The Last Lie Page 7

  ‘On your own?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Bunch of places.’

  ‘Why, Alfie?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘You should have called. I was worried.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He looked away from her, his gaze unfocused. ‘I couldn’t face you. I feel like I’ve let you down.’

  ‘Alfie!’ Claire said. ‘That’s the last thing you’ve done! This isn’t your fault. It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just one of those things. It’s sad – of course it is, I mean, I’m devastated – but I don’t blame you. And I don’t think any worse of you. You’re my husband and I love you. Remember the vows? For better or for worse? Well, this is the “for worse” part.’ She smiled at him. ‘I stick by my vows, Alfie.’

  He started to cry. ‘Thank you,’ he said, in a quiet voice. ‘Thank you.’

  She held out her arms. ‘Come here. I need a hug.’

  He walked towards her, staggering slightly, and sank on to the sofa. She pulled him into a tight embrace and he buried his face into her shoulder.

  ‘How much did you drink?’ she said. ‘You really smell.’

  ‘A lot,’ he said.

  ‘Did you leave the car at the office?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Alfie! You didn’t drive?’

  ‘Left it somewhere.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Claire said. ‘Where?’

  ‘In Fulham, I think.’

  ‘Why did you drive at all?’

  He didn’t answer. His eyes were starting to close and his breathing was getting deeper. She kissed his forehead. He was sweating, an oily, alcoholic sweat. She would have liked to go to bed with him so they could hold each other, tell each other everything would be OK, but it looked like that would have to wait. He had passed out on the sofa.

  It was unlike him to be so selfish. She understood that he was sad, but she was too, and she was disappointed he had chosen to leave her alone while he went off and drowned his sorrows. It was a side of him she had not seen before. She supposed it was the price of his sensitivity.

  She stood up and turned him on to his side, in case he was sick in the night. She’d forgive him this time, and in the morning they could talk about their options.

  She was awake before five and at the breakfast table sipping a coffee by six, which was when he shuffled into the kitchen.

  ‘God,’ he said, his voice a rasp. ‘I feel like shit.’

  ‘You don’t look much better. You were in quite a state last night.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘So sorry. It was selfish of me. But I felt like I’d let you down. I couldn’t face you.’

  Claire shook her head. ‘You haven’t let anyone down. I told you last night, although you probably don’t remember, and I don’t want to hear it any more, Alfie. It’s not true, and it doesn’t help. And I forgive you for last night. But please don’t do it again anytime soon.’

  ‘I don’t plan to.’

  ‘You going to work today?’

  He shook his head. ‘I think I’ll call in sick. I wouldn’t be much use anyway.’

  ‘I don’t have a meeting until eleven, so we can spend some time together this morning. Coffee?’

  ‘I’d love one. But maybe some water first.’ He opened a cupboard and fished inside for a small white pill bottle. ‘And some ibuprofen. My head’s killing me.’

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘Things aren’t going as planned for us.’

  ‘No. And I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Alfie.’ She raised a hand. ‘No more apologies. This is not your fault. Not in any way and by any stretch of the imagination. I don’t want to hear you say sorry again. Deal?’

  ‘Deal. Thank you.’

  ‘All I want to do now is focus on what we do next. We still have some options.’

  He sipped his coffee. The smell mingled with the harsh odour of the whisky that clung to him. Claire felt a vague, momentary nausea. She looked at him and, for the first time, wondered what it would be like if she left him.

  Find a man who’s a bit tougher. And who can have kids without all the stuff we’re going to have to go through.

  She checked herself, shocked she had even thought it. Alfie deserved better and besides, she loved him. So they would have some challenges; she could hardly complain when they were so fortunate in the rest of their lives.

  ‘I’m not sure what options we have,’ he said. ‘That’s why I felt as bad as I did.’

  Claire shook her head. ‘Of course there are options! There are always options. We can try other medical avenues—’

  ‘Like what?’ Alfie said. ‘I told you – I’m not producing any sperm. None. There’s nothing we can do.’

  ‘We could adopt,’ Claire said. ‘Or—’ She wasn’t sure this was the right time to raise this, but she reminded herself it was Alfie she was talking to. He’d be open to anything that might allow them to start a family.

  ‘Or what?’ Alfie said.

  ‘Or we could try using a sperm donor. Maybe I could get pregnant that way.’

  He stared at her, his mug paused halfway to his lips. ‘A sperm donor,’ he said. His voice was flat.

  ‘It’s just an option. I’m not saying we have to do it. But it’s a possibility.’

  He nodded. ‘I guess it is. I hadn’t really thought about it, but it is a possibility.’

  ‘So you’d consider it?’

  ‘Of course I would,’ he said. He gave her a thin smile. She could see that it was forced, and the effort it took him made her appreciate it all the more. ‘I’d consider anything for you.’

  She’d known he would, but it was still good to have it confirmed. Even after last night, she was lucky to have him.

  She moved closer to him and put her hand on his hip. He needed cheering up. He gave her a puzzled look.

  ‘You really want to?’ he said. ‘With me in this state?’

  She nodded. ‘Although why don’t you brush your teeth and have a shower first?’

