20
Hayley
The café is located on the corner of two busy streets.
Outside, there are six wrought-iron tables that are fought over as much as last-minute deals in a Black Friday sale. Red and white striped shade cloths dangle from the windows, offering shelter from drizzle or sunlight but not much else.
It’s too cold to sit outside today. An icy wind whips at the shade cloths as if it’s trying to rip them away. Grey-black clouds are forming over the tops of tower blocks in the distance, threatening heavy rain.
I smile my thanks at the good-looking man who holds the door open for me, but falter when he leaves without a second glance. Blushing, I turn my attention to the pastries and sandwiches that lie amongst fake greenery in the counter beside me.
An Italianate decor fills the inside of the café; black and white photographs from films by Pasolini and Fellini adorn dark wooden panelled walls alongside 1950s advertisements for olive oil and landscape photographs of the Tuscan countryside. Sinatra croons along in the background with Dean and Sammy.
The bitter aroma of coffee fills the air, which is filled with the clatter of plates, glasses, china cups and a steady roar as the café fills for the lunchtime rush.
It’s a place to be seen and to be revered, and I have no idea why I’ve come here. Except that it’s familiar, and I need that right now.
I need to feel like I belong.
I need to feel like everything is normal, as it was.
As it will never be again.
I’m tucked away in a corner at a square wooden table with a red and white chequered cloth laid over it, set for two people. I shove the cutlery aside as the waitress wanders over, order a pot of green tea, then pull my iPad from my handbag and sit with my back to the wall.
The light from the front windows can’t reach me here. Above my head is a metal lantern, a candle-shaped low wattage bulb providing enough light that my eyes won’t suffer from screen glare while still allowing me to sit unnoticed by anyone entering the café.
I crane my neck to read the free Wi-Fi code the café’s owner has helpfully scrawled on a blackboard sign next to the counter, and log in to my emails.
Running my own business has been a revelation. When I first took the plunge, I’d been made redundant and had no idea where I was going to find work. Cleaning other people’s houses became a necessity rather than a career calling, but then the word-of-mouth recommendations kept coming in, and a year ago I had so much work on that I could employ six part-time staff and retired from having to stick brushes down strangers’ toilets.
Now I manage the back office – bookings and payroll – and let my capable team of five women and one man tidy up after our clients’ mess.
I glance up as the waitress places a white china pot and matching cup and saucer on the table, thank her with a smile and then close my emails and open a web browser.
The screen defaults to a search engine and my fingers hover over the keypad.
Do I want to know?
Yes.
I type in two words, Simon Granger, and then hit the ‘Enter’ key.
It takes all of two seconds for the results to appear, starting with three Facebook profiles and five from LinkedIn. I scroll past those until I see the first of the news stories.
Local man’s death in escape room treated as suspicious.
There it is, then. It’s official.
There’s nothing I can do about it now.
It’s too late.
I keep my chin down but raise my gaze to the room, sweeping my eyes across the other people sitting at tables, queueing at the counter, serving the customers.
Do they know what I’ve done?
As a business owner, I guard my reputation with pride. I’m dependable, trustworthy, loyal. I make sure my employees meet the necessary prerequisites for police checks and everything. I project the aura of a top-end business for middle class customers.
My business is the luxury you haven’t realised you need. When I visit my clients’ homes to assess their needs, that’s what I tell them. That’s what’s printed on the postcards I pay thousands to be distributed amongst the most affluent addresses in the area, to the ones who I know can afford it.
My eyes fall back to the iPad, and I frown.
There’s an opinion piece. A reporter by the name of Stella Barrett has put in her two cents’ worth about the death of Simon Granger. Lisa Ashton is mentioned. The oh-my-god-what-are-the-chances story about her last-minute kidney transplant are set out across what would be a double-page spread in a print edition.
I wonder if Lisa or her family have seen it.
Despite myself, despite my fear, I smile. It’s about time she took some of the blame. Some of the flack. Some of the guilt.
And then I read on, and see that Bec has been named as well.
My heart lurches. No, no, no. That wasn’t meant to happen.
I find her number in my phone, but there’s no answer. It says the phone is switched off, so there’s no option to leave a voicemail message.
I push back my chair, run to the back of the café and push open the door to the ladies’ toilet, reaching the stall just in time.
21
Lisa
I peel away a corner of the dressing that covers a square of my abdomen, and immediately regret my decision.
A rushing sound fills my ears as my eyes take in the scar that punctures my right side. I couldn’t look when the community nurse came around to change it yesterday, nor when I had my post-operation check-up at the hospital before that.
A series of neat stitches are prominent within my bruised skin, and I groan.
‘Lisa? You all right in there?’ The handle lowers a second after Dad’s voice calls out, but the bathroom door is locked.
‘I’m fine,’ I manage, and press the bandage back into place.
A corner sticks up, refusing to stay in place and I curse under my breath.
‘Best unlock the door, love. In case you have a fall. The doctor said you could be light-headed for a few days yet.’
