Those Who Lie: the gripping new thriller you won’t be able to stop talking about. Diane JeffreyЧитать онлайн книгу.
It was only Amanda. There was the noise of the toilet flushing, then a gentle knock at her bedroom door.
‘I’m awake,’ she called out to her sister. She sat up in bed.
The door opened and Amanda came in and walked towards her. She was wearing tartan pyjamas. Her long, mousy hair was loose and wavy from the plaits she always let out at bedtime. ‘Night, Em,’ she said.
‘Goodnight.’
Amanda sat on the edge of the bed and Emily looked into her eyes. They were a murky brown, the same colour as their father’s. Emily had inherited their mother’s pale blue eyes. Amanda gave her a hug. Emily could feel herself trembling.
‘You’re cold,’ Amanda said, sounding concerned.
That wasn’t the only reason Emily was shaking, and she thought her sister probably knew that. But she didn’t contradict her. What could Amanda do anyway? She rubbed Emily’s arms as if to warm them. Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.
Canned laughter suddenly erupted from the sitting room below, breaking the silence.
‘Mum still in front of the TV?’
‘Yeah.’ Emily didn’t need to add that she was dead to the world.
After a while, Amanda pecked Emily’s cheek and got up.
‘Don’t go,’ Emily pleaded, but her elder sister had already left the room.
The door to Amanda’s bedroom along the hallway closed with a thud, and Emily glanced at her watch again. Half past ten. She became aware of the sound of her own breathing over the indistinct din of the sitcom. She could also hear the wind howling outside and the rain beating against the windowpane. She was alone and helpless. A sob welled up inside her but she fought to contain it. I have to stay strong, she thought. She needed to calm her nerves. She decided to read after all.
On her bedside table was a huge stack of books that looked like it would topple over at any minute. At the top of the pile was Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Emily’s middle name was Alice. Her father’s mother, whose memory was getting bad due to Alzheimer’s, bought her a copy of Lewis Carroll’s novel every year for Christmas and she dutifully reread the book each time. It had always been her favourite story, and she never grew tired of it. Her grandmother had given her this edition – her sixth copy – just two days ago. When she was younger, Emily had traced and copied the illustrations, and after that she’d created her own sketches for each chapter.
She flicked through the blue leather-bound volume to the part she liked best in the whole book: the Hatter’s Tea-Party. She read the bit where Alice was told that they took tea all day long since Time had stood still at six o’clock, in other words, at teatime. If only time could stand still for me tonight, she wished silently. But it was nearly eleven now. Her stomach was heavy with dread. She was terrified she wouldn’t be able to go through with it.
It was hopeless. She couldn’t keep her mind on the book. She still felt cold even though the radiators hadn’t cooled yet. Shivering, she pulled the duvet up around her shoulders and contemplated getting out of bed to fetch some thick, woollen socks. Perhaps she should get up and hide. Somewhere he couldn’t find her this time.
It was too late. She could hear him swearing loudly from outside. The front door was directly beneath her bedroom window, and she imagined him fumbling with his key and then stumbling into the hall. There was a loud bang as the door was flung open against the wall.
Quickly, she replaced the book on her bedside table, switched off the lamp and lay down. She rolled over onto her side towards the wall, wrapping the quilt tightly around her. She pushed her hand under the pillow and groped around, holding her breath. Where is it? I know I put it here, she thought, panicking. Lifting her head slightly and sliding her hand further under the pillow, she found what she was looking for. Clutching it as if her life depended on it, she breathed out.
He’d turned off the television in the sitting room and for a moment there was an eerie silence in the house. She imagined him looking down at her mother disdainfully. He might even take a swig from her bottle of Jameson if there was any whiskey left.
But the silence was short-lived. She could hear his heavy footsteps making their unwieldy way up the stairs. Oh no, she thought. Please, no.
She sensed her bedroom door open. She heard him lurch into the room and flick the switch. The room was instantly flooded with light. Her heart began to hammer harder and faster. She huddled further into her covers, trying to gain a little more respite. Closing her eyes tight, she pretended to be fast asleep, although she’d tried that before and knew it wouldn’t work. She could visualise him looking at her from across the room. It made her skin crawl.
He weaved his way over to her bed, and practically collapsed on top of her. She lay still and tried to swallow down the lump in her throat even as the tears squeezed out from behind her firmly shut eyelids.
‘I love you so much, Emily.’ Her father’s voice was slurred and his smell – a mixture of sweat, alcohol and tobacco – invaded her nostrils and made her feel nauseous. ‘You make me love you so much.’
One evening, he’d passed out before he could begin. Perhaps that would happen tonight. But she realised this was just wishful thinking as he pulled back the covers, unwrapping the cocoon she’d enveloped herself in.
She didn’t move a muscle as he pulled up her nightie and opened the belt of his trousers. She remained immobile – there was no point in fighting. Instead, she concentrated on the place in her mind she always retreated to when this happened: the beach at Woolacombe.
In one of her happiest memories, she was at the beach with her sister, her parents and her mother’s parents. She was little then and this was long before she’d made her father love her too much. They must have gone to the beach often during the summer months and she was never sure if this was just one memory or a mixture of many trips to the seaside.
They were all eating Mr Whippy 99 ice creams with chocolate Flakes. Granny and Granddad said they didn’t like the Flakes so Amanda and Emily could have two each. Afterwards, the girls swam in the sea with Mum and Granddad. They stayed in until their lips turned blue and their arms and legs had goose pimples all over them. As the tide was so low, it was a long walk back to the place where their father and Granny were dozing on deckchairs. Their mum made them run to warm up. Panting with his tongue out like a dog, Granddad pretended to be too old to jog.
It was hard to find the right parasol at the top of the beach because they’d drifted along in the current while jumping over and ducking under the waves, and so they were several metres too far along the beach. Emily was the one who finally spotted the blue and yellow parasol. Granny wrapped a beach towel around her, and then another one around Amanda. Someone had taken a photo – it must have been their father because he was the only one not in the picture, and Emily had kept it. It was in a frame on her bedside table.
She turned her head and focused on this photo now as the familiar pain seared through her. She could almost feel the teddies’ cold, glassy eyes on her, and from the open pages of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, both the March Hare and the Hatter stared at her. It was as if they were all watching her, daring her to find the courage to put an end to this. Only the sleepy Dormouse had his eyes closed, as though averting his gaze out of consideration or turning a blind eye to what she was going to do.
As her father’s shudder and moan signalled that this was nearly the end for tonight, she reminded herself that there was only one way this would ever stop. She freed her hand from where it was pinned under her father. I have to do this, she thought. I have to do it now, or it will be too late.
Before she had time to think through what she’d really intended to do, the gun went off.
Long after her father’s lifeless body had collapsed onto her for the last time, soaking her in blood and almost crushing her beneath its dead weight, the shot continued to ring in her ears.