Bright Lies: A Chilling Psychological Thriller

by AA Abbott

  I cough. The eddies of smoke tickle my throat, and the stench is almost unbearable.

  Cassandra speaks again. “You seem desperate for your go.”

  “Not at all. I was wondering where the loo was?”

  Jack is amused. “Downstairs. Cassie will show you. You were afraid it was a bucket, I bet.”

  She flashes him a filthy look, returning the spliff to him, and stands up. “Follow me, then.”

  “Thanks, er, Cassandra.”

  It isn’t obvious what she likes to be called, but she solves the mystery by saying, “Cassie.”

  We clatter down the ladder into the cavernous room, still eerily bright. A cubbyhole has been built under the balcony, housing a square white sink and an old-fashioned WC with overhead cistern.

  “Think you can find your own way back?”

  “Yes, Cassie.”

  She turns on her silvery heel, no doubt keen for more weed before Jack finishes it. If I’m lucky, there will be none left for me.

  I use the toilet and wash my hands. Only the cold tap works, but there’s soap and a towel. Everything is clean. Jack apparently looks after the bits of the property he actually uses. Seizing the opportunity to take the day’s grime off my face, I cover it with lather, grimacing at the splashes of icy water afterwards. Finally, I rinse my mouth, quietly proud of managing without the washbag still tucked in my luggage.

  Back in the smelly fug of the tent, Cassie stares at my left wrist.

  “What is it?” As I speak, I realise I’ve washed off the Pan Stik.

  “Did those bastards out there do that? I’ll ask Dad to sack them after all.” Her tone is fierce.

  Jack motions to her to calm down. “It’s not so recent by the look of it, Cass.”

  Neither Cassie nor I ask him how he knows.

  He yawns. “Time for bed.”

  “You can still join us,” Cassie offers.

  “Let her sleep.” Grunting with the effort, he shifts the desk so it will block my line of sight.

  Cassie’s giggles and sighs disturb the silence long after I’ve lain on the cushions and Jack has switched off the lamp. Glimmers from the fluorescent tubes downstairs steal past the curtains, casting long shadows. The floor creaks alarmingly, as if the balcony will collapse at any minute and we’ll all tumble on top of Penny and the rats.

  Tears of loss and despair moisten my cheeks while Cassie moans. For an instant, I crave David’s caresses. Then, his cold, dark eyes flash before me. I clench my fists, unable to banish him from my sight.

  Chapter 30 October 2016 - Emily

  Sounds of movement force me awake in the morning. I shrug off the blanket that someone has draped over me.

  The air still smells of stale smoke. I squint in the yellow lamplight, fighting back tears as I recall how I’ve ended up in this rough and ready room. Cautiously, I feel my sore places. They don’t hurt so much, and I can move my wrist more easily. My sleep may have been patchy, but it has still healed me.

  Jack and Cassie are stumbling around drowsily. Cassie’s make-up has smudged. The black and violet smears around her green eyes remind me of a panda, although not a cuddly one.

  Jack’s eyes are hazel, a similar shade to his curly hair, and they look determined. “Are you returning home today, Emily?” He clocks my defiant expression, and says, “No, I thought not. Then you’ll have to go to the council and tell them you’re homeless.”

  “I can’t.” The very thought of talking to someone in authority and being sent back to David is enough to send me into a tailspin of panic.

  “It didn’t work for you, Jack, did it?” Cassie interrupts.

  “That’s Birmingham City Council for you. They’re nicer to girls. How old are you, anyway?”

  “Sixteen,” I lie.

  “They should help you.”

  He’s swallowed it. I almost smirk with relief.

  Jack continues, “I don’t suppose you’ve got money to rent somewhere otherwise?”

  “A few forged notes.”

  He shakes his head. “Exactly what kind of trouble are you in? No, don’t answer that. It’s better you don’t. I’m cooking us all breakfast, then I’m taking you to the council.”

  Cassie scowls. “I only do black coffee in the morning, Jack. You know that.”

  “And at all other times of day. You could do with more meat on your bones, girl. So could Emily. I’m cooking you both toast.”

  I can’t help laughing. “Cooking? You call that cooking?”

  “It’s switching on a toaster, isn’t it? And a kettle for the coffee.”

