The Friend Who Lied

by Rachel Amphlett

  I hate being late paying bills. I pride myself on being organised, on being dependable. It’s why the others rely on me – they know I won’t let them down.

  That done, I take a sip of coffee and close my eyes as the first caffeine hit smacks my gums. It’s not as satisfying as the real thing, of course.

  I blink, and try to decide whether to take the contact lenses out and wear my glasses instead. When I peer through the slats of the blinds that screen the back window, I change my mind.

  It’s pissing down with rain, and I can’t stand cycling wearing glasses when it’s like this – with the glasses fogging up and covered in raindrops, it’s too disorientating. Dangerous too, given the amount of traffic at this time of day.

  I wander over to where I dumped my backpack on the armchair when I came downstairs and check the side pocket. The bottle of eye drops is inside, and there is plenty to keep me going today.

  I frown as my fingers find thick paper, the surface shiny under my touch.

  Giving it a tug, I emit a surprised grunt when I recognise the bright colours of the escape room company’s logo, the glossy surface of the brochure taken up with photographs.

  These are evidently posed by actors – or the owners’ friends; the fixed smiles, furrowed brows or exasperated expressions are too staged, too fake.

  Still, it convinced Lisa and the others.

  It was, after all, one of the few activities anyone in the group had suggested that Lisa would actually be capable of taking part in, given the fragile state of her health.

  Simon, of course, had rolled his eyes and said escape rooms were pathetic and that no doubt we’d complete the three rooms on offer in record time. He even went so far as to suggest that the organisers knew their “fun group activity” wouldn’t tax our grey matter too much, hence the forty per cent group discount they offered on the back of the brochure. Just some people who were taking advantage of the latest trend, who wouldn’t be around in a year’s time.

  Hayley and Bec had come to my rescue, Bec at least having the sense to point out to her ex-fiancé that given all of our current plans to save our money, none of the other options under consideration for Lisa’s birthday were appropriate – or viable.

  Simon had glared at her then, and sulked for the rest of the evening. When I left to help Lisa into Bec’s car to get a lift home, she and Simon still weren’t talking.

  At least the day we arrived at the escape room, he’d perked up after a couple of drinks beforehand at a bar over the road.

  For a brief moment, I saw a flash of the old candour in Simon. The same mischievous lad who’d charmed me when I’d first met him at university because he’d been more daring, and the same determined expression that had ensured our secret had been kept safe for so long.

  Even he had to admit the first escape room was fun – and it was.

  Corny, yes, but exactly what we all needed, especially with Lisa’s health clearly deteriorating within the space of the week since we’d last seen her.

  Her skin was translucent; an unhealthy paleness that glowed eerily under the special effects lighting.

  ‘Maybe we should cancel,’ I said as we were about to start.

  She reached out and squeezed my hand. ‘No, don’t. It’ll be okay.’

  I nodded, happy to grant her wish and then turned my attention to the challenge we’d been set.

  The first room had been decorated to look as if it were a modern office, with six laptop computer screens flickering on different desks and a blue hue to the lighting. We stood in the middle of the room after the door closed behind us, and I was about to voice my disappointment, when a countdown was beamed in bright red numbers on one of the walls.

  Sixty minutes.

  Sixty minutes, until what?

  That became apparent as one of the laptop screens changed and a pre-recording of a man in a scientist’s white overcoat began speaking. A terrorist cell had stolen the secret formula for a bioweapon – and our team was tasked with tracking down the suspects and stopping the bomb from being detonated. We would escape when our instructions typed into each laptop resulted in the correct combination of answers.

  In sixty minutes?

  Eat your heart out, Jack Bauer.

  I turned to see Simon leaning against the wall, his pupils dilated, and bit back a sigh. Instead, I called him over.

  ‘Come on, Simon. Computers and linear thinking are your areas of expertise. Any ideas?’

  I tried, really, I did. I wanted it to be a special day; I wanted it to be like it was in that first term at university – the five of us determined to succeed.

  There was no way we were going to fail the first game, we’d promised ourselves that much.

  By the time we were thirty minutes in, though, I realised he was the worse for wear, talking too loudly and bumping into one of the desks, sending a laptop crashing to the floor.

  I nodded to Hayley, and she pulled out a bottle of water from her tote bag, handing it to Simon with a suggestion he drink it.

  ‘I think those Manhattans you had in the bar over the road went to your head,’ she said, and then laughed to take the edge off her words.

  Mutely, Simon uncapped the bottle and drained the contents before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Right. Let’s get out of here.’

  We were on the cusp of cracking the final clue to escape from the first room when I turned to Lisa to share our relief at our success.

  She staggered, only stopping herself from tumbling to the ground by throwing her hand out and finding the wall.

  I hurried over to her, putting my hand on her shoulder, but she shook her head.

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘She’s pissed,’ said Simon, and cackled. ‘Guess you shouldn’t have tried my cocktail with the meds you’re on.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Bec snapped at him. She turned her attention to the panel in front of her and tapped in the sequence we’d just agreed.

