Lie to Me: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Jess Ryder

  I remember Christopher Jay on the other side of the table, his eyes blinking, his pint of Guinness shaking in his hand. Was that the flicker of guilt that I was hoping to see? It looked more like terror to me. I remember him shouting abuse at me and storming out. What did I do afterwards? I scan my memory. That’s right. I drank four bottles of Beck’s on an empty stomach and wandered off down the Holloway Road. Came home and went to bed with a raging headache. Now I’m starving hungry. No wonder those smells are driving me crazy.

  I take off the day’s used clothes and nip across the landing to the bathroom. I can hear pots and pans clattering downstairs, music playing. Which of my housemates is cooking? Fay or Lizzie? My bet’s on the former. We don’t cook for each other as a rule – we tried, but it became too complicated. Fay’s always out doing exercise classes, or Spanish, or celebrating one of her countless friends’ birthdays, and Lizzie’s hardly here at all.

  My face is gritty with make-up. As I wash it off, I think of Eliot. I miss living with him. With someone, anyway. I liked being part of a couple; it felt grown-up. If Eliot wasn’t on duty we’d always eat together, and if I was on my own I’d cook for us both and he’d put a plate in the microwave when he came home. Since we split up, I’ve gone back to a student kind of existence. I don’t plan any more and I’ve fallen out of love with domesticity. There’s no enjoyment in cooking just for yourself, so why bother when you can live off Nando’s and chocolate? I examine my tired, blotchy skin. No wonder I’m getting spots again, like a teenager.

  Back in my room, I put on jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt, then venture downstairs. As I predicted, it’s Fay doing the cooking. She tells me her Pilates class was cancelled so she’s making a big pot of chilli con carne – later tonight, her freezer drawer will be full of neat plastic boxes, labelled with days of the week.

  ‘Did you hear about that girl getting stabbed by her drama teacher? It’s massive on Twitter,’ she says as I go to the fridge, hoping against hope that some of the food inside it will belong to me. There’s an egg past its use-by date that Fay smugly assures me is mine. I look hungrily at the saucepan and tell her how good it smells, but she doesn’t take the hint. ‘It’s actually on YouTube, like the whole thing,’ she carries on, stirring and tasting from the tip of her wooden spoon. ‘You can see blood and everything. It’s gross. Why film it? Like why didn’t they just call the police? Some people are sick.’

  I consider the egg briefly – dare I risk it? Boiled, poached or fried? One egg is not enough for scrambled. I can’t decide, so I shut the fridge door and make for the bread bin instead. There’s a hard heel from a loaf that I have a vague memory of buying a few days ago. I ate a few slices over the weekend – toasted and variously topped with baked beans, cheese and strawberry jam, some of which I stole from Lizzie’s cupboard.

  Fay tries again. ‘Terrifying, eh?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That stabbing. I mean, like you hear of it the other way round, but a teacher killing a student?’ Her laptop is open on the kitchen table and she goes over to it, tapping away with her polished nails. ‘It happened today, after lunch. Unbelievable. The police are asking for calm, like what do they expect? The killer’s still out there, duh! They should have found him by now. That is so typical.’

  ‘Give them a chance.’ I hear myself defending the police, like I always used to.

  ‘It says here there’s a vigil going on outside the college.’

  ‘Where? What college?’

  ‘Er … somewhere in north London.’ She scrolls down the page. ‘Archway.’

  It can’t be, can it? Please let it just be a coincidence.

  ‘I’ve… er… got some work to do.’ It’s the lamest excuse – I never bring work home – but Fay’s not listening anyway.

  I run up the stairs and into my room, slamming the door. My phone lies hot and silent on my pillow. Is that what Eliot was calling about? Did he leave a message? I grab the phone and quickly dial into my voicemail.

  ‘Hi, me here. Christopher Jay’s gone crazy and killed a student. I can’t tell you any more, just google “Archway stabbing”. Don’t try to call me back, I’m on my way to London. It’s difficult to speak. I’ll try and call you later, depends what happens. Sorry… Hope you’re okay.’

