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

by Feeney, Alice

  I’m not dead.

  He smiles at me, then leans right down to the coffin and whispers in my ear: ‘Yes, you are, but, don’t worry, you’ll have company.’

  He lifts up the little girl in the pink dressing gown and lays her in the coffin next to me; she wraps her arm around my waist. Everything turns black as the coffin starts to lower down into the earth. I start to cry and she starts to sing.

  Silent night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright.

  She points up at the starless sky and I stare at the moon.

  Round yon virgin, mother and child.

  She squeezes me tight.

  Holy infant, so tender and mild.

  She turns to face me, her finger lifting to where her lips should be. Shh.

  Sleep in heavenly peace.

  Sleep in heavenly peace.

  She reaches up and pulls an invisible cord, I hear what sounds like my bathroom light as she switches off the moon, plunging us into the unforgiving dark. Then the dirt starts to rain down on us faster. I scream at them again to stop but, if they can hear me, they’re not listening. The hole is too deep for me to climb out of, but I have to do something. I scratch at the walls of earth, trying to find anything to hold on to, my nails clawing at the dirt. It starts to rain and water and soil fall down hard on top of me until I give up and roll myself into a ball. I hide within my fear and make it my home. A coin lands near my feet as though I’m at the bottom of a well where people make wishes. Neither side of the coin has a face.

  ‘If you want to get out, just point at the exit,’ says the little girl. She’s standing over me now, clumps of wet soil in her tangled hair. I follow her stare to a green-neon EMERGENCY EXIT sign buried in the dirt beneath my feet.

  ‘Just point when you want to get out, that’s all you have to do.’

  I look down at the sign, half covered in dirt already, and try to point at it, but I can’t move my hands. I’m crying again when the pain comes. Then there is blood. Blood dripping down on the emergency exit sign, blood on my hospital gown, blood on my hands as I hold them between my legs, trying to stop the life falling out of me. I close my eyes with the pain and when I open them and look up, the only face I can still see is Claire’s. The little girl reaches for my hand and helps me to point my finger at the sign beneath my feet. It takes every last bit of strength I have.

  ‘Did you see that?’ says Claire’s voice in the distance.

  ‘What?’ asks Paul.

  ‘Look! Her hand… she’s pointing her finger.’

  ‘Amber, can you hear me?’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It means she’s still here.’

  Then

  Friday, 23rd December 2016 – Morning

  I flush the toilet then wipe my mouth with a thin strip of recycled paper. I rub my lips harder than I need to, letting the rough edges sand my skin. I take a moment to breathe, grateful that none of my colleagues have seen me like this. It’s the last show before the Christmas break, just one more day to get through, then it’s done. Just a few more hours, I can manage that. I take a breath mint from my handbag and pop it in my mouth. I’m well practised at hiding hangovers, but that isn’t what this is.

  I checked my diary on the train this morning, thirteen weeks and I hadn’t even noticed. It isn’t like we do it very often and I just presumed that this was never going to happen. All that time we spent trying and now, when I’d given up, now I’m pregnant. It doesn’t make any sense and yet somehow it does and I’m sure that I am. I’ll get a kit after work, that’s what I’ll do. I feel certain that I already know but I need to be sure.

  I can’t hear anything, so I flush the toilet once more and open the cubicle door. I think I’m alone, but I’m wrong.

  ‘There you are. Are you quite all right?’ asks Madeline.

  I feel my cheeks redden. I’ve never seen her in here before, seems out of place somehow. I thought she had a commode under her desk or something.

  ‘What have you done to your head?’ she asks, staring at my forehead. I look in the mirror and brush my hair over the bruise with my fingers.

  ‘I tripped over something in the hall when I got home last night; it’s nothing.’ It’s the truth and yet the words leave an unpleasant taste in my mouth.

  ‘Late night, was it? Drowning your sorrows?’

  I turn on the taps to wash my hands and don’t reply.

  ‘Well, better that than morning sickness. Nothing like a pregnancy to ruin a girl’s career!’

