The receptionist steers us away from the curtains. Adam isn’t behind any of them! Not this time. She leads us down a corridor, away from familiarity. Away from the doctors and nurses and patients. The stench of disinfectant is more potent than ever down here and the artificial light compensating for lack of windows is insanely bright. I squint. My high heels clip clop as I trail behind my mother and the receptionist. We stop midway down the clinical corridor and the receptionist opens a door that seems to appear out of nowhere. It squeaks in protest at being awakened and swings back to reveal cool cream walls, soft grey furniture – a three-seater couch and a couple of armchairs with brightly coloured cushions. Christ it’s miserable.
‘Okay,’ the receptionist smiles, her voice wilting and delicate like the last petal on a rose ready to fall off at any moment. ‘If you’d like to take a seat, one of the doctors will be with you soon.’
‘Can we see Adam?’ my mother asks, finally finding her voice.
‘Please, if you just take a seat . . .’ the receptionist repeats.
‘I want to see my son,’ my mother protests.
‘Please, Mrs Arnold. I’m sure the doctor won’t be long.’
‘Mrs Arnold,’ I say. ‘We didn’t introduce ourselves.’
‘I . . .’ The receptionist’s cheeks flush but the rest of her face is ghastly pale.
‘His ID,’ I swallow. ‘You know our name because of Adam’s ID, don’t you? You found his student card on him. Or his bank card. Probably his passport. He was buying booze. He always uses his passport to prove his age in the off-licence.’
The receptionist nods. I can’t tell if it’s a yes, I’m listening or yes, you’re right. I keep talking.
‘It’s our birthday today,’ I say, fighting back tears. ‘Adam only went out to pick up his suit. He wasn’t supposed to be long. He wasn’t even supposed to stop at any shops but I asked him to pick up some champagne. It was my idea. You see, we’re twenty-one today, so it’s kind of a big deal.’
‘You’re both twenty-one today?’ the receptionist says and she can’t keep it together any more. A single tear escapes and trickles down the side of her nose. She catches it impressively quickly with the flick of her fingers.
‘Twins,’ my mother says. ‘My beautiful, special twins.’
I shake my head. ‘But not any more,’ I sigh knowingly.
Chapter Thirty-nine
NOW
Christ, my legs hurt. I must have walked a million miles. Thank God for Google Maps or I’d never have found my way from the docks to Paul’s car. I’m still painfully unfamiliar with this city.
Even when I reach the car park I’m so frazzled I walk around several storeys trying to remember where I parked the damn car. I find myself pointing the car keys left and right, clicking over and over, hoping for the familiar beep-beep and flash of orange lights. Eventually, Paul’s car comes into view. I check that no one is around before I walk over to it.
A double click on the middle button of the car keys unlocks the doors. The car beeps and plays a three-note melody. It spits the same spritely tune when you start the ignition and when you turn it off again. It’s an overpriced car trying too hard, but I’ve never noticed how irritating it is before now. I snort at the car’s arrogance, open the passenger door and duck inside. I don’t bother to let the seat down. I simply climb over, stomping my dirty shoes all over Paul’s pristine ivory leather. I get into the back seat, and grateful for the tinted windows I quickly strip off Paul’s running gear and slip on my blouse and jeans. I glance around the silent car park before I open the door and hop out.
I hurry around to the back of the car, hyper-aware that I can’t afford to be seen. I stare into the abyss of the boot. Dull black felt lines the boring square space, in bleak contrast to the shiny, expensive leather that kits out the rest of the interior. The boot is clearly the basement of the car, the lesser level, the dump!
My heart is beating furiously and my palms are sweating but I can’t rush and risk making sloppy mistakes. I’ve spent years planning this moment, and it has to be perfect.
