Your whole life is a lie.
Do you even know who you are?
The voices race through my childhood, ripping every memory to shreds, until I realize that the idyllic childhood, the loving father, all of it is simply fiction.
ROY
Saturday, 19th December
I get a few minutes alone with Alistair before the detectives come in. ‘I looked for her. I checked the electoral roll, the phone directory, had a contact at the Eurostar look into their records for the day you took it . . .’
‘You found her?’
‘I found a Celia Brown.’
‘Is she okay? He hasn’t hurt her, has he?’
‘Celia Brown is ninety-two and living in a care home for people with dementia.’
‘Do you think you can ever really know someone?’ I asked you, tracing my fingers along the bottom of your breasts.
You shivered and turned to face me, pulling the duvet over you.
‘No.’
‘Okay,’ I laughed. ‘So you don’t think you know me, I suppose? Bit risky to go off into the sunset with me then.’
You angled your head back and gave me one of your serious looks. ‘How can we know one another when we barely even know ourselves most of the time? We’re constantly changing. All we can hope for is to find someone who loves us enough to say, I’ll ride out the waves with you,’ you said, intertwining your fingers with mine, ‘And then we hope for the best.’
I pulled you into me. ‘I’ll never let you go,’ I whispered into your hair.
You were right, of course, like you so often were. I simply didn’t realize until now that you were talking about yourself, not me. I know nothing about you. Nothing that’s true, in any case.
Hindsight is a vicious thing, isn’t it, my love?
MIA
Sunday, 20th December
I tiptoe into the hall and head straight to George’s guest room. I collapse on the bed and close my eyes. Sleep eludes me. Images from the past circle my brain, each one stronger than the last. Shaking my head, I climb out of bed and turn on the light. I need something to do. I reach for my laptop and listen to the familiar whirring of the fan while it powers on. It switches on for a second, then tells me it’s out of battery and dies. I get up and root through my bag for the charger, then realize it’s still sitting in my living room in London. Roy’s iPad catches my eye. I’ve been avoiding opening the box. It will just give me more evidence to torture myself with. I look at the books in the display case. I flick through a novel about a woman presumed dead who turns up years later to avenge the lover who was framed for her murder. It’s a gritty crime thriller and I tire of it quickly. My eyes dart back to the iPad. I give in. Perhaps torturing myself with Roy’s infidelities is better than with my father’s. It asks me for Roy’s code. I hesitate, and then punch in his birthdate. Surprisingly, it works.
I prop myself up in bed and click on to his emails. Nothing. I do the same with his messages and draw a blank. He was obviously clever enough to delete everything. No wonder he didn’t bother changing the code.
I put in George’s wifi password and click on to Netflix. I set the iPad on the bedside table and scroll through my phone while Neil Patrick Harris babbles on in the background. There’s a new email from George. He’s forwarded Phil’s email about the Eastbourne house to me. My eyes dart through the chain of ownership. David F. Parker to Laurel B. Smith in 1996, and then to Alice Doughty in 1999, and then to a yet-to-be registered cash buyer two weeks ago. Alice Doughty. The name rings a bell but I can’t place it.
I check the time. It’s nearly morning. I really should get some sleep. I reach for the iPad to switch it off when I notice several new message notifications come up. The iPad must be syncing to Roy’s Apple iCloud account, I realize. I wait for the notifications to stop, then work my way through the texts, hundreds between him and Emily, going all the way back to September. Times, dates, hotels, fake names. It’s all in there. I scroll up to the most recent. October 23rd. They met at a B&B in Surrey.
picked up some new knickers for tonight
Oh?
crotchless. but maybe I shouldn’t wear them at all . . .
Nausea. I scroll down quickly. There are no more messages after that. I look for any mention of Celia but find none. My brain tells me Roy made her up for an alibi, but it doesn’t make sense. If he did kill Emily, why do it in a place they could so easily link him to? He had hidden the affair for months; he could have come up with a better way to do it.
He didn’t hide the affair. You just chose to ignore the signs.
I tap into the pictures folder. A quick scroll through the thumbnails proves there are no pictures of Emily or ghost woman Celia. I spot a picture of Roy and me at the wedding and tap on our faces to enlarge it. Roy’s behind me, his arms wrapped around my waist. We’re both looking into the camera, our smiles perfectly matched. That picture was taken the day after the wedding. We hadn’t been speaking to each other but we’d put on an act in front of the family. The perfect couple. I wonder how long we’d been doing that, pretending to be happy instead of really being happy. Perhaps we were doomed from the start, him a compulsive liar and me the enabler. I flick through the pictures, hundreds from the wedding, from Roy’s press trips, from the Diwali dinner at home. I keep flicking mindlessly till I get to the picture of a pebbled beach. There’s no one in the frame but the pier in the distance tells me it’s been taken in Brighton. I check the date. Friday, 4th December. The night Emily disappeared. I swipe to the next picture; this one is a hotel room. There are pictures of it from every angle, panoramas, close-ups, arty shots. Perhaps Roy was hoping to use them for an article. I scroll through. It is a beautiful room. High ceilings, a large picture window, gorgeous bedding, marble bathroom, generous dressing area. A shadow in the corner of the frame catches my eye and I zoom in to look at Roy’s reflection in the bathroom mirror. I blink quickly when the picture enlarges, the shadow behind him now discernible. I peer closer, certain that my mind is playing tricks on me.
