Her Last Lie

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘Yes,’ she said, cursing the fact she’d been brought up to be polite. Never wanted to offend.

  He indicated and pulled onto the main road. ‘Somewhere nice?’

  Please stop talking. ‘Canada,’ she said.

  ‘Very nice indeed.’ He nodded, approvingly. ‘I’ve always wanted to go. Did you see Niagara Falls?’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘I read on the Internet that five thousand people have committed suicide there.’

  Why would anyone say that? ‘Yes I know, it’s awful.’

  He shrugged. ‘Sorry, not a very cheerful subject.’

  No, no it’s not.

  His brown eyes met hers in the rear-view mirror, and even though his tone was light and friendly, her neck tingled, and anxiety bubbles rose in her chest. She ran her finger over the band on her wrist, and averted her eyes.

  ‘And there was that woman who went over the waterfall in a barrel and survived. I saw a documentary on the telly-box.’ He paused. ‘Not that I watch documentaries very often. I like gardening programmes. Alan Titchmarsh is my favourite. Do you like Alan Titchmarsh?’

  ‘I don’t mind him.’

  ‘It’s my wife who’s the documentary addict. If there’s been a documentary about it, she has watched the documentary. Ooh, I seem to have said documentary rather too much.’ He laughed, as he indicated and turned a corner. ‘We saw that documentary on Netflix about the chap who got charged with murder and went down for years. He didn’t do it, so they got him out again. Then he got banged up again for another murder, would you believe? And now they’re trying to get him off again. He must feel like he’s doing the murder hokey-cokey – in, out, in, out, shake it all about. You seen it?’

  Thoughts of Carl Jeffery pushed into her head. Would it be better if she knew the outcome of his appeal? She shook away the thought. If he was out – free to kill again – the knowledge would break her.

  ‘Santa’s beard,’ the driver said. ‘Who’s this pillocky person behind me?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Some ruddy moron’s gating my tail.’

  Isla glanced over her shoulder, and squinted. The back window was filled with the full beam of a car’s headlights, far too close.

  The taxi driver slowed, and whoever was behind heeded, putting some distance between them.

  ‘Sports car,’ the taxi driver said with a grumble. ‘Some idiot going through a midlife crisis, I shouldn’t wonder. Probably bought a guitar too, and wants to be the next Bryan Adams.’

  He pulled into the car park at Oakley Court, which had once been the sweeping drive of a now-converted Victorian house.

  ‘Thanks,’ Isla said, opening the door, relieved the journey was over.

  He jumped out, opened the boot and pulled out her case.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said again, paying him.

  He drove away, and she began stabbing the passcode into the keypad on the front door, before glancing over her shoulder. The sports car that had tailgated the taxi was parked across the road, lights on. Someone was sitting at the steering wheel, but it was impossible to see who it was – no more than a silhouette.

  Unnerved, she fumbled the rest of the code into the keypad, and pushed open the door. She heaved her case up the flight of stairs, and put her key into her front door and turned it. As she pushed against the door, something prevented her from opening it fully. Her heartbeat cranked up a notch, but she realised quickly that a newspaper and a pile of letters were blocking the door. She reached her hand round, and pushed them aside.

  Inside, once the door was closed behind her, she stood in the darkness and took a long, deep breath, frustrated that her anxiety had risen to what she called silly levels. She’d been fine in Canada. Things had gone so well.

  The apartment was quiet without Jack and Luna to greet her, and she missed the comfort of their presence.

  Jack rarely went to Dorset. His mum must be very ill.

  She flicked the hall light switch, but the inky darkness remained. The bulb had blown.

  As she wheeled her case through the blackness, she noted the air was musty and heavy with a faint mingling aroma of Jack’s aftershave and the slight waft of bacon.

  The floorboards in the lounge creaked as she padded towards the window and looked out. The sports car was still in the lay-by opposite, lights off. She yanked the curtains closed.

  In the kitchen, she turned on the tap and streamed water into a glass. She swallowed half of it, her dry throat thanking her, and poured the rest onto the dry soil of a sad-looking plant that Jack had forgotten to water. She took off her coat and slipped off her shoes. She knew she should shower to eradicate the journey, but instead made her way into the bedroom and fell onto the bed fully clothed. Closing her eyes, she drifted into a doze.

