The Lie (21 page)

Isaac refuses to let me leave his side and I trail behind him like a shadow for the rest of the morning, from the dining room to the study, from the meditation room to the waterfall. He takes every available moment to touch, stroke or kiss me. When we walked past Daisy and Leanne practising yoga on the patio, he stopped walking, pulled me into his arms, pressed his lips to mine and stuck his tongue down my throat. I put my hand on his chest to try and push him away but he held me fast. Daisy’s mocking laughter followed us all the way down the garden and across the bridge to the animal pens.

I want to talk to her. I want to apologise and explain, but there’s no reasoning with her when she’s like this. If I can talk to Al, if I can get her on side, then maybe she’ll talk to Daisy with me and we can work out how we’re going to get out of here. I have to leave – rain or no rain – and I need to know if she wants to come with me. We’re officially supposed to be leaving the day after tomorrow, but with Leanne and Daisy both ignoring me, I’ve got no idea whether that’s still happening or not.

I spot Al strolling into the kitchen for washing-up duty after lunch. With Isaac waylaid by Johan in the dining room, I slip in after her. She heads for the sink and turns on the taps; they squeak into life, dribbling water into the rusty sink as the ancient heating system rumbles and chugs to life.

I pick up a pile of dirty plates from the stack on the sideboard and carry them over to the sink. Al doesn’t acknowledge me as I lower them into the bowl. Instead she reaches for the grubby dishcloth and dips it into the bowl of salt that masquerades as washing-up liquid.

“Al. Don’t say anything. Just listen to me. It’s important. I didn’t mean what I said about Daisy earlier. I don’t want to kill anyone; it was just a figure of speech. Isaac forced me to say it, the same way he—”

“What are you doing?” Isaac clamps a hand on my shoulder.

“Washing up,” I shout above the noise of the taps. “I’m rota’d to help.”

“Get someone else to do it.”

“But I need to—”

He yanks me out of the room before I can finish my sentence.

Al, her arms submerged in a dark, greasy pool of water, doesn’t say a word.

The next time I see her, it’s late in the evening. She didn’t go to Isaac’s afternoon talk about fasting to enhance willpower and spirituality, nor the early evening meditation. Daisy nudged Leanne when they walked in and spotted me sitting beside Isaac. They stopped walking and stood stock-still in the entrance, silently staring at me until Daisy burst out laughing, grabbed Leanne’s hand and took a seat at the side of the room. I hope against hope that, when I do find Al, she tells me that neither of them want to leave with us the day after tomorrow.

Now, everyone is gathered in a circle on the patio drinking Raj’s home brew as a goat slowly rotates on a spit above the fire in the centre. Isaac, Isis, Cera and I are sitting nearest to the house. Al, Daisy and Johan are on the other side of the circle, staring silently at the fire, the flickering flames illuminating their faces. I stare at Al, willing her to look at me, but it’s Johan who senses me watching and looks up.

I look away, towards the river where Paula and Sally are skinny-dipping, their naked bodies visible in the moonlight, pale against the blackness of the water, their laughter and screams cutting through the low murmur of voices around the patio. The air is thick with the scent of cooked meat, spliffs and Raj’s home brew. The smell reminds me of something and I tap Isaac on the arm to ask him what it is.

“Yeah?” he says, without turning to look at me. He and Cera are deep in conversation about how much longer Raj can stretch the remaining meagre food supplies without another trip to Pokhara.

I don’t answer him. I’ve remembered what the smell reminds me off. The night we “said goodbye” to Ruth.

I reach for the cup of beer at my feet and swig at it. It tastes of yeast and vinegar but I swallow it back.

“I need a refill,” I say.

Isaac makes no move to stop me so I stand up, wander back to the door leading to the kitchen and refill my cup from the barrel outside the doorway. When I look back towards the fire, Leanne has taken my place. She doesn’t make space for me as I draw closer and I’m forced to sit on the edge of the group.

