The Liar's Chair by Rebecca Whitney

and I’ve got things to do.’
    ‘What things?’ He glares at me, snatching away his hand, an alcohol temper rising in his face. ‘See that fuck-wit of a husband of yours? Spend loads of money on crap at the
shops?’
    I shake my head. His eyes glisten. I want to tell him that I don’t like shopping, that my husband’s touch chills me, and that even with all the imperfections I’ve never had
anything as close to happiness as this. Instead I move close again and nuzzle into his shoulder, wishing that everything were more simple. ‘I’m sorry. You should forget about me.
I’m bad news.’
    ‘Rachel, we can work this out.’ Will strokes the back of my head. ‘What I said last night about getting out of here – I know I was pissed and I know it probably sounded
nuts, but I meant it. We could leave. We could go somewhere where David couldn’t find you.’
    ‘You don’t know David. If you did you’d know there is no getting away.’ With my logic setting in again, I’m itching to leave and get back home before any more time
passes.
    ‘Well, I’m not scared of Mr Big, chucking his money around to get everything he wants.’
    My impatience turns to panic. ‘Tough talk, you with your shabby little house and cash under the mattress. Leave problems you can’t handle alone.’
    ‘Fuck you, Rachel.’
    ‘Yeah, fuck you too.’
    ‘You’re a bitch.’
    ‘Well, you’re a bitch’s whore.’
    Will grabs an empty can and hurls it into a wastepaper basket, the bin frayed with spikes of wicker. As he picks up an ashtray and dumps its contents into the basket, clouds of ash plume through
gaps in the weaving, covering his hand with speckles of grey. He circumnavigates the room, careful not to come too close to me, punching cushions and hurling them on the sofa. A mist of dust
disturbed after a long time is suspended in the air. I watch him for a moment then go to the bathroom, locking myself in and speed-dressing. In my bag, next to the walking man’s watch which I
carry with me at all times, I check I have the receipt for the hotel – the evidence that David will probably ignore – plus the wraps of coke I bought last night. Ten. Ten grams. Enough
to last David about a month. A month until I have to see Will again. I wonder if it will be hard to stay away or hard to come back.
    I wait to hear Will go back into the kitchen before I come out, then I walk through the lounge to the small porch. As I twist the latch, the front door bursts open with a gust of wind from
outside and the latch bangs into my shoulder. From behind me comes the click and fizz of a can being opened. I close the door quietly behind me and cross the road to my car.
    Having greeted the day, my hangover is worse than I’d expected and the keys shake in my hand. I slide into the incubated heat of the vehicle, the sun on the windscreen warmer without the
wind. The temperature tops up my blood. Here in my private enclave it’s safe, the only place that’s mine and mine alone. The engine starts and I drive away.
    In the rear-view mirror I see a reflection of Will standing at his window holding a can of Special Brew. He doesn’t drink. He is statue-still and looks small, like a little boy, and even
though I don’t want to stay, I want to go home even less, and I wish I didn’t always have to start a fight to make it easier to leave.

7
DIRTY FOOTPRINTS
    I pull up in our drive and expect to see David in his favourite position inside the house: sitting on the long red sofa and looking out from the floor-to-ceiling window of our
main lounge. He likes to sit with one foot hooked over his opposing knee, arms stretched along the back of the settee as he surveys his manor. From this position he has the added benefit of
announcing his presence to whomever approaches. But today the sofa is empty, his car gone. No scrambled barks reach through the front door, so he’s taken his babies. The empty building holds
its breath. David’s angry