The Lie (11 page)

“Here, drink this.” Will hands me a cup of steaming tea then sits beside me on the sofa. “I’ve added lots of sugar.”

“Thank you.”

It’s been two hours since the police released me from Joan’s kitchen. Sheila was with them. She took one look at me then bundled me into her car and drove me home. She spent the first five minutes of the journey bollocking me for being so irresponsible, only softening when I burst into tears. She stayed with me until Will turned up, then she gave me a brusque hug and said, “You have to put your own safety before that of the animals, Jane. For those who love you, if for no one else.”

That made me cry again.

Now, Will takes a sip of his tea then sets his cup down on a coaster on the coffee table. “How are you feeling?”

“Still shaky.”

“She didn’t lock you in on purpose, you do know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” I glance away, embarrassed. I heard Sheila and Will talking in hushed voices at the front door before she left. She must have told him what I’d said on the phone about Joan deliberately locking me in so she could hurt me.

“Joan said the door often gets stuck. She was trying to help you.”

“I know, the police said.”

“It’s a good job Sheila rang you when she did.”

“Yeah. Thank God Angharad couldn’t find the food rota, or I’d have been stuck there for God knows how long.”

Will reaches for his tea and takes another sip. “Do you think they’ll prosecute her for animal cruelty?”

“I don’t know. There will be an autopsy on the dog’s body. If she was responsible for its death, the case will go to court. An inspector will seize all the rabbits. Mary at work’s going to be busy.”

“I imagine she will.”

We lapse into silence, the only sound the chirping of birds in the trees outside. It’s autumn, my favourite time of year. I love the nip in the air, warm jumpers and the prospect of red wine and old films in front of a roaring fire.

“Jane.” Will reaches a hand across the back of the sofa and touches me on the shoulder. “Is everything okay?”

“What do you mean?” I take another sip of my tea but there’s only a dribble of liquid left in the bottom.

“You’ve seemed … different … recently, and you sent that text earlier, saying we needed to talk.”

“I know.” I place my mug next to his on the table, close but not quite touching.

“Okay.” He twists round so he’s facing me, one knee pulled into his body, one foot on the floor. From the stoical look on his face, I know he’s expecting a “It’s not you, it’s me” conversation.

“Last night,” I say, “when you were putting Chloe to bed, I used your iPad.”

“That’s not illegal!” He laughs nervously.

I take a deep breath. “I saw the article you were reading, about Ekanta Yatra.”

“You were talking about it in your sleep the other night after I cooked us both dinner. You were thrashing about in bed and you kept muttering it – Ekanta Yatra, Ekanta Yatra – under your breath. It’s a weird name but that’s why I recognised it, from the news, years ago. I should have just asked you about it the next morning, but” – he shifts uncomfortably – “you always get a bit defensive when I ask you personal questions. I shouldn’t have Googled it, but I was curious. I thought it might help me understand you.”

“Did it? Did it help you understand me?”

He looks at me steadily. “You were part of the cult, weren’t you?”

“It wasn’t a cult. That’s what the media called it. It was a community. It was …” The words dry up. Talking about Ekanta Yatra and the trip to Nepal is like picking open a five-year-old scar. It’s a wound so deep, I can only scratch at the surface.

“It’s okay.” He inches towards me and pulls me into his arms. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“I do.” I look up into his warm, trusting face. “Because I’m not who you think I am.” I pause and take a breath. “Will, my name isn’t Jane Hughes. It’s Emma. Emma Woolfe.”

“You’re her.” His grip on me loosens. “You’re the girl in one of the photos. Your hair was redder back then, but I knew it was you. You’re one of the four friends that went to Nepal. You’re the other one that made it back.”

“Yes.” I shift out of his arms and gaze down at my hands, too scared to confront the hurt, confusion and distrust that I know must be written on Will’s face. The clock above the mantelpiece tick, ticks, ticks into the silence.

“I’m sorry.” I rub at a pale stain on my trouser leg with my thumbnail. I’m still wearing my work clothes and my calves are covered with rabbit hairs. “I should have told you my real name.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I haven’t told anyone. Not Sheila, not Anne, not anyone at work. When I changed my name to Jane and moved here, it felt like I’d been given a fresh start. After Al’s article came out, I couldn’t go anywhere without people nudging each other and pointing at me, not in London and not in Leicester, either: ‘There’s that girl, the one in the cult.’”

