‘I told you you wouldn’t find her,’ I say, turning towards the kitchen.
I open the top drawer and, as promised, Deacon’s phone is resting face up, waiting for me.
‘Five missed calls – all from me,’ I say, picking up the phone and throwing it to the floor.
It bounces on the lino but it doesn’t shatter. I bend down, infused with rage, and smash it repeatedly against the edge of the countertop. I think I’m screaming. It’s hard to tell if the noise is just inside my head or if it’s coming out of me. Finally, pieces of glass, metal and plastic scatter everywhere.
I slide my phone out of my pocket and run my finger over the hairline crack Paul inflicted earlier. A surge of electricity shoots up my spine and I bash my phone against the edge of the countertop too. I count backwards out loud from ten.
‘Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .’ This time I’m certain I’m shouting as the numbers burst past my lips, louder with every hostile clatter of my phone against the countertop.
My phone is sturdier and more stubborn than Deacon’s, and I laugh sheepishly, realising I’ve forgotten to remove the cover. I slide off the sparkly pink and purple glitter cover that reads Follow Your Dreams, They Know The Way. The irony is sharp and unexpected as it drills through my chest.
‘Fuck you, Deacon,’ I shout. ‘Fuck you!’
I raise my arm above my head and bring my phone down with one final, fatal blow. It shatters impressively.
‘There,’ I say. ‘Let’s see Google spy on me now.’
Paul finally stands up. His gaze locks on me, his pupils terrifyingly dilated.
‘You think the cops won’t come because you’ve smashed up your phone, Susan?’ he snorts.
I offer a loud, exaggerated laugh as if my husband is the funniest man alive. ‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘I think the cops won’t come because you’re going to call them and tell them you’ve made a terrible mistake.’
It’s Paul’s turn to laugh.
‘You’re going to tell them that I left you, which is true, and that you were so upset and emotional that you lashed out. You know it’s wrong and you’re embarrassed . . . blah, blah, yada yada yada. Feel free to improvise.’ I smile.
Paul glares venomously.
‘They’ll understand,’ I explain calmly. ‘A missing child . . . emotions are running high, add my infidelity into the mix and you were bound to lose it.’
‘An affair?’ Paul laughs again but this time it’s more of a throaty grunt. ‘You seriously expect the cops, or me for that matter, to believe that you were sleeping with that waste of space client of yours?’
My head hurts. I guess I underestimated Paul’s ability to see through bullshit. I press my fingers into my temples.
‘I don’t give a shit what you believe, Paul. Just make it convincing when you phone the cops,’ I warn.
‘And why would I do that?’
My eyes narrow and I stare at my husband. ‘Because . . .’ I take a long, exaggerated breath, enjoying how he hangs on my every word. ‘. . . you’ll never see Amelia again if you don’t.’
‘I have to say, Susan, this dominatrix thing you’ve got going on is incredibly sexy,’ Paul grins. ‘Why couldn’t you have been more like this in the bedroom? Instead of that boring missionary crap.’
‘Don’t be disgusting,’ I snap.
‘Okay, Susan,’ Paul smiles, disturbingly cooperative. He’s making me nervous again. ‘I’ll oblige. Just for you.’
He takes his phone out of his pocket and hits a button on his speed dial. A female voice answers, but I can’t hear what she says. Paul walks away, taking the call into the bedroom and closing the door behind him. I’m about to open the door when he re-emerges.
‘So, really,’ he says, ‘there’s no need to send anyone. Susan isn’t here. I guess she’s left me, and probably the country. She talks about Thailand a lot. Maybe she’s gone there.’ Paul’s voice breaks and I think he’s crying.
Christ, he’s good.
‘I’m so sorry for the confusion,’ he adds. ‘I can only apologise again.’
He hangs up.
‘Thailand?’ I snort. ‘When the fuck have I ever mentioned Thailand?’
‘You haven’t,’ he shrugs. ‘But it’s far away and people go missing there all the time. I thought it would be easiest.’
My eyes narrow and I realise Paul wasn’t sitting waiting on the couch like a broken and distraught father. He was waiting for me to come back.
