‘True.’
She goes back to staring out the window, and I wonder if I’ve made an error in judgement, and then she turns back to me.
‘I never thanked you.’
‘Thank me?’
‘For all this. Driving me around, coming to see me in hospital and at home.’
‘It’s the least I could do. You’d have done the same for me, right?’
‘Yes.’ She shuffles in her seat, resting her head against it and angling her legs sideways.
‘You okay?’
‘Just getting comfy. My abdomen gets sore still if I sit in one position for too long.’
‘How long did your specialist say you have to wait until you can start moving around more?’
‘Another six weeks before I can do anything strenuous, but I can start walking every day to build up my strength.’
‘Maybe you could come cycling with me when you’re ready and it warms up? There are some great routes around here.’
She laughs. ‘Come on. Don’t you remember what I was like at uni? You’re talking to the person who fell off her bike braking at the zebra crossing opposite the business school. God, I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life.’
‘I could get you some training wheels.’
It’s great to hear her laughing again. It reminds me what it used to be like, the five of us taking the piss out of each other. Before life got in the way.
Before death got in the way.
The road winds through a wooded area, and then follows a shallow incline into a picturesque village. The pub is on the corner, past a Norman church. It’s a few miles out of the city, but worth the detour. It’s a gorgeous spot – and quiet.
‘Look, I’ll drop you outside while I park the car round the back. Save you walking.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
She plucks her bag from the footwell and eases out the car once I’ve pulled to the kerb.
By the time I’ve found a parking space behind the sixteenth-century pub and pushed open the thick wooden door into the bar, she’s chatting to the landlord and two businessmen who are nursing pints of bitter.
The sweet aroma of burning logs from the open fire fills the air, and I shrug off my coat as the warmth begins to take effect.
Lisa turns as I join her, and smiles up at me.
‘This was a great idea.’
‘Good.’ I catch the landlord’s attention. ‘Half a bitter, and a small glass of Shiraz, please.’
I pay and then we wander over to a table that’s next to the window, pale sunlight streaming through the glass. There’s a window seat upholstered in soft fabric, and we opt to sit there rather than on the hard chairs on the other side of the table.
Lisa props herself up with some cushions and reaches out for the glass of wine.
‘Cheers,’ I say, clinking my drink against hers. ‘Here’s to a continued speedy recovery. And training wheels.’
‘Cheers.’ She takes a tentative sip, then sets the glass down. ‘Oh, I’ve missed that.’
‘What’s next for you, then? Now that your health is on the up?’
‘I’ve been looking at houses.’
‘To buy, or rent?’
‘To buy. I did all right selling my place last year when all this kicked off but I can’t wait to get out of Mum and Dad’s place.’ A wry smile crosses her features. ‘They’ve been great, they really have, but—’
‘You need your own space.’
‘Yeah. I need my independence back now.’
I sip the beer, mulling over her words.
‘If you need a hand going to look at places, I can help.’
‘You’ve already done too much, really. I don’t want to take the piss and keep asking you to help me.’
‘I don’t mind, honest. It’ll be a few weeks before you’ll be allowed to drive anyway, won’t it?’
She takes another sip of the wine, then, ‘I suppose so. What about your work? Won’t they mind?’
I think of the architectural practice in town where I’m cooped up five days a week when I can’t convince them to let me work from home, and then shake my head. ‘I haven’t used much annual leave these past twelve months. They can’t stop me from taking some time off. Safer, too for you. I don’t like the idea of you looking at places on your own.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘Positive. Just call me when you have something lined up to look at, and we’ll go. It’ll be good if there are two of us as well. We’ll probably come up with different questions for the agent, and it might help with the negotiating if they think they’re up against two of us.’
‘True. Okay, thanks.’ She puts down the glass and picks up her handbag. ‘Back in a minute.’
‘Everything okay?’ I can’t stop the alarm in my voice. After all, this was my idea. What if the wine has done something? What if—
‘I need to pee.’
She winks, scoots across the window seat, and makes her way towards the ladies’ toilets.
The two men at the bar turn to watch her as she passes, and I smile.
The Lisa Ashton I know is back, that much is certain.
36
Lisa
I shine the torch into the far recesses of the garage, and curse under my breath as I realise the box I want is, of course, the one at the back.
Placing the torch on top of an old filing cabinet that Dad uses to store his car cleaning kit and fishing tackle, I squint in the remaining light from the single bulb that dangles from a wire in the rafters, and wipe my dust-streaked hands on my jeans.
I know I shouldn’t be in here. I know I shouldn’t risk pulling a muscle or worse, but there’s something in that box.
Something that fills me with hope – and fear.
Hope, because I desperately need some answers for the questions that keep me awake at night.
Fear, because I’m scared what those answers might be.
I sneeze, but bite back the twist of pain. I need to be left alone.
I glance over my shoulder to the door, but no one appears. Mum and Dad are watching a true crime documentary on TV, and they think I’m upstairs reading.
