One of Us Is Lying: A totally gripping psychological thriller with a brilliant twist

by Shalini Boland

  A tip-off.

  Could someone have contacted the tax office about my business?

  Why would they do that? And, more importantly, who could it be?

  Three

  Thursday

  KELLY

  ‘Have a good day, guys.’ I rest one hand on the front-door frame as I watch my sons head off up the road to school. It’s only a five-minute walk away with no busy roads to cross, so now that Ryan’s eleven, I said they could both go without me, as long as Ryan keeps an eye on Sonny. I love that they’re getting more independent, but it’s a shame I don’t get to catch up with Tia at the school gates any more. I miss our daily chats.

  Right now, it’s quiet as the grave out there, most of the other houses still with their curtains drawn, their occupants still asleep. My two are going in to school extra early today, as I’ve volunteered them to help out with preparations for Saturday’s regatta. Ryan didn’t thank me for the early-morning wake-up call, but it’s good for them to help out.

  Dark-haired like his father, Ryan lopes with long strides while his eight-year-old brother bounces along beside him, chatting incessantly. They’re complete opposites – Sonny has fair hair and a cheerful nature, like me I suppose, while Ryan is quiet and introspective. Right now, he’ll be gritting his teeth and telling Sonny to stop talking, to stop being so ‘annoying’, but Sonny will keep on anyway, unfazed by his older brother’s irritation. My late husband Michael would have loved to see how grown-up they’re becoming. How beautiful they are. I imagine how proud he would have been.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and blink a couple of times. This won’t do. I can’t dwell in a world of what-ifs; I need to bring myself back to reality. To occupy myself. The trouble is, it’s my day off and it’s stretching out before me like an endless ocean. Even more so because of the early start. I wish I was working more hours. Maybe Derek will give me some extra shifts. I say ‘work’, but it’s mainly just volunteering at a local charity shop. I help out a few times a week, along with organising various fundraising events for the community.

  Michael used to work in insurance. After he died fifteen months ago, he left us extremely well provided for. So much so that I’ll never have to work again, if I choose not to. Only, I’m not sure if that was a blessing or a curse, because not having to work means far too much time on my hands. Time to think. To mourn. To sink into misery. Which is why I now throw myself into volunteering. My whole adult life, I’ve always done bits here and there for charity, feeling like it’s my duty to help others less fortunate than myself. But these days it’s almost as though helping others is actually helping me. Or, if not helping, at least it’s a distraction. A useful way to fill my days.

  I like to feel as if I’m doing good. I always have. It’s probably my Catholic upbringing – the constant cloud of guilt. The feeling that I don’t deserve what I have. That I’ll probably go straight to hell for feeling any sense of happiness or enjoyment.

  Maybe that’s why, when my husband died, along with the crushing sense of devastation, I also felt the tiniest sense of relief. The thought that, now this terrible, awful thing has happened, maybe that will be it. That’s my misery quota right there. After all, I never deserved so much happiness in the first place, so it’s only fair that some of it should be taken away, right?

  I never voice these thoughts or think of them in any coherent way. They stay a jumbled mess in my mind, swilling around like an oil slick on an ocean. Never properly absorbed; just changing shape a little each day.

  I close the front door and head into the kitchen, where I start pulling various baking ingredients out of the larder. I’m going to make a cake for Saturday’s regatta. My friends all envy my huge walk-in larder lined with its rows and rows of painted wooden shelves. The kitchen is original 1940s and I love it that way. None of that modern minimalism for me. I like warm, homely clutter. My best friend Fiona is an interior designer. She says she loves my quirky lakeside home, but I can tell she’s dying to get her hands on it. To transform it into the ‘right’ kind of vintage look. To drag it into the twenty-first century and make it Instagram or Pinterest-worthy. I certainly have the budget to do it, just not the desire. I’m not big on social media – too many happy perfect families showing carefully edited versions of their lives.

