The Truth-Teller's Lie

by Sophie Hannah

‘You know what? I might. I think I really might.’ She lolled in the doorway.

  Simon put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her to one side. She didn’t resist. He began to climb the stairs. The carpet beneath his feet was speckled with tiny white dots and patches that Simon couldn’t identify. He bent to touch one; its texture was chalky.

  ‘Stain-remover,’ said Juliet. ‘I can never be bothered to hoover it up, once it’s dried. Still, white powder’s better than a stain, isn’t it?’

  Simon didn’t ask her to elaborate. He continued to climb the stairs, wanting to get away from her. Halfway up, he became aware of an unpleasant smell. By the time he’d reached the top landing, it was a stench. A familiar one: the meaty stew of blood, excrement and vomit. Simon felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach. The hairs on his arms prickled his skin. There was a closed door in front of him, and two other doors, half open, further along a narrow corridor.

  ‘Did you find Robert?’ Juliet called out in a sing-song voice. Simon shivered. He pictured her words as tentacles, wrapping around him, pulling him into the strange, depraved world she inhabited. He shut his eyes for a second. Then he tried the closed door. It was unlocked and opened easily. The awful smell hit Simon full in the face and he fought hard not to be sick. He saw a mess of colours and horror, grey skin, features twisted in pain. Proust had predicted this. This’ll be a murder investigation by the end of the week, you watch.

  The man was unmistakably Robert Haworth. He was nude, lying on his back on one side of a double bed. The blood from his head wound had soaked into the bedding beneath him and dried. One of his arms trailed on the floor. By his hand, Simon saw his glasses; one lens was missing, the other cracked.

  Simon noticed a large stone doorstop, about the size of a rugby ball, in one corner of the room. Its top edge was dark and sticky with blood and matted hair; before he could stop himself, Simon thought of an evil child’s hard, faceless doll, and shuddered. He placed his fingertips on Haworth’s wrist because it was what you did, not because he held out any hope. At first he thought he’d imagined it, that small, insistent beating. He must have. The grey skin, the blood and the crusty filth around Haworth’s body presented a clear image of death. A few more seconds convinced Simon he had imagined nothing. There was a pulse. Robert Haworth was still alive.

  ‘Give us a snog, then, Sarge,’ Graham whispered, kissing Charlie’s neck. They were in her bed in the chalet, semi-clothed, the duvet pulled up over their heads. ‘Do your underlings call you Sarge? Or ma’am? That’s what they say on Prime Suspect.’

  ‘Sh!’ Charlie hissed at him. ‘What if Olivia wakes up? Can’t we go to your place?’ She hadn’t been groped in the same room as her sister since the two of them were fifteen and thirteen respectively. How weird those teenage parties were, in retrospect: dozens of couples dotted around somebody’s dimly lit living room, necking and putting their hands inside one another’s clothes while Ultravox or Curiosity Killed the Cat played in the background.

  ‘My place? No chance,’ Graham breathed in Charlie’s ear. ‘You’re not setting foot over the threshold until the next time Steph gives the place a good spring clean. You’d be shocked by my slovenliness.’

  ‘Steph cleans your house as well as the chalets?’

  ‘Yep. She’s my own personal waste-disposal system. She’s my out-tray, at home and at work. Anyway, forget about the dogsbody. It’s your body I’m interested in . . .’

  It was strange, Charlie thought, to feel Graham and hear him but be hardly able to see him. The chalet was full of a deep, black darkness, reminding her that she really was in the countryside here. Even in Spilling, a rural market town, the night sky was a dark mushroom-skin colour, never pure black. She’d told Graham this as they’d stumbled tipsily back from the old barn building that housed the spa facilities and a small, cosy bar. ‘We get proper nights here,’ he’d said proudly. ‘No light pollution at all.’ Charlie had thought this was an interesting way to put it. She’d never thought of light as a pollutant before, but she could see what Graham meant.

  She felt his bare chest against her skin, the thick hair on it. She wasn’t sure she liked furry chests, but she could put up with it. Everything else about him was attractive. If they were a couple, people might say Graham was out of her league. She ordered herself to start thinking of him as a whole person, rather than as a composite of certain body parts: her imaginary boyfriend come to life. He had long muscly legs and a nice bum, though; Charlie couldn’t help noticing that. Colin Sellers had once accused her of thinking like a man when it came to sex. That was a good thing, surely. Why shouldn’t it be uncomplicated? It made more sense to have a purely physical relationship with someone who looked like Graham than to cry into your pillow every night over a non-relationship with someone like Simon Waterhouse, who put red wine in the fridge and couldn’t even get himself a proper haircut.