  I don’t react, just keep washing my hands over and over. She seems different, somehow, like she’s torn up the script. She’s improvising and I can’t keep up – the lines I’ve rehearsed don’t make sense any more. I turn off the tap, take a paper towel and turn to face her. Sometimes saying nothing says too much but the words won’t come.

  ‘I’m so glad I caught you,’ she says.

  I want to run. My heart is beating so hard now that I’m sure she can hear it.

  ‘I need to know that this conversation is going to stay within these walls,’ she continues, as though we are old friends conspiring and I can be trusted. I still can’t force the words out just yet, so I nod. She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a collection of red envelopes. ‘I want to know what you know about these.’

  I look at them. Then I look her in the eye. ‘Christmas cards?’

  ‘They’re not Christmas cards. As I’m sure you’re aware, someone is spreading rumours about me on the Internet. I’ve also received some threatening mail in the office and at home this week. I’m sure the two things are linked and I want to know whether you have seen anything unusual, or anyone odd hanging around.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘And you haven’t opened anything unpleasant yourself?’

  ‘No.’ I smile. I didn’t mean to.

  ‘This isn’t a joke, this is serious. I think whoever wrote these letters has been inside the building.’

  That’s when I spot it, the thing that has changed about her. This is what Madeline looks like when she’s frightened, I’ve just never seen it before.

  ‘This last one was on my desk this morning, before I arrived,’ she says, holding up the top red envelope.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what it says.’

  There is a gap for words we don’t speak.

  ‘Have you told Matthew about the letters?’ I ask.

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should.’

  She sizes me up. ‘I’ll see you out there,’ she says and leaves. I stay a while and wash my hands again.

  I watch Madeline a little more closely during the show. I hate her, but she is good at her job, even if she doesn’t deserve to be here. I study her face, still looking for a resemblance I can’t see. She nods when I excuse myself to pop to the bathroom, as though she understands how I feel, as though she cares. I rush out, leaving my mobile in the studio. Jo comes to find me in the toilets, to see if I’m OK. She makes me splash some water on my face, which helps a little.

  ‘You just have to get through the show, it’s not much longer now. You’re doing so well, it will all be all right,’ she says.

  I wish I believed her. I wish the words were real. She heads back to the studio without me, giving me a moment to catch my breath. I walk back, stopping briefly at Matthew’s desk. The office is empty when we’re on air and he always leaves his phone out here. It isn’t as though anyone would steal it, I suppose – his mobile is so old it doesn’t even require a passcode. It takes less than thirty seconds to send the text and then delete it from his sent items.

  They’re halfway through a pre-recorded Christmas feature when I get back to my seat – the mics are off, I’ve got a couple of minutes.

  ‘You don’t look at all well. I can finish the show without you if you need to go,’ says Madeline.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I manage and take my seat. The screen on my mobile is still
lit up with the unread message I just sent from Matthew’s phone.

  Dinner booked for you, me and the new presenter next week. M x

  One look at Madeline’s face confirms that she’s already seen it and I offer an apologetic smile. I watch her neck and chest redden as though the anger burns her skin.

  The phone-in is all about families at Christmas. I listen patiently to Kate in Cardiff, who doesn’t want to visit her mother-in-law, and Anna in Essex, who hasn’t spoken to her brother for over a year and doesn’t know what gift to buy him. It’s all just nonsense, utter bullshit, all of it. These people have nothing real to worry about. It’s pathetic. The nausea bubbles up once more when Madeline talks about the importance of forgiveness.

  ‘Christmas is about being with family, whoever they are,’ she says, and I struggle not to vomit all over the desk. How would she know? She doesn’t have any family left.

  When the show finally draws to a close, I feel exhausted, but I know there is so much more work to be done today. It’s my last chance and I’m just getting started.

