The Lies You Told

by Harriet Tyce

  It takes me a moment when I get out of the tube station to orient myself, the streets unfamiliar. I take my phone out of my bag to check the map for directions to Jeremy’s flat and see the battery is nearly flat; I forgot to charge it overnight. I concentrate on memorizing the route.

  While I’m looking at the map, a message arrives from Zora, swiftly followed by a second. Isn’t this Andrew’s firm? Hope all is well says the first. The second is a link to a news story. I glance at the headline but then the phone battery drops from 2% to 1% so I go straight back to the map, no time to waste.

  The phone holds at 1% of battery nearly all the way there. I try not to check it too many times, but the streets are identical, terraces on terraces of similar houses. As I turn onto Jeremy’s road, the phone gives up the ghost. I walk halfway along the road, ring the bell, 74B. I’ve made it.

  It takes a while for Jeremy to answer the door. I hear slow, heavy thumps from inside, as if someone is making their way with difficulty down a flight of stairs. When he finally gets there, he’s red in the face from the effort he’s made, leaning against the doorframe with lines of pain tight around his mouth.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be faster,” he says, gesturing at the knee brace he’s wearing over a pair of pajama trousers.

  “It doesn’t matter at all,” I say. “Sorry to drag you downstairs.”

  “Come in,” he says. He gestures me through in front of him, and I climb up wooden stairs into the second-floor flat. He comes up behind me, holding tight on to the banisters. I turn to see him pause, as if it’s too much for him, before he grits his teeth and keeps going up. Standing to one side, I let him go first into the front room, a living room that’s full of plants and books and light from the two tall windows. It’s a room that puts me immediately at ease.

  He lowers himself onto a big sofa, and I take a seat on an armchair that sits perpendicular to him, opening my bag to take out his statement.

  “Hang on,” he says. “We don’t have to get straight into it. Let me get you a drink first.”

  He stands up again, very slowly, and starts to hobble through into the back of the house.

  “I’m fine,” I say, “honestly. I don’t need anything. I think we should get on.”

  “Well, I need something,” he says, “if I’m going to have to think about all of this.”

  He keeps going, leaving the living room. There’s clinking and banging, as if he’s trying to find something in a cupboard. I reach instinctively for my phone, only to be reminded that it’s flat. I walk to the door.

  “Do you have a charger I could borrow?” I say. “My phone’s dead.”

  There’s silence for a moment, before Jeremy answers, “There’s one plugged into the wall.”

  I find it but it’s the wrong charger. “Mine’s an iPhone,” I call out. “Do you have an Apple charger?”

  Another pause before he replies. “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure? My phone’s completely dead.”

  He sighs, the long exhalation audible from the kitchen, and then says, “Try the drawer in the coffee table. Just at the front.”

  I go back to the coffee table, a large, low wooden number, with a drawer taking up most of its width. I slide it open, but can’t see a charger. I rummage through. There’s piles of papers and receipts, old tickets to play performances. I try to pull the drawer out as far as it will go, but it’s stuck on something and I can only get it out halfway. I stick my hand in and start digging, amazed at the amount of crap in there. At last I feel the end of a charger, a wire. I tug at it to get it out but it’s stuck on something. I pull harder, dig deeper. The end of the wire is stuck so I pull at it and the drawer together with such force that the drawer comes out of the table completely, scattering its contents all over the floor, the charger lying on top of the pile.

  I pick it up and plug it in at the wall in the corner, connect my phone. Jeremy comes back into the room, a corkscrew in his mouth, a bottle of wine stuck under his arm, and two glasses clutched in one hand. He’s supporting himself against the wall with the other hand. I help him, taking the glasses and the bottle of wine and putting them down on the coffee table. He looks askance at the mess all over the floor.

  “Sorry,” I say. “It was all stuck.” I move toward the mess of stuff I’ve spilled over the floor but he gestures me away.

  “Just leave it,” he grunts, taking his time to sit down on the sofa. Once he’s down he takes the corkscrew out of his mouth and reaches for the bottle to open it.

