Bright Lies: A Chilling Psychological Thriller

by AA Abbott

  “Okay. Let me show you round our wonderful gym. We’re small, but we’ve got the best equipment, literally, in the whole of Birmingham.”

  Prouder than Miss Broadstone giving a tour of Marston Manor, he demonstrates several machines I have no intention of using. Before I head to the ladies’ locker room for the shower I need more than ever, I look around. Jack is sitting just yards away on a bright green rubber mat, reaching with his arms for weights. Focused on pumping iron, rage twisting his face into a snarl, he doesn’t even notice when I wave to him.

  Chapter 39 November 2016 – Emily

  There’s still sleep in my eyes when I ring the club’s doorbell at noon. Last night was full on. Oli hired the Bob’s out to a large group of engineering students. Although he gave a discount on the drinks, I bet he’s still pleased with the bar takings.

  There’s no reply, but thirty seconds later, a motorbike pulls up. The rider jumps off, removing his helmet to reveal a grinning Oli.

  “Sorry I’m late, bab. Busy night.” He peers at my face before unlocking the door. “See me when you’ve finished your cleaning, will you?”

  I’m unnerved, but soon forget as I sweep through the club with a vacuum cleaner. There’s a lot to do, because yesterday’s party was wild. Security Sam broke up a fight, gave first aid to two comatose guests and called cabs for half a dozen others. The toilets were blocked with vomit. Jodie had to look after the cloakroom while I took bleach and brushes to them.

  After three hours of heavy-duty cleaning, I find Oli in the bar area with a beer and laptop.

  “Sit down.” He points to the chair opposite. “You haven’t been entirely truthful with me, have you, bab?”

  “What do you mean?” Fear licks at the back of my neck.

  He angles the laptop so I can see it. “Watch this.”

  A glamorous brunette appears on the screen. “Police are appealing for help to find a missing schoolgirl. Emily Anderson, also known as Emily Dennis, disappeared from her home in Bath in October. She is believed to have travelled to East London, where the trail went cold. Have you seen her?”

  My last school photo, all long blonde hair and navy blazer, flashes up. “This is Emily, the fifteen-year-old who police believe travelled from the West Country to London three weeks ago, and hasn’t been seen since. Her worried parents have issued a plea for information.”

  The image changes to Mum and David, seated side by side on a couch, holding hands. I shy away at the sight of him. He must have convinced both Mum and the police that he didn’t touch Beth.

  The camera zooms to Mum’s face.

  “She’s cute,” Oli says. “I can see where you get it from.”

  I can’t reply. Tears well up, clouding my vision, as Mum says, “Please come home, Emily. You’re not in any trouble. Whatever’s happened, whatever you’ve done, I guarantee that.” She’s much thinner than I remember. Her lips twitch with anxiety.

  Guilt sears through me. She can’t know what I’ve done. If she did, she’d never want me back.

  The pretty journalist returns into view. “Police are asking the public to help in their search. Have you seen Emily, or think you might have done? Please phone or text this number, or contact Crimestoppers anonymously.”

  The clip finishes and another starts, about a stabbing in Manchester. Oli closes the tab.

  He’s been watching me closely, so there’s no point denying anything. My reactions have given me away.

  “Well,” Oli looks smug, “you’re very different from that sweet and innocent photo now, aren’t you? Hard to recognise. Who knew the police were looking for you? Maybe I should phone the hotline.”

  He wants me to beg him not to, I realise, and what choice do I have?

  “Don’t,” I say. “Please.”

  “What’s it worth?”

  I stare at him for a moment, fear rising.

  Oli laughs, and pats my head. “Don’t panic, bab. I wouldn’t touch a fifteen-year-old, even if I fancied it. It’s not worth going to prison and getting arse-raped for.” The merriment leaves his eyes. “Does Jack know?”

  “No. Please don’t tell him.”

  “I don’t think I will.” He pauses, as if weighing up options. “I’m taking a risk helping you, though. It’s only fair that my silence has a price. I want you to store a few bits and pieces for me.”

  “At Jack’s place? He won’t like it.”