  Five minutes later, the intercom buzzed. Her eyes sprang open. Could it be Jack home early? He often forgot his key. She rose and headed from the bedroom, her heart pounding as she took in how still and silent the apartment was. She approached the front door, fighting back memories of six years ago, frustrated by her fear. She didn’t do this any more, she told herself. She wasn’t afraid any more.

  She pressed the talk button on the intercom. ‘Hello. Jack, is that you?’ There was no reply. Maybe the intercom hadn’t buzzed. Perhaps it had been part of a dream. It wouldn’t have been the first time her dreams seemed real. When she’d been taking tablets, she would often have vivid nightmares that felt far too real. But that was a long time ago. ‘Jack?’ she said again, noting the wobble in her voice.

  She released the button, headed into the lounge, and crept towards the window. She peered through the gap in the curtains. Someone, hood up, was crossing the road, jogging away from the apartment block. The sports cars lights flashed, and whoever it was flung open the door, jumped inside, and sped away with a screech of tyres.

  Isla hurried back to bed and dived under the duvet, where she cradled her knees. Tears filled her eyes, as memories of Carl Jeffery swooped into her head.

  Six years ago

  He stood at the bar, pretending to look lost. ‘You’re so pretty, I’ve forgotten what I was going to ask for.’

  She’d known immediately it was Carl Jeffery. Bronwyn, a girl who was staying at the same hostel as Isla, had told her about him. ‘He’s fucking gorgeous,’ she’d said. And there was no doubting that he was. Rugged good looks, dark hair curling into the collar of his checked shirt. The kind of Aussie she could imagine living in the outback in a shack, boiling water in a tin kettle on an open fire, undeterred by huntsman spiders and venomous snakes.

  But Carl’s flattery was transparent.

  ‘It can’t be that hard to remember what you want,’ Isla said, folding her arms and rolling her eyes. ‘It’s a bar, for Christ’s sake. Now what can I get you?’

  Charmers had never taken Isla in. In fact, she hadn’t been interested in men at all at that time. Her breakup with Trevor still rattled around her head even then. How he’d wanted her to settle down. How he didn’t want her to travel. It had all got so messy. The last thing she wanted was another relationship.

  ‘So, what’s your name, pretty lady?’ Carl’s smirk was lopsided, his eyes deep set.

  She thrust her hands on her hips. ‘Seriously? That’s your best line?’

  He laughed. ‘Oh come on, give a guy a break.’

  ‘You’re really not my type.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t waste your time.’

  ‘You’re gay?’

  ‘So I have to be gay not to fancy you?’ She knocked the lid off a bottled lager, and handed it to a worse-for-wear customer who was leaning on the bar holding out a five-dollar note.

  ‘So what will it be?’ she said, eyes back on Carl.

  ‘Lager,’ he said, pulling himself onto a stool.

  ‘Coming right up.’ She bent to get one from the fridge.

  ‘So when did you arrive?’ he asked, as she handed him the cool bottle. ‘I haven’t seen you around.’

  ‘Two w
eeks ago,’ she said, watching as he parted his lips and took a long gulp.

  ‘Staying at the Bristol?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You like it there?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s cool.’ She moved away. She really wasn’t interested. And anyway, Bronwyn fancied him.

  During the evening, women gravitated towards him, and he ended up at a table with an attractive blonde who seemed to fuel his ego, and kept him topped up with drinks. His laugh was loud and confident, and Isla found herself watching him, despite an inner instinct not to. She watched the way he leant forward to listen, attentive as the woman spoke, the way he rested his tanned hand over hers, so it became invisible.

  ‘There’s a fucking dancing possum in here,’ yelled the drunken bloke at the bar, snapping Isla out of her dream world, as he fell off his stool. ‘Did you see it? Did you see it? It’s wearing clogs and a pink hat.’

  ‘Oh, Ernie, you’re imagining things again. You need to give up the amber nectar,’ she said, coming out from behind the bar. Despite her small size, she pulled him to his feet. ‘You’ve had enough, mate,’ she continued, escorting him across the bar, and out through the door. ‘Now go home to Mrs Ernie.’

