Little Liar: A nail-biting, gripping psychological thriller

by Clare Boyd

  ‘I’m just trying to show you.’

  ‘Give it!’

  ‘No!

  And on it escalated, ruining my five minutes.

  By the time I had parked up outside the gates, they were hitting each other.

  ‘Stop fighting, you two.’

  And then Rosie bit Noah’s arm.

  I frog-marched her from the car.

  In the hall, I was down on my haunches. ‘You never, ever, ever bite anyone, do you understand?’

  ‘He hit me!’ she wailed.

  ‘Even so, you don’t bite people. It is unacceptable.’

  ‘La, la, la, la,’ Rosie sang, dropping the present Charlotte’s mother had given her onto the floor at my feet, and holding her hands over her ears.

  My stomach was cramping with Braxton Hicks. I was at a loss. Why was she so impossible? Why did everything end in a fight? Why wouldn’t she listen to reason? That same familiar bubbling anger was rising in my body.

  ‘Rosie,’ I said, grabbing her by the shoulders, feeling the power of my fingertips, holding back the urge to press away her remorselessness, to make her feel how Noah felt when she bit him. ‘You’d better listen to me, young lady.’

  She stuck her tongue out at me and sang louder.

  I released her shoulders as though they were burning hot. If I continued holding them, I would have squeezed them too tightly.

  Standing up, I took my coat off, wondering how to control my fury. I was a fully-fledged grown-up and I had no idea how to calm myself down, or what to do with my own daughter. I couldn’t just leave it. She had bitten Noah’s hand. More worryingly, she was showing no remorse. There had to be consequences.

  ‘Okay, if you are rude to me one more time, I am going to confiscate your going-home present.’ I snatched up the scented rubbers and pens from the floor.

  She shrugged. ‘So what?’ The sparkles on her black bomber jacket glinted at me.

  ‘Oh right, so that doesn’t bother you. How about if I confiscate the new bag that I bought you?’

  A smile flickered across her lips. ‘I gave it away already.’

  ‘What?’ I whispered, noticing for the first time that she wasn’t wearing it. At the bowling alley when I had picked her up, it had been too chaotic to notice anything.

  ‘Charlotte wanted it, so I gave it to her.’

  The hurt cut so deep, I reeled back from her, as though she was monstrous.

  Quietly, through clenched teeth, I hissed at her, ‘Go to your room.’

  ‘No.’ She looked over her shoulder, trying to be nonchalant, but I could sense she knew she was pushing me too far.

  Louder this time. ‘I said, Go to your room.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’ She swung her arms at her side like a toddler, testing me to breaking point.

  I walked towards her with my finger pointed right into her face. ‘Get up those stairs or I’ll never let you go on another play date with Charlotte as long as you live. Ten minutes! And don’t you dare come out until I get you.’

  And she ran. An ear-splitting scream erupting from her lungs as she slammed the door. I could hear her throwing things around in her bedroom. Each thud or crash came with a howl like a wolf at the moon. ‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’ Again and again she repeated it. Each time she said it, I flinched, as though she was throwing something directly at my head.

  ‘And I hate you too,’ I whispered, dying inside a little as I said it, as if all the troubles in my life were her fault.

  ‘Noah!’ I called.

  I found him at the computer, looking up pop songs on YouTube.

  I scooped him up onto my knee and sat where he had been sitting in front of the computer.

  ‘I think Rosie’s had a little bit too much sugar at the party, don’t you?’ I said, but my voice was wobbling and my breathing ragged. ‘How’s your hand?’

  He stuck it under his thigh, hiding it from me. ‘It’s fine, Mumma.’

  A tear was still in place on his cheek, a perfect droplet suspended under his eye. I wiped it away.

  ‘Let’s have another look.’

  ‘I don’t want you to be more cross with Rosie.’

  ‘I won’t, I promise.’

  My hands were still shaking as I held his; Rosie’s wails were ringing through the house.

  There were evil little red teeth marks, but the skin wasn’t broken. I kissed it better.

