The Lying Truth 

Philip A Oldfield 


I loved you | I did 

Psychological Thriller


This story, comparable to 'Girl on the Train' is much more than a fast-paced psychological thriller. It is about twisted relationships and the lengths people will go to uncover the truth or live a lie. At times, the story treads lightly across characters’ lives, at others, it plumbs despair, fear and the dark borders of insanity.  


Kate's love turns to fear, then hate when Niall threatens to kill her and their two children. Kate can no longer stay silent and must make the ultimate sacrifice. How far should she go for love?​ 

PROLOGUE

“Each anniversary, we will age, you and I. Age will separate you from the children. It will, of course, be no fault of yours. Yet, it has to be faced... It will be all down to me.  What would you do? I wait. I have always waited. What should I do? You have no answers. The question is, do I?”

My love, what once had no boundaries, no limits is now infinitely limited by a limitless boundary of fear and hate.
   
As for passion, you have plenty of that; it leaves me cold. It tramples my flesh every time you compel me on your whim.

PHILIP OLDFIELD

Novel | The Lying Truth | Philip Oldfield | Author of cross genre and psychological thrillers with strong female protagonists.
Seagull - Author - Philip Oldfield - The Lying Truth

​when you returned. They had acted as if they might never see you again. A part of me, a frighteningly big part, wishes now that could be the case.
   I look up.
   My reflection is hiding in the mirror. I am Kate: the controlled, the coerced. I am a trembling wisp of self. Beyond the worn-corners of my heart, I walk in masquerade. I am a consummate actor. The I in me does not exist. You own me. A month in following your return taught me that.
   We had just been kissing, pulling, nibbling each other’s lips, as lovers do sometimes, just before we... when the cold metal edge of a knife’s blade slithered across my skin. I was lying pinned to the bed underneath you. My legs wrapped around your hips. My joy metamorphosed into an ugly fear.
   “Voice your thoughts and fears to anyone... you​ ​​and the children will die... you understand?” you had said.
   Your breath had licked the nape of my neck in a grotesque version of intimacy. I had lain in stunned silence, my belly exposed. Crazily, the thought of Mandy, my first dog flashed in a manic storm across my eyes. I was the bitch on her back, submissive. I was too scared to speak, too scared to move. 

   Panicked thoughts crammed themselves into my brain. Let me tell you now, a powerful man, money, build and connections will have his way. Like it, want it, or not.
   “And if I die by some accident,” you had continued, your breath now a horrible intrusion on my skin, “or the police come to arrest me, you know Kate, don’t you, I will see you dead from the grave or the cells, where I am, will make no difference.”
 
​ I had nodded, the serrated edge of the knife biting into my skin as my head moved downwards. Shameful submission blotted my confidence, but did nothing to stem the warm trickle of blood. Satisfied, I would be an amiable slave; you completed your first act of humiliation and rolled over, with only one destination in mind, sleep.
   I had gotten up then, tears washing the eyeliner in streaks across my cheeks and stumbled blindly into the bathroom. My immediate thoughts raced to the toilet, keen as I was to flush you out of me.
   I showered too, hoping the viciously hot water pounding my body would counter the pain I felt, but as it poured its venom over me I became conscious of the past. Each splash of molecules scattered horrible memories of another moment. It bubbled unwanted to the surface and I was transported to a dreadful pit, to a world populated by insanity. Its darkness has never left me. Yet for others’ sake, I keep it hidden. 

I call it the days after K-Day. 

Philip Oldfield weaves complex characters and makes you feel a myriad of emotions, whilst making it an easy, thrilling read. This is the second novel I have read from this author and I would highly recommend him.


Palestren

​​​creative , intuitive, passionate


PRESENT DAY – 7 MONTHS IN

CHAPTER ONE

I watch frightened as you walk rapidly past me. Your body causes such a draught, the hem of my dressing gown quivers. I know that feeling only too well. I kept my eyes averted. Blessedly you ignored my presence; a freshly fed lion avoids its prey. Relief spreads rapidly through me and I breathe once more. It is a welcome contagion.
   Anxious to avoid your corrosive presence, I force myself to focus on my necessities. I need my fix, a daily view over Exeter and its surrounding hills, its busy estuary, which so often teems with life and a teasing glimpse of wilderness, the hills and granite tors of Dartmoor. These are my illusions of freedom that draws and forever sustains me, for dopamine is my powerful drug and every morning I crave it.
   I hoist the curtain back; it is long, like a suffragist’s dress, enough to take in an uncontaminated morning free of your existence. How I cherish the suffragettes fight for independence, but despise my weakness, for even as I seek the fantasy of liberty, my struggle to taste even the tiniest of its slithers is over.
   Heavy clouds have descended overnight. The elements have conspired. The one glimmer of hope lit in my eyes vanished and my smile evaporates. The tendons it pushed and pulled; the chain reaction it would have signalled to pump the reward into my brain has not materialised.
   An inescapable notion of being a misplaced soul in lament cries and awakens and I search desperately for something different, anything to capture my attention and distract me.
   The rooftops poke their noses above the fog. It has smothered everything else apart from the tallest trees and the city’s spattering of high-risers. I am so hungry for consolation that I feed on this frugal breakfast. But, my hunger remains. It infects me.
   Beneath it all I cannot avoid my feelings. The dull weather drips weariness into my bones. Tiredness weighs heavily on my body. Of course, I know the morning’s veil will pass. The sun will have its way, burn off the cloud, shrink and dissolve the mist, but it will all come too late.
   You will be back. You always come back.

   My eyes remain drawn by the vanity of anticipation. I am sad. Truly, for my spirit reveals the truth. The views over the city will give me no solace. Like Jonathan Livingston Seagull, I had lost my way. My fantasy of freedom is over and with it comes the knowledge each tomorrow will take longer to arrive.
   And something else.
   My heart aches.
   I let go of the curtain and the fragile flap of hope it provided falls away.
 

 This morning when I had looked at your hard back, the muscles knotting and rippling as you stretched your arms high and wide before you strode off naked to your watering hole, your loud yawn told the house and those who take shelter in it, this is your territory and all that live under its roof, are your pride. Only, you take no pride in us anymore.
   You used to Niall. You used to be the loving father and caring husband until it was cut out of you. How else can I explain what you have become? I do not know who you are anymore.
   I loved you. I did.
   How strange the past sounds. How painful is history to those that live, lie and die in its throes. I am one of those fallen. And how easy it is to write, to telescope back from the present, but not so for those, the un-present, to touch, to feel, to know the agony of love as it fades, slipping away in one slow painful, continuous erosion.
   My love, what once had no boundaries, no limits is now infinitely limited by a limitless boundary of fear and hate.
   As for passion, you have plenty of that; it leaves me cold. It tramples my flesh every time you compel me on your whim.
   My children, I refuse to think of them as our children anymore, were mercifully asleep in the early hours when you did your deed and, thank God, saved from hearing the eruption of pain when it escaped regrettably from my lips. The animal growl you released, purring on the sadistic, was a sickly pleasure I knew was gained from my suffering.
   And to think it is only seven months ago, the day before you disappeared, when I still found you so utterly adorable that my heart would beat outside my chest at your touch. I know it sounds so terribly absurd, especially now, but it did. Our years together had not lessened my feelings. They had grown stronger in fact.
   Your alter ego breaks into my reverie.
   Steam rolls out of the bathroom door, the scent from the shower gel you now use flies with it. Everything about you is different. Yet, you look the same down to every mark on your body. Even the tone of your voice and mannerisms are you. Familiar faces welcomed you back as if you were the man they know and like. Your parents were overjoyed