Deceit

by KERRY BARNES

  Every time she looked at a photo, a piece of jewellery, the furniture, the clothes – everything that was in the house, in fact – it all reminded her of him. How was she going to cope? The gut-wrenching pain was worse than anything she’d ever experienced. What did she have now, but a big empty void and a bleak future?

  Sitting in the dining room for hours in a daze, she finally heard a bird tweeting. As she pulled back the curtains, the sun almost blinded her. She hadn’t been to sleep at all. Every muscle ached, and her legs were numb from sitting. She clung on to the idea that maybe once he was away, he would realise what he was missing, and would return soon with a bag of apologies.

  Too grieved to talk to anyone, she pulled the phone from the socket and struggled to the bedroom. As she opened the door and saw the small teddy on the bedside table, she retreated to a spare room and drew the curtains. Too exhausted to do anything but sleep, she lay on the bed and dragged the purple quilted throw over her legs. But as she closed her eyes to blot out the world, his face was there, with that sorrowful look.

  Eventually, she drifted off and was tossing and turning, only to wake up with nightmares before drifting off again. At four o’clock in the afternoon, she sat bolt upright remembering the trip to Denmark. She would have to get her bags packed, but unexpectedly, her stomach was burning, ready to expel its contents. Crouched on the cold tiled floor and hanging on to the toilet, the vomit rose once more, and she almost choked. Her throat was alight with acid and her lips burned. All she brought up was bile because her stomach was empty.

  After she washed her face and forced herself to clean her teeth, she wandered still in a daze back to the bedroom to get dressed. Her skin felt sensitive, and so she slipped into one of her soft lined tracksuits that hung sloppily off her shoulder. Justin liked her in her Sloppy Joes, as he called them; he said she could wear a black sack and still look gorgeous, but maybe it had all been a lie. She looked once more in the bathroom mirror and noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the red eyelids, and sallow skin. No wonder he ran to the arms of someone else. She looked a mess, and yet he didn’t; his boyish broad smile and the twinkle in his round eyes were just the same – ageless.

  The dining table had been cleaned and the crap that was up the wall was all washed down. Her heart skipped a beat. He was back. Perhaps he’d made a mistake. Quickly, she ran to the kitchen, expecting to find him, but only to have her heart ripped away from her again. A slim woman, with dark hair scraped back into a ponytail, wearing no make-up and sporting a piercing through her nose, stood with her rubber gloves on ready to start on the cleaning.

  It was Angie, her cleaner of three years, who, in all honesty, Kara knew nothing about, except she worked hard, was reliable and trustworthy, and lived on the estate. Justin had taken her on when he read an ad in the local newsagent’s window. Angie was eager to earn money on the side, just to have decent food in the cupboard. Her rent had gone up and she could barely cover the cost of living. If it wasn’t for her brother Rocky, bunging her a few quid each week, she would have starved to death, but the cash-in-hand cleaning job paid the heating bill and allowed her to get her nails done or to have a night out once a month with the girls.

  ‘Hey, are you okay, Kara? I saw you asleep in one of the spare rooms. I tried to be quiet … Had a row, did ya?’ she asked, totally lacking any sensitivity.

  Kara wasn’t expecting to see Angie and was not in the mood to talk. She needed time and space to figure it all out for herself. ‘No, I’m not well. Sorry, Angie, would you excuse me, please?’

  Angie nodded. ‘Yeah, sure.’ She waited for Kara to leave, before she mumbled under her breath, ‘Snotty bitch.’

  Angie didn’t really care one way or the other. As far as she was concerned, Kara and Justin were a professional working couple too busy to clean up their own shit, so they paid her to do it. They also paid well, so that was that. As she saw it, Kara was just a geek with her nose constantly in a book, too aloof to sit and have a cup of tea and a chat with her.

  She cleaned two houses in the close and the owners were all the same – too preoccupied with their own lives to stop and share a piece of cake or even notice her there. She could not wait to get back home on the estate where at least there was friendly banter.

  Angie was still washing down the kitchen, when Kara returned, in need of a cold glass of water, fighting off another wave of sickness that had engulfed her. If she didn’t get her act together soon, she would miss the taxi.

