Her Last Lie

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘I think so.’ Maybe jumpstarting her car had flattened Jack’s battery too. The woman disappeared into the busy restaurant, and Isla looked down at her phone. There was no signal.

  She left the bar, and walked in the direction of home, trying not to look over her shoulder at the quiet darkness swallowing her. The rain had eased off, and she’d been walking for five minutes, when she reached the park entrance. It was quiet, and she stepped from foot to foot, feeling uneasy as she waited for Jack. She pulled out her phone, and tried to call him, but it went to voicemail.

  The houses close by were in darkness, and she suddenly felt sure someone was standing in the shadows. Without a second thought, she set out at speed across the park, certain she would bump into Jack coming in the other direction.

  In truth, she hadn’t realised how thick with darkness the park would be. Towering trees blocked what little light there was, throwing shadows across the path. A few more steps and she would be able to see the road that ran by her apartment in the distance, and the lights from the steady flow of traffic would be sure to settle her anxiety.

  She pulled out her phone again, and flicked on the torch, casting a beam of light that picked out the deserted playground. She’d played in the park as a child, and could almost hear her childhood self squealing, ‘Higher, higher,’ as Millie pushed her on the swing. Now the swing, a trendy, brightly coloured netted effort that could hold more than one child, creaked, swinging in the breeze.

  Suddenly her mobile rang, making her jump. It was Jack.

  ‘Isla, where are you?’ he said, as she answered.

  ‘I’m walking home, like you said. Almost there.’ Her tone was brighter than she felt.

  ‘Why? I’m in the car park standing by your car.’

  ‘What? But you said to walk home.’ She looked around her at the silent, lonely park, and picked up speed.

  ‘Why would I say that?’ He sounded confused. ‘What’s going on? Where are you?’

  ‘I told you, I’m almost home.’

  A noise behind her, and the sudden sound of footsteps pierced her ears. Was someone following her? She glanced over her shoulder. The darkness was total, impossible to see. ‘Oh God, Jack, I think someone’s behind me,’ she said into the phone, but the signal had died.

  Isla took off like a sprinting athlete, thanking her sensible side for wearing flats. She didn’t look back, and was out of breath by the time she got to the main road. She’d never been so relieved to see the flow of noisy traffic.

  At the apartment block, her hand shook as she keyed in the code. She opened the door, and finally dared to look behind her at the huge expanse of park. A young couple walked along the road arm in arm. But there was nobody else about. Had she imagined the footsteps?

  Isla was sitting on the sofa trying to gain control, when Jack’s key turned in the door. She jumped to her feet, blinking away tears. As soon as he appeared, a look of confusion on his face, she raced into his arms.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said, holding her close. The argument of the night before seemed to be forgotten.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said into his shoulder. ‘The waitress at the tapas bar said you’d called. That your car wouldn’t start, and I should walk home.’

  ‘But I didn’t call, Isla.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Her brain felt as though it was closing down.

  ‘Let’s go back,’ he said. ‘We can talk to the waitress, and jumpstart your car.’

  ‘No!’ She paused. ‘Sorry,’ she said, quieter. ‘I really want to stay here.’ She tugged from Jack’s arms, and moved towards the window. She looked out at the park. She’d loved it there as a child, but now it looked almost sinister.

  ‘I had a feeling someone was watching me,’ she said quietly. ‘I heard footsteps and ran.’ She closed the curtains across the window, her heart thumping. ‘It was horrible, Jack. I haven’t felt like this in years. What if we’re wrong and Carl Jeffery is free. Or he’s somehow managed to escape.’

  ‘Isla, he’s locked away.’

  She turned. ‘OK. Fine. But what if he’s got someone on the outside trying to scare me, maybe even planning to kill me? Like that series you watch about serial killers with Kevin Bacon.’

  Jack’s eyes widened. ‘You think Carl Jeffery has disciples on the outside willing to murder for him?’ He approached and touched her arm. ‘Isla, this is silly.’

  She flinched and moved away. ‘Why? Why is it silly?’

  ‘Because that’s fiction, Isla, and this is real life.’

