The Liar's Chair (22 page)

I hold the banister with one hand but can’t move. Alex brushes drizzle from his hair, and the moisture darkens his grey, making him look younger.

‘Very thoughtful of you,’ David says. ‘Do you have time for a coffee?’

Alex has already begun to shrug the black mac from his bony shoulders. He hands the coat to David. Rain studs the waterproof fabric like balls of mercury. ‘Wonderful, thank you.’ He
looks at me again and smiles. ‘I’d love to.’

‘Rachel, be a darling and make us a coffee, would you?’ says David.

‘I have to go out,’ I say.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He smiles at Alex then looks back at me. ‘Your hair’s still wet from the shower.’ He walks towards the stairs and holds his arm out to
me. I come down a couple of steps and touch his hand. ‘Anyway, whatever it is you need to do, we always have time for friends, don’t we, darling?’ He pulls me to the bottom stair
and pecks my cheek with gravel lips. Only his eyes betray the effort of this pantomime. ‘It will do you good to have some company.’

The two men walk into one of our less formal lounges, David’s palm flat on his friend’s back, and I slide off to the kitchen. The dogs are in the boot room pacing for their food.
After my time locked away with the animals, I let David do their feeds.

At this distance, the men’s voices are a murmur: laughter, no silences – it can’t be that bad. I relax a little and put the kettle on, heat milk and set a tray with two cups
and a cafetière. The tray is melamine: bright red with large graphic flowers. The price of this tray would have fed Mum and me for a week. We didn’t get new things. Like when our
chesterfield sofa was ripped by scissors during one of Mum’s dressmaking enterprises. Her designs were floaty numbers with scarves attached to the sleeves, like a toddler’s dressing-up
wardrobe, and the sofa was where she cut out the patterns. She planned to sell them at coffee mornings and town fetes, saying that once she’d made her fashion fortune we could buy as many
sofas as we wanted. One day she strutted down the street to get a loaf of bread, dressed in a sheer creation with her feet bare. To me she looked so beautiful until she held two fingers up to Mrs
Simpson across the road. ‘Up yours, you old prune!’ she shouted. Mrs Simpson stood with her hands on her hips and heckled back, ‘You might enjoy giving it away to all and sundry,
but the rest of us don’t need to see what’s underneath your clothes.’ After that the scissors were put away, and the sofa was covered with the old throw.

A sudden burst of laughter from the other room. The kettle boils. I pour water into the cafetière and a dense bitter smell lifts from the coffee grouts, turning my stomach. There’s
a hiss from the milk pan as a wave of froth bulges over the sides and settles on the hob. The edges of the liquid char. I pour what’s left of the milk into a jug and set everything on the
tray, the china and glass chinking together as I carry it through to the lounge. David hears the rattle.

‘Rachel,’ he calls, ‘we’re dying of thirst in here. Hurry up, will you, darling.’

David and Alex are seated opposite each other on identical white leather sofas. In between them is a chrome and glass coffee table. Unread financial and interiors magazines fan out on the
tabletop, and there’s a pen pot identical to the one we have at the office with our company logo striped along the pencils inside. The men look as if they’re in a casual office meeting,
and it strikes me for the first time that everything in our house, even the artwork that was bought to match the decor, is corporate and flat. The effect of style without taste. I’d like to
drive a bulldozer through the window, cover the floor with earth and watch how long it would take the weeds to grow.

The two colleagues sit with their arms stretched along the backs of the sofas and their chests full and strong. All that’s missing are antlers. David’s foot hangs on his opposite
knee, and his leg lolls out to the side creating a confident triangle of space in the middle. Alex copies. A thin sun leaks through the clouds and sparkles on the glass table.

‘At last,’ David says with a smile as I walk towards him.

I put the tray on the coffee table and turn to leave. In the background the dogs’ hungry barks have become more frantic. David twitches with each yap.

‘You not joining us, Rachel?’ Alex says. ‘Do sit for a bit. Jane’s been asking after you. I said I’d report back on how you’re feeling.’ He frown-smiles
at David. ‘Anyway, this might interest you too. I have the latest forecast for the completion of the development. We’re finally getting through all the building regs and
contractors’ quotes, it’s really steaming ahead.’ He wafts a folder up and down, then slaps it on the table. ‘Now all the opposition has subsided, there’s nothing to
stop us meeting our deadlines. The new broom sweeps clean, eh!’ He leans forward and removes some of the plans and finance sheets, then angles his head to look at me. ‘We’ve
completely taken over the site now, no room for public access any more.’

