Liars: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Frances Vick

  Over the next year, David, smitten puppyish, could always be relied on to help with her rent, and her bills. He was undemanding too. He rarely questioned her explanations for not meeting face-to-face and, on the few occasions that he pushed back a bit, all she had to do was withdraw, not answer a few texts, and he’d quickly back down and apologise.

  She was very careful to keep all four of her cheerleaders apart from each other: Andreena was acquainted with Freddie, but not with Cheryl, and knew nothing about David. Cheryl knew about Freddie’s existence, but they never met, and Jenny made sure David’s surname was never mentioned in their sessions. Freddie knew of Cheryl, but not David; David already knew about Freddie and Andreena and knew that she saw a therapist, but he didn’t know her name – at least not until Freddie let it slip at that disastrous dinner party. Keeping the three main struts of her support network in this atomised state appealed to her for the simple reason that, if they didn’t meet they couldn’t become friends, opening up the potential for one or all of them to shift their focus from where it should be: on her.

  55

  It was the blog audience that really completed everything. Jenny was special, she was brave. She was extraordinary. David said the same in his infatuated emails and rare phone calls, as did Freddie in their heart-to-heart chats, and Cheryl in their counselling sessions. Andreena prayed for her, and all that was great, but all that was behind closed doors. When Sal got sick, and Jenny moved back to look after her, You Can’t Go Home Again assumed a new importance. Her readers said the same things her friends did, with a crucial difference – they said it in public.

  They lapped up her posts about the stresses and strains of caring for an invalid. While training to be a counsellor too? How did she do it? At every stage, they were there to tell her how brave, honest and inspirational she was. They competed with each other to give her the most compliments, they vied for her attention, shoring up her carefully crafted image of gutsy sweetness. The appreciation was so strong, the approbation so addictive, that soon, very soon, You Can’t Go Home Again became her main outlet, her greatest delight.

  But, as always, fate intervened, complicated things. And the complication had a face, a voice and a name: Sal.

  It wasn’t all lies, Jenny sometimes reasoned to herself. After all, Sal had suffered a stroke, but it was very minor. After a few weeks she was mobile again and her speech was just fine. She could eat solid food. She needed no help getting in and out of the shower. In fact, Sal became so inconveniently not ill, that Jenny was running out of excuses to stay with her. And she had to stay. If she left, Freddie, Cheryl, Andreena and David would know she’d left, and if they knew, then she wouldn’t be able to carry on with the blog – the best bit of her blog – the ‘caring for a sick mother’ bit that got her all the sympathy, and if she wasn’t Saintly Blogger ‘Jay’, then who was she? Just another, ordinary twenty-something part-time student, juggling jobs? How could she go back to that?

  The stronger Sal got, the more irritable and vicious Jenny felt towards her. And the nastier Jenny was, the more Sal, after years of relative sobriety, relied on alcohol to cope with the discomfort of living with her daughter. And she began having accidents – genuine, drunken accidents – slips in the bathroom, a tumble down the stairs, a sprained wrist, a bruised hip, which Jenny, on her blog and to her friends, packaged as stroke-affiliated injuries. Some of the accidents weren’t accidents though. Sometimes Sal would… act up. Push back, and Jenny would be forced to restrain her a bit. Nobody came to the house; Jenny made sure everyone knew that Sal was too frail for visitors, and nobody had any reason to question Jenny’s version of things. On the rare occasions she allowed Sal out of the house, they were always together – Jenny gripping Sal’s arm firmly, telling her, loudly and often, that she was doing very well, but she was still sick so-we-should-go-home-now. Back at home, Jenny hid the keys, disconnected the phone, and kept Sal weary with sleeping pills, but that couldn’t go on for ever. She knew that, even as she willed it to.

  In phone calls with Freddie, sessions with Cheryl, at lunch with Andreena, she allowed herself to be comforted, mothered. It was just so good to talk. It felt so wrong to be moaning like this when Mum was so sick. She didn’t know how they put up with her!

  ‘Oh darling, don’t be silly. Can I help? Maybe I can look after her at the weekends? Give you a break?’ Freddie would say.

  ‘No, she’d be too embarrassed. She needs help on the commode and… she couldn’t do that with you. She doesn’t even want to see anyone. Thanks though,’ Jenny told him, blinking back tears of gratitude.