Across the circle Al rises. She stretches her arms above her head then cranes her neck to one side, then the other, as though stretching. Our eyes meet and she angles her head to the right again, only this time the movement is more deliberate – a sharp sideways nod towards the river. She wants to talk to me.

She disappears into the darkness before I can respond.

I move to go after her but Isaac grabs my hand and yanks me towards him. “Is someone feeling a bit left out?”

Leanne squeals as I trip over her and land in his lap. I try to get back to my feet but he has his arms around me, nuzzling my cheek with his lips.

“Please.” I push at his chest. “I need to go the loo.”

“I’ll tell you when you can go to the loo.” His voice is light as if he’s joking, but there no denying the unspoken threat. He moves his lips to my mouth and kisses me fiercely as I wriggle desperately in his arms. I need to go down to the river. If I don’t, Al will think I don’t want to talk to her. She’ll think I stayed with Isaac through choice.

“You’re no fun.” He shoves me away so I tumble against Leanne. Cera laughs. There’s a malicious edge to the sound that makes the hairs on my arms prickle.

If she says something, I don’t hear it. I’m too busy squinting into the darkness, scanning the riverbank for any sign of Al. “What’s the matter?” Isaac slaps my bare calf.

“Nothing.”

“No, it’s not. You’re lying to me. Why? Why are you lying to me?” He peers at me then looks away, a frown creasing his brow as he surveys the group sitting around the fire. Raj catches his eye and waves, but he ignores him and looks into the distance, towards the river. Did he see Al signalling at me to go down there? Does he know?

“I’m fine, Isaac, I swear. I’m—”

“Don’t talk.” He presses a finger to my lips and continues to look around. His frown deepens as he glances back towards the house, but when he looks back at me his expression is jubilant.

“It’s Frank, isn’t it? You’re scared I’m going to let him out of the basement because of the rumour Daisy’s been spreading? Jesus.” He bangs himself on the side of his head with one hand. “You told me this morning that you wanted to kill Frank, and I didn’t give it a second thought because I was so focused on getting you to give voice to your negative emotions, and you’ve been suffering in silence ever since.” He pulls me into his arms, crushing me against him. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

The scent of musk and sweat on his T-shirt makes me feel sick but I wrap my arms around his waist and try to relax as he rocks me from side to side.

“I’ll make it up to you.” He pulls away sharply, his hands on my waist. “I promise.”

“What do you mean?”

He shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips. The sick feeling in my stomach grows but he strides away, heading for Johan on the other side of the circle before I can say another word.

A gentle tap on my shoulder makes me look up. It’s Leanne.

“I’m going to look for Al. I think I saw her head down to the river.”

I say nothing. If I speak, I’ll cry.

“Emma.” Her fingers brush my forearm. “I know you slept with Isaac this morning.”

“How?”

“You don’t need to know that. But you might want to consider leaving before Daisy finds out.”

“I can’t go anywhere, the weather’s too bad.”

“That’s a shame” – she smiles sweetly – “because it’s not safe for you to stay, either.”

She drifts away, the hem of her skirt silently sweeping the ash on the patio as she moves.

I got Leanne wrong. She’s not a tick bird pecking at a rhino’s hide. She’s a seahorse – harmless, unusual, cutesy – drifting through our friendship without disturbing anything or anyone until she’s right up beside me, and then
snap
, she attacks. What she just said wasn’t a dig and it wasn’t a subtle put-down. It was a threat. And I’m not waiting around to find out what it means.

I sit up slowly, the beginning of a hangover pulsing in my temples, and push my hair off my face. The air smells of bonfire smoke, meat and sweat. Leanne is asleep on the mattress next to mine, a white church candle between us, spluttering and spitting as the wick fights to stay lit in a deep pool of wax. Al’s asleep on the other side of her, the hood of her sleeping bag pulled up over her head, her mouth ajar as she snores softly. Daisy is spread-eagled on the next mattress along, still wearing her clothes, her sleeping bag rolled up at the end of the bed as though she passed out where she fell. She looks doll-like in her sleep, her long lashes splayed on her cheeks, her short stubby fingernails pressed to her mouth.