‘I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ I say. ‘I’ll leave you two to talk shop.’

‘Nonsense, Rachel.’ David’s voice travels up and down the syllables in perfect husband mode. ‘It’s a Saturday. Come and sit with us.’ His eyes fix on me,
telling me I’m not permitted to break the facade.

I go to sit next to David and trip on the rug, launching myself closer to him than I intended. Our legs touch. Immediately David springs up, the proximity too much to bear.

‘I’m so sorry, Alex,’ he says, ‘I forgot to feed the dogs. If you don’t mind I’ll do it now before they drive us all mad. Please excuse me for a moment.
Rachel, could you pour?’

He leaves the room and takes the shortcut to the kitchen. I stand also, but before I can turn Alex grabs my hand and pulls. It’s a persistent drag not to be refused. I sit on his left.
Still holding my hand, he leans forward and with his other hand pours himself a coffee – black with one sugar. He brings the cup to his mouth and winces – I made it strong – then
he sets the coffee back on its saucer and heaps in another large spoonful of sugar. He stirs and the metal scrapes round and round on the china.

From where I’m sitting I can see into the garden, and the dogs bound across the grass and disappear into the trees. David must have thought it would be quicker to let them outside for now,
and feed them later. There are growls and manic barks; not the usual noise of fun and play, more competition and pursuit. They’ve probably got another rabbit. David shouts at them, and I
watch him striding across to the trees. The last time the dogs went on the hunt, we found bits of the animal across the lawn, torn apart and scattered but uneaten. The crows cleared what was left
within minutes.

Alex continues to stir. ‘Well, that’s a turn-up,’ he says, watching his cup. ‘I didn’t know how I was going to orchestrate getting you on your own.’ He smiles
and looks at me. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you, Rachel. You really are full of surprises.’ He lets go of my hand and pushes my skirt up my leg towards my thigh. His palm is hot
and damp and he holds his hand in place on my shaking leg, my skin a shade of blue next to the white sofa. Small blonde hairs sit upright. He takes the spoon from the cup and lays the scalding
metal on my thigh. I jump but don’t call out. Won’t give him the satisfaction. He holds the spoon in place and looks at me. ‘David doesn’t have to know about any of this,
but that’s up to you.’

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ I say.

‘Man to man, he’d understand. I have my needs. I’d tell him I tried to protect you but you refused.’ He moves his hand up my leg, closer to my crotch. ‘Everyone
knows you’re losing your mind, Rachel. Who do you think David will believe? And how much more do you think he’ll tolerate? He’s not a man to be messed with, we all understand
that. Some of the things we’ve had to . . . well, I never thought he had it in him, but then there’s too much at stake these days.’ His index finger skirts the hem of my knickers.
‘I choose my battles carefully, Rachel. I make very, very sure I’m covered, and this time, believe me, David will be on my side.’

His cheeks are flushed and freshly shaved. Inside each follicle is the poised black dot of a new hair. Above his mouth he’s sweating. He glides his tongue over his top lip. We hear doors
shutting as David comes in from the garden. Alex removes the spoon, puts it in his mouth and sucks. A red circle is left on my leg.

‘I’ll be in touch, Rachel,’ Alex says. ‘We’ll have some fun. Bring you down a peg or two.’ He takes his hand away from my leg and pulls my skirt down with a
tug. ‘Don’t ignore my calls or I’ll let David know. Bit of ECT should do the trick.’

As I stand, David comes back in. We pass each other across the rug, but David doesn’t look at me. Instead he directs his focus to Alex with a frown and a smile, his arms wide in apology.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, ‘the dogs have gone feral. These bitches need a good dose of discipline to bring them into line.’ The men laugh and David sits back down. Alex
pours himself another coffee. ‘I hope Rachel’s been looking after you,’ David says as I leave the room, shutting the door behind me.

