The Dead Lie Down: A Novel Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - Friday 29 Feb 2008

  Chapter 2 - 1/3/08

  Chapter 3 - Sunday 2 March 2008

  Chapter 4 - 3/3/08

  Chapter 5 - Monday 3 March 2008

  Chapter 6 - 3/3/08

  Chapter 7 - Monday 3 March 2008

  Chapter 8 - 4/3/08

  Chapter 9 - Tuesday 4 March 2008

  Chapter 10 - 4/3/08

  Chapter 11 - Tuesday 4 March 2008

  Chapter 12 - 5/3/08

  Chapter 13 - Wednesday 5 March 2008

  Chapter 14 - 5/3/08

  Chapter 15 - Wednesday 5 March 2008

  Chapter 16 - 5/3/08

  Chapter 17 - Wednesday 5 March 2008

  Chapter 18 - 5/3/08

  Chapter 19 - Wednesday 5 March 2008

  Chapter 20 - 5/3/08

  Chapter 21 - Wednesday 5 March 2008

  Chapter 22 - 5/3/08

  Chapter 23 - Wednesday 5 March 2008

  Chapter 24 - 5/3/08

  Chapter 25 - Wednesday 5 March 2008

  Chapter 26 - 5/3/08

  Chapter 27 - Wednesday 5 March 2008

  Chapter 28 - 12/3/08

  Chapter 29 - Tuesday 1 April 2008

  Acknowledgements

  AVAILABLE FROMPENGUIN

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  THE DEAD LIE DOWN

  SOPHIE HANNAH is a bestselling crime fiction writer and poet. Her psychological thrillers, including Little Face and The Wrong Mother, have been published in ten countries. Sophie lives in Yorkshire, England, with her husband and two children.

  Praise for Sophie Hannah

  THE WRONG MOTHER

  ‘Paced like a ticking time bomb with flawlessly distinct characterization, this is a fiercely fresh and un-put-downable read.’

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  ‘The Wrong Mother is an un-put-downable read, and as a $15 paperback, the bargain mystery of the year!’

  —BookPage

  ‘Sophie Hannah just gets better and better. Her plots are brilliantly cunning and entirely unpredictable. The writing is brilliant and brings us uncomfortably close to the dark, ambivalent impulses experienced by the parents of difficult, demanding children.’

  —The Guardian (London)

  ‘Sophie Hannah’s ingenious, almost surreal mysteries are so intricately constructed that it’s impossible to guess how they will end. The Wrong Mother is a compelling and disquieting story, told with the author’s usual panache.’

  —Daily Telegraph (U.K.)

  ‘The fresh and the original have been Hannah’s hallmark since her debut Little Face. The Wrong Mother is her most accomplished novel yet. As the revelations tumble forth, the tension is screwed ever tighter until the final shocking outcome. Exemplary.’

  —Daily Express (U.K.)

  ‘Sophie Hannah’s third psychological suspense novel is a creepy thriller with an unsettling side-story concerning “family annihilation”—the murder of a child by a parent. . . . This is a superior exercise in storytelling that takes time away from the killer-on-the-loose cop chase to reflect on the chillingly plausible thin line between parenting and psychosis.’

  —Financial Times

  ‘Hannah reinforces her reputation as a great new thriller writer. Chilling, compulsive and with a genius twist.’

  —Elle (U.K.)

  LITTLE FACE

  ‘She’s a writer to watch.’

  —Bloomberg News

  ‘It is not every day that a writer makes the move from best-selling poetry to suspense fiction, and I suspect it’s rarer still for the transition to be as successful as that of British author Sophie Hannah, who has penned a clever and original debut in Little Face. . . . Judging from her excellent debut, she has a brilliant new career ahead of her.’

  —BookPage

  ‘An unsettling psychological thriller.’

  —L.A. Weekly

  ‘Few authors play with reality and perception as skillfully as Hannah does . . . riveting reading.’

  —Mystery Scene

  ‘A great premise for a mystery . . . intriguing.’

  —New York Daily News

  ‘Engrossing.’

  —Publishers Weekly

  ‘The British edition of Sophie Hannah’s Little Face shot up the best-seller list, and no wonder. It’s a splendid crime-psychological thriller. Men who read the book will be riveted by the crime part, while women will grab onto the psychology part.’

  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  ‘Hannah has a keen ear for her characters’ foibles, snobberies and hypocrisies, and the observation remains acute throughout.’

  —The Observer (London)

  ‘Echoes of [Hitchcock’s] Gaslight and Rebecca . . . A tautly claustrophobic spiral of a story delivered with self-belief.’

