The Friend Who Lied

by Rachel Amphlett

  I’m sitting on my old single bed, my back against the wall in lieu of a headboard that was never fixed to the frame, and I reach behind me to plump up the pillows.

  My eyes don’t leave the laptop screen.

  For the past half an hour I’ve been scrolling through my timeline on an old social media account I set up ten years ago, mid-way through studying the A-levels that would guarantee a place at the university of my choice.

  I wanted to stay in Southampton, of course.

  I’d grown up here, knew my way around, and had the added benefit of not having to pay rent to my parents while studying in order to keep any debt at bay.

  I couldn’t imagine having to move to a different city to study, not like some of my contemporaries. I’d have been disorientated, out of my depth, and anxious.

  Besides, Simon was applying for Southampton and it seemed natural at the time to follow him.

  We’d only been going out a few months by then, and I smile at the photographs from that time as I scroll past. It’s hard not to – both of us are wearing ridiculous clothes, thinking we were the cool kids, and I’d forgotten about the short, choppy hairstyle I’d favoured at the time.

  You can see it in his eyes, though. A cruelness, as if he’s weighing up who to taunt next.

  The cracks didn’t appear in our relationship until late spring that year, and after that we didn’t last much longer.

  I began to find his sense of humour too immature, and by the time I’d sat my A-level exams, I realised he’d hold me back if I stayed with him. Despite his interest in me in that first art class, it transpired he had no interest at all in my art, and saw it as a frivolous pursuit.

  ‘Computers, Lisa. Coding. That’s the future. Not this.’

  He had waved a hand across the paintings I’d included in my portfolio, his top lip curling.

  I scroll back to find the photographs I’d posted of my paintings in my timeline. I’d uploaded them when we split up a few days after he’d made that comment. Everyone else loved my work, leaving me feeling vindicated. Notably, none of the reactions on that post are from him.

  Instead, he retaliated by posting a photograph of him with his new girlfriend – Stacey Alexander – two days later.

  He knew it would hurt, and, despite knowing he was only using her to get to me, I let it.

  I keep scrolling.

  They only lasted two and a half months, and then he dumped her when she accepted a place at Durham University.

  The photographs from that first term at Southampton are filled with group shots from visits to London art galleries for assignments, stupid memes and dodgy videos taken at concerts with mobile phone cameras that pixelated badly and recorded the music as a mush of sound.

  How many gigs and festivals had I watched with my own eyes and not through a phone screen?

  I squint at a photograph from early December of that year and enlarge the image.

  There he is.

  Six foot two, slightly long dark hair, blue eyes and such a broad Glaswegian accent that it had taken me a few days of being around him before I’d been able to understand what he was saying.

  He’d laughed at that.

  ‘Stupid bloody idiot!’

  I roll my eyes. Dad is in his element downstairs, and Mum will be in her armchair, tutting and offering her own commentary as the news stories progress from the tragic to the mediocre.

  I tap the arrow key and scroll upwards, glancing at the date.

  A few months after that last photograph was taken, I abandoned my social media account.

  We all did.

  I think it was David who’d suggested it, saying it was childish, that we didn’t need to tell everyone else about everything we got up to, that we didn’t need the validation.

  Of course, some of our wider circle of acquaintances had laughed and said we’d be using it again within weeks, that we’d feel like we were missing out.

  But they were wrong. We never did.

  I shuffle on the duvet; my neck is sore from looking at the screen. Soon, my shoulders will ache but I need to know. I need to—

  I find another photograph of him.

  The photo is from a Christmas party – David is there, wearing a Santa hat and with his arm draped across Hayley’s shoulders. She’s smiling at the photographer – Bec, I presume, because I can’t see her – and pointing at the felt reindeer antlers she’s wearing as a hairband.

  I smile. Only Hayley could make fake reindeer antlers look fashionable.

  The Glaswegian is standing beside me, holding two fingers up behind my head like bunny ears.

  We’re all tagged here: at the top of the post it says Lisa Ashton plus six others.

  I click to expand the list.

  Greg Fisher. That’s him.

  Brash, bold, with a wicked sense of humour.

  And too trusting.

  16

  Lisa

  The doorbell rings the next day as Mum’s wrapping a bright-yellow scarf around her neck, about to dash out to the red hatchback that’s idling at the kerb.

  The car is a make and model I can’t recall the name of but looks dated already, even though I know it’s only five years old.

  Nine-thirty in the morning, and it’s time for Mum’s regular Saturday morning shopping trip with her friend, Barbara. A quick dash around the supermarket before Dad gets home from fishing, and then lunch. Regular as clockwork.

  I crane my neck from my position in Dad’s armchair, but I can’t see the front step from here.

  Dropping the television guide onto the coffee table, I hold my breath to listen and then get the shock of my life.

  Barbara’s still sitting in the car. It’s someone else at the door.

  ‘Rebecca!’

  Mum’s delight at Bec’s appearance is accompanied by an underlying note of grief and guilt, and Bec’s voice has a forced cheeriness to it, its normal brightness sharpened to a brittle edge.

  ‘I would’ve called, but—’

  ‘No, no. She’s in the living room. Go on through.’