Leanne looks so tiny and frail. Without her enormous black-framed glasses, her face looks small and mole-like. Black roots have appeared at the base of her pink fringe. I crept away from the party after her “kindly” word in my ear last night and returned to the girls’ dormitory. I crawled into my sleeping bag, still wearing my shorts and vest top, and pulled up the hood, and then I lay awake for hours, sweating beneath thick layers of nylon, polyester and wool as excited screams and raucous laughter taunted me from the patio.

How had our holiday gone so wrong? We’d arrived at Ekanta Yatra as friends, friends with issues rumbling beneath the smiles and excitement, but ours was a friendship that had outlasted uni and survived relocation, jobs and relationships. Or so I thought. And yet the bonds I’d believed to be so strong were only ever superficial and, like a game of Jenga, all it took was one false move and everything collapsed.

I reach for the water bottle beside my mattress and shake it. Empty. I wriggle out of my sleeping bag and pad across the dorm to the walkway. The water in the shower block isn’t suitable for drinking and I’m thirsty.

I step from the walkway into the hall, the only sound the soft slap of my bare feet on the floorboards and the low rumble of snores emanating from the boys’ dormitory, the only light the soft glow of the candle on the table Al overturned last week. It feels like far, far longer than that. I head for the kitchen and the scent of cumin, cardamom and cinnamon then pause and glance back towards Isaac’s study. The door is wide open, the room deserted. The desk has been pushed back against the window, the rug piled in a crumpled heap beside it. Books, papers and shoes litter the floor, haphazardly framing a dark hole in the ground to the left of the desk.

My breath catches in my throat and I freeze.

The hatch door is open.

I want to look away but I can’t. I can’t do anything other than stare at the black square less than ten feet away from me.

Where’s Frank?

From the state of the room, he either left in a hurry or there was a struggle getting him out. The curtains beyond the hatch billow into the room as a gust of wind from the open window lifts them into the air, and several sheets of paper skid along the floor and settle by the open doorway. Without thinking, I take a step forward and reach out for the one nearest to me. My hands are shaking so much, it takes me two attempts to pick it up.

It’s an email from Leanne to Isaac, dated 15th April, three and a half months before we came out here.

Dear Isaac,

I’ve written this email half a dozen times and then deleted it and started again. This time I’m going to write what I feel and just send it, otherwise I’m never going to reply to you, and I can’t do that, not when it’s taken me so long to find you.

Isaac, I spent my whole childhood feeling lost and unsettled, like a piece of me was missing. Of course, I couldn’t verbalise it like that as a child, I just felt “sad” a lot.

I glance up, half expecting to see Frank looming at me through the shadows, but the study is still deserted, the hatch an empty hole in the ground. I try to lick my lips but there’s no saliva in my mouth.

To find out I had a half-brother made sense. It explained everything – the void in my chest, the pang of loneliness that seemed to follow me about everywhere I went and the abiding feeling that my whole family was keeping a secret from me. I don’t think Mum would ever have told me if she hadn’t been drunk. I won’t repeat her exact words, Isaac, because I don’t want to hurt you, but she was maudlin and she was angry and she thought it would hurt me.

She was wrong. By telling me about you, she gave me a gift. A brother. A brother she’d given away because my arsehole of a father couldn’t deal with the fact that Mum had been with someone else. Mum didn’t – wouldn’t – tell me where you were, but I got in touch with the Salvation Army and they helped me trace you. One of your friends in Aberdeen told them you’d started a retreat in Nepal called Ekanta Yatra. I cried when I saw the website and there was no photo of you.

Isaac, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am, how angry, how much I hate …

I stop reading and grab the other piece of paper by my feet. It’s another email from Leanne to Isaac; this one is dated 12th May.

