All Your Lies: A gripping psychological thriller that will keep you guessing to the very end

by O. C. S. Francis

  ‘It’s about Benedict Raine, right?’ says Kay.

  ‘Am I that transparent?’ This is no small fear for Amber.

  ‘Freddie MacRory said she saw you at the funeral. Said she was sorry she didn’t get to talk to you.’

  ‘You’re still in touch?’

  ‘On and off,’ Kay says with a shrug. Kay and Amber were at the same college, although a decade apart. The two women didn’t in fact meet till much later when Kay was a reporter at The Sentinel, and Amber did a stint at the paper on a series of features. ‘But I didn’t know you were still in with the Raines.’

  ‘I’m not, really, but Genevieve invited me. And I felt… well… I don’t know what I felt.’

  ‘What did she want with you? Freddie said she saw you and her in a deep-and-meaningful chat.’

  Amber doesn’t answer, just frowns at her friend.

  ‘Oh, you know how the old girl likes to gossip.’

  ‘And you don’t?’ says Amber a little sharply.

  ‘What can I say? Old habits. Ear to the ground and all that.’

  ‘Sure, sorry.’ Amber isn’t really annoyed with Kay. It’s Freddie she’s thinking about.

  I see you.

  She wonders again if Freddie ever put two and two together about her and Benny. She was often at the Raine London house parties back in the day. Did she ever see what was just below the surface? Could she detect what Johnny and Genevieve couldn’t? These thoughts have always troubled Amber, but they have a darker hue now.

  Amber tries to think what to say to Kay, but can’t find the words. She is caught between silence and lies, between the knowledge that to say nothing will only intrigue her friend, and that any inventions will likely unravel. She decides to plot a middle course — to tell Kay a little without revealing all. Just the things other people know. So she describes Genevieve’s proposal at the funeral and the invitation to the farmhouse.

  ‘Returning to the scene of the crime, is it?’ Kay says with a conspiratorial half smile.

  ‘I never actually went to the farmhouse when we were…’ Amber tails off.

  Kay is looking expectant, but Amber has always been guarded about sharing details of her affair with Benny. It wasn’t even something she told Kay about voluntarily. It was something Kay guessed, right at the time the two women got to know each other.

  Amber remembers the occasion in strange patches of vagueness and absolute clarity. They were at the pub after work. Kay was monopolising Amber, talking a lot, asking plenty of questions. Amber had a strong sense Kay might be chatting her up. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. They had located their mutual connection in Freddie, so Amber wasn’t surprised or perturbed when Benedict Raine turned up in their conversation. Amber was on an even keel in those days, and Benny was years gone from her life.

  She can’t remember how she gave the game away. Was it how she spoke about him? Was it the way she tried to wriggle away from honest answers to Kay’s questions about their relationship? What Amber does remember clearly is Kay giving a hard laugh, shaking her head and saying: ‘Don’t tell me you were one of those silly young things who let themselves get fucked by Benny Raine.’ Then Kay looked momentarily disappointed, and the sense that there had been something flirtatious to the conversation solidified.

  But the truth was that Kay was right to say what she did. Amber had been a silly young thing. Benny had taken advantage of her. He had used his celebrity and renown. She might not have been the first woman he had done this to, but he had still made her feel special at a time when Johnny had seemed distant.

  It is so hard to see through the shattered glass of what followed, but she really did want Benny back then. She didn’t love him. At the time, she wasn’t sure she loved Johnny either, and she allowed herself to believe he was sleeping around to assuage her guilt. She didn’t really understand what it was to love Johnny till later, till afterwards.

  What she felt for Benny was infatuation. His insouciant charm that never felt sleazy because it carried with it the hint of disinterest. The way his hands made her feel when they touched her. His goddamn talent. Because she was as guilty as millions of others of swallowing the idea of the difficult genius, the moral grey zone of the powerful artist.

  But none of this was an adequate excuse. So yes, she got fucked by Benedict Raine, in ways Kay doesn’t even begin to know. Even Grace never knew how the affair ended. Kay knows even less.