  ‘Is that okay? Are you on your way out?’

  ‘Yes.’ She raises her voice. ‘I’ll only be gone half an hour, Lisa. I’ve got my mobile on me if you need me in an emergency.’

  And with that, the door slams and I see Mum’s retreating figure hurrying down the front path towards the car.

  She turns and gives the living room window a cheery wave before sliding into the passenger seat, and then they’re off.

  Thelma and Louise.

  I’m still wearing a faint smile as the door to the living room opens and Bec peers in, her brow contorted with worry.

  She’s pale, and the scant make-up I can see appears old and worn away. She’s been biting her bottom lip, and the skin is dry and ragged.

  ‘Lisa?’ Her shoulders are tense. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’ve been better. Come on in.’

  She shuffles forwards, a reluctance in her step before she moves across the carpet and perches on the arm of the sofa, as far away from me as she can get.

  Her black leather handbag drops to the floor but she keeps hold of the strap, running it back and forth between her thumb and forefinger.

  I swear under my breath. I’ve been so focused on my own trauma, I haven’t considered what Bec must be going through, and I feel like the worst friend in the world for it.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I know you’d split up with Simon, but this… this is just—’

  ‘Thanks. The whole thing is pretty shit.’ Bec’s bottom lip trembles before she exhales, and it’s only then that she raises her gaze to mine. ‘You got home yesterday, yes?’

  ‘Yes. As soon as they could see I was moving around better, and that the kidney and meds were all working as they should be, they discharged me.’

  ‘What happens next? I mean, do you have to watch your diet and stuff?’

  I swallow. It’s painful to see her trying to make conversation when she’s
grieving, but I play along.

  ‘Yes.’ I gesture to all the pamphlets and A4-sized pages that are poking out from under the television guide on the coffee table. ‘They’ve given me heaps of information, recipes, things like that. I have to record everything I eat and drink, and I have to go back three times a week for check-ups for the first month.’

  ‘Wow. That’s a lot.’

  The carriage clock that Dad inherited from his aunt ticks away in the background from its position on the sideboard, another relic from the seventies that neither he nor Mum have the heart to part with and so it adds to the clutter at one end of the living room. It’s deafening in the silence between us as we search for something else to say.

  ‘I thought you might have come to the hospital to see me,’ I say. ‘I wanted to tell you how sorry I was.’

  She sighs, her shoulders slumping before she hooks a strand of dark-brown hair behind her ear, exposing a diamond stud that twinkles in the light from the window.

  ‘I wanted to, but I couldn’t get there. I heard from David that your operation went well and you were due to come home any day, so I figured this was easier.’

  ‘But we’ve known each other for years, Bec. You could’ve phoned me if you didn’t want to come to the hospital, if you couldn’t face—’

  A cold expression washes across Bec’s eyes, enough to make me lean backwards, such is the intensity of her glare.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I couldn’t visit you in your hospital ward or call you. The police were questioning me.’

  ‘Questioning you? Why?’

  ‘Because until earlier this morning, they were convinced I killed Simon.’

  I can feel the air leaving my lungs. Black spots dance around at the corner of my vision, and I’m grateful that I’m sitting down. Finally, I blink, the fog clearing a little.

  ‘Why? Why did they think that?’

  ‘How the hell would I know? It must’ve been something David or Hayley told them when they were questioned, because the first thing I knew about it was when two coppers turned up at the house and insisted I go with them. I’ve been “helping them with their enquiries” ever since.’ She makes quote marks with her fingers, a sardonic twist to her mouth belying the fear in her red-rimmed eyes.

  Bloody hell. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘No.’

  Chastened, I pick at the skin next to my thumbnail. ‘But why would they question you? You were his fiancée.’

  ‘I guess that made me top of that bitch’s list of suspects,’ she says.

  I reach out for the half-full glass of water on the coffee table, and realise my hands are shaking. ‘Was that Angela Forbes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The glass lands back on the table with a clatter.

  ‘What have David and Hayley said?’ I manage. ‘Didn’t you speak to them after what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know what they’ve told the police. I just got released, remember? I haven’t had a chance to speak with them yet.’ She lets out a shaking breath. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe he’s dead.’

  I swallow, unsure what to say.

  Her gaze drops to her lap and she tugs at an imaginary piece of lint. ‘What have the others said to you?’

  I snort. ‘Next to nothing. Hayley wouldn’t tell me anything, and David was elusive as hell. Was Simon ill or something?’

  ‘He never said anything to me. But then he wouldn’t, would he?’

  ‘But why would the police think he was murdered? What happened in the escape room, Bec?’

  ‘The lights went out. You panicked – Hayley was calling out to me that you said you’d felt faint and she was really worried about you, and then we tried to bang on the walls to get someone’s attention. No one came for ages; by then we realised you were in serious trouble, and Hayley started to scream.’

  ‘I don’t remember any of that.’

  ‘David said you were on painkillers.’

  ‘I was, but I didn’t think I took that many.’