  Alfie

  It was good sex, he had to admit that. He was in the mood for it, too. It was odd how the morning after a heavy night sex seemed so appealing. Hangover horn, he’d heard it called.

  When he came out of the shower she was lying on her side of the bed, her head propped up on her elbow. He was struck by how he saw her almost as a different person; when he was talking to her in the kitchen he felt nothing but contempt for her, but now she was naked on the bed he felt totally different. He still didn’t like her, but she had something he wanted.

  He walked towards her. She sat up and pulled off his towel, then started to give him a blowjob. She cupped his testicles in her hands and massaged them gently. For a second her fingers paused on the thin ridge of the vasectomy scar, then they moved on. It was a good job she didn’t know what she was feeling. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought that, but it seemed more important now than ever.

  When they had finished, he watched her dress and leave for work. The sex had been a welcome distraction, but he had a problem.

  And his problem was options.

  Alfie couldn’t believe she wanted to talk about fucking options. He’d been expecting her to suggest adoption but he hadn’t been too worried about it. It took a while and he was pretty sure he could have found a way to avoid it – maybe get arrested for some minor crime or develop a drug habit. He hadn’t considered that she would want to use a sperm donor.

  Christ, did she really think he would agree to bring up some other man’s brat? She seemed to, which was a measure of how little she knew him, how well he had concealed his true self.

  And since it appeared that was what she thought, he’d had to say he’d consider it, which was the same as saying he’d do it. Spoiled little bitches like Claire were used to Daddy saying I’ll consider it and knowing what he meant was yes.

  There was a glass of water by the bed and he picked it up – his mouth was disgusting, the sour taste of
whisky still coming up from his stomach and making him feel like retching – and drank it down.

  He’d thought he was done with this a long time ago. He’d thought the vasectomy had put paid to any chance of having children, but then she had gone and forced him to see Dr Singh. He had dealt with that, but now she was causing a different problem. If he refused to go along with it she’d make his life a misery. So he’d have to. Or he could divorce her, but her old man would make sure he got nothing.

  Which he did not want either.

  So, eventually, a sperm donor it would be, and then pregnancy, and he’d end up with an even bigger problem.

  A kid. A fucking kid ruining his life and tying him to her forever. It could not happen. It wasn’t just that being married stopped him doing what he wanted – that was bad enough but maybe he could have managed it, with some help from Henry Bryant – it was being married to her. He hated her. Hated the sight of her, hated everything she said and did and read and watched. Hated how she loved him and wanted his attention, and hated how he’d created a situation in which he had to keep giving it to her.

  Most of all, though, he hated how she thought he was weak. Fragile. Of course, he’d made her think that, so he only had himself to blame, but that somehow made it worse.

  So he was stuck. He looked out of the bedroom window. In comparison, Pippa had been easy to deal with.

  Very easy. As soon as she’d said that no one else knew, it had been clear what he had to do. Those few words had been her death warrant.

  He could kill her and no one would find out. For a moment, when he put his hands around her throat, he’d wondered whether he could do it, whether he could take a life. What it would be like to take a life. It had been shockingly easy, and quite fascinating to watch the light leave her eyes, to feel her body go slack, to release her when she was no longer breathing.

  No longer alive.

  More than fascinating. Enjoyable. Intoxicating, even. He almost couldn’t believe he’d never done it before. He certainly wanted to do it again.

  And it had been so simple. Even disposing of the body was easy. Pippa was now at the bottom of a disused, flooded quarry, wrapped in a tarpaulin – a cash purchase at B&Q – with only some heavy stones for company.

  He remembered the boom she’d made as she hit the water. There’d been a big splash, the ripples spreading across the greenish-grey water, but the surface was calm again within seconds, and Pippa was gone.

  Just like that.

  No doubt Pippa’s friends would wonder where she was. They might even know the name Henry Bryant, but they’d never find him. She’d told no one that she had discovered he was really Alfie Daniels, and no other link existed.

  That was how Henry Bryant solved his problems. Decisively. He could, because no one could ever find him. That was the benefit of not existing.

  Alfie couldn’t deal with Claire in the same way, though – much as he’d absolutely fucking love to – because the first person the police would suspect would be him. It was far too risky.

  Which was frustrating. He knew the solution to his problem. Kill her.

  But he couldn’t.

  He couldn’t be like Henry Bryant.

  He looked at the ceiling.

  Unless.

  Unless there was a way. An idea emerged slowly. He turned it over in his mind, examining it from every angle.

  He smiled. It was a brilliant idea.

  He’d have to think it through more fully, but at first blush it seemed like it could work.

  And if it did, it would solve all his problems.

  Claire

  Sitting at her desk, Claire answered her phone. It was Jodie.

  ‘Morning,’ Jodie said. ‘How are you? Did Alfie show up last night?’

  ‘He did. Eventually. He was very drunk.’

  ‘That’s not like him.’

  ‘He’d had some bad news.’

  There was a pause. ‘Oh? What happened.’

  ‘I’m not sure I should tell you this,’ Claire replied. ‘I think Alfie would be OK with it, but I have to swear you to secrecy, just in case.’