  ‘Chucking out the drunks again?’ said Bronwyn, appearing through the night, and following Isla back into the bar. ‘So how’s it going?’ she continued, her friendly Irish lilt just one of the things that made her so likeable.

  ‘Yeah, I’m good; be glad when I’ve finished,’ Isla said, hurrying back behind the bar.

  ‘I’ll have a wine, please,’ Bronwyn said, tipping coins from a tatty zip-up purse onto the bar. She sat down and dragged her fingers through her red, layered hair. She was eighteen and travelling alone, but seemed to have an aura that said ‘don’t mess with me’.

  ‘Good to see you, my little Irish beauty.’ It was Carl approaching, and leaving the blonde woman alone. ‘I’m loving the cut-off shorts.’ He ogled her thighs, and then lifted his eyes to meet Isla’s, holding her gaze. Isla looked away, annoyed with herself for getting drawn in by his game playing.

  ‘I’ll have another lager,’ he said to her. And once she’d handed it to him, he lifted Bronwyn from the stool, and carried her, her legs gripping his body, her lips on his, to a table in the corner. Her giggles were almost childlike.

  ***

  ‘He asked me out,’ Bronwyn told Isla later, as they walked back to the hostel. ‘Says we should have some fun together.’

  ‘Did you say yes?’

  ‘Yep, I like fun. My two mums have told me since I was a little girl that I should get as much out of life as possible. And he is pretty gorgeous, don’t you think?’ She skipped ahead, and turned to face Isla, continuing to skip backwards, her skinny body being swallowed by the darkness.

  ‘Bron,’ Isla called after her, when she’d fully gone from view. ‘Wait up.’

  ‘I’ve told him I’m not sticking around here for too long,’ Bronwyn called out.

  ‘And he’s OK with that?’ Isla called back.

  ‘Why wouldn’t he be?’

  The darkness was suddenly total, the silence only punctuated by Bronwyn’s distant footfalls, and the intermittent sound of an owl hooting. ‘Bronwyn, please wait up,’ Isla called, picking up speed. ‘Bron? I’m knackered. I can’t be arsed to run.’

  ‘Ahhh!’

  ‘Bron!’ Isla called out, grabbing her torch from her rucksack and searching the darkness. ‘Bronwyn, are you OK?’

  ‘Over here,’ Bronwyn called out, laughing. The beam of Isla’s torched picked her out among the trees. She was sitting on the gravelled earth, brushing down her knees. ‘Lost my balance,’ she said, her face spreading into a wide, intoxicated smile. ‘Should have been looking where I was going.’

  Now

  ‘Get out of my head,’ Isla cried, burying her head in her hands, tears burning. The appeal had got to her more than she realised. ‘You can’t hurt me any more, you bastard.’

  But she knew she wouldn’t sleep. She couldn’t even close her eyes.

  Chapter 5

  Wednesday, 26 October

  Water streamed from the shower over Isla’s hair, and soapy bubbles slid down her back. She could have stayed there for hours, washing away her tiredness, the harshness of the journey home and the awful unease of the night before.

  She turned off the water, reached out for a fluffy towel to wrap around her, and stepped onto the mat in the steamy bathroom, determined she wasn’t going to let Carl Jeffery ruin everything. In fact, the smoothness of the water had already worn away the sharp edges, perspective almost restored. The person in the sports car could have been anyone visiting the apartment block, she told herself, and she wasn’t even sure the buzzer had been activated.

  The door nudged open, and she looked up from rubbing moisture from her hair with a hand towel. ‘Luna.’ The cat ran towards her, meowing, and Isla crouched and tickled her ears. ‘I’ve missed you so much, my little angel.’

  ‘I hope you missed me too.’ It was Jack, outside the door.

  ‘Hey, you,’ Isla called.

  She smiled as a head of wayward dark hair appeared, along with a familiar smile. He crossed the bathroom and took her in his arms. ‘So all went OK in Canada?’

  She nodded. ‘It did, yes.’

  ‘You should feel pretty pleased with yourself.’ He touched her hair, and leant in to kiss her lips. Luna mewed and made a quick exit, as he began trailing kisses down Isla’s neck. He went to unhook her towel, but she flinched and pulled away.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said, his eyes wide and hurt.