  Graham was tugging gently at Charlie’s camisole, murmuring, ‘No idea how to get this off at all . . .’

  She giggled, aware that he had taken off more clothes than she had, that she was stalling. Graham had no doubts about what they were embarking upon, Charlie could tell. Which was nice. He reminded her—in attitude rather than appearance—of Folly, her parents’ black Labrador, who leaped on top of Charlie and licked her enthusiastically whenever he could. She decided to keep the comparison to herself. Graham seemed fairly thick-skinned, but you could never be sure.

  She helped him to remove her underwear. ‘I don’t think you’re fully aware of how sexy you really are, ma’am,’ Graham whispered, running his fingers lightly over her body. ‘Or is it guv?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Your red lipstick and your jeans . . .’

  ‘They’re old, ordinary jeans.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Charlie tried to kiss him, but he pulled away, saying, ‘You’re miles sexier than Helen Mirren . . .’

  ‘Any particular reason why you’re comparing me with her?’

  ‘. . . and that wrinkly blonde bird from The Bill, and her from Silent Witness.’

  ‘And Trevor Eve from Waking the Dead?’ Charlie suggested.

  ‘No, he’s sexier than you,’ said Graham with certainty. Charlie laughed and he put his hand over her mouth. ‘Careful not to wake big sis.’

  ‘Little sis, actually.’

  ‘So why do you let her boss you around?’

  Charlie’s mobile phone began to ring. She’d chosen the opening bars of ‘The Real Slim Shady’ by Eminem as her ringtone. A mistake. The longer it went unanswered, the louder it got. ‘Shit!’ she hissed, fumbling in the darkness, pulling random objects out of her bag. She put her hand on the phone just as it stopped ringing.

  Light filled the room. Charlie blinked, turned to look at Graham. She’d assumed he’d switched on a lamp to help her find her phone, but he was still lying down, almost completely covered by the duvet. He groaned, pulling it over his head. Great, thought Charlie. Just when I need a hero to rush to my rescue. Bracing herself, she turned and looked up.

  Olivia had pulled the curtain aside and was squinting down through the mezzanine’s wooden railings. She was wearing her Bonsoir floral kimono pyjamas and looked tense and alert, not at all as if she had just been woken up. ‘Yes, I’ve heard everything,’ she said. ‘Not that you two care.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ said Charlie, pulling on first her knickers and then her shirt. Not again, she thought, as the painful memory of herself and Simon at Sellers’ fortieth birthday party filled her head. She was furious with Olivia for making this like that, though Olivia knew nothing about the incident at the party. It was the one significant thing Charlie had never told her. ‘Why were you pretending to be asleep?’

  ‘Why didn’t you check whether I was asleep or not before having sex in my bedroom?’

  ‘It’s not your bedroom! Your bedroom’s up there. This is my bedroom. ’ Charlie felt anger rise and explode inside her like a firework display, blocking
out everything else. For a moment she forgot Graham was there, until his head emerged from the bedding.

  ‘Looks like I’ve overstayed my unwelcome,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you ladies in peace.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Charlie told him quietly.

  ‘You stay.’ Olivia was standing now, throwing clothes into her suitcase. ‘You’re the one Charlie wants to be with, not me. I’ll go. One night of this shit’s enough for me. I’m buggered if I’m spending a whole week being the odd one out, listening to you two shag each other senseless every night.’ She pulled her long beige coat on over her pyjamas, looked as if she was on her way to a fancy-dress party.

  ‘It’s nearly midnight,’ said Graham. ‘Where are you going to go?’

  ‘I’ll get a taxi to Edinburgh. I don’t care how much it costs. I’ve got a number. I asked the barmaid, while you two were drooling all over each other this evening, ignoring me. I was planning my escape.’

  ‘This is bound to be my fault,’ said Graham. ‘I’m an incorrigible leader-astray of people . . .’

  ‘Let her go if she wants to,’ said Charlie.

