Seven Lies Read online

  If I had been that sure, so categorically sure, would I have done what I did?

  “Afternoon, miss,” said the doorman as I entered the lobby.

  “Evening, Jeremy,” I replied, smiling. He didn’t stand and walk toward me and declare that I was no longer allowed in this building and demand that I leave immediately, so I felt the beginnings of relief as I stood and waited for the elevator.

  I hoped that Charles might still be at work and that I could talk to Marnie alone, to explain the situation as I saw it. I knew I could make her understand.

  The elevator was empty, and I watched my face in the mirrored walls as it ascended. I think I always knew that Marnie was destined for that sort of life, with parquet floors and chandeliers and doormen and mirrored elevators in which the glass was always clean, never a fingerprint or a smudge.

  I approached their door and rang the bell, but there was no response. The bulb overhead had blown, and I was shrouded in shadow, standing in a puddle of gray, with a gold haze on either side from the lights above the neighboring doors. It was quite beautiful, the dark between the light, and a little unnerving, too. I hovered there and waited what felt like an appropriate length of time before ringing the bell again, depressing the buzzer for longer this time.

  Again, there was no answer.

  I pressed my ear against the door. I was listening for Marnie’s voice or the radio or the rush of cars passing beneath their balcony. I could only hear the sound of my own skin scratching against the thick wood of their door. I stood back and looked from side to side. There was no one around; no residents or visitors at any of the apartments on this stretch of corridor.

  I rooted through my handbag: I knew that it was still in there. I hadn’t used it in a very long time—I hadn’t needed to—but I thought it might be useful, so I’d kept it. I found the key at the bottom of the little pouch sewn into the inner lining of my bag, the hidden compartment where I kept painkillers and tampons and sticks of lip balm.

  I paused again, listening, and then inserted the key into the lock. I pulled my hand away and looked around, checking once more for neighbors. But I was still alone.

  I want you to know that I wasn’t planning anything sinister. I didn’t know then what was going to happen next; there was no way to know. I suppose I really wasn’t thinking that far ahead, not when I remembered that I had the key and not moments later when I found it.

  I’d like to say that I wanted to drop off some flowers, to maybe leave a nice card. I’d like it even more were I able to say that I planned to cook them a meal, something special.

  But those would all be lies—the kind that I’ve already warned you about, those that are so appealing that you, too, are tempted to believe them.

  I had no reason to think that Charles would be dead less than ten minutes later.

  I let myself inside. I suppose I was planning—and it is important that you know this now, that you understand my intentions—to quickly look downstairs and then upstairs and then I’d have gone back into the hallway to wait for one of them to arrive home. I wasn’t going to move anything or take anything or overstay my welcome.

  I certainly wasn’t planning to kill him.

  I had been planning to check the kitchen. I wanted to look in the fridge. I would have known then if I was welcome. If she had strawberries stored in the salad drawer, then she was expecting me. And if she had an unopened tub of ice cream in the freezer, then she was definitely on my side. She would only have bought ice cream for me. I would have known then that it wasn’t over, that our friendship hadn’t disintegrated entirely, that she wasn’t willing to let me go.

  There were photographs of us together on the mantelpiece in the living room and a new one, from the wedding, in a silver frame on a ledge at the foot of the stairs. If they had been gone, then I’d have known to worry. There were things I had bought her over the years: a purple umbrella that was always propped against the understair cupboard, a pink pom-pom lamp by her writing desk, and a cuckoo clock in the downstairs bathroom.

  I guess I hoped that there might be evidence of some change in their relationship over the previous seven days. It would have been nice, for example, to find Charles’s wardrobe empty, his clothes and shoes and suits all gone, and the magazines and bookmarks and flash drives missing from his bedside table.

  I could imagine Marnie coming home and I, by then, would have been back in the hallway waiting for her. I would have pretended that I didn’t yet know, that I had no reason to believe she would choose me over him. And she would have been overcome by sobbing, confiding in me, and saying that it had never felt right with him, that he had always been just a little too controlling and sometimes too distant and thank goodness I had found the strength to be honest with her.

  But I didn’t go upstairs and I didn’t look in Charles’s wardrobe. I didn’t go into the kitchen and I didn’t look in the freezer. I didn’t look at the mantelpiece, either. I never made it that far.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In time, there would be pieces in newspapers that would argue otherwise. They would insinuate that I had manipulated the situation very carefully, suggesting that I had committed a perfect murder. But that isn’t what happened.

  I opened the door, but only very slightly, wanting to make as little noise as possible. I stepped into the apartment, turning to scan the corridor one final time. I didn’t want the neighbors to see me and then mention, casually, at some point over the next few weeks, the young woman who popped by and let herself in. Thankfully, I was still alone. I shut the door quickly and I put on the chain. This, perhaps, was a little calculated. If they had returned, I would have rushed to grab the watering can from beneath the bathroom sink and pretended that I was looking after the plants. Or perhaps I would have rushed to the kitchen to boil the kettle or started folding the laundry—something helpful and almost acceptable—so that they didn’t discover me rooting through their drawers.

