The Lies We Tell, page 1
Jane Corry
* * *
THE LIES WE TELL
Contents
Sarah
Sarah: Truro Crown Court
PART ONE: Tom and Sarah Chapter 1: Tom
Chapter 2: Sarah
Chapter 3: Tom
Chapter 4: Sarah
Chapter 5: Tom
Chapter 6: Sarah
Chapter 7: Tom
Chapter 8: Sarah
Chapter 9: Tom
Chapter 10: Sarah
Chapter 11: Tom
Chapter 12: Sarah
Chapter 13: Tom
Chapter 14: Sarah
Chapter 15: Tom
Chapter 16: Sarah
Chapter 17: Tom
Chapter 18: Sarah
Chapter 19: Tom
Chapter 20: Sarah
Chapter 21: Tom
Chapter 22: Sarah
Chapter 23: Tom
Chapter 24: Sarah
Chapter 25: Tom
Chapter 26: Sarah
Chapter 27: Tom
Chapter 28: Sarah
Chapter 29: Tom
Chapter 30: Sarah
Chapter 31: Tom
Chapter 32: Sarah
Chapter 33: Tom
Chapter 34: Sarah
Chapter 35: Tom
Chapter 36: Sarah
Chapter 37: Tom
Chapter 38: Sarah: Truro Crown Court
PART TWO: Sarah Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41: Truro Crown Court
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44: Truro Crown Court
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48: Truro Crown Court
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52: Truro Crown Court
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58: Truro Crown Court
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63: HMP Statton
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67: Two Years Later
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Jane Corry is a former magazine journalist who spent three years working as the writer-in-residence of a high security prison for men. This often hair-raising experience helped inspire her Sunday Times-bestselling psychological thrillers, My Husband’s Wife, Blood Sisters, The Dead Ex, I Looked Away and I Made A Mistake, which have been published in more than 35 countries and sold over a million copies. Jane was a tutor in creative writing at Oxford University and an RLF Fellow at Exeter University, and is a regular contributor to the Daily Telegraph and My Weekly magazine.
WHAT READERS ARE SAYING ABOUT THE LIES WE TELL
‘I was hooked. I couldn’t put it down – so many twists keeping me on the edge of my seat’
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‘This is a total page-turner!’
★★★★★
‘LOVE this book. Completely brilliant. Jane Corry, you have done it again’
★★★★★
‘Such a thought-provoking book, I can’t wait to read more by Jane!’
★★★★★
‘Another absolute cracker from Jane Corry!’
★★★★★
‘It is a long time since I have given 5 stars to a book … but this pushed all the buttons!’
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‘Completely engrossing’
★★★★★
‘I haven’t read a book this good in a very long time … and no,
I really couldn’t put it down!’
★★★★★
‘Wow, what an epic novel about families, lies and misunderstandings’
★★★★★
‘This is Jane Corry at her twisty, compulsive best’
★★★★★
To my family, in particular my father, Michael Thomas, who encouraged my love of reading and whose motto during my childhood years was ‘Just do your best’.
Rain.
The kind that makes your hair stick to your head.
Boredom.
The sort where you want to MAKE something happen.
Other people laughing.
The kind where you want to join in.
To be liked.
Whatever it takes.
Sarah
Freddie should be back by now.
‘Midnight and not a second later,’ I’d said. Or, rather, pleaded.
That’s what we’d agreed after a terse negotiation before our son had stormed out in those deliberately ripped denim jeans, scruffy trainers and a flimsy white T-shirt on which he’d written I HATE THE WORLD in red felt-tip. No jacket, even though it was March.
Why on earth don’t teenagers feel the cold?
I’d dozed off earlier, despite intending to stay awake, my ears tuned to the sound of our only child tiptoeing or thudding up the stairs, depending on the state of his almost sixteen-year-old hormones.
But the neon numbers from my alarm clock on the bedside table now tell me it’s 2.53 a.m. A sharp stab of fear pierces the pit of my stomach. Where is he? And why hasn’t he texted? I send an Are U OK? Of course, there’s no answer.
Searching for my slippers in the dark, I edge around the packing boxes marked Main Bedroom and pad across to the wooden sash window. I’m going to miss this old house, despite everything. Outside, in our quiet north London street, the lampposts are spilling their orange light onto the water-filled potholes that the council has promised to repair ‘shortly’. It’s been the wettest spring for five years, according to the radio. No one is in sight. Not even a car driving past.
I crawl back under the duvet, wondering what to do. Freddie’s never been this late before. I don’t want to wake Tom, but suppose something’s happened? I lean over my husband. His back is to me and his shoulders are rising and falling in a steady, solid sleep that matches his character to a T. He’s wearing pyjamas, of course, as he always has since I’ve known him. This pair has blue and white stripes. There’s a faint whiff of last night’s sex from the sheets; the kind of urgent coupling we have once in a blue moon, as if to prove to ourselves that we’re still OK together.
We might be if it wasn’t for Freddie.
