The Friend Who Lied

by Rachel Amphlett

  Kids in brightly coloured uniforms fill the pavements, swarming in and out of shops, dumping their backpacks and sports bags in the doorways, ignorant of the assault course they’re leaving in the way for other customers to navigate through.

  I shove my way past a group of four teenage girls, ignore their mocking sniggers at my cycling gear, and open a refrigerator door. Goosebumps cover my forearms as I reach towards the back of the shelf and wrap my fingers around the last can of energy drink.

  No wonder the kids are screaming and shouting at decibels that would make a death metal band’s eyes water. They’re all sky-high on caffeine and sugar.

  I let the refrigerator door slam shut and elbow my way to the counter, where Mr Khoury is doing his best to stop the next barrage of kids coming in before he’s had a chance to make sure the ones leaving haven’t nicked half his stock.

  We share a weary glance as he applies a bony finger to the button on the till, and then I hand over some coins.

  ‘Put the change in the charity tin,’ I say, and wonder which of the coloured cans on the counter will benefit.

  Probably the local cat shelter. It’s the one that’s the most faded, the most scratched and dented.

  Mr Khoury smiles and holds up the fifty pence piece. ‘Well, it must be the Kidney Foundation, no?’

  My gaze falls to the tin next to the one with white kittens plastered across the front of it and I wonder why I hadn’t noticed it before.

  ‘It’s new,’ says Khoury before I can ask. ‘The daughter of one of my regulars has had a very successful operation this past week. It’s a good cause, isn’t it? Very good cause.’

  Except I can’t hear him anymore because I’m at the door, climbing over bags and trying not to lose my footing as my cleated shoes try to slide out from under me. I shove the can of drink down the front of my jersey and grasp the doorframe with gloved hands, then lurch forwards onto the pavement.

  I’m panting, but not from exertion.

  I reach my carbon-framed bike and breathe a sigh of relief. Both wheels are still attached, and the paintwork is immaculate.

  I loop the helmet straps over the handlebar and pop open the can. It’s half empty within seconds, and a belch erupts before I’ve got time to blink.

  A pensioner scuttles past with a disapproving expression, her mouth turned downwards.

  I mutter an apology, embarrassed because my own grandmother would’ve glared at me the same way, and then glance back towards the convenience shop.

  It’s one of those “early morning through to late at night” businesses. God knows when Khoury and his other half sleep, because one of them is always present, either manning the till, restocking the shelves or standing in the doorway smiling and passing the time of day with anyone who stops to chat.

  It’s a good three miles away from Lisa’s parents’ house though, so what are the chances that her mum shops there? What are the chances Mrs Ashton – Judy – drives all the way over here on a regular basis? What are the chances Mr Khoury was talking about someone else entirely when he dropped my change into the charity tin next to his till?

  But the thought is now crawling through my brain, tiptoeing over synapses and slowly curating a paranoia that I know won’t leave me.

  Not now it’s woven its way into my consciousness.

  I tip back my head and finish the drink before tossing the can into a recycling bin bolted to a nearby lamp post, and unlock the bike. I place the helmet on my head, clip the chin strap into place and then push the bike to the kerb. A bus shoots past, the driver intent on the road in front of him as he accelerates away. I push off and clip my shoes to my pedals, making the most of the drag from the vehicle in front.

  After half a mile of weaving between cars, pedestrians and slower cyclists, I bump the bike up the kerb and join a cycle path the council created a couple of years ago.

  I slow, not for safety but because the winding route takes me along a narrow tree-lined space that always provides a respite from the concrete world over my shoulder after a day’s work. I’ve found it counteracts some of the stress, and I’m hoping to hell it helps now, despite the bare branches above and mottled leaves that cover the path.

  A blackbird emits a sharp retort before skimming across the path in front of me, angling its wings to land at the foot of a fir tree, the canopy shading us both from the weak afternoon sun.

  A shiver crosses my shoulders, and I change gears, picking up speed as I shoot out the other side of the woodland and on to a straight stretch that runs parallel to the train tracks.

  The faded yellow front end of a train appears in the distance, barrelling towards me. I recognise it as one of the three-carriage ones like I used to catch into work before I took up cycling.

  As it swoops past, I catch a glimpse of the passengers’ faces – pale blurs at windows. Some peer at the cycling track, others are bowed, perhaps squinting at laptops or a last futile attempt at the morning’s crossword before home, where they can switch on the evening news and shout at the screen, at the injustices in the world, at all the unfairness and death.

  I grit my teeth and push down on the pedals, forcing another sprint until the pain in my calf muscles threatens cramp.

  I recall a throwaway comment one of my lecturers spouted as we were hustling out of the room one summer’s day at university all those years ago, and I brake hard.

  There’s a muttered curse from behind, and an overweight man in his fifties wobbles past on a mountain bike a size too small for his frame.

  I hold up my hand to say sorry, but he’s already turning the corner of the cycle path. Another moment, and he’s out of sight.