No. No. No.
I hug myself as panic takes hold of me.
It isn’t.
I pant. I shut my eyes.
It can’t be.
I rub my eyes and blink the room straight.
I look at the picture again. It’s blurry, but there is no doubt about it. The sharp jaw, the drooping eyes, the high forehead. I’ve stared at that face for hours. I know every curve, every line, every mark on it by heart. I stumble out of bed.
I need to get out of here.
I’m already at the door when I hear him behind me.
‘Where are you going?’
I turn around, the front door open, my hand still on the handle.
‘George, I – I didn’t want to wake you. I’m just going to get some . . . um . . . breakfast.’
‘With your bags?’
‘Yeah . . . I . . .’
He takes a step towards me. I drop my bag on the floor, between us.
‘Is this about last night? I know it was sudden and confusing, and I never meant for it to happen, not – not like this anyway . . . but I don’t regret it. I – I love you, Mia. I always have.’
‘George, I’m still—’
‘You asked me to wait for you, Mia, and I did. And then when you came back, you started seeing Roy. Roy! I should never have let you go.’
‘He’s—’
‘He doesn’t deserve you. But you and I, we fit, we always have. Let me take care of you, Mia.’ He moves closer. ‘We can build a life together. Just think about it, we—’
‘I have to go,’ I snap. I bolt out, slamming the door shut behind me.
ROY
Sunday, 20th December
We’re in the same interview room as yesterday, the same biro graffiti on the desk, the same black box ticking along, the same Dunmore and Robins sitting opposite Alistair and me, yet something feels different. The air. It has a charge to it that permeates through the stale stench of tobacco.
‘Yes.’
‘Care to elaborate?’
‘It’s my disposable phone. The one . . . the one I used for Emily and Celia.’
‘Was this in your possession over the last six weeks?’
‘Yes.’
‘We had our digital forensics team look into this.’
I nod. Alistair had already warned me they would do this after they found it in my car. That is a good thing. It will prove I was in Brighton throughout.
Alistair reads my mind. ‘I will presume you managed to recover enough to establish my client’s alibi?’
‘Or the lack thereof,’ Dunmore scoffs.
He nods to Robins. ‘There was very little of note on your regular phone, but we hit the jackpot with this one. Everything we need for a conviction . . .’
She lays out a series of A4 papers on the table in a neat row. Maps. Key locations have been circled with a red marker. Below them she places another set of A4 papers. Texts to Emily.
Texts that shouldn’t exist.
I don’t need her to tell me just how bad this all looks.
12.30 a.m., December 5th, Brighton.
I’m so sorry about earlier, Ems. This is all just so sudden, I don’t know how to react. Still, I shouldn’t have lost my temper and I want to make it up to you. I’ll be done here in twenty minutes. Say you’ll meet me? Please?
12.45 a.m., December 5th, Seaford.
just for a bit Roy. i’m tired.
12.48 a.m., December 5th, Brighton.
I’ll be there in 30. Will text you when I arrive, meet me in the car park. We’ll go for a drive. The pier is gorgeous at this time of the night.
01.27 a.m., December 5th, Seaford.
Ems, I’m here. Come out.
‘Is there anything you’d like to say, Roy?’ Robins asks me softly.
I look at Alistair. I shake my head.
Robins sighs. ‘Let us help you, Roy.’
I keep my eyes fixed on the scratched graffiti on the table. Words leap out at me.
Cunt.
Innocent.
Prison.
Life.
‘Very well,’ Dunmore says. ‘We’ve had the results of the DNA and forensics profiling back this morning. The blood splatters and strands of hair that were found in the boot of your car on Wednesday have been matched to Emily. We also recovered fibres matching the rope that was used to strangle Emily on the dashboard.’
I look up at this. Strangle?
‘Why don’t you tell me what happened, Roy?’ Robins repeats. ‘I know you aren’t a bad guy, not really. You must have felt like you had no other option. Perhaps she pushed you too far?’
Robins leans forward and places her hand on my arm. ‘We are prepared to make certain recommendations when it comes to trial and sentencing but I need you to talk us through that night, explain to me what happened.’ She pauses, pulls her hand back. ‘Emily’s gone. We can’t bring her back but we can provide the family with closure, spare them the pain of a very public trial. This is your chance to make amends. Show them some respect, Roy; let them mourn their loss in the privacy of their homes.’
I clutch the chair, the cold metal edges digging into my skin. I can’t feign innocence anymore. They’re going to make me pay for what I did.
My head spins. This is what everything has been leading up to. The lies, the guilt, the karma, it’s all catching up with me, making sure I pay. For a crime I didn’t commit and a crime I did. Biblical justice.
My life for hers.
