Silent Lies: A gripping psychological thriller Read online

  I think Alison and I each expect the other to request an accommodation transfer from the university, but for some reason neither one of us has bothered so far. I would do it, but I don’t need the hassle of uprooting myself again. I can stick it out until summer and then I will definitely not share with her again in my second year.

  It’s dark in here, other than the faint orange glow from the street light right outside, so I know she’s not home, but we never tell each other where we’re going.

  As I always do when I find myself at home alone, I head to Alison’s room and try the door handle. Just to see. But of course it’s locked, as it always is. I don’t know how she got a lock on her door when I don’t have one, but I think her dad must have done it for her.

  Either she doesn’t trust me or she’s got something to hide, but it’s hard to imagine Miss Studious Bookworm has a dead body hidden under her bed. I laugh at the thought. She’s so frail and skinny I doubt she’d have the strength to do anyone any harm. But then again, it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. She’s always staring at me, and I have no idea why.

  My stomach rumbles so I head to the kitchen to get something to eat. There is nothing in my cupboard but a half-empty bottle of ketchup, not even bread, and the nearest shop is a half-hour walk away, so I ransack Alison’s supplies. Another difference between us: her cupboard is full of food, all of it neatly arranged with all the labels facing forwards.

  I grab a can of tomato soup and a couple of slices of bread; I’ve done it before on the odd occasion and she never says anything, so I don’t think she notices. Or she’s too afraid to confront me. Yes, I feel bad, but not too bad – her parents pay her rent every month and send extra money for food so she doesn’t have to pull shifts in a coffee shop to get through her degree.

  While I eat my soup I think of my conversation with Zach Hamilton and how he raved about my short story. I replay his words in my head and they fill me up, making me float.

  My phone beeps with a text and I scoop it up, smearing the screen with a residue of butter. I wipe it off with a sheet of kitchen roll that’s been left lying on the table, probably by me, earlier. I’m not messy, but Alison’s ridiculous cleanliness drives me crazy, shouts out for me to defy it.

  The text is from Anthony, a psychology student I met in a bar last week. Did something happen between us? I remember black hair, golden skin, stubble on his face, as if he was trying to prove he was a grown man, him leaning in to me, whispering something about me being hot, but I’m sure I pushed him away, as I always do.

  I read his short message: Wanna meet up tonight?

  No How are you? or Hope you’re okay. He may as well just ask me if I’ll screw him.

  Sorry, busy. I press send and smile as I imagine the look on his face as he reads my rejection.

  Another text comes through, this time from someone I’m actually happy to hear from: Vanessa, another student I met somewhere along the way, asking if I’m up for a night of tequila shots at her place. The thrill of the offer is hard to resist. Vanessa is a good laugh, and she doesn’t judge me or anyone else. I wouldn’t call her a friend, but it’s nice to have superficial acquaintances in the absence of anything else.

  I’m still eating when a key turns in the front door and Alison appears in the kitchen doorway, a ridiculously large bag slung over her arm, textbooks poking out. I’m surprised her body can bear the weight of it.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, her eyes flicking to my bowl of unfinished soup. Her reddish hair, set in pristine waves, glints in the light. She places her bag on the floor.

  ‘Hi.’ We may dislike each other but there’s no harm in being polite if we’re going to be stuck with each other until summer.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re home,’ she says, in her passive aggressive way. Why doesn’t she just come right out and say, It’s almost 9 p.m., shouldn’t you be off your skull by now?

  I push my bowl aside. ‘Felt like a night in.’

  She doesn’t reply, but opens her food cupboard and rummages around, turning back to glance at my bowl. I pray for her to say something this time, to confront me so we can have a huge row that will force one of us to call accommodation services to request an immediate transfer.

  But all she does is rearrange her food to cover the gap her can of soup has left.

  I almost feel guilty again now. Perhaps I will replace it tomorrow. After all, we can’t help the families we’re born into. Some of us are just dealt a shitty blow, while others, like Alison, have perfect, doting parents. Anyway, she may be weird but she’s never actually done anything to me, apart from her freaky staring. I can live with that; I’ve lived with far worse.

