Sometimes I Lie. Alice Feeney

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ me; far easier to surrender and let it wash me up when it’s good and ready. I fear one day the dark water will swallow me down for good, I won’t always be able to resurface. Switches are either on or off. People are either up or down. When I’m down, it’s so very hard to get back up and this is the furthest I’ve ever fallen. Even if I could remember my way back to normal, I don’t think I’d recognise myself when I got there.

      ‘I wish I knew whether you could hear me,’ says Paul.

      I feel dizzy and, as I try to tune in to his words, they crackle and distort. His tone twists into something aggressive shaped and I hear the legs of his chair screech across the floor as he stands, like a warning. He leans over me, his face so close, examining my own, as though he thinks I’m pretending.

      And then I feel large hands close around my throat.

      The sensation lasts less than a second and I know instantly that what I felt wasn’t real, it can’t have been. A dark flash of a memory I’d rather forget perhaps, but even that doesn’t make sense, Paul wouldn’t do that. I try to make sense of what I just felt but I can’t remember what is real any more. Paul paces back and forth and I wish he’d be still. The effort required to listen to him walking around the room is exhausting. I don’t want to be afraid of my husband, but he’s not himself and I don’t know this version.

      Claire arrives and a brief sensation of relief is obliterated by a wave of confusion. I expect them to argue again, but they don’t. I think he will leave now, but he doesn’t.

       And when she was up, she was up.

      There has been a shift of gear between them.

       And when she was down, she was down.

      It sounds like they hug each other. I stop myself hoping that she’ll ask what happened at the police station, it’s obvious from their conversation that she already knows.

       And when she was only halfway up . . .

      The plot thickens and continues on without me beyond this room.

       She was neither up, nor down.

      I feel jealous of what Claire knows. I feel jealous of everything.

      When Mum and Dad first brought Claire home, all she did was cry. She needed so much of their attention and behaved in a way that demanded our lives orbit hers. Mum and Dad didn’t hear the tears I cried at night, they didn’t see me at all after that. I became the invisible daughter. Her screams in the night would wake us all, but it was Mum who got up to be with her. It was Mum who wanted Claire in the first place; I wasn’t enough for her, that’s clear to me now. Our family went from three to four, even though we couldn’t really afford it; there wasn’t enough love to go around.

Then

       Tuesday, 20th December 2016 – Evening

      I’ve been shopping. Food shopping this time. I unpack the frozen items first, then chilled, then the rest, rearranging things as I go, so that everything is where it should be. The larder requires the most work. I take everything out, every tin, jar and bottle. I wipe down all the shelves and start again, carefully arranging each item according to size, labels facing front. It’s completely dark by the time I’m finished. I can see the light is on in the shed at the top of the garden, which means Paul is still up there writing. Maybe he has turned a corner. I pop a bottle of cava in the fridge, it was a small victory at work today, but one worth celebrating. Project Madeline is most definitely off to a good start. I notice the half-empty white-wine bottle in the fridge door, I don’t remember seeing it there before. I don’t drink white wine and neither does Paul. Perhaps he used it for a recipe. I remove the offending bottle, pour myself a glass and start cooking. It tastes like cat piss, but I’m thirsty so I drink it anyway.

      When the dinner is almost ready, I set places at the dining-room table we never sit at, put on some music and light a couple of candles. The only thing missing now is my husband. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s writing, but it’s past eight and I want to spend what’s left of the evening together. He won’t mind once he knows we’re having lamb, it’s his favourite. I head out into the garden, the cold slapping my cheeks. The lawn is a bit slippery in places and it’s hard to see where I’m going, the dim light from the shed struggling to light my way.

      ‘Good evening, resident writer,’ I say in a silly deep voice as I open the door. My smile soon fades when I realise the shed is empty. I stand there for a while, looking around as though Paul might be hiding, then I glance back outside, peering around the garden in the darkness as though he might jump out from behind a bush and yell, Boo!

      ‘Paul?’ I don’t know why I’m calling his name, when my eyes have already informed me that he is clearly not here. I feel panic rise up my chest and tighten around my throat. He isn’t in the house either, I’ve been home for a couple of hours now, I would have seen or heard him. My husband who is always here has gone and I’m so consumed by myself, I didn’t even notice he was missing. I must not overreact. I’ve always had an overactive imagination and a tendency to fear the worst in any given situation. I’m sure there will be a simple explanation for Paul not being here, but the voices in my head are less optimistic. I run back to the house, slipping and sliding on the muddy grass.

      Back inside, I call Paul’s name again. Nothing. I call his mobile. I hear a faint ringing sound from upstairs. Relief floods through me as I realise it is coming from our bedroom, maybe he’s having a nap, perhaps he wasn’t feeling well. I run up the stairs and push open the bedroom door, smiling at my own ridiculous panic. The bed has been made and he isn’t in it. He never makes the bed. Confused for a moment, I dial his number again. The familiar ringtone begins, I’m in the right room, but the sound is coming from the closed wardrobe. My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the handle. I tell myself I’m just being silly; I’m sure there is a perfectly normal explanation for all of this – Paul isn’t in the wardrobe, we’re not children playing hide and seek and this isn’t some horror film where there’s a body in the cupboard. I twist the handle and open the door to his wardrobe. Nothing. I dial his number again and see the glow of the phone through the pocket of his favourite jacket. The mystery of the missing phone is solved, but not the missing husband. I spot an expensive-looking pink gift bag, partially hidden beneath the row of jeans and cotton tops that Paul calls his ‘writing uniform’. I pull it out and stare inside, carefully unwrapping the tissue paper hiding its contents. The black satin and lace feel foreign on my fingertips, the sort of thing I used to wear. A Christmas present for me perhaps. Not the sort of thing he normally buys. The bra looks a bit small and I check the label. It’s the wrong size, I hope he’s kept the receipt.

      I come back downstairs in a daze and make sure the oven is off. In the middle of my routine, the now-empty bottle of white wine catches my eye and produces a moment of recognition. It’s one of Claire’s favourites. She’s been here. I put my hand over my mouth, run to the kitchen sink and throw up. When nothing more will come, I spit, turn on the tap and wipe my face with a tea towel. I check the oven three times, then grab my bag, quickly checking the contents. ‘Phone. Purse. Keys,’ I say, deliberately, out loud when my eyes confirm their presence, as though things are only real when we speak them. I start to leave but stop in the hallway, opening the bag again. ‘Phone . . . Purse . . . Keys,’ I say, more slowly this time, my eyes resting on each item long enough for me to believe what I’m seeing. Even so, I check them one last time before closing the door behind me.

      Claire lives СКАЧАТЬ