  —Kirkus Review

  ‘This may well turn out to be the detective novel of the year. . . . So develops a terrifying mystery of manipulation, counter-manipulation and, finally, astounding revelation—it’s a haunting story told with bewitching skill.’

  —Scotsman

  ‘The author is a poet by trade and she brings a wealth of psychological and literary subtlety to bear in this impressive novel. Smart and disarmingly unnerving.’

  —Daily Mail (U.K.)

  ‘Hannah adapts to crime fiction with arresting aplomb: her characters are vivid, the novel’s challenging double narrative is handled with flair, and its denouement is ingenious.’

  —The Sunday Times (London)

  ‘Little Face is that most fascinating and intelligent of modern crime novels: rather than a whodunit, it escalates from a how-andwhydunit to a point where the reader is unsure if a crime has been committed at all. . . . Hannah never deviates from her intention: to deliver a gripping crime story of the first order, loaded with subtext and meaning.’

  —Leeds Guide

  ‘Hannah’s whodunit milks a classic formula with subversive results. This missing-baby tale chimes with very modern anxieties. Custody issues lie at the heart of the resolution, and the increasingly perverse relationship between Alice and David is grounded in recognisable reality that serves only to make our flesh crawl more.’

  —The Independent

  ‘I do not really want to discuss this thriller. I do not want to give away any of the quite brilliant twists to those who may not have read Little Face or have not yet finished it. So, you will just have to take my word, and that of those who mailed the Books group, that Sophie Hannah delivers as good a finale as any crime writer. I was extremely impressed.’

  —The Times (London)

  ‘This taut psychological thriller is full of heart-thumping suspense.’

  —Sainsbury’s Magazine

  ‘Sophie Hannah is a real star.’

  —Daily Telegraph (U.K.)

  ‘A chilling thriller. I was left thinking about the book for days, and that’s usually a good sign.’

  —The Guardian (London)

  ‘Women in peril flit through the pages of traditional Gothic fiction, murmuring “Had I but known!” as they fall for the wrong man, open the wrong door or apply for the wrong job. Sophie Hannah takes the trusty formula in both hands, gives it a vigorous shake and uses it to produce something fascinating and original in her novel. Beautifully written the novel is outstandingly chilling—terror lurks in the half understood and in anticipation. Little Face is a hugely promising debut. Sophie Hannah is an author to watch.’

  —The Spectator

  ‘I could barely put this book down . . . definitely worth a read.’

  —Birmingham Post

  ‘T
he language and atmosphere are high-quality stuff, and the portrait of a woman in the throes of postnatal depression will be a revelation to some, to others a reminder.’

  —The Literary Review

  ‘The phrase “psychological thriller” could have been invented for this gripping novel. . . . Little Face is not simply a crime novel. It is a thorough and deep exploration of the dynamics of an on-the-surface happy family, revealing the seething secrets beneath. . . . An accomplished thriller that will appeal to anyone who enjoys a rattling good read but will send especially shiversome chills down the spine of any parent.’

  —Bradford Telegraph

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

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  First published in Great Britain under the title The Other Half Lives

  by Hodder & Stoughton 2009

  Published in Penguin Books 2010

  Copyright © Sophie Hannah, 2009 All rights reserved

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the

  author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or

  dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Hannah, Sophie, 1971-

  The dead lie down / Sophie Hannah.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 9781101435328

  1. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

  PR6058.A5928D43 2010

  823’.914—dc22 2009050146

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  For Jane Fielder

  Thursday 13 December 2007

  I didn’t want to go first.

  Three seconds ago—four—I had said, ‘All right.’ Now Aidan was watching me. Waiting. I bit back the words Why me? You suggested it—why don’t you start? To ask would have made him think I didn’t trust him, and I didn’t want to sully the moment by saying something petty.

  The air around us felt charged, taut with anticipation. Energy radiated from our clammy, clasped hands. ‘It doesn’t have to be everything,’ Aidan whispered. ‘Just . . . as much as we can . . .’ Unable to finish the sentence, he decided he already had. ‘As much as we can,’ he said again, stressing the last word. His warm breath settled on my skin every few seconds, like a tide of air that kept sucking out, then blowing back in. We hadn’t moved from our spot at the foot of the bed, in front of the mirror, but it seemed, suddenly, as though everything was speeding up. Our faces gleamed with sweat, as if we’d run for miles, when in fact all our movements—through the hotel’s revolving glass door, towards reception, into and out of the lift, along the narrow spotlit corridor to the closed door with a gold ‘436’ on it—had been slow and deliberate, a thousand heartbeats to the footstep. We both knew something was waiting for us inside the room, something that could only be put off for so long.

  ‘As much as we can,’ I echoed Aidan’s words. ‘And then no questions.’

