One Little Lie

by Sam Carrington

  ‘So, who is the Alice Mann you’ve been counselling?’ The shrillness of Lindsay’s voice indicated she was as shocked as Connie at this strange turn of events.

  ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t understand.’ Connie held the paper up, looking at the photo again. It didn’t make any sense. ‘Have you got the right Alice Mann? I mean, is it Kyle’s mum lying in the hospital bed?’

  ‘Yes, definitely. Her husband has been with her. We’ve spoken about the fact she was probably targeted as a direct result of Kyle’s murderer status – they’d apparently been having issues ever since he was convicted. There’s no doubt, it’s the Alice.’

  Whoever Connie had been counselling, she wasn’t Kyle’s mother. Yet she’d spoken about Kyle, what he’d done, how she felt responsible. Why go to those lengths? It explained the discrepancies between her and Kyle’s accounts, but not why she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Who the hell was she?

  Connie’s stomach lurched along with the train as it hurtled around a bend, the reality hitting her hard: Connie had used false information to get Kyle to talk. And it had started a chain reaction resulting in the real Alice being beaten and left in an induced coma.

  Did the fake Alice know what had happened? Is that the reason she didn’t show up for her session on Monday, because her cover had been blown? But how did she know? Alice’s attack wasn’t even public then. Unless this woman – this imposter – was personally involved, she couldn’t have known.

  Which begged the question, was she the one who attacked Alice Mann?

  Connie’s mind filled with questions and half-formed hypotheses of why she would seek out counselling under the guise of another woman – a murderer’s mother at that. Connie remembered Alice’s plan of meeting with Sean Taylor’s mum, and how she wanted to convince her they’d both suffered a loss – how they were sharing their grief at losing a son. Connie had rebuffed her idea, but if her client was as desperate as she seemed to be, she might well have carried out her plan despite its risks. Maybe the fake Alice really had lost a son and she’d become obsessed with the story about Kyle Mann killing Sean Taylor and was now somehow relating her own experience, her feelings of grief, to Alice’s and Deborah’s, to the point of deluding even herself.

  Connie stepped off the train at Totnes, her body on autopilot. Her legs took her out the exit and along Station Road into town, up the hill and across the street. After she passed East Gate Arch she rummaged in her bag for the consultancy door key and let herself in. Halfway up the stairs she stopped. The security camera. She might be able to get a good still picture of the Alice who’d been coming for counselling and give it to Lindsay to enhance. They’d have a fair chance of someone recognising the Alice imposter if they had a photo to distribute. She’d retrieve the SD memory card from the camera at the end of the day.

  The sudden sound of the buzzer made her jump.

  Her client was here already. At least, that’s who Connie hoped it was. The sudden realisation that she knew nothing about this fake Alice woman, her background, her motivations or her intentions, made her shiver. What if she was watching? Waiting for Connie to be alone. She checked it was who she was expecting, then with palpable relief, pressed the button to release the front door.

  What felt like an age later, her first client of the day, Alistair, sloped in, his arms loose at his sides, head bent. He reminded Connie of an orang-utan, guileless and gentle. This would be his fourth session, but, as yet, Connie didn’t feel she’d helped him make significant progress in challenging his misconceptions about his role in the suicide of a friend who’d been the target of online bullying. She gathered her strength and focussed. She hoped today might be a turning point.

  As Alistair left, Connie heard muffled deep voices, then a clambering on the stairs. She shot up from her chair. The point of the buzzer system was to only let in people she knew, who had appointments. She’d been burned before when Aiden Flynn had managed to get in when the doormat lodged itself in the way of the door closing. Connie’d sorted that issue, and then had the camera installed. But it was pointless if her clients held the door open for someone else. Her face was hot with annoyance as she flung the door open to face the uninvited guest.

  Connie tutted loudly. ‘Oh, it’s you. Why didn’t you buzz?’ She didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry. Mack knew the importance of her buzzer system.

