When I met him for the first time at university, I’d felt overshadowed by his personality. He was the one who people gravitated towards; there was something special about him, the way he could coerce anyone with a persuasive self-mocking charm. He used it on girls, he used it on the teaching staff.
He used it on all of us.
And yet, once he realised I wasn’t a threat to his carefully constructed persona and that I simply wanted to walk in his shadow, he mellowed. I became trusted, a confidant, someone he could let into his inner circle without fear of being judged.
Needless to say, I used that to my advantage.
I knew everything about Simon.
I didn’t necessarily want to know, but he couldn’t help himself. Behind that nonchalant persona he carefully pieced together for the benefit of those he wanted to impress was a nervous, bitter, calculating man who used venom and spite to complain about those around him if they didn’t pander to his every whim.
I became the firefighter; the one who poured cold water on the arguments he started, who made excuses for his behaviour, who lied on his behalf. All to earn his approval, his acceptance.
And look where that got me.
I glance around the office.
There are only six of us now, including Martin, after a whole swathe of European customers started fleeing for the Continent, no longer made to feel welcome on our shores and taking their multi-million property development funds with them.
A cost-saving exercise took place, as with so many other businesses. Thankfully, I had a hunch about what was to come and spent the weeks leading up to the redundancies ensuring my colleagues’ work contained errors, that they took time off work with mysterious stomach cramps, or turned up late through some unfortunate circumstances such as flat car tyres.
It worked. I’m still here.
But, it’s depressing. We used to have a laugh working here; now everyone sits with their heads bowed as if trying to make themselves as small as possible so they’re not singled out when the next round of redundancies takes place.
The fear is crippling me.
Maybe I should run away like our customers did, set up a freelance business like Hayley has. Perhaps I could find work in Central or South America, put this last year behind me and pretend none of it ever happened.
Who am I kidding?
I am desperate to talk to Bec.
I need to know what she remembers.
She was always the most sensible one out of all of us, so to see her fall to pieces like this has been a shock. Out of all of us, she was the one who’d experienced the most recent loss, so I expected her to be the one to guide us if things got tough.
I didn’t expect her to fall apart, to accept defeat so easily.
I clear my throat, check my mobile phone is in my pocket, and mutter something about popping out to grab coffees for everyone.
I’m running by the time I reach the stairs.
When I told Simon we’d be meeting at the Ragamuffin Bar before heading to the escape room, he’d sneered.
I had to concur – both of us preferred proper pubs that sold ale using brewing techniques centuries old, but the girls liked that sort of thing and expected something special for our last group outing.
Besides, we’d never been there before.
I’ve timed it right – the cocktail bar has only just opened and the place is quiet, with a lone bartender wiping down the granite bar as I push through the ornate oak-panelled front door.
I have to admit, the decor in here has been completed to a high specification. A rival architectural firm beat Martin to the contract for the shop fit, and the dark wooden flooring provides a striking contrast to the exposed brickwork of the old merchant store.
I glance sideways at the round table next to the window, six chairs arranged around it providing ample opportunity to people-watch the steady stream that crowds past during the lunchtime rush.
That’s where we sat. Simon took the seat with his back to the toilets, insisting he needed to be able to see the bar, window and door at the same time. We’d all rolled our eyes and acquiesced, grumbling under our breath that, wherever we went, he got his way.
The mood had lifted with the first round of cocktails though, Lisa sticking with sparkling water but taking a sip from each of ours.
I swallow, and look away.
A mirror runs the length of the bar behind the till, the shelves in front of it stacked with bottles of vodka, gin, whisky, vermouth and more spirits and mixers than I could ever name.
‘Can I help you?’
The bartender pauses in his cleaning duties and rests both hands on the granite surface he’s been polishing.
‘I’m just checking the place out for my sister’s birthday. It’s her eighteenth. My parents want it to be somewhere they know she’ll be safe.’
‘We rarely get trouble here. It’s not that sort of place,’ he says, and then grins. ‘We find the prices keep potential troublemakers away.’
I smile politely, and wonder how many times he’s uttered those words.
‘Besides,’ he says, and points upwards, ‘the whole place is covered by CCTV.’
‘CCTV?’ My mouth dries.
‘Yes. You know – cameras. Any problems, it’ll capture everything.’ He returns to his polishing, and winks. ‘Your sister will be perfectly safe here.’
I’m not listening. I’ve already turned around, hurrying towards the door, my sweaty palm leaving a streak across the brass plate fixed to the oak surface before I stumble out onto the street.
I inhale, gulping in exhaust fume-filled air to try to calm the panic that begins to seize me.
The Ragamuffin Bar has cameras. I hadn’t even thought of that.
They would’ve seen us at our table that day.
What else did they see?
41
Hayley
The air kiss is as fake as our cheery greetings, but it has to be done.
We haven’t got a choice.
It’s late morning, and it seems the other patients in this part of the hospital partake in a mass exodus towards the refreshments trolley I passed in the corridor and then rush to claim an armchair in here before their relatives arrive.