  ‘You’re like a daughter to me,’ Andreena would tell her.

  ‘I’m blessed,’ Jenny would answer.

  ‘You have the power,’ Cheryl intoned. ‘Remember that, to access your strength centres, you have to believe. You can get through this! You are a Strong, Beautiful Soul.’

  ‘Do you think so, am I really? Really?’

  ‘The strongest soul I know!’

  And David? David was simple. She barely had to lie to David at all. He was only concerned with Jenny; her friends and family held no interest for him. On the rare occasions he asked after Sal, she downplayed The Stroke and highlighted The Drinking Problem, sensing that, as a carer himself, he might be able to see through some of her tales. The quiet but palpable antipathy she detected in his voice was particularly gratifying because, well, in a very real sense, she was almost telling him the truth. Almost. And it was such a relief, almost telling someone the truth.

  No. David was very straightforward. She’d broken him in like a horse. He’d believe anything she told him. He’d do anything for her; he told her that. He’d said that many times.

  On the night the snow fell, she gave him the opportunity to prove it.

  56

  Jenny. The Night the Snow Fell

  The slate grey day was heavy with snow, and Sal had been drinking steadily from midday; little sips during the Judge Judy marathon; sloppier swallows by Diagnosis Murder; and, by four, she was hungry. What happened to that bacon in the fridge?

  ‘You must have had it already,’ Jenny told her.

  ‘No. And that crusty bread, that’s gone too.’

  ‘There’s some soup left – have some of that.’

  ‘Soup’s not enough. I was looking forward to that bacon. Can you go to Tesco?’

  Jenny looked irritably out of the window. ‘It’s snowing.’

  ‘I just really fancy some bacon,’ Sal said plaintively. ‘And we need more milk too. It’s not that bad – it’s more sleet than snow. Go on, Jen, be a love.’

  Looking back, Jenny saw that that phrase ‘be a love’ was suspiciously affectionate. Sal was trying to appear oh-so-guileless, oh-so-sweet. At the time though, she didn’t notice. She was just irritated at being interrupted. She was working on a blog post. The theme was family dynamics, and making sure that the sick relative still felt valued and in control, despite being forced into an infantile state by their illness. Jenny had been…

  experimenting with blended foods – butternut squash and apple are Mum’s favourite, and we have a laugh about the role reversal.

  I just finished scraping the mush off her face,

  She wrote:

  and she started to laugh, and then I did too. That’s the thing, she’s still my mum, with her sense of absurdity and humour. She’s still here, thank god, and we’re closer than we’ve ever been.

  She stopped typing, read the last few lines and smiled. It was a lovely, gentle smile.

  ‘Jen! What about this bacon then?’

  Jenny’s gentle smile hardened into a grimace. She closed her eyes in weary irritation. ‘I’m not going out now. Not in this. Have some soup!’

  Sal wavered towards the door. ‘All right then, I’ll go. I’m not scared of a bit of snow.’

  ‘What? No, you can’t go!’ Jenny stared at her non-disabled mother, imagining her trotting about Tesco on her very not-disabled legs.

  ‘W
here’s my coat?’ Sal made a show of opening the cupboard. ‘Where’s my heavy coat…’

  ‘All right, all right, I’ll go.’ Jenny stood up, shoved Sal aside and got out her own coat. ‘But if I freeze to death out there, it’s on you. Bacon. That’s it, right?’

  ‘Bread too. And butter, and milk, and—’

  ‘I’m not getting loads of things,’ Jenny told her.

  ‘But we might be snowed in,’ Sal whined. ‘Get some frozen stuff, at least.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Jenny muttered.

  ‘Why’re you in such a bad mood?’ Sal asked.

  ‘I’m not. I just don’t want to go out in the snow,’ Jenny said evenly. ‘I’m busy. College work.’

  ‘Well, shouldn’t you go to college some time? You have to go every now and again, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s not that kind of college.’

  ‘I hear you on that computer all the time,’ Sal said.

  ‘Bacon, bread, milk… anything else?’ When Sal shook her head, all docility, Jenny left the house, and hunched into the driving snow, leaving the closed laptop on the kitchen table. Stupid. Stupid thing to do.