  “I won’t, thank you,” I say. “It’s a bit early in the day for me.”

  “Call yourself a criminal barrister?” he says, laughing. “Come on, don’t be a bore.”

  He pours wine into both glasses, the red liquid sloshing nearly to the top. They’re big glasses, too; over half the bottle has gone into them. He pushes one over to me, spilling a drop over the side onto the table as he does so. Picking up his own, he takes a deep swig, the wine staining his lips.

  “Come on,” he says. “It’s not going to kill you.”

  His tone is aggressive. He’s trying to put on a smile, but it’s not reaching his eyes. And looking more closely, I see they’re bloodshot and red around the rims. He pushes the glass at me again, with more force, spilling some more. I’m beginning to wonder if this is his first drink of the day. I haven’t seen him like this before. I pick up my glass and take a small sip, put it down again.

  “Shall we make a start?” I say.

  “A start on what?”

  “Discussing your evidence,” I say. “I have a copy of your statement here, if you’d like to have a look.” I try to pass it to him but he bats it away.

  “Not now,” he says. “I’m really not in the mood. It’s too stressful.”

  “Nonetheless, we do need to go through it all.”

  “Nonetheless. Nonetheless,” he says, even more of a jeer in his voice. “Now you’re sounding more like a barrister. Put the work down for once in your fucking life and have a fucking drink.”

  He’s pissing me off now. I gather my papers back together, put them in my bag, and stand up. “I’m going to go,” I say. “This doesn’t seem to be the best time for you right now.”

  He subsides back on the sofa, his head slumped between his hands.

  “Don’t go,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry.”

  Anger is coursing through me. I’ve given up a weekend away with Robin for this. But his pose is so abject that I feel a twinge of sympathy.

  “It’s a very difficult time for you,” I say, “I do understand that. But you should try and calm down. Getting this stressed isn’t going to help. Why don’t I make a cup of tea? Or some coffee?”

  “Fuck tea,” he says. “Fuck coffee.” The fight’s gone out of his voice, though. It sounds as if he’s close to tears. I perch on the coffee table near where he’s sitting, put the bag back down.

  I’m in two minds as to whether I should reach out a hand to pat his arm, perhaps, or rub his shoulder. I’m about to pat him on the knee when he launches forward at me and grabs me tight, the stubble on his chin rough against my neck.

  I stiffen immediately, shocked at the suddenness of his movement. I try to pull away but he doesn’t let go, pulling me instead over from the coffee table onto his knee. I’m pushing against his arms, kicking out at his legs, but he’s strong, much stronger than he looks. Much stronger than me. My heart’s hammering hard against my chest, panic, fury rising fast, and I thrust out against his arms.

  “Let go!” I shout. “Let go of me.”

  I get some purchase on the floor and push up hard, bashing his chin with the top of my skull hard enough to knock his head backward. He lets go of me, very suddenly, and I spring up. Stopping only to grab my bag, I make my way fast to the door.

  Jeremy’s crying properly now.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He tries standing up but collapses back down again, his knee clea
rly paining him.

  “You can’t behave like this,” I say. “I’m not here for any social purposes. It was to go through your statement.”

  “I just thought…”

  “You thought what?”

  “I thought you might be interested,” Jeremy says. “You went for a drink with me. And you’re kind. Everyone keeps shouting at me. Telling me what to do.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve given the wrong impression,” I say. “I should never have gone out for that drink with you in the first place. But this really is just work.”

  He sobs, his shoulders shaking.

  “I don’t want to be on my own,” he says. “I keep having nightmares about going to prison. I’m terrified.”

  “You’re not going to go to prison,” I say. “It’s more than likely that you’re going to be acquitted.”

  “You can’t promise that, though,” he says.

  “No, I can’t. It’s up to the jury. But juries don’t like convicting people like you.”

  “What do you mean, people like me?”