  I spot an opportunity to be useful. “Do you have eggs, butter, a pan and a cooker?”

  “Yes.”

  There’s a plug-in electric hotplate on the desk, and he has more than beer in the fridge. Within ten minutes, I’ve transformed his white sliced into sixteen triangles of French toast.

  “Like puffy pancakes.” Jack bites into a piece appreciatively.

  “Not for me, thanks.” Cassie’s sulky glare sends the temperature plummeting, despite the valiant little heater’s efforts. Grumpily, she takes the kettle away to fill it with water downstairs. “This is like medieval times, going to the village well. You wouldn’t catch me living here.”

  “I would. Can I stay, please?” I beg Jack. “The cushions were really comfortable.” It isn’t true and I’m still aching all over, but what’s the alternative?

  “You’d need a job.”

  At least he hasn’t dismissed the idea altogether. “You’re a DJ, right, in a club?” I ask. The words sound glamorous. Why does he bed down in a slum, furnished with random scavenged objects?

  “Right.” He helps himself to more food and wafts the plate in my direction.

  David’s comments about my weight echo in my brain. I force myself to ignore them, burying them with other memories of him. Grabbing three of the triangles, I gobble them down. They’re still hot and tasty.

  Jack stares, then laughs. “I could tell you were half-starved. Finish the lot.”

  The cat, Penny, suddenly appears, ogling me soulfully until I kneel down and give him scraps. He settles on my lap.

  I stroke the furry bundle. “About that job. I could work behind the bar…”

  “No.” Jack frowns. “You’re too young, and you couldn’t handle the drunks. They’re the curse of the club. One day, I’ll set up my own place – a temperance bar. You know what that is?”

  “No alcohol. How is that different from somewhere like McDonalds?”

  “It’s about music, not burgers. Definitely not about booze.” He reaches with the tip of his finger to touch my bruised wrist.

  I shrink from him. “Don’t.”

  “Sorry, Emily. Was he drunk, the man who did this to you? I assume it was a man. Is it broken?”

  “I only twisted it.”

  “You’re limping too.”

  Cassie’s return saves me from making up an evasive answer. She’s washed off the cosmetics and looks less dramatic and more youthful, perhaps only a couple of years older than me. “There were three dead rats down there,” she gripes. “I threw them outside.”

  “Better than live rats,” Jack says. “You see how it is, Emily? Rodents, no hot water, and winter’s drawing closer.”

  “This is a slum.” Cassie spoons instant coffee into three mugs and pours in boiling water from the kettle. Sipping one of them, she plonks the other drinks on the crate that serves as a table.

  Disbelieving, I ask, “Why don’t you complain to the landlord, Jack? And why are you living here, a star DJ―”

  Cassie snorts. “A new DJ.”

  “Indeed.” Jack is unruffled. “I’m the new kid on the block. Oli rips me off, and so does Cassie’s dad. Your old man still owes me fifty for last night, Cass.”

  “I’ll get it later, when I go home.”

  Jack grimaces. “We can’t all pop to Digbeth for a bit of rough, then go home to Daddy’s million-pound house, like Cassie. You want to know why I
don’t whinge to my landlord? There isn’t one. I’m a squatter. Nobody knows who owns this dump, nobody cares, and nobody takes rent off me. If I didn’t have this place, I’d be out on the street.”

  “Then you know what I’m up against. Please give me a chance.” Desperation makes my voice wobble. Jack’s squat isn’t a palace, but it offers my only hope of safety. I bite my lip savagely, trying to stem tears. “I can cook and clean for you. And Penny likes me.”

  “True.” Jack’s face lightens as a grin steals across it, then turns serious again. “Okay. But you’ve got to pay your way.”

  Chapter 31 October 2016 - Emily

  “Do you really think Oli needs a cleaner?” My nerves are punishing me with a tension headache. This will be my first proper job. Babysitting doesn’t count.

  “He said he’d look at you, so I’m sure he does. You should see what the clubbers leave behind. Vomit and worse. His cleaners never stay long.” Jack isn’t giving it the hard sell.

  He doesn’t need to. “I don’t care, I’ll do it. I need the money.”

  “You’re the kind of worker Oli wants,” Jack says. “Totally desperate.”