  I set everything out on the blue Formica table, pull a scrunchie from my pocket and twist my unruly blonde curls into a messy bun. It’s far too quiet so I switch on the radio before settling down to make my famous Victoria sponge. I realise straightaway that I’ll have to make two of them, because there’s no way the boys will be able to see that cake and not want a slice as soon as they get home from school. I up the ingredients accordingly and tip them into my mixing bowl, smiling at the thought of their faces when they see what’s waiting when they get home. I also have some fresh strawberries in the fridge that I can slice and use to decorate the cakes.

  I’m busy stirring the mixture and listening to a tune from my school days when I’m startled by a sharp tap on the kitchen window. My first thought is that it must be a bird or a tree branch, because why or how would anyone be at the back of the house? But as I look up, my heart jumps at the sight of a thin, fair-haired girl with a tear-streaked face and a haunted look in her eyes. She locks eyes with me, and I feel a moment of alarm, followed swiftly by concern. I turn off the radio and wipe my hands on my apron.

  I know I probably shouldn’t, but I go straight to the back door and open it, pushing away all those judgy voices telling me that I should never open the door to strangers, that it could be a scam, that I don’t know who this person is or what she wants. Michael used to go nuts with me for being too trusting and for always seeing the good in people. But I also think that’s what he loved about me. He was the sensible, practical one in our relationship, whereas I’m the free spirit. The one who goes with the flow, who opens up her heart easily to everyone. No matter what happens, I never want to lose that part of me.

  ‘Hello?’ I step outside onto the wide flagstones, skirting over the wildflowers that have pushed their way up through the cracks.

  The girl jumps at my voice and takes a step backwards. She looks older than I originally thought – maybe mid-twenties.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ I ask gently, looking her up and down. She’s tall and thin, her translucent skin so pale I can see the thread of blue veins beneath. Wearing a pair of cut-off denim shorts and a pale-yellow vest top, her silvery blonde hair skims just past her shoulders and her pale eyes are the colour of Ashridge Lake. I can’t see any visible sign that she’s injured.

  She bites her lip and shakes her head quickly, casting glances all around her. I wonder how she got into my garden. The side gate is usually locked, but I don’t like to ask. I don’t want to accuse her of anything in case she takes fright and runs off. She’s obviously upset and in need of some kind of assistance.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  She doesn’t reply. Perhaps she doesn’t understand English?

  I smile to let her know I’m friendly. ‘Can I call someone for you?’ I mime holding a phone to my ear.

  ‘No, please don’t call anyone!’ Her voice is low and somewhat husky, no trace of a foreign accent. She’s as jumpy as a baby rabbit. ‘Please… I…’ She lowers her voice. ‘I’m… it’s stupid, it sounds so dramatic, but I’m in trouble. I need—’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Not exactly trouble, just…’

  I give her what I hope is an encouraging look, but I can’t say I’m not a little shaken by what she’s just said. ‘Yes…?’

  ‘The thing is, I saw you in the paper – you did that fundraiser for victims of domestic abuse, and, well, I know that raising money for charity is different to helping someone in person. But… I really do need some help.’ She exhales and her shoulders droop, as though she’s already defeated. As though she already expects me to say no and send her packing. But she obviously doesn’t know me that well. She doesn’t realise that she’s come to e
xactly the right person. I would never turn away a young woman in need, especially someone who might be in danger from a violent or abusive partner.

  ‘If you need help… if you’re in trouble, then we should probably call the police.’

  She flinches backwards. ‘No, please. Don’t call them. They won’t do any good.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just do, okay!’

  ‘Has someone been hurting you? Because if they have then the best thing would be to talk to—’

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here.’ She turns and starts to walk quickly back along the side of the house.

  I feel bad for scaring her off. If she’s running from someone abusive, I don’t want to make things worse. There’s something about her that tugs on my maternal heartstrings. ‘Hey, come back. I promise I won’t call the police if you don’t want me to.’

