Sometimes I Lie: The gripping debut psychological thriller you can’t miss in 2017

by Feeney, Alice

  We carried on trying, month after month. Sex became a scheduled chore. Paul wanted the baby he’d waited for, the child I had promised, but it was clear he no longer wanted me. We weren’t making love any more. We weren’t making anything. I lost interest in it and Paul lost interest in me. He stuck to the script, said that so long as we had each other, that was all we needed. But we didn’t have each other any more, that was the problem. He thought I should have come off the Pill sooner, that we’d left it too late. He’s never said it, but I know he blames me. He wanted a family more than any man I’ve ever met and I’ve had a ringside seat to watch his grief turn into something dark and resentment shaped.

  My mother never knew any of this. She thought I was putting off having a family because I was too focused on my career. I remember her staring at me that night, waiting for an answer I didn’t know how to give, busy filling in the blanks in the meantime.

  ‘I’m fine, I’m happy for her,’ I said eventually. For such carefully chosen words, they sounded all wrong. Empty and false. I suppose it was because I’d been caught off guard. When it comes to difficult conversations, I like to be prepared. I like to play them out in my head beforehand, consider all the possible lines that might be spoken and rehearse the answers I will give, until they are polished and learned by heart. Practice doesn’t make me perfect, but people are more likely to believe me when I have.

  We talked about Claire for a while. Mum went on about how well she was coping and what a wonderful mother she was going to be. Every compliment for Claire was also intended as an insult to me, but I didn’t disagree, I knew Claire was made for motherhood, she’s always been insanely protective of those she loves. With each sip of wine, the conversation that poured out of Mum’s mouth seemed a little more dangerous. There is always a moment before an accident when you know you are going to get hurt but there is nothing you can do to protect yourself. You can raise your arms in front of your face, you can close your eyes, you can scream, but you know it won’t change what’s coming. I knew what was coming that night but at no point did I even attempt to hit the brakes. If anything, I pushed down on the accelerator.

  ‘Do you ever wonder why I don’t have children?’ I asked. The words were out there. They had been born into the world because my sister wasn’t there to hear them.

  ‘Not everyone is cut out to be a mother,’ she replied, too quickly.

  Mum took another sip of wine and I took a deep breath, but she spoke before I could put my own words in the right order.

  ‘The thing is, to be a good mother, you have to put your children first. You’ve always been very selfish, Amber, even as a child. I’m not sure motherhood would have suited you, so maybe it’s true what they say.’

  I felt wounded, the air knocked out of me for a moment to make room for all the thoughts fighting for space inside. I should have retreated, protected myself from further damage, but instead I invited her to strike me again. ‘What do they say?’

  ‘That everything happens for a reason.’ She emptied her glass and poured herself another. I remember my heart beating so loudly in my chest that I thought the whole restaurant must be able to hear it. I looked out at the lake and concentrated very hard on not crying, as her words went round and round in my head. The silence that followed was too uncomfortable, so my mother decided to fill it with some more words that might have been better left unspoken.

  ‘The thing is, I think we are more alike than you realise, you and I. I never wanted children either.’ She was mistaken. From that moment on, I wanted a baby almost as much as Paul, just to prove her wrong.

  ‘You didn’t want me?’ I asked. Thinking that she would surely explain that that wasn’t what she had meant.

  ‘No. I never felt maternal at all. The truth is, you were an accident. Your father and I got carried away one night and then I was pregnant, simple as that. I didn’t want to be pregnant and I certainly didn’t want a baby.’

  ‘But you loved me when I was born?’ I asked.

  She laughed. ‘No, I despised you! It felt like life was over and as though you had ruined everything and all because we’d had too much to drink and not been careful! My mother looked after you for the first few weeks, I didn’t even want to look at you and everyone was worried that I would . . . not that I would have ever hurt you I’m sure.’ She had hurt me so often without even knowing she was doing it. ‘But things got easier as you got older. You grew up so quickly, always older than your years, even then. You started walking and talking before other children your age and you being there, well, it just became normal, as though you always had been.’