  “It’s good business, that’s all.” Cassie’s face is contemptuous under her mask of warpaint, which she applied straight after drinking the scalding coffee. She helped me with my make-up too. If she was surprised by the expensive cosmetics in my washbag, she didn’t show it. Then again, if Cassie’s rich, she probably thinks everyone buys lipstick at MAC.

  In daylight, my new home is revealed as a derelict printing works, its main door and windows covered with nailed boards. The street outside is less scary and deserted now. Most buildings, their red bricks glowing in weak autumn sunshine, show signs of life. Their shutters have been rolled up and cars are parked in front of them. Penny is sitting by the balloon wholesaler across the road, staring at us as we emerge from the alley. A woman opens the door to him. Tail held high, he follows her without a backward glance.

  “Your cat, huh?” Cassie says.

  Jack shrugs. “Pen’s grabbing lunch. It’s not like I buy him Whiskas.”

  Despite a diet of scraps and rats, the cat seems healthy and happy. Jack, too, looks in reasonable shape although he can’t be eating well. There isn’t much in the fridge or the boxes where he stores food: sliced ham, white bread, crisps and Pot Noodles.

  With luck, he’ll agree to show me a supermarket later. I still have ten pounds in real money, and that will buy three or four days of meals. Mum taught me all about cooking on a budget, back when we were poor. I shudder, wishing we’d never met David at that art exhibition and we still lived in our little cottage.

  “You don’t care for Digbeth, do you?” Cassie asks me as we round the corner to another road much like the last one: shabby and industrial.

  I’m puzzled. “The coach station? It’s all right.”

  Her vampish lips contort into a sneer. “This area is called Digbeth. Don’t you know anything?”

  “Give over, Cass. She isn’t a Brummie. From the West Country, if I’m not mistaken.”

  How did he know? After a year at Marston Manor, I thought I’d lost my Somerset accent.

  He catches my eye. “It’s the rolling ‘r’s that give you away. I spent time in Bristol myself.”

  “How did you end up here?”

  “That’s another story.” A shutter descends on Jack’s face, and he stares straight ahead.

  “Digbeth’s cool,” Cassie says, as if that explains everything. “Now HS2’s coming, it’s really on the up. My dad would buy your ratty hovel if he knew who owned it. He tried to find out, but the Land Registry couldn’t tell him. Their computer system doesn’t go far back enough.”

  “What would he do with it?” Jack demands.

  “Convert it to loft apartments. What did you think?”

  “What’s HS2?” I ask.

  “A high-speed railway line.” Jack seems animated. Perhaps he likes trains. “It’s a big thing in Birmingham, cutting the journey time to London. They’ve flattened a fair few buildings already to make way for it. Cassie’s right. Speculators like her parents are making a fast buck.”

  “I keep telling you―” Cassie protests.

  “I know. It’s business,” Jack says. “Well, the way I see it, it’s none of mine.”

  I decide to keep out of their argument. While I’ve known them for less than twenty-four hours, it’s obvious that Cassie is focused on money and Jack is more creative.

  “We’ve arrived.” Jack’s already ringing the doorbell.

  The club’s appearance isn’t what I expected. There’s no glamour about the brown brick box, which is on the seedy side of ordinary. It’s newer and at least one storey shorter than the Victorian buildings nearby. They’re ornate, if grungy, but this is just one long, low, windowless wall. The central door is painted a lurid fuchsia shade. Above it, an unlit sign displays the name ‘Bobowlers’ in squiggly pink neon letters. Maybe it will look better when switched on.

  We’re greeted by a tall, smiley, hairy man. “Jack! You’ve brought me a cleaner.”

  “Here she is, Oli.”

  It’s essential to make a good impression, because who else will offer me a job? “Hi, I’m Emily.” Shyly, I hold out my hand, as I’ve been taught at Marston Manor.

  Oli doesn’t take it. Instead, he bursts out laughing. “No need to stand on ceremony, bab. Come in and pick up a mop. The floor’s terrible, all sticky. I’ve no bookings tonight but the ladies’ yoga club are in tomorrow morning.”

  “It’s not just the floor, now, is it, Ol? How bad are the bogs?” Jack asks.