  ‘It’s not fiction, Jack. I read about it on a website.’ She was talking too fast, her cheeks wet with tears. ‘People like him have groupies.’

  ‘Please stop, Isla. You sound …’

  ‘Crazy?’

  ‘No, but you’re winding yourself up. It was probably just a misunderstanding at the restaurant, that’s all. You need to put Carl Jeffery out of your head, or …’

  ‘I know.’ She said softer now. ‘I know. Yes. Ignore me. I’m fine, honestly.’

  But she knew she was far from it.

  Chapter 19

  Wednesday, 2 November

  ‘Shall we ask at the bar first, or jumpstart your car?’ Jack said, dropping down gears as they arrived at La Fábrica. It was just after seven, and the car park was already rammed.

  Isla was relieved that any talk of the wedding, and her keeping things from him, had disappeared after the shock of the night before, and Jack seemed focused on supporting her.

  ‘Let’s try to find the waitress,’ she said, unclipping her seatbelt. ‘Get it over with.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s some kind of misunderstanding,’ Jack said, getting out of the car.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right. I just need to be sure, that’s all.’

  Even though Jack had found the article, Isla still couldn’t get Carl Jeffery out of her head. Someone had called the restaurant and asked the staff to give her a message. She needed to know who it was. Felt her sanity depended on what the person had said. What they sounded like.

  The restaurant was heaving, and a waiter in black trousers and a crisp white shirt stood near the entrance, a book open on a stand in front of him.

  ‘Table for two?’ he asked with a smile, as they approached.

  Jack shook his head. ‘No thanks, mate. We’re looking for one of your waitresses. She was here last night, and we’d like to talk to her.’

  ‘We have a lot of staff,’ the waiter said, as Isla scanned the area, searching for the woman who’d spoken to her the night before. ‘Could you be more specific?’

  ‘She gave me a message last night,’ she said. ‘Told me my boyfriend had called saying I should walk home.’ Her eyes flicked from Jack to the waiter. She knew she wasn’t explaining herself very well.

  ‘OK.’ The waiter’s eyebrows furrowed.

  ‘It’s important we speak to her,’ she went on, running her finger over the band on her wrist. ‘It was a lie, you see.’ She hadn’t really noticed it last night, but now the place felt far too crowded. And although the food tasted good when she was with Roxanne, now the spicy smells made her queasy.

  ‘O-K,’ the waiter repeated, but with more emphasis. He tilted his head, and screwed up his face. ‘Sorry, I confess, I’m a tad confused.’

  ‘One of the waitresses told me to go home last night,’ Isla said, the noise making her head throb. ‘But I should have waited for Jack, because it couldn’t have been him. Do you see? But Jack hadn’t called. His car was OK.’ She was talking way too fast, her phrasing clipped. ‘And when I walked home, someone followed me. Or I think they did.’

  ‘The bottom line is,’ Jack cut in, taking Isla’s hand and squeezing, ‘I didn’t call the restaurant. We think someone called here pretending to me. We just need to speak . . . ’

  A deliberate cough came from behind them, and Isla and Jack turned to see a middle-aged couple, tight-lipped with impatience.

  ‘I won’t keep you a moment, sir,’ the
waiter said, peering round Jack and Isla.

  ‘We’ve booked a table,’ the man said. ‘We’d like to be seated, please.’

  ‘I’ll be with you shortly.’ The waiter threw them a forced smile, and sucked in a sigh. He glanced over his shoulder into the busy restaurant, and then back at Isla and Jack. ‘We’ve got about a dozen staff on tonight, but they’re pretty much a different bunch than last night, I’m afraid. What did this phantom waitress look like?’

  Isla looked at Jack. Was the waiter being sarcastic? Did he think she was crazy? ‘About forty, I think,’ she said, realising she could barely bring the woman to mind.

  ‘Hair colour?’

  ‘Mmm . . . ’ She touched her own hair. ‘I’m not sure, brownish.’

  ‘Maybe we should go somewhere else,’ the man behind said, sounding irritated.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the waiter said to Isla, as he grabbed two oversized menus. He beckoned the couple forward, and escorted them into the restaurant.

