Truth Hurts

by Rebecca Reid

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Poppy replied, her eyes dropped. ‘I didn’t know that he was – I didn’t know he would—’

  ‘Stop lying,’ Caroline shouted, cutting Poppy’s sentence off. ‘You’re seriously telling me that after all of the little chats you had, after all the times you spilled your guts to him about your absent father and bitch of a mother he didn’t tell you that he had depression? You didn’t see the pills in the bathroom? You’re really trying to tell me that you didn’t know?’

  Poppy stammered an answer, but whatever it was she was about to say, Caroline had no interest in hearing it.

  ‘I thought you liked it here? I thought you cared about us?’

  ‘I did!’ Poppy yelped. ‘I do. He said he was going to tell you I’d tried to kiss him when we got back here, he said I’d have to leave, and I—’

  Caroline had had enough.

  ‘Go,’ she said, turning from the room. ‘Get out of my house.’

  She stood outside on the landing, listening to Poppy cry as she packed her things into her suitcase, and then escorted her down the stairs, out of the front door. She watched Poppy trail her fingers on the bannisters, giving lingering looks to the walls around her, as if she were being sent from her childhood home, not somewhere she’d lived for a couple of months. Caroline slammed the front door and then took the stairs two at a time, running to her bedroom window. She watched the small red-headed figure walk away. She had to be certain she was gone.

  CHAPTER 40

  Poppy waited until the crew had gone, standing on the steps and waving the cars off one by one. Then, once she was sure there would be no chance of anyone coming back to collect something they had forgotten, she reached for her phone. She drummed her nails on the cold granite of the kitchen surface, bumping her toe against the cupboard. Please pick up. Please pick up.

  ‘Gina?’ Poppy said, relieved.

  Her voice was cold. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I know you’re angry with me, but I think something is wrong.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Drew said the house didn’t have a name before, but we just had this photo shoot, the one that Emma set up with the magazine, and the guy who came, he said that Drew had changed the name of the house.’ She could hear Gina’s breath at the other end of the phone. ‘Gina?’

  ‘What was it called?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The house. What was it called before?’

  ‘Eden something. Eden House? Eden Park. It was Eden Park. I know I should look it up but I’ve just got this feeling, I—’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’

  Poppy walked up and down the hall, waiting for her phone to buzz. She avoided the gold tiles, stepping only on the blue ones and taking steps in multiples of five and then of six. If I can get to that end without stepping on a crack it’ll be OK. If I can get across in eighteen steps then nothing is wrong. If there’s an even number of steps between this door and that door then he hasn’t done anything wrong.

  Her phone rang again. The time on the screen told her that it had only been seven minutes since Gina had hung up. It had felt like hours.

  ‘Gina?’

  ‘Google it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have to Google it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m taking Mum’s car, I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Just search it. Eden Park. OK?’

  Poppy hesitated. ‘OK.’

  As she hung up the phone she heard wheels on gravel. Panicked, she turned on her heel and fled to the kitchen. Standing in the hall would arouse suspicion. She went to the fridge, looking for something to do, and found a packet of tenderstem broccoli. She tipped it on to a chopping board and put a knife in her hand. There. That looked natural. They hadn’t known each other that long. Surely he wouldn’t notice that something was going on, that there was screaming inside her head? She could just ask him. She could ask, the second he opened the door. But something inside her was writhing, telling her not to.

  ‘How was it?’ asked Drew, putting his bag down on the sofa, taking off his jacket and folding it neatly. He did the same thing every evening. Bag down, jacket folded on the arm of the sofa, sleeves rolled up. Then he’d stand behind her, kiss her neck and ask, ‘How was your day?’ Often he’d slide his hands up her dress and run his hands over her stomach, her hips, her thighs, kiss her neck, stroke her hair and gently enquire as to whether she was interested in sex. Not tonight, though. Every muscle in her body was taut. Her jaw ached from biting down on her back teeth. Could he tell? She thought of her phone in her dress pocket. As soon as he was distracted, she would go to the bathroom and do as Gina had instructed her. Calm down, she told herself. It could be nothing. You love him. He’s your husband.