As if I could concentrate on words spilling across a page right now. This is all I’ve been thinking about in the hours since David dropped me back here.
I glare at the boxes.
There are eight in total, each about the size of one of those old style tea chests. There are two stacked one on top of the other to my right, another two stacked on my left. In front of me, under a window that would look out over the back garden in daylight if it weren’t for the thick cobwebs strewn across the panes, are the other four boxes.
It is the one on the far left that I need to get to. The one on which I wrote “Misc Stuff” in thick black felt-tip pen all those months ago when I sold my flat – my sanctuary – and moved back here.
I take a step back as plastic rustles, then stoop to pick up the black bin liner.
Deciding that if I was going to come out here and rummage through the boxes, I reasoned with myself that I should make a start sorting through all this. If I was going to move out, going to move on with my life, then some of the old things I’d clung to should probably be donated to a charity – or thrown away.
I packed these boxes in a hurry.
The flat was sold quickly; I hadn’t the health or the time left to haggle for a better price although I’d done all right out of it, and the new owners wanted to move in within six weeks.
I refused help from my parents, David, Bec, anyone who offered to pack my things for me.
It was painful, to accept my ailing health and with it, my independence.
Packing my belongings, admitting defeat in not being able to care for myself any longer, was a way for me to mourn.
I sniff, and then eye the box of Misc Stuff once more.
‘Right,’ I say, with more determination than I feel.
My voice sounds loud in this tight, enclosed space but Mu
m and Dad won’t hear.
The garage is separate from the house, accessed across a concrete paved path that runs from the back door of the house down to the garden shed, a clothes line following its length.
I turn and survey the two boxes to my left. If I can sort through the contents of these, lifting out a bit at a time, I’ll be able to get to the one I need at the back there without having to climb over or trying to lift it towards me.
I square my shoulders. No doubt my bravado has been aided by the second glass of wine I decided to have earlier with David at the pub, but I’m determined now.
I push against the top box and am relieved to find it isn’t full. I take a deep breath, then shuffle it towards me. Although the muscles in my abdomen protest, it’s not as bad as I thought.
I peer around the sides of it until I can see my scrawl: “Linen”.
Easy.
I let the box crash to the floor, safe in the knowledge nothing will be broken. One down, one to go.
I shove the box of pillowcases, bath towels and duvet covers to one side and peer at the side of the second box.
“Ornaments”.
Bollocks. This will be a while. There’s absolutely no chance of lifting it, and it’s going to take ages to go through everything inside.
I use my house key to slice through the tape that holds the lid in place and then start to work my way through each bundle of coloured tissue paper. A lot of this will go in the charity bag: kitsch knick-knacks from holidays abroad, mementoes from gift shops that I’d picked up from doing walks along the coast path between West Bay and Lyme Regis one summer, and vases I no longer like the look of. Then there are the shells, sea glass, and stones I thought were interesting at the time. These I will take outside and dot around Mum’s garden tomorrow when it’s light.
An hour later, I lean against the filing cabinet and wipe sweat from my eyes.
The black bin liner is now half full, and an exhilaration fills me as I realise I did this. Two weeks ago, I didn’t have the energy to even contemplate anything like it.
I check my watch. It’s half past nine, and Mum and Dad’s TV programme will end soon. I need to get a move on.
I know I don’t want their help with this. What’s in that box at the back under the window is something I have to find on my own.
I push away from the cabinet and run my hand across the top of a half-full wine rack as I make my way to the back of the garage once more.
Nearly there.
My legs shake as I pull the box of remaining ornaments across the concrete floor, and I know I’m reaching my physical limits tonight. The after-effects of a general anaesthetic, the trauma my body has been through, and the cocktail of drugs I must take for the rest of my life – not to mention the wine earlier – are taking their toll, but I won’t give up.
I can’t give up. Not yet.
The key slips from my grip as I move to slice the tape across the box full of “Misc Stuff”, and falls down the side next to the wall with a tinkle of brass on concrete.
‘No!’
I’m horrified. I need that key. There are no scissors on the shelves over by the door, and Dad doesn’t keep his knives with the bait and tackle supplies. I wouldn’t know where else to search for something sharp amongst all the clutter in here.
I don’t want to return to the house in case Mum sees me and asks what I’m doing moving boxes around in my state.
I snatch up the torch and shine it at my feet, then move the beam to the left as something catches my eye near the bottom of the box.
Thank God.
The key protrudes from the box and the wall, just enough that I can pinch the end between my fingers and drag it out.
I try not to imagine the spiders that must be behind there as I dust a cobweb from the key and then rip it along the tape before I risk dropping it again.
Sliding the key back into my jeans pocket, I pull open the flaps of the box and peer inside.
It’s exactly what I’d hoped.
I had a two-bedroom flat, and used the smaller front upstairs room as an office. I say office, but the space was mostly a receptacle for things that didn’t belong elsewhere or I didn’t want to leave in the damp garage at the back of the building with an old roll-up door and a dodgy lock.
