The Liar's Girl

by Catherine Ryan Howard

  I was trapped, I was alone, he was going to come in here and kill me.

  And there was nothing I could do about it.

  I thought, Maybe this is what I deserve after sending away an innocent man.

  My heart thundered in my chest.

  And then I thought, Fuck that.

  I scanned the bathroom. I was facing the door; directly behind me was the sink with a mirrored medicine cabinet mounted above it. Could I break the mirror? Use a shard as a knife? To my right was the toilet. Would the top of the cistern come off? That would be heavy. I could try to knock him out. To my left was the bath, the electric shower mounted above it. The shower curtain was fixed to what looked like a plastered-in plastic rail. Useless.

  A bang as the whole door shook.

  I knew, the next time—

  This is it this is it this is it.

  I threw myself behind the door just as he slammed into it again and crack the door swung open, fast and hard, and in the mirror on the bathroom cabinet I saw the blur of him entering the space and as the door started to slam back on me I put both hands up and pushed it back on him as hard as I could with everything I had—how dare you do this to me to Will to us—and just as he was turning around to look behind him the door smacked into the side of his face and recoiled and I pushed it again I pushed and I kicked and now the skin just below his hairline was separating a trickle of blood was filling the slice of dark space between the two pieces and he put a hand to it, stunned, and he started to fall, and before his body touched the ground I was already moving, pulling back the bathroom door, and then I ran, I ran, I ran, out of the bathroom and out of the bedroom.

  To the front door.

  Get out get out get out.

  Neighbors. I’d seen lights on in other windows. There had to be some of them around here. I’d find someone. But the door to the apartment was locked, dead-bolted from the inside, and as I fiddled with it, my fingers shaking, not obeying the instructions I was screaming at them from inside my head, I heard him, coming out of the bathroom, and footsteps approaching, running.

  Open the door open the door please please no.

  And then CRACK—

  Everything faded to black.

  He doesn’t have to be quiet, doesn’t have to worry about being seen. There is no one here but him and her. A few lights shine in other blocks, yes, but he’s spent the last few hours sitting outside, watching this one, making sure they’re alone. There were no lights on anywhere except the guard’s apartment, the one with the balcony on which Alison had sat, but just to make sure he pressed each of the block’s six buzzers in turn. No response, not even from her. He was about to look for another way in when a man pushing a bicycle appeared in the lobby and opened the door from the other side.

  “Is there a McCarthy here, by any chance?” he asked. “I think I might be in the wrong place.”

  The cyclist shook his head. “There’s only two of us in this one, and the other guy’s name is Malone.”

  “Oh.” He made a show of taking his phone out of his pocket. “I better call them. I knew I’d get lost out here.” He held the door open for the cyclist, making sure not to close it all the way again.

  He was in.

  He’d never had it so easy. Isolated location, no internal cameras, not even street lights outside. Even the door to the Garda’s apartment posed no problem, because he’d thought to bring his bunch of master keys from work. Different developers used different ones, but for developments like this, most made a choice from the same small collection. He practiced on a door down the hall first, an empty apartment where keys turning in locks wouldn’t alert anyone.

  It was the third key he tried.

  Silently, he let himself into the guard’s apartment. He had no idea what waited for him on the other side, but just by opening the door a crack he could see there was a hallway. That made it easier to slip in. Closing the door behind him, he heard the hiss of a shower running and smiled to himself.

  This was going to be even easier than he’d thought.

  He just wanted to talk to her. He thought it was time they had a chat. But of course, she didn’t want to listen.

  He wanted to tell her he wasn’t like those other guys, that she didn’t need to be afraid of him, that he was a nice guy. But she didn’t even give him the chance to. She just assumed he was like the others.

  And that made him very, very mad.

  Now she’s lying on the floor at his feet, unconscious, while a thin line of dark blood slides from her hairline and trickles down the side of her face.

  Onto the Garda’s wooden floor.

  He looks down at her, shaking his head, annoyed at himself.

  Annoyed at her.

  She doesn’t understand, that’s the problem. Young girls today, they’re so careless. They don’t realize what kind of creeps are out there, what those monsters might do with all this information they’re volunteering, posting out there in the world. He’d tried telling them, taking them aside and explaining it to them, but then they just mistook him for being one of those.

  So he decided to show them instead.

  Back then. Now, again.

  Because after he saw that documentary a few months back, he realized that his lessons from ten years ago had long been forgotten. Things were worse than ever. These girls, they were practically sending these creeps illustrated maps to their own homes nowadays.

  So he had to show them what the consequences could be.

  And no one would pay attention unless those consequences were the worst imaginable.

  A few sacrifices to the cause would be worth it, in the end. They’d thank him for it. He’d have saved them from the creeps, from the guys who might do a lot worse than him.

  His intentions were good. That’s what they didn’t understand.

  What he didn’t understand was Alison going to prison to visit a convicted killer. And she isn’t a young girl anymore, but a grown woman. She should know better now. He had to point that out.

