Let Me Lie(73)

Is that what I want?

‘Nothing on the note, and apparently brick’s a bad surface for prints.’

The relief I feel takes me by surprise.

‘They’re waiting for DNA results on the elastic band.’ He shrugged, already writing off any hope of a conclusion. In the meantime, the nursery window’s been repaired, and an order placed for front and back security lights.

‘Hello?’ I say.

The phone line is quiet.

‘Hello?’ Fear pools in my stomach.

Silence. No, not quite silence. A rustle. Breathing.

Dad?

I don’t say it. I can’t. Not only because Mark is listening, but because I’m worried my voice will betray me. That the anger that fills my heart and head for what Dad did to Mum – to me – will be overshadowed the second I start speaking. That the fear and hatred that has descended in the last week will be cancelled out by twenty-six years of love.

Twenty-six years of lies, I remind myself, steeling my heart and closing my mind to the memories that assault me: Dad, calling to say he’ll be late; to wish me a happy birthday, when he and Billy were away with work; to remind me to revise; to see if we need anything; to ask me to record Planet Earth.

I press refresh on the images; see instead what I now know to be the truth. Dad, throwing my homemade paperweight against the wall in a fit of rage; relying on booze to get through the day; stashing bottles around the house; hitting Mum.

I can’t put the phone down. I stand, feet frozen to the spot, receiver clamped to my ear. Desperate for him to speak, yet terrified of what he’d say.

He says nothing.

There’s a quiet click, and the line goes dead.

‘No one there,’ I say when I return to the sitting room, in answer to Mark’s enquiring look.

‘That’s a bit concerning. We should let the police know. They might be able to trace the call.’

Could they? Do I want them to? I can’t think straight. If the police arrest Dad, we will be safe. Mum will be safe. His fake suicide will be uncovered, and he’ll go to prison. Mum’ll be in trouble too, but surely domestic abuse is mitigation enough? Women have been acquitted of more in similar circumstances.

But.

Maybe Dad used a call box. Maybe there’s CCTV. Maybe the police will trace the call; see the images. They’ll know that Dad is still alive, but he won’t be safely behind bars. Maybe he won’t ever be behind bars. Mum’s faked suicide will be uncovered, and Dad’ll still be out there. Still free. Still a threat.

‘It was one of those call centres,’ I say. ‘I could hear the other operators in the background.’

It seems once you start lying, it’s easy to carry on.

It’s eight o’clock when the text message comes. The television is showing a re-run of some early classic with Richard Briers that neither of us is watching. We’re both looking at our phones, scrolling through mindless Facebook updates, tapping ‘like’ on every other one. My phone is on silent, the message appearing on my screen from a number I’ve saved under ‘Angela’.

Now?

My heart beats furiously. I glance at Mark, but he’s paying no attention. I tap a reply.

I’m not sure about this.

Please, Anna. I don’t know how much longer I can risk staying here.





I tap another message. Delete it; tap another; delete that too.

How could I have even entertained the idea of bringing Mum here, introducing her to Mark? She’s supposed to be dead. Okay, so her hair’s different; she’s thinner; she looks older than she is. But she’s still my mother.

He’ll know.

I’m sorry – I can’t do this.





I type out the message, but as I tap ‘send’ the doorbell rings out, confident and clear. I look up, eyes wide in panic. Mark’s already on his feet, and I scramble to follow him into the hall, where it’s clear from the shape of the stained-glass silhouette that it’s her.

He opens the door.

If she’s nervous, she’s hiding it well.

She looks him in the eye. ‘You must be Mark.’

There’s a fraction of a pause before he responds. I move to stand next to him, although I’m convinced he’ll be able to hear my heart thudding, and as he waits politely for an explanation, I know I have no alternative but to continue the charade.

‘Angela! Mark, this is Mum’s second cousin. We bumped into each other yesterday and she said she’d love to meet you and Ella, so …’ I tail off. The story Mum and I concocted as we walked along the seafront seems ludicrous now, the lies we’re feeding Mark making me sick to the stomach.

But my lies are to protect him. I can’t have Mark implicated in my parents’ crimes. I won’t.

He steps back with the broad smile of a man who is used to guests dropping in unannounced. I wonder if Mum sees – as I do – the concern behind this cheery fa?ade. Concern because I’ve never mentioned a cousin before? Or because his emotionally unstable partner has apparently once again forgotten to tell him she invited someone over? For once I hope it’s the latter.

I scour his face for signs of suspicion, for a flicker of recognition.

Nothing.

It’s only now that I realise how uneasy I’ve been about Mum’s handwriting on Mark’s flyer; that I needed this confirmation, despite the reassurance from both sides.