The Deadly Truth

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘You do remember me?’ It was an unnecessary question. Only someone who knew exactly who she was and what she had done could look at her with such hatred.

  It wasn’t until he had picked up his pint and taken another mouthful that he answered, his lips twisted into a sneer.

  ‘Remember you? How could I forget you? Anne Edwards, the woman responsible for my brother’s death.’

  12

  Melanie hadn’t been called by that name in so long it sounded strange to her ears, as if it referred to a different person. It did really, a much younger woman, a girl who’d made a silly mistake that had had terrible repercussions.

  ‘I don’t go by that name anymore. I use my mother’s maiden name, Scott, and my middle name, Melanie.’ By his expression, she guessed he already knew. He’d probably kept an eye on her over the years the same way she’d kept one on him. She couldn’t argue with what he’d said. Not really. After all, she had been responsible for his brother Matthew’s death.

  She’d been fifteen, not a child, not yet a woman. Full of angst and hormones that raged even stronger when a new family had moved into the area and Matthew Thomas had joined her class. He was handsome, blue-eyed, blond-haired, a young Robert Redford, and her knees had turned to jelly when she was anywhere near him. She’d made it obvious, blushing scarlet when he spoke to her and looking at him in a doe-eyed way.

  Children can be cruel, especially in packs. Melanie, delayed after school, had come out to find a gang of boys hanging around by the exit. She’d shot a shy smile at them; perhaps her eyes had lingered a bit too long on Matthew, perhaps she’d even fluttered her eyelashes. Whatever she’d done, the reaction was swift; Matthew was pushed and jostled with suggestions that she was up for it and he should go after her.

  Mortified, Melanie had scurried away but not before she’d heard her handsome blue-eyed boy reply to their taunts in cruel, biting words. ‘She’s only a stupid little girl with no breasts and rabbit teeth, why would I be interested in her?’

  Catcalls and jeers from the others followed her down the street as her young and very foolish heart broke. She ran from them as fast as she could, from their taunting laughter and vicious words, tears turning to sobs long before she arrived at her friend’s house.

  It was several minutes before she was calm enough to tell Cherry what had happened and by then anger had burst through her devastation, so she’d painted Matthew as the leader, the tormentor in chief.

  Cherry had put an arm around her shoulders and told her what she should do. ‘Get revenge,’ she’d said, ‘it will make you feel so much better.’

  It had been Cherry who’d come up with the idea to start rumours about Matthew and it had been she who’d come up with exactly what to say. But it had been the foolish Anne Edwards who had immediately gone out and put the plan into action. She whispered to a friend that Matthew’s family had been forced to move because he had molested a girl in his last school. She whispered to another that he’d given some girls an STD with no idea of what that meant, relying on Cherry’s knowledge that it was something bad. And, because it was a small town and long ago, she told yet another that he was homosexual.

  If she’d waited until the next day when the heat of her anger and the pain of rejection had worn off, she’d never have listened to her friend. She woke horrified at what she’d done and hurried to school to find the three friends and tell them she’d been joking. But her change of heart had come too late. Outside the school, a different friend approached her, eyes wide as she held her lips close to Melanie’s ear and whispered, ‘You’ll never guess what I heard about Matthew Thomas!’

  As one whispered to another, within days the rumours had spread everywhere, and by the end of the week Matthew Thomas was a pariah. His new classmates avoided him, stopped talking when he joined them, whispered loudly behind his back. There was suddenly no place for him on the school rugby team; nobody wanted to partner up with him for class projects or sit with him for lunch. In the second week, he stayed away from school.

  A week later he was dead.

  They were told at the school assembly, rows of students staring up at the podium where the principal stood looking pale and drawn, his words deliberately vague as he told them that one of their classmates had sadly passed away. But it was too small a town to hide the truth, and students who went home for lunch came back with the news that Matthew had drowned.