Guiltily, I drive the thought out of my mind. No. I won’t wake him. It will only cause another argument. Besides, the removal men will be here in the morning to finish off and take us away. It’s our clean start. I don’t want to mess things up.
I try to read for a bit with my torch. Ours is the last room in the house that isn’t fully packed up. I was at it until late and gave in only out of sheer exhaustion, telling myself I’d get up early to finish it off instead. Besides, it helps to have some normality. I hate that unsettled feeling when a house is not a home because it’s half-empty or in transit. I’d had enough of carting my belongings from one place to another in my early years but this time, I tell myself, it will be worth it.
It has to be. If this doesn’t work, I don’t know what will.
On my bedside table, next to the clock, there’s an untidy pile of novels, magazines, art books and a poetry anthology (Other Men’s Flowers), which usually soothes me. On his side, Tom simply has a book of advanced cryptic crosswords. Inside is an inscription: To Dad. Happy Christmas. Love Freddie. I had to forge the handwriting because our son ‘couldn’t be arsed’ to do it. I’d even had to buy the wretched book.
I’m trying not to look at the time because, if I don’t, Freddie will just come back and I will have worried for nothing. But I can’t help it.
3.07 a.m.
The last two digits make it feel much worse because we’re now into the next hour. The print on the page I am trying to read has become blurred by anxiety.
Suddenly I feel cross that my husband is sleeping soundly while I’m the one who’s panicking. Then again, hasn’t it always been like this? He’s the sensible pragmatic half of our marriage. Me? I’m the one whose imagination plays havoc with my mind.
Not surprising, really, given my past.
‘Tom,’ I say, prodding him. ‘Freddie still isn’t back.’
He wakes immediately. My husband is the type who will swing his legs over the side the second the alarm shrills for work. He’ll be instantly alert, as if someone has flicked an on/off button inside him. I take longer to greet the world in the morning, preferably with my hands cupped around a mug of hot sweet tea. Not sugar. Always honey. During the last few years I’ve become more careful about what I consume. Maybe it’s a sign of middle age.
‘What time is it?’ he says.
‘Gone three o’clock.’ My voice comes out in a panicky squeak. ‘He promised to be back by midnight.’
‘Hah! That boy never keeps his promises.’
‘That boy,’ I say tightly, moving to the far edge of the bed, ‘is our son. He has a name.’
There’s a snort in the darkness. Anger, too. ‘Well he doesn’t reply to it, does he? He doesn’t reply to anything. Honestly, Sarah. You let Freddie get away with murder. How’s he ever going to learn if you don’t set boundaries?’
Me! Why is it always my fault? Besides, Freddie loves me. All teenagers test their parents, don’t they? It’s part of finding their independence.
I prop up both of my pillows and lean back, all thoughts of sleep over. ‘I do. But if we’re too strict with him, we could alienate him and then he might end up like …’
I pause. A heavy air hangs between us. We both know what the other is thinking.
‘If we’re too strict with him,’ I repeat, ‘he might rebel.’
Tom’s tone is a mixture of condescension and ridicule. ‘Isn’t that what he’s doing now? You agreed on a curfew. And he’s broken his promise. Like he always does.’
‘I know. But it’s not easy being a teenager. You must remember that.’
‘I do, but I didn’t act like he does.’ Or like you did.
My husband doesn’t actually say the last sentence. He doesn’t have to. The implication is there, loud and clear. ‘Well, we’re awake now,’ he continues. ‘I might as well ring him.’
Ring? Freddie gets upset when I do that. ‘It’s embarrassing if I’m out with friends,’ he scolds. ‘Just text, Mum.’ But I’ve already done that and he hasn’t replied.
I shield my eyes as Tom switches on his bedside light. I look at my husband as if he is someone I do not know; this tall owlish man with sandy hair and a naturally pale complexion searching for his round-rimmed steel-framed glasses and mobile phone next to the cryptic crossword book. Not for the first time I think how he has aged in the last few years. As it is, our delayed start means that on average we’re older than many of the other couples at parents’ evenings. Tom especially. Would he have been more understanding of Freddie if he’d been younger?
Tom makes a frustrated sound. ‘It’s going through to voicemail. Who’s he with, anyway?’
I glance at my phone in case Freddie’s texted me back in the short interval since I last looked. He hasn’t.
‘A friend.’
‘But who?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit, twisting my fingers. ‘He wouldn’t tell me.’
‘You should have made him. Or got this friend’s number at the very least.’
‘He wouldn’t give it to me.’ My statement comes out almost as a cry. It’s true. Freddie tells me very little about his personal life now. He hasn’t brought anyone back to the house since the night of the party. It’s not like when he was little and I was the centre of his world. He’s nearly grown up now. Fifteen and three-quarters. Almost a man. Embarrassing your teenager is one of the worst crimes a mother can commit. I didn’t want to push him away.
‘But what if you don’t come home?’ I’d said, remembering the last time when he’d stayed over with one of these so-called ‘mates’ and hadn’t told me. I’d woken in a panic the next morning and was on the point of ringing 999 when he’d turned up on the doorstep. They’d been listening to music and had ‘fallen asleep’.