  It didn’t matter that her boyfriend hadn’t done the things she thought he had. What mattered was that she thought he had, and she still went to see him in spite of it.

  He wonders if he should wait for her to wake up. They could talk then. He could explain that he didn’t mean to hurt her, that he was only doing it so she wouldn’t run away.

  But then he hears a phone ringing. He leaves her to find the source.

  The device is on the floor of the en suite bathroom. Its screen is cracked, but he can still read what’s on it. malone. That’s the name of the guard, isn’t it? He lets it ring, waits it out, watches until the call gets kicked to voicemail.

  And then sees his own face appear on screen.

  What the …?

  He picks the phone up to look closer, but the screen goes dim in his hand. When he presses a button, a keypad appears, demanding a passcode.

  He throws the phone so hard across the room that it cracks the mirror above the sink clean in two.

  She knows who he is.

  He should’ve been more careful earlier, when they showed up at his door. But he was nervous and excited and confused, and he wasn’t thinking straight. Now look what he’s done, the mess he’s made.

  Another one.

  She probably told the guard. That’s why he was ringing just now.

  He can’t stay here.

  They can’t.

  If he can’t talk to her, he’ll have to teach her a lesson another way.

  And he knows now the stupid mistake he made with Amy. It all got too messy, too complex. The water is the only thing for it.

  He knows what he has to do.

  Decision made, he starts to feel calmer. There was a part of him that always knew the final sacrifice would be himself.

  But if he can’t wake Alison up, she�
��ll have to come with him.

  That’s the only way this is going to work.

  alison, now

  When I opened my eyes, I saw only an inky blackness.

  Panic rose in my throat as I thought for a second that the blow to my head had cost me my vision. I touched my face; my eyes were open.

  Then why was there no light? Why was there no difference?

  My head and neck throbbed, and something wet was around my neck. Sticky and thick. Blood? Was I bleeding?

  I saw a tiny pinprick of light, a single dot, far off in the distance. While I watched, it turned red.

  And then I realized: it wasn’t off in the distance at all. It was right there. It was a tail light.

  He’d put me in the trunk of his car.

  I was lying on my left side, curled up, with my left arm underneath my body. I tried to lift myself off it, to pull it out, but I couldn’t move it. Was it broken? I could feel it, burning with pins and needles, but I couldn’t move it. Why not? I tried my legs. They were fine. I wiggled my toes. All okay. With my free hand I reached out and felt the furry, hard inside of the car boot. Touched the surface around me. Above me. Nothing.

  There was nothing else in here with me, and I could find no handle or button to press.

  I’d no idea how long I’d been out. How far had we driven? Where were we? I couldn’t hear any noise beyond the roar of the engine.

  The pain in my head was moving, growing, like something sharp unfolding itself, spreading its wings, in the middle of my brain.

  White spots danced in my vision.

  My eyelids were growing heavy. It was exhausting to feel this much pain. And it was dark, and the surface my cheek was pressed against was furry. It felt nice.

  Maybe I should just close my eyes and go to sleep. It might be better that way.

  Minutes passed. Or maybe hours.

  Then the car slowed. The noise of the engine dimmed, then fell away to a low hum. From the first time, I could hear sounds from outside. Muffled voices. I rolled forward, wincing as a current of pain streaked up from my tailbone. Nausea gripped me and I tasted bile in my throat.

  But I was closer to the red of the tail light now. I pressed an ear against the trunk there, strained to listen.

  The car had stopped but the engine was running.

  A woman’s voice, then: “Where are you heading tonight, sir?”

  His voice answered her, but I couldn’t make out the words.

  “I’m afraid there’s no access to the canal this evening, sir, not past this point. It’s due to a Garda operation. We have detours in place …”

  She was a guard, I realized.

  And I knew what I had to do.

  I opened my mouth and screamed as loud as I possibly could, louder than I ever had in my life, screaming and screaming until I felt like I’d swallowed liquid fire and my lungs were threatening to burst. For good measure I started kicking and hitting the underside of the lid of the trunk too.

  The engine roared to life and the car took off, at such speed that I was pushed forward, face-first, into the hard side of the boot.

  A new wave of pain broke in my head.

  Then people were shouting.

  The car kept going. Swerving from left to right. Accelerating.

  There was a hard turn to the left—

  A sudden bang, a screech of metal.

  Silence.

  I felt my body lift, rise, heard a woman scream, and I knew. I knew what was happening.

  The Gardaí had him. They knew his name. They knew where he lived. They knew how he did it. And I was pretty sure he had just broken through one of their cordons at the canal, with me screaming in his boot.

  It was all over for him.

  That was good. He was going away now.

  But it was over for me too, because he was taking me with him.

  Impact.

  There was a thud, a splash and then a rush of water against the car, engulfing it, sucking it down.

  The thoughts came calmly.

  I’m going to die now.

  This is how. Now is when.

