A clutch of lilies fills the crystal vase on the corner of the table, the bright-yellow petals lending a cheerfulness to the space that doesn’t quite fit my mood.
I’ve tried to phone Bec two more times since coming home. I wonder if I should go around to her house, to see if she’s all right, and bite my lip. I probably should’ve done that as soon as I left the café but I felt so sick, it was all I could do to drive home.
My mobile phone vibrates, and I’m torn from the contract I’ve been trying to read.
I jump in my seat, the noise jerking me from my thoughts.
It’s David.
I lower the stapled pages to the desk and spin the chair around as I pick up the phone.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s Bec, you’ve got to come over.’
He sounds out of breath, panicked even. Not like the David I know.
‘You’re at her house?’
‘She wouldn’t answer her phone. Lisa couldn’t get hold of her, either so I drove over.’
‘You drove?’
It must be serious if David used his car. He hates driving.
There’s a pause, then: ‘Yes.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ve called an ambulance—’
‘What? Why—’
‘She’s tried to kill herself, Hayley. That fucking reporter.’
He starts stumbling over his words, and I can’t understand what he’s trying to tell me.
‘Stay there. I’m coming.’
I’m already moving, tugging on my shoes as I end the call before swiping my car keys and handbag from the bottom of the stairs.
I burst through the front door, tear along the pavement to where my car’s parked at the end of the street, and stomp on the accelerator as soon as the key’s turned.
Not Bec. Please, not Bec.
We only live thirty or forty minutes apart, but if feels like an age before I get there.
I should have come sooner. I should have been here for her.
I see blue flashing lights halfway down her street as I turn the corner, the wheels clipping the kerb in my haste to reach her.
Fighting down bile, my stomach muscles clenching painfully, I slow as I approach her house. There’s a fleeting moment, a vain hope that I’m wrong, and then reality punches me in the solar plexus, leaving me breathless.
The ambulance is outside Bec’s, and there’s a police car parked behind it.
I slam on the brakes, snatch up my handbag and leap from the car without locking it, my focus wholly on the crowd gathered at the side of the ambulance.
I don’t recognise anyone.
I can’t see David.
As I reach the ambulance, I realise there’s someone inside it. One of the crew peers out from the open door, and as he moves to the side, I see a slight figure with a shock of brown hair on the stretcher inside.
‘Bec?’
‘You can’t see her.’ The ambulance officer holds up his hand and steps sideways to block my view so I can’t see her now.
‘Please, you have to tell me where you’re taking her. I’m a friend.’
The man’s features soften, and he leans towards me, his eyes raking the faces behind us. ‘The local casualty unit,’ he says. ‘We’ve just heard they’ve got room for her so we don’t have to try to get her over to the city hospital.’
He watches me for a moment, as if trying to transmit another message, and then I get it.
‘She won’t make it if she has to travel any further, will she?’
‘She’s lost a lot of blood. We have to go. I’m sorry.’
I nod, then step back as he leaps into the back of the ambulance and closes the door in my face.
The sirens begin to wail and then they’re off, disappearing in a blur of blue and panic.
My ears are still ringing and I don’t notice the presence beside me until a mobile phone is thrust under my nose and a woman wearing too much make-up gives me a predatory smile.
‘Do you know Rebecca Wallis?’
‘Pardon?’
‘The ex-girlfriend. The one who killed Simon Granger. Did you know her? What do you think she’s feeling right now? Has she tried to take her life before?’
I blink. I can’t think straight. Who is this woman? How does she know Bec?
‘Who are you?’
‘Stella Barrett, Daily News.’
Shit, she’s the journalist who wrote the story about Bec.
‘You bitch.’
There’s a blur to my left and then David lunges at the reporter, spittle flying from his mouth.
I haven’t seen him this angry before. His face is flushed red, his eyes wide as he elbows past an elderly man to reach her, his hands outstretched as if to throttle her.
He doesn’t make it.
A female police officer pushes away from the side of the patrol car. She might be several inches shorter than David, but she grabs his sleeve and uses his momentum to spin him around.
His body collides with the side of the car and there’s a collective gasp from the onlookers as he staggers, his knees buckling.
‘Come on.’ The police officer steadies him and then raises a hand towards the reporter. ‘Back off. Now.’
The journalist is wearing a smug expression before turning away; it doesn’t matter what anyone else says now as she scurries along the pavement.
Moments later, a bright-red sports car screeches away, and I resign myself to the knowledge that she got what she wanted.
A victim, and another story.
I turn back to David. The police officer has her hand on his shoulder, speaking to him in a low voice. I can’t make out whether she’s cautioning him about going after the journalist or apologising for the way she swung him into the side of the car, but David’s face is grim.
His mouth is set into a thin line, his brow furrowed. He stares at the house as the police officer talks to him, refusing to meet the woman’s eyes.
After a while, she pats David on the arm and walks over to her colleague. Her expression is petulant; she overreacted, and she knows it.