  ‘What about Claire?’

  ‘Well, it was different with Claire, obviously.’

  Obviously.

  I hear Claire’s voice, right on cue and I am back in the present, in my hospital bed, going nowhere. The irony is not lost on me; once again I’m sitting with my mother and waiting for Claire to fix us, to teach us how to be with each other and stop us from falling apart.

  ‘Here you are,’ says Claire. I picture them embracing, my mother’s face lighting up at the sight of her favourite child, gliding into the room with her long blonde hair and pretty clothes, no doubt. Claire sits down and takes one of my hands in hers.

  ‘Look at these hands, just like Mum’s but without the wrinkles.’ I imagine them smiling warmly at each other across the bed. I do look like Mum, that’s true. I have the same hands and feet, the same hair, the same eyes.

  ‘In case you can hear me, I need to tell you something,’ says Claire. ‘I hoped I wouldn’t have to, but you should know that he’d be here if he could.’ I feel like I am holding my breath, but the machine carries on pumping oxygen into my lungs. ‘Paul didn’t think the police were going to leave him alone and he was right. They’re saying his were the only other fingerprints in the car and they seem quite sure it wasn’t you driving. Then there are the bruises, the marks on your neck. Your neighbour said he heard you screaming at each other in the street. I know Paul didn’t do this to you, but it’s more important than ever now that you wake up.’ She squeezes my hand to the point where it hurts. I can feel the blanket of darkness rolling up over my neck, my chin, my face. I’m going to sleep, I can’t fight it any longer, but I have to hold on. Her final words are distant and distorted, but I hear them:

  ‘Paul has been arrested.’

  Then

  Wednesday, 21st December 2016 – Afternoon

  I walk up our road enchanted by the little clouds of hot breath coming from my mouth and realise I’m smiling to myself. There is very little to smile about at the moment, so I promptly readjust my face. The sky is slowly killing itself up above while the street lights flicker to life to show me the way home. I close the gate behind me, while the cold fingers on my other hand switch to autopilot, searching for the key inside my handbag. When they’re warm enough to feel what they’re looking for, I let myself in. I can hear something. Without closing the door, I stumble through the tiny hall to the lounge and see Paul lying on the couch staring at the TV. The missing husband has returned. He looks up at me briefly, before looking back at the screen.

  ‘You’re home early,’ he says. That is all. I haven’t seen or heard from him for over twenty-four hours and that is all he has to say. I fold my arms without meaning to, like the stereotypical angry wife I’ve become.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I ask. My voice trembles slightly and I’m not even sure I really want to know the answer. I’m furious and yet at the same time so relieved to see that he’s OK.

  ‘At my mother’s house. Not that you care.’

  ‘What are you talking about? I’ve been worried sick. You could have called.’

  ‘I forgot my phone and the signal is shit at Mum’s house anyway. You’d know that if you ever bothered coming with me when I visit her. I left you a note and I called the landline. I thought you might make the effort to join me this time, given the circumstances.’

  ‘You didn’t call me.
There was no note,’ I insist.

  ‘I left you a note in the kitchen,’ says Paul, his eyes fixed on mine. I march to the kitchen and, sure enough, there’s a note on the counter. I snatch the piece of paper, holding it close enough to read:

  Mum has had a fall. Going to make sure she is OK. Might have to take her to A&E. P x

  I try to think back to the night before. I had been preparing a meal for us both, I had to rearrange the larder. I spent a long time in the kitchen and I do not remember seeing this note. Paul stands in the doorway.

  ‘This wasn’t here. You’ve just put this here now,’ I say.

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘The light was on in the shed. I thought you were writing. I cooked us a meal.’

  ‘So I see,’ he says. I follow his gaze around the kitchen, everything exactly where I left it last night, pots and pans still full of food on top of the oven. The empty bottle of white wine. Everything is a mess, I can’t believe I left the place in such a state.

