ve had to call my husband for the last four years. My tiny cottage seems to grow to enormity as I watch Paul from a distance as he snores and groans and turns over.

  Please don’t fall off the couch. Please don’t fall off the couch.

  Within seconds his restlessness settles, and his loud snoring occupies the air. It climbs the stairs, scales the banister and reaches out to touch me. To poke me, to slap me, to pinch me. As if even in his sleep Paul is still stamping his mark on me.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  NOW

  I don’t remember the journey down the stairs. Did I run or tiptoe? Was the suitcase heavy and did it bang against the steps? Did I put it down as I opened the front door or did I keep it close to me, ready to charge through as soon as I saw daylight?

  I know I definitely didn’t look back. I didn’t glance around the beautiful cottage I had painstakingly transformed – I knew all along it never truly belonged to me. I didn’t look back at my husband as he lay ungainly on the couch – I knew he never belonged to me either. I do, however, remember pausing to take one last look at Adam’s photos hanging in my hall. They have always belonged to me. Always. It hurts my heart to leave them behind, but as reality slowly dawns on my husband I know those photos will serve as a painful reminder of everything he has done. And he will see why I did the things I have done. I know Adam would be proud of me. I am proud of myself, I think, as I get into Paul’s car and start the engine.

  Rain wasn’t forecast but delicate drops splash against the windscreen as I turn the corner on the narrow country road, leaving behind my cottage, my husband and the life I pretended to live. I don’t turn on the wipers. I let the rain patter against the glass, and for a few blissful seconds I lose myself in the purr of the engine and the lull of the rain and I forget about the last few days. The last few years!

  Suddenly, the day darkens as if Mother Nature takes a dramatic mood swing. Large, angry clouds rush in overhead and a loud clap of thunder rattles the sky as if two of the more aggressive clouds have collided. Torrential rain erupts, creating almost instant puddles on the side of the road. I set the wipers to their fastest, but they struggle to keep up. The windscreen begins to fog up as my hot breath hits the glass that’s suddenly cold on the other side. I can barely see where I’m going. I slow down. God, I haven’t seen rain like this in years. Not since . . . No! I’m not thinking about that now.

  I swerve right, just missing a woman walking along the edge of the road. I slam my foot on the brake and curse the silly bitch under my breath. I roll the window down on her side as soon as I glimpse her face between the drops.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Jenny,’ I say, as the rain blows in through the window. ‘What in the name of God are you doing out here?’

  ‘The rain came out of nowhere,’ she says, pulling her blouse away from her skin to show me she’s soaked through.

  ‘Where are you going? Why are you out here walking? This road is full of blind spots. I nearly didn’t see you.’

  ‘I was going to walk back to your house,’ she says. ‘I thought we could talk some more.’

  ‘There’s nothing more to say really.’ I shake my head and my foot hovers over the accelerator.

  ‘Are they your husband’s clothes?’ Jenny points a shaking finger at me, obviously recognising Paul’s running gear from earlier.

  ‘No,’ I lie breezily. ‘We wear matching outfits sometimes. Paul thinks it’s romantic. Silly idea, really. Bit embarrassing now that you mention it.’

  ‘Right. Sorry,’ Jenny says, sounding unsure as she drags the back of her arm across her face to wipe the rain away.

  A Jeep drives towards us, slowing down as it passes. The driver waves. I can’t make out who it is, but it’s definitely someone local and they certainly seem to know me. Or they recognise Paul’s car. The rain is still blinding but I hope they take note of the driver in running gear and cap. Paul. I’m every inch Paul.

  ‘Get in,’ I say, unlocking the doors reluctantly; I don’t want anyone else to see me talking to Jenny.

  She opens the passenger door and gets in. I can only imagine how Paul would react if he saw her drenched arse press into his ivory leather seat.

  ‘Jesus, it’s cats and dogs out there, isn’t it?’ she says, and I’m relieved we’re back to talking about the weather.

  I shift in my seat and the leather squeaks beneath me. Paul’s long running top tucked into my pants is bulky and uncomfortable around my waist. I shift back again, trying to get comfortable. Jenny’s eyes are crawling all over me, like tiny, irritating insects biting my skin. I can feel frustration grow inside me, filling me up until I think it might spill over. I want to scream at her for coming back into my life. She’s ruining everything.

  ‘Jenny, this isn’t going to work,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry?’ Jenny tilts her head.

  ‘Us.’ I point at her and drag my finger back across the air to me. ‘I can’t be friends right now. The timing . . .’

  ‘But isn’t this when you need a friend most?’ Jenny asks.

  ‘Maybe in a few months when I’m in a better place I can call you. We could meet for coffee or something. Let’s see how it goes, yeah?’

  ‘Susan, I really think—’

  My phone begins ringing. She cuts off mid-sentence and waits, watching me. My phone dances as it vibrates in the drinks holder under the radio, twisting and turning as if it’s determined to flash its screen at Jenny. She remains silent, expecting me to answer.

  I see Deacon’s number flashing on the screen. But not his name – thank God. I don’t have his number saved in my contacts, in case Paul ever went through my phone. Besides, I don’t need it saved. I know Deacon’s number off by heart. He’s had the same number for years. Thankfully, Je
nny doesn’t seem to recognise it. Or she’s not paying close enough attention. Finally, my phone rings out, but as I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief the ringing starts again. For fuck’s sake, Deacon.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer?’ Jenny says. ‘Seems like someone is pretty determined to get hold of you.’

  The ringing is loud and demanding as it carries through the surround sound of the car speakers. I’ve forgotten to turn off the Bluetooth. I can’t answer and have Deacon’s voice fill the car.

  ‘It’s just Paul,’ I lie. ‘He’ll call back.’

  ‘But what if he has news from the Guards,’ Jenny says. ‘About your neighbour . . . or . . . about . . .’

  ‘Well,’ I smile while shaking my head, ‘then he’ll definitely call back.’

  Another car approaches. This driver is more cautious. Crawling towards us. They honk their horn, demanding I move the nose of my car back on to my side of the road.

  The ringing finally stops, but Jenny’s voice instantly fills the silent void and I think my brain might explode. ‘There’s a farm gate up here.’ Jenny leans forward and taps her nail against the windscreen. ‘It’s a field of horses. I was watching them for a while before the rain started. There’s room to pull in off the road.’

  I know the spot Jenny’s talking about. Amelia loves to pat the horses and feed them grass when curiosity brings them as far as the gate, but I’ve no intention of pulling in and having a chat. Jenny is insane.

  Honk. Honk. Honk. The approaching driver is losing patience. The phone begins to ring for a third time as Jenny continues talking about the damn horses. The combination of sounds scrapes against my mind like a rusty nail, and finally I snap.

  ‘Enough!’ I shout, pounding my fists against the steering wheel. ‘That’s enough.’

  Jenny closes her mouth and stares at me with wide eyes. My phone seems to obey too and the ringing stops. But the driver in the oncoming car won’t be silenced. Honk. Honk. Honk.