Bright Lies: A Chilling Psychological Thriller

by AA Abbott

  “Wow.”

  It’s a picture of me and Mum on their wedding day. David has flattered both of us. Despite the froth of lace, she’s thinner than in real life, her hair longer. Light reflects off my face, shining from my eyes and the centre of my lips.

  “My golden girls,” David says.

  PART 2 The Muse Breaks Free

  Chapter 12 October 2015 – Emily

  David knocks on the bedroom door. “Ready for supper?”

  “Coming.” I take off my headphones. If he asks, I’ll say I’m listening to music while doing homework. It’s a lie, though. Maths is my worst subject, and the worksheet I’ve been given might as well be a foreign language.

  Down in the kitchen, David is alone.

  “Where’s Mum?” I ask, then remember. “Oh, she’s at her friend’s baby shower, isn’t she?”

  He looks perplexed as he opens the large chrome fridge. “She said she’d left our meal in here. I can’t find it.”

  “It’s that salad,” I say.

  “Yuk. Far too healthy. Fancy ordering a pizza? I won’t tell her if you don’t.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “What would you like?” He tosses the salad in the waste disposal unit.

  When he’s phoned through the Domino’s order, David makes us both a cup of tea and sits beside me at the table. “How’s school?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I mumble.

  “Are you sure?” An eyebrow quirks upwards.

  How does he know? “Not great,” I admit.

  “I used to think school sucked too. Like I’ve said before, I was only good at art. Want to tell me about it?”

  His face is so sympathetic, the words tumble out of me.

  “The work’s so hard. I was trying to do matrices tonight, and they’re impossible.”

  “I can help you with those. I think we both deal with information visually, so if I draw you a diagram, you’ll get the hang of it. Would you let me try?”

  I nod. After all, I have nothing to lose.

  “Bring your homework down in a minute, while we wait for the food. There’s more, though, isn’t there? What else?”

  I can’t meet his gaze. “They call me Turnip Head,” I admit.

  “Who does?” David looks horrified. “The teachers?”

  “The other girls. It’s because I roll my ‘r’s.” A tear creeps down my cheek. “I can’t help it.”

  He reaches out to put an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t let anyone make you think you’re not good enough, Princess. It isn’t true.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Watch me carefully, Princess. This is important.” He stops hugging me and tilts my chin round, so we’re face to face. “When I say ‘r’, my tongue is in the centre of my mouth. You’re probably moving yours up or forward.”

  Self-consciously, I peer at David as he repeats “r” half a dozen times. Being so close to him feels nice: too nice. I dig my fingernails into my palms, afraid I’ll start to blush.

  “Now you try.”

  It doesn’t seem natural, but I manage it.

  “Have another go later. Practice makes perfect. And don’t forget how to roll it, because then you’ll be top of the class in French.”

  “Thanks.” I somehow doubt I’ll be as good at French as David says.

  “No worries. Ignore those mean girls; you don’t need them as friends. Now, how about the matrices?”

  I run upstairs and print the worksheet. By the time I’m back, David has a piece of paper and pen in front of him.

  “Let me see.” He reads the questions. “Think of the matrix as a transformer. If you have a straight line on a graph, the matrix changes it to a different straight line. Like this.”

  He scribbles two rough graphs, and explains the first question to me.

  “I get it.” Excitement and relief bubble through my voice. I beam at David, thinking I mustn’t tell Megan I actually got a thrill from a maths problem. My smile fades as I recall how distant Megan has become. She hasn’t blocked me on social media, but she’s been ghosting me for a week.

  “Good girl.” David pats my hand. “Do the others. When the pizza arrives, we’ll take it to the den. Hide the evidence.”

  It feels like I have a friend after all. Returning to my room, I race through the rest of my homework. It’s finished just as the pizzas and ice cream arrive.

  We carry the boxes to his office. David pulls a couple of chairs up to his desk.

  “You deserve a treat after all that maths,” he says. “Sit down, and I’ll grab some champagne.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t think Mum―”

  David interrupts. “She won’t know, so it won’t hurt her. We’ll keep it between these four walls. Our little secret, Princess.”