  ‘No one’s going to let me and no one’s going to stop me,’ said Olivia wearily. ‘I’m going, that’s all.’

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ said Graham. He reached for his jeans and pulled a mobile phone out of the back pocket. Charlie and Olivia watched him press buttons. ‘Steph, one of the ladies in number three needs driving to Edinburgh. She’ll be over at the lodge in a sec, okay?’ His face darkened as he listened to the response. ‘Well, get dressed. We’ve got a situation here.’ Charlie had seen Steph briefly earlier in the evening. The dogsbody. Graham had called her that to her face and winked at her. She’d attempted a smile in response. Charlie had recognised it as a smile with a complicated history. Graham and Steph had slept together, she guessed.

  She’d been surprised by Steph’s appearance. This morning Graham had described her as peasant-like. Charlie had imagined someone with sun-beaten skin and thick calves and ankles. In fact, Steph was slim and pale-skinned, with layered brown hair that was highlighted gold, orange and red. ‘Do you think she’s working undercover for Dulux?’ Olivia had whispered.

  Charlie wasn’t sure she wanted Steph to take her sister away. ‘Liv, don’t rush off into the night,’ she said. ‘It’s late. Why don’t we talk about this tomorrow?’

  ‘Because you’re too busy ingratiating yourself with anything that has a penis to talk to me, that’s why.’ Olivia clomped down the stairs in her high-heeled Manolo Blahnik sandals, carrying her suitcase.

  ‘Olivia, the last thing I want to do is ruin your holiday,’ said Graham.

  She ignored him, looked at Charlie. ‘How long are you going to carry on doing this? Fucking anything that moves, just to prove something to bloody Simon Waterhouse?’

  Charlie felt the heat of shame spread across her face and down her neck.

  ‘You’ve got a problem, Char. It’s about time you dealt with it. Why don’t you . . . stop trying to fill the wrong hole and go and see a shrink or something?’

  Once Olivia had slammed the door, Charlie burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. Graham put his arms round her. ‘I’m only crying because I’m so angry,’ she told him.

  ‘Don’t be angry. Poor old Fat Girl Slim. It can’t have been much fun for her, listening to us canoodling, can it?’

  ‘Don’t call my sister that!’

  ‘What, even though she’s just called you a slapper and me—now let me get this right—oh, yes, “anything that has a penis”?’ He risked a small grin.

  Charlie couldn’t help laughing, though she was still crying. ‘Do you have to give everything and everyone a nickname? I’m Ma’am, Steph’s the dogsbody, now Olivia’s Fat Girl Slim . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry. Really. I was just trying to lighten the mood.’ He stroked Charlie’s back. ‘Look, you’ll sort it out. Steph’ll tell us tomorrow which hotel she’s gone to. I’ll give you a lift into Edinburgh and you can kiss and make up properly. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ Charlie pulled her cigarettes and lighter out of her bag. ‘If you tell me this chalet’s non-smoking, I’ll smash your head in.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dare. Ma’am. Guv.’

  ‘All that stuff Liv said about me . . .’

  ‘She was just lashing out because she felt exluded. I’ve forgotten it already.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Charlie squeezed Graham’s hand. Thank God: a gentleman, she thought. Still, sleeping with him tonight was no longer a possibility, not with Olivia’s words buzzing around her head. Stop trying to fill the wrong hole. Bitch.

  ‘Charlie, stop worrying,’ said Graham. ‘You and Fat Girl Slim are solid; I can tell. You’ve got a better relationship than most siblings.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘No. I’m dead serious. You yell at each other. That’s a good sign. I haven’t spoken to my brother properly for years.’

  ‘You said you were in business with him.’

  Graham looked unhappy suddenly. ‘We are. Despite everything, we are, but he’s done his best to ruin the business, that’s the trouble. I’m the sensible, cautious one . . .’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ Charlie teased him.

  ‘It’s true. I don’t take stupid risks we can’t afford, because I want it to work. So I set it up and he pulls it down, or tries to.’

  ‘How can you still work together if you don’t talk?’ Charlie asked.

