The Truth About Lies

by Tracy Darnton

  And suddenly my world turns upside down.

  “But she’s not dead, Jess,” she shouts. “She’s not dead!”

  Then more quietly, with the assurance of someone who’s played a trump card: “Your mother didn’t die.”

  44

  Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.

  John 8:32

  I lower the gun.

  “W-what did you say?” I stammer.

  “She didn’t die, Jess,” says Coleman. “She was in an induced coma. But she’s still alive.”

  “You’re lying again,” I scream. “Stop lying to me.” But I’m thinking, thinking. I’m scrolling back through the memories. I’m looking for the thing that doesn’t fit, that doesn’t feel right.

  “It was for the best,” she says. “Your mother was causing difficulties, asking awkward questions. You know what she was like.” Coleman moves slowly towards me.

  “You can’t just try to kill someone for being an awkward cow!” I shout. “You really are mad. Stark, raving mad. How’s Mum now?”

  “She was threatening to go to the press. She was jeopardizing all the good work I’d done – the whole Programme was at stake. I saw an opportunity.”

  “An opportunity?” I’m dizzy and nauseous. I’m not like Coleman, am I?

  “It went a little further than I’d planned,” says Coleman. “All great advances produce collateral damage but one day this experiment of ours will be famous. If I can change your superior memory, I can change anyone’s.”

  Now she’s within a metre of me. I can see her lying eyes, the look I’m used to from the lab, taking in my reactions, taking notes, observing me as an animal.

  “Where is she?” I shout. “Where’s my mum?”

  “She’s being well looked after. I’m not a monster. She has the best of care.”

  Coleman is a monster. She’s turned herself into one, not me. Can I believe anything she says? Is this true? “But you told me she was dead. I saw her body,” I insist. “We went to the hospital and I saw her body.”

  “You forced me into that. I’d rather not have gone through that elaborate charade,” she says. “I had to call in favours at the teaching hospital. She still had an IV in her arm under that sheet and the other equipment was under the trolley. We had to be quick and get her back to the unit.”

  Bodies, Especially After Death, Go Cold, Freya.

  The warmth of the body – that’s why the window was misted up from the other side. When I saw Mum’s body through the glass at the hospital, she was breathing. She was still alive. Is that what Desai was hinting at?

  “But we scattered her ashes,” I say. “I said goodbye.”

  “Yes: ashes from the hospital incinerator. No one would know the difference. And we had that touching little ceremony on the boat. I was quite teary-eyed.”

  I think of the inlaid box in my trunk, how I’ve cherished it and patted it and introduced it to Dan. I was going to take it to New York. Now I know it’s the burnt remains of random clinical waste. Body parts, a removed appendix, a set of tonsils? It was never Mum.

  “She’s showing positive signs of improvement,” she says, more softly. “And of course she’s always asking after you.”

  Is she lying? To save her skin. Or is there a chance it’s true? The misted glass. Have I remembered it properly – or is it another distortion? My infallible memory is breaking down. I don’t know what the past is any more. Flash-click, erase.

  “What do you mean, exactly? How is she?”

  “You can see her.” She lays her hand gently on my arm. “As soon as we’ve met my associates.”

  I don’t believe she’ll let me. But if there’s any chance that Mum is alive…

  “Hey!” Brett shouts from the direction of the car and runs towards us.

  If Brett’s OK, that must mean Ramesh Desai isn’t. Coleman quickly grabs at the shotgun barrel while I’m distracted by Brett. But I hold on tightly to the stock and we both grapple with it. It fires into the air and the kickback sends it spinning out of our hands. Coleman falls backwards, catching her head on the edge of the wall. The gun lands half on, half off the low parapet of the bridge; rocking slightly before gravity takes over and it tips down into the River Dart below. I can only watch it disappear into the water.

  Brett is at Coleman’s side, tending to her grazed head. I run to the boot of the car for the potential weapon I saw earlier. Kim’s game again. The memory game. The suitcases are still there, the black umbrella, the pack of small bottles of water. The metal wheel wrench for changing tyres was tucked into a tailor-made cavity at the side of the boot. But now it’s gone.