  ‘Kara, tell me to mind me own business, but do you need a doctor? ’Cos, I swear, you look bleedin’ rough, girl.’

  ‘No, I’ve just caught a bug, that’s all,’ she replied, holding back tears.

  Angie didn’t ask any more questions. She removed her rubber gloves and sighed. ‘All done, I’ll be back tomorrow, for me wages.’ Her fake smile faded, and she hurried out of the room, finally slamming the door behind her, making Kara jump.

  Shaking with pain and fear, Kara opened a drawer and pulled out two twenty-pound notes and placed them on the side. She knew she wouldn’t be able to have a conversation with anyone without bursting into tears. When Angie returned, her money would be there, ready. She had to pull herself together somehow.

  How could she go to Denmark in this state? She stared at the phone. She had to call in sick, but she could not bring herself to make the call straightaway. She was at the point where she couldn’t handle another argument. In fact, she couldn’t cope with anything, all her thoughts now consumed with grief over Justin leaving, and there was no way this wretched feeling of despair would leave her any time soon.

  She pulled down the white case with the red cross and flipped open the lid; there, at the back, was a packet of cigarettes. She’d given up two years ago but now had an urge to smoke the lot followed by a bottle of brandy. Then she spotted the bottle of sleeping tablets. She grabbed it and nervously popped four pills into her hand. That would do it. Like a horse tranquilizer, that should knock her out. At least those tiny tablets would ensure some respite from the emotional pain.

  She threw them to the back of her throat, filled a glass with iced water from the fridge, and gulped them down, gagging at the bitter taste. Almost instantaneously, she felt overcome with fatigue and staggered off to the bedroom. Her mind went back to her work and the trip. Five minutes’ rest and I will call Roger and let him know I can’t make it.

  She had not realised he would have left the labs by now.

  In the distance, she could hear the faint sound of a car hooting outside, but her vision was blurred, and her body wouldn’t move. She ignored it, sank back into a deeper slumber, and slept for what she thought was just eight hours.

  By the time she’d woken up, it was early in the morning, but she had absolutely no idea of the actual time or even which day it was. She strolled into the bedroom and looked inside Justin’s wardrobe for a reality check. Sure enough, this was no nightmare – all his clothes were gone, with just a neat row of coat hangers, the only tangible reminder of his former presence.

  She wandered from room to room, beside herself with heartache. Her mind just couldn’t focus. Eventually, she made a coffee, lit up a cigarette, and sat in front of the television set, hoping something would take her mind off everything. But as soon as the screen lit up, she saw the date and almost gasped in horror – she had lost three days and had no idea why. The sleeping tablets had left her heady, but really, she should have known the date.

  ‘Oh shit!’ she muttered, her mind on the trip to Denmark. Her hands were shaking, as she plugged the phone back into the socket. A cold shiver ran through her. Roger would be angry and humiliated. She’d let him down again and now she felt guilty. Without even thinking through how she would explain her absence from work, she called the office number. Roger answered within two rings. ‘Professor Luken.’

  Kara stared into space, holding the phone to her ear. ‘It’s me, Kara.’ Her voice was a mere whisper.

  There was silence, and she coul
d sense his upbeat tone plummeting. ‘Oh, so you are alive, then? Well, Kara, I think it’s best that you contact Human Resources. This situation is completely out of my hands … unless, of course, you are in hospital and couldn’t get to a bloody phone.’

  ‘Er … no, I fell asleep. I mean, I was sick, I, um …’

  ‘Enough, Kara, I am too busy cleaning up your mess to talk. Call HR. I think they will need to see you. As far as I am concerned, you no longer work with me.’ The phone went dead. Kara continued to stare into the distance. It was an unwelcome, life-changing moment: her career was over, and she now had nothing. Her boyfriend and her job were the two most important things in her life. Now, each was flushed down the toilet.