  The house was quiet when she came back. The TV was off, and Sal, a fresh gin in a smeary glass by her elbow, was sitting in the dim kitchen, her pale face illuminated by the computer screen.

  Jenny froze in the doorway, then slapped on the light. ‘What’re you doing?’ Sal didn’t answer. ‘What’re you doing?’ Jenny screeched, and lunged towards her, tugging at the laptop. ‘That’s my private college work—’

  Sal held on hard. ‘“Adult nappies”,’ she read. Her voice a cracked falsetto. ‘“This has been one of the hardest things for Mum to deal with, and, frankly, for me too”.’

  ‘Mum, that – it’s— it’s just a story – it’s a creative writing thing, for— for college—’

  ‘“But it’s something you have to do, isn’t it? My mum is my best friend after all”.’ Sal went on in that sing-song way.

  Jenny moved forward again. ‘Give it here.’

  Again, Sal jerked back.

  ‘Oh, and look here, you’ve got a message – a comment: ‘“You’re so brave, not only to care so brilliantly for your mum, but also to write about it with such compassion”,’ Sal read.

  ‘Give it here,’ Jenny grabbed Sal’s arm, but again, with surprising strength, she resisted, and backed away towards the stairs, holding the laptop in front of her.

  ‘“… feeding Mum like a baby… Helping her out of the bath… closer than we’ve ever been–”.’

  Jenny ran at her then, grabbed at the laptop, and this time Sal let it go. Her wondering expression was tinged with disgust. ‘College work. You must think I’m daft.’

  ‘It’s… It’s creative writing,’ Jenny managed.

  ‘It’s creative something,’ Sal said. ‘How long have you been doing this? Making out I’m sick? And why? Why?’

  ‘You are sick,’ Jenny muttered. The computer pinged. Another comment. StaceyC told her that she was amazing.

  Sal moved back to the table, picked up her glass with one shaking hand.

  Ping.

  Take care of yourself Jay!

  Ping.

  Such respect for you lady.

  It took a herculean effort for Jenny to shut the laptop and put it on the work surface behind her. Without it she felt… defenceless. Almost scared. Sal wasn’t looking at her. Everything was quiet, still.

  ‘I bought you bacon,’ Jenny said eventually. ‘And I got some of that ham you like too. And eggs and… and… burgers. You were right, it’s good to have some frozen things in. We’ve got beans, haven’t we? And—’

  ‘How long have you been telling people I’m a fucking vegetable?’ Sal’s voice shook with quiet anger.

  ‘I haven’t been saying that,’ Jenny was indignant. ‘It’s about being a carer and—’

  Sal snorted. ‘You? Caring? That’s funny.’

  ‘I came back to care for you—’

  ‘I never wanted you to come back though, did I?’ She stared at Jenny. ‘I told you then I didn’t need you to move back. I was fine on my own; I was better on my own. But you came anyway… why? So you could make out you were this great carer? Jesus, Jen.’ She shook her head, and took another drink. ‘That’s sick, that is. Is that why you don’t let me out? You don’t want people to see that I’m all right? Is that why no one comes round?’

  Jenny thought quickly. ‘You’re sicker than you think you are,’ she said. ‘They told me at the hospital. They said that you’d probably think you were fine, but that really you weren’t – you thinking you were better was actually part of the illness.’

  Sal shook her head. ‘And that’s the best you can do, is it?’

  ‘I came back to look after you! Not many people would’ve done that, not for a mother like you!’ Jenny heard her own voice, ringing with falsehood, and suddenly she saw just how much trouble she was in, looking at Sal, so still, so disgusted, so capable of blowing this thing wide open. ‘And anyway, I didn’t use any real names,’ she said then. ‘It’s all anonymised.’

  ‘And that’s meant to make me feel better, is it?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘And what about other people – your friend Freddie, does he think I’m ill? And Mrs Hurst – did she really let me go, or did you tell her I was too sick to work?’

  ‘Too sick to work…’ Jenny muttered. Shame bloomed red across her cheekbones. She closed her eyes to keep in the tears. She heard the splash of gin, the crack of ice, and when she opened her eyes, Sal was smiling. A strange smile. Sinister.

  ‘You’ve not changed much, have you?’ Sal said.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Jenny asked guardedly.

