Bright Lies: A Chilling Psychological Thriller

by AA Abbott

  Mr Mustow’s moustache quivers. “That’s a leading question. I think my private life is my own business, don’t you?”

  “Sorry.” I’m guessing from his reaction that he doesn’t have one and is unhappy about it, but I might be clutching at straws.

  “You’d better run along to lunch. Your friends will be waiting for you.”

  “I don’t have any friends,” I mumble.

  “Oh.” His expression softens.

  I find a place at the lunch tables with three girls from my form. We’ll never be besties, but they tolerate me. Silently, I eat the vegetable curry that was the only option left when I arrived in the dining hall. Looking up, I notice Mr Mustow sidle up to Miss Broadstone and whisper in her ear. She directs a piercing turquoise stare towards me.

  Predictably, I’m summoned to her office the next day. Approaching the heavy wooden door, I knock on it with trepidation, entering when I hear a haughty “Come in”.

  “Do sit down.” Miss Broadstone rises from a throne-like seat carved from the same oak as the panelling and door. She points to a less grand chair on the other side of her desk.

  I fidget uncomfortably. There is no cushion, and the hard wood is unforgiving.

  “How are you finding the school?” Miss Broadstone asks, unsmiling.

  “I like it.” This is a lie, but I think it’s what she wants to hear. “The work is hard. I’m doing well at art, though.”

  “Mr Mustow tells me so. I remember your enthusiasm for it. It’s what I’d expect from David Anderson’s daughter.”

  “Stepdaughter,” I point out.

  A flicker of surprise crosses her gaze. She’d forgotten. “Is everything all right at home?” she asks.

  “Yes.” I just want to leave her office.

  “Mr Mustow thinks you have a crush on him. Why might he say that?”

  “I don’t know.” I knew this was coming, and it doesn’t make me squirm any less.

  “Why did you ask him if he had a girlfriend?”

  I’ve had time to think about this. “It was a dare, Miss.”

  “Your friends put you up to it? But I understand you told Mr Mustow you had no friends.”

  Awkwardly, I say, “I’d fallen out with them yesterday. But we’re okay again now.”

  “I see.” A hint of warmth thaws the turquoise ice. “Emily, I want your time at Marston Manor to be a pleasant experience. If anything’s wrong either at school or home, you can talk to me about it, all right?”

  I stay quiet, hoping to be dismissed.

  “Know that I will always help you if I can, but it’s impossible if you don’t tell me there’s a problem in the first place.”

  “Yes, Miss. Thank you.”

  “Very well. You may go. Oh, and Emily?”

  “Yes, Miss?”

  “Please respect Mr Mustow’s privacy in future.”

  David is waiting for me by the front door when I arrive home.

  “I can set my watch by your school bus. Guess who I’ve been talking to?”

  “Miss Broadstone?” I groan inwardly. This can’t be good news.

  He grins. “I gather you have a crush on her only gay teacher?”

  “No,” I protest.

  “He’s well-known on the local art circuit. Don’t worry, Tania told me the whole story. I understand why you spoke to him like that. I’m glad your mum was out when she phoned, though.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Princess. Be more subtle next time. But well done for keeping our secret.”

  His lips swoop down onto mine.

  “Your mum won’t be back for a while. Let’s relax together.”

  Chapter 19 May 2016 - Emily

  We’re sitting in the park near Lucretia’s home in Bath, smoking. Lucretia shows me a clip on her phone: she and her boyfriend, Hugo, are snorting cocaine off a mirror.

  “It was the best high ever,” she says. “Hugo and I – we’ve done ket, pills, weed, but ―”

  “I like drinking cocktails with my boyfriend,” I say stoutly.

  “You don’t even have a boyfriend. Everyone knows that.” There’s a sneer on her pretty, snub-nosed face. “Honestly. Little children have imaginary friends, but they grow out of it. An imaginary boyfriend is just too much.”

  I gnaw at my lip. She thinks she’s so grown up compared with me. I can’t prove she’s wrong, though. The reference photograph of David is still on my phone, but I can’t show it to her. Our love is a secret and I’ve just made a big mistake hinting at it.