  “Then don’t tell him,” Oli says, exasperated. “He won’t notice if you bring the odd carrier bag home. Tell him it’s women’s necessaries, or whatever.

  “After all, what lies have you told him already? How many secrets are you keeping from him? Add this one to your list.”

  Chapter 40 November 2016 - Emily

  The doorbell rings three times, pauses and repeats. Expecting Jack, I’m taken aback to see Cassie peering from the alleyway.

  “Let me in. It’s freezing.” She’s just wearing a biker jacket and jeans.

  My eyes flick across to my art box, making sure Oli’s drugs are well hidden, before I move out of her way. She marches inside, and, to my surprise, stops dead.

  “What?” I think she’s staring at my grey cape. I’ve been wearing it to stay warm while I paint. My fan heater is better than nothing, but its blast of hot air soon vanishes into the chilly vastness downstairs.

  “They’re awesome.” Cassie points to the paintings stacked next to a raw brick wall. “You did them?”

  “Haven’t you seen my work before?” Of course she hasn’t. When she and Jack split up, I’d just started on my art. Since then, five finished canvases have taken shape.

  I’m busy with another at the moment, but, “I’ll pack up and make us coffee,” I offer. “We even have milk.”

  “I don’t do milk,” Cassie says impatiently. She inspects the pictures, her gaze taking in every detail. “They’re good. A bit grim, with all the shadowy figures and dark colours, but there’s a market for that sort of thing. Especially where I live.”

  “Four Oaks? The people there are well-off, aren’t they?” From the little I’ve heard, it’s like Bath, although not as pretty.

  “Yes. Trophy houses with huge rooms and walls that would take a statement piece. I could sell these for you.”

  “That would be amazing.” For once, I feel like leaping up and down with excitement. “How much for?”

  “I can get fifty each once they’re sold, but it’s on a sale or return basis. That’s how galleries work. My mum’s best friend owns one, so I’ll take them all to her.”

  As David says, it’s not what you know, but who you know.

  “Can you sign them?” Cassie’s eyes narrow. She’s aware it’s a loaded question.

  “I can sign them Emily Scribble.”

  “They’re more likely to sell with a proper signature and a little bio with them.”

  My instinct for self-preservation overcomes the lure of cash. “I’m a private person. If your mum’s friend doesn’t like it, she doesn’t have to take them.”

  Cassie is exasperated. “I didn’t say she wouldn’t, only that it’s harder for her to sell them for you. Let’s tell her you’re an up and coming Digbeth artist, Emily Phoenix. Make you sound trendy.”

  Penny inches out of his hiding place behind a painting. He twists his furry body around Cassie’s leg, begging her to pet him. Cassie lifts him into the crook of her elbow and strokes him. His purring noises meld with the fan heater’s rumble.

  “Could you do a picture of Penny, for me? Call it my commission. I miss him, and I can’t imagine Jack will give me shared care.”

  “I’ll make a sketch. That’s a promise, Cassie.” It will have to be from memory, because Penny won’t sit still for a portrait. The cat’s golden eyes glow as he stares at me from the comfort of Cassie’s arms. He knows we’re talking about him.

  Cassie fusses over the animal, showing him far more affection than she gives most humans. She and Oli have been together for two weeks and she takes advantage of t
heir relationship to boss him around. He’s just proud to have a nineteen-year-old girlfriend. Unlike me when I slept with David, Cassie knows exactly what she’s doing.

  She shivers. “I’ll take that coffee. How can you work in this icebox?”

  “It’s okay.” It isn’t, but I don’t have a choice. There’s nowhere else I can paint, and nothing else distracts me from my sense of worthlessness. On a good day, I’m numb; on a bad one, tearful at my stupidity in falling for David. I miss Mum, too.

  If that isn’t enough, I’m also tiptoeing around Jack, who will be back from the gym soon. He won’t be impressed to see Cassie. Already, I regret welcoming her inside.

  “Everything all right between you and Jack?”

  I jump. How did she know what I was thinking? “I guess.”

  “You’re really worried, aren’t you? Is it about his anger issues?”

  I nod.

  “Thought so. What has he done?”

  “Nothing,” I admit.

  “Then don’t panic. You’ve been twitchy ever since he told you about his dad.”