‘And by easiest, I mean easiest for me,’ he says. ‘With you out of the picture Amelia only has one guardian. Moi.’ He points smugly at himself.
‘You’ll have to find her first,’ I say.
‘But I thought you’d have guessed by now – I’m a dab hand at finding people, Sue!’ Paul smirks, sliding his phone confidently back into his pocket.
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ I snap.
He produces a small grey rucksack. He must have been wearing it earlier when he pinned me against the wall, but I was so desperate for air I wasn’t paying attention.
He unzips it slowly; the crackle hangs in the air. Finally, he places Adam’s lightning strikes, minus their frames, on top of the blue crate. I stare at the photos, confused.
Paul doesn’t speak. And I don’t know what he wants me to say.
At last he cracks. ‘Aren’t you going to say something?’
‘Like what?’ I ask, unable to take my eyes off the photographs. ‘I have no idea what’s going on here, Paul.’
‘Susan, you’re much too modest,’ he grins. ‘I bet you know a lot more than you’re letting on, don’t you?’
I’m still like a statue, despite trembling inside.
‘You know,’ he says, picking up one of the photos, ‘I’ve never really liked these.’
He catches the top and I look on breathless as he rips the beautiful photograph clean down the middle. I gasp. He places one half on top of the other and tears again. And my chest aches as if he’s tearing the chambers of my heart. He drops the photo on the floor and the pieces scatter.
He reaches for the second photo.
‘No. Please,’ I shout, lunging forward and snatching the photo up before Paul touches it.
‘You’re no art buff,’ Paul smiles. ‘But I guess you know better than I do how valuable these little bits of paper are.’
I stop breathing as I instinctively cradle the photograph against my chest. Paul’s eyes are all over me, trying to crack my façade, but I don’t budge. I won’t offer him the satisfaction.
‘Sentimental value, I mean . . .’ he says, his voice low and raspy as if he’s high on the pleasure of this act of destruction.
In that moment – with the single sentence that took no more than a second to say – I hate Paul more than ever. I flinch. He notices and his smile grows dazzlingly wide. I don’t dare blink and send tears trickling down my flushed cheeks.
He folds his arms. ‘I’m sure Adam would be glad to know you have them, wouldn’t he?’
‘Adam,’ I echo, my brother’s name sending a shiver down my spine.
‘He was talented, I’ll give him that.’
‘Yes.’ I swallow, defeated.
‘Twins, weren’t you?’ Paul says. ‘Only, it’s hard to believe. Sorry, Susan.’ Paul shakes his head. ‘You’re nothing alike, are you?’
I’m not breathing. I’m not even sure my heart is beating.
‘I always hoped we’d have twins, Sue. I did. I must admit I was disappointed that Amelia was a singleton. Twins just look so cute in their photos, don’t they? And I crossed my fingers that when we tried again we’d have twins. A boy and a girl. We could even have called them Adam and Susan, if you wanted to. I mean, I’m not a complete arsehole, I know that would be important to you.’
I can’t speak. It’s as if Paul’s sharp words are a knife that has severed my vocal cords.
‘There’s just something so special about the bond between twins, isn’t there?’ His eyes dance wit
h enthusiasm.
‘Don’t,’ I warn.
‘Did you know Langton is a twin?’
I swallow.
‘Oh, you didn’t. Well, she is. And she knows you are . . . sorry . . . were! It came up in one of her pointless questions. I wondered why she always waited until you were out of the room to drill me about my past. I think she was actually trying to spare your emotions – she must have assumed you were too stupid to really know the man you married. Can you believe that?’
‘How long have you known?’ I ask, bile burning the back of my throat.
Paul jumps into the air and dances around the room before turning to stop suddenly and stare at me. ‘Always,’ he says. ‘All bloody ways, Sue. I made it my business to get to know the sister . . . the damaged goods, the casualty.’
‘You’re sick,’ I spit.
‘Thank you. No more fucked up than your good self,’ he says, ‘Oh, c’mon, Susan. Don’t you think I would have taken the time to find out about Adam’s family?’