  ‘Nothing. Sorry.’

  He went to reach out to her once more, but she stepped away. ‘Have you been smoking?’ she said.

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Just the one. It was bloody stressful with my mother.’

  ‘Oh God, yes, sorry.’ A pang of guilt. ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘Heart attack.’

  ‘Jack, that’s awful.’

  He shrugged and screwed up his nose. ‘It was mild. If she listens to the doctors, which she probably won’t, she’ll be OK.’ He reached out his hand and touched the St Christopher necklace hanging around her neck. ‘Is that new?’

  She placed her hand over it. ‘Sort of,’ she said with a shrug.

  ‘I didn’t think you were into the saints.’

  ‘No, no I’m not, not really. It was a gift.’

  ‘A gift?’

  ‘Jeez, Jack, what is this, the third degree? Roxanne bought it for me, if you must know. Before I left for Canada.’

  ‘Easy, Isla. Don’t bite my head off. I’ll put some coffee on, shall I?’ he said, turning his back, and leaving her alone.

  Isla dried herself, and pulled on a pair of leggings and a crumpled Fat Face top she’d retrieved from her case. She grabbed the rubber band she’d discarded to take a shower, pulled it back onto her wrist, and pinged it three times.

  In the kitchen, she plonked three magnets on the fridge – Toronto, the Canadian Rockies and Niagara Falls – as Jack took two ready-made rolls from a paper bag, and placed them on plates.

  ‘Cheese and pickle OK?’ he asked, as she headed towards him. ‘I picked them up on the way home. Thought you might be hungry. There’s nothing in the fridge.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ Isla said, reaching him, and pulling him into a hug. ‘Listen, sorry about earlier . . . ’ She nodded towards the bathroom. ‘It’s just . . . ’

  ‘You hate me smoking. I know.’

  ‘No, well I had thought you’d given up, but it’s more that I didn’t sleep too well, that’s all.’ She bit her lip. If she told him about the car, the buzzer, he would think she was taking a step back.

  She released him, and pulled herself onto a stool at the breakfast bar.

  ‘I have given up, by the way,’ he said, as his phone screamed out the Spider-Man theme tune. He picked it up, looked at the screen, and cancelled the call.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘My mother – she can wait.’ H
is eyes were on Isla. ‘I’ve had one cigarette in three months.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ she said with a smile.

  ‘OK, two, maybe three, tops. But that’s pretty good.’

  Isla tucked her damp hair behind her ears. ‘Yes, you’re right. Sorry.’ She bit into the roll, crumbs sprinkling the breakfast bar, and chewed slowly. ‘So you don’t think your mum will listen to the doctors?’

  He shook his head, a crease forming between his eyebrows. He looked pale, his eyes shadowed, as though he’d had little sleep in Dorset. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I only went out of duty, and I’m not sure I even owe her that.’ He sounded cold, so unlike Jack, and Isla felt lost for the right words. His relationship with his mother had always been rocky. She’d been a drinker when he was kid – neglected him, especially after his dad left.

  Luna jumped onto the breakfast bar, and attempted to sniff Isla’s roll. ‘You’re so naughty,’ she said, lifting her from the worktop and putting her on the floor where she gave a little mew. ‘Was she good at my mum’s, do you know?’

  ‘Good as gold, apparently,’ Jack said, a smile breaking through. ‘Christ, we sound like we’re talking about a baby.’

  Isla didn’t catch his eye. She knew he wanted kids one day. She took another bite of her roll and glanced at her phone on the worktop, noticing a Facebook notification.

  ‘And my mum and dad are OK?’ she asked, picking up her mobile and looking at the screen.

  ‘Yeah, great, happier now you’re back in the UK, of course.’

  ‘God, when will they stop worrying about me?’ she said, opening up Facebook. ‘I just wish they’d see I’m fine now.’

  ‘So tell me all about your trip.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘Have you taken lots of photos? The ones you put online are fantastic.’

  ‘Yes . . . ’ she said, but she was distracted by an event invitation. ‘Good God, I was only thinking about him yesterday.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Trevor Cooper.’

  ‘The old boyfriend who you don’t fancy?’

  She laughed, eyes glued to the screen. ‘That’s the one. He’s invited me to a university reunion.’