  The only solace she had was there in that medicine box. She swallowed hard, again to force the nauseous feeling away, and shuffled on unsteady feet to the kitchen. As she lifted the lid to the medicine box, she got a whiff of stale sweat. Normally, that would have had her tearing up the stairs to the shower, but not today. All she wanted was to be rid of the torturous thoughts weaving in and out of her subconscious.

  She swallowed another four tablets and reached for the bottle of brandy that she kept for cooking. The taste was harsh and ripped at her already sore throat. Squeezing her eyes tightly, she gulped back mouthfuls, gasped for breath, and then filled her mouth with more amber nectar. A sudden warm feeling softened her tense muscles and she stared at the drugs in the box. If she took all of them, she would be over this pain for good.

  She shook her head, remembering a time when she’d stared at a bottle of tablets but didn’t have the guts back then. She gulped more of the brandy, but as she was about to snap open the first pot of pills, she felt weak and overcome with tiredness. She made her way into the living room and flopped onto the four-seater leather sofa. Within seconds, she was out cold in body, yet her mind was awash with vivid nightmares of the past.

  A noise in the distant recesses of her mind rendered her half-awake. For a moment, she was unsure where she was until she saw the huge inglenook fireplace and the antique trunk she and Justin used as a coffee table. Slowly, she pulled her aching body to an upright position and took large breaths of air. It was all coming back to her and her face crumpled in pain. After pushing the quilt from her legs, she frowned. She didn’t want to get her hopes up, but who had covered her over?

  Like a fragile child, she got to her feet and gingerly made her way to the kitchen. The money was gone, and the medicine box was put away. Angie! It must have been Angie who covered her over. A deep sadness enveloped her because she knew then that she had to get herself together and deal with the mental anguish of being alone. The date on the kitchen clock was flashing, and yet Kara could not comprehend it. She’d lost six days. How the hell did that happen?

  Snapping out of her daze, and in a rush to pull herself together, she made breakfast, and just as she finished the last mouthful, she heard what she assumed was the postman, as he shoved the mail through the letterbox. She looked down at the floor and saw a letter from Lucas Lane and Partners, Solicitor, their solicitor and long-term friend. With no stamp, she surmised it had been hand-delivered.

  She fingered her way around the seal and then ripped the envelope open. She had to read the words twice in disbelief. Discounting all the legal jargon for the moment, the solicitor said she was to move out by the end of the week. What? She fell to her knees and screamed like a wild animal. ‘You bastard, you FUCKING BASTARD!’ Gagging in between sobs, Kara punched the door repeatedly. How could he be so cruel? This wasn’t her man; this was not him at all. He would never have thrown her out on her ear. She reread the letter, hoping she’d misread it, but the instruction was there in black and white.

  Justin owned the house. It was his before they met, and now he was turfing her out to move in his girlfriend. How could he? This was their home, albeit in his name, but it was theirs. They’d shared and decorated it and made it their own.

  Falling to her knees, she clenched her stomach, as if her insides were being pulled away from her. She gasped for air, as though her lungs wouldn’t work. Unexpectedly, she was fraught with an uncontrollable rage. Her otherwise disciplined persona was somehow switched off, as if the devil himself had taken control of her senses. Tidal waves of incensed fury pushed her to act so out of character, that she wasn’t fully aware of her actions. A sudden red mist descended and blinded her.

  The sleeping tablets, the drink, and the feeling of utter betrayal pushed her to search the cupboards for something to destroy their love nest. If he wanted the house, then he could fucking have it. Yet, she was going to make dead sure he would never live in it again. She headed straight for the garage – his garage that housed every tool imaginable. There, by the garage doors, were the lawnmower and strimmer, which had stood unused because they employed a gardener, but Justin, being Justin, liked his man tools and toys.

  By the side were two petrol cans, in case he ever needed to mow the lawn himself or fill up his car. In a fit of anger, she grabbed the cans and returned to the kitchen, intent on a mission. She would destroy their home – his home.

  Her anger now reaching to a new level, she could only imagine Justin and some bimbo enjoying a house that she and Justin had painstakingly decorated and furnished. She splashed the petrol up the walls, over the sofas, up the stairs, and on the bed. Then, almost falling down the stairs breathless and seething, she ran into the kitchen, where she splashed the rest of the fuel over the worktops before throwing the can at the French doors, smashing the glass.