  He has no idea how not okay I am.

  I think I’m going to be sick. I slide off the bed onto all fours, then cautiously stand up. The room is spinning. The bathroom’s only next door, but it seems a mile away as I stagger there, falling on my knees in front of the toilet. The faint smell of urine mixed with disinfectant makes me heave, but when I try to vomit nothing comes up. I lean my forehead on the plastic seat and wait. But I’m not going to be sick, because I haven’t eaten anything. I drag myself to my feet and stumble back to my room, collapsing on the bed again. I should tell him what happened. It’s the very least I owe him and better he finds out from me. Always own up, that’s what Dad taught me. Own up and the punishment won’t be as bad. Eliot said not to call back, but… My finger hovers over the screen as I try to work out what to say. Sorry would be a good start, but it seems so inadequate. I rehearse the words in my head, hearing his reply. He’ll be absolutely furious, I know he will; he’ll tell me I’m out of control, he’ll hit the roof.

  Got to think. Think hard. Be logical. How will the police know it was me at the pub? I didn’t give my name to anyone. I paid for my beer in cash. The only person who knows is Jay and he’s done a bunk. So basically nobody else knows, and they’re unlikely to find out. But if I tell Eliot, he’ll be obliged to tell his boss and I’ll be interviewed. Some difficult questions will be asked and he could get into big trouble – especially if they find out that he told me where to find Jay. He could be suspended. Sacked. I don’t want that. Which means that telling him is the very last thing I should do. For his sake.

  My heart rate is starting to slow down; the singing in my head has stopped. I’m okay. I can deal with this. I’ve got to keep calm and get things in proportion. I wasn’t to know Jay was going to go off his head like that. It’s not my fault.

  The phone rings, making me start. It’s Isobel.

  ‘Hi,’ I squeak.

  ‘Have you heard?’ Her voice is vibrating; it sounds as if she’s running down the street. ‘Have you heard what he’s done? You must have, it’s all over the news.’

  ‘Yes. Unbelievable.’

  ‘No, one thing it’s not is unbelievable. Oh, that poor girl! Her poor family!’ She stops and I hear the bleeps of a pedestrian crossing. Then she starts again, her words jumping about like beans in a sack. ‘Can you imagine what they’re going through? It’s brought it all flooding back. It’s like living through the whole thing all over again.’

  ‘Yes… must be awful for you.’

  ‘I’m so cross with myself. If I’d called the police this would never have happened,’ she wails.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He turned up to my book launch last week and made a scene. I thought he was just drunk, I didn’t want a fuss… Oh God, we have to prepare ourselves. The media are going to have a field day with this. It’s all going to come out. My connection with Cara, Jay’s wrongful acquittal. Everything!’

  Everything and more. Will the police be blamed for failing to make a watertight case? Will the judge be denounced for confusing the jury? I doubt it. It will be the fault of the crazy witness. The madwoman who heard voices in her head. Eliot put the videotape on the police network. What if it’s leaked and ends up on YouTube, the next thing that comes up after the student murder? I’m going to look like a freak.

  ‘Meredith?’ Isobel says sharply. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes… sorry…’

  ‘Now, listen. Take my advice and don’t talk to anyone about this – friends, people at work…’ She pauses and I hear a key turning, a door opening and shutting. ‘I’m afraid my celebrity status will only make it worse. I’ve already been on to my agent and she’s going to do what she c
an, but once the press find out… well, you know how they twist things.’

  She’s right, and she doesn’t know the half of it. If anyone finds out I was with Jay moments before …

  ‘Isobel – please, can we talk?’

  ‘What is it, darling?’

  I take a long, deep breath. And then I tell her.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Cara

  July 1984

  What was she going to do? Whatever way she looked at it, the situation was a ghastly mess and there was no easy way out of it. Jay had stolen valuable items, and because she hadn’t stopped him, or gone to the police, or at the very least told Isobel, everyone would assume she was guilty too. And she was guilty, in a way, because she’d not only kept quiet, she’d knowingly lived off the proceeds.