  I head to my room and lie on the bed, surprised to find I’m thinking about Zach Hamilton again. Minutes later, I jump up to sit at my desk. Before turning on my laptop, I text Vanessa to let her know I won’t be going out tonight.

  I’ve got studying to do.

  Chapter Three

  Mia

  * * *

  It’s no exaggeration to say that the walls are closing in on me, sucking out my breath. I stare at the frail young woman sitting opposite me, and in an instant her eyes change from defiant to frightened, as if someone has flicked a switch.

  ‘What? What did you say?’

  Her face crinkles. ‘What do you mean? I was just telling you I need to get the key from my partner to set myself free. We were talking about me being a prisoner in my own life.’ She leans forward. ‘Are you okay, Mia?’

  Panic floods through me. Perhaps I’m losing my mind. Post-traumatic stress disorder or something. It’s only to be expected after what happened. It’s a miracle I’ve held it together this long. But I heard her. I couldn’t have imagined it. ‘You just mentioned my husband, Alison.’

  She frowns and shakes her head. ‘No, I didn’t. You must be mistaken. I was talking about my partner. I don’t know your husband.’

  I stare at her, shock rendering me speechless. But I know what I heard. ‘What’s your partner’s name?’

  ‘Aaron. I told you that. Didn’t you write it down?’

  But I don’t take notes during my sessions, in case it intimidates people that I’m writing things they cannot see. I note down all the important details afterwards, once I’m alone. ‘No, I didn’t. But I know you said his name was Dominic. That’s not a name I’d forget.’

  She shakes her head again, wrapping her arms around herself. ‘Oh, that’s weird. But I didn’t say that. You’re freaking me out now. What sort of counsellor are you? You haven’t even been listening to me and now you’re making things up.’

  I’m about to try and reason with her but before I can work out how to do that, Alison is standing up and storming out of my office, slamming the front door behind her, a trail of her flowery scent following her out.

  From the window I watch her cross the road and head past the park, her black figure a sharp contrast to the blinding sunshine. I’m tempted to run after her, but what would I say? What if she’s right and I didn’t hear what I thought I had? But how is that possible? It’s been five years since Zach died, why would my mind start reliving it so intensely now?

  The shortness of breath comes quickly, along with the feeling that I’m about to suffocate. I rush to my chair to sit down, but it does little to stop me shaking.

  I glance at the clock on the wall and it’s only two twenty, which means she was only in here for twenty minutes. Opening my desk drawer, I pull out her folder and scan the contact sheet. I always get a phone number and address for my clients, but even as I key in the digits of her mobile number I know there will be no ringtone.

  I’m right, and I disconnect the call, more confused than ever.

  Desperate for fresh air, I run through the house to the back garden, falling to a heap on the decking.

  * * *

  ‘Mummy? Mummy, are you okay?’ Freya’s small hand is shaking me, and slowly I open my eyes. Her large brown eyes stare down at me and beside her Wil
l kneels and helps pull me up.

  ‘What happened? Are you okay?’ His voice is steady; he is holding it together, despite how shocking it must be to come back and find me sprawled out here like this.

  ‘I’m… I think so. I must have collapsed or fainted. I don’t remember.’

  But I do. I remember everything. Alison Cummings. The statement she made about Zach not committing suicide and then, two seconds later, her claim to have said no such thing. I feel dizzy, sick to my stomach.

  ‘Can you get Mummy some water please, Freya?’ Will helps me to one of the garden chairs and I sink into the cushion.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask, patting my pockets for my mobile. But I feel nothing in there other than some tissues, so I must have left it in my office.

  ‘Almost four. We didn’t go to the cinema in the end. Freya changed her mind about the film so we went to Creams instead. I hope that’s okay? I know you try not to give her too much sugar.’

  I nod and thank him. Right now it doesn’t matter if Freya had some ice cream; that’s the least of my worries.