I stand up and shuffle towards the bathroom cabinet. ‘Okay.’
The floorboard outside the door creaks as Dad moves away, but I’m not interested – I rifle through the contents of the middle drawer, sure I’ve seen a box of plasters tucked away near the back. Mind you, that was several months ago. I was still wearing heels for a start, which explained why I needed the plasters back then.
My fingers touch cardboard and I give a small cheer under my breath, then remove two plasters from the box to tape down the end of the bandage before straightening to admire my handiwork.
I take a step back in shock at the grey pallor of my face in the mirror, and stumble backwards.
‘Shit.’
Everything exploded half an hour ago.
Mum and Dad don’t usually buy a Sunday paper. They get the Saturday one with the TV listings in it, and that’s it. As long as they know what’s on catch-up and streaming, all is right with the world. Everything else can go to hell in a bucket.
Which is what it’s just done, because Mum decided she wanted to read the winter gardening special in the local rag’s Sunday supplement.
They’re putting a brave face on it, of course.
I’m not.
Somehow, a journalist found out that Bec was taken in for questioning. That Simon’s ex-fiancée is a suspect in his untimely death. That when he died, another of his ex-girlfriends – me – got one of his kidneys.
It’s splashed across the front page in black, bold letters – Man Murdered to Save Ex-Girlfriend.
Underneath that, a subtitle: Local man’s death in escape room treated as suspicious.
Dad took the landline off the hook after the first phone call, and both of them have switched off their mobile phones.
That first call was from another newspaper, the journalist telling Dad that if he didn’t provide them with a quote, they’d make something up. And they will.
The paper that printed the story this morning didn’t ask any of us to comment – it’s pure conjecture and speculation, but the damage is done.
I flip down the wooden toilet seat, then sink onto it and start to scroll through social media again. My account has always been locked to private, but I can clearly see the comments targeting me and my friends in my news feed. There’s even a hashtag trending.
I nearly drop the phone as it rings, and David’s name appears on the screen.
‘Hang on,’ I say when I answer, then unlock the bathroom door and pad along to the bedroom. ‘Okay, I can talk now.’
‘I’m so sorry, Lisa,’ he says. ‘I’ve just seen the paper. Have the police been in touch about it?’
‘No. Not yet, anyway. Do you think they will?’
‘I’m sure they’ll have something to say about it,’ he says. ‘I mean, the press can’t go around saying stuff like that, can they?’
I manage a small smile at his innocence. ‘They do it all the time. It sells newsprint. Well, and advertising space. That’s all we are to them. Have you managed to speak to Bec? I tried to phone her earlier but it keeps going through to voicemail.’
‘Same. I was going to drive around to hers to check on her. I wondered if you’d spoken to her today.’
I sink onto the edge of the bed and run my hand over the cotton duvet. ‘I can’t imagine what she’s going through. I’m worried about her, David. She seemed distant when she was around here yesterday.’
‘In what way?’
‘Reluctant to talk much. I mean, I know she’s grieving but when Mum turned up, she bolted. I’ve never seen her like that before.’
‘That’s not good.’ He pauses a moment, and then–– ‘Have you remembered anything else about that day at the escape room?’
‘No. I keep going over it in my mind, but once I get to the part where Hayley was helping me along, I get stuck. I can’t remember what happened next.’
I can hear my voice getting higher, my heart rate increasing.
‘Try not to worry,’ David says. ‘You’ve got to concentrate on getting better. I’ll pop around to Bec’s to make sure she’s okay.’
‘Thank you.’
I push myself to my feet, wincing as the dressing pulls against my stitches, then wander across to the window.
The house backs onto another housing estate, leylandii trees creating a screen between the properties. Mum has planted shrubs down the earth borders that frame the lawn that is Dad’s pride and joy, wooden fences separating it from the next-door properties.
Mum and Dad’s neighbour is painting the side of his shed, and raises a hand when he spots me at the window.
‘Are you still there?’
David’s voice cuts through my meandering thoughts, and I turn away from the glass.
‘I’m still here. Just thinking.’ I exhale, letting some of the stress leave my body. ‘You should go. Go and check on Bec. Let me know?’
‘I will.’ His voice changes, ready to end the call, then as if having second thoughts, he’s back. ‘And, Lisa? Stay away from the TV for a while. I have a feeling this is going to get worse before it gets better.’
22
David
What else do they know?
I’ve never heard of the journalist who was named on the byline. After I finish scrolling through the story again on my phone, I have to run to the bathroom, losing my meagre breakfast down the bowl and rinsing out my mouth with water straight from the tap.
A thin line of sweat bubbles at my temples, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand.
I brush my teeth, then hurry back to the bedroom and pull on a sweatshirt before taking the stairs two at a time, wrenching open the front door.
My hand shakes as I raise the key fob to the car and press the button to unlock it. I switch off the radio as soon as it blares from the speakers. I don’t want to hear pop songs, and I don’t want to listen to mindless chit-chat while I’m driving over to Bec’s place.