The hallway is dark in contrast with the glare of our south-facing lounge. I slip off my shoes and walk with bare feet on the cold tiled floor, the heating off. On the table by the phone is
David’s briefcase. It’s open. David’s need to appear the welcoming and relaxed host has caught him off guard. Poking out is a file and some other papers. I sift through them and
find the ledger of cash payments from the office. Inside the book are many more entries, detailing a multitude of outgoings. Names, dates and brief descriptions as before: ‘H’ and
‘Manpower’. ‘Finder’ is written several times next to the name ‘Darren S’. David and Alex’s voices trickle into the hallway, and I hear metal on china as
another cup of coffee is poured. I tip the contents of the case on to the floor and drop the bag next to the pile, then run to the downstairs bathroom with the expenses book, which I stuff behind
the toilet cistern. From there I speed into the kitchen and find the identical household edition in the drawer. My hands are shaking as I rip out the few pages that have already been written on. I
shove them far down into the waste disposal, and tip the dregs of David’s milky breakfast muesli on top. Later, when David’s not around, I’ll make a new book for home from one of
the many blank spares in the study, and grind these old pages to a pulp. I hurry through to the boot room and open the back door, shaking the dog biscuits. The animals come running. I hold the
household book out to them, tearing off blank pages which scatter in the wind. One of the dogs chases the paper and I hold the remainder of the book out to the other bitch. ‘What’s
this, what’s this?’ I say in a playful voice. The dog snaps at the paper and sinks her teeth into the book. I pull back on it a few times to get her fever up, then let her have it. She
runs off into the garden and disappears into the trees. The other dog joins her with excited barks. I leave the back door and boot room open, then scoot upstairs to the guest room where I’ve
now permanently decamped. A few minutes later David and Alex come out of the lounge. With my ear to the door, I hear David’s exasperated tones as he discovers his briefcase on the floor,
though he maintains a genial timbre while Alex is in the house. The front door shuts. Alex’s car drives away. Moments later, David is in the garden screaming at the dogs.

There are growls and yelps outside, but I don’t expect the dogs have left David much of the book to salvage. From the hallway he shouts up the stairs: ‘You stupid, stupid cow, you
left the bloody door open. I suppose you did that on purpose. Have you seen what the dogs have done?’ I go into the bathroom and lock the door. The en suite is the smallest room in the house,
and I sit on top of the toilet seat with the light off and only the weak sun coming through the blind. The huge volume of the house presses against me, as if the space is filled with water.

From my handbag I take out the photo of Claire and study her face in the dim light: the way her mouth lifts a fraction at the edges from its letter-box smile, and her wide black eyes with no
flicker of a shine, as if someone’s coloured them in with a biro. I think about where I would have been on this same spring day, who I was with and what I was doing. Maybe Claire and I were
both writing letters to our dads at the same time, our pens in unison across the sea, scratching out messages of longing to men who were grander and more loved through their absence. Our mums
played out their tragedies in front of us, but at least they didn’t leave. The women’s legacy for sticking it out is to get all the blame. But then maybe Seamus’s reasons for
leaving were more valid than my own father’s, who jumped from woman to woman every time he felt the expectations of another family.

I wish I could take Claire by the hand and lead her through the quiet woods to her dad’s caravan, and show her where his finger drew letters on the glass. ‘Look’. I picture her
focusing on the landscape beyond the window as I point out the trees and animals Seamus studied with such care. She’d understand something of how her father lived. He would have wanted her to
see. If I went to the police, Claire would only ever have half the story.

When I am ready, I’ll find a way to give up Seamus, but for now each shameful tryst in a car park and every hostile interaction with David decreases my debt, and I grow closer to the man I
killed. No court or prison can give me the same.

I’ve been stuck at home for most of the week having lost all appetite for the car parks, and without the routine of the office it surprised me to find that the thing I
missed the most was noise; the background burble of life rolling forward. I envy others the even keel of their days, but somewhere inside me I know I wouldn’t be able to settle for the
worn-slippered evenings in front of the TV. The silence in our house soaks up my energy so I have to fill the space somehow, but music is too affecting, and I wouldn’t trust myself not to
play the sad songs over and over. The TV and radio are a good replacement for human contact though, and as our in-house sound system is wired into every room, I can beam through the chirruping
discontent of international crises to wherever I may be. It helps. I pay special attention to the local bulletins. There’s been no more about the fire at the camp, but
South East Today
reported a body found in a skip near to where Will lives. The man was in his forties and was known to be involved in the local drugs scene. My stomach lurched, and I gripped the back of the sofa to
stop my legs from giving way. I stayed holding on until they flashed up his picture on the TV and I saw it wasn’t Will. His name was Darren Spencer. He looked familiar, very possibly the man
who Will had a fight with in the pub the night I was with him, though I can’t be sure. I check again, and ‘Darren S’ is in David’s secret ledger. I want to believe that
David wouldn’t go that far, but every toxic thing that happens now circles me back to my husband and the strong possibility that his flirtation with the underworld has become a marriage.