  I heard the locking mechanism give way, and then the exit door opened, revealing itself behind a filing cabinet we’d been rifling through for clues only twenty minutes before.

  Piped music blared from hidden speakers – a fanfare that sounded like a bad home recording, or a cheap download.

  That lifted the mood, and Simon’s harsh words were forgotten for a moment as we high-fived each other.

  Even Lisa was smiling at that point, but I noticed how she relied on Hayley for support and trailed along behind the rest of us as we made our way along the corridor to the next escape room.

  As soon as the door swung shut behind us, I knew we were in trouble.

  Simon was slurring his words, needling Bec as she read out the first set of instructions.

  I ignored him and turned in a circle, taking in our new surroundings.

  A haunted house wasn’t original, but it did provide a different challenge to the espionage one we’d completed. Fake cobwebs clung to the ceiling, and I watched as Bec eyed an enormous furry spider in one corner with alarm. She caught me looking, and forced a smile.

  ‘Let’s not hang around too long in here, all right?’

  Then the lights went out, and everything changed.

  It took me a moment to fight the sudden disorientating darkness and realise that the screaming I could hear wasn’t pre-recorded at all.

  It was Hayley.

  13

  Hayley

  My spirits lift the moment the glass doors to the shopping centre swish open, and I hitch my handbag up my shoulder.

  I stride towards the escalator, relaxing once I place my hand on the rubber handrail and lift my gaze to the pretty lights that hang from the glass ceiling.

  A pale blue sky peers through, and I’m thankful for the winter sun warming the inside of my car that’s parked on the roof of the multi-storey opposite, awaiting my return.

  This is my natural environment.

  Not the hospital.

  Above me, men and women bustle past the gleaming
aluminium railings either side of the escalators clutching their latest purchases, laden with branded shopping bags while holding phones to their ears. They weave amongst each other like pigeons, homing in on the next item on their lists of must-haves and wants.

  Bec says she gets disoriented in shopping centres. Too many people, too many different sounds, big and brash window displays that demand to be noticed, pushy salesmen and women.

  Not me.

  I smile while I survey the floor below and the escalator takes me higher.

  Down there are all the cheap shops, the ones that have the latest Top Ten hits, the music blaring at high volume, competing with the stores next door.

  Every shop down there has white security alarm posts and someone actively checking bags before customers are allowed to leave the store.

  Which is ironic, because down there the buy-one-get-one-free brigade hang around to seek out the cheaper clothing, the discounted shoes and souvenirs that only cost a quid or two. After that, they stuff their faces with grease and fat at the sprawling food court.

  I’ve worked hard so I don’t have to shop down there.

  I reach the next level and cast my gaze across the mezzanine, taking in the jewellery counters that glisten through plate-glass windows and the travel agents’ signs offering exclusive river cruises and guided safaris for the discerning adventurer.

  I wonder if I should go away.

  There’s part of me that wants to run, and never stop. Never come back.

  The thought leaves me melancholy, a clear sign that I should treat myself, be kinder to myself – that’s what the self-help books in the window display of the bookshop I pass tell me, at least.

  Further on, plush sofas and armchairs have been arranged around an ornate display of ferns in such a way as to allow the people who rest here a modicum of privacy as they pause for a moment between purchases.

  The music here is different, too – instead of the brash pop beats of the lower level, here classical music is piped through hidden speakers, a string quartet that encourages people to stay, take their time, and spend more.

  I peer over the nearest palm fronds and spot a woman in a grey business suit and pearls, her hair swept up into a chignon as she rustles a copy of the financial newspaper in her hands, her attention taken fully by her reading material. She doesn’t look up; doesn’t seem to care what is going on around her, or what people think of her.

  I envy her confidence.

  I set my sights on the large department store off to the right. They don’t know me here, and I’m elated that I can move around in anonymity.

  Here too, classical music plays unobtrusively. Shoppers are encouraged to meander, browse, and use credit cards with the word “platinum” embossed across the front.

  I start to relax, inhaling the heady scents of sandalwood and musk as I glide past the perfume displays, and smile at the assistant who stands chatting next to a burly security guard in a smart uniform, his arms across his chest as he laughs with the woman and teases her while she works.

  Through an archway, I spot the department store’s homewares department and sigh at the thought of the plush throws, cushions and other soft fabrics that I’d love to get, but can’t.

  Not today.

  I move past the archway and set my sights on the middle of the store, weaving my way between handbags and umbrellas.

  I finally reach the boutique displays of women’s clothing and pluck a hanger from the rail, running my eyes down the dress as I touch the smooth satin fabric.

  Two other women browse the rails, but we don’t make eye contact. We don’t smile at each other. It’s as if there’s an unspoken rule in here that we don’t need each other’s approval. We don’t need to explain why we shop in here rather than down there.

  I pause when I spot the price tag deftly pinned to the designer label, check over my shoulder and then put it back.

  Neither of them look up. Neither of them see me decide that I can’t afford that today.