  ‘Let’s put some loud music on so we can’t hear that naughty big sister of yours screaming her head off. How about some Luther?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  The sounds of ‘Never Too Much’ blasted out of the computer as I pressed the volume up to maximum. On screen, the eighties New Yorkers were tapping their cowboy boots and white sneakers and busting moves to Luther Vandross on their Walkmans and ghetto-blasters. I felt Noah’s little bottom wiggle to the music. I jumped up, holding his hands, and we bopped and pranced around, showcasing silly moves, throwing our arms and legs about like a pair of monkeys. Knowing I shouldn’t lift heavy things, I threw caution to the wind and swung him up into the air and round and round in my arms, boogying away the blues. Rosie’s screams might as well have been miles away in another country.

  A parenting book had told me to ignore tantrums, and so here I was, ignoring her, ghetto-blaster style.

  And then, cutting through the cranked up music, I heard a scream from Rosie that set my teeth on edge and my heart pounding. The pitch had changed. It suggested pain rather than attention-seeking. I dropped Noah’s hands. ‘Stay down here, Noah,’ I cried, and bolted up the stairs and burst into Rosie’s room.

  She was on her knees in the middle of an explosion of shattered, shimmering glass, holding her bloody fingers up to me, tears streaming down her face.

  The large framed photograph that had been hanging above her mantle-piece was on the floor, the glass broken in pointed splinters and shards. The professional shots of Rosie and me in the frame, cuddling and laughing against a white studio backdrop, were smeared in her blood.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I cried, terror splitting my brain in half.

  I tip-toed through the glass to rescue her, reaching under her armpits to lift her up and over the smashed pane and onto the carpet in the corridor.

  ‘I’m so sorry Mummy,’ she whimpered, holding her palms out.

  Frantically, I inspected her hands, back and front, and wrists, up and down her arms, her neck, her legs, back and front, up her thighs, for the source of the blood flow. There were two or three lacerations on her shins, and cuts on the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, and then a deeper cut through the centre of her left palm, which seemed to be the main source of the blood.

  ‘Oh darling. It’s okay now. You’re all in one piece. That’s all that matters. Come on, let’s get it cleaned up,’ I said, and I carried her to the bathroom, her chest heaving into mine as she cried and clutched at me.

  The blood swirled through the running water in the sink like pink ribbons. I worried there was too much blood, that it needed stitches. I had another look to see how deep it was, imagining the five-hour wait at A & E. Peter was due back home any minute. He’d know what to do.

  ‘Whatever were you doing in there?’ I asked, pressing the towel into her palm to stem the flow. Her chest was heaving as she spoke. ‘I was trying to put the glass back together on our picture.’

  ‘You know better than to touch broken glass, Rosie!’ I cried, wondering how the frame had fallen. Not wanting to ask, knowing she must have thrown something at it in her raging state.

  Really, I didn’t care what had happened or why, as long as the blood stopped flowing. I looked at it again, assessing it, coming to the conclusion that it probably didn’t need stitches.

  ‘It fell when teddy hit it. It’s all my fault! I hate myself! I didn’t mean to bite Noah. I am such a horrible, horrible big sister. I hate myself,’ she sobbed, throwing her arms around my neck.

  So, here was Rosie’s remorse, finally. She came to it the hard
way, but deep down I was relieved it had come to her in any way at all. It alleviated my more profound concerns about what kind of child I had given birth to, before the nurturing, before my mistakes.

  ‘Come on, no more crying. Let’s get a bandage on that cut. I think it looks much worse than it is.’

  In a strange state of after-shock, I looked into the cupboard for the plasters and couldn’t see them. Rosie’s near-miss was racing through my mind as I stared blankly into the cupboard for the box that was right in front of me.

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Hold on, that must be Daddy. He must’ve forgotten his keys. Stay there, I’ll be right back, that’s right, hold it tight on the cut.’

  ‘Silly daddy,’ Rosie sniffed.

  Leaving Rosie on the loo-seat with her hand wrapped in a bloody towel, I floated downstairs, shaken to the core, hoping to see Peter at the door in his cycling gear, hoping for a big hug.

  It was not Peter. It was Mira Entwistle.

  Her mouth was open, about to speak.

  A pink electronic diary and one silver shoe were in her hands. What was she doing with Rosie’s things? What was she doing here?