  Graham tried to smile, but his forehead didn’t lose its worried creases. ‘It’s too absurd,’ he said. ‘You’ll laugh if I tell you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We liaise via the dogsbody.’ Graham shook his head. ‘Anyway . . .’ he leaned over and tried to pull Charlie back into bed ‘. . . let’s not talk about our family probs any more. We’ve got the place to ourselves. Let’s shag each other senseless, as your good sis suggested, then we’ll be all contrite when we go and see her tomorrow.’

  ‘Graham . . .’ said Charlie, pulling away from his kiss. ‘I think these chalets are absolutely perfect. Dinner tonight was unbelievable and the spa’s as good as any hotel’s. I think the business will be just fine. Not even your incompetent brother could make a place like this unprofitable.’

  ‘Is that so, Sarge? Hey, I’ve got a top idea. Since you liked dinner so much, I’m going to phone the dogsbody and order us some brekkie in bed for the morning.’ He reached for his phone again.

  ‘Don’t!’ Charlie yelped, grabbing his arm. ‘She’s with Olivia!’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Fuck! We won’t seem very contrite, will we, if we’re already thinking about tomorrow’s black pudding and hash browns. Yum.’

  ‘Someone rang me,’ Charlie remembered suddenly. She’d forgotten, in all the drama, that her phone had rung and started the row with Olivia. What if that hadn’t happened? Would Olivia have lain awake, furious and resentful, listening to Charlie and Graham having sex?

  ‘It can wait, can’t it?’ said Graham.

  ‘Let me just see who it was.’

  ‘You haven’t got any other fat, scary sisters, have you, guv?’

  ‘Don’t call her that!’

  Charlie pressed the unanswered calls button and saw Simon’s number. Shit. He’d never ring her on holiday unless it was something serious. Simon was meticulous about respecting more privacy than any normal person could ever want or need. ‘I’ve got to make a quick phone call,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sorry, it’s work. I’ll go outside.’ She pulled on her coat and pushed her feet into her trainers, squashing the backs with her heels. ‘You wait here.’

  ‘Think I will, as I’ve got no clothes on. And hurry up or I might be asleep when you get back. Like a tired, overworked husband in a TV movie, when his wife spends too long beautifying herself in the bathroom. You can stand over me and smile fondly.’

  ‘What are you talking about, you nutter?’

  ‘There, see, you’re smiling fondly already!’

&
nbsp; Charlie shook her head, bemused, and took her cigarettes, lighter and phone outside. She liked Graham. Really liked him. He was funny. Maybe Olivia would have liked him too, if Charlie had handled things a bit more shrewdly. What a disaster of a night. And Simon had phoned, and she’d missed the call. Charlie felt more guilty about that than about Olivia. She lit a Marlboro Light, took a long drag. On the other side of the field was the lodge, which housed Graham’s office. The light was still on, but the muddy car that was outside earlier had gone. The window’s small square of gold-yellow, the pale-blue screen of Charlie’s mobile phone and the tiny strip of fiery orange at the end of her cigarette were the only lights she could see. This place felt more foreign than Spain.

  She looked at Simon’s mobile number on the screen and pressed the call button, rehearsing what she would say as soon as he answered: ‘I thought I made it clear I didn’t want any interruptions on holiday.’ She wouldn’t say it too harshly, though.

  10

  Thursday, April 6

  IT IS TWO in the morning. I am downstairs, curled in a tight ball on the sofa in front of the television, heavy and disorientated with tiredness but afraid to go to bed. I know I wouldn’t sleep. I pick up the remote control and press the mute button. I could turn the TV off, but I’m superstitious. The flickering images on the screen are a link to something. They are all that’s keeping me from slipping off the edge of the world.

  All my cowardice comes out at night, all the weak and helpless feelings that I spend all day every day beating down.

  My lounge window is a big square of black, with two gold globes of light reflected in it and, under those yellow discs, a washed-out counterpart of me. I look like a woman who is all alone. When I was little, I used to believe that if you let darkness into a well-lit room, it would become dark, just as it becomes light in the morning when you let the light in. My dad explained to me why it was different, but I wasn’t convinced. Usually I close my curtains as soon as the sky starts to turn from blue to grey.

  Tonight there’s no point; the darkness is in the house already. It’s in Yvon’s absence, and the mess the police left, though I’m sure they think they tidied up after themselves, just as Yvon believes she’s tidied up if she puts torn-up envelopes, squashed tea bags and sandwich crusts on the lid of the kitchen bin.