  The lights in the apartment were switched off. It took my eyes a couple of seconds to adjust to the darkness. I didn’t see him straightaway. I didn’t notice him there at the foot of the stairs.

  I jumped and my back slammed into the door, my lower ribs catching on the handle. I instinctively bent forward and my handbag slipped from my shoulder, the metal clasp clattering against the floor. I watched as my things tumbled and rolled across the wood—a tube of lipstick, my purse, my keys, so loud as they landed.

  I wondered if he might be dead. I felt a strange sort of joy—a little excited—as though that wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world.

  When I looked up again, his eyes were open. He was lying on his back, but his left ankle was twisted and his shoulder was bent at an awkward angle. There was a patch of dried blood on his temple and a small burgundy stain on the wooden floor. He was wearing pajama bottoms, flannel with blue stripes, and a university sweater. I had never seen him dressed so casually.

  He groaned.

  I felt momentarily disappointed that he wasn’t in fact dead. And then that disappointment was overwhelmed by anger.

  Wasn’t it typical of Charles to still be alive? A fall like that might have killed someone else, but, no, not Charles. He was just too persistent, always there, never anywhere else, always so very present.

  He coughed.

  “Jane,” he croaked.

  He cleared his throat and he winced as the movement in his chest sent vibrations through his shoulder.

  “Oh, Jane,” he said. “Thank God.”

  I turned on the light and he blinked a couple of times in quick succession.

  “I fell,” he said. “I don’t know when . . . I was . . . What time is it? My shoulder. It’s dislocated. And . . . I couldn’t get up. My ankle. I think my back . . . Oh, you’re here. I’m so glad you’re here. My phone. An ambulance.”

  He furrowed his brow. He was confused. Perhaps bec
ause I was standing still, my back pressed against the door and the contents of my handbag pooled at my feet and doing none of the things that a normal person might be doing in this situation.

  I remember seeing Jonathan fly. The taxi stole his feet from beneath him and the force of it propelled him forward and onto the sidewalk a few yards ahead. I didn’t think about how to respond; I instinctively ran to be by his side and crumpled down beside him, touching him, trying to quell the bleeding, find the breaks, as though I had the capacity to save him. I wanted to climb into his body. I wanted to fix him from within. I was shouting at him—all manner of nonsense, the things you see in films—to stay with me, to keep his eyes open, not to worry, everything would be fine if he could just stay with me, stay with me.

  But I was not rushing toward Charles. I was not asking him questions, one after the other, about what went wrong and where was he hurting and what could I do. I was not picking my phone up from the floor or crossing to collect his, which was lying just a few yards out of his reach.

  I was doing nothing at all.

  “Jane,” he said. His forehead was creased, his eyes wide and frightened, and he was bleeding again where he’d lifted his head slightly from the floor and unsealed the wound.

  “Charles,” I replied.

  “Jane, I need help,” he said. “Can you call someone? Call an ambulance. Or just . . . pass me my phone, will you? It’s just there. If you just . . .”

  I should have been calling an ambulance. I know it now and I knew it at the time. There was a man lying on the floor, bones bent, body twisted, blood on his forehead, and it was very clear that he needed immediate medical attention. And yet I did nothing. It was instinctive. It was exactly the same involuntary response that I’d experienced with Jonathan, but it drove me in an entirely different direction. Then, I’d spontaneously tried to do everything. On this occasion, I did nothing.

  “Jane,” he said. “Please. I really need you to—”

  “What happened after I left?” I interrupted. “Last week. When I left. What happened?”

  This seems strange, I know, but it does make sense. That was why I was there, after all. That was why I’d let myself into their flat. I wanted an answer. I wanted to understand what had happened. I needed to know that things were going to be okay, that Marnie and I were still friends and that everything was going to continue as normal.

  “Come on, Jane,” he said. “I need help.” He grimaced. “Can you . . . If you just pass me my phone. Please, Jane.”

  I walked toward it and I kicked it away from him. I didn’t know I was going to do it until I’d already done it. It wasn’t part of a plan. I felt like a character in a film, meeting her nemesis at his weakest moment, and it felt like the right thing to do. So I did it.

  “I asked a question,” I said. “Can you answer it, please?”

  “Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing happened. Jane. Come on, now . . . This is madness. I think I’m concussed. What time is it? Jane. I don’t know how long I’ve been here.” He coughed and his body contracted and he gritted his teeth. “I keep waking up and then— Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jane. Yes, fine. Marnie was fuming, all right? She didn’t know what to believe and she still doesn’t, and I’ve explained my side of the story over and over again, but she’s still going on about your nonsense.”

  I smiled. I felt sort of vindicated. I had slightly exaggerated what had happened between us and it seemed that I’d been right to do so.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “That’s it!” he shouted, and then winced again. “There’s nothing more to it. She’s been hot and cold with me all week, and I can’t say we were expecting you this evening although I think I’m glad you’re here . . . but I don’t know. She was fucking angry, yes. With both of us. But she doesn’t think anything happened—because it didn’t happen, Jane, it didn’t happen—and she keeps bringing it up, yes, but I think it’s going to be okay, all right, for both of us, but if you could just . . . We can talk about this another time. I promise. We can talk about it. But please . . .”