  Will scans the garden. ‘What were you doing out here?’ he asks. ‘Did you see your client at two?’

  ‘Yes, I saw her,’ I say, and he frowns, as if he doesn’t believe my story, as if something doesn’t quite make sense. But how can I tell him the rest without sounding delusional? Without sounding like I’m the one in need of help?

  ‘And did it go okay?’ Will asks. ‘What happened after that? Can you really not remember?’ He sighs. ‘I’m worried about you, Mia, and I think we need to get you to a doctor. Or at least call 111 and see what they think?’

  He asks so many questions that I don’t know which one he expects me to answer first. Will means well, but there is no way I’m going to the hospital. ‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m not sitting around in A&E for hours just to be told I had heatstroke or something. Maybe I didn’t drink enough today. That must be it. Honestly, I’m fine now.’

  Physically, maybe, but what about my mind? I keep this thought to myself.

  But Will won’t let this go easily; he’s not the type to accept something without questioning everything he’s told, instead preferring to investigate and analyse for himself. ‘Do you think that’s what it is then? You were out in the sun too long? Got dehydrated?’

  I grab his hand, in part to prove to him how hot and sticky my own is. ‘Yes, I’m sure it’s that. It’s sweltering today.’

  Will’s mouth twists – he’s not convinced – but he finally gives me the benefit of the doubt. At least for now. ‘Okay, Mia, but if you won’t get checked out then I’m not leaving you alone tonight. I should be here in case it happens again.’ He puts his hands up. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sleep in the spare room again. I know you don’t want Freya to see us sharing the same bed.’

  What he’s saying makes sense; I have my daughter to think about and I can’t risk fainting again. I’m sure it’s just the shock of what I heard – or thought I heard – Alison Cummings say, but I won’t take any chances.

  ‘Thanks,’ I tell Will. ‘That would be good.’

  His face doesn’t light up as I’ve expected, and the shadow of his frown remains there. ‘I’ll have to pop home quickly and get some things. I’ve got a presentation tomorrow and need my laptop.’

  Freya appears, carefully holding a glass in both hands. She’s overfilled it and water spills over the edges, sloshing onto her sandals and the decking. I rush to take it from her before it ends up all over her. ‘Thank you, sweetheart.’

  ‘Are you okay now, Mummy? I was really scared.’

  Putting my glass on the garden table, I grab her and hold her tightly. ‘I’m fine, nothing to worry about. I think the sun just made me a bit dizzy, that’s all.’

  She squints, and I know she’s deciding whether or not to believe me. Even though she doesn’t remember Zach, she knows he was taken from us and it gives her a lot of anxiety. It breaks my heart and I often have to reassure her that I’m not going anywhere.

  But how can I be so sure? I didn’t think Zach would be dead so young. None of us know what’s around the corner.

  Alison Cummings. Who the hell is she?

  ‘Okay, Mummy.’ Freya’s little arms tighten around me and I wipe a smudge of vanilla ice cream from her hair.

  ‘Hey, guess what? Will’s going to stay the night, won’t that be exciting?’

  She jumps out of my arms and screams, ‘Yay! Can we watch a film because we never got to see one today?’

  I glance at Will but he’s already nodding. He tells her of course they can and she skips off to the bottom of the garden, clambering onto her trampoline.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘For everything.’

  Will kisses my forehead. ‘No problem. I’ll make a move now so I can get back in time to watch a film.’

  Once he’s gone, I quickly make Freya fish fingers and sweet potato wedges. It’s one of her favourite meals – the least I can do after giving her such a scare. Will and I can eat something later, once she’s in bed.

  I try to focus, to listen to every word Freya is saying in between mouthfuls of food, but I can’t stop thinking about Alison Cummings. About Zach. I need to know who she is, and what possible reason she could have had to tell me something like that and then retract it so quickly. And the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that she did say those things. I am not falling apart, having some sort of crisis, that’s just not me. Somehow I held it together when Zach died – yes, for Freya’s sake, but having her gave me strength I never knew I had. So I’m not going to doubt myself now.