  I check behind the bags in my panic. Have I misremembered this too?

  There’s a sound behind me.

  “Looking for something?” Brett holds up the tool. He tucks it into his back pocket as he comes closer. He pushes me hard in the chest, sending me sprawling to the ground. I see a figure coming through the mist. A hiker, at last.

  “Get away from her!” shouts Dan. My Dan. He’s made it to Ryders Bridge. He runs at Brett, swinging his rucksack, sending it full force into him. Brett staggers back briefly before hitting out at Dan. Dan’s armed with nothing but a whistle round his neck and a laminated map sticking out of his jacket pocket.

  Thwack! Brett’s started on Dan, punching him in the face. Dan strikes him back, hitting at his stomach. The next punch from Brett is more brutal. Dan hits the ground.

  “Watch out!” I shout as Brett aims a kick at his head, but Dan rolls to one side. He’s on all fours shaking himself like a wounded puppy. This time Brett’s foot doesn’t miss and Dan slumps in a heap. Brett pulls out the wrench from his back pocket. He’s going to kill Dan. “No!” I shout, dashing forward.

  Brett, feeling the weight of the wrench in his hand, looks over at Coleman, who’s still rubbing her head, resting against the bridge.

  I’m panicking. The feelings I have for Dan, they’re real. He’s real. I don’t want her staging another accident, with him. “Let him go,” I say, “and I’ll be your living, walking proof – the ultimate lab rat.”

  “Young love! How sweet,” she snaps, rising to her feet. “I’d like my papers back too. The ones you took.”

  I still have her final manuscript tucked inside my jacket. Without these papers and the ruined black record books and data, the only evidence I have left is me – I’m the last depository. A flipping Harry Potter Horcrux.

  Dan moans and stirs but Brett stamps on his hand. Dan yelps in pain and my stomach flips.

  Coleman holds out her hand for the manuscript, a triumphant smile on her lips.

  “Here, catch it,” I say, charging at her, knocking her back to the ground, smashing her leg against the hard stone. Pages of the manuscript flutter like a flip book, peeling off and scattering. They swoop and fly in the wind, pages catching in the breeze. Some sheets are already in the water, tossing and turning in the Dart, soaking, ink-running, sinking. Her work, my proof, my revenge, washing away. The truth gone.

  I fling myself on Brett’s back as he’s bending towards Dan, who still isn’t moving. “Noooooo!” I shout, flailing fists, pulling at his arms. He spins, yanking at my shoulders to pull me off and we tumble to the ground. The wrench skids off into the gorse. Brett’s clambering to his feet but I grab his ankle and with all my strength pull him down again. I scramble up to get to Dan. But Brett fills the gap between us.

  “You cow,” Brett yells. “You’re ruining everything.”

  “No. You did that all by yourself. You’re meant to be a scientist with a bit of integrity – not a lapdog, a sad sidekick to Cruella De Vil here.”

  I try to run but he grabs me.

  “This is important research,” he says. “This will help us understand the brain more.”

  “Is that what you’re telling yourself to feel better about what you did to me, to Mum? What about your family, Brett – didn’t you used to want to research a cure for brain diseases l
ike Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s to help people like them? I read your articles. Isn’t that what you used to think was important?”

  He hesitates.

  “This is all about the money for her,” I say. “Not the research.”

  He glances over at Coleman. It’s enough; enough for his eyes to flick towards her and his grip to loosen slightly.

  “And research shows people like me are lacking in empathy, so feel this!” I take the lesson learned from Lena and deliver three swift moves: a kick to his shin, a drive with both my hands up and through his arms and then a punch driven up into his nose with the flat of my palm, crumpling his septum. One, two, three. I shove him backwards and he falls to the ground, dazed.

  I rush to Dan. “Dan! We’ve got to move.” I scrunch up my Hanna’s Hike T-shirt and try to stem the bleeding from his hand. “Please, Dan. Please be OK.”

  His eyes open and he tries to stand, pushing his weight on his arms and falling back. I grab one arm and try to hoist him to his feet. “Get up, Dan, please get up.”

  Brett stirs and groans.

  “Come on, Dan!”