  ‘You haven’t even asked how she is,’ Paul says from the doorway as I continue to survey the chaos. A pile of potato peelings is browning on a wooden chopping board, more flesh than skin because I’d used a knife to do the job. I can’t stand to see the kitchen looking like this, so I start to tidy up while he continues to talk at me.

  ‘Please can we not fight, I’ve had a horrible time,’ he says.

  I don’t want to fight either. Words keep falling from his lips as I clean, but I don’t believe any of them. I can’t stand the dirt and the lies, I just want it all to stop. I don’t remember when things went so wrong, I only know that they have.

  ‘She’s broken her hip, Amber. She called me lying on her kitchen floor, I had to drop everything and go.’ I open the oven to find the lamb shanks I’d been cooking, dry and shrivelled to the bone. ‘You would have done the same if it was your mother.’ I wouldn’t have done the same for my mother because she would never have called me in that situation, she would have called Claire.

  ‘So why was your car at Claire’s house?’ I say, throwing the meaty bones into the bin and turning to face him.

  ‘What? Because my MOT expired. I can’t reinsure the thing until I get it sorted, so Dave said he’d take a look at it for me,’ he says, without hesitation.

  David, not Dave, she doesn’t like it.

  He has an answer for everything and all the pieces of the puzzle seem to fit. I begin to feel foolish and my own stupidity softens me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter, not sure that I should be.

  ‘I’m sorry too.’

  ‘Is your mum going to be OK?’

  We leave the dirty kitchen behind us and sit and talk for a while. I play the caring wife he needs me to be and he tells me what a wonderful son he has been, which only seems to highlight his failings as a husband. There is no time for me to practise my lines, so I’m forced to improvise. It’s not an award-winning performance, but enough to satisfy the audience of one. I’ve never been fond of Paul’s mother. She lives on her own in a dated, draughty bungalow near the Norfolk coast. I hate the place and have only been to visit a few times. I always get the impression that she sees straight through me and doesn’t like the view.

  Paul talks about his night at the hospital, and I listen for any holes in his story, but there are none. I watch his mouth as it forms his words and will them to be louder than the running commentary in my head. I want to believe him, I really do. My mobile is on the coffee table and I can see now that there is a missed call . . . maybe Paul had called to tell me where he was and I just hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Do you fancy some wine?’ I ask. Paul nods. I pick up my phone as I head out to the kitchen and listen to the message, but it isn’t my husband’s voice that I hear.

  Before

  Saturday, 14th December 1991

  Dear Diary,

  Last night I stayed at Taylor’s house and I didn’t want to leave. She lives in the nicest home, and has the kindest parents. She was born in that house, they’ve never moved, not like us. There are even marks on the larder door showing how tall Taylor was every year since she was born. A larder is a really big cupboard just for food. They need one because they have a lot of it and none of it is frozen. When I grow up I want a house with a larder too.

  Taylor said her parents were just as weird as mine, but that is so not true. Her mum was really nice to me and her dad didn’t have to work late. When he came home we all ate dinner at the table together and it was delicious. It was a lasagne that Taylor’s mum cooked herself, in the oven, not the microwave, from scratch. Her parents didn’t argue once and her dad was actually quite funny, cracking silly jokes the whole time. Taylor rolled her eyes, maybe she’d heard them all before, but I laughed.

  After dinner they said we could either go hang out in Taylor’s room, or watch a film with them. They have the biggest TV I’ve ever seen. I think Taylor wanted us to go up to her room, but I said I’d like to watch the film. Her mum made popcorn and her dad turned all the lights off, so that the only things we could see were the Christmas-tree lights and the glow from the television. It was like being at the pictures. Her parents sat on the sofa and Taylor and I shared a giant beanbag on the floor, as if we were a proper family. I didn’t really pay much attention to the film, I kept looking around the room. Everything was so perfect, I wish I lived there.