  I move away from the clothing rails, back to the tiled floor that meanders around the department store, a concrete river that takes me past row upon row of displays: shoes, leather belts, purses.

  I slow my pace as I approach the racks of make-up, pausing to gawp at the endless shades of eyeshadow, blush, and mascara. I need another lipstick, but not today.

  Today I want something extra special, to cheer me up. To help me recover from the trauma of the past few days.

  I shouldn’t, but I will.

  14

  Lisa

  The stench hits me first.

  An overpowering aroma of too many flowers, too much pollen, and a mixture of fragrances that hit my senses the minute Mum opens the front door and stands to one side to let me pass.

  ‘I’m going to—’

  I sneeze, and then I double up in pain.

  I can’t prevent the yelp that escapes, and suddenly Dad’s there, clutching my arm for a moment before he takes off into the lounge. I can hear him opening the windows, despite the cold air that’s blasting from the street outside.

  ‘I told you it’d be too much for her allergies,’ he calls out.

  ‘It was the neighbours,’ says Mum, wringing the free newspaper between her hands. She drops it into the recycling basket at the bottom of the stairs where it lands every week, unread and unwanted. ‘And your work colleagues. And everybody else. There are too many flowers, Lisa.’

  ‘Throw them out,’ I gasp. ‘I don’t want them.’

  Mum pouts. ‘The neighbours will see.’

  Dad passes us with three vases in his grip, on his way through to the kitchen where no doubt there are more floral arrangements waiting to try and kill me.

  I hear the back door open; the lid to the wheelie bin clangs shut, and he returns with a triumphant look in his eyes.

  ‘All gone.’

  Mum rolls her eyes. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  It’s her answer to everything, but I’m too weak to argue and simply nod.

  It’s strange – yesterday at the hospital with the prospect of going home, I was excited. I’d sent texts to my ex-boss, Charlie, to tell him how I was doing, and, minutes after his response (“Great!”), I got a text from Beatrice, an older colleague, saying how Charlie was already mooting my return, even if it were only on a part-time basis to begin with.

  Today, the cloying familiarity of Mum and Dad’s house has sent it all crashing down again.

  Simon is dead, I remind myself.

  What the hell was I thinking, getting excited about going back to work?

  Dad heads towards me, a wry smile on his face before he pats my arm and steers me towards the living room.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get you comfortable.’

  ‘I don’t feel too good, Dad. I feel faint.’

  I can hear it in my voice; the uncertainty. The shock.

  The horror.

  How did Simon die?

  ‘The doctors said you might. Over here. I’ll wrap this blanket around you, okay?’

  He shakes it out and holds it up expectantly as I shuffle across the thick carpet to his favourite chair.

  I’ve been occupying it for the past three weeks, and he’s never said a word. Now, he winks.

  ‘At least I’ll finally get my chair back.’

  It does the trick. The corner of my mouth twitches and I settle back while he fusses around me.

  ‘How are you now? A bit better?’

  ‘A bit, thanks. I need my phone. Sorry, I left it in my bag.’

  ‘I’ll go and get it.’

  He disappears for a moment, and then returns with my bag. My hand delves inside, wraps around my mobile phone.

  Dad reaches behind the television and pulls out a phone charger he keeps for his own mobile, then plugs it in next to me. ‘I’d imagine that’s on its last legs.’

  He’s not wrong – the battery icon is showing only two per cent.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I unlock the hom
e screen and frown. There are no missed calls, no text messages, nothing. I was hoping at least Hayley or Bec would’ve sent me a “welcome home” message.

  I open the email app, my heart sinking as I read through the offers from online stores, invitations to take surveys, and a late note from a distant aunt the previous night wishing me well.

  ‘Did you need anything else?’ says Dad.

  Just some answers, I think.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Good.’ He straightens, then stands there, unsure what to do next.

  I’m embarrassed for him. I’ve always got on well with my dad, but we’re not what I would call close. He’s been doing his best, though.

  We’re saved by Mum shoving the door open with her elbow, a laden tea tray in her hands that she plonks down on the coffee table next to the sofa.

  She passes a mug to me, and the simple gesture shakes me.

  I’m home.

  ‘Has anyone called the landline?’

  I’m desperate for information. Something to help me understand.

  She shakes her head. ‘They’re probably giving you some space to settle in again.’ She reaches out for a ginger biscuit and nibbles the edge.

  I’ve only been back twenty minutes, and already I’m fidgeting.

  I check the screen on my phone again.

  No new notifications. No new messages. No emails.

  Nothing. Not since I saw David two days ago.

  It’s as if my friends have abandoned me now that they know I’m okay, and I don’t know what to do.

  15

  Lisa

  The theme tune to the evening news carries through the floorboards from the living room below and provides a ten-second warning that, soon, I’ll hear my dad’s exclamations of ‘Rubbish!’ and ‘Idiot!’.

  My old childhood bedroom has become a sanctuary for me now, when previously – before Simon died – it was a place to mourn my future and all the plans and dreams I’d relegated as lost causes.