I don’t want to hear the news.
Somehow, neither my nor Hayley’s names have been mentioned in the article. The bloke who owns the escape room refused to comment, according to the journalist – probably on the advice of his solicitor, I assume – and there’s no word that the police are going to say anything about the story yet.
I wonder what I would do if I were in Bec’s shoes.
I’d be angry. Scared. Lost.
I wouldn’t know who I’d ask for help. None of us has any legal experience. None of us has ever had to deal with the press before, let alone be subjected to accusations like those made this morning.
I blink as a car horn blasts, and pull back into the left lane, my heart lurching.
The taxi driver holds up his middle finger as he passes, his brow furrowed as he mouths the accompanying insult.
I need to concentrate. I need to get to Bec’s house and make sure she’s okay.
We live five miles from each other, and I’ve only driven there once. I prefer to cycle. Driving makes me anxious. I didn’t learn to drive until I left university, and I don’t get enough practice in to be confident at it.
I should’ve bought an automatic, too. As I slow for a T-junction up ahead, I grind the gears into second. Heat rises in my cheeks as a woman pushing a pram along the pavement next to me stops to stare, and I brake awkwardly.
A cyclist swerves to avoid the bonnet of the car as he shoots past.
I eye the back of the carbon frame with envy as he recedes into the distance, then turn my attention back to the road.
I go right, and see the sign for the leisure centre ahead. Bec’s house is about half a mile past it, and I can’t recall whether there’s parking outside.
I don’t know where to leave the car if I can’t park outside. I don’t know this part of town that well. Apart from visiting Bec, I never need to be here.
I eye my mobile phone in the cup holder between the front seats. I never use the dashboard clip for it that came with the car; I can’t concentrate if I’m having a phone conversation at the same time, and would get distracted every time a message alert popped up on the screen.
I should’ve pulled over a mile or so ago and tried to call Bec again, but it’s too late now.
I’m nearly there.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I approach her house, slowing down, and see a car space at the kerb. After a panicked effort at parallel parking, I manage it without causing damage to mine or the other vehicles and climb out.
The curtains are pulled but I can’t see anything from here on the pavement. I push open the wooden gate and dial her number once more as I negotiate the cracked concrete path. A curtain twitches in the front window of the house to the left, and I glare. The curtain falls back into place. There’s no answer on the phone and I shove it into the back pocket of my jeans before rapping my knuckles on the front door and ringing the bell.
When Bec doesn’t appear, I bend down and flip open the plastic letterbox flap.
‘Bec? It’s David. Are you in there?’
I peer through, twisting my head to get a better angle.
The door to the living room is open, but there is no sound and the kitchen seems quiet, too.
‘Bec?’
Nothing.
I straighten, then turn and rest my hands on my hips, unsure what to do.
The street is quiet, the morning commuter rush over hours ago. I’m surprised there are no journalists hanging about; no one watching the house in the hope of an exclusive comment from Bec.
I’m relieved, too.
I take a couple of steps back and raise my eyes to the bedroom window above the front door. Bec’s house is tiny – main bedroom at the front, a smaller one and a tiny bathroom at the back.
She’d have heard me. She must have done.
If she was okay.
It’s no good. I’m panicking now. I need to find her.
I hurry back to the road, ignore the way the car is park
ed four inches away from the kerb with the bonnet sticking out, risking a clipped mirror at least, and turn left.
There’s an alleyway three doors along that I recall from a drunken night returning to Bec’s when she didn’t want to piss off her neighbours. It runs along the back of the terraced properties, a narrow pathway that stinks of dog shit and rotten undergrowth. I peer over the fence, counting the houses until I’m sure I’m at the back of Bec’s and then swear under my breath.
She’s fitted a new padlock to the gate, and I don’t have a key.
I can’t see anything through the windows at the back of the house, and, reasoning that she won’t answer the phone if I try to call again, I check to make sure none of the neighbours are watching.
Satisfied I won’t be seen, I clamber over the fence and hurry to the back door.
It’s locked.
The mottled patio stones outside the back door are offset by colourful pots that Bec has planted with herbs and flowers, and I start lifting each of them, trying to remember which one she’d hidden the spare key under that last time we got locked out, and hoping she hasn’t changed that lock as well. Eventually I find it under a large oregano plant, the smell reminding me of pizzas, and hurry back to the door.
The key turns easily, and I step over the threshold.
‘Bec?’ I call her, softly, and then once more. ‘Bec? Are you there?’
There’s still no answer.
I have to find her.
23
Hayley
I’m at home in the office I created from the dining room space, a dappled light stretching through the patio windows and playing on the beech surface of the table where I’ve spread all the paperwork in an attempt to make some sense of it all.
I’m humming under my breath; I don’t recognise the tune and I’m not trying too hard to fathom where it comes from. I only want to forget.
The Friend Who Lied Page 8