  I should’ve stayed in Cork and I should’ve stayed away from Will and I should never have made that phone call and I shouldn’t have answered the door in Breda and I should never have come back here.

  But it was too late to make good decisions now.

  A stream of water was trickling into the trunk by my feet.

  Which way was up, even? I didn’t know anymore.

  I’m going to die now.

  After everything that had happened, it almost felt like a relief.

  I was so tired. So very tired.

  I closed my eyes.

  * * * * *

  Water.

  Water is splashing on me, running over me, tickling my face.

  But I can breathe.

  I open my eyes, bring my free hand to my face. I can feel it.

  It’s not underwater. I’m not underwater yet.

  * * * * *

  Banging.

  A banging noise. More than one. Someone is banging on the trunk of the car. Shouting. At me? More voices.

  I want to go back to sleep.

  The water is cold.

  * * * * *

  I close my eyes. I can’t keep them open.

  * * * * *

  A burst of light. It hurts my eyes, I shut them. Water, going into my mouth. I cough. Hands. Around my arms and legs.

  It’s freezing. I start to shiver violently.

  It’s too bright.

  * * * * *

  Something hard and cold. I’m lying on it and it hurts my back. Cement. They’ve put me on the ground. Lots of voices now. Someone is touching my hands, my wrist, opening my mouth.

  I feel like I’m going to be sick so I turn my head and cough, and I can feel water coming up. I can hear it.

  I open my eyes.

  Bright discs of white light. What are those?

  “She’s breathing!”

  “What about him?” someone says.

  * * * * *

  I turn my head the other way. See water. Futuristic glass buildings. The river. No, the basin. I recognize it now. Grand Canal Dock. Where the canal meets the river.

  I’m just a few feet from the edge of the quay, I think. Everything is blurry beyond two or three feet; I’ve lost my glasses. They’ve laid me out on one of those flat marble blocks that serve as benches. The black water is choppy, but I can’t see anything in it. Blurry figures are standing at the edge, leaning over to look in. Some glance back at me. Someone is pulling off his soaking-wet clothes while another shrugs out of his jacket to give to him. Another pats the wet man on the back and says, “Fair play to ya. Fair play.”

  * * * * *

  “What about him?”

  I turn my head the other way and there he is. Lying on the ground a few feet away. Arms by his sides, palms up. His shoes are missing. Not moving. Blood on the side of his head, from where I hit him with the door. His skin is wet and very white, almost waxy looking.

  Did I hit him with a door? That seems unlikely.

  Did I?

  A man stands near his feet.

  No, not a man. A boy. A teenager. His face is pinched in concern. But …

  Not for Conway. For the woman leaning over him.

  Knelt on the ground by his side, pressing on his chest, dipping her head periodically to put an ear near his nose and mouth.

  “Mum?” the boy says. “Is he …?”

  She looks up at him and shakes her head solemnly, no.

  In the distance, sirens.

  alison, then

  We hadn’t been planning to go out that Sunday night. Will and I had gone to the cinema at Dundrum Town Center early that afternoon and only when w
e’d emerged, blinking, back into the sunlight, did Will see the text from his roommate. A bunch of them were at a pub in Portobello, the one by the canal. Claire and her boyfriend were there too. We could hop on the Luas, be there in fifteen, twenty minutes. He sent a text back, saying we were on our way.

  “The curfew,” I reminded him.

  Will said we wouldn’t stay long. “We’ll just go for a couple.”

  But when we got to the pub, we discovered that a gang from St. John’s had practically taken over this pub’s beer garden. Everyone was there. It was also an unusually sunny spring evening, and two pints of cider in I was warm and woozy and not at all in the mood for going home. There was an atmosphere, and I liked it. Something between defiance and giddiness.

  We’d been there for maybe two or three hours when I felt the stab of a finger in the flesh of my back and looked up to find Liz staring down at me. I opened my mouth to say hi but she was already moving on, searching for an empty seat around the table. She found one diagonally across from me, next to Claire. I watched as Claire greeted her, and then as Liz leaned in and whispered something in the girl’s ear.

  Claire’s head lifted and she looked around and her eyes found mine.

  And narrowed.

  Will returned then. After he’d set two pints down in front of us, he turned and saw my face.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Liz is here,” I said.

  He looked across the table and saw her. She was looking away now, deep in intense conversation with Claire. “Have you guys talked?”

  “Not since …” I shook my head. “No.”

  “Well, this is awkward.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Do you want to go?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded at the drinks. “Can we drink these first?”

  “Can we drink them inside?”

  We stood up, collected ourselves and turned to make our way through the throng back into the interior of the bar.

  Before we could, I felt the pinch of a hand on my arm and Liz’s voice, sharp and cold, behind me: “Where are you going?”

  I stopped to turn to her and in that moment someone pushed between Will and me, so I couldn’t reach out and alert him to the fact that I was caught. He carried on, oblivious, carrying the drinks into the bar.