  ‘Did you know Benny was really ill?’ Amber asks Kay as they walk through Oxford, trying to move the conversation away from herself and towards Benny. She relates the talk she had with Genevieve about Benny’s illness and the idea that he killed himself.

  Kay is quiet for a moment, then shrugs. ‘I suppose that makes a grim kind of sense. And this is what’s got you out of sorts?’

  ‘I’m not out of sorts. I have lots of sorts. Nothing but sorts.’ She smiles weakly. ‘It’s just…’

  ‘It’s just what?’ Kay makes a winding motion with her hand.

  Amber is thinking about the things Yvey said to her, about how the girl was on her own the night Benny died.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, I’m just not sure he killed himself. Doesn’t seem right somehow.’

  ‘I guess if he didn’t kill himself, it was an accident.’ Kay is frowning, as if failing to keep up with Amber’s reasoning.

  But it’s no good, because there is the reasoning Amber is saying out loud, and there is the real reasoning going on inside, hidden from Kay. And this internal reasoning isn’t logical. It’s just a turmoil of thoughts about Benny’s death, his final phone call to her, her invitation to his house, the negatives, the WhatsApp message. There is something in the corner of her vision, a flicker in the viewfinder that will only be revealed when the film is developed.

  Amber finally recognises the tension she is feeling. She doesn’t want to tell Kay the truth, but at the same time she is disappointed that her friend cannot shed any light on the situation. Kay has only ever known Benny at one remove — as a friend of Freddie, as a famous photographer, perhaps with a glancing professional acquaintance at one time or another.

  They keep walking, turning right to head into town, but are blocked by a burst water main spreading a pool of water into the road. A pedestrian, running to dodge a bus, jumps over the huge puddle. For a second, his reflection is caught in the water, the stride of his legs forming a perfect diamond.

  Kay finally speaks again. ‘You want to know what this tough old bird thinks?’

  Amber manages a laugh. Kay is only in her early fifties, and on the occasion they’ve gone jogging together, has left Amber in the dust. Even so, she likes to play the wise old aunt to Amber. She is always the one giving the advice, rarely taking it.

  ‘I think you have more important things in life to be worrying about than what Benedict Raine did to himself,’ Kay says. ‘What is it you owe him, anyway?’

  It’s a throwaway question, but it reaches right into Amber. Yes, she resented Benny for years. But they were also tied together by their shared guilt, by what she did, and what they did together to protect themselves from the consequences. It would be easy just to hate Benedict Raine, but to hate him meant hating herself as well.

  Kay keeps going. ‘Honestly, I think you’ve got more interesting work to be doing than looking after his old holiday snaps…’

  ‘They’re not…’

  ‘Whatever they all are. Besides, you’ve got enough other things to be thinking about right now.’

  Amber knows Kay is about to start talking about the baby. Sure enough, the next moment she is going on about the little wee one. Kay of all people, without a sentimental bone in her body. Sometimes Amber thinks Kay is overcompensating for her initial reaction when Amber admitted she was pregnant. It was almost as if Amber had betrayed the sisterhood in succumbing to the banality of parenthood. The moment solidified the asymmetry in their friendship and seemed to shine a spotlight on Kay’s loneliness. And it did nothing to dent Amber’s sense of wha
t Kay might really feel for her.

  But at least this talk of babies enables Amber to leave the conversation about Benny behind. They find their way to the centre of town and walk past the big art store on Broad Street. There is a window display of Benedict Raine prints for sale. At its centre, the Lebanese boy stares out at them: those fearful, vengeful eyes.

  Kay finishes a question, but Amber doesn’t reply. Because she has nothing to say all of a sudden. Something else is crowding into her brain. She has felt the soft buzz of her phone in the back pocket of her jeans.

  22

  Amber

  Amber doesn’t take the phone out of her pocket. It’s nothing, she tells herself, trying to dampen the dual desires to look at it right away and never look at her phone ever again.