  “It’s not about his dad. Jack said he was always fighting. He was thrown out of school for beating a boy up.” A memory of David’s sudden violence sends bile rising in my throat. “I don’t know what triggers Jack’s temper, but I don’t wish to find out.”

  “Look, he never hit me…”

  Yet, I think.

  “He’s still working with Oli, although he’s annoyed about the two of us. We’re all being adult about it.” Cassie winks. “Guess what? Oli’s going to give him a pay rise.”

  “When?” Suddenly, I can’t stop grinning. “I hope it’s soon. We’re saving up for a flat.”

  She gawps at me, then laughs. “You kept that quiet. What are you like? You tell me you’re scared to death of him, then you’re moving in together?”

  I feel my face flush, my embarrassment worsened by the knowledge that my bald head will be bright red too. “It isn’t like that. We’re not seeing each other. It’s just that Jack’s taking your advice about finding a better place to live, and we decided to be housemates.”

  My options are limited, and it shouldn’t take Cassie long to figure that out. I bat a question back to her. “Why’s Oli so generous all of a sudden?”

  “I told him he needed to be.”

  It’s my turn to be astonished. “Why? You’re his girlfriend.”

  “He doesn’t own me. And you and Jack are my mates.” Cassie flashes me a knowing glance. “Oli agreed because he can’t risk Jack walking out. Especially not in the busy season.”

  It comes down to business, then, as always. I run upstairs to fetch the kettle, hearing the key in the lock as I return. Penny springs from Cassie’s arms to greet his master.

  Jack ignores the cat, clearly shocked to see Cassie. He glares at her, then me. “How did she get here?”

  Chapter 41 November 2016 - Emily

  Cassie deliberately misunderstands both Jack’s question and the fact it was aimed at me. “I drove.”

  “You don’t say.” His expression is glacial. “I saw Daddy’s precious Porsche outside. You’re lucky it’s still got wheels, in this neighbourhood.”

  I take a deep breath. “I invited Cassie in for a cuppa. She’s going to sell my artworks, aren’t you, Cassie?”

  “I certainly am. They’re highly commercial.” Cassie looks him in the eye. “You can’t keep avoiding me, Jack. We need to talk.”

  “What about?” The temperature drops still further.

  “The Christmas gigs you’ve agreed to do. Emily, do you mind? Could we have some privacy, please?”

  Alarmed, I gape at both of them: Cassie, convinced he won’t hit her, and Jack, who bears her a grudge and has confessed to violence.

  Cassie pulls a face. “I forgot you were painting, Emily. Let’s go out for a coffee, Jack. The Custard Factory?”

  It’s a hipster arts centre with prices to match. No way will Jack be paying.

  “No thanks, I’ve just been out.”

  Cassie’s bottom lip twitches, but she doesn’t give up. “We’ll chat upstairs, then. Emily, I’d still like a drink, please. A spoonful of instant, no milk, right?”

  “I’ll fill the kettle for you.” If I did more than that now, I’d feel like a servant, rather than simply someone who’s in the way.

  “All right.” Sullen, Jack climbs the ladder, gesturing to Cassie to follow. Penny, perhaps hoping they’ll have food, scales the rungs after them.

  I listen carefully to start with, but there’s no noise from upstairs except the odd cackle from Cassie. It’s obvious that Jack isn’t hitting her. I’d be surprised if they were friends with benefits anymore, though.

  Jack isn’t celibate, of course, but he’s picking up girls at the Bobowlers now. He doesn’t bring them here. They have to take him home with them, although he always makes sure the security staff will walk me back to the printworks.

  I guess he’s too ashamed of the tent to show it to a potential girlfriend. He must have really trusted Cassie when he first brought her here. As for me, he would have known there was no need to impress. Even a derelict building is a step up from the alleyway.

  I allow myself to get absorbed in my creation. I’m painting a woman in a red dress entering a doorway gloomy with indigo shadows. The brightness of her clothes contrasts with the menacing, blurry darkness around her.

  As usual, I remember David’s arms on mine, and his voice suggesting I add a dash of purple here and charcoal there. I shed a tear, but the trauma doesn’t stop me taking his advice. More and more often, I find myself applying his techniques automatically.