  He fetches a bottle and two glasses.

  I giggle. David is fun.

  Chapter 13 November 2015 – Jack

  Kyle rolls a joint. He takes a drag and passes it to Jack. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say.”

  “Yeah?” Jack inhales a lungful of hot, herbal smoke. The shed at the bottom of Kyle’s garden is infused with the smell. It’s a safe space: in winter, no-one else goes there.

  “You’ve been sofa-surfing at ours for two weeks. My dad told me he wants rent.”

  “I can’t afford it.” He’s back working part-time at the burger bar with Kyle, spending most days in Bristol’s Central Library to catch up on his studies. To go to university, he must sit the A levels he didn’t take that summer. Having left school, he missed the registration deadline, and he wasn’t ready for the exams anyway. Instead, he travelled across Britain on the festival circuit, doing odd jobs.

  A friend with a tent took him the first time, when they sold vegan pasties at a rave in Wales. After that, Jack picked up his own tent; it’s amazing what the revellers leave behind. He doesn’t fancy over-wintering under canvas, though.

  “How about twenty quid a week?” Kyle suggests. “I could persuade Dad to take that.”

  “Not if I’m buying you weed as well. And eating.” It isn’t strictly true. Jack gets free food at work, and Kyle knows it.

  Kyle sighs. Evidently, the conversation is more difficult than he expected. “Well. Anyway. You’ll have to be out by Christmas. There’s family coming over from Ireland. We’ll have a house-full.”

  Jack considers asking if he can sleep in the shed, but thinks better of it. There’s no point outstaying his welcome. Truth be told, Kyle’s place is small and overcrowded, and his dad plays too much heavy metal. It’s almost as bad as Ken’s constant homage to Elvis.

  “Give me two days, and I’ll find somewhere else.”

  “No problem.” Kyle’s clearly relieved.

  The drug takes his worries away, which is just as well. Jack has nowhere to go. His Bristol mates have faded into the background or gone to uni. Anyone who might offer a couch in the city is sick of him by now.

  He only needs accommodation for the winter, though. When the weather improves, he can camp out with his festival tent. There are woods near the Suspension Bridge where you can pitch up if you’re careful, and a churchyard in the city centre.

  Meanwhile, he considers his options. He could try a hostel, but having lost a laptop when he stayed in one before, he’s aware there are hidden costs. Maybe he should move from the city. A few of his festival friends are squatting in an old office up north, in Stoke-on-Trent. They’ve offered Jack a room, but there’s no heating.

  Perhaps Ken and Mon would have him back. They might be missing him by now. He’s useful around the house, and his baritone voice can belt out Presley standards better than any of Ken’s buddies. His uncle used to enjoy taking him along to the Elvis Appreciation Society and showing him off. Of course, he looks nothing like the great man, even with a wig.

  Ken took his wages and handed over pocket money. Jack resented that, but he’d be cool with it now. He couldn’t afford weed anymore, but he wouldn’t need to self-medicate
if he was settled in one place again.

  He’ll sound out Katie. She’s unfriended him on Facebook and doesn’t answer calls and texts, but she probably has a new phone or something. He’ll wait outside school for her tomorrow.

  The next day, he’s loitering at the gates at 4pm. It’s raining, softly but persistently. Although he’s wearing a parka, his jeans are soaked. A chill runs through him.

  Two adults, presumably teachers, emerge. They glare at him. He stares back until they walk away.

  Seconds later, like a tsunami, pupils surge through the gates. Jack watches carefully, eyes not missing a single face. He’s looking for Katie’s plaits, but they’re covered by a hood.

  Jack waves as soon as he spots her. She’s talking to a girl he doesn’t know. He’s noticed female friendships are fragile: threads tightening, snapping and being re-stitched somewhere else.

  Katie blanks him, so he calls her name. She looks up for barely a second before turning back to her friend.

  “Katie,” he repeats, standing in front of her now.