‘I will,’ he’d retorted. ‘I’ve only got one more night left here. You’re the ones making me leave. At least let me have some fun for once. Stop worrying.’
But I’ve got cause to now. Is he with the same unknown ‘mate’ as before? Or is he lying in a ditch?
‘I’m going back to sleep,’ says Tom. ‘I’ve got three hours and fifty minutes until I have to get up for work.’
That’s right. Even though we’re moving house, Tom is going off to work as usual. And then he’s out for the count, breathing steadily again. Just like that.
I slump back on my pillows, my eyes half-closed, wondering how long I should give Freddie before calling the police. What would they do if I did? There are probably hundreds of teenagers out there in our leafy part of north London who are late home. Most will get back safely. But what if our boy is one of the unlucky ones? Supposing I wake up to the radio, informing me that yet another teenager has been stabbed to death? There’d been one on the front page of our local paper only last week. He’d had a mournful look about him, as if he knew he was going to die, reminding me of that poem by Yeats about an Irish airman foreseeing his death. The grainy photograph showed strangely thick eyebrows that appeared to be reaching out for the adulthood he was never going to meet.
There’s the sound of barking downstairs. Jasper, our chocolate Labrador. I leap out of bed, grab my dressing gown and fly down the stairs. Someone is banging on the door. Is it the police? There’s been an accident. Freddie has been run over. He’s taken drugs.
I open the door, trembling. It’s him! Despite his appearance, my heart soars with relief. Our son is soaking wet. His face is down, the black curls on the left of his head plastered flat from the rain. The other side is shaved short – something he did himself the other week. He’s wearing a denim jacket I haven’t seen before. ‘Sorry,’ he says, pushing past. ‘I lost my key.’
Again? That’s the third time this year. I’ll have to tell the new owners, although they’ll probably want to get the locks changed anyway. What’s Tom going to say? I decide not to tell him yet. The important thing is that our boy is home in one piece.
Relief turns to anger. ‘You promised to be back on time –’ I begin.
‘I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?’
‘You stink of beer. How much have you had?’
‘Not much.’
‘Four pints?’ I press.
‘Please, Mum. Leave it.’
‘No spirits?’
‘I said leave it, will you?’
Something’s wrong. Instead of the usual defiant adolescent scowl, Freddie looks vulnerable. Knocked down. His deep brown eyes, a mirror reflection of mine, are reddened. He’s been crying. He hasn’t cried for years. Not even after the party.
‘What’s happened?’ I say, but he’s already on his way upstairs.
I follow him up, but by now he’s in his room, the door fastened from inside with the bolt that he insisted on fitting last year. ‘Please let me in, love,’ I plead.
‘Go away, Mum. I’m fine.’
‘Where did the jacket come from?’ I ask.
‘Someone lent it to me. It’s not nicked, if that’s what you mean.’
There’d been an incident last year when Freddie had returned with a plastic security tag on a pair of jeans, still bearing the price label. He’d argued that the staff must have forgotten to remove it. ‘So why didn’t it set off the alarm, then?’ I’d demanded. This led to a furious argument, during which he accused me of not believing him. I’d marched him back to the shop, where it transpired that he had indeed bought the jeans and that they really had forgotten to remove the tag. Apparently, the alarm system hadn’t been working that day.
I wait for a while, begging him to talk to me, but he doesn’t make a sound.
In the end I go downstairs to turn off the lights and then slide into bed next to Tom.
‘Freddie back?’ he murmurs.
‘Yes.’
He turns over, away from me. ‘That’s all right then.’
But it’s not. My mother’s instinct tells me that something isn’t right. I just don’t know what.
‘I’ll talk to him in the morning,’ adds my husband. Within seconds, he is snoring again.
I wait to make sure he’s asleep. Then I get out of bed and tiptoe towards Freddie’s bedroom. The door is open. He’s not there. My stomach freefalls with panic, but then I see the light coming from the bathroom. He’s sitting on the edge of the bath, still wearing the soaking wet jacket. It’s hanging open and I can see that his T-shirt is now red instead of white. For a terrible second I think it’s blood, but then I realize the red ink of his handwritten I HATE THE WORLD slogan has run from the rain.
Tears are streaming down his face. He is shaking in huge convulsions. Drawing breath noisily with rasping sounds. I’ve never seen him like this.
‘Freddie,’ I whisper, moving forward and cradling him in my arms. I wait for him to shake me off but he doesn’t. ‘What’s wrong?’
No answer. He continues to sob. I hold his face between my hands; I want to look into my son’s eyes. ‘What is wrong?’ I repeat.
Again, I expect him to push me away. Tell me with his usual adolescent disdain that it’s none of my business. But instead he crumples. ‘Mum,’ he chokes. ‘I’ve killed someone.’
‘You’ve what?’ I whisper, a chill running down me. A young woman’s face flashes before me.
No! Help me!
His eyes are scared. Like they were as a child when he first got detention and we had to go into school to sort it out for him. But this is worse. This isn’t possible.