  The afternoon speeds past. It’s Monday and I don’t have to go into the club, although that will change in December and I’ll be paid overtime. The Christmas party season is Oli’s chance to make big money, and he intends to milk it. Next month, the club is hosting events six nights a week. While more cash will be welcome, I’m dreading the extra cleaning.

  I hear footsteps on the ladder and spin around. Crimson paint splatters on the clods of dust that line the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Emily, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Cassie is all smiles. “That’s cleared the air with Jack. Can I take your canvases now?”

  I help her carry them to the car, which, luckily, has survived its trip to Digbeth unscathed. We leave them loose on the passenger seat and in the boot. I don’t have any folders for them, while sandwiching them between pieces of cardboard might damage the layers of paint.

  “I’ll pay you as soon as they sell. Don’t forget the sketch of Penny.” Cassie waves cheerily and sounds the horn as she drives away.

  Jack is waiting inside, coffee cups in hand. He nods at them. “I’ll wash up.” While not as elated as Cassie, his mood has lifted.

  “You don’t want another drink? I’d actually make it.”

  “No. You’ve suffered enough interruptions. Get on with your art. I’ll mix a few tracks on my laptop. I planned to start two hours ago.” His gaze flits to the door. Softly, he says, “She’s mad and infuriating, but I miss Cass.”

  “Can’t you share?” Two months ago, in another life that was no more than a dream, I’d never have suggested such a thing. Nor have I asked Cassie if she’d see both Jack and Oli at once, but I bet she would.

  “Cassie hinted at it, but I told her it was him or me. You know her answer.” He sounds resigned.

  I suspect it was ‘Nobody tells me what to do’, although perhaps Cassie was less polite than that. No doubt Oli, and his money, can offer her more of the experiences she craves.

  “You need cheering up. I’ll make pancakes.” They were a quick pick-me-up for Mum and me when we were broke. The world is a sunnier place after a stack of pancakes.

  Jack must think so too. He grins. “If that’s what you’re planning, creativity can wait. Do we have syrup?”

  “We certainly do.” I wrap my paintbrushes in clingfilm, switch off the heater and follow him up the ladder.
>
  The tent is warmer than the cavernous space downstairs. I shed a jumper and start using the desk as a kitchen, placing the electric hotplate on it and assembling ingredients. There are no mixing bowls, so the batter is whipped up in a saucepan. Finally, I sizzle butter in a frying pan and tip in two spoons of the creamy mixture, letting it coat the base in a thin layer. It hisses and bubbles.

  “That one’s got my name on it.” Jack looks on, approvingly as I flip the puffy treat over.

  “Are you sure? The first is never the best.”

  “As with many things, but,” Jack opens the tin of golden syrup, “it looks fine to me.”

  I slide the pancake onto a plate. Jack spoons the sweet, sticky liquid onto it. He scoffs the snack in just three mouthfuls, ignoring a protesting mew from Penny. Despite crouching next to Jack on the mattress and fixing a wistful gaze on the food, the cat goes hungry.

  “It’s yours,” Jack says, as I ease the second out of the pan. “I’ll make the next one.”

  “Have you ever done this before?” Apart from toast, I haven’t seen Jack cook anything that doesn’t come out of a tin.

  “How hard can it be?” Jack reaches to take the spatula from my hand, his fingers touching mine.

  A sudden spark of desire flares. I almost jump backwards. Hoping he didn’t notice, I spread syrup on my pancake and roll it up. Nibbling slowly, savouring the taste, I steal a glance at Jack. There’s a wrinkle on his forehead as he concentrates. His cheeks are too chubby to be conventionally good-looking, but his face is friendly, his eyes kind.

  For the first moment in weeks, my fear disappears and I relax in his company.

  “Why are you staring?” His cheeks dimple as he grins. “I thought I was doing a competent job, at least.”

  “You are. I’m just daydreaming.”

  “Of being a famous artist, no doubt. Emily Phoenix. Cass told me all about it.”

  “We need the money, so why not? Cassie said she negotiated a pay rise for you. So can we move soon?”