  I have to get him away from Brett and Coleman. The map in my mind is as clear as anything. Over Ryders Bridge, path to the left, take the first track to the right with the tor in the background. I can see the contours on the map, the pile of stones. I can work out the distance, even in this fog, I can do it.

  Dan stands, unsteady. His hand on his head. “Jess, go. Go while you can.”

  “No. You don’t get rid of me that easily.” I put my arm round his waist and pull him towards the bridge.

  “Didn’t I say that to you once?” he says, weakly.

  “Yes, and nobody likes a hypocrite, so shut up and move.”

  I look back. Brett’s sitting up, dabbing at his bloody nose. Coleman’s limping towards him.

  “I’m not leaving you.” I jab at the words on Dan’s T-shirt – ‘Walking together to remember’. His fingers are a pulpy mess. I elevate his hand to limit the bleeding. The first-aid kit’s in his rucksack, too close to Brett. I let him lean on me as we shuffle towards the bridge.

  “The proof,” whispers Dan. “The evidence. You let it go.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” I say. “You do. I chose you.” Not revenge. Not a bunch of lies and untruths. And I know it so clearly, the truth, the honesty of the feelings I have for him, and he has for me.

  But he’s woozy, his eyes half-closed. Did he even hear what I said? I need him to stay awake, to keep going. To survive.

  Brett’s back on his feet. He’s moving towards the wrench.

  We’re halfway across the bridge. “Come on, Dan. I want to introduce you to my mum, for real this time.”

  “What? I don’t…” He stumbles and I struggle to hold him up.

  “Aaaaaarrrgh!” Brett’s coming at us, full throttle, holding the metal tool above his head. I try to shield Dan with my body but Brett ploughs into both of us like a battering ram. I grab at Brett’s shirt to regain my footing but he’s off balance too and falls with us. We tumble, catching on the tiny parapet which gives way in a crash of stones and mortar. We all fall backwards from the bridge. The three of us in a tangle of flailing limbs, tumbling down into the river.

  I try to judge the distance and hold my breath but it’s over in an instant, a split second. The coldness of the river shocks me as I strike it. Bubbles everywhere in the murky water. I try to kick up towards the surface. I push the panic down and pretend I’m in the calm blue swimming pool at Dartmeet. I’ve dived in and I need to get back up, up to the light. I hold my breath like I’m swimming a length at midnight. But the current’s dragging me, pulling at me. My hair’s over my face and I can’t tell which way is up. I strike a rock and graze my cheek. I need to help Dan. He’s too injured to swim. And I need to get out of here to help Mum. I can see a dark shape above me breaking the surface. Is it Dan? Is he OK?

  My chest’s tightening. I need to breathe air. I know the river. I remember the canoe trip with Hanna. We’re near the rapids, the run of rushing water over dangerous rocks. I need to swim. I need to live.

  This is a time of life and death when people say their life flashes before them. A video of a whole life lived is being played, fast-forward.

  I’ve been living like that for a long time, watching movies of the past. Reliving the past.

  But now I want the future.

  I’m playing one last movie in my head. It’s in slow motion, as though I have all the time in the world to remember. Mum’s laughing as she lights the candles on my birthday cake. I can smell the perfume, see the red of her lipstick. She’s smiling. “Make a wish, my sweet, make a wish.”

  45

  Play the game: Take a tray of items. A red lipstick, a Danish jumper, a make-up bag, a misted window, a black notebook, a wrench, a one-eyed teddy, a pair of earrings (broken), a candle. Cover them with a shroud. Can you remember them?

  Work Your Memory

  Someone’s grabbing at my arms, pulling. The cold of the water’s numbing my senses. I’m slow, half-dead.

  “We’ve got you, love,” says a man in a high-vis lifejacket and a helmet. “You’re going to be all right, stay with me.” They’re wrapping me in a foil blanket, rubbing my limbs. It hurts. Everything hurts.

  “Dan?” I whisper. “Dan?”

  And then I can feel myself go, slipping away.

  46

  We know so little still about the science of forgetting. And yet the key to good mental health is finding the perfect balance between forgetting and remembering. Whether that’s achievable is another matter.