  She said those words.

  Your husband didn’t kill himself.

  And I need to know why. What does she think she knows? And why did she take it back?

  While Freya’s having a bath, I load up my laptop and wait for Google to appear. I don’t know how much time I have before Will gets back, so I need to be quick. I can do more once we’re all in bed, but even that amount of time feels too long to wait.

  I type Alison’s name into the search box and hits immediately appear. Most of them are Facebook profiles, though there are a few websites with her name highlighted. If it’s even her real name, that is. But when I check them, one by one, none of them are the same woman I met today.

  I don’t have Facebook any more. After Zach died I deleted it, sick of the abuse I was getting for what he supposedly did, despairing of the vitriolic messages from strangers who had nothing to do with our lives. I will never put myself on social media again, never put myself in the firing line.

  Maybe it’s easier to look for people if you have an account? I know Will is on there, so I will have to think of a reason to get him logged in so I can check the profiles, but it won’t be easy unless I tell him the truth.

  For now, though, I check the profiles I can see, but after ten minutes I still haven’t found the woman I’m looking for.

  ‘Mummy, can you help me wash my hair?’ Freya shouts from the bathroom.

  I close the laptop, but keep it nearby for later – there won’t be much sleep for me tonight.

  ‘Is Will here yet?’ Freya asks, when I join her in the bathroom. I stare at her countless bath toys and wonder when she’ll no longer ask for them. Time passes too quickly in some ways, and much too slowly in others.

  ‘Any minute now,’ I say. ‘When we’re finished in here you can get your pyjamas on then we’ll go down and pick a film out.’

  She beams from beneath a crown of shampoo. ‘Can I have a hot chocolate? Please, Mummy.’

  ‘Okay, but I’m sure you had one yesterday too. And you’ve already had ice cream today. Probably a huge one, I’m guessing?’ She smiles her cheeky grin, the one that’s identical to her father’s, and I begin to melt. ‘Okay, but let’s not make a habit of it.’

  ‘I promise I won’t keep asking.’

  That’s just one of the wonderful things about my daughter – I know she’ll keep to her word.

  Less than half a
n hour later we all sit huddled together on the sofa, Freya cushioned between Will and me, her head resting on my arm. This would be bliss, a perfect moment where I might actually believe things are going to be all right, but the heavy weight of Alison Cummings bears down on me.

  Although I’m facing the television – Freya has chosen Frozen for about the twentieth time – I cannot take in anything the characters are saying or doing. It’s lucky I’ve seen it all those times before, because I know she’ll want to discuss it afterwards, as always. I just sit here, numb, counting the minutes until it’s over and I can get back on the laptop.

  * * *

  After the film, once Freya is in bed, Will suggests we have a glass of wine. Although the idea of it is appealing – something to take the edge off this day – I am desperate to get back to my laptop.

  ‘I really don’t think I should after what happened earlier. I don’t want to risk having alcohol,’ I say.

  Will agrees. ‘I didn’t think about that,’ he says. ‘You don’t mind if I have one, though, do you? I could get you something else?’

  I tell him how tired I am, that it’s been a long day and I need to get some sleep. I still want to ask him about his Facebook page, but can’t think of a legitimate reason for needing to see it. He will think I don’t trust him, and I’ve spent our whole two-year relationship trying to prove that I’m not paranoid about what he does when I’m not with him, despite Zach.

  ‘How about I join you for a bit?’ His smile spreads across his face, making it even harder for me to disappoint him. Usually, once Freya is in bed, this is our time together, and even though he sleeps in the spare room when he stays over, for the first part of the night he is always in my bed.

  ‘Will, I’m so sorry, but I think I just need to sleep tonight. Is that okay? I promise I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says. He tries to stay upbeat but I know he must be disappointed. ‘I’ll just pop to the shop and get some wine in. I noticed you didn’t have any. Do you need anything?’