Dear bro (sorry, I know it’s cheesy but I love being able to call you that),

Amazing to hear from you, as always. I can’t begin to tell you how ridiculously excited I am about my trip to Nepal. You asked if I could bring some friends with me so they can help spread the word about Ekanta Yatra when we get back. My God, I’d love to! I definitely want Al to come; I think she’d get a lot out of the experience. Daisy too. I think you’d love her. She’s so effervescent and fun that …

I want to read more but it’s too risky to stay here. I dart into the study and scoop up more pieces of paper, never looking away from the hatch for more than a split second, then sprint back out of the room and slip into the kitchen. I keep the door ajar to let some of the candlelight from the hall into the room, but it’s gloomier in here and I have to squint to make out what’s written on the pages.

Dear Isaac,

Me again! You wanted some background info about my friends to aid their sessions with you. My pleasure!

Al’s twenty-five, she’s from Croydon and she works in a call centre. She used to have a brother called Tommy but he died in a motorbike accident when he was eighteen and she was fifteen. She feels really guilty about it because she came out to their parents the day before and they reacted really badly so she ran away. Tommy went after her but he was driving too fast and was hit by a car pulling out from a T-junction. They took him to hospital and, for a while, they thought he might pull through, but it wasn’t to be. He spoke his last words to Al – ‘I’ll always love you, sis’ – and that means a lot to her. She’s quite a spiritual person in her own way – she believes in ghosts and psychics – but she’s very dismissive about organised religion and even yoga and meditation, which she thinks is ‘hippy bullshit’ (sorry, I’m sure you can convince her otherwise!).

My other friend is Daisy. I think you’ll love her! She’s twenty-five, too, and she’s the poshest person I’ve ever met. Like Al, she’s lost a sibling – that was the thing that really drew them to each other, when they realised they’d both suffered a loss – but her situation was very different. She was five when her one-year-old sister Melody died. They were sharing a bath together and her mum popped out of the room to get a towel from the laundry basket in the master bedroom. I don’t know what happened. Sometimes, when she’s drunk, Daisy says that Melody reached for a toy on the other side of the bath and slipped and banged her head on the taps and fell into the water. Sometimes she says she was trying to teach Melody how to swim underwater and she didn’t realise her sister had stopped holding her breath. Sometimes she says she got out of the bath to try and find her mum, and when they returned, they found Melody face down. I think that, deep down, Daisy does know what happened to Melody but she’s fabricated different scenarios either to assuage her guilt or increase it. As if what happened wasn’t terrible enough, her mother blamed her for Melody’s death. She accused Daisy of being jealous of the new baby and deliberately hurting her. Six months later, Daisy’s mum killed herself. I don’t know why but I can’t help thinking that, deep down, Daisy’s always blamed herself for that, too. Oh, Isaac, it’s so heartbreaking. To meet Daisy you’d never know she’d been through something so awful. She’s so cheery and full of life but she’s carrying a terrible burden.

The other person you’ll meet is Emma. Emma is Daisy’s best friend. Theirs is a friendship I’ve never really understood. They’re like chalk and cheese. Whilst Daisy is the life and soul of the party, Emma is the misery guts in the corner pointing out that people have been putting out fag butts in the pot plants.

Fucking bitch. At least I mingle at parties, unlike Leanne, who clings to Al and Daisy as though her life depends on it. I stifle my indignation and keep reading.

Emma’s a weak, needy person with no backbone, and she can’t make a decision without running it past Daisy first. But whereas Daisy has tried to put her tragic past behind her, Emma wears her “tragedy” like a badge. She takes anti-anxiety tablets for the panic attacks she’s had since she had an abortion when she was seventeen, and doesn’t everyone know it. She says the tablets keep the panic attacks in check but, weirdly, they seem to stop working whenever she needs attention. I’ve lost count of the number of times Daisy’s cancelled nights out with me and Al because Emma needs someone to sit at home with her and stroke her back while she pretends she’s having trouble catching her breath. I’d like to see what would happen if someone chucked her bloody tablets in the bin and forced her to …

The letter ends suddenly, mid-sentence. I turn it over but it’s blank on the back. The second half of the email must still be on the floor in Isaac’s room.