  “I wish Miss Broadstone hadn’t told me I needed a homework buddy for half-term,” Lucretia says. “I could have gone out today with Hugo.”

  “Miss Broadstone did what?”

  Lucretia doesn’t answer. “You’re not doing that right,” she says. “Anyone can see it’s your first cigarette. Take a deep drag, like this.” She inhales deeply, holds the breath and blows the smoke out of her nose.

  “That’s gross.”

  “Try it. You’ll get a buzz. Not the greatest, but you won’t get arrested. Go on.”

  I draw on my cigarette, forcing harsh smoke down my throat. It tickles.

  “Stop coughing,” Lucretia complains. “People are looking at us.”

  To prove the point, an old woman with a poodle glares at us. Lucretia sticks her tongue out. The dog walker hastens away, muttering to herself.

  “I feel sick. I’m going to ask Mum for a lift back.” I tap my phone, but the call goes straight to voicemail.

  It’s obvious why, once I’ve taken a train and bus back home. Mum has left a note on the kitchen table. ‘Delivering flowers. Brownies in the tin. x’

  Mum’s business is doing really well. Luckily, David has lots of friends who adore her hand-tied bouquets, and rave even more about the boxes of Thai chocolate elephants that David insists on slipping into her deliveries. He says it’s not what you know that makes a business successful, but who you know.

  As usual when Mum’s not around, I head to David’s den. To be sure she won’t walk in on us, he’s put tracking software on her phone, so he can tell when she’ll be back home.

  My earlier queasiness begins to disappear at the prospect of a few hours with David, but I can’t face the brownies yet. Taking the tin in case he wants one, I push the office door open with a loud, “Guess who?”

  There’s no reply. I soon work out it’s because David can’t see or hear me. He’s not standing at his desk as usual, but lounging in a chair. Staring intently at his MacBook, using a headset, he’s oblivious to my approach.

  I creep closer, intending to give him a surprise. Perhaps I’ll blow on his neck or tap his shoulder. I imagine his laughing reaction. Suddenly, he shifts, giving me a glimpse of his screen.

  A girl smiles from it, her long black hair tumbling over tanned skin. Is she wearing anything? The shock causes me to drop the tin. With a clatter, it tumbles over the stone floor. The brownies spill everywhere.

  David shuts the MacBook and spins round.

  “Emily, what an unexpected pleasure.”

  His flies are undone. I gawp at him.

  David looks down. “Sorry. I spilled coffee on myself and haven’t cleaned up properly.”

  “Who was that girl?” I blurt out. “Why did she have nothing on?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I saw her breasts,” I whisper.

  David raises an eyebrow. “You couldn’t have, Princess. That was my business partner’s PA in Thailand.”

  “A PA? I thought she was around my age.”

  “I assure you, she’s twenty-five. And she was wearing a dress – silk, in that burnt umber colour you use a lot.”

  Frozen to the spot, I wonder if I can trust my own eyes. “Were you watching porn?” I gulp.

  We’ve talked about it at Marston Manor and my last school, too. Back in the village, half the boys admitted to doing it, even Mark. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but it makes me uncomfortable. Why would David view porn when our
love is so strong?

  “I’m devastated you’d even think it. Shall I Skype her and ask her to tell you I’m not lying? She’s called May.”

  Embarrassment brings a flush to my cheeks. “No, please don’t.”

  He seems so sure. I must have got it wrong. After all, I hardly saw the girl.

  “Anyway, I’ve done enough work. How about you, Emily? I thought you were out with a friend all day.”

  I sniff. “Lucretia takes drugs. Cocaine…”

  David grins. “That’s not always a bad thing.”

  “She was only my buddy because Miss Broadstone told her to be.”

  David frowns. He pulls me into a bear hug. “I’m glad you found out. Remember, you can rely on me to be a true friend. Let’s cheer you up with a drink before we do some painting. Woo Woo?”

  “No thanks. I feel sick.”

  David looks alarmed. “You’re not pregnant, are you? Have you been taking those pills I gave you?”

  “Of course I have,” I protest. Sheepishly, I add, “Lucretia gave me a cigarette.”

