The Friend Who Lied

by Rachel Amphlett

  Water.

  I scrunch up my eyes as an image of the lake surfaces.

  ‘Nearly there.’

  The driver’s voice jolts me to the present, and I stare wide-eyed between the front seats, gripping the passenger seat headrest so hard, my knuckles turn white.

  Is this the right thing to do?

  Should I be doing this?

  The taxi slows to a crawl and I realise we’re here, the driver craning his neck along a line of cars to our left, trying to find somewhere to pull over for a moment so he can collect his fare.

  Fare.

  I rummage in my purse, and glance at the meter on the dashboard. I want to use cash, not my card. I want to—

  What?

  Cover my tracks.

  Don’t leave a trace.

  Stay anonymous.

  All of that, and more.

  I shove a ten pound note at the driver, tell him to round it up to eight quid, and shove the change in my purse before launching myself from the car.

  Slamming the door, I hurry across to the doorway of a second-hand bookshop. The sign on the door says it’s closed at the moment, which suits me.

  I need a moment to just stand and think.

  The taxi pulls into traffic, splashing through an oil-slicked puddle and disappearing from sight. The pavement here is deserted. Away from the popular shops, away from the crowds.

  I’m alone.

  Peering up at the sky, I wrinkle my nose and try to work out if the rain is lighter, and then make my decision.

  I need to look.

  I leave the shelter of the bookshop doorway and turn left.

  There were no parking spaces further up the road, so the taxi driver has left me a hundred metres or so from the escape room.

  As I approach, I keep my eyes to the ground, wary of where I step; the cracked concrete pavers here are chipped and broken, slippery from dirt and grease that has mixed with the rain.

  I don’t want to stumble and fall.

  Opposite, the Ragamuffin Bar is quiet, its Georgian exterior lit up with spotlights that entice people to stop, to come inside, relax. There are no people sitting at the tables in the windows, though.

  I frown, trying to clutch at a memory that teases at the back of my mind, but it’s gone before I get the chance to wrap my thoughts around it.

  Turning my attention back to this side of the road, I stop.

  There are boards across the front door of the A-Maze Escape Room. Two thick, wooden planks each the width of my hand have been nailed diagonally over the entrance.

  A notice sealed in a plastic wallet has been fastened on the cross section.

  I step closer, confused, until I read the words, and realise I’m not going to get the answers I’m seeking here.

  CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

  46

  Bec

  It’s been nearly twenty hours since I last saw DC Angela Forbes, so when she pushes open the door to the interview room and holds it open for my solicitor, I’m taken aback by the relief that courses through me.

  It’s quickly replaced by suspicion.

  Where has she been?

  Who has she spoken to?

  What does she know?

  She waits until my solicitor, Bernard Lamont, sits next to me, the chair scraping across the tiled floor setting my teeth on edge, and then nods to her younger colleague.

  She waits until he hits the “record” button on the machine next to us, then goes through the formalities. His name is Tom Darke, apparently.

  Forbes opens a manila folder on the table in front of her and shoves a page towards Lamont. ‘That’s the formal authorisation you were seeking from the hospital. It appears your client’s medical team agree that she’s in a fit state to be questioned, so we’ll recommence, shall we?’

  She doesn’t wait for him to respond. Instead she turns to me, her teeth bared in a crocodile smile.

  ‘As we were saying when we last spoke, Rebecca. Where did you go after being interviewed here?’

  I’ve already spoken to Lamont while Forbes wasn’t around. I told him what I’m about to tell Forbes. I told him my suspicions, too, but he held up his hand.

  ‘We might not need to go there,’ he said.

  Now I clasp my hands on the table in front of me. Another Lamont suggestion. Apparently, I’m too expressive.

  ‘I went around to see Lisa,’ I say. ‘I hadn’t seen her since her operation because I was here, talking to you.’

  I keep eye contact with her, determined to make her see I’m telling the truth.

  ‘How long were you there for?’

  ‘About half an hour. Her mum let me in – she was going out shopping with a friend – and I left when she returned. So, yeah, about thirty minutes.’

  Forbes leaned forward. ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Not much. Obviously, I was concerned for her health, and I wanted to know how the operation went. Lisa was upset that I hadn’t visited her in hospital but then when I explained why I couldn’t, she calmed down.’

  ‘Was she angry?’

  I shake my head. ‘Frustrated, that’s all.’

  ‘And when you left? Where did you go then?’

  ‘I drove home.’

  ‘Did you go straight home?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did. I needed a shower and I needed to rest. You’d kept me here for nearly twenty-four hours.’

  Forbes leans back in her seat and raises an eyebrow at her colleague. ‘You didn’t shower and change before seeing Lisa?’

  ‘Her house was on the way back to mine. I wanted to make sure she was all right.’

  ‘You mean you wanted to find out what she remembered.’

  I swallow. I’m not going to answer that.

  ‘Detective, if you have a specific question you’d like to ask my client, then do,’ says Lamont. ‘But please don’t make spurious statements.’