  Melanie, who stayed in school for lunch, was in the corridor outside a classroom when Cherry hurried over to tell her the news. ‘Matthew,’ she said, grasping Melanie’s arm. ‘He killed himself, he jumped into the river.’

  The words seemed to float on a chorus of sound whooshing around Melanie’s head, the edges of her vision darkening until it was gone. When she came to, she was in the principal’s office on a cold leather chaise longue and there were other voices floating – this time above her head, loud condemnatory words in her mother’s shrill voice.

  ‘School should have been closed to allow family to have told the children in the comfort and security of their homes,’ Mrs Edwards was saying.

  The principal’s voice was calm and reasonable. ‘As I’ve said, Mrs Edwards, we didn’t hear until a few minutes before assembly. It was too late at that point. We did envisage that some of the pupils might have heard during lunch and we had, in fact, organised counsellors to attend the school this afternoon. They’re here now and if your daughter is feeling up to it, perhaps she should go back and listen to what they have to say.’

  Melanie didn’t want to do any such thing. What she wanted to do was scurry away and hide her guilt and shame.

  Instead, her mother took her by the arm, with a grip that said she wasn’t listening to any argument and led her back to her classroom. ‘I’ll wait,’ she said, opening the door and giving Melanie a none-too-gentle push into the room.

  Those who had whispered the rumours sat with tear-streaked, pinched faces. Not everyone knew she’d been the source of them, but the few who did turned towards her with accusing, condemning eyes. Soon, she guessed, taking her seat, they’d all know.

  Melanie looked across the table at Eric. ‘I never meant to hurt him.’ The words were an echo from the past – the same words she’d said all those years ago when the police had come knocking on their door, a disgrace her embarrassed mother had never forgiven her for. ‘I was a stupid, thoughtless child. He’d hurt me, I wanted to hurt him back.’

  ‘Well, you succeeded, didn’t you?’ Eric drained his pint and without asking if she wanted anything, headed back to the bar.

  Melanie watched his rigid back. Eric had been a year older than Matthew. She remembered him coming to their house and shouting at her, telling her that she’d murdered his brother as sure as if she’d held his head under the water. He’d not been the only one to point a finger of blame, but he’d been the most vocal. His parents had been stunned and shocked by the death of their youngest son. They’d never said a word to her but she remembered once, a day or two before she and her mother had left Wethersham, she’d seen them in the town and had wanted to say something, to apologise for her part in their son’s death. But they’d crossed to the other side of the road and kept their faces averted as they passed her, as if she’d been something evil to avoid.

  Eric returned, this time with a whisky chaser to accompany his pint. He stared into his drink for a few seconds before speaking in a low monotone she had to lean forward to hear. ‘Matthew was really nervous starting the new school. The one he’d been to before was an all-boys one and he wasn’t used to being with girls. He was a good-looking boy but clumsy and tongue-tied around them, never sure what to say.’ Eric lifted his eyes and met hers across the table. ‘He was the gentlest lad, you know, he’d never have meant to hurt you.’

  Melanie swallowed convulsively and snuffled. She’d sobbed for his loss then, now she wanted to howl for him, for her, for the guilt that never faded.

  Eric picked up his pint. He drank deeply, then stared into t
he glass. ‘It was our parents’ idea that Matthew stay off school for a while. They thought it was the right decision. That all the gossip would die down. Instead, it isolated him even more, drove him into himself. The day before… it happened… Matthew begged them to return to Leeds.’ Eric looked up from his drink, his angry, sad eyes meeting hers. ‘My father told him not to be stupid, that they weren’t going to move again. When they found Matthew’s body, he cried and begged for forgiveness but he never forgave himself, and neither did my mother. Matthew’s suicide sentenced them to a life of bitter recriminations.’

  Melanie felt the extra weight of guilt press her down. ‘What I did was so cruel. I knew almost immediately and tried to stop it but it was too late. The tiny whispers kept growing.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Eric said, ‘why did you never tell people it had been Cherry’s idea?’