Everything happens very quickly after that. I am charged with killing Emily. I’ll be presented before the Magistrates’ Court tomorrow afternoon, I am told. Alistair leaves, and before I know it, I’m being escorted back to a cell for the night.
As the metal door swings shut, I find myself back where it all began. Trapped. Staring at the body splayed out at my feet and wondering what to do next.
MIA
Sunday, 20th December
I rush into my car and lock the doors. I see George run out of the flat in the rear-view mirror but I look away. I skid out of the driveway and swerve onto the T-junction. I turn right, away from George, away from my father, away from the city I thought of as home.
The road blurs as my eyes prick with tears. I blink them away. I press my foot down on the accelerator and switch lanes. The driver in front of me honks as I zip past him onto the M5. I need to get away.
I end up back in the one place where my perfect family lives untarnished. The last place we were all together. Berrow Beach. I turn off the ignition and rest my head on the wheel, and then, with my arms wrapped around myself, I cry. I cry for the father who doesn’t deserve my tears, the mother I never understood, the husband who shattered my heart, and the boyfriend who never let me go.
I feel faint when I step out of the car a few minutes later. I steady myself, take a deep breath and walk down to the beach, my feet sinking into the golden sand that stretches out for miles. The tide has dragged the water out, and the beach is streaked with hard ridges of sand encasing tiny pools of water. The Norwegian shipwreck that Addi and I played on as kids is still there. I look for a dry spot and sit down. The disconnected images that build up the narrative of my life flash past as the threads begin to unravel, all the lies and betrayals revealing themselves one by one.
Every time I asked George if he had found someone, he brushed it off. I don’t have the time for a serious relationship right now; I love being single; none of these women seem right. Lies. All lies. He had been waiting to pounce on me all along and I had walked right into it.
A dog-walker waves at me from a distance and I look away. Go away, I will him silently. Go away.
I lie back on the sand and close my eyes. I try to focus. Perhaps if I keep still, I can slow my brain down. My thoughts hammer on relentlessly.
Roy. The love of my life. The boy who cried wolf. How was I to know this was the one thing he wasn’t lying about?
Now it’s too late and I’m too weak.
How had I managed to surround myself with liars? When did it start?
I think back to all the PTA meetings and dance recitals Mum had missed when we were growing up, Daddy attending them alone, telling the other parents that Mum was sick again. All the times we were shipped off to Uncle Bill’s without any explanation. It all adds up. She missed so many school events that after a point I just presumed she skipped them because she didn’t care and Daddy never corrected me.
Because that’s what he wanted me to believe.
That day, when I scraped my elbow under the stairs, Mum hadn’t been keeping Dad from kissing me better; she had been keeping him from hurting me, his unbreakable little girl.
I close my eyes as it hits me, the realization clenching my throat with a vice-like grip. Addi. The elder sister. First in line for everything. No wonder she never grieved him. And I punished her for it. I punished them both for it.
I gasp for air as the panic grabs me out of nowhere. I sit up. I claw at the powdery sand, counting to regulate my breathing. How could I be so blind?
Out on the horizon, the sky is darkening quickly, the sun long gone. I have been sitting here for hours. Inky blue patches blur the sky into the sea. Every few minutes the clouds part, and the sea glimmers, silver sequins dancing on black water. I stare at the waves and imagine myself floating away with them, letting them carry me to the middle of the ocean before closing my eyes and breathing in deeply, sinking slowly and not quickly enough, soft bubbles escaping to the surface until there is no air left in my lungs, until all that is left is the ocean. It would be so simple. Peaceful.
Coward.
I’m tired.
You’re weak.
My gaze settles on the shipwreck. It still stands, jutting out skywards, the ocean pounding and smashing against it.
You’re a burden. That’s why everyone leaves you behind.
It’s not my fault
.
It is your fault for putting up with it.
I push myself off the sand and walk towards the shipwreck.
I thought he loved me. They loved me.
No one can ever love you.
The timbers that remain are covered in moss and seaweed, but they are still there, fighting the waves.
The voices eat away at me. ‘Go away,’ I whisper.
You didn’t try hard enough.
The problem is you.
You’re worthless.
I feel the darkness building inside me. Pulsing. Burning through my skin.
Daddy. I looked up to him. I worshipped him. He has defined every relationship in my life. Yet I never even knew who he really was.
I let Roy get away with so much because I had been conditioned to it as a child. After every lie came an elaborately charming excuse; after every bout of violence, a teary apology; after every argument, a grand romantic gesture. The pattern never jarred. How could it, when it reminded me so much of my father? Roy’s version of the truth was so clear that mine began to get blurry. I started believing him when he told me I was being unreasonable, that I was crazy. I started believing that I was broken, and the only one who could make me whole again was my husband.
I wonder if that’s what it was like for my mother.
I run into the ocean, the icy waves crashing into my legs, pushing me three steps back for every step forward. I take off my father’s watch and hurl it into the water. A deep wordless scream tears through my throat and bounces over the waves.
You did this to yourself.
Shut up.
There is only one way out.
‘Leave me alone,’ I say, but the voices persist. I stand there, the water up to my knees.
It would be so easy.
Your Truth or Mine? Page 24