  I look around the flat, all the signs of affluence. Velvet curtains, solid wood floors. Designer Scandinavian chairs. None of it readily achievable on a teacher’s salary. I look over at Jeremy, the way that his shoulders are drooping, the self-pity oozing from him along with the booze.

  “Nice, middle-class, white men like you. They’ll look at you and decide they don’t want to destroy your life. Maybe you did do it, but they won’t care about that. We both know that Freya wasn’t a great witness, and even if she’d been brilliant, they still don’t like convicting when there’s no other evidence.”

  Jeremy leans forward, picks up his glass of wine and drains it. He looks into the empty glass, his expression equally empty. He kicks hard at the pile of stuff from the drawer that’s lying at his feet. The stack collapses, and everything scatters across the rug.

  “Maybe they should care. I felt really sorry for her up there,” he says. “When Barbara was cross-examining.”

  I blink. This isn’t what I was expecting. I look over at him to see that he’s staring at the floor, his face tight, the look in his eyes intense, almost fearful. It’s as if he’s seen a predator, a snake that’s about to strike. I follow his gaze.

  There’s a book on the floor. A hardback. The cover is facedown. Jeremy starts to move toward it, but some instinct in me is strong and I move fast, getting hold of it just before he is within reach. I move to the door before I turn it over to look at it.

  Fanny Hill—Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. A small red book, the title printed in gold. I open it and look at the inside page. Can’t wait to reenact this again. All my love Fxx

  I look from it to him, back to it again.

  He subsides back on the sofa.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” he says.

  I’m still. Still as the snake I thought he saw. “What does it look like, Jeremy?” I hiss. He’s silent.

  Little prickles of shock are sparking on my skin, the hairs on my scalp lifting.

  I’m thinking about Freya, about the vilification she’s undergone. I’m thinking about the way that the jury looked at her, tight-lipped. I’m thinking of myself as a girl, starved of any attention by my mother, and how easy it might have been for someone like Jeremy to weasel his way in, someone purporting to be kind, understanding, all the qualities so missing from my life. I was lucky. Much luckier than Freya.

  Jeremy has moved forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clenched together. His face is strained.

  “She was fifteen when you started grooming her, Jeremy. Fifteen,” I say. “Does that not mean anything to you? Are you so devoid of shame that you can sit there and tell me you think this is OK? Does it not keep you awake at night, the thought of what you’ve done, the lies you told?”

  “Don’t…” he says.

  “Why the fuck not? It’s about time someone said it. You’ve destroyed that girl’s life, twice, firstly to entertain yourself, secondly to protect yourself. It’s repellent behavior.”

  He’s crying now. It’s as if I’m looking at him for the first time, all his charming mannerisms finally seen through the prism of truth.

  “You’re a stinking coward,” I say. “This is appalling.”

  He puts a hand up as if to stop me, lowers it. “You don’t understand,” he says.

  “I don’t want to understand,” I say. My phone starts ringing, a shrill insistent sound. It grounds me properly for the first time since I recovered after saying goodbye to Robin this morning. I shake my head and go to my phone, pulling it free from the charger. I turn to face him.

  “If you don’t tell them, I will. You’ve put me in an impossible situation.”

  “Do you think they don’t already know?”

  I’m transfixed. I look at him, expecting to find a smirk, but his face is a mask of misery.

  “Who knows?”

  “Who do you think? My father, Barbara. It’s stitched up beautifully. Can’t have me blackening the family name. At least it isn’t my father’s name—I gave that up when he walked out on us. I wish I hadn’t now—no one can accuse His Honor of having a pedophile son.”

  “Zora?” I say, almost in a whisper.

  “Oh, no,” he says. “We kept the solicitor out of it. Need-to-know basis, after all.” He laughs, but it turns into a sob.

  I’m unmoved by his tears. I want to throw the book at him, smash him in the face with it, but instead I place it in my bag. He lunges to his feet, injury seemingly forgotten, and blocks the door, grabbing my bag from me and pulling out the book. I stand motionless and he collapses back on the sofa, giving a cry of pain as he bends his knee. I turn and look at him. He can do what he likes with it, deny it as much as he likes—I’ve seen it now. He knows I know. Then I walk out of the room, down the stairs, slamming the door behind me.