  Taylor had fallen asleep by the time the film was over, so I thought maybe I should pretend to be asleep too. Her mum picked her up and I was a bit scared at first when her dad picked me up in his arms, but then they carried us upstairs like we were still babies and put us to bed. Taylor only has one bed in her room, so we were sharing. The sheets smelled so nice, like a meadow. Taylor really was sleeping, but I couldn’t, it was the best night ever and I didn’t want it to end. I looked up at her bedroom ceiling and saw hundreds of stars. I knew they were only stickers that glowed in the dark, but they were still beautiful. I reached up and if I held my finger in the right place and squinted my eyes, it was like I could touch them.

  Even when I heard Taylor’s parents go to bed, I still couldn’t sleep, the thoughts in my head were too busy. I got up to go to the bathroom and when I got there I noticed the three toothbrushes in the cup. I’d asked Taylor about them earlier and she’d explained that hers was red, her dad’s was blue and her mum’s was yellow. She said they always had the same colours. Then she said maybe I could get a green toothbrush and then I could be part of their gang. I didn’t want a green one though. I wanted to be red.

  I crept back to the bedroom, where Taylor was still asleep. I did something bad then. I didn’t mean to, it just sort of happened. I walked over to the dressing table and picked up her jewellery box. She’d asked me not to touch it earlier, which made me really want to. I opened it slowly and watched the tiny ballerina twirl away inside. There should have been something for her to dance to, but someone had broken the music. I watched the little doll spin round and round, dancing in the silence with a tiny strawberry-coloured smile painted on her face. Inside the box there was a gold bracelet. I held it up close so I could see it properly and noticed that it was engraved with Taylor’s date of birth, it could have been mine, it’s my birthday too. On the other side it said ‘my darling girl’ in tiny joined-up letters. I didn’t mean to take it. I just wanted to see what it felt like. I’ll give it back.

  After that, I climbed into the bed and wiggled my body so that my face was right next to Taylor’s and our noses were almost touching. Even though she was sleeping, she looked like she was smiling, probably because she’s so lucky. I bet even her dreams are better than mine.

  There are three things that Taylor has that I don’t:

  1. Cool parents.

  2. A nice home.

  3. Her very own stars.

  I’m glad that Taylor and I are friends now. I’ll give the bracelet back, I promise I will. And I hope we don’t ever move house again because I really would miss her. I wish I live
d in a house that smelled of popcorn and had stars on the ceiling.

  Now

  Thursday, 29th December 2016

  My family is not like other families. I think I knew that even as a child. I’ve always wished my parents would love me the way other parents loved their children. Unconditionally. Things weren’t perfect before Mum brought Claire home from the hospital, but things were better than they became. Nobody was there for me then and nobody is here for me now.

  Paul has not returned. Every time the door opens, I hope it might be him, but the only people who have been to visit me since morning rounds are paid to do so. They talk to me, but they don’t tell me what I need to know. I suppose it’s hard to give someone the answers when you don’t know the questions. If Paul really has been arrested, then I need to wake up more than ever before. I have to remember what happened.

  Evening rounds are brief, I’m no longer the main attraction. I’m old news now. Someone more broken than I am has come along. Even good people get tired of trying to mend what can’t be fixed. Forty-A-Day Nurse was talking about her upcoming holiday with one of the others earlier. She’s going to Rome with a man she met on the internet and seems happier than usual, a bit gentler. I wonder what her real name is: Carla, perhaps? She sounds like she could be a Carla. She’s not my favourite, but I’ll still miss her while she’s away, she’s part of my routine now and I’ve never been fond of change.

  In my new world, I am dependent on complete strangers: they wash me, they change me and they feed me through a tube in my stomach. They collect my piss in a bag and they wipe my shitty arse. They do all these things to look after me, but I’m still cold, hungry, thirsty and scared. I can smell dinner on the ward outside my room. I feel the saliva congregate inside my mouth in anticipation of something that will not come. It slides its way around and down the tube in my throat, while the machine that breathes for me huffs and puffs as though bored of it all. I’d give anything to taste food again, to enjoy the feel of it on my tongue, to chew it up and swallow its heat down into my belly. I try not to think about all the things I miss eating, drinking, doing. I try not to think about anything at all.