“You could have trusted me, Jane. I’d have understood why you made that decision.”

“Would you?” I glance across at him. “Things were so casual between us at the beginning, and …” I shrug.

“And you didn’t know where it was going?”

“No.”

He shifts position on the sofa, as uncomfortable as I am now the focus of the conversation has moved to our relationship.

“Did you ever find out what happened to the other two – Daisy and …”

“Leanne.”

“Yeah. The article said they just disappeared.” He stares at me for the longest time, his eyes searching mine.

I say nothing, my mind whirling.

“Jane?” he says, then pauses. “Emma?” He says the name tentatively, as though tasting how it feels in his mouth. “Do you know what happened to them?”

“No,” I say. It’s a half-lie, but it’s still a lie.

Despite being more open with Will during our conversation yesterday than I’ve ever been, I didn’t tell him about the message on the computer saying that Daisy was still alive, or about the note – I slipped that deep into the middle of the filing tray on the Welsh dresser in my kitchen. I also managed to slip the school exercise book I’d borrowed into his briefcase, stuffing it amongst the rest of his marking, without him noticing. I shared some things with Will last night, but not all.

I told him my real name, but only the bare bones of my story. I told him why we’d chosen to go to Nepal. I told him how excited we all were when we first arrived at Ekanta Yatra. I told him how glorious our first couple of days there were, how we swam in the river, splashed each other in the waterfall, read books in hammocks and drank beers around the fire. I told him how things started to change, how we changed, how dangerous the place became. I didn’t go into detail about what happened with Isaac or Frank. I didn’t tell him about Ruth or Gabe or Johan. I told him that I’d been scared, more scared than I’d ever been in my life, and he held me as I talked and stroked my hair away from my face. He kept saying that it was all over now and that it was okay to cry and let it all out, but my eyes stayed dry.

It’s not all over, no matter how many times Will tells me it is.

I lay awake for hours last night, turning everything over in my mind as Will slumbered beside me. It was the fear that unsettled me the most – the way that fear had revved from zero to one hundred the second Joan’s cupboard door slammed shut. One minute I was in the present, staring at the carcass of her dead dog, realising the situation had just escalated to something prosecutable, and the next I was sucked back into the past, reliving the most terrifying moment of my life. Until then, I’d fooled myself into believing that I’d locked all that away, that I’d filed it in a box in my head marked “Do Not Open”, but the note unlocked it all. And someone out there is determined it stays that way.

I must have slept at some point last night because Will’s mobile alarm startled me awake just after six this morning. He got up, and grabbed his T-shirt from the neat pile on the chair beside the bed. When we first started dating, he’d toss his clothes onto the floor with abandon, but my neat-freakery has changed all that.

“No.” He held up a hand, one trouser leg on, one trouser leg off, as I threw back the duvet and moved to sit up. “You need to stay in bed. Sheila told you not to come in today, remember?”

“Will, I’m fine. I’d rather be at work than rattling around in here all day with nothing to do.”

“You’re not fine.” He pulled up his trousers, fastened them then lowered himself onto the bed and put a hand on my leg. “You were sleep-talking again last night. Actually, sleep-whimpering would be more accurate. Do you want me to stay?” His brow creased with concern. “It’s not too late for me to send some cover work in. I’m sure it would be fine.”

“I’m not ill.”

“I know you’re not, but …” He squeezed my thigh firmly but his indecision was written all over his face. His school is due an OFSTED inspection before half-term and there’s a hell of a lot he needs to do in order to prepare for it.

I slid my hand over his. “Honestly, Will. I’m fine. If I really have to stay home, I’ve got an enormous pile of books I haven’t had time to read, and there’s always that sci-fi box set you lent me.”

“
Battlestar Galactica
.” His face lit up. “You’ll love it, Emma. I know you will.”

“Hmmm.” I wrinkled my nose and he laughed.

“Honestly, you don’t even have to be a sci-fi fan to enjoy it. The number of people I’ve recommended it to who’ve—”

“Become totally addicted to it. I know, I know.” I gave him a playful shove. “You don’t have to give me the hard sell. I’ll give it a go.”

“Okay.” He leaned forward and kissed me on the nose. “Just take it easy today, okay?”