  ‘Lovely greeting as usual,’ he said as he squeezed his large frame past Connie and settled himself in the chair Alistair had just vacated.

  ‘Oh, please do sit down.’ Connie didn’t bother to disguise her sarcasm. She and Mack knew where they stood with each other; sarcastic comments were the norm.

  ‘Lindsay tells me that the woman you thought was Alice Mann is not the Alice Mann currently in intensive care in Torbay Hospital.’ He obviously wasn’t planning on any small talk as he pulled out his black pocket notebook and poised his pen.

  Connie took her seat opposite Mack. She had the feeling this was going to be a long, and probably strange, conversation.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Deborah

  What have I accomplished? The woman who was sitting in my lounge, drinking from my bone china and telling me about her son, is now in a coma. Is that justice? Is it what I wanted? If it is, then why am I not feeling justified? I don’t feel any sense of relief, nor do I have closure. Where has my hatred got me?

  I have no son, no job, and my husband has abandoned me. I thought I wanted to punish someone else, someone who deserved it. But I’m left empty, deflated – like a breast once engorged with milk, depleted. A useless, empty sack.

  The paracetamol pile on the newspaper – Alice’s eye peeking through a gap in the tablets – beckons. It’s been there since yesterday, mocking me. I haven’t the strength to swallow them, but equally I don’t have the strength to put them away, remove them from my sight and temptation.

  I stare at them and wonder if I have the guts.

  Something holds me back. Fear? Cowardice? Maybe it’s the primitive part of my brain preventing me from carrying out this act – a last-ditch attempt to preserve life. Apparently, in the throes of death, you instinctively fight to survive. Regardless of any other factors.

  I turn away from the death pile, for now at least. I want to call Nathan, tell him what’s happened. Share this with someone. I sit on the edge of the sofa, holding the phone loosely in my hand. I stare at Nathan’s name on the screen. My heart drums in my chest as I press the button.

  It rings.

  He’ll see my name pop up and reject the call. He won’t want to speak with me, even though I have no idea what I did wrong, why he left so abruptly the other night and hasn’t contacted me since. Is he with the other woman? That surely must be the reason he packed up and left.

  It’s rung three times now. Shit, will she answer? I’m about to cut the call when I hear his voice. For a moment, my stomach drops; I have a wave of nausea. Tears are pricking my eyes. I didn’t realise how much I’d missed him until his velvety voice hit my ears.

  ‘Deborah, are you okay?’

  There is concern in his tone. And something else – guilt probably.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d answer. You haven’t returned any of my texts or voicemails,’ I say flatly.

  ‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ he says.

  ‘You could start with answering why?’

  I think I hear a sigh. I strain to make out another voice in the background, a hint to where he is. ‘You cut me out a long time ago. We weren’t really communicating. Without Sean—’ His voice catches and he clears his throat with a cough. ‘Without him, it was like we had nothing in common anymore.’

  I can almost feel my heart split. His words cause a stabbing pain, because I know he’s right. With Sean gone, we are merely two people who lost their roles in life; who were once lovers, but lost their passion. Sean was the glue holding us together and now the cracks have been left with no support, and no reason to be fixed. Our ma
rriage is a discarded has-been.

  Can we still do something about it? Isn’t it worth trying to find something else to bind us? Nathan obviously doesn’t think so.

  ‘Is there someone else, Nathan?’ I need to know, but at the same time don’t want to hear the answer if it’s yes. I hold my breath and wait for what might be the end.

  ‘I – I …’ he stutters. This tells me enough. I have a sudden bubble of anger rise inside of me.

  ‘Yes? Go on, tell me! You cheating son of a bitch.’ My breaths are shallow and rapid, but in a way, it’s good. At least I’m feeling something.

  ‘Deborah,’ he says softly, calmly. ‘Please. I’m so sorry. I have struggled, wrestled with myself over this. I didn’t take this decision lightly.’