‘Why?’
‘For the very same reason you were obsessed with me. Revenge. We really are a pair of kindred spirits, aren’t we?’
‘You were drunk,’ I try to justify. ‘Adam was a victim. Wrong place, wrong time. How can you blame anyone but yourself. Jesus.’
‘Ah, see.’ Paul smiles at me sickeningly sweetly. ‘This is why I married you, because you’re just too damn innocent and adorable, no matter how hard you try.’
I take a step back, drowning in my own thoughts.
‘Didn’t you know Adam was after a big story?’ Paul asks.
Of course, I knew. Adam told me the college president was humping her favourite students in the canteen after hours. It was a guaranteed honours degree if you made her come. First class was only guaranteed if you could make her scream.
‘You know what they say,’ Paul grunts, ‘ambition is a killer.’
‘You were one of her boys,’ I say, hating myself for admitting my surprise at this twist. ‘I bet you really liked her.’
‘Not really,’ Paul shrugs. ‘I guess Adam and I were alike that way. We both wanted the grade and we realised you had to work hard, and I mean real hard . . .’
‘Adam wouldn’t sleep with her. Not for a story. He wouldn’t do that.’
‘God, you really did think your brother was perfect, didn’t you? You poor deluded bitch. How do you think Adam knew so much about her? Didn’t you know your beloved brother was top of her list of booty calls? His undercover antics would stop at nothing. He’d have Professor Mahon screaming his name twice weekly if he thought his article would make the national papers.’
‘I don’t believe you. You’re only saying this because he’s not here to defend himself.’
‘But Adam took it too far. He was all about exposing Margaret. He didn’t care that he was exposing all of us too. He was ruining people’s lives. All he wanted was photos and evidence.’
‘And he got them,’ I grin.
The lightning strikes finally make sense. Paul snatched the film from Adam’s camera to get at the photos of him and Margaret together. He must have developed the whole roll and found the lightning strikes. They were simply too good to throw out. A strange coincidence? Or Adam’s legacy?
‘You wanted to shut Adam up,’ I say.
‘I didn’t mean to kill him, just startle him enough to grab his camera for a minute.’
‘Without evidence he had no story,’ I say. ‘Oh my God.’
Paul nods.
‘Were you even drinking?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. I knocked back half a bottle of that fancy champagne he was carrying on the spot. I was only trying to calm my nerves. When the cops breathalysed me, I was marginally over the limit and they assumed reckless driving. I was hardly going to correct them now, was I?’
Barely composed, I have to ask. ‘Why did you keep the lightning strikes? You could have thrown them out years ago.’
Paul smiles. ‘Ah, that was just a little fun. To fuck with your head. I couldn’t help myself. You know, we could have been happy, Susan. If you’d just grieved like a normal person. This isn’t how I wanted this to go.’
I wrap my arms around myself and all I can think about is the last time I saw Adam, and now the last time I saw Amelia. I’ve lost everything.
Chapter Forty-five
NOW
Paul’s lips press against mine. I try to pull away but his fingers slide through my hair and keep my face pressed against him. I feel sick. He lets go as suddenly as he pounced, and I stumble but I don’t fall. He flings open the knife drawer and pulls out a carving knife as I’m gaining my balance.
‘Now, sweetheart. It’s time for everything to go back to normal. It’s time to bring Amelia home.’
I eye up the door in the tiny flat, but it suddenly seems so far away.
‘Where is she, Susan?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re lying,’ Paul says, raising the knife.
I scream. ‘Deacon took her.’
‘Deacon,’ he sneers. I know I could make it down the concrete steps ahead of Paul, but I’m trying to calculate if I could get out the door at the bottom fast enough, or if he’d chase me out on to the street with the knife. Surely he wouldn’t, not with witnesses around, but there’s madness in his eyes and I can’t be sure.
‘Deacon,’ Paul repeats.
‘He wants to protect her,’ I say, my heart aching as I realise it’s true.
‘From me?’ Paul takes a step forward and his grip on the knife tightens.