Some of Bec’s neighbours are walking away shaking their heads, muttering under their breath about what has transpired right outside their front doors. The old man who David pushed past glares at him, then turns on his heel and crosses the road. He doesn’t look back.
I try to focus.
‘David, we need to go. We need to get to the hospital.’
He’s still glaring at the house, his expression blank.
‘David?’
He shakes his head as if to try and break the spell, then stares at me. ‘What?’
I take hold of his arm and begin to pull him towards my car as I explain. ‘Hospital. Now. They’ve taken Bec—’
My phone begins a shrill interruption. I glance down at the screen, and bite back the groan that threatens to escape.
It’s Lisa.
I glance across at David who is walking along the pavement as if in a trance and I wonder if this is it.
If this is when it all unravels.
24
Lisa
I’m pacing the bedroom that was once mine, then wasn’t, and now is.
It was requisitioned in my absence since those university days; the dreamcatcher that hung in the window is now in a box, one of many stacked in a corner of the garage, and Dad had the wallpaper replaced before I moved back in after selling my flat last year.
I stare blankly at the fine details in the embossed print, my mind racing.
It’s now two hours since David phoned, and he hasn’t called back. Nor is he answering the eight calls I’ve tried to make to him. Each and every one has gone through to voicemail.
I stopped leaving messages after the second one, aware of the rising panic in my voice and scaring myself.
I keep checking the screen though, willing him to get in touch.
I’ve tried Bec’s number, but the same thing happens. No answer, and it goes to vo
icemail after three rings.
Hayley is ignoring me, too – I’ve called her twice; the first time it went to voicemail, the second time it cut out as if someone had hit the reject button.
I don’t know what to do.
‘Lisa?’
I stop pacing as the door opens and Mum peers around it.
‘You okay?’ Her lips thin into a tight smile. ‘You’ll wear out the carpet.’
I say nothing.
‘What’s going on, love?’
She moves to the single bed, smooths the flower-patterned duvet, and then sits. She pats the space next to her.
‘Come and sit down.’
I sigh. I haven’t got a choice, not when I’m a guest in Mum and Dad’s home now.
She reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear as I join her, exactly like she’s done for as long as I can remember. The gesture brings tears to my eyes and I wipe at them with the back of my sleeve.
I choke out a laugh. I’ve regressed to my fourteen-year-old self, bawling over the unfairness of life.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Talk to me. What’s going on?’
‘We can’t get hold of Bec.’
‘What do you mean?’
I hold up my useless phone. ‘She’s not answering. David tried to call her earlier as well, and she didn’t answer then either. He went around there to make sure she was okay after that— after the—’
‘Oh, Lisa.’
Mum wraps her arm around me as the tears flow.
I’ve never felt so pathetic in my life.
‘I haven’t heard anything, Mum. He’s not answering his phone, either.’
‘They’re probably talking. Probably haven’t heard the phones if they’re in a different room.’
I take the paper tissue she holds out to me and blow my nose, then straighten my shoulders. ‘Maybe. I think I should go around there.’
‘How?’ Mum’s voice is startled. ‘You can’t go anywhere. You need to rest.’
‘I start physio next week, Mum, and I’m having loads of check-ups at the hospital. I can’t sit around forever, and I need to know that Bec’s okay.’
‘Still, that doesn’t mean you can go rushing off. What happens if—’
We both jump as the phone next to me vibrates. There’s a cheerful ping and a text appears as I pick it up.
‘It’s David.’
‘What does it say?’
I scan the words, bile rising in my throat. ‘It’s Bec. They’ve taken her to hospital. She tried to kill herself.’
Mum gasps, her hand to her mouth. ‘Bec? Will she be okay?’
‘I don’t know. Hang on.’
I quickly type a reply, and pace the carpet while I wait for David’s response. I nearly drop the phone when it vibrates again, then I squint at the screen.
‘He says he found her. There was blood everywhere. She slit her wrists. The ambulance just left.’
Mum’s standing next to me now, coaxing me, steering me back to the bed. I sink onto it, leaning against her as I try to absorb the news.
‘What else does he say? Is she going to be all right?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Give him a call.’
She gives me an encouraging nudge, and I don’t hesitate.
I frown after three attempts. ‘He’s still not answering. He can’t be driving – he wouldn’t have sent the texts.’
‘Perhaps Hayley is with him?’
‘Maybe.’
The fourth call goes through to voicemail again and I drop the phone into my lap. ‘I need to go to the hospital.’
Mum’s shaking her head, her eyes wide. ‘It’s better that you stay here. David will send another text when he knows what’s going on.’
‘I’m not sitting around doing nothing while I wait to hear from him. I need to be there for Bec. I wasn’t there for her when the police came around to question her. I need to be there now.’
I stand before she can try to stop me, and turn back to face her as I realise I’m still not allowed to drive.
‘I don’t suppose you could give me a lift, could you?’
25
David
I rest my elbows on my knees and stare at the tiled floor, then swallow.
My throat is dry and every time I inhale the sickness worsens.