  Drew had never scared her, never made her feel unsafe. He hadn’t even raised his voice to her. There was no good reason for the thudding in her chest or the sweat underneath her hair. Or was there? Instinct was screaming that there was.

  She flinched as he kissed her. Would he notice the tension in her muscles? The thudding echoing in her chest? ‘It was good,’ she said, sliding the knife through the green stems. ‘They seemed pleased with the house. I didn’t see many of the photos, but they were nice people. They wanted pictures of me, too.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Hence the make-up.’

  She had forgotten about that. ‘Yes. I’m not sure about it though.’

  Drew smiled. ‘I quite like it. But you know I think you look best when you’ve just woken up, or got out of the shower.’

  He was sweet to her. No one could question that. Kind and sweet and loving. What could Gina possibly have found? What could change the way she felt about the kind, gorgeous man who adored her so much?

  ‘I’m just going to the loo,’ she said, her voice far too high.

  The downstairs bathroom hadn’t changed much since they had moved in. The floor was the same warm yellow stone as the kitchen. The walls were lined with books so there didn’t seem much point in painting it. It was always cold in here, even when it was warm outside. And despite the jar of fat roses sitting on the windowsill and the expensive room fragrance, it still smelt like cold stone. She sank down on to the wooden loo seat, colder still on the back of her thighs. Her finger shook as she entered her passcode, getting it wrong three times; iPhone disabled, it taunted her. Wait one minute.

  One minute. How could it be, she thought as she watched the screen, that one singular unit of time could move so quickly or so slowly depending on the circumstances. A minute of orgasm felt like seconds. A minute on a treadmill lasted several hours. And a minute when you’re waiting for your stupid phone to unlock itself so that you can find out what deep, dark, fucked-up secret is about to ruin your marriage? A lifetime.

  She got the code right the second time. The background, a picture of her and Drew in Ibiza, her hair full of the wind, taunted her. Her index finger shook as she tapped the internet icon and then the words ‘Eden Park, Wiltshire’.

  She didn’t even need Wiltshire. Eden Park would have come up on its own.

  A message from Gina flashed at the top of her screen and she swatted it away, trying to focus her eyes, trying to make the words make sense.

  The Eden Park murder.

  CHAPTER 41

  The Eden Park murder had taken place thirty-four years ago, according to the article. Poppy stroked down the screen, reading. Rereading. Clawing at the information, trying to force herself to understand it, to make the chains of words turn into sentences she could process.

  The Eden Park Murder

  On 2 July 1984, Lauren Watkins, aged five, went missing from the village of Linfield in Wiltshire. Her body was found, five days later, at the bottom of a well at the village’s manor house, Eden Park. Her death was ruled as murder.

  Lauren Watkins

  Watkins went missing on 2 August. Her father, who worked as a gardener at Eden Park, had brought her to work for the day, as his wife was unwell and it was
the summer holidays. He told the police that he last saw her around 2 p.m. No witnesses saw Lauren leaving the premises and there was no security footage. Police efforts were focused mostly on search rather than intelligence. Locals report that they seemed optimistic that Lauren would be found.

  Search

  By that evening, the village had put together a search party and combed much of the surrounding area, hoping that Lauren had wandered away from the house, got lost and been unable to find her way back to her home.

  Several days after Lauren disappeared, one of the children who lived at Eden Park, where she had gone missing, came forward and volunteered information. What followed has since become a focal point in the ongoing social debate about criminal responsibility.

  Arrests

  Simon and William Campbell, aged eleven and nine, admitted to pushing Lauren Watkins into the well at the bottom of Eden Park’s garden. William, the younger of the two, claimed that his brother had panicked after they realized how deep the well was, saying that they would be in trouble if they told the police. His statements claim that his brother threatened him.