I place the running gear and baseball cap in the boot, next to the blood-spattered white tie with the baby-blue pinstripe. His favourite, his colleagues will hopefully say, if the tie gets a mention on the news. His wife bought it for him and he wore it all the time – he was such a lovely man, I just can’t believe it, someone else will add. I’m sure Paul’s arrest will come as a shock to the public, at first. Young father, clever businessman, friend, sportsman, blah blah blah. But as the media dig into his past the truth will slowly dawn on people. That Paul Warner is an evil murderer. Adam’s name will be in all the papers again. Paul’s First Victim, they might say, or hopefully something punchier. Adam will be remembered, and Paul will finally get the punishment he deserves. His life will be ruined. I will be long gone with Amelia, and he will finally know what it’s like to have the person you love most in the world snatched from you. Paul will finally know what it’s like to be me.
I wish I could add the metal pipe that Jenny recently became so well acquainted with, but my fingerprints are all over it, so it had to make its way to the seafloor, along with Jenny and the cavity block I secured around her ankle. Seriously, the stuff they leave lying around the docks is dangerous. Someone needs to look into that!
Finally, I reach for the overhanging boot door and the bracelet around my wrist catches my eye. I freeze and glance over my shoulder then quickly whip my head back to glance over the other side. I’m alone. It’s eerily silent, apart from the furious beating of my heart that seems to echo deafeningly loud inside my head. I close my eyes, exhale sharply and count backwards from three. Steadier, I open my eyes again and concentrate on the bracelet. It’s such a pretty thing. Strands of platinum and rose gold twist around each other like a fine rope, and the subtle diamantés dotted evenly all the way around sparkle as they catch the overhead light. It’s no doubt expensive and smacks of extravagant taste. I first noticed Helen wearing it at the barbecue. I’d admired it and she explained it was Larry’s mother’s. It was later, when we became friends, that she told me that she hated the damned thing and the only reason she wore it was to remind her that her mother-in-law was dead.
‘If you like it so much, you should have it,’ Helen said.
I blushed and mumbled something about how I couldn’t possibly.
‘Nonsense,’ Helen said, and then she took it off and gave it to me. ‘I’ve a box full of more like it at home. Larry’s mother left me all her jewellery. Ironic since the old bitch wouldn’t even let me borrow so much as a pair of earrings when she was alive.’
I’ve been wearing it ever since. Tears prick the corners of my eyes, but I shake my head and blink them away. I have no time for guilt.
Helen’s death was a regrettable spur of the moment thing, I never had a chance to make a plan or think it through. I’d been so desperate to get rid of her body before someone saw me that gathering evidence was the last thing on my mind.
I concentrate on the bracelet’s clasp. It’s finicky and delicate and I’m struggling as my hands shake nervously. Worried about the time I’m wasting, I tug at it and the bracelet flies off my hand, catching the skin of my knuckle.
I scan the boot, trying to see where the bracelet landed as blood bubbles to the surface of my scratched fingers. It’s not a lot. A minor graze, really. But it’s enough to have splattered the bracelet with my DNA. Dammit. I hadn’t planned on adding my blood to the mix of evidence in Paul’s boot, but Helen’s stupid bracelet has left me with no choice. I pause for a moment and think. Faking my own death could prove useful. Paul won’t come looking for a dead wife.
Searching for the bracelet, I duck and lean into the boot. If anybody comes along now they’ll almost certainly approach to ask if I’m okay. My heart beats even faster.
‘Got it, Helen,’ I say, triumphant as if she’s beside me and would want to know.
I’m so pleased this is all working out for you, Susan
. You’re doing such a great job framing Paul for murder. You know I’m happy to help, I imagine her say. Oh Helen. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
Straightening up, I shove the bracelet under Paul’s running clothes and suck my stinging fingers. I leave the boot open as I scramble into the back of the car and pull Paul’s stinking jersey out of my suitcase. I reach into my hair and scratch at the scab forming on the back of my head. It stings as it starts to bleed again and I dab the jersey against it. There’s no way the police will miss my DNA now, I think, content that this sudden change of plan is inspired. I toss the jersey into the boot.