  “Your first ever?” David says. “Maybe that’s it. I caught a faint whiff of smoke about you. And your period isn’t late, is it?”

  “It was due yesterday.”

  “We’d better make sure, then.” His lips are set in a grim line.

  My nausea threatens to overwhelm me now. Brushing a tear away, I say, “If I am pregnant, what then?”

  “We’ll get rid of it.” David’s dark eyes are cold. For a moment, he looks like a stranger.

  His expression softens. “You’re not ready for the responsibility, Princess. You need to enjoy life before tying yourself down with babies. As it happens, I’ve got a test kit, so we can set your mind at rest.”

  He rummages in a drawer and hands me a small, oblong box.

  “Look. The instructions are on the packet, but basically, you just put the tip of the stick in your wee. It’ll turn pink. Simple, you see? Bring the kit back and we’ll check it together.”

  He’s so knowledgeable, I wonder if children had something to do with his divorce. I shudder, realising I don’t want to know.

  My head a bag of nerves, I take the box with me to the toilet.

  David is right: it’s easy to use. He takes the stick from me, placing it on his desk. “Two lines for sorrow, one for joy.”

  He has an arm around my shoulder as we watch a single line develop.

  I gasp with relief.

  David is obviously pleased, too. “Congratulations, Princess. You definitely aren’t expecting.”

  He takes my hand. There’s a devilish glint in his eye. “You mentioned cocaine. I bet you’d like it, especially if we took it together. Want to try?”

  I gawp at him as the implications sink in. David takes drugs. “Isn’t it dangerous? You can get addicted.”

  “Trust me, you won’t. Would I let anything bad happen to someone I care about so much?”

  He removes a picture from the wall. It’s the painting of me and Mum on her wedding day, the one he calls his Golden Girls. David lays the front gently on his desk.

  While most canvases are exposed at the back, this one has a wooden box built into the frame. It’s fastened with a hook and eye, which David opens. He removes a twist of paper, then places his MacBook inside the cavity. Closing it, he hangs it on the wall again.

  I wrinkle my forehead, puzzled.

  “There have been burglaries around here lately. You can’t be too careful.”

  David raises the desk and removes a credit card and twenty-pound note from his pocket. Unfolding the paper wrap, he eases the white powder inside it onto the desk’s smooth surface. With the credit card, he divides the drug into twin tracks.

  “I use it to enhance my creativity. You see colours in a different way. But,” he grins, “the effect on lovemaking is amazing. Want to find out?”

  “I think so,” I say, nervously.

  “It will taste strange, but don’t worry. You’re safe with me, Princess. Remember that.”

  David rolls up the banknote and snorts half the powder. He smiles. “Over to you. Do it quickly, then we’ll go with the flow.”

  He helps me position the tube at the end of the line. I try not to shudder, closing my eyes as I inhale.

  The rush is instant, like a ball of energy exploding in my head. My eyes pop open again.

  David is gazing into them. “Come here,” he says, his lips fixing onto mine.

  His kiss is fervent, but it’s the touch of his hands that makes my senses come alive.

  “Like it?” he asks.

  “Yes.” Being in his arms feels better than ever before.

  “I told you,” David murmurs. “You can trust me.”

  Chapter 20 June 2016 – Jack

  Thor’s red van barely limps away from Glastonbury. The exhaust is blowing, amplifying the already noisy engine. There’s a rhythmic thumping sound in the back. Jack thinks it’s just luggage rattling around, but “It’s the suspension, mate,” Thor says in his Brummie accent.

  Thor’s real name is Dean. He boasts a broad chest, flowing blond locks and unimaginative friends. Given his resemblance to the film hero, the nickname was waiting to happen.

  They’ve only just hit the M5 when Vicki wants to throw up.

  “Find her a bucket, mate,” Thor calls.

  Jack edges himself off the cushions onto which he is wedged, illegally, behind the front seat. He scrabbles amongst the muddy cases, but there’s nothing. In the end, he layers two plastic carrier bags together, one inside the other. The result looks watertight. He passes it over to Vicki.

  “Thanks.” The inevitable retching sounds follow. She knots the top of the bags and passes them back to Jack.