  She couldn’t understand how it had happened, and all within such a short space of time. Cara Jane Travers the criminal. Where was the world’s biggest goody-goody, the swotty teenager who’d not had one detention in her entire school career? Where was the responsible adult who’d never had a parking fine or even been on a protest march? Would the judge take this into account when sentencing? she wondered. Because she and Jay were going to be found out eventually, she was convinced of it. The idea of prison terrified her. How would she deal with her parents’ shame? She would rather kill herself.

  Since the DIY burglary, the relationship with Jay had unsurprisingly soured. He was still living at Darkwater Terrace, still lounging around the house all day smoking joints and drinking vodka; still sharing her bed and having sex with her every night. Cara had started faking her orgasms so it would be over quicker, and Jay, who was usually stoned up to the eyeballs, hadn’t noticed. Or he had noticed and didn’t care. He kept telling her he loved her, but she no longer believed him. If you love someone, you don’t do something you know will upset them, she told herself. You don’t implicate them in a crime.

  Jay had gone to sign on this morning, then he was going to buy some dope. For once, she had some time to herself. Cara sat on the bed with her legs crossed and considered her options. She longed to confide in someone, but she couldn’t trust her university friends because they all knew Isobel, and she’d lost touch with the girls from school. Telling Mum and Dad was obviously out of the question. She wanted to finish with Jay but was scared that he’d refuse to go. What if he turned violent? It was like being trapped in a lift with the oxygen running out.

  She stood up and went to the window. She stared down at the garden, which was fast turning into an urban jungle, the grass so tall that you could no longer see the stepping-stone path. At the bottom was the gate that led to the pool and further round the path was the old boathouse. She thought back to those first times with Jay, the small of her back pushed against the ground as he thrust, oblivious that he was hurting her. Her hand went to the place, the bruise long disappeared. Jay wasn’t a sensitive lover, but he wasn’t an animal either. He was just a man.

  She went back to bed.

  ‘Cara?’ Jay’s voice lifted her head from the pillow. ‘Cara? Where are you?’ His feet thumped up the stairs. ‘What are you doing up here?’ he said, coming into the room. ‘I thought you’d be outside. It’s sweltering out there. Eighty-three degrees they said on the radio.’

  ‘I wasn’t feeling very well,’ she lied, turning away from him.

  He sat down on the bed and reached across to feel her forehead. ‘Wow, you’re burning up. I’ll get you a cold flannel.’

  ‘No. Don’t want one.’

  ‘You sure?’ He looked disappointed. ‘My mum swears by them.’

  ‘I just need to rest.’ What she really needed was a pee and some lunch, but not as much as she needed him to go.

  ‘Okay.’ He took a small plastic bag out of his pocket and dangled it over her face. ‘Grass. I blew the last of our dosh on it, but I’ve a feeling we won’t regret it.’ He opened the bag and took a long, indulgent sniff. ‘Yup. Epic.’

  Cara closed her eyes and bit down on her tongue. It was not their dosh. And how on earth had he got through four hundred quid in the last two weeks? He would steal more stuff, she knew it. But next time she would stop him.

  Over the next few days, the atmosphere between them deteriorated. Jay noticed it, although at first he put it down to the strong weed, which he said sometimes made him feel paranoid. Was it the heat? he wondered. She still loved him, didn’t she? He even asked her if she was pregnant, as if the possibility had only just occurred to him.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she replied, tersely. ‘Although I should be.’

  ‘What do you mean, should be?’ He gave her an odd look.

  ‘Well, we’ve been doing it virtually every day for the past three months without protection.’

  ‘Have we?’

  Yes, she thought. I’ve been utterly stupid. I don’t want a baby, and I don’t want an abortion, so why haven’t I sorted myself out?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking sheepish. ‘I thought you were on the pill.’

  ‘No. You assumed I was on the pill.’