  Forbes sneers at my solicitor and then turns her attention back to me. ‘What did you do when you got home?’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  I exhale, and let out some of the tension I’ve been bottling up. ‘When I opened the back door—’

  ‘The back door?’

  ‘I didn’t want my neighbour to see me, all right? I didn’t want her asking me questions, or spreading rumours to the other neighbours. She gossips.’

  ‘That would be… Mrs Dawson?’ Forbes checks her notes.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘So, I cut through the alley at the back and came in that way. Like I said, the kitchen stank – the bins needed to be emptied. I cleaned up, and then tried to watch some TV before I went to bed. I couldn’t sleep, so I came downstairs and played games on my phone for a bit. Before I knew it, it was morning. I was still a bit woozy – I drank too much wine during the night, I think, so I decided to have a soak in the bath.’

  ‘And you took a kitchen knife with you?’

  I lower my gaze to the table and rub my thumb over a cut in the wooden surface.

  Did I?

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Tell me what you do remember.’

  ‘I filled the bath, and while I was doing that I thought it’d be a good idea to listen to some music as well. To calm me down.’

  ‘Did you lock the back door?’

  ‘What?’

  She rests her arms on the table and leans towards me. ‘Did you lock the back door before you went upstairs?’

  I frown. ‘Yes. Yes, I did. I always do if I’m going to spend any time upstairs.’

  ‘Okay. So, you’ve got your bath running and your music playing. What happened next?’

  ‘I – I got in the bath, I suppose.’

  ‘What were you listening to?’

  ‘Just a random playlist. Favourite tracks, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Did the water get cold?’

  ‘I—’

  I don’t remember.

 
I don’t remember letting the water get cold. I remember topping it up and sloshing the water around so the bubbles would form again without having to put more of the bath soak in, the scent of berries filling the room as the mirror steamed up.

  ‘How long were you in the bath before you decided to cut your wrists open?’

  Forbes hasn’t waited for my answer to her last question, so this next one takes me aback.

  I’m not ready for it, not prepared. I close my eyes and try to focus.

  I don’t remember deciding to end it all.

  What I do remember is vowing never to drink Pinot Noir again, and I remember going upstairs to run a bath so I could relax and mull over my options.

  I remember the sensation of a breeze on my neck as I lay back in the bath, and wondering if I’d left a window open somewhere.

  Because I’d definitely, absolutely, locked the back door.

  My eyelids fly open.

  Hadn’t I?

  47

  Lisa

  How did we get to this?

  We were close-knit once. Thick as thieves, people said at university. We had dreams, plans for the future.

  Bec’s words stung me, hit me hard. Now I want to talk to her again, to find out why she felt the need to lash out like that.

  All of us, the ones who are left, are circling each other like opposing magnets. We get close, but not close enough to let down our defences.

  Why not?

  I press the entry for Hayley’s mobile number, but it goes to voicemail again. Why is she ignoring me?

  Has she argued with Bec as well?

  I need to speak to both of them, and soon. Finally, the effects of the general anaesthetic have left my system and the fog that has clouded my thoughts since the transplant operation has lifted, but there’s something else.

  Something blocking my memory of that afternoon in the escape room.

  I don’t leave another message for Hayley. If she doesn’t want to talk to me then there’s not a lot I can do about it until she comes to her senses.

  A flash of movement outside the front window catches my eye, and my heartrate ratchets up a notch. Has that journalist found out where I live?

  I’m on my own, and not sure I can cope with another barrage of questions.

  The doorbell rings, and I take a breath before moving from the living room to the hallway. If it is the journalist, then I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. I’m going to—

  David is standing on the doorstep, his hair dishevelled and his phone in his hand.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘Everything all right?’ he asks.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Are your mum and dad out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is it this time? Let me guess – another cinema trip, right? Period drama?’

  ‘Ha ha. No, some sort of biopic about a rock band.’

  ‘Well, well, well. I’d have never have thought it of them. Can I come in?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I step to one side and slam the door after him, the frosted glass shuddering from the impact.

  ‘You seem tense.’ He’s frowning, his head cocked to one side. ‘Everything okay?’

  I wrap my arms around myself. ‘I thought you might’ve been that journalist. The one who was at the hospital.’

  ‘Has he been pestering you since?’

  ‘No.’ I force a smile. ‘I’m just being paranoid. Have you been to see Bec?’

  He frowns. ‘No. Apparently, I missed visiting hours. I didn’t know they were letting anyone in yet.’

  ‘Yes, only yesterday. I just happened to be over there having some more tests when I bumped into her parents. They told me the nursing staff were happy with her recovery, so I went in.’

  ‘Why hasn’t Bec phoned me?’

  I put my hands up to placate him. ‘Hey, it’s probably nothing to worry about. I’d imagine she’s still exhausted from everything.’

  ‘Her parents could’ve called me. After all, it was me who saved her.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I’ve been trying to phone Hayley and Bec today and neither of them are answering. Just keep trying. I’m sure you’ll get through eventually.’

  He’s pacing the carpet now, his face downcast and his eyes roaming the gold flecked pattern amongst the russet yarn. He seems on edge, angry.