  ‘This is a waste of time, Jack,’ Isla said, as the waiter disappeared. ‘I’m not even sure I’d know her if I saw her.’ She paused. ‘And what can she really tell us? In fact, maybe I imagined someone behind me in the park. Or maybe it was someone innocently walking their dog, or something.’ Tears were close to the surface.

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. It was as though he didn’t know what to say.

  Isla gave the restaurant one last sweep with her eyes. It didn’t matter that Jack had found the article saying Carl Jeffery was still locked up. He was still haunting her – just as he had six years ago. ‘Let’s get my car sorted,’ she said. ‘I want to go home.’

  Once they were on the road, she followed in the wake of Jack’s tail-lights, eyes darting from the pavements either side of her – imagining Carl there, lurking behind every tree and in every shadow – and back to the small red light on the dashboard that told her all the doors were firmly locked. He couldn’t get in. She was safe – for now.

  Six years ago

  Isla had been working in the bar the day she heard Bronwyn was dead. She hadn’t known it was her feisty friend. Not then. Not at that moment when the news grabbed her attention.

  It had been a long day. Rowdy between seven and nine, but now it had quietened down, and the TV above the bar boomed out over the low muffled chatter of stalwart punters. Isla had been talking for the last ten minutes with a relatively sober Ernie, sipping a glass of wine he’d bought her, when news of the death was broadcast.

  Isla’s skin prickled at its close proximity. Less than a mile from the hostel.

  ‘What’s a young sheila want to go and top herself for?’ Ernie said, banging down an empty glass. ‘Stick another schooner in there, Isla, would ya, love?’ He sighed. ‘Life’s so fucked up, and my missus wonders why I drink.’

  Robotically, Isla filled his glass and handed it over, her eyes fixed on the screen.

  ‘The young woman was found hanging from a tree, like an ancient execution,’ the newsreader, a woman in her thirties, was saying. She was at the scene, holding a mic, dense forest all around her. ‘Although police say there are no suspicious circumstances at this point.’ It was clear the news channel thought otherwise.

  Isla grabbed the remote control. ‘Let’s put something more cheerful on, shall we?’ she said, flicking through the channels, and landing on a repeat of Neighbours. ‘That’s better,’ she said, but she couldn’t get the thought of the woman out of her head. What would drive someone to take their own life? Didn’t she have anyone to turn to? A friend? Family? She brushed away a tear. She couldn’t begin to imagine being so desperate. But then her life was pretty good. She was one of the lucky ones.

  It was Carl who later told Isla it was Bronwyn. The police had contacted him. His details were in her backpack.

  ‘I should have known,’ he said, through tears, as they sat in the corner of the bar. ‘Abused by her father, she told me. Never really came to terms with it. The signs were there. Just wish I hadn’t missed it.’ He shook his head, tears filling his eyes. Seeming different. Genuine. Gone were the charms, the flirting. It seemed the shock of Bronwyn’s death had stripped away the fake layer.

  And Isla cried too, sobbed until her stomach hurt, before covering her mouth with her hand, attempting to quieten her emotions. ‘I didn’t know,’ she said, the helplessness of being that friend who Bronwyn had never turned to biting into her.

  ‘We were never serious,’ Carl said after a while. ‘But close, if you know what I mean – had fun. I had no idea she was so desperate.’ A tear rolled down his face, out of place on his tanned cheek. ‘No idea at all.’

  She took his hand and squeezed, her fingers damp from dashing away her own tears.

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up, Carl,’ she said, as another heavy tear dripped off her chin. ‘Neither of us could have known.’

  The following day Isla had headed into the woodland behind the hostel, the sun hot on her back. It was as she was taking a photograph of a Blue Triangle butterfly that she spotted Carl in the distance. He was taking a photograph too.

  ‘Hey,’ she called, but he didn’t seem to hear her. So she made her way towards him, her footfalls crunching on the dry fauna. ‘Hey,’ she said again as she approached, and he looked up.

  ‘Isla,’ he said, with a smile that brightened his eyes. ‘It’s great to see you. Listen, I’m sorry about last night. My emotions were all over the place. I still can’t …’

  ‘No, nor me,’ she said, biting back her own emotions. She nodded towards his camera. ‘I didn’t know you were into photography.’