  Melanie was surprised by the question. ‘It was a difficult time. It might have been her idea, but I’m the one who actually started the rumours, not her.’ She waited a beat, then asked, ‘How did you know it had been her idea?’

  Draining his pint, he put the empty glass down. ‘It was obvious; you were the quiet, easily-led, mousey type, she was the troublesome shit-stirrer.’ He picked up his whisky and emptied it in one mouthful. ‘Now, whereas this has been a delightful walk down memory lane, I guess you had a reason for coming to see me.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. She curled in on herself, lowering her chin and folding her arms across her chest in a tight hug. ‘Cherry is dead.’ Melanie hadn’t come to terms with the knowledge and there was a note of disbelief in the three barely audible words. Feeling Eric’s eyes on her, she cleared her throat and looked up. ‘Cherry, she’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ He looked away, picked up his empty glass, then put it down with a grunt of frustration and rocked it backwards and forwards on the table. The sound of glass on wood was loud in the silence between them, a sad toll for a dead woman.

  Melanie waited for him to say something more. When he didn’t, she said, ‘Yes, she’s dead. Someone started rumours that destroyed her. I think it’s the same person who has been sending me emails, taunting me about being Anne Edwards, trying to do the same to me.’

  He laughed but there was no humour in the sound. ‘And you think that might be me?’

  ‘Is it?’

  His face creased in a sneer. ‘No, I’ve not sent you any damn emails.’

  If his eyes were the windows to his soul, they were so hooded Melanie couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. But if it wasn’t him, who? ‘Someone is sending them,’ she said. ‘Is there anyone you can think of who would do such a thing? Someone back then who made threats maybe?’

  ‘You’re talking twenty-five years ago, Anne. Everyone hated you then. Now’ – he shrugged – ‘people move on. I doubt if anyone gives the likes of you a second thought.’

  She bristled at the sneer in his voice and the insult in his words. With an indrawn breath, she put some steel in her words. ‘Someone set Cherry up, and someone is sending me emails. I’m going to find out who that is. If it isn’t you, then you’ve nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Then I’ve nothing to worry about,’ he said, standing abruptly. ‘I’ve wasted enough of my time; I only came to meet you out of curiosity. To see what kind of woman you grew into.’ His eyes raked her. ‘Now I know.’

  ‘Well, in case you get enlightenment,’ she said, reaching into her pocket for her purse and taking out a business card. ‘Here’s my card.’ She quickly scribbled her mobile number across the bottom of it and held it out. ‘Email or mobile number, you can contact me however you like.’ She thought he’d ignore it, instead he snatched it from her hand without a word and left.

  She peered out the window, watching as his long strides ate up the path. His final words had no power to hurt her, they were never destined to be friends. But she’d pinned her hopes on getting some information from him. Now, she was no better off.

  The walk back to the station seemed longer or was it the hopelessness that made the journey seem unending. The train was busy but she managed to get a seat and pulled out her phone, hoping for a message from Hugo to brighten what had become a dull, depressing day. But there was nothing. There was an old-fashioned streak in her that said she should wait for him to contact her, that she shouldn’t seem too keen. Too desperate. Oh, for goodness’ sake, it was the twenty-first century, there was no shame in being first. Before she could change her mind, she tapped out a short text. Thanks for a lovely evening and a wonderful night.

  Back at home, she made herself a cup of tea and took it through to the lounge. Her phone sat silently on the seat beside her; no answer from Hugo, no further emails from nobody.

  With a sigh, she reached for the handle of her briefcase, grunting with annoyance when it tipped over and her laptop and the sheaf of reports slid out onto the carpet. She put her tea down on a side table, stooped to pick up her laptop and put it on the sofa. Luckily, although the reports had fanned out, they’d stayed in order. She shuffled them into a neat pile, picked it up and sat back with it on her lap.