In a day or two, when I’m nowhere to be found, the police are bound to interrogate Paul. It’s not unreasonable to assume that after murdering our neighbour and my best friend, Paul turned on me.
‘Local Man Murders Wife and Child’, the headline will say. I hope I can get the articles online. Maybe I’ll print them off and have them framed. By morning Amelia and I won’t be in the country and the only trace of us will be our DNA in the boot of my husband’s car. It’s working out better than I ever imagined. Of course, not for Jenny or Helen, but I’m sure they’d understand. If they knew Paul as well as I did, they would.
Finally, I slam the boot and it snaps shut with a loud bang that rattles the whole car. The damn thing sticks halfway down so I have to tug hard to get any sort of traction going. I keep telling Paul it needs WD-40 or something sprayed on its hinges to loosen them, but Paul won’t hear of it. He mumbles something about bringing it in for a check-up, as if it’s a puppy visiting the vet. Sometimes I wonder if he loves this stupid car more than me. But never more than Amelia. My God, that man loves that child. He’ll be devastated to lose her.
I turn around and glance over the silent car park one last time. Almost every space is full. Old cars, new ones. Large ones, compact ones. Cars of every colour occupy the entire floor. Paul’s car is simply another inconspicuous vehicle. It could hide here, unnoticed, indefinitely. Unless, of course, someone drops a hint.
Chapter Forty
NOW
The familiar smell of grease and batter wafting from the chipper below Deacon’s flat makes me feel as queasy as ever. The door is wide open, but that doesn’t stop the floor to ceiling glass shop front fogging up around the edges. Inside is busier than usual. There’s a long line of mismatched, hungry people. But it’s the overweight man with an abundance of tattoos that draws my attention. He sits inside the window with a brown paper bag of chips on his knee and a burger in his hand.
A toddler with a tight haircut and a grubby face runs around the small space shouting, ‘nee-naw, nee-naw’. The little boy is loud and boisterous, and I can hear his squeaky voice through the thin glass.
‘Look at me, Da,’ he shouts. ‘I’m a policeman.’
‘Stop that. Stop that now,’ the man says, as he picks up a newspaper next to him, rolls it and swats at his son as if the little boy is an irritating fly.
‘Na nana nana nah!’ The little boy sticks out his tongue and taunts his father.
The father drops the newspaper on the chipper floor and wags his finger. ‘Wait till I get my hands on ya, ya little shit. I’ll wring your bleedin’ neck, I will.’ He takes a bite of his burger.
I look away and shake my head, disgusted. Some people really don’t deserve children, I think, so glad that Amelia and I have a much healthier relationship.
I pull my shoulders up to my ears, take a deep breath and let them flop down as I exhale. A huge smile spreads across my face as I take another couple of steps, ready to find Amelia and Deacon and start over.
My breath catches when I find the side door leading up to the flat is open. I wonder if it’s been like that for hours. Maybe I left it open when I chased after Jenny. Or maybe that good-for-nothing neighbour leaves it open every time he goes out.
I walk inside. And a sense of unease clings to me like a shadow I can’t shake off. My exhausted legs are feeling the burn as I take the steps two at a time.
‘Hey,’ I shout, reaching the top step. ‘Sorry I took so long. I just had . . .’
The door is wide open and fresh air blasts through from an open window. I can hear the traffic on the road below. I charge inside, my legs suddenly quick and nimble.
‘Deacon,’ I shout.
The flimsy curtains on the open window flap wildly in the draught and I bound over to close it. But the sudden quiet is worse than the traffic.
‘Deacon, where are you?’ I race into the kitchen. ‘Where the hell are you?’
I fling open a cupboard. It’s bare. I open the next one. Nothing. I whizz from one to another and another. Finally, I stumble across one containing minimal rations. Coffee, a couple of slices of stale bread and some sugar. My heart sinks. Maybe Deacon really wasn’t getting out and about as much as I foolishly accused him of.
I turn towards the bedroom. A sinking feeling weighs me down.