  She can’t dodge him, but she shrinks back. “Jack, I’ve been told to stay away from you. You’ll end up in prison one day.”

  “Who?” he asks. “Who told you that, Katie?”

  She casts her eyes around, as if to check no-one’s listening. “Uncle Ken.”

  He won’t be back in his old bedroom any time soon, then. A wave of nostalgia hits him, unexpectedly. He even has a lump in his throat at the thought of the King’s autographed photo greeting visitors over the threshold.

  “I won’t go to prison, Katie, I promise. I’ll always be there for you.”

  A woman in a red trench coat pushes her way through the crush, aided by a matching umbrella with spokes at eye level. She’s taller than Jack; he’s still only five foot eight.

  “Is this man bothering you, Katie?” Her voice is steely, its owner clearly used to getting her own way. Even her purple bob is like a helmet, each strand afraid to step out of line.

  “I’m her brother,” Jack says.

  Behind rimless spectacles, her eyes bore into him. “I see the family resemblance,” she admits reluctantly.

  “Please, Miss Isaac, I don’t want to talk to him,” Katie says.

  “Come back inside the school, Katie. You can phone your parents from the office.”

  “My auntie and uncle.”

  “Sorry. Yes, I remember. Well, hurry up.”

  “Okay.” Katie’s bottom lip twitches. She glances nervously at Jack, then follows the teacher back through the gate.

  “Don’t forget, I’m there if you ever need me,” he calls after his sister.

  He walks away quickly, cutting a swathe through the adolescents milling about. Guilt clutches at his throat. He loves his sister, but it’s plain that he’s part of Katie’s problem rather than the solution.

  Chapter 14 December 2015 – Emily

  David looks up at the kitchen clock. “Midday, and I feel ready for bed. Jet lag’s hitting me.”

  “I’m glad you’re back for Christmas.” I sip my mug of tea, admiring his tan and the way his hair has lightened in the hot Thai sun.

  “Me too. Did Rachel leave anything for our lunch?”

  “No, she had an urgent order – getting a boardroom ready for a party.” I sigh. “She’s always busy now.”

  David won the hotel contract, but Mum’s new car turned out be a van. He gave her the money to set up as a travelling florist. She’s doing Christmas decorations to give her new business a boost.

  It’s taken off quickly. Mum tells everyone she’s living the dream. Although I’m pleased for her, I miss her company. She’s often out and I’m on my own if David is away too. When she married him, I thought she wouldn’t work again, and we’d spend time together. Instead, it’s David who helps me with homework. Except when he’s in Thailand, I see more of him than of her.

  “I’ll grab two ready meals from the freezer,” he says. “They’re ancient, but they won’t poison us.”

  “Mum threw them out. I’ll cook baked beans and chips.”

  “I’m no longer master of my own kitchen.” David grins. “How was your morning?”

  “All right,” I say, suddenly shy. I was wrapping Christmas presents, including a Capricorn pendant for David. He told me it was his star sign. I hope he likes it.

  David watches as I switch on the gleaming range cooker. It seems like overkill for frozen chips. Placing a tray in the oven, I sit down again and finish my tea. It’s a few minutes before I need to warm the baked beans.

  David sits beside me, stretching out his long legs under the table. “This afternoon, I’m finally picking up a paintbrush again,” he says. “Two weeks is too long. I have an imperative to create. You know, an itch I just have to scratch?”

  I nod, used to him saying things I don’t quite understand.

  “We could paint together if you like? I’ve got a spare easel you could use.”

  “That would be great,” I say, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice.

  “It’s settled, then. Once we’ve eaten, we’ll start on our masterpieces. I’ll text Rachel and tell her to join us when she’s back. We can all soak in the tub together. She’ll be ready for it after a hard day’s work.”

  I finish preparing lunch. It takes an effort to stop gobbling my share and running straight to the den.

  “Ready?” David loads the dishwasher before we go outside, dashing across the chilly courtyard.

  At least the den is heated. In the studio, he puts a long black smock over his jumper, and hands me one as well.