Ten minutes later, the front door clicked shut, his ancient Ford Fiesta spluttered to life and he reversed down the drive, pulling out onto the main road. He raised a hand in goodbye as I stood at the window and watched him drive away.

That was three hours ago. Since then, I’ve cleaned the bathroom, hoovered the living room, watered all the plants and folded the washing and put it away. I attempted to watch
Battlestar Galactica
but only managed one and a half episodes before I gave up and retreated to my bedroom with a book. It’s a turgid affair. It’s won all sorts of awards and plaudits but the language is dense, the plot barely discernible and the main character—

My phone vibrates on the bedside table, tapping against the base of my glass of water.

It’s been two days since I sent Al a message on Facebook about Daisy still being alive. Maybe she’s read it.

A wave of relief mixed with disappointment courses through me as I snatch up my phone. It’s a text from Will.

Hope you’re doing ok. Think there must be a full moon tonight, Year 11 are HELL today. What do you think of BG? x

I smile, despite my disappointment.

I’m sorry, I’m not a fan. I thought Gaius Baltar was really annoying. Sorry! x

There was a time when I would have pretended to love a TV show, a song or a book just because everyone else did, but not any more. My phone chirps almost immediately. Will must be in the loo; he never texts me during a lesson.

You need to give him a chance. He grows on you. Kind of like I did;)

I smile again, and immediately begin tapping out a response:

But you did—

I pause, thumb poised over the keypad as the sound of car tyres crunching on gravel drifts through the open window. The engine dies and I swing my legs over the side of the bed, stand up slowly and pad towards the window. The curtains are open so I stay close to the wall so I can’t be seen from the driveway below. A black VW Polo I’ve never seen before is parked outside my cottage. There’s no one inside.

I stand stock-still and wait for the doorbell to ring or knocks to hammer at my door. When none comes, I head for the bedroom then freeze, my heart in my mouth as I hear the kitchen floor creak under the weight of footsteps.

“Hello?” I stand at the top of the stairs and listen. Voices drift towards me. “Hello, who’s there?”

I glance at my phone but it’s just as I left it, mid-message to Will.

“Hello?” I creep down the steps and sigh with relief as I catch sight of the TV at the far end of the living room. Gaius Baltar and Starbuck are arguing over a card game. I must have left the DVD on pause and it restarted itself. I hurry down the last couple of steps then freeze again.

There’s someone in my kitchen, yanking open and slamming shut the drawers. I press 9-9-9 on my phone as the clatter and clank of forks, spoons and knives being rifled through fills the air. I hold the phone close to my chest, my thumb millimetres from the call button, and creep round the bottom of the stairs.

“Angharad!”

She jumps at the sound of her name and swings round, a six-inch carving knife in her right hand. The colour drains from her face and she takes a step backwards, her hand clutched to her chest.

“Jane! You scared me!”

I look from her to the front door, which stands several inches ajar, and shiver as a gust of icy wind blows into the cottage.

“What are you doing here?”

“I brought you a cake.” The hand holding the knife trembles as she points towards a small Victoria sponge on my Welsh dresser. “Sheila told me you weren’t well, so I nipped to the cake shop. Sheila said you like sponge.”

“You didn’t knock.”

“I did, but you didn’t answer. I could hear the TV through the letterbox and assumed you couldn’t hear me, so I let myself in; the door was on the latch. Sorry.” The colour returns to her cheeks and she flushes red. “I can tell by the look on your face that I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t want to leave the cake outside in case it rained.” She sees me looking at the knife and places it on the counter next to the kettle. “I just boiled the kettle. I was going to bring a cup of tea and a slice of cake up to you.”

The door was on the latch? I did go outside earlier to bring in the washing, but I could have sworn I kicked the door shut after I carried the basket inside. It can’t have closed properly.

“Right.” I glance back towards the TV, which is still blaring in the living room. Something about her story doesn’t make sense. If I’d walked into someone’s house with some cake and the TV was on and they weren’t about, I’d assume they’d gone to the loo. Unless she knew I was up in my bedroom – but how on earth would she know that? I run a hand over my face as I walk back into the living room and turn off the TV. I’m tired after a bad night’s sleep, and disturbed by what happened yesterday. I left the front door open and Angharad took it as a sign it was fine to come in. People round here leave their doors open all the time, I guess; it’s that kind of community. She hasn’t done anything wrong. She was just trying to be nice.