  45

  I turn it over and over in my mind all the way home. It’s not a confession, not as such. But this is hard evidence which I shouldn’t withhold from the court. I don’t know how to approach Zora, though, to tell her she’s been so misled by the QC she’s instructing. I should speak to the Bar Council, ask their advice as to the appropriate course of action. My heart sinks at the thought. I’m so tired already.

  I wait till I’m home and have made myself a coffee before I look at my phone again. There’s a number of missed calls. Four from Jeremy—he must have tried to call while I was on the tube—and I block his number immediately. I will not be speaking to him again. And one from a U.S. number, not one I recognize. While I’m looking at it, it rings again, and I answer. It’s Andrew.

  “Sadie,” he says. “There’s something I need to say.”

  Now I’m overwhelmed with exhaustion. “You know what, Andrew? You don’t get to do this now. I’m tired. I’m really tired. I’ve a massive work problem and one of Robin’s friends is in a coma. I’ve enough on my plate.”

  “OK. OK. I get it. I just wanted to say this.” He plows on. “I know there’s a lot to explain. I know it’s been really difficult. But it’s not what it seems. I want you to believe in me, whatever is said. And I will explain. But I can’t yet.”

  “No,” I say. “No. Not now. I’m too tired.” I end the call.

  I look again at my phone, remembering Zora’s text for the first time since I went to Jeremy’s flat. The question about Andrew’s work makes no sense on its own so I open up the link that Zora has sent. It takes me to the Reuters website.

  DOJ charges property firm founder, former executives in Ponzi scheme

  (Reuters)—U.S. federal prosecutors charged the owner and other executives of Seacliff Securities on Thursday with orchestrating a $250-million Ponzi scheme involving 2,000 victims.

  Seacliff Securities. Andrew’s firm. I skim through the rest of the article, but they don’t name the executives. I try to call him back, anxious for an explanation, but the number rings out, and when I try his mobile, it’s dead.

  I call his numb
er again, but as I do so, there’s a loud knocking at the front door. Putting the phone down, I go to the door and open it. I’m on autopilot, my thoughts miles away.

  Julia enters the house, shaking and weeping. Under any other circumstances I’d feel self-conscious about the state of the house in comparison to her mansion, but she isn’t noticing anything, she’s so upset.

  “I didn’t know where else to come,” she says. “They’ve kicked me out so Daisy’s dad can visit. I couldn’t bear to be on my own.”

  I bring her through to the kitchen. I’m trying to think of what to say to get rid of her, though I know I should be more compassionate.

  “Can’t you visit together?”

  “Not possible,” Julia says. “We can’t be in the same space. Not since the divorce. You know it went to court.”

  I nod. Looking at Julia under the light, it’s clear she’s in a very bad way, and I feel more compassion, thoughts of Andrew disappearing in the face of her misery. Her hair is greasy and unbrushed, her face sallow under the harsh overhead light. All her normal poise has gone out of the window. She’s lost weight, her face haggard now. Her rings hang loose, and as she twists her hands together, over and over, a ring falls off, rolling onto the floor. She’s oblivious, but I pick it up. It’s heavy, a shiny gold ring, plain, with two sideways Ts in the middle, facing each other. I roll it around in my hand.

  “I can’t explain what’s happening,” Julia says, “but they’re trying to set me up. I know it.” She speaks with urgency, leaning across the table toward me. Her breath is sour, fetid with nights unslept, anxiety.

  “Set you up?” I say. “Who is trying to set you up? For what?”

  “They’re going to say it was all my fault,” Julia says. “But I didn’t do anything wrong. I swear it. I’ve been doing my best.”

  I move around the table and put my arm around her. She’s stiff at first, but then leans into me, before tensing up again, jerking so hard that she dislodges my arm.

  “You’ve got to believe me, Sadie. I haven’t done anything to hurt Daisy. Honestly.”