  “I apologise. We’ll both look ridiculous, like two old ladies in a hair salon, but no-one else will see us. Now, you can use the easel over there.”

  It’s the only one without a canvas sitting on it. The others are covered.

  “This is my latest. It’s a gift for Rachel, so I have to finish it by Christmas. No pressure.” He whips the sheet away.

  “Oh.” My wide blue eyes stare from the easel. Hair neatly tied back, lips parted in a half-smile, I’m dressed in Marston Manor’s smart uniform.

  “You see, I had an ulterior motive for getting you into the studio. Until now, I’ve painted from memory and photographs, but I’d like you around while I add finishing touches.”

  “It’s a bit―”

  “Demure?” David chuckles. “Your mum will like that. Showing your wicked side would mean another picture altogether.”

  “I hate my school clothes.”

  “They suit you.”

  “No way.” I can’t believe David thinks a white shirt, stripy tie and short navy kilted skirt would suit anyone, least of all me.

  “Now I’ll definitely have to do your portrait again, to make amends.”

  He shows me where the paints, brushes and canvases are stored.

  “Do you have a subject in mind, Emily?”

  Put on the spot, I notice a chrysalis on a corner of the windowsill. “I’ll paint this.”

  “Interesting,” David says. “You’re leaving the viewer to imagine what might emerge. A moth or a butterfly, or a beautiful girl? You could capture the transition in another picture, like that.” He points to his own artwork.

  My face reddens, but I enjoy his flattery.

  “I’ll just sketch what I see.”

  The pearly casing catches the light. Rather than disturb it, I move my easel towards the window.

  Before starting, I pop outside to forage for a few leaves, to give the cocoon a more natural background. There isn’t much choice, but I find seasonal holly and ivy in the garden. They will work well: sculptural shapes in deep, glossy green.

  “Do you want any help?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet. I’ve worked in oils at school now, so I know what I’m doing.”

  “Just say if you need me. Are you going to take a photo for reference? The light will change.”

  Grateful to be reminded, I snap the arrangement of objects, zooming to ensure all the de
tail is captured.

  I set a canvas board on the easel and begin with an acrylic ground: pale umber, a neutral colour. After sketching the outlines, I switch to oils.

  “Here.” David offers me a thin brush loaded with an indigo shade. He places his right hand over mine. “If you feather this edge lightly, like so,” he moves my hand, “you’ll introduce shadow and depth.”

  I miss the warmth of his touch when he stops, but it doesn’t take long to get absorbed in my task. It seems just minutes before the sky darkens. Dusk is about to fall, and the photograph will be more necessary than ever.

  David sets his brush down. “There, finished. Sorry, Princess, you don’t look wicked at all. Shall we pack up now? I fancy a drink to celebrate.”

  “Maybe a diet Coke?”

  “I had something stronger in mind, Princess. Guess what? I’ve stocked up with tinned cocktails for your mum. I’m sure she won’t notice if one or two disappear. Come and see.”

  He leads me through to the kitchenette. In the fridge, there’s a shelf of small, silvery cans.

  “Cosmopolitan, Porn Star Martini or Woo Woo? I know, try one of each.”

  We tidy up in the studio and sit there, admiring our artwork. David swigs craft beer from a bottle.

  I sip the Cosmopolitan. A cosy glow steals over me. “I like this. It doesn’t taste alcoholic at all.”

  “They’re all delicious. Have the others too. Our secret, okay?”

  David fishes in his pocket and hands me a pack of spearmint gum. “Chew a couple of those before your mum comes back at six. She’ll never know.”

  Chapter 15 February 2016 - Emily

  “Hello!” I race into the house and flop onto a sofa, scattering my backpack, sports bag and hockey stick around me. It’s just half a mile from the bus stop, but I’m suddenly exhausted. It’s been a long week at school.

  “Thought I heard you call.” David emerges from the butler’s pantry, which is a tiny corridor connecting the drawing room to the kitchen. The house is a maze of quirky corners.