  She raises an eyebrow, the effect ruined by her days-old mascara that has streaked under her lashes. ‘You obviously did, otherwise you’d remember, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘How long were we stuck in there for?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes. The guy managing the place must’ve finally realised something was wrong and opened a side door – God knows what they’d do if there was a fire. Those places are meant to have panic buttons installed. We couldn’t even see a fire exit sign.’ She shook her head. ‘As soon as we saw you, we knew you needed an ambulance – you were delirious, like you had a fever or something. It wasn’t until David followed the owner out of the room that we … that we realised Simon hadn’t said anything.’

  Her lip trembles.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘It looked like he’d tripped trying to find a way out, and hit his head,’ she says, and pulls the cuff of her sweater over her hand to wipe at her cheeks. ‘David tried CPR, but he didn’t respond. They… the ambulance arrived, and I could tell it was bad. They wouldn’t let me go with him. The police wouldn’t let Hayley or David go either, so they put me in a police car instead and drove me there.’

  She takes a gulping breath. ‘They said he was dead on arrival.’

  I scoot my bum forward so I can reach the coffee table and shove a box of tissues across to her. ‘Bec, I’m so sorry.’

  She blows her nose, and then chokes out a bitter laugh. ‘Let’s not kid ourselves, Lisa. He might have been my ex-fiancé, but he could be an arsehole sometimes.’

  Before I can form a response, the front door slams and Bec glances over her shoulder.

  ‘Who’s—’

  I curse under my breath; we’ve been so busy talking I haven’t heard Barbara’s car pull up outside.

  ‘It’ll be Mum.’

  Bec is already moving, gathering up her bag and hurrying towards the door. ‘I didn’t realise I’d been here so long. I only meant to pop in for five minutes. I’ve got to go.’

  It’s too late.

  ‘Bec – you’re still here. Would you like a cup of tea, love?’

  Mum is smiling, oblivious to the tension in the room or the guilty look that flits across Bec’s face before she shakes her head and forces a smile.

  ‘No, sorry. I have to go.’ She forces a smile at me, her lips tight. ‘I’ll call you, Lisa.’

  With that, she’s gone.

  The front door slams shut in her wake.

  ‘Well, never mind,’ says Mum. She recovers quickly and smooths down her trousers. ‘I bought some more orange juice.’

  She bustles out the door and within seconds I can hear her in the kitchen, whistling a tune from my eighties childhood.

  I let my head drop back against the armchair and let out a groan of frustration.

  Why would the police suspect Bec of harming Simon?

  17

  Bec

  This end of the tree-lined avenue is English picture-perfect.

  Pruned and bare sycamore trees have been diametrically placed at even intervals on the grass verges to avoid entrances to driveways, bright-red post boxes and a cast-iron rubbish bin that bears the local council’s logo.

  A logo that entailed four management consultancies and upwards of two hundred thousand pounds’ worth of ratepayers’ taxes.

  I know. I paid the invoices.

  There are no cars parked on the street. There is no need, not with gravel or concrete driveways that sweep towards four- to five-bedroom houses hidden behind sculpted privet hedgerows.

  This isn’t the sort of street where you can expect to peer surreptitiously through windows as you pass by.

  These people value their privacy.

  My two-door hatchback looks all of its eleven years as I approach it, car keys at the ready.

  I know I could’ve parked it outside Lisa’s parents’ house. I know I could’ve parked it on their driveway – after all, I always used to.

 
; Used to, but I didn’t know if I was going to knock on the door, ring the bell – or run away at the last minute.

  I shake off the thought as I cross the road, point the keyring at the car and hear the central locking disengage.

  I’ve parked beyond a newly paved driveway that appears to have had a makeover. Matching terracotta pots adorn the doorstep of the house beyond, the contents of which complement the green hue of the privet hedgerow shielding the front garden from sight.

  A man wearing a ridiculous floppy canvas hat suddenly peers around the end of the hedge and glares at me.

  ‘That your car?’

  ‘The blue one?’ Christ, I sound scared. I swallow, then try again. ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s blocking access for our guests.’

  He moves forward, eyebrows knotted together, and it’s then that I see the shears in his left hand. He uses them to point towards the road.

  ‘I saw you. You were visiting the Ashtons. Why didn’t you park up there?’

  ‘I’m just leaving.’

  His top lip curls into a snarl, and then he stomps up the driveway towards the house, calling for someone named Muriel to stop the bloody cat crapping on the flowerbed.

  Heat rises to my cheeks, and I glance over my shoulder.

  A curtain twitches in the top window of the house opposite, and I turn back to my car.

  I fumble the keys as I try to wrench the door open, and for one horrific moment I think they’re going to slip from my grasp and drop down the storm drain I’ve parked across.

  They don’t, and instead land with a jangled thud onto the carpet lining the footwell.

  Exasperated, I toss my bag on the passenger seat, then lean down and reach under the clutch pedal until I can find the keys and shove the right one in the ignition.

  I start the car and swerve out into the road as the miserable old git is stalking back towards me.

  I slow before I reach Lisa’s parents’ house.

  Her mum’s friend’s car has gone. She must have dropped Judy off and been on her way before I reached my car. I’d been so absorbed in my own escape that I hadn’t noticed she’d left.