  Within minutes, she was lost in the details of the merger, sipping her tea as she read, satisfied as everything made perfect sense. Things were proceeding as they’d planned. She noted dates of future meetings and opened her laptop to check they were all in her diary. Checking and double-checking, leaving nothing to chance. It was the way she worked; it was why she was good at what she did.

  It was late afternoon by the time she finished. Her phone was still sitting silently beside her. Hugo had said he’d be in touch later but he hadn’t specified a time. He’d ring soon and maybe they’d go out for dinner or a drink… something. Something. She shivered at the thought. The sex had been amazing; he’d been a skilled and generous lover. She picked up the phone, read the message she’d sent and smiled, it was unexceptional. He was probably busy in meetings or something; when he was free, he’d read it and reply.

  The smile lingered as she thought about him. He was what her life needed to make it complete. A woman she’d worked with years before had called the man she’d been dating a keeper, an expression Melanie hadn’t heard before. Now, she understood it completely. Hugo, she decided was definitely a keeper.

  She would have preferred to have kept her thoughts on him but as the light faded and shadows filled the room, they drifted to Eric Thomas and she heaved a sad sigh. She shouldn’t have been surprised at the extent of his anger and hatred, after all, her guilt hadn’t faded with the years. Strangely enough, despite his animosity, she believed him when he said he’d had nothing to do with the emails. She’d wanted it to have been him; he had a reason to hate her. It was a disturbing thought to think that someone else hated her so much.

  She switched on the TV to watch the six o’clock news, keeping the volume low and her phone close by. Hugo was sure to ring soon.

  By eight, her belief had wavered, and by ten it had faded completely.

  13

  Melanie slept badly, waking frequently with the certainty that her phone was ringing. Every time, she’d switch on the light and reach for it, prepared to be effusively forgiving at Hugo calling so late. Each time the blank phone told her she’d been dreaming.

  Maybe he’d been in an accident and was lying injured in a hospital somewhere. By morning, she was convinced something must have happened to him. She went through to the lounge and switched on the TV, expecting to hear news about some atrocity that he might have been embroiled in. When there was nothing, she switched on her laptop and spent an hour fruitlessly searching for any reason to excuse him and finding nothing remotely plausible.

  Doubts slithered into her head, curled around her brain and squeezed. Had she made a mess of it? Was that it? Perhaps she’d said something wrong or he’d found her cold and unadventurous in bed. Had she been found wanting?

  Back in bed, she tried to get some sleep but images of Hugo and Eric danced beneath her eyelids, one tantalising, the other
taunting, both disturbing. With a groan, she threw back her duvet and swung her feet to the floor. She was supposed to be meeting her friend Caitlin for lunch to make up for abandoning their plans the previous week; Melanie would have a long shower and see if she felt up to it.

  An hour later, showered and dressed, she didn’t feel much better. It would be unfair to cancel lunch again, but maybe she could change their plans. It was eleven; Caitlin was sure to be awake. Melanie picked up her mobile, checked again for any messages and rang her number, holding the phone away from her ear when her friend almost shrieked down the phone.

  ‘Melanie! I want to hear about your date with Mr Charming.’

  ‘I’ll tell you everything, but I didn’t sleep well, would you settle for coffee here rather than going for lunch?’

  ‘Perfect, as long as you give me all the details. I’ll be there in an hour.’

  Melanie hung up and smiled. Her friend’s company was the tonic she needed. She had met Caitlin Ballantyne at a ‘Law and Order in the Twenty-First Century’ conference they’d attended five months earlier. The final talk of the day had been stultifyingly boring and after it, the woman sitting on the seat beside her had nudged her and rolled her eyes. ‘Hell’s bells, that was boring. I need a drink, you coming?’

  They’d absconded to the hotel bar where they’d spent the next couple of hours drinking G&Ts, chatting and discovering that they’d much in common. Both were heading for the top in careers still very male-dominated, Melanie as a corporate lawyer, Caitlin as a newly-appointed detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police. They’d quickly become friends, falling into regular meetings, sometimes after work for dinner or drinks, occasionally for lunch.