  Principles of Memory (Limited Edition) – Professor A.E. Coleman

  I wake.

  Is it night or day?

  The room has no windows. The bright strip lighting above me hurts my eyes. I blink.

  I move my arm but I’m attached to a drip and a machine that beeps. My other arm feels heavy, constricted. My throat hurts.

  A police officer sits in a chair at the side of the bed, fiddling idly with a box of tissues. I try to speak but no sound comes out, only a croak. She leaps up and presses a button on the wall.

  A nurse bustles in. “Hello there. Welcome back to the land of the living.” She’s all efficiency and clipboards and uniform. She shines a light into my eyes and takes notes from the machines. “Doctor’s on her way,” she says, giving me a sip of water and gently wiping my mouth. “Someone on the surgical ward’s been asking after you. He’s gone up to theatre.”

  The police officer gets out her notebook. She shakes her pen and scribbles with it to get the ink flowing. I shut my eyes again and listen to the scratching on the paper.

  “You’ve had a nasty accident,” she says. “Seems you fell from Ryders Bridge and got swept downstream.”

  “You got knocked about and had a few blows to the head from the rocks,” adds the nurse. “And your left wrist is fractured.” She squeezes my other hand. “But you’re safe now,” she says. “Cuts and bruises soon heal. You’re one of the lucky ones.”

  My head’s buzzing. I want it to stop. I open my eyes and squint up at their faces.

  “So question one: what’s your name?” asks the police officer. They both stand there expectantly. She repeats herself more slowly like I’m a small child: “Do you know who you are? What’s your name?”

  “It’s…” I stop.

  The inside of my head’s completely blank.

  I can’t remember.

  I clench the sheet in my fist as the panic rises.

  A tall young man with gingery hair that flops over his eyes comes into the room. He has cuts and bruises on his face but still manages to look cute. His bandaged hand touches his ribs. I see the twinge of pain in his face as he sits on the bed. He smiles at me, like he knows me, and the freckles on his nose crinkle.

  “Hey, memory girl,” he says, and gently strokes my arm.

  Scattered memories return, blurred at first, and then swimming into focus. Each one laid next
to the other like the most brilliant mosaic. The touch of a hand on my cheek at the pool sending tingles through my body. Dancing round musty clothing rails; running in and out of waves; laughing. Dashing through cloisters in a wedding dress; resting my head on a warm chest in the dark; clasped hands. He’s on the moor, standing up for me. I’m standing up for him. Dan and Jess. Jess and Dan.

  The pattern of memories grows: red lipstick on smiling lips; a tiled floor and a hat stand; a white car; a misted window; a body under a sheet. A beautiful girl with white-blond hair. All sliding back into position, back to where they should be, where I want them to be.

  Desai was right. The good and the bad memories shape me. I don’t want to shed my history, because I’m sure the good can outweigh the bad. I’ll do something important with all I know, with the way I am. Something unforgettable. Starting here.

  “You’re going to need a bigger notebook,” I tell the police officer. “I’ve got a lot to say.”

  Acknowledgements

  I’ve always been fascinated by memory. The idea of a girl who could remember everything and the effect that would have on her psyche first popped into my head in a workshop on my MA. She wouldn’t let me forget her and evolved into the main character in The Truth About Lies.

  I should stress this a work of fiction and I’ve taken my limited knowledge on memory and recent developments gleaned largely from New Scientist magazine and twisted it all to fit the story. In the course of writing the book, I got hooked on some of the memory techniques I describe – not enough to enter the UK Memory Championship but enough to remember my PIN numbers at last.

  No book is a solo effort. Massive thank you to Ruth Bennett at Stripes for taking a punt on a debut author and helping me through the process along with Rachel Boden, editing supremo. And to the very helpful copy-editor, Anna Bowles, and to Sophie Bransby for her stunning cover design. And to the whole Stripes gang of Lauren, Charlie, Beth and Stephanie who welcomed me with open arms and gingerbread for the I’ll Be Home for Christmas anthology. And to my lovely agent Jo Williamson who always seems to know when I need a ‘Don’t Panic’ email.