I sneak back out of the kitchen, cross the hall and step back into the Isaac’s study. I crouch down to pick up a sheet of paper on the floor near the bookcase.

Dear Isaac,

I can’t wait to join you at Ekanta Yatra. There’s nothing here for me any more and, other than Al and Daisy, no reason to stay. I know they’ll want to stay too once they get there. Your community sounds like the kind of family I’ve been looking for all my life. It sounds like the kind of life we’ve all craved …

I pick up another sheet of paper, then another, then another. More emails from Leanne, earlier than the last one, telling him about her life and her dreams and ambitions. Another one telling him about their mother and her alcoholism. From the dates on the emails, it looks like she was writing to Isaac for over six months, at least three emails a week. There are no replies from him. Given that there’s no internet connection here, he must have trekked down to Pokhara every week or couple of weeks, logged on to the internet at a cafe and printed out all his emails.

There are still four or five pieces of paper scattered amongst the books and magazines at the far end of the room, next to the window. To read them means passing the hatch. I glance back into the hallway then dart forward. I pick up two, three, four print-outs and then I hear it, a low, rattling cough, too loud to originate in one of the dormitories. I toss the emails away then slip behind the curtain and press myself up against the open window as the slap-slap-slap of flip-flops on wood reverberates through the hallway.

Please don’t let it be Isaac. Please don’t let it be—

“What the fuck?”

It’s a man’s voice. A man standing in the doorway of the study. But it’s not Isaac. It’s Johan.

I drop silently out of the open study window and press myself up against the house, my heart thudding in my chest, my fingertips vibrating against the stone wall. The study floorboards creak and I take the smallest of steps to my left. If Johan looks out of the window now he’ll see me. A small circle of light, barely visible between the trees, bobs jerkily from side to side down by the huts. I step towards it then stop. What if it’s Frank? What if he escaped and the light is his torch? A gust of wind courses through the garden, bringing with it the low, muffled roar of men shouting. One of the voices is Isaac’s. Above me Johan swears under his breath and I make my decision. I run.

I sprint across the patio and head down the bank towards the orchard. I slow down as I pick my way through the trees, stepping carefully to avoid knotty roots and sharp stones, then duck down behind a thick thorny lavender bush when I spot a group of men standing on the bank of the river. There are four of them: Isaac, Kane and Gabe have their backs to me, and Gabe is shining a torch on the fourth man – Frank – who’s on his knees in front of them, his hands bound behind his back.

“You’re fucking insane!”

His shout drifts over, carried by the wind.

He shouts again, his head turned towards Isaac. “You can’t just lock someone in your basement. That’s false imprisonment. It’s kidnapping. It’s illegal!”

“So’s attempted rape.”

“Bollocks was it rape! This place is a fucking knocking shop. She was up for it.”

There is a loud thump, like the sound of a football being kicked, and Frank topples to his left. He lies still for a couple of minutes, the side of his face pressed into the mud, then he wriggles and twists his way back onto his knees.

“Fuck you, Isaac.”

Thump! Isaac kicks him again. This time, when Frank gets back onto his knees, a slow stream of blood flows from his temple to his jaw.

“Say that again,” Isaac says, lifting the axe in his right hand. The blade glints in the light of Gabe’s torch.

Frank shakes his head.

Thump! Isaac kicks him again. “Talk! Come on, Mr Mouthy. Share your fucking insightful thoughts with the group!”

This time Frank doesn’t bother getting up. Instead, he twists onto his back, spits towards the river then looks up at Isaac as a dark shape speeds towards them from the bridge. Kane raises the torch as the man draws near. It’s Johan.

The tall Swede steps between Isaac and Frank and holds up his hands. “I just came from your study. Whatever you’re planning on doing, don’t.”

Isaac steps around him as though he’s invisible. “Come on, then, Frank. If you’re such a fucking expert on the way we do things, why don’t you share your observations with us.”