  “The usual. Bodily fluids everywhere.” Oli’s cheeriness is unchanged. He’s older than I first thought, his dark brown hair thinning and a few grey strands peeping from his curled moustache and beard. He wears smart trousers and a white shirt, open at the neck to reveal a gold St Christopher pendant.

  “Have any cleaners been in today at all,” Cassie asks, “or has Emily got to do the entire premises?”

  “Well now, what do you suppose?” Oli says, the reason for our warm welcome becoming obvious.

  “Fine. That would take her all day. The three of us will do it together. Twenty quid each.” Cassie’s tone is brisk, and should brook no arguing.

  Oli, however, is as tight-fisted as Jack implied earlier. “I thought twenty pounds for the whole job.”

  “No way. I wouldn’t get out of bed for that. Fifteen each.”

  Cassie bargains energetically, settling on twenty-eight. Even if maths isn’t my strong point, I can tell that doesn’t divide by three. I admire her for haggling on our behalf, though.

  I’m less thrilled once we start work and realise Cassie sees her role as ordering Jack and me about. She points out that she knows her way around the club, and to be fair, under her guidance, it only takes two hours.

  Jack volunteers to clean the toilets. My first task is vacuuming all the carpets and picking up litter. There’s a surprising amount of it, mostly tiny see-through plastic bags scattered on the floor. Cassie sees I’m baffled. She says they would have contained drugs last night.

  I’m right-handed, which helps, but my left wrist is still too weak to put much weight on it. It’s a struggle, especially when I have to switch to a mop and bucket for the dancefloor. Jack finishes early and offers to take over. I dust and polish instead.

  Luckily, Bobowlers isn’t as large as it appears from the road. The building is long, but not especially wide. It isn’t much smarter inside than out. Over half of the space is filled by an L-shaped dance hall, painted red. It has a wooden floor and a carpeted area for tables and chairs off to the side. There are carpet tiles next to the bar too, their black-and-grey stripes suspiciously stained. Cassie says they need steam cleaning, but I can’t do it now because it will take too long to dry.

  She suggests telling Oli that I’ll want double the money to carry out the chore on Monday. I hope my wrist will have healed by then, because it sounds like I’
ll be using heavy equipment.

  By the time the club is in a decent state, I suspect I’m not. My hair is straggly, and I catch a whiff of body odour. “Mind if I slip to the loo for a wash?” I ask Cassie.

  She glances up from her iPhone. “As long as you don’t leave it in a mess.”

  I daren’t touch my make-up and let Oli see how I young I am. It’s a relief to feel soap and hot water on other parts of my body again. How does Jack keep clean? Perhaps he uses Oli’s facilities too.

  Jack and Cassie are sitting with Oli at one of the tables when I return. Oli is asking whether Jack has discovered who owns the printworks. It turns out that Bobowlers is the neighbour across the back, and Oli would like to buy the derelict property to extend his club.

  “Why would I give you the freeholder’s name even if I did know? I want to stay there,” Jack says.

  Cassie seems unusually lost for words. I remember that her father is interested in the rundown building too, so I guess he and Oli would bid against each other for it. Eventually, she says, “If you paid Jack more, he could afford to rent a proper flat. Maybe he could help you then.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Oli says.

  “So that means no.” Cassie flashes him a look of contempt. “Cut off your nose to spite your face. The only reason you’d expand this hole is because Jack’s getting more punters through the door.”

  “You’re sexy when you’re angry.” Right in front of Jack, Oli squeezes Cassie’s knee. “Love you in leather,” he murmurs. “You should wear it more often.”

  I freeze.

  David touched me like that. He used light-hearted compliments too.

  Does Oli have a hold over Cassie, as David did with me? I depended on David for my home, my schooling and practically everything I owned. Cassie is different, though; a third of twenty-eight pounds must be small change to her. She has Jack to watch her back as well.

  Cassie manages just fine without Jack’s help. She brushes Oli’s hand away. “I’ve told you before. You’ll have to shave to stand a chance with me.”

  Standing by the bar, I watch awkwardly as Oli tells Cassie she’s no fun, then turns his attention in my direction. He strides over, his blue eyes lingering on my face, then my breasts. I tremble under the unwelcome gaze.