  ‘You haven’t answered the question, Nathan. Are you with another woman?’ I say more forcefully this time. My voice has found its power.

  ‘I could be.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘It means if I wanted to, I could be with another woman – the opportunity is there,’ he says, adding quickly, ‘but nothing has happened. Although, if I’m honest, Deborah, it’s not because I don’t want it to. That’s one of the reasons why I left. I can’t bear to break our wedding vows. I don’t want to be the cheating son of a bitch you accuse me of being. I don’t want to hurt you. Or me. We both deserve to be happy again.’

  ‘Have you finished?’ The tears are free-falling now, they drip down my chin and throat. How can I ever be happy? That fundamental human goal was robbed from me when Sean’s life was taken.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  It sounds finished to me. I’m not sure whether I want to fight for him or not. But what do I really want? The easy way out with the pills – or a chance at achieving some happiness in my life? Is Nathan likely to be that chance at happiness, or should I cut my losses, see what else is out there?

  ‘I don’t know either. Where would you like to go from here, Nathan?’

  The silence is a death warrant waiting to be signed.

  ‘Can we have some time to think things through, then meet in a while to discuss?’

  I’m surprised by his response. Maybe there’s hope after all.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

  I end the call and place the phone on the coffee table. I walk on wobbly legs to the kitchen and scoop the tablet pile from the newspaper, revealing Alice’s face beneath. My eyes flick from her to the pills in my hand, a palmful of lost hope and sadness.

  I press my foot down on the pedal and the lid pops up. I stare at the contents for a moment before letting the white capsules slide from my hand. They fall into the metal bin, a rain of clinking sounds sealing their fate, not mine.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Angela

  I press my ear to the door. He always has it locked now so I can’t interfere, can’t sneak up on him to see what he’s doing on his precious computer. I can’t hear anything. It’s the soundproofing he’s used – a better quality than what he’d had before. I rarely even think of him being here, in my house – hidden away in the basement. It’s not even a proper basement – Tom worked on it until it was how he wanted it. Or needed it, as he said, back when we first moved in.

  I’d hoped for something different in this new house. A fresh start for both of us. He didn’t waste any time though, getting straight back into gaming, building up his network. It was true, what I told Connie. That I’d taken his door off, tried to encourage him to get out and meet people in real life; to get a job. He’d been to college, completing a computer course, then wallowed in the house, not attempting to find work. But that was then, back in the old house in Coleton. Here in Totnes, I’ve not mentioned it. I’ve given him space, done everything he asked of me. For a quiet life.

  That quiet life is about to be blown wide open, it’s going to become noisy and unbearable again. I can feel it in my gut. He’s done another bad thing.

  And I have a nasty suspicion I’ve helped him.

  I tiptoe away from the understairs door leading to the basement. I don’t know why – it’s not like he could possibly hear me loitering. I seem to have grown accustomed to the fear, acting in a way that minimises the likelihood of him being angry with me. Hitting me like he did a couple of weeks ago. It had been difficult hiding the bruises from Connie, and from my group.

  My group.

  I make the sign of the cross on my chest. Can I claw it back? Somehow carry on being the leader of the support group? What will they be saying? I’m guessing at least one of them will have seen the news about Alice, and now know I’m not her. Not who I said I was. My stomach twists with pain – a deep anguish. I need to sit down.

  The laptop on the table has been untouched for days. I feel sick with nerves even considering opening it, clicking on the icon that will take me to the forum where everyone will be writing about their shock, disappointment. Betrayal. I’ve let everyone down. What must Connie think? I’m tempted to call her, have a session to discuss everything, explain why I did it. She could still help me.

  There are two reasons why I can’t chance talking to her, though. One – she won’t trust me and she’ll be angry that I deceived her. And two – the most important – is that she could find out about Tom.

  I must protect him. If it comes out now – what he did, what he might’ve done again – he’ll be taken away from me.