  The sound made her rage heighten, as she pulled open a drawer, snatched the sharp carving knife, and began stabbing the highly polished cabinets, imagining it was his body she was desecrating. With one swift movement of her arm, she cleared the worktop of everything: the cups, the toaster, the kettle, and the antique vases belonging to his great-grandmother. They all crashed to the floor. Then, taking a deep breath, she reached for her lighter.

  She backed away from the kitchen and towards the French doors. The broken glass on the floor pricked the heel of her foot and she winced in pain. Then, grabbing the newspaper that had been left on the kitchen table by the door, she set it alight.

  Instantly, the flames grew at speed. Without a second thought, she threw the burning newspaper onto the kitchen worktop and retreated into the rear garden. Wearing only a thin tracksuit, the cold night air caused her to shiver. As she turned to walk away, an enormous explosion knocked her to the ground. The gas boiler had caught alight and had blown the side window clean away from its frame.

  Kara lay on the cold damp grass, unable to move. The blast had also shot a heavy piece of the doorframe across the garden, striking her across the back. But all she could do was stare and watch as the brilliant-white detached house became steadily consumed with grey choking smoke. The growing flames flared up and out of the broken windows, licking the walls and turning them black. Everyone in the close could hear the loud bangs and whistles. As she lay there winded, a horrific high-pitched scream belted out from next door – it was not a woman’s scream.

  It hit her all at once like a bat across the head. Her eyes widened at the destruction in front of her, and voices in her head were pummelling her with fury for her irresponsible actions.

  ‘Oh my God! Have I done this?’

  Mr Langley was cradling his wife on the drive. Her head was bleeding profusely, and she lay there unconscious. The blast from the side window had shot shards of glass and debris just as Jenny Langley was taking the shopping from the boot of her car, resulting in her being hit hard around the head.

  The neighbours ran from their homes to see Justin’s house billowing smoke from the flames. One man called the fire brigade and another called an ambulance. Hearing Mr Langley’s screams, they ran to his aid. Mr Johnson, a retired police officer, helped carry Jenny Langley away from the burning building and onto the grass where he rolled his jacket and laid it under her head. Mr Langley was in a blind panic. All he could do was hold his wife
and offer up a prayer that she wouldn’t die.

  ‘Is anyone in there?’ asked Mr Johnson.

  Mr Langley was too traumatised to answer. The rest of the neighbours couldn’t or wouldn’t help. They gathered in the close, watching the once beautiful house being destroyed and seeing yet more devastation as the windows blew out from the blasts.

  Slowly, but surely, Kara got to her feet and tried to register the devastation she’d caused. Reality hit her; she had just burned down Justin’s house.

  She heard the fire engine in the distance and knew then that she was in shit up to her neck. It was too late to turn back now though – actions have consequences.

  Chapter 3

  Kara looked around the room. It was soulless, with just the one table, four chairs, and a recording machine for company. She cupped her hands around the hot tea, hoping it would control the shakes. Was it the cold or shock? She didn’t care, either way; all she felt was a deep head-banging numbness.

  The chief superintendent marched into the room, with files under her arm, and sat pertly on the chair. Stony-faced and with eyes that were open but glazed over, Kara slowly peered up to see the middle-aged woman, with cold, spiteful eyes and wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, probably from too many cigarettes. With lank, lifeless, and short hair, with a few stands of grey, the policewoman was hardly a looker in the feminine stakes.

  Cynthia Lipton, the chief superintendent at Bromley Police Station had been called on to interview the woman because the victim, Jenny Langley, was in the hospital on a life-support machine, and if she died, which was probable, then the person now in custody was looking at an accidental manslaughter charge with arson, which would carry a hefty sentence.

  She sharply placed the folder on the table and clicked her pen. Then, having given the young woman the once-over, she concluded fairly quickly from her pale-as-the-moon complexion that Kara Bannon was in shock. This was going to be either like pulling teeth or watching paint dry. She introduced herself and quickly ran through the formalities.