  The words are still going around in my head though.

  Nothing is more wretched than the mind of a man conscious of guilt.

  10

  Lisa

  If it wasn’t for the throbbing ache in my side, I swear I’d be out the door by now.

  I was never any good at doing nothing, and four days post-operation, I’m getting frustrated and bored. I need something to do.

  They moved me back to the main ward this morning. Something about needing the room for someone else.

  I miss the privacy.

  I’ve read the gossip magazines Mum brought in from cover to cover despite the flaky fakery within the glossy pages, tried the hospital radio station, and attempted to read a book.

  And still the woman in the bed opposite me is trying to engage me in conversation.

  I need to get out of here.

  I will my body to heal, to mend itself, to accept the gift it’s been given. A last-minute reprieve from pain, and eventual death.

  I exhale, lie back, and stare at the ceiling tiles, my thoughts returning to my donor.

  Of course, none of us are going to admit it to each other now, but Simon could be a right bastard.

  I chew my lip.

  It was almost comical, the way you could be chatting away to him and then he’d turn to you with a blank expression.

  ‘Hmm?’ he’d say, and raise his eyebrows.

  Sometimes he’d give a slight shake of his head and lean towards you, as if incredulous that you’d dare interrupt him. Usually it was from watching whatever drivel was on the nearest television, even if you were in a pub and the adverts were on at half-time.

  It was almost comical, but mostly infuriating, especially when you realised this was his default position. It wasn’t that he couldn’t hear you; he simply couldn’t care less about what you were saying to him.

  He did it to me one final time, three weeks ago.

  I was desperate by then.

  Bec, Hayley, David and Simon had all had blood tests at the same time in an attempt to try to help me.

  Except when the results came through, only one of them was a match.

  A perfect match.

  I didn’t want to ask him, but the conversation with my specialist the day before had convinced me I no longer had a choice.

  I was going to die,
and Simon was the only hope I had of surviving.

  At least, his kidney was.

  ‘Hmm?’

  I fought down the urge to erupt with anger – or succumb to the tears of frustration and fear that were threatening.

  Couldn’t he see this was important? That my life depended on him?

  ‘They gave me some brochures to explain it all, look.’

  I’d shoved them across the pine kitchen table at him, the rough surface catching on the edge of one of the pages and turning it off-kilter.

  Simon pushed his glasses up his nose before he peered at the glossy offerings, his mouth twisting in disdain.

  ‘They have brochures for this?’

  ‘I guess it helps explain things better for living donors.’

  ‘Helps … right.’ He sighed and cocked an eyebrow as he opened out one of the leaflets.

  I tried to remember when the man I’d spent my final teenage years with had turned into such a cruel person.

  Had he always been like this?

  I’d never seen him physically strike anyone, not even the boys who tried to rile him during those early days at grammar school. After a while they seemed to sense that he wouldn’t stoop to their level of one-upmanship and simply ignored him. As we got older and ended up at the same university, he wouldn’t even contemplate entering a pub if there was the slightest chance that something might kick off.

  No, Simon’s strength was in what he said. Or, more to the point, what he didn’t say.

  He didn’t demand things from people, but he wouldn’t say “please” or “thank you” afterwards, either. He simply expected everyone to bend to his will.

  Why did we all go along with it?

  Maybe it was because we wanted to keep our group together. To not be the first person to raise their voice against him in case it destroyed all our friendships.

  Maybe it was because he knew things.

  About us.

  He knew things about me, that was for sure. Things I never wanted the others to find out in case they ostracised me from the group.

  If he wanted to. If he felt like it.

  I didn’t have any other friends; the thought of socialising with anyone else terrified me. I’d become used to hanging around with the same people for over seven years.

  How was I supposed to start again on top of everything else I’d been going through?

  The thought terrified me.

  ‘Do you want a hot drink?’ I’d asked him.

  ‘Go on, then.’

  I turned away from him, busying myself with making tea – Earl Grey, and none of that supermarket own-brand shit, otherwise he’d never let me hear the end of it.

  The chair scraped across the tiled floor, and then he began to pace, flicking through one brochure at a time before it landed back on the table, creating an untidy heap.

  I swallowed, and concentrated on squashing the teabag against the side of his cup, trying to get the colour of the water to some sort of acceptable tint before adding a splash of semi-skimmed milk.

  The bergamot aroma filled the tiny space, reminding me of summer afternoons and cake frosting at my grandmother’s house, and I fought down the rising panic in my chest as a familiar sound reached me.

  He’d returned to the chair, his shoe tapping the floor. He was bouncing one leg up and down as he concentrated, a tic he’d had since our first mock exams all those years ago. It was when I’d first noticed how anxious he was under the surface, and how hard he worked to keep that anxiety hidden.

  It was why he so often lashed out with his words – to hide his own fears, I suppose.

  I was making excuses for him again.

  I turned away from the kitchen worktop and took the two mugs of tea over to where he sat, placing one before him and taking a seat opposite.