Hayley has stopped asking me if I’m okay.
She freaked out earlier when she realised my hands were covered in blood. She wouldn’t let me touch anything in her car, and guided me out of it after releasing the seatbelt, a look of horror and disgust clouding her face. As soon as we reached the Accident and Emergency ward, she pointed to the sign for the public toilets.
I scrubbed hard at my skin, turning it from red to pink as the blood washed away while all the time I wondered where Bec was.
Where they had taken her.
‘Here.’
I raise my eyes to find a coffee cup dangling in front of me.
‘Thanks.’
I take it from Hayley and she drops into the hard plastic seat next to mine, crossing her legs before taking a sip of her own drink, watching the hospital staff bustle back and forth.
Her expression is hard to read but it seems she’s looking down her nose at them, as if running her own business puts her head and shoulders above everyone else.
Me, I’m in awe of the people who work here.
They wear different coloured shirts – I suppose dependent upon their expertise – and move with a determination that leaves the rest of us in their wake.
None of them will talk to us, though. Bec’s parents are on the way, and we’re not family.
Not important enough.
‘What made you go there?’ Hayley says.
I sit upright; the sound of her voice after so many moments’ silence is a welcome relief and I seize upon it. ‘Neither me or Lisa could get hold of her on the phone. You know what Bec’s normally like. She can never ignore a call. She has to answer it.’
‘This week has been anything but normal. Maybe after everything that’s happened to her, she didn’t want to talk.’
‘Obviously.’
We fall silent once more, the conversations around us becoming a white noise to the silence that drags out between us.
It’s strange, me and Hayley being here.
Out of the five of us, we were never the closest. We’re fine within the group, with Lisa and Bec – and Simon, once – to absorb us. Here, just us, it feels strained.
‘What happened?’
Hayley’s voice is little more than a whisper, but I understand why.
There’s a middle-aged man sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the corridor to us, and he hasn’t stopped sneaking glances our way since we sat down. I’m sure he recognises us, even though neither of our photographs appeared in the newspaper report. Maybe he was outside Bec’s house, one of those trying to crane their necks to find out what was going on.
I don’t trust him, and it seems Hayley has the same thought.
I lean closer to her, keeping my voice low.
‘I couldn’t get any answer on the phone or by banging on the front door. When I looked through the letterbox, I could see her handbag so I figured she hadn’t gone out. The curtains upstairs were closed. I tried calling through the letterbox but I couldn’t hear her, so I went around the back. I knew where she kept the back door key.’
Hayley turns in her chair and raises an eyebrow.
I hold up my hand before she can say anything. ‘I went home with her once; we were drunk – we got to the front door before she realised she’d lost her keys. She keeps the spare one for the back door under a plant pot. The oregano, if you must know.’
I see her shoulders relax a little and she gestures for me to continue.
‘She’d been cleaning; I could smell the lemon scented stuff she uses. Downstairs was tidy, but there was no sign of her.’
‘Why did you go upstairs? She could’ve been out somewhere.’
‘Really? When was the last time you knew Bec to go out and not take her phone with her?’
‘Where was it?’
‘Plugged in on the kitchen worktop, switched off.’ I shrug, avoiding the man’s intense stare.
He folds his hands in his lap and turns his gaze towards the nurses’ station, finding something interesting there to stare at instead of us, for a change.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I had this feeling that something was wrong, what with her phone left there and her bag in the hallway. She wasn’t in the living room so I went upstairs, checked her bedroom, and then opened the bathroom door.’
Hayley reaches out for my hand, and squeezes.
I close my eyes. It’s the closest we’ve been in a long time.
‘I think I knew before I opened the door what I’d see, but I never thought there would be so much—’
‘It’s okay,’ says Hayley. ‘You found her, David. She’s here, because of you.’
‘She looked so peaceful. She’d even some music on. Remember that song we always used to try to dance to on New Year’s Eve at uni?’
Hayley manages a smile. She squeezes my hand once more and then releases it as a couple in their late sixties approach the nurses’ station at the end of the corridor and speak in hushed tones.
‘That’s them,’ she says. ‘That’s Bec’s mum and dad, isn’t it?’
They haven’t aged well.
I recall photographs I’d seen of a spritely couple who spent the summers sailing in the Mediterranean and the winters skiing in Bulgaria. Or maybe that’s why their faces seem so lined and creased now; all that ultra-violet sun damage.
The nurse speaks to them, and then points in our direction.
Bec’s dad glances over his shoulder, noticing us for the first time. His shoulders slump, and then they’re moving towards us.
I notice the man opposite us straighten in his seat, and I pull Hayley to her feet and glare at him.
‘Come on,’ I say pointedly. ‘Let’s find somewhere more private to talk.’
We meet Bec’s parents at the end of the corridor and I shake their hands. Hayley is pulled into a hug by Bec’s mother; the gesture instinctive in the midst of this latest tragedy.
‘Any news?’ Bec’s dad’s voice is gruff, his eyes red.
The Friend Who Lied Page 9