  ‘Those are Rosie’s,’ I said.

  ‘They were lying over there,’ Mira said, handing them to me, pointing to the gravel below Rosie’s bedroom. I placed them inside on the side table, and went outside to look up to Rosie’s bedroom windows, both of which were open.

  Mira stepped back, one step at a time, as if she couldn’t take her eyes off me. Her grey crew cut clashed with her ruddy complexion. Her body was thick-set, stocky and rounded. I wouldn’t win a physical fight with her, but here she was, backing away from me, seemingly terrified. I was disoriented, baffled. After the shock of Rosie’s accident, I couldn’t put two and two together.

  ‘I’m going to have to call the police,’ Mira said.

  Gemma laughed. ‘What?’

  ‘I heard everything.’

  ‘What did you hear, may I ask?’ I said, straightening, crossing my arms, indignant.

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘If you are referring to Rosie’s screaming, she had an accident, that’s all. She’s absolutely fine now,’ I said, hiding the rising panic.

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘No, you absolutely cannot see her. She hardly knows you. You have no right to come barging in here scaring her. Could you please leave?’

  Mira’s fist jabbed repeatedly at the button for the gate. I was moving towards her, but the fear in her eyes stopped me in my tracks.

  The gate closed her out and I was left quivering in the drive with the garden spinning around my head. Hormones were coursing through my body and I imagined my baby flipping about inside me like a dying fish.

  The other silver shoe was suspended in a low bush.

  I reached through the bare branches, and then whipped my arm back, jolted by the sight of my hands. My palms were covered in blood. I looked down at the rest of me. My white shirt was smeared with violent red swipes and smudges like an unravelled bandage.

  ‘Oh God.’

  I ran inside to see my face in the hall mirror. More blood, wiped down my neck. A patch on my upper lip.

  ‘Mummy?’ Rosie called.

  ‘Oh shit,’ I said to myself quietly, transfixed by my gory reflection. My palms were sweating. The wetness mixed with Rosie’s blood as if I too were bleeding now.

  Rosie called for me again. I was catatonic.

  Noah ran out from the television den and stopped to gape at me. ‘Mummy, you’re bleeding!’

  ‘Rosie cut herself,’ I said blankly, still rooted to the spot.

  ‘You can have one of my Mr Bump plasters,’ Noah said.

  ‘Thank you, Noah,’ I smiled, knowing how special they were to him. If only a Mr Bump plaster could have fixed it.

  ‘Can I have some orange juice?’

  ‘Don’t spill any.’ Like it mattered.

  And up I went, to dress Rosie’s wound, wrap a bandage around the cotton wool and gauze. Fear throbbed at my temples. Mira can’t have been serious about calling the police. I couldn’t even bring myself to imagine what was going on in her head when she saw the blood on me.

  I had been defensive and aggressive. If only I had let her in to see the broken glass, to see Rosie. If she had spoken to Rosie, she would have understood. She works at a school, she will know all about children’s tantrums.

  I decided the only thing to do was to go over there with the children and explain, or get Rosie to explain. Mira would believe me, and she’d certainly believe Rosie.

  Chapter Eleven

  TOP SECRET

  * * *

  Dear Mummy,

  * * *

  My diary did not break when I threw it out of the window! AND THE CROWD GOES WILD!

  * * *

  BUT BUTT-FACE, my hand is mega painful though :( and it stings like mad.

  If it was on my other hand I would not have to do any homework and that would be AWESOME. :) ;).

  * * *

  Maybe I should cut my other hand. DOUBLE OUCH. NO WAY.

  * * *

  Now I have to go to Mira next door and tell her that I am okay. Maybe I should put a letter in the blue bucket like I did when I was little. She’s nice to worry about me. Am I okay? Not really but you will never understand so what is the point in telling you?

  * * *

  INVISIBLE INK ALERT: I did not give my bag to Charlotte. I loved it so, so, so much. She forced me to give it to her. If I tell on her, she said she’s going to cut off my ponytail when I’m not looking. I believe her too because she did that to her friend at her other school. MEAN CHARLOTTE. MEANIE MEAN MEAN.