Bec is smiling when I turn back to her.
‘Isn’t there somewhere else we can talk?’ I say. ‘Somewhere more private?’
‘No.’
Christ, she’s enjoying this. I hitch my bag up my shoulder. ‘How are you?’
‘Better.’
She sounds it, too. This is the old Bec I remember. The savvy one, who had a personal pension, tax-efficient savings account and more, before any of us had even contemplated such things. The one who saved for holidays, shunned credit cards, and looked down her nose at the frivolous purchases I’ve shown her from time to time while citing special discounts at department stores.
Until she and Simon got together two years ago.
We all knew something was wrong, but none of us wanted to be the first to ask.
We were afraid of the truth.
Within six months of their engagement, I noticed a haunted expression in her eyes. She would jump with fright at the slightest unexpected noise – a door slamming, a raised voice, or when her mobile rang while the three of us were having coffee somewhere.
Lisa would roll her eyes, then watch as Bec would scuttle from our table, phone to her ear, her voice low and urgent.
‘Summoned again,’ she would say, her top lip curling.
I don’t think I can ever forgive her now. She was the one who brought him into our circle of friends, after all.
When I later found out they had dated before university, I was livid.
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
Lisa had shrugged. ‘I didn’t think it mattered.’
‘You should have warned us.’
Yes, she should have.
Then we would’ve been able to protect ourselves, try to avoid him, try not to fall for his boyish c
harms and self-deprecating humour.
Instead, we became acolytes.
Lisa, too.
As I watch Bec’s eyes narrow at the sight of the nurse entering the room and stopping to chat with each patient, I wonder why the hell Lisa never told us why she’d split up with Simon before starting university.
I should probably ask her again now that he’s dead. Now that we have nothing to fear from him.
An enormous relief flooded through me that day as I stood staring at his prone body.
Afterwards, I realised I had been clenching my fists so hard, my fingernails had dug into my palms creating crescent-shaped cuts, a temporary reminder of the pain he had caused me.
And so, to Bec.
Because something is niggling at me. Something I have heard in passing.
Or did I imagine it? I’m not sure.
‘Lisa was here earlier,’ Bec says. ‘In fact, you only missed her by five minutes.’
‘Never mind.’ I keep my tone light, try to hide the relief that I don’t have to see her yet. ‘So, when do you get out of here?’
‘Tomorrow, with any luck.’ Her smile falters. ‘Back to reality.’
‘Are you going straight back home?’
‘God, no. I’m never going back there. My dad and brother have already been round there with a van and emptied the place. Sod the last few months’ rent.’
‘Where will you go?’
She snorts. ‘Somewhere a long, long way from here.’
I swallow. There’s no turning back now.
‘Bec? Why did you do this? Why try to end it all?’
Her mouth forms a moue of regret, and then she takes a deep shuddering breath. ‘I’m not sure that I did.’
I frown, confused by her words. ‘You sliced two four-inch scars down your arms, Bec. That seems to me that you wanted to die.’
Her face darkens, and her eyes narrow. A single tear rolls over her cheek, and her words are like acid. ‘I should never have listened to you, you stupid bitch.’
Seconds later, I make my excuses and leave, bereft for a friendship that has been torn apart.
It was never meant to come to this.
My phone vibrates, and I pause to pull it from my bag, wondering if it’s David, wondering if he’s panicking by now.
My smile freezes, and I start to walk, faster this time as I re-read Lisa’s text message.
WHAT DO U REMEMBER ABOUT GREG FISHER? L.
Shit.
With my head bowed and my eyes downcast, it’s not until I’m almost back in the reception area that I hear a familiar voice and raise my head. I gasp, then side-step through lift doors that have almost closed, earning a reprimand from a hospital orderly with an empty wheelchair.
I don’t care.
As the doors swish together, Detective Constable Angela Forbes stalks past me, and she’s heading towards Bec’s ward.
42
Lisa
I don’t go home straight away.
I’m shocked by Bec’s words, by her admission that Simon coerced her into lending him money. I thought we were closer than that; that I was someone she could confide in but it seems I’ve been wrong.
I’ve been wrong about so many things.
I’m angered, too, by her insinuation that I had something to do with Simon’s death.
She has no right to talk to me like that. It’s not my fault he died and I got his kidney.
I leave the bus miles before the one at the end of Mum and Dad’s street, deciding I need to walk the rest of the way.
If I arrive back at my parents’ house with a face like thunder, Mum’s going to start asking questions that I don’t have the answers to, and I don’t need her analysing the argument I’ve just had.
As I wander across the road to the entrance to the Common, the cold November air prickles my flesh, and I tug down my coat sleeves to offset the sudden chill before finding a wooden bench that overlooks the lake.
The toddlers who are usually here with their parents are nowhere to be seen and I savour the mid-week calm as I watch a pair of ducks waddle across the grass.