  He nodded. I saw his eyes shining in the dimness of the unlit room and knew how much it meant to him that I’d said yes. My fear was still there, sitting hunched inside me, but now I felt better able to manage it. I’d secured a concession: no questions. I was in control, I told myself.

  ‘I did something stupid. More than stupid. Wrong.’ My voice sounded too loud, so I lowered it. ‘To two people.’ Saying their names would have been impossible. I didn’t try. Even in my thoughts I cannot name them. I make do with ‘Him’ and ‘Her’.

  I knew then that I was capable of giving Aidan no more than the bare bones, though every word of the whole of it glowed in my mind. Nobody would believe how often I tell myself the story, one unbearable detail after another. Like picking at a scab, except it’s not. It’s more like taking a sharp fingernail and gouging out raw, runny pink flesh from a spot I’ve never left alone long enough for a scab to form.

  I did something wrong. I keep hoping I’ll find a new way to start, at the same time as knowing there isn’t one. None of it would have happened if I’d been blameless.

  ‘It was a long time ago. I was punished.’ My head throbbed, as if a small, hard machine was rotating inside my brain. ‘Excessively. I never . . . I still haven’t got over it. The unfairness of it and . . . what happened to me. I thought I could escape by moving away, but . . .’ I shrugged, trying to affect an equanimity I did not feel.

  ‘The worst things stow away in the hold, follow you wherever you go,’ said Aidan.

  His kindness made it harder. I shook my hands free from his and sat down on the edge of the bed. The room we’d booked was awful: it had the tall, narrow proportions of a telephone box, and there were green and blue checks everywhere—the curtains, the bedspread, the chairs—with a grid of red lines separating each square from its neighbours. When I stared at the pattern, it warped in front of my eyes. I didn’t need to see all the other rooms in the Drummond Hotel to know they were identical. There were three pictures, one above the television and two on the hollow wall that separated the bedroom from the bathroom; three insipid landscapes that begged to be ignored, with colours that were as close to colourless as it was possible to get. Outside, through the thick, rectangular slab of multi-layered glass that made up one side of the room, London was a restless yellow-streaked grey that I knew would keep me awake all night. I wanted to be in the pitch black, blind and unseen.

  Why was I bothering with this pretence of a confession? What was the point of telling the only version of events that I could bear to utter out loud—an abstract shadow, a template that could have applied to any number of stories?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I told Aidan. ‘It’s not that I don’t want you to know, it’s just . . . I can’t say it. I can’t say the words.’ A lie. I didn’t want him to know; I had wanted to please him by agreeing that we should tell one another, but that wasn’t the same thing. If I’d wanted him to know, I could have promised to show him the file under my bed at home: the trial transcript, the letters, the newspaper clippings.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve told you so little,’ I said. I needed to cry. The tears were there; I could feel them inside me, blocking my throat and chest, but I couldn’t squeeze them out.

  Aidan knelt down in front of me, rested his arms on my knees and looked at me hard, so that I couldn’t look away. ‘It isn’t so little,’ he said. ‘It’s a lot. To me, it’s a lot.’ That was when I realised that he wouldn’t go back on the deal we’d made. He wasn’t going to ask me any questions. My body sagged, limp with relief.

  I showed no sign of wanting to
say more. Aidan must have assumed I’d reached the end of the non-story I had not quite told him. He kissed me and said, ‘Whatever you did, it makes no difference to how I feel about you. I’m really proud of you. It’ll be easy from now on.’ I tried to pull him up onto the bed. I wasn’t sure what the ‘it’ was that he thought would be easy; he might have meant making love for the first time, or the rest of our life together, all of it. I had left my last life behind, and now I had a new one with Aidan. Part of me—a big, loud, insistent part—couldn’t believe it.

  I wasn’t nervous about the sex, not any more. Aidan’s idea had worked, though not in the way he’d hoped it would. I’d confided a little, and now I was desperate to do anything but talk. I wanted physical contact as a way of warding off words.

  ‘Wait,’ Aidan said. He stood up. It was his turn. I didn’t want to know. How can the things someone has done in the past make no difference to the way you feel about them in the present? I knew too much about the worst human beings can do to one another to be able to give Aidan the reassurance he had given me.

  ‘Years ago, I killed someone.’ There was no emphasis, no tone to his voice; it was as if he was reading from an autocue, each word appearing on its own and out of context on a screen in front of him.

  I had a terrible thought: a man. Please let it be a man.

  ‘I killed a woman,’ Aidan said, in response to my unasked question. His eyes were flooded. He sniffed, blinked.

  I felt my body begin to fill up with a new sharp sadness, one I was sure I wouldn’t be able to stand for more than a few seconds. I was desperate, angry, disbelieving, but not frightened.