  But she keeps going. I watch her fiddle frantically with the gate latch. The sensible part of my brain tells me it’s probably best if she leaves. After all, I don’t know who she is or what she’s running from. I don’t know anything about her. My life is complicated enough without adding a stranger into the mix. But, without thinking, I tell her to wait. I tell her that she can trust me. ‘Look, I won’t call the police, but you’re welcome to come in for a bit, if you like?’

  Her hand freezes on the gate latch. She still has her back to me, but she’s stopped moving.

  ‘Just stay and catch your breath for a few minutes. You could obviously do with a bit of time to regroup.’

  At this, she turns, fresh tears coursing down her cheeks.

  ‘Hey, it’s okay,’ I soothe. ‘Come on. It’s hot out here. You’re obviously upset and in a bit of a state. You can have a quick drink and then leave, if that’s what you want.’

  She doesn’t reply. But she also doesn’t make another move to go. The air is still and quiet. A car door slams in the distance.

  ‘Would that be okay?’ she asks, so quietly I can barely hear her. ‘To have a drink? I’m pretty thirsty.’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  She swallows and wipes her face. ‘It wouldn’t be for long… I just need to get off the road. I need to stop him from…’ But she shakes her head and tails off.

  ‘Come on.’ I gesture to the back door. ‘Come on, come inside.’

  She follows me onto the patio and through the back door into the kitchen. After the sharp morning brightness outside, it feels really dark in here, almost oppressive, and I have to blink a few times to adjust my vision. I gesture to the table for her to take a seat. She does so, pushing her hair out of her eyes and folding her arms across her chest. ‘Thanks. I’m sorry about all this.’ Her lip trembles.

  ‘No need to apologise.’

  ‘But I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have come into your garden. I’ve basically just barged onto your private property. This isn’t who I am.’ Her eyes dart around, taking everything in – the cake ingredients on the table in front of her, the shabby but well-loved kitchen with its chipped counter tops and retro cabinets. She sniffs. ‘I couldn’t think what else to do, where to go. I read about your charity work and then I saw you standing in your doorway earlier, waving your kids off. You looked so nice. So kind. I thought… I don’t know what I thought.’ Her voice is wobbly, yet she’s well-spoken, polite.

  ‘Honestly, it’s okay. We all need some help from time to time. So… is there anything I can actually do to help?’ I don’t remember seeing her in the road earlier. Maybe she was hiding behind one of the trees. ‘Would you like that drink?’

  ‘A glass of water would be good. It’s already pretty hot out there.’

  ‘I’ve got lemonade or orange juice if you’d prefer.’ I make my way over to our big cream-coloured fridge.

  ‘Water’s fine.’

  I grab a glass, drop in a couple of ice cubes and pour some chilled water before taking it over and sitting opposite her. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I watch her as she drinks. Her arms almost don’t look strong enough to lift the glass, but lift it she does, taking big satisfying gulps until it’s empty. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and sets the empty glass on the table.

  ‘Want some more?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Hungry?’

  She shakes her head again, but I notice some hesitation. I’ll make sure to give her some food before she goes.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  She takes a breath. ‘Sophie.’ She looks up and our eyes lock for a moment. I see the pleading expression and my motherly instincts ramp up some more.

  ‘Hi, Sophie. I’m Kelly. Kelly Taylor.’ I know I can’t be more than six or seven years older than the girl, but she seems so much younger than me. What if it was one of my friends or one of my kids who found themselves in trouble? In danger? Wouldn’t I hope that someone would look out for them?

  I wonder what’s happened to Sophie to make her so scared. She must be running from a bad relationship. I suppress a shudder at the thought. I need to get her to open up. To tell me just what kind of trouble she’s in. I wouldn’t be a good person if I simply let her leave without at least trying to help.

  ‘Is there anyone you need to get in touch with? Parents? A partner? A friend? You can use my phone if you like.’

  Her face clouds over and she shakes her head.