  She becomes aware Kay has asked her a question and is waiting for a reply. ‘Sorry, what?’ But she doesn’t even hear the words the second time, because she has given in to the urge and pulled out her phone.

  It’s a message on WhatsApp. She is about to look at it, but notices Kay glancing over. She slides the phone away, the message unread. Her skin is tingling coldly as if someone is passing a low, steady electric current through her.

  ‘You good?’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ she lies. ‘Look, I might head home.’ Amber steers them down a side street, away from all the shoppers, feeling as if all their eyes are on her.

  ‘I was hoping we could do a bit of shopping, maybe even get some lunch.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got a lot on. Got to finish up some projects this week so I can start working on…’ She doesn’t continue, not wanting to mention Benny again. She feels the depth of the scepticism in the look Kay is giving her.

  ‘How about we try again later in the week? Thursday, maybe?’

  ‘Sure, okay, yeah, Thursday,’ says Amber without thinking, desperate to break free so she can look at her phone.

  ‘Grand, but you’re all fine, sweetie? Really?’ Kay gives one of her kind smiles. The sharp lines dissolve, and it becomes the kind of face you might tell all of your secrets to by mistake.

  In truth, part of Amber does want to be able to tell Kay everything, to have someone she can completely confide in. She’s never had that, not once in her life. But she knows what she does have. She has Johnny, and she cannot imagine her life without him. And she has begun to imagine a life with him and with their child. She has to protect that at all costs.

  ‘Thank you, Kay. You’re too good to me. I’m just having to adjust to a lot at the moment.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here to talk to, you silly wee girl. Whatever you need to say, I’ll listen.’

  ‘I know, and thank you. But talking doesn’t always help, you know. Sometimes it’s better not to.’

  Kay gives her another sceptical look, but that’s too bad. There can’t be any more truth to Kay. There must only be lies and omissions. Amber should be able to do this. She has lied before. She has lied for years. But her capacity for lying feels as if it has worn off. Maybe it’s the pregnancy, that lazy excuse of the hormones. In front of Kay, who has that kind smile on her face again, Amber feels exposed and transparent, a sense she is wearing all her thoughts and feelings just beneath the surface.

  Before Kay can say anything else, Amber gives Kay the briefest of hugs and walks away. She goes along the lane, the old stone of two Oxford colleges rising above her. She is round the corner before she takes her phone out of her pocket and brings up WhatsApp. It’s that anonymous number again. There is another photo, again a blurred box waiting to be downloaded. This time she can’t see the outline of the image in the blur: it’s just darkness with patches of light coming in from the right of the image.

  She opens it. It takes a few moments for her to see what it is. It is slightly out of focus, underexposed, a woman standing next to a window, a towel around her.

  Amber sees herself in the picture and remembers this photo being taken. She hears Benny’s voice like it was yesterday, telling her she is beautiful. The light is moonlight, she recalls now, strangely strong. A clear cold night in a warm house.

  Quickly, her fingers shaking, she takes a screenshot on her phone, determined to preserve the message before the sender deletes it. Then she saves the image to a separate folder on her phone, double-checking it is there, that it is real. And she doesn’t hesitate with the reply this time.

  Who is this? What do you want?

  She glances round, half expecting to see Kay trotting nosily after her. But there is no one there, just the high walls reaching up either side of her. She stares at the picture she has just received, thinking too about the photos Benny took of her outside the cottage. There is only one other photo she knows that was on this roll of film. It was a picture Amber took.

  She looks at her phone and keeps on looking at it, waiting for something else. A message, a reply, another image.

  But nothing.

  She tries to breathe regularly and walks on towards her home as if everything is fine, as if everything in her world is not about to fall apart. Her body feels strange and mechanical, as if she is having to instruct her lungs and limbs how to do their jobs. And in these quiet side alleys, she feels very alone.