‘Amelia,’ I cry out, breathless. ‘Amelia, honey, it’s Mammy. Are you here, darling? Mammy’s here now.’
I run with my hand instinctively pressed against my chest, protecting my heart. I charge straight through the lounge, crashing into the stupid crate and pizza box table. Amelia’s colouring pencils rain down like long, slender sticks of rainbow confetti.
‘Ouch, fuck!’ I wince, hopping on the spot as a throbbing ache attacks my shin.
It’s noisy, for a moment. But when the colours settle on the floor, silence once again engulfs the room. The only sound is my deep breathing.
I run, hurrying into the bedroom. The mattresses sit waiting at either side of the room. Empty!
‘Deacon,’ I scream, clasping my hands and pressing them down on top of my head. ‘Deacon? Please. Where are you?’
I spin around. And around. And finally, exhausted, I flop on to the mattress where just hours ago I held my little girl in my arms. I tuck my arms close to my chest, close my eyes and rock back and forth. I’ve no idea how long passes. Minutes, hours. Weak and broken, I open my eyes. Tears sting and my vision is blurry, but I notice the drawing that was hidden under Amelia’s pillow.
I toss the pillow aside and with shaking fingers I pick up the piece of colourful paper. I smile as I count the bright yellow duckies.
‘One . . . two . . . three,’ I count out loud.
And the stream. Amelia has chosen dark blue to mark out a long stream that stretches from one side of the page to the other. There’s a house too, with one side longer than the other and with a crooked front door and only one window. But I recognise the red door. It’s our cottage. There are some stick people too. A mammy. A daddy. And a little girl. There’s a fourth, unexpected stick figure. Wobbly black circles frame his eyes. Glasses! It’s Deacon. Amelia has drawn Deacon as someone important in her life – equal to Paul and me, and I don’t know whether to be happy or sad.
I kiss the beautiful picture, fold it and stuff it into my bra.
‘Christ, Deacon. What have you done?’ I say.
I blitz through the flat with a Tesco plastic bag I found in the kitchen. I toss in any evidence that proves Deacon or Amelia were ever here. I chuck in Amelia’s crayons and colouring book. I tear up the pizza box and throw that in too. The crate is much too large, but I make a mental note to toss it into the hall. I gather up the minimal food from the cupboards and the fridge. I double-check that all the windows are closed and that there’s nothing left in the bathroom or bedroom, and with a deep breath I walk out of the flat and close the door behind me.
I plan to turn a few corners and walk a couple of streets away before tossing the bag in a bin. Then I’ll call Deacon. And if he doesn’t answer . . .
Chapter Forty-one
NOW
‘Paul,’ I gasp as I see my husband at the bottom of the stairs. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?’ he says, taking the concrete steps two at a time.
‘I . . . I . . .’ I can’t think.
‘Who lives here
?’ Paul says. ‘Is it Deacon? Is that who you’re leaving me for? A desperate loser living above a chipper. Nice, Susan. Real classy. But that’s you all over, isn’t it?’
I’m exhausted and all I can think about is my phone in my pocket and how much I want to call Deacon and find out what the hell he’s doing.
‘What’s this?’ Paul says, snatching the bag of rubbish out of my hand. ‘Been shopping, have you? Going to cook a fancy meal for two? Or is a greasy takeaway more his style, eh?’
‘It’s just rubbish, Paul.’
He casts his gaze around the dreary corridor. ‘Our daughter is missing and here you are taking out your boyfriend’s rubbish.’ He rips open the plastic bag. ‘You make me sick, Susan. You really—’
My back arches like a startled cat as the expression on his face changes from hurt to suspicion. ‘What are these?’ he says, pulling out some of Amelia’s crayons. I didn’t notice earlier that the yellow one is much shorter than the others; worn from use. Paul opens his hand and the crayons tumble on to the steps. ‘And this?’ He reaches into the bag and pulls out the colouring book.
My back straightens as I get ready to run.
Under Lying Page 24