  He’s my son. A mother should protect her children no matter what, shouldn’t they? I know I failed him early on. My conscience will never be clear of that knowledge. What his father did; what I allowed to happen. I didn’t keep him safe then, so now I must. It’s my duty.

  I think I can still right his wrongs. I can’t bring Sean Taylor back, but I can help his mother, Deborah. My plan can still go ahead without Alice. I can’t believe I came so close to speaking with her, but bottled it at the last moment. Standing outside her house, hanging around where she worked – yet when the time came, I wasn’t brave enough. Each time I saw her, I thought: ‘Next time I’ll talk to her’. It was the fear holding me back. In my head I knew what I was doing, how it would play out – but, in reality, what was I going to say to Alice? How could I have got her onside without telling her who I was, that my son had been with hers, had killed Sean Taylor, too? I would’ve compromised Tom. It was my ultimate goal that had kept me trying. Now though, what makes me think I’ll be able to face Deborah without an ally? The whole point was to befriend Alice first, then go to Sean’s mum, together. We’d have helped her, somehow. Made up for what our sons did.

  But I can still put it right. I will make amends. God will give me the extra strength I need. I look up to Heaven.

  ‘Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs.’

  But first, I need to find out what Tom has done with Isabella.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Connie

  Mack seemed more relaxed in her company than ever before. The three of them were sitting casually in the lounge: Connie and Mack side by side on the sofa and Lindsay on the floor, leaning against the armchair. It was approaching midnight and they’d been going over the two cases for the past three hours. Mack’s tie was thrown over the arm of the sofa, his top few shirt buttons undone, revealing a patch of coarse, dark hair.

  ‘Anyone for a drink now we’re winding down?’ Connie asked.

  Mack rubbed the back of his neck and pulled his shoulders back in a stretch. ‘Unless it’s a sleepover, I’ll have a decaf coffee, please.’

  ‘And if it is a sleepover?’ Lindsay smiled.

  ‘Then lager. Or, sod it, whisky.’

  Connie got up. ‘I guess it’s a sleepover then. I don’t have whisky though, sorry. But there are most definitely a few cold lagers on offer.’

  ‘I’ll take that. I assume I’m not drinking alone?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Lindsay said. ‘I could never let you do such a thing.’

  Connie returned with three cans, the snapping of the ring pulls
a heartening sound. They continued to look over photos and talk through theories. Connie realised she was in a privileged position, hearing the details of the misper case as well as the assault on Alice Mann. Lindsay had confided in Connie, saying she thought there was more to Isabella Bond’s disappearance, how it was more complicated – and now, piecing together the known with the suspected, it was beginning to look like she’d been right. With Connie having finally taken the opportunity to share what Kyle had told her about the gaming world too, they’d begun to join some dots.

  Data retrieved from Isabella’s laptop pointed to her being involved in an online gaming site, as well as revealing details about some people she’d been meeting up with in real life. One message between Isabella and a person known online as ‘The Boss’ had set everyone’s adrenaline going. It was cryptic, but hinted towards something big happening – a chance to ‘put her skills to the ultimate test’. There were other messages too, referring to lying low until the signal. It was possible that Isabella’s disappearance and Alice’s attack were connected.

  ‘We’re going to have to pay Kyle Mann a visit, I think,’ Lindsay said, her eyes on her can of lager.

  Connie nodded slowly. ‘I knew you’d have to. You’re going to have to drag me into this, aren’t you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it dragging. You were already knee-deep before our involvement. But yes, we will need to talk about your interviews, about what he said to you. What you said to him …’

  ‘Great. I’ll look forwards to the fallout.’ Connie raised her lager. ‘Cheers. Here’s to another fine mess I’ve got myself into.’

  Mack laughed. ‘You are good at it, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to add it to my CV.’

  ‘Right, I think we’re done for the night,’ Lindsay said as she pushed herself up off the floor. ‘I’ll get you a pillow and blanket, Mack. You’ll be fine on the sofa for a few hours, won’t you?’