  ‘I mean you were always one for making things up. You always were a good little actress. People always believed you. I believed you.’ The smile twisted. She took a long drink. ‘All that shit with Marc—’

  ‘Mum, don’t do this.’

  Sal shook her head. ‘Had us all going about that, didn’t you? Even told Kathleen, didn’t you?’ Long gulp. Quick refill. ‘Made me move, lose everything. All so you could get your own room.’

  Jenny closed her eyes. ‘It wasn’t about getting my own room. That’s not what it was about.’

  Sal nodded. ‘All because of jealousy too. You wanted Marc and you couldn’t have him, so you split us up, got us here, and you got your own room, and me all to yourself. That’s what it was. And now your dream has come true, hasn’t it?’ She made a wide gesture. Gin slopped in a small arc.

  ‘It’s never been my dream to live with you, Mum, believe me,’ Jenny said scornfully.

  ‘But, I thought we were “closer than we’ve ever been”?’

  ‘How much have you had to drink anyway?’

  Sal took a sloppy drink. ‘Thing is, you never told me exactly what it was Marc’d done, did you? Just hinted. Hedged around it.’ Sal smiled nastily. ‘You’ve always been clever like that.’

  ‘I didn’t make anything up,’ Jenny said quietly. The tears had gone but inside her shifted the old, cold panic. She thought of Cheryl: Strength Centre – go to your Strength Centre. ‘You want to know what he did? He put his fingers up me.’ The kitchen throbbed with silence. Sal kept steady, sceptical eyes on her. ‘He did that twice.’

  ‘And that’s it? Fingers?’ Sal said flatly.

  ‘It hurt. He wanted to hurt me. He was a… bad man, Mum. He was really bad and he was getting worse and—’

  ‘And again, why didn’t you tell me at the time if it hurt so much?’ Sal asked nastily.

  ‘He-he told me not to. I didn’t want to make you sad.’ She heard her voice, heard the thin pathetic pleading of a child in it, hated herself for it, hated her for hearing it.

  ‘Make your mind up,’ Sal sneered.

  ‘It’s true. And it might not seem like a lot, like abuse to you, but—’

  ‘Well now he’s dead, so he can’t defend himself, can he?’ Sal said. ‘Lucky, that.’


  Jenny stiffened. ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘Yeah. Like your “creative writing” is the truth. I’m at death’s door, and you’re Mother Teresa, that sort of truth. Jesus.’ Sal shook her head. ‘I always knew there was something wrong with you.’ She stared at Jenny. Her face cold. ‘You wouldn’t know the truth if it killed you.’ She got up from her chair. The unforgiving strip light showed the grey twinkling at her roots and cast skull-like shadows from her brows.

  ‘Where’re you going?’ Jenny whispered.

  ‘Out.’

  ‘It’s snowing. Mum, don’t be—’

  ‘You’re going to let me alone!’ Sal shouted. It was as if all the drinks in her system had formed a sudden hive of fury. ‘I’ve had enough of you… keeping me here. Shut away. You can fuck off!’ She turned messily, and tried to put on the nearest coat, Jenny’s, but put her arm through the wrong hole, cursed, turned it round, and did the same thing.

  ‘Sit down, you’re hammered,’ Jen said.

  ‘I’m not sitting down. I’m going out. I’m going to the pub. Without my walker or wheelchair, or whatever the fuck else you’ve been telling people I need. Where’s my shoes? What’ve you done with my shoes?’ She wandered towards the cupboard, located her own coat, wrapped her chiffon scarf with the roses on it around her neck, and then stumbled against the bannister on the way up the stairs, hit her head on the wall, bloodying her nose. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Mum.’ Sighing, Jenny got up, went to her. ‘Just sit down will you?’

  ‘No!’ Sal threw out one stiff arm. It knocked Jenny off balance, and her head hit the wall, in turn knocked the framed photo into splinters. ‘Look what you did there! Where’re my shoes?’

  ‘Mum, no, just sit down—’

  ‘Bugger it, I’ll just keep my slippers on,’ Sal muttered to herself, and lurched towards the back door, pulling the coat around her shoulders like a shawl. Then she plunged into the cascade of whirling snow, colliding briefly with the recycling box, swearing at it, and carrying on.