  ‘Did you want to see me about something? It’s just that I was going to make some phone calls to see if I could start viewing some houses later in the week.’

  I’m lying through my teeth, but his demeanour is making me nervous, and I don’t know why. I move to the front door and reach out for the handle.

  I don’t make it.

  His hand shoots out and slaps mine away, and I cry out with shock.

  ‘Wha—’

  ‘Don’t do that.’

  He shoves me aside, and stands with his fists clenched at his side, his eyes flicking to the living room and back.

  It’s like he’s half here, half not. As if he’s—

  ‘Your transplant. It was meant to save your life.’

  I frown. ‘It did.’

  ‘But you told me you might only live for another ten years.’

  ‘David, what’s going on?’

  ‘You were meant to live. For a long time.’ He rubs his hand across his jaw, then mutters under his breath and peers through the frosted glass in the door.

  ‘What did you say?’ I take a step closer, narrowing my eyes.

  His gaze snaps back to me. ‘I said, it changes everything.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘My plan. My plan for us.’

  ‘Us?’ I choke out a laugh, heat rising in my cheeks. ‘David, there is no us. Where on earth did you get that impression from?’

  He bares his teeth at me, and I side-step, holding up my hands. He moves closer, and I whimper.

  His brown eyes are piercing, boring into me. I wonder how I never realised how much evil was in the depth of that gaze, before a new realisation hits me.

  ‘You killed him. You killed Simon, didn’t you?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No, that’s not true. Not really.’

  ‘But you’ve just said it yourself. You—’ I stumble backwards, my heel catching the bottom stair tread. I land on my backside, jarring my spine but I’m numb, blood rushing in my ears. I can’t process what he’s said. ‘Why?’

  I don’t recognise the voice; it’s high-pitched, hysterical, terrified.

  Mine.

  He moves then, too fast for me to react, and drags me onto the floor, straddling his legs either side of my body, running his eyes over me.

  I yelp as his thigh knocks against my wound, but he doesn’t react to my cry of pain. I try to wiggle free, to loosen my wrists from his grip so I can attack his face, but I don’t have the strength.

  Instead, his eyes are dead, his gaze boring into me and I realise I’m fighting for my life.

  ‘Why?’ I say, choking out the words.

  ‘You should have left it alone, Lisa,’ he says, his voice dull. ‘That was what we all agreed.’

  48

  David

  In an instant, I’m back there, back at the lake, back at university that first winter.

  I let Simon think it was his idea, of course. A suggestion here and there in the days leading up to it.

  That despite his slight build, Greg was stronger, faster. That Greg could probably beat him.

  That Greg had told me he could.

  I chipped away, bit by bit, until finally—

  ‘Let’s have a race.’

  We were in a pub across the road from the Common, debating what to do during the half-term break. Out of ideas and bored, we weren’t yet ready to call it a night, but getting close.

  Simon slammed his empty pint glass onto the chipped varnish of the table and belched. He looked at each of us in turn.

  Bec frowned. ‘A race?’

  ‘Not you, of course.’ Simon pointed to Gr
eg, then me. ‘Just the boys.’

  ‘What sort of race?’ said Greg.

  The smile that formed at the corner of Simon’s mouth didn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘A special race.’ He pushed his glass out of the way and leaned his arms on the table, not noticing the pools of condensation leaching into his pale-grey sweatshirt. ‘Two circuits of the lake. Tonight. Bet you can’t do it.’

  Bec twisted in her seat and peered through the window. A Unibus drove past, its headlights picking out the fine snow that had started falling as we made our way to the pub a couple of hours before.

  ‘You’ll freeze,’ she said.

  ‘Not if we keep moving,’ I said.

  Simon reached over and shook my shoulder. ‘See, even you’re tempted.’

  I smiled. ‘I’d beat you.’

  ‘Oh – fighting talk.’

  The others laughed, but I noticed Greg didn’t join in.

  ‘What do you reckon, Fisher?’ said Simon. ‘Think you can beat me?’

  ‘I reckon he could,’ said Lisa. She leaned into him, nudging him gently with her elbow.

  Greg smiled down at her and winked.

  I clenched my fists under the table, out of sight and forced myself to relax my jaw.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ said Bec, and shivered. ‘Look at it out there.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Hayley.

  ‘It’s boys only,’ said Simon.

  ‘Scared I’ll beat you?’ She jutted her chin out.

  She’s drunk, and unaware of how loud she is.

  ‘You can join in, if you want,’ I say, in an attempt to mollify her.

  ‘Awesome,’ said Hayley. She twisted her glass of vodka and tonic in figures of eight on the table, leaving a trail of condensation. ‘We’d have to be careful. If we get caught, the university might kick us all out. They have rules about this sort of thing.’

  ‘So, we don’t invite anyone else,’ said Simon. He peered past Greg towards the bar.

  A group from the business school were spread around two tables under the television, their attention taken by a highlights programme of an Ashes test match being played in Adelaide, and no one was looking at us.