  She finds her way back to one of the main roads running to the north of the city, and is at first relieved by the presence of other people. But soon, all the faces start to push in on her. They are watching her. They know what she did. It is not true — she knows it cannot be true — but the feeling surges in her.

  Then the vibration of her phone again against her hip, and she snatches it out of her pocket. Another image. She opens it and at first there is a sense of relief that it’s not the photo she knows about. Then she sees what it is.

  It is a dark image round the edges, with a soft splash of light in the middle. It is without blur, and the exposure is well judged. That same moonlight is coming in from the edge of the picture. It is falling on Amber, who is lying on a bed, just barely under a sheet.

  Amber looks at her face in the photo. She is sleeping, oblivious to the photo being taken.

  Underneath this image is a message:

  What happens next, Amber?

  She stares at the words. She is asking herself the same question.

  23

  Benny

  Saturday, 10 November 2001

  For an old cottage, it was warm. The heat from the wood burner downstairs filled the house, and steam wafted out from the open bathroom door. Amber stood by the window in only her towel.

  ‘Do you think Genevieve suspects?’ she asked. This was new, a spontaneous mention of my wife. I didn’t want to engage with the question, so I pretended not to hear, rummaging around in my bag. She didn’t let it go. ‘You must have thought about it?’

  I stuck my head up. ‘Honestly, no. I would love to say she trusts me completely, but that’s not true. But she likes you too much. You two get along. Even if she doesn’t trust me, she trusts you.’

  ‘That doesn’t make me feel very much better about myself.’

  ‘I think that’s standard fare for this type of enterprise.’

  ‘You make us sound like we’re drilling for oil.’

  ‘Why do you ask now, anyway?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that car and that man,’ she said.

  ‘Please, not that again.’

  ‘You don’t think your wife would have us followed?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Well, do you?’

  ‘Not by a piece of muscle in a Ford Capri. Please, let’s not talk about her. And stop being paranoid.’

  She didn’t reply, just picked at the curtain, peering out into the night. It was a clear one, a moon just past full peering back at her. She opened the curtains a little wider, and her mood seemed to soften with her next words.

  ‘Turn the light off, would you?’

  I obeyed, and the only light now was from the moon, falling on her like a street lamp in its brightness.

  My camera was on the c
hest of drawers next to where I was standing. I couldn’t resist. I didn’t have time to think much about the exposure, just twisted the lens to fully open and tried to keep my hands steady and nail the focus in a single movement.

  She caught the snap of the shutter and flicked her head back to me.

  ‘I told you, Benny, don’t be a creep.’

  ‘You looked so beautiful.’

  ‘You’re so corny.’

  ‘I mean it. You do.’

  ‘Just don’t leave the film lying around for your wife to find.’

  ‘I’m not a fool.’

  ‘No, I don’t expect you are,’ she said with a smile.

  I put my camera down and crawled across the bed to her. I reached out and gave the towel a firm tug, and it slipped from her.

  What followed couldn’t have been more different from the previous night. The clumsiness was replaced by slow care, the newness by a deep sense of familiarity with every curve, every taste and smell. The hunger was still there — I felt it at least — but it was steady and patient, pacing itself.

  My hands ran all over her skin, finding their way inside her till her breathing tightened and shortened as if all the air had rushed out of the room and every breath was a desperate gasp for oxygen. Then, for the first time really, she explored my body with her lips and tongue, and took me in her mouth. She crawled back up me, took one wrist and pushed my hand hard down onto the bed. Then she was climbing on top of me, utterly confident in her body, perhaps ignorant of its power over me, perhaps knowing entirely. She arched her back, leaning away from me, putting her hands back and grabbing my legs. She didn’t look at me as we fucked.

  I thought about the way she had been with me that weekend. Emotionally distant, but physically available. Nervous, spooked by the car, talking about my wife. Then this display. That was the only word I could think of it as. I remember these thoughts coming together into a searing sense that this was the end of us. This was sex as a farewell gift and a reminder of what I was never going to get again. The next day, we would drive back to London, she would go back to Johnny, and I would go back to Gen.