  ‘Yeah, have been for years. I find it therapeutic.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said, her eyes wide, pleased to find someone else who shared her passion. She looked over her shoulder. ‘I was taking a few photos of butterflies.’

  He smiled. ‘You like butterflies, Isla?’

  ‘Love them.’ She nodded. ‘There’s just something amazing about them, don’t you think? They’re like fairies.’

  ‘Well, I’d never seen them like that, but OK.’ He laughed. ‘I tend to think of the butterfly effect when I see one.’

  ‘The smallest step can change everything.’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’ He smiled. ‘I read that the tiny flutter of a butterfly’s wing can cause pandemonium on the other side of the world.’ He paused, looking almost shy. ‘Listen, I don’t suppose you fancy a drink tonight? Ignore me if you think my timing is out.’

  She wasn’t sure. Bronwyn’s death was so fresh in her mind. But wouldn’t she want them both to be happy? To find comfort in each other? After all she had been heading off to New Zealand. It was over between them. The smallest step could change everything.

  ‘No worries,’ he said, seeming to pick up on her delay. He aimed his camera at a Sacred Ibis.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said.

  He turned and met her eye. ‘Yeah? That’s great. I’ll pick you up at seven, Butterfly Girl.’

  Chapter 20

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  Wednesday, 2 November, 11.55 p.m.

  Somebody pretended to be Jack last night. I know they did. I can barely type these words, as my fingers are shaking so much. Tears blur my vision, and splash the keyboard, like tiny pools of sadness, magnifying the letters.

  I don’t know what to do. I feel as though I’m losing my mind. I need Andy more than ever now. If he loved me, he’d be here, wouldn’t he?

  He still texts – sometimes. Says he’ll see me in Sweden. But the messages are becoming less frequent. I feel so let down. In fact, I wonder sometimes what is the point of it all.

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  Chapter 21

  Thursday, 3 November

  ‘Ahhh, for Christ’s sake go away.’

  Jack’s cry woke Isla from a nightmare where she was being chased by a superhero with a machete, his Spider-Man ringtone piercing the darkness of the early morning. She
turned to see him staring into the brightness of his phone screen, hair ruffled.

  ‘Jeez, Jack, who the hell is it?’ she said, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips.

  He pulled back the duvet and sat up, twisting his legs round so they dangled off the bed. ‘Hello,’ he said, pressing the phone to his ear, as he rose and left the bedroom.

  He returned five minutes later. ‘I’ve got to go down to Dorset,’ he said, face flushed, eyes hard to read. He didn’t give her time to respond, hurrying into the bathroom without looking back.

  Once he’d showered, he returned. Shoving on his black jeans, and a round-neck jumper.

  ‘You’re going now?’ she asked, dragging herself up to a sitting position, and cradling her knees.

  ‘My mother’s had another heart attack,’ he said. ‘She’s back in hospital.’

  ‘Oh God. Is she OK?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Are you going to be OK? I won’t go if you need me, you know that.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, honestly. I’ve got a feature due in tomorrow. What I need is to get my head down, and fingers on keyboard.’

  She watched as he packed. ‘I hope to be back for Millie’s party,’ he said, zipping his holdall. ‘Hopefully before that.’

  After kissing her gently on the lips and touching her cheek, he headed for the door, glancing back once as he left the room.

  From the window, Isla watched him drive away, and an annoying snag of worry at being alone niggled at her, followed by a surge of anger that she was letting the fear in. Even though she knew Carl Jeffery was locked away, she felt unsettled. Unleashed horrors of her past danced a manic dance in her head. But she was stronger than this, surely. Capable. She would lose herself in her book, and finish her feature. She hadn’t worked so hard to mend herself, only to fall apart.

  ***

  Isla spent the afternoon in Hitchin choosing a costume for Millie’s party. It was a choice between Daffy Duck or Marilyn Monroe. She chose the latter. The blonde wig was a bit straw-like, but she felt sure she could do something clever with her own hair on Saturday.