  He holds the parcel gingerly. “Glad it isn’t mine. I’m not cut out for life as a father-to-be. When’s the next services?”

  “In half an hour, you lucky bugger. I’ve got this for nine months,” Thor says, mirth evident in his voice.

  “Not that long. It’s due on Christmas Eve,” Vicki says.

  She’s the reason they’re heading for Birmingham, to Thor’s folks. Vicki’s in no condition to work the festivals anymore. Glastonbury has proved that. With so much rain this year, it’s been tough on all three of them. Thor even had mud in his beard, until it dried enough to be combed out.

  The music was mind-blowing, though, especially the DJs in the Glade. Working and dancing left almost no time to sleep. As soon as he’s had a bath, Jack wants to go to bed.

  It doesn’t quite work out like that. Thor’s dad, an older and greyer version of his son, points out they don’t have a spare room. All the beds in their council house are occupied by Thor’s parents and siblings. From his friend’s laidback reaction, Jack suspects Thor knew this.

  “We’ll get a squat and go on the council waiting list,” Thor decides, reasoning that Vicki’s pregnancy will get them points.

  The couple were part of the group squatting in Stoke over the winter, so they know a few tricks. They avoid houses, because trespassing residential property is a criminal matter. The cops don’t care about commercial premises. Thor spends an afternoon phoning old friends and extended family for intelligence of likely buildings. Meanwhile, Vicki and Jack clean themselves and their possessions.

  An hour before sunset, leaving Vicki asleep on the couch, Thor drives Jack downtown. It’s no more than ten miles from the estate on the outskirts of Birmingham, but it takes thirty minutes. Whenever Thor spies a police car, he swerves off the main road and through side streets. The van would fail an MOT at the drop of a hat, and Thor doesn’t want to attract attention to it.

  The strip of old factories and warehouses lies just beyond the tall, Manhattan-style office blocks in Birmingham’s centre. Thor spots a lone figure standing on the pavement. He slams on the brakes.

  The van stops with a shudder.

  “Hop out, mate,” Thor says. “It’s my cousin, Jamie. He’s a locksmith.”

  Jamie is shorte
r, and clean-shaven, but has the same blond hair. Jack imagines a clan of Vikings settling in Birmingham. The city is so far from the sea, he wonders how they got there.

  “Front’s all boarded up,” Jamie grunts, stating the obvious. Boards are nailed to the front door and the windows either side. A faded sign above is a clue to the two-storey building’s former purpose: ‘Panckridge Printing’.

  Thor scratches his head. “Baz said there was a way in.”

  “Climb up and slide down the chimney?” Jamie points to the roof.

  A black and white cat appears from the side of the printworks. Making its way over to the group, it smooths its fur against Jack’s legs.

  “Friendly little moggy,” Thor says. “Is there an alley round there?”

  The cat follows as they investigate. There’s a passage ending in a door. It isn’t covered up. The words ‘FIRE EXIT’ are picked out in white on the shabby black paint.

  Jamie examines the lock. “Just a Yale.” From a backpack, he removes a hammer and a ring of keys. Choosing one, he flexes it in the lock. Carefully, he taps the edge of the key with the hammer.

  Elation pulses through Jack’s veins as the lock turns. The door creaks, protesting as Jamie pushes it open.

  “Light switch doesn’t work,” Jamie reports, laconically. He fishes a torch from the backpack. “Looks tidy enough.”

  Thick dust streaks the white-painted brick walls and carpets the concrete floor. The place appears empty apart from a pile of cardboard boxes in a corner. With the alert stance of a hunter, the cat paces around them.

  “No pigeons,” Thor says. He turns to Jack. “That’s a good sign. It means the roof’s sound. Also, they’re buggers to get rid of.”

  The cat’s ears twitch.

  “It wants to help,” Jack says.

  “When it learns to fly.”

  They explore the vast space, which rises to the full height of the building at the back. Toward the front, a stepladder leads to a mezzanine level. Below it, a fixed counter delineates a reception area. To one side, there’s a room with a toilet cubicle and sink.

  Thor tries the taps. Rust-coloured liquid flows from one of them, quickly sputtering to a halt. “We’ll have to get the water connected,” he says. “And electric.”