  He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look up to acknowledge me. Didn’t thank me for the tea, of course.

  After five more minutes, I couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

  ‘What do you think?’

  He shook his head, pushed away the mug of tea and rose from his chair, abandoning the leaflets now strewn over the table.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m not doing it, Lisa.’

  He didn’t even apologise before walking out the door.

  11

  Lisa

  They don’t know.

  I haven’t told my parents about that last conversation with Simon, so when they come to see me at visiting time the next day, I force it to the back of my mind.

  They never knew he was a match. They never knew he’d denied me the chance to live.

  Right now, in death, he’s their knight in shining armour and I don’t want to spoil the illusion for them.

  What would I say? Guess what – Simon signed my death warrant?

  Of course, there’s also a grim satisfaction lurking at the back of my mind, one I daren’t voice out loud.

  That I’m alive because of him.

  I sense their presence before they appear; a slight change in the air followed by voices out in the corridor. They are smiling as they enter the ward, and any worries I’ve been hoarding are forgotten as I see their faces.

  Mum stands at the side of the bed and appraises me. ‘Well. Here we are. On the mend at last.’

  Her relief is palpable, and she sinks into the chair Dad pulls over for her with a sigh.

  ‘Have you spoken to them?’

  ‘Who?’ says Mum.

  ‘Simon’s parents.’

  She fusses with the small handbag in her lap.

  Dad runs a hand through thinning close-cropped hair. ‘We haven’t. The specialist team are going to organise a session early next week for you to meet with them. Given that you shouldn’t have known who your donor was, I think they’re in damage control. We didn’t know what else to do, so we agreed to it …’

  His voice drifts off as his hand drops away, and his gaze slides to the tiled floor.

  ‘We wouldn’t know what to say to his mum and dad, anyway,’ says Mum. ‘Not in the circumstances. Not with the police—’

  ‘Have they spoken to you? The police?’

  ‘The day before yesterday. After we came to see you.’

  ‘Why? What did they say?’

  ‘I suppose because of where he died they have to look into things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘It’s all right, love.’ Dad has picked up on the note of panic in my voice and leans forward. ‘It’s probably routine enquiries, as they call it. Because Simon died out of the blue. He didn’t have any health issues, did he?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not that I knew about.’

  ‘Well, there you go then. I expect the coroner wants to dot the I’s and cross the T’s.’

  I try not to snort with bitter laughter. Dad’s fondness for television crime shows means he’s suddenly become a leading expert in police investigations.

  He has a point, though.

  They’ll want to know. They’ll find out eventually.

  ‘They say he was in trouble, financially.’ Mum lowers her voice after glancing over her shoulder.

  There’s no one listening in, but I feel the temperature drop a few degrees regardless.

  ‘Was he?’

  This is news to me.

  Simon was the one who sneered at Hayley’s frivolous clothing purchases, at David’s inability to save twenty per cent of his salary every month towards his house deposit, at Bec’s habit of chiding people for paying back money she’d only recently let them borrow.

  And he hated the fact that I bought my flat while he rented a one-bedroom loft apartment near the train station, almost as if it were a competition to get on the property ladder and he’d lost.

  ‘How do you know?’ I say. ‘Who said he was?’

  Mum shrugs; her default position when she’s been caught gossiping. ‘A few people.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Brenda, who works at the same IT company Simon used to. You know �
�� the woman I go to choir with on Thursday nights. She said he left there because he said it didn’t pay enough.’

  ‘Mum, loads of people leave jobs to get something that pays better.’

  ‘They’re one of the top employers around here. And, Brenda said there was a rumour going around that he had a gambling habit, and that he got fired. He didn’t quit.’

  ‘Really?’

  She’s got my attention now.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She didn’t know – it was just something she’d heard. Where did he end up working after that?’

  ‘He told me he was freelancing.’

  ‘So, he was unemployed?’

  ‘No, Mum. He was juggling a few contracts – and doing quite well out of it, he said.’

  I fall silent, shocked by the news.

  What else didn’t I know about Simon?

  12

  David

  Why an escape room?

  Because it was a distraction – in more ways than one.

  I rub at my tired, scratchy eyes before flicking on the kettle and shoving a heaped teaspoon of instant coffee into a chipped mug.

  When I open the refrigerator, I groan. I forgot to buy milk on the way home yesterday, and there’s no time to walk to the petrol station at the end of the next street to buy some – not if I’m going to get to work on time.

  I check my watch, then glare at the kettle as steam shoots from the spout. I’ll just have to add an extra spoonful of sugar and be done with it.

  As I take my coffee through to the living room, I spot the council tax bill on the small dining table that doubles as a makeshift desk. I was meant to pay it on Monday, but with everything else that has happened these past six days, I’d forgotten that, too. I keep meaning to set it up as a standing order, but haven’t got around to it. Again.

  I put the coffee mug on an upturned sales brochure for double glazing that hasn’t yet found its way to the recycling bin, pull my mobile from my trouser pocket and log into the banking app.