  ‘Are you sure? Is there really no one? You’re obviously in some kind of… difficulty.’ I want to suggest calling the police again, or maybe the women’s refuge. But I don’t want to risk her bolting again. If she left now I know I’d worry about her.

  ‘There’s no one.’ Her face darkens.

  ‘Look, Sophie, I’m not going to call anyone if you don’t want me to. But if there’s anything I can do to help then why don’t you just ask. If I can’t do it, I’ll say no. But you may as well ask me. What have you got to lose?’ I know I’m opening myself up to trouble here, but I don’t want to be one of those do-gooders who talk the talk and enjoy the power trip of organising fundraisers, but when someone genuinely needs help, they turn their back. I want to be better than that.

  Sophie looks as though she’s having some internal struggle. Working out whether or not she can trust me. Finally, her shoulders sag. ‘You’re so nice.’

  ‘I have my moments.’ I give her a quick smile.

  ‘Okay, well, I feel really awful asking. I know it’s really cheeky, but, well, I’ve been walking all night and I’m so tired. I just need somewhere to… not to stay, just maybe to hide out for a while.’

  ‘Hide out?’ I’m a little shocked, and a tiny bit nervous. ‘Who are you hiding from? You said you were trying to get away from someone.’

  She bows her head and twists her fingers. ‘I’m sorry, I should probably go. Sorry again for any inconvenience. Thanks for being kind.’ She obviously doesn’t want to answer any of my questions.

  ‘Don’t be daft. You don’t have to leave right now. You can stay a while longer. Keep me company while I make these cakes if you like.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m obviously getting in your way. You’re in the middle of stuff. It’s fine. I’m fine now. Much better. Thanks for the drink.’ She gets to her feet and walks towards the door.

  If she leaves now and something bad happens to her, I’ll never forgive myself. ‘Sophie, I mean it. Come back. You can give me a hand, if it makes you feel a bit better about staying. I could really use the help.’

  ‘You’re just being kind. You don’t really need any help.’

  ‘Honestly, you’d be doing me a favour if you helped me out with these cakes.’

  ‘I’m not really any good at baking.’

  ‘That’s okay, it’s easy, just a bit of stirring. I’ll shout out instructions.’ I give her a grin to try to put her at ease and she rewards me with a lukewarm smile in return.

  Maybe I’ve been a bit foolish letting a strange person into my house, but I always prefer
to trust people. To give them the benefit of the doubt. And this girl is definitely scared. She’s running from something or someone and she needs some kindness.

  As Sophie washes her hands in preparation to help me make my cakes, I take a good look at her face to see if I might recognise her at all. But there’s nothing familiar about her features. She can’t be from around here. I’ve lived in Ashridge Falls all my life, so I know almost everyone, if not personally then at least by sight. And anyway, she can’t be from around here, because bad things like this don’t happen in our town.

  At least not any more.

  Four

  Her footsteps echo down the empty corridor. Past all the empty classrooms. Past the artwork on the walls. Past the posters advertising this weekend’s regatta. It’s all exactly the same as before, but all so different. Everything is different now. She barely pays any of it attention. All she knows is she has to get out of here. She has to escape the cloying disinfected halls of this place.

  Pushing open the heavy fire doors, she steps out into the playground, taking great heaving gulps of fresh air. But the fresh air and blue skies don’t help. She has the feeling that nothing will help. Not ever.

  It’s silent out here. All her friends have gone home already. Why didn’t she go with them? What made her go back inside? She knows what. She knows why. She could have waited until tomorrow to get that history book, but she thought she knew what she was doing. She thought she was in control. So cool and grown-up. But she’s not. She’s stupid. So, so stupid.

  Tears fall hot on her cheeks and her skin burns with shame. With humiliation. What did she do wrong? How did this happen? She’s supposed to come back here next term to start at the sixth form. She was looking forward to the next two years. To getting her A levels and then going off to college. But now… how will she ever be able to face everybody? How will she ever be able to come back to school ever again?