  Madeline is not a fan of watching television, but the one thing she likes more than the sound of her own voice on the radio, is seeing herself on a TV screen. As the face of Crisis Child, she’s required to do the odd TV interview, speaking on behalf of the charity, and today is one of those days. The news programme I used to be a reporter on have booked Madeline for an interview on their lunchtime bulletin, to talk about children living in poverty at Christmas. All it took was one phone call, pretending to be from the charity, offering their celebrity spokeswoman and the mobile number for her PA if they were interested. The rest took care of itself.

  There’s an enormous satellite truck parked on the street, ready and waiting, down below. When I look out the window I can already see a camera set up on a tripod in front of the Christmas tree outside our building. As soon as the debrief is over, we head downstairs.

  ‘How much longer is this going to take?’ Madeline barks at one of the engineers.

  ‘Not long, just have to find the satellite and mic you up,’ says John, an old colleague of mine. He turns and sees me standing behind her, a wide smile spreading itself across his face. ‘Amber Reynolds! How are you? I heard you were working here now.’ He hugs me and I’m surprised by the show of affection. I make myself smile back and try not to look too awkward, unable to return the hug and willing him to let me go.

  ‘I’m good, thanks. How are the family?’ I ask when he finally does. He doesn’t get a chance to answer.

  ‘Why are you out here? Nobody wants to interview you,’ Madeline says, glaring in my direction.

  ‘Matthew asked me to come with you.’

  ‘I bet he did.’

  John’s smile fades. He’s been working in the business for over thirty years. He’s met plenty of ‘Madelines’ in his time. Celebrity ceases to impress when you subtract humility.

  ‘If I could just . . .’ John fumbles with the mic, but it’s hard to find a suitable place amongst all the rolls of black fabric she’s wearing to attach the clip and hide the battery pack.

  ‘Take your hands off me,’ snaps Madeline. ‘Give it to her, she’ll do it. She used to be on television, after all; they’ll let anyone call themselves a journalist now.’

  John nods, rolls his eyes when she isn’t looking, and hands me the mic.

  ‘I still can barely hear the studio,’ says Madeline, fiddling with her earpiece once I’m done.

  ‘I’ve turned it right up,’ I say to John.

  ‘I’ll go and see if I can adjust it in the van,’ he says, taking off his headphones and leaving the camera. ‘Do you mind?’ he asks me. I can see he’s glad of an excuse to step away.

  ‘Not at all… may as well make myself useful.’ I borrow his headset so I can hear the producer at the other end and cue Madeline when it’s time to speak. She’s not fazed and easily adjusts herself into caring-ambassador mode when she thinks the world is watching. The answers roll off her tongue, one lie after another.

  ‘I think that’s it,’ I say, taking off the headset.

  ‘You sure? Didn’t last long.’

  ‘Think so, they’re talking to another guest now.’ Her fake smile promptly falls from her face. ‘I’m sorry you saw that text earlier,’ I say.

  ‘Poppycock.’ She looks agitated and checks her watch.

  ‘If you do leave Coffee Morning, at least you’ll have more time for your charity work.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, I’ve got a contract, and charity starts at home. Did nobody ever teach you that? Is that gobshite coming back or can I go?’

  ‘I’ll just double-check that you’re done,’ I say, popping the headset back on. I can hear the programme loud and clear. ‘It must be rewarding. though, raising awareness of vulnerable children?’ We’ve had this discussion so many times before, I know her thoughts on the matter.

  ‘Vulnerable, my arse. Most of these kids are little shits and it’s the parents I blame. There should be some sort of IQ test to identify people who are too stupid to have children and then those with low scores should be sterilised. Too many stupid people populating the land with their mentally retarded offspring is a big part of what’s wrong with this country.’ I see John step out of the sat truck parked just down the street, frantically waving his hands above his head like he’s trying to land a plane in a hurry.

  ‘I think you can definitely go now,’ I say.