  * * *

  The picture of me and you is broken and that makes me want to cry.

  * * *

  Better go, you are calling me and telling me to hurry up. Always shouting. Shouty, shouty mummy.

  * * *

  Love,

  Rosie

  * * *

  P.S. No time for that!

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Gemma was covered in blood. We have to call the police,’ Mira cried, charging around the house trying to find her phone while Barry and Deidre stood there staring at her.

  ‘Stop running around like a blue-arsed fly. What do you mean, she was covered in blood?’ Deidre barked.

  ‘Blood was on her clothes and her hands! Blood. Covered in blood, like in a horror film.’

  ‘I’d better go round there,’ Barry said, putting down his mug.

  ‘To check I’m not making it up?’

  ‘No, Mira, to check the girl is okay.’

  ‘Don’t you think I tried? She wouldn’t let me in! Don’t you understand? That’s why we need to call the police,’ Mira cried.

  Deidre pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialled.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mira shouted.

  ‘Calling the police!’

  ‘I want to talk to PC Yorke. Where the bloody hell is my phone?’

  Mira wanted to pull her own head off with frustration. Whirling around her mind were Rosie’s chilling screams: You can’t make me, I hate you, you can’t shut me in here, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

  ‘999 will send you to the same place, love,’ Deidre said, with the phone to her ear.

  ‘Yes, police, please... I want to report an incident at my sister’s neighbour’s house... We think a child is in danger... Immediate, yes, I suppose so... Mira? What’s her name?’

  ‘Rosie Bradley.’

  ‘Gemma Bradley is the mother and Rosie Bradley is the daughter... domestic abuse of some sort... There was lots of screaming from Rosie... Mira, what’s the other child’s name?’ she asked.

  ‘Noah.’

  ‘Noah... Well, the mother had blood all over her clothes and the girl... yes, Rosie... was screaming blue murder... Yes, hold on.... what number is her house?’

  ‘Four.’ Mira’s voice came out gruffly. Even to her own ear, she sounded like a diff
erent person. The line she was crossing had changed her already.

  Each and every detail of what she had seen and heard she relived, making sure she could clearly justify their 999 call.

  Gemma’s rough handling of Rosie out of the car, dragging her almost, was distressing in itself; Rosie’s possessions being hurled with such force out of the window; the loud crash of what sounded like a big object being thrown, which possibly hit something, or someone; the blood-curdling cry from Rosie, followed by the inappropriate music. Or did she hear the music before the scream? Was Gemma trying to drown out Rosie’s screams? Then the sudden quiet. The vision of Gemma, covered in blood, unaware or unashamed, had been appalling. The steely eyes, the haughty manner, the cold rebuttal. If she had nothing to hide, why ever would she not let her see Rosie?

  There was nothing else for it. Anyone with a conscience would have to call the police. There was no time for doubt.

  ‘Number four, Virginia Close, Denton... Number three... Mira, M.I.R.A., Entwistle, E.N.T.W.I.S.T.L.E. GU21 5XR... Uh huh... Okay. Thank you,’ Deidre said, hanging up. ‘They’re sending out the next available unit,’ she told them.

  Deidre sat down at the kitchen table.

  ‘Why did you have to use my name?’

  ‘You think that woman next door won’t know it’s you?’

  ‘You don’t have to stay, you know,’ Mira said, biting back much more.

  ‘I can’t leave you now,’ Deidre said. ‘Let’s play Gin Rummy.’ She pulled out a pack of cards from her handbag.

  ‘Terrific idea,’ Barry said.

  Reluctantly, Mira sat down in front of the cards Deidre was dealing at the kitchen table and tried to focus on her hand.

  The ticking of the clock was loud in her right ear. Every second was an hour.

  While Deidre studied her cards, Mira stole glances at Barry, whose right eyebrow twitched. He studiously avoided looking at Mira. Since the call to the police, she had been unable to catch his eye. Clearly, he believed she had been wrong, Mira thought. As though it were a permanent state, Mira felt wrong in the face of what she believed to be right. She had always been wrong, about everything. Wrong. A wrong-un, as her mother had said once.