  He started to shiver. I wondered if he might be in shock. I didn’t really know what that meant, but the paramedics and the doctors and the nurses had suggested it when I was waiting in the hospital for Jonathan to be pronounced dead.

  I crouched down. The wooden floor was cold beneath my hands. The flat felt different without Marnie. I had liked it the last time: the lightlessness, the scentless silence. I had liked that it was hollow and empty.

  But Charles was ruining everything. With him, the darkness felt suffocating. There was just the bright light above us, a harsh lamp glowing a dirty lemon yellow. There were no scented candles burning, no warm orange illuminating the room. It wasn’t empty. And yet Charles wasn’t enough to fill it.

  “We haven’t spent much time alone before,” I said. “Not without Marnie.”

  “Maybe that’s something we can do some other time,” he said.

  “Maybe,” I replied.

  I could see that the pain was getting worse. He was trying not to move but sometimes he shifted involuntarily, when he spoke or when his temper piqued, and then his face contorted for a second or two.

  “How come you’re home so early?” I asked.

  “I really need your help,” he said. “Please, Jane.”

  “Didn’t you go to work?”

  “I had a migraine. I think that’s why I fell. That was all, Jane.”

  “Do you get them often?” I asked. “Migraines?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “Every few months. Now—”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had one,” I replied. I couldn’t hear the cars below. “You didn’t open the doors,” I said, “to the balcony.”

  “I’ve been in bed.”

  “You didn’t have the radio on?”

  “I’ve been asleep, Jane. Marnie went to the library to write up an interview and I stayed in bed. Jane, I really don’t feel good at all. I don’t know why you’re—”

  “When will she be back?”

  “Soon,” he said. “I think. What time is it? I reckon she’ll be home soon.”

  “I’m not sure of the time,” I said. “I’m early.”

  “Why don’t you call her?” he suggested. “Ask her. Let her know that I’m here and ask when she’s back. She’s probably on her way. You want to see her, don’t you? Use my phone. In my favorites. Ring her. Now. Put her on speaker so I can hear her, too. Go on, Jane. Or your phone. It’s just behind you . . .”

  I held my finger to my lips and he fell silent.

  I needed to think.

  I remember panic bubbling in my stomach, just simmering, the beginning of something that I knew I ought to be feeling. I remember taking a few deep breaths—as the policewoman had told me to in the hospital—in through my nose for six, and then hold for six, and then out through my mouth for six.

  It must have silenced my anxiety fairly quickly. Because I didn’t feel it again after that. I crawled across the floor, just a couple of feet, until I was beside him, close enough to touch him. I watched his Adam’s apple bouncing in his neck as he mumbled and pleaded with me.

  He started whimpering and I thought he might cry.

  But then he got angry.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jane,” he said. “This is crazy. Are you going to help me or what?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t know yet. I wasn’t planning not to help him, but I also wasn’t planning to help.

  “You’re just going to leave me lying here in pain? Or—fucking hell, worse still—you’re just going to sit there and stare at me? All because you think I groped you? Well, let’s work this back, then, shall we?”

  I don’t think I nodded. I don’t think I consented to the barrage of abuse that followed.

  “Did I do it? Did I grope you?”

  I could see tha
t his vehemence, his animated rage, was causing him pain, and yet he didn’t slow down, not at all, not for a second.

  “Well, let me tell you this, then. I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last woman in the world. I can’t think of anything worse. The thought of it actually makes me feel a little bit nauseated.” He paused and panted. “Or I mean that could be the result of my fucking head wound, but it doesn’t look like we’re doing anything about that yet, now, does it?”

  He winced. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I thought he might be finished, but he wasn’t.

  “Did I say that I wanted you? Not a fucking chance. But how adorable. That you think someone might. That’s nice, that is. That’s nice, right? To have that self-assurance.” He roared with the pain and then blew the last of the air from his lungs in a brief burst before continuing. “Well, let me tell you something else. You’re going to need it. Because you want to know what happens next? I’m going to the hospital and my wife will be right there by my side. And she’s not going to like hearing about this. You are on borrowed time, Jane, so borrowed.” He made a high-pitched squeaking noise, but it still wasn’t enough to stall him. “So this is fine,” he continued. “Let’s wait this out. Because we both know who wins here and it isn’t you.”

  “That’s not true,” I replied. I felt sort of angry, but mainly agitated. I wanted him to stop.

  “Well, let’s just wait and see. Because I know what happens next, Jane. It’s not even about you. It’s about me. This is my time.”

  I reached out to rest my fingers against his neck. He flinched away from my hand and then groaned, a sort of agonized growl, overwhelmed by the pain. His cheek was so swollen, the skin stretched and shiny like a balloon, his eye blackening and bloodshot.

  I tried again and this time he didn’t move; he stayed perfectly still.

  “Come on now, Jane,” he said. “What are you doing? Come on. That’s enough now. Please.”

  He was speaking through his teeth, deliberately holding his face static, trying to minimize the pain. I could feel him vibrating beneath my fingers.