These items used to jostle for space on one of two squat bookshelves that had been in that room.
As I kneel and reach inside, my fingers wrap around the first of the paperbacks I’d tossed on top of everything else as an afterthought, and then some framed certificates – including my bachelor’s degree.
I frown as a memory resurfaces – it’s not what I was expecting, and I sit back on my heels in surprise, still clutching the framed degree certificate.
I run my gaze over the bright colours of the embossed coat of arms, the signatures flourishing above names I’ve forgotten, and the honorary award I’d achieved through sheer determination and effort.
I remember I lost myself in my studies after that first winter.
I put the frame to one side and keep rummaging.
It’s in here. I know it is.
Five minutes later, trying not to get distracted by the other forgotten treasures that I discover, I open a manila file that was once green and is now faded. It has an old coffee stain on the front of it.
My heart rate spikes as I leaf through the newspaper cuttings from my graduation ceremony. The local press photographer managed to capture the moment Bec and I had caught each other’s mortarboards as they’d tumbled from the air and we were grinning at each other maniacally, but it’s the newspaper clipping underneath this one that makes me gasp.
I was right.
It’s yellowed with age – after all, it’s over seven years old – but the black bold headline is as shocking now as it was then.
UNIVERSITY STUDENT MISSING. POLICE APPEAL FOR INFORMATION.
37
Hayley
He’s got a bounce in his step as he winds his way between the tables in the café over to where I sit.
I picked somewhere different for today’s meeting. Somewhere that I’m not known. I’m hoping the change of scenery works for my nerves.
He leans down, kisses me on the cheek, and then sinks onto the seat next to me and reaches out for the menu.
‘What are you having?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Been waiting long?’
‘No, I only got here fifteen minutes ago. I thought I’d get a table at the back so we can talk in private. It’s busier than I thought it’d be.’
He looks up from the extensive list of cooked breakfast options and casts his gaze around the café, then back to me. ‘Paranoid?’
I glare at him. ‘How come you’re so happy?’
‘Nothing.’
I hate this, this sing-song tone in his voice that means he knows something I don’t, and he knows in turn that it riles me. I bite back the retort that is already forming and instead look up as a waitress wanders over.
‘Ready to order?’
He doesn’t offer to let me go first.
‘I’ll have the full English and a cappuccino, please.’ He smiles at her, all charm and swagger. ‘And could I have an extra sausage?’
‘No problem, love. And for you?’
‘Eggs Benedict, please, and coffee – black.’
She whisks the menus from our hands, assures us the food will be with us as soon as possible – there’s a lull in activities in the kitchen – and then leaves us to it.
I have to tell him. I have to let him know. That’s what we agreed.
‘That police officer, Forbes, came to see me again yesterday.’
His head snaps round to face me, his ogling of the group of girls near the front window forgotten. ‘Why?’
‘She said she was just following up. Routine enquiries. I don’t know.’
He holds up a hand to stop me as the waitress approaches with our coffees.
We make the appropr
iate noises of thanks, add sugar and wait until she’s out of earshot.
He leans forward, his voice low. ‘What did she ask you?’
‘Whether I’d been to see Lisa since she left hospital. What we spoke about, what our friendship was like.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told her the truth, didn’t I? We’ve known each other since the first year at university. Studied marketing and business subjects together. Blah, blah, blah.’
His eyes narrow. ‘What else did she want to know?’
‘They got the post-mortem report.’
‘I know.’
I don’t expect that, and I’m caught off guard. ‘How did you know?’
‘I have my ways.’
‘Has she spoken to you as well?’
‘Not yet.’
‘So, how do you know?’
Shit. The waitress is heading back our way, carrying two plates laden with hot food, and the moment is lost. I unwrap the cutlery, spread the paper napkin over my trousers and add a generous sprinkling of black pepper to the hollandaise sauce.
He’s already tucking into his breakfast with aplomb, shovelling the food into his mouth as if it’s the last meal he’s going to get this week.
My top lip curls at the sight.
Halfway through our meal, I try again. ‘They say he died of a heart attack. I thought he just hit his head.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I didn’t know he had a heart problem, did you?’
‘No. Maybe he didn’t know. A lot of people don’t.’
‘I suppose so.’
I can’t eat any more. My stomach tightens, and I know it’s because this is the first real food I’ve had in too long. I need to be careful, otherwise I’m going to make myself sick. I lower the knife and fork to the plate, dab my lips with the napkin and then toss it over the leftover food and lean back in my seat while he finishes his.
‘Do you think they’ll leave us alone now, then?’ I finally say. ‘Now that they know?’
He scrapes the last of the tomato sauce from the plate with his knife, licks it and then shoves the plate to one side and folds his arms on the table, his hands wrapped around his coffee cup. ‘Probably. Not a lot else they can do, is there?’
The Friend Who Lied Page 13