A sense of unease clutches at my chest as my gaze lifts to the dark water beyond the birds.
The sight of the lake leaves a nauseating sickness in my stomach, and the fine hairs on my arms twitch in anticipation, forming goosebumps on my flesh.
I exhale, and lean back against the wooden slats of the bench.
I try to relax. I remind myself that I’m healthy, that I’ve been given a second chance, and that I have a life ahead of me. No matter how short a reprieve I’ve been given, I intend to do something with it.
With or without the others’ help. I still haven’t heard back from Hayley.
I shove my hands in my pockets and glare at the ducks that are now paddling towards the middle of the pond, their movements casting graceful bow lines across the water.
Despite telling David that I’m house-hunting here in Southampton, I wonder if staying in this area is wise.
Too many people know me now, thanks to that bloody journalist. Even if my boss can give me my job back, I don’t know if I want it.
Bec’s revelation about the money has left me repulsed.
I knew that Simon asked her for the loan.
I knew, because I was with him when he found out that the venture was going to need some capital to push it forward, to seize the opportunities he and his business partner had so carefully laid out in their plans.
Golden rays of light had shimmered through the net curtains of the loft apartment Simon rented next to the river. It cast soft tentacles across the carpet and over the cotton sheets that had crumpled beneath our lovemaking.
His mobile phone squawked an eighties film soundtrack as it vibrated across the bedside table, rousing us from a sex-induced slumber.
Mollified by too many tequila shots the night before, I slipped out from under his arm as he answered the call and padded through to the bathroom, rummaging through the cupboards until I found some soluble painkillers and made my way out to the kitchen.
I knew I shouldn’t have done it. I knew it was a mistake to go out for drinks with him while Bec was away. We’d been circling each other for weeks, laughing about old times, things we used to do when we dated. A chance encounter at a bar in town on the way home from work was all it took.
I filled two glasses with water from the tap, tipped a measure of the powdered solution into each and wandered back to the bedroom.
Simon was sitting up in bed, his dark hair dishevelled and his green eyes flashing with excitement.
He gulped the water, slammed the glass on the bedside table and then pulled me into the sheets with him, laughing.
‘This is my chance, Lisa. I’m going to leave all the others in my wake, you bloody watch me. If I can borrow some money off Bec to get us started, I’ll be rich in no time.’
I found out I was pregnant when I missed my period later that month.
We met at a pub on the other side of town, far away from where either of us lived, and nowhere Bec knew. Simon wanted to meet in a café close to his employers – by then he was trying to juggle two jobs at once without his boss finding out about the second one, the joint venture.
I wanted to meet somewhere public. I knew what his temper was like when he wasn’t in control.
As it was, he sat staring at the table for a moment, silent.
His jaw clenched, and then he pushed his pint away. ‘You’ll have an abortion, of course.’
‘Yes.’
I’d already decided that I would, but his statement still had the power to shock.
‘And not around here, either,’ he continued. ‘Go private, not on the NHS. We don’t want a record of it. You’ll have to pay for it. All of my money’s wrapped up in this venture now.’
I nodded, my throat raw.
‘Lisa?’
I met his gaze, hopeful for some sort of apology from him, or acknowledgement that I was frightened.
‘I
f you ever tell Bec, I’ll kill you.’
He pushed back his chair and left the pub.
I went up to Glasgow for the abortion. Told everyone it was a work weekend away. Team building.
Months later, I’d put my growing sickness down to the after-effects of the abortion. It was common, they said. You’ll get over it, they said. You’ll feel better in no time.
Then I received my diagnosis. I needed a kidney transplant, and soon.
It was retribution, I thought. The universe’s way of punishing me for what I’d done.
I hug my arms around my stomach and close my eyes as another thought crosses my mind.
I’m glad he’s dead.
43
David
I leave my bike chained within its rack in the car park under the office and instead take the bus across town to Hayley’s place.
On the way, I hang on to the thought that we’re friends, that she’ll forgive me.
I use my sleeve to wipe the condensation from the window and peer out at a ragged sky, clouds tumbling over each other as a dark band of rain sweeps across the distant countryside, and then glance down at my mobile.
She won’t answer her phone. After three rings, it goes through to voicemail. After leaving a message, I decide I’m not leaving any more. I need to speak to her in person.
And yes, I’ll apologise.
I’ll do anything to make this right, because we need each other right now.
There’s no other way.
My thumb hovers over another name on the display.
Fuck it, I think, and hit the call button.
‘West City Hospital Trust. How may I direct your call?’
‘I’d like to be put through to the Carmichael Ward, please.’
‘One moment.’
I glare at a teenager sitting picking his nose in the seat opposite mine. The bus slows for the next stop and I decide to walk the rest of the way. I’m nervous, cooped up like this and dependent on someone else’s schedule.
I huddle under a shop awning as the old bus belches black and grey exhaust fumes before disappearing into the traffic, then press the phone closer to my ear as the call is connected.
The Friend Who Lied Page 15