  ‘Jesus…’ He shook his head disbelievingly. ‘All this time? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘You didn’t ask.’ She’d been punishing him. As if he was the one who would suffer if she conceived! Her thinking was all upside down. Mad. And she was supposed to be an educated, liberated woman. A feminist, God help her…

  Jay was upset. He went straight to the chemist’s and came back with a pregnancy test and a large box of condoms, determined to cover both bases. The test was negative, which made her feel relieved and slightly worried. That night she feigned the traditional headache and lay at the edge of the bed, saying she was too hot to be touched.

  The air was heavy with heat, without even the hint of a breeze. Jay took the duvet out of its cover and threw it on the floor. A fly had got into the room and was buzzing around in a tizzy, unable to find its way out. Cara tried to sleep, but her mind plagued her with uncomfortable questions. Should she finish with Jay? Should she tell the police? Why hadn’t she got pregnant? Was she infertile? Was it her punishment for treating Isobel so badly? She had treated Isobel badly, she understood that now.

  She turned to face Jay’s naked back. He was sleeping in the foetal position, snoring very gently, the duvet cover crumpled around his waist. She tried to imagine her dear friend lying in his place. Would it have been so hard to love her in the way she’d wanted? They were all human beings, after all…

  When she woke, it was half-six and the room was flooded with fresh sunlight. Her heart started to race when she realised Jay wasn’t there. How had she missed him? She went straight to the empty rehearsal room and looked out of the window. Bertha’s back was open and Jay was dragging an old seaman’s chest down the front path. Cara threw on yesterday’s clothes and ran down the stairs, hurtling through the open door.

  ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ she shouted.

  Jay let go of the leather handle and straightened up. ‘Don’t shout, you’ll wake everyone up.’

  ‘I’m not letting you do this. Enough! What have you taken?’ She marched past him and looked into the van. Her eyes quickly took in a marble washstand, two upright chairs, a brass coal bucket, several large pictures draped in blankets, a hat stand, an enormous mirror…

  ‘You’ve got to put it back. All it of it! Now!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jay said soothingly. ‘She won’t find out.’

  ‘She will when she comes back.’

  ‘She won’t, though. Too many bad memories, right?’ He glanced back at the house, as if it could overhear. ‘I’ve worked it all out. When she says she wants to sell, you offer to help. Find the estate agent, do the viewings and stuff, then when it’s sold you get some clearance company to take away the contents. She won’t even care and she’ll still make a shitload of money.’ He picked up the wooden chest and shoved it onto the van.

  Cara took a sharp inward breath. ‘Put it all back or I’ll call the police.’

  �
�Weren’t you listening?’

  ‘I mean it.’

  He looked at her contemptuously. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’ She turned around and strode back inside, feeling more powerful and more determined with every step. Jay followed her into the hallway, telling her to calm down. Cara picked up the phone and started to dial, but he knocked the receiver out of her hand, pinning her to the side of the stairs. She struggled against him, kicking with her feet. ‘Let me go, you bastard!’

  ‘You’re not thinking straight.’ His mouth was only an inch from her face. ‘If you dob me in, I’ll take you down with me. Is that what you want? A prison sentence?’

  ‘I can’t do this any more!’ she wailed. ‘Can’t live like this. It’s all wrong!’

  ‘You’re pathetic.’ He let go of her and she slid to the floor.

  He grabbed a couple of random items – a plant-pot stand and an umbrella holder – and left the house. A minute later Cara heard the sound of Bertha’s clapped-out diesel engine pulling away. At least she’d stopped him taking more stuff, she thought, uncurling herself and standing up. She put the phone back and went into the kitchen, turning on the tap and letting it run cold before she filled a glass. She took it into the garden and sat on the conservatory step, letting the cool water soothe the back of her throat. Enough was enough. When he came back, she decided, she would tell him the relationship was over and that he’d have to move out immediately. If he refused, she would call the police. Or maybe Isobel. Yes, better to call Isobel. It was her house; let her decide what to do.