  ‘Of course. I’m assuming it’s to do with babies?’

  ‘It is. He went to the doctor. His sperm are – well, they’re not there. He has none.’

  ‘Really? I thought he’d done a test?’

  ‘He did, but it looks like it was faulty in some way. Dr Singh re-did it, and he has no sperm.’

  ‘None?’

  ‘None. He was very upset.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ Jodie said. ‘I feel so sorry for him. For you both.’

  ‘You know,’ Claire said. ‘It’s not that bad. We talked about other options and he’s open to them.’

  She was telling the truth. Despite the disappointment of the sperm test, she was happy. The world seemed suffused with a warm glow. It was like her memories of Christmas as a child: everything warm and light and peaceful.

  It was because she knew how fortunate she was. Some men would have been threatened by the idea of a sperm donor, their male ego unable to take the idea of their wife becoming pregnant by another man, even if it did not involve him having sex with her. They’d prefer to adopt, or even remain childless. And she had seen something of that in Alfie, but he had put it aside and agreed they could look into it. It didn’t mean they would do it, but she was sure, when the time came, he would agree.

  That was how he was. Selfless, thoughtful, committed to their marriage. When she’d left that morning he had hugged her and thanked her for being so understanding, for forgiving him for coming home late. There he was, a man who, a matter of hours earlier, had been given some devastating news, and his first thought was to thank her. He was amazing, he really was.

  She’d googled Sperm Donor and read the results. It was very easy. In essence, you selected the sperm based on the characteristics of the donor and then it was inserted, either at the clinic or at home.

  She wondered what characteristics you got to choose from. Height, race, eye colour? Or was it also IQ, sporting ability, social class? She decided she didn’t care. Whatever the choices were, she would pick the ones that most closely matched Alfie. That way they would get a child as close to the child they would have had on their own. She wouldn’t look for someone any different to him, wouldn’t seek an upgrade. There was no need: he was perfect already.

  And maybe there was a way of her being artificially inseminated with his sperm. There were probably other tests Dr Singh could do, other procedures that might allow him to get some of Alfie’s sperm. Maybe the sperm donor would be unnecessary. Either way, there were possibilities, and she had a husband who was open to whatever it took. Despite everything, it felt good to be moving forward.

  The door of her office opened. It was Claudia, one of the partners, who had left a message earlier to say she was looking for her.

  ‘Hey,’ she said to Jodie. ‘I have to go. Talk more later.’

  Alfie

  Alfie sat on the sofa. He had a bowl of raw broccoli and chickpeas in one hand – he was starting to feel better but he still needed to cleanse after all the alcohol he’d drunk – and Claire’s laptop in the other. She had a sleek new MacBook which she had treated herself to a few months back. At the time, Alfie had read that it had vastly more computing power than the Apollo moon-landing mission had used, but as far as he could see all Claire did was waste time on it watching the inane videos her friends posted on Facebook.

  Did people really feel moved by a video in which some bearded hipster sneaked a twenty-dollar bill into a New York tramp’s backpack? Did they not have any idea that the money would immediately be turned into crystal meth or cheap vodka, a transaction which was not shown in the video? If they didn’t, then it was no surprise they were so easily manipulated by people like him.

  And it was easy. Early on he’d decided he didn’t want to work – he couldn’t, simply couldn’t – in some bullshit job where his time was not his own and his shitty pay bought him a t
iny flat in Clapham; so he’d found a way not to. He’d seen Claire and seen the opportunity and taken it. Now he had a life in which work was optional. He only did it so that her father didn’t think he was a slacker, but he didn’t have to try and get promoted and he didn’t have to worry about what he got paid. The flat, the car, the holidays all came from her old man.

  Which was something he took great pleasure in. He loved spending the old bastard’s money, loved watching him fall for Alfie’s act just as much as his stupid daughter had done. Mick thought Alfie wasn’t up to much, but the irony was – and it was a delicious irony – Mick had no idea that was exactly what Alfie wanted him to think.

  The price though, had turned out to be too high. He’d underestimated how much he would grow to hate Claire. But now, he had a solution.

  Henry Bryant.

  He flipped open Claire’s laptop and typed in her password. She shared her passwords with him – I have nothing to hide from you, darling, she’d said – which was another example of how things like trust only made you vulnerable.

  He opened a web browser and navigated to a website. It was one he was familiar with, one he had used many times before, although not as Alfie Daniels.

  It was where Henry Bryant went to find women who were looking for an illicit encounter.

  Where Henry would find Claire.

  First, though, he needed to create an email account in Claire’s name. He considered something anonymous, like DIRTYFLIRTY77@whatever.com, but it was out of character for her – as, he was aware, was looking for hook-ups on the internet, but there was nothing he could do about that – so he settled on an outlook account with her initials, CHD, and a string of random numbers.

  He picked a photo of her, tanned and slender, in a bikini on their last holiday. She was standing in the shade of an olive tree, looking to her left. Her face was barely visible, which was perfect. It was typical of the photos on the website and would get plenty of attention.

  He created her profile – she was thirty, interested in men, 25–49, no strings attached – and submitted it. Then he closed the website and deleted it from the internet history.