‘No.’ I shake my head, not taking my eyes off the blade. ‘From me.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ He takes another step forward. ‘Deacon isn’t capable of something like that.’
‘She’s gone, Paul.’ I swallow, broken, and don’t bother to back away. I close my eyes. I don’t even care any more if he brings the blade crashing down. I just hope he makes it quick.
‘Drop the knife,’ a female voice shouts.
I open my eyes. ‘Langton.’
‘Drop the knife, Paul,’ she repeats.
The Gardaí charge in. Faces I don’t recognise. Some I do. There’s shouting and commotion and suddenly the tiny, always so depressingly quiet flat is heaving with people. I watch as three large Guards pounce on Paul. He bellows and swears as they twist his hands behind his back to cuff him. He bucks and fights as they bundle him out the door of the flat.
‘Are you okay?’ Langton says, hurrying over to me, shielding me from the sudden frenzy all around. She notices my cut knuckles and the dried blood matted into my hair. ‘Oh Susan. It’s okay. He can’t hurt you any more.’
‘I . . . I . . . I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘He called you. He told you not to come. Why are you here?’
‘We had an anonymous call. Someone tipped us off.’
Deacon, I think, but I don’t dare mention his name aloud.
‘There’s been a report of suspicious activity – the caller said they saw a woman fleeing this address and being chased by someone in running gear,’ Langton explains. ‘It’s the same address Paul gave us. It all added up.’
‘Jenny,’ I say, genuine tears of regret trickling down my cheeks. ‘The missing woman. She’s my best friend – Jenny.’
‘We have him, Susan,’ Langton says. She gathers me into her arms and I cry hysterically for everything and everyone I’ve lost.
Epilogue
FIVE YEARS LATER
A brightly coloured barge chugs along in the canal that runs parallel to the garden. There’s a family on board. A little boy and girl sit on deck reading a story with a young woman I assume is their mother. Their father is at the front, steering the barge. He waves when he notices me looking up from my gardening.
‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ he hollers, his distinctive English accent wafting towards me.
‘Yes, indeed,’ I shout back. ‘It’s supposed to rain later. I hope you stay dry.’
‘Ah, a little rain never
hurt anyone,’ he shouts, smiling. ‘Bye-bye now,’ he waves as the barge chugs on.
The children and their mother all wave too as they float away. I wave back until my arm grows tired and they’re long out of view.
I smile, knowing another boat will be along soon and more friendly people enjoying a lazy afternoon will wave or smile or chat. It’s my absolute favourite thing about the little villa in sunny Provence. I’m never lonely with an abundance of tourists floating by all summer.
‘Tea is ready,’ my mother calls, coming to the back door of the villa that overlooks the long, winding canal.
She doesn’t come outside much any more. The garden is set on a steep incline that leads to the water, and she took a fall over some garden stones six months ago and broke her hip. It’s still bothering her and she prefers to stay inside now. She’ll come as far as the deck, of course. We eat most of our meals out there and spend our evenings playing cards by candlelight. And every night before we go to bed she says the same thing.
‘I’m so glad you finally came to visit me, Sue. I always knew you would.’
She first said that five years ago. I haven’t left since.
I stand up from kneeling on my soft gardening cushion. My hip creaks and groans, reminding me of an old injury. I pick up my cushion, shake off the bits of moss and muck and tuck it under my arm as I straighten up.
‘Beautiful,’ I say, staring at my tall sunflowers, my pride of the garden. ‘Just beautiful.’
‘You really do love those,’ my mother says as she places a teapot in the centre of the table, and the smell of fresh tart and home-made strawberry jam makes my mouth water.
‘You know how much I love yellow,’ I say. ‘And they’re taller and brighter than ever this year.’
My mother and I chat and enjoy our food as several more boats pass by on the canal. I’m gathering up our plates and cups when I notice people at the end of the garden. I crane my neck to investigate. A barge is moored nearby.
‘Bloody nosy tourists,’ I say. ‘Don’t they realise this is private property.’
Under Lying Page 26