  ‘Good, about time,’ Madeline replies. I couldn’t agree more. She swivels on her heel and marches back inside the building. I follow her, unable to take my eyes off the battery pack still attached to the back of her giant black pashmina. She jabs her finger on the button to summon the lift, then turns to me and smiles. ‘And then there are the sluts who get pregnant by mistake, often with someone they shouldn’t. That’s why God invented abortions. Sadly, too many of the dumb bitches don’t have them.’ The lift doors open. ‘Are you getting in or what?’ I shake my head. ‘Oh, I forgot, you’re scared of lifts.’ She tuts, rolls her eyes and steps inside, repeatedly stabbing the button to make sure the doors close before anyone else can get in.

  By the time I’ve climbed the stone steps to the fifth floor, it feels like I’ve missed an episode of my favourite drama. Everyone is staring in the direction of Madeline’s cupboard office. Matthew is in there with her and they are both shouting, so that every word of their supposedly private conversation is public, despite the closed door.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask nobody in particular.

  ‘Madeline’s mic was still on. They did a guest in the studio, then went back to her. Everything she just said went out live on national television.’

  I do my very best to look surprised.

  Before

  Friday, 30th October 1992

  Dear Diary,

  Mum came home from the hospital today, which seems fitting as it is Halloween tomorrow and she is a witch. Things have been better while she wasn’t around. I thought that Taylor’s mum would be really cross with me after what happened with the bracelet, but she’s been even more kind to me than normal, taking me to school and picking me up afterwards for two whole weeks because Dad was working.

  I tried to give Taylor her bracelet back and said sorry for accidentally borrowing it for such a long time, but she said it was OK and told me to keep it. She even fixed it for me by hooking a small safety pin through the broken links. I think it looks cool, even better than before. I think she was just really grateful after what happened at school last week and that was her way of saying thank you.

  I really don’t know what it is about Taylor that makes the other girls dislike her so much. She’s pretty and kind and clever but those aren’t reasons to be mean to her. I’m glad I found her when I did in the Girls’ toilets. There were two of them: Kelly O’Neil and Olivia Green. They were holding clumps of wet tissue in their hands and they were laughing. They stood on the toilet seats in the cubicles either side of Taylor, looking down at her ove
r the wooden walls. I could hear her crying behind the closed door in the middle. Kelly told her to stand up and give them a twirl. The other girl whistled. ‘We’ll go away if you let us see,’ she said and they laughed again. ‘Don’t be shy, show us.’ The crossness started to churn inside my tummy and I kicked their toilet doors. Kelly glared down at me, then turned back to look at Taylor over the wall. ‘Your girlfriend is here and she’s getting jealous. Better pull your knickers up.’

  The bathroom door swung open and Mrs MacDonald appeared, telling us we should all be outside. Kelly and the other girl left, both smiling at me as they walked past. I said I had to use the bathroom and would be straight out after that. When they were all gone, I knocked on the door of the cubicle in the middle, but Taylor still wouldn’t come out. So I climbed up on the toilet next door, exactly the same way as Kelly had done and looked down at her. She was sitting on the toilet seat, her pants around her ankles. She was covered in wet toilet roll – balled up like people do when they want to throw it on the ceiling. I don’t think it had landed on her by accident. I told her to unlock the door and this time she did.

  I climbed down and gently pushed the door open. She just stood there. Her eyes were all wet, her cheeks were red and her pants were still around her ankles, so I bent down and pulled them up. We don’t talk about that day. I’m not sure I should have even written it down. We stick together at all times now and the other girls keep away from us, which is fine by me.

  Until Mum came home, things were pretty perfect. I was so happy when I got out of the Volvo this afternoon that I danced all the way up the driveway. Taylor’s Mum has been bringing dinners for me and Dad to heat up in the oven too; things she’s cooked herself that smell and taste amazing. Dad hasn’t been drinking as much as he sometimes does and I’ve been allowed to stay at Taylor’s house for loads of sleepovers when he’s been working late or visiting the hospital. Mum didn’t want me to visit her. Nobody told me that, I just know. I didn’t want to go anyway; hospitals remind me of Nana dying. Dad said Mum had to have a small operation on her tummy, which is why she didn’t come home for such a long time. He said she’s been very poorly. He said it wasn’t my fault.