  Simon Campbell was tried and found guilty of the murder of Lauren Watkins. There were extensive calls for William to be tried, though at nine he was under the age of criminal responsibility. While ultimately these calls were unsuccessful, it was decided that the rest of the Campbell family should be given new identities to protect them.

  Simon Campbell died by suicide after being transferred from juvenile prison to maximum security, aged eighteen.

  Will. Ralph had called Drew ‘Will’ during croquet on Saturday. So Ralph knew. Did the others? Had that been what Dilly and Emma were talking about when she had overheard them on the night of the party? Had one of them been in the bathroom with Gina trying to find out if she and Poppy knew? Almost certainly.

  The bathroom walls suddenly seemed thick and heavy, tight around her head.

  Her fingers shook as she tapped the button on the phone screen. Gina picked up instantly.

  ‘You read it?’

  Poppy nodded.

  ‘Do you think— Am I— safe?’ She was whispering, though she wasn’t sure why.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t— He wasn’t …’ She couldn’t find the words to finish the sentences.

  ‘You don’t know.’ Gina’s voice was high. She sounded vindicated. A small, childish part of Poppy was angry with Gina for being right. Agonizingly, horrifically right.

  ‘What do I do?’

  Gina’s voice was urgent. ‘I’m coming. I’ll be there soon. Get your stuff. If he comes home, act like everything is OK. If you feel worried, call the police. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  It was impossible to know where to put herself. She tried to remember what she had done on other, normal evenings. So she went back to the kitchen and picked up a knife. Took a bag of carrots from the fridge. Put jazz on the kitchen speakers and poured two glasses of wine. She crafted a Thursday evening for two people who had been married a couple of months. Drew was in the garden, looking out over the view. It was getting darker earlier now. She looked at the back of him; it was different now she could see him. What might he do if he found out that she knew the truth?

  ‘What are you making?’ Drew asked, coming back inside.

  Her eyes had become comfortable resting on one spot. She pulled them away, forcing herself to look at him. What was she making?

  ‘Poppy?’

  ‘Carrots,’ she said weakly, looking down at them. Drew was going to the fridge for a bottle of water.

  ‘OK,’ he replied. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I don’t feel—’ She stopped, putting the knife on the board and turning from the kitchen, walking to the hall. Why couldn’t she make the right noises? Why couldn’t she be more convincing? Perhaps there were only so many lies a person could tell before their body stopped being able to put on the act any more. There was a thudding in her temples, a tightness around her waist. The numbness was starting to fade.

  ‘Poppy?’ came a voice from behind her. She turned, slowly.

  She looked through him, at the hall. This was where he had lived. But not, as he had told her, until his parents had died. Until his family were chased out of the village because he and his brother had done something so horrific, so unforgivable, it wasn’t safe for them here any more.

  No wonder he hadn’t wanted to go into Linfield.

  He looked up at her, paused on the stairs. She watched his face. Confusion. And then something else. Resignation?

  ‘You know,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘Don’t you?’

  She nodded, and then, turning, took the stairs two at a time. She wasn’t sure what she had hoped for. Maybe a denial? She might have chosen to believe a denial. She heard him behind her and began to run, finally reaching her bedroom – their bedroom – and slamming the door. She slid down and sat with her back to it, her knees pulled up to her chest. There was no lock for this door. It was on her list of things to do, but right at the bottom. Why would they need a bedroom lock? she had thought. Maybe when they had children, children old enough to open doors, but not yet. There was no reason to have one.

  ‘Poppy.’ Drew’s voice came through the door, low and calm. ‘Poppy, please. Open the door. Talk to me.’ He wasn’t pushing the door. He wasn’t even turning the handle. There was no aggression in what he was doing, but still her skin felt tight. Her husband had killed a little girl. Years ago. Or his brother did. It could have been either of them. Or both. Whatever the truth was, she doubted she would ever know it.

  ‘Please, Poppy,’ he said again.

  She said nothing, smacking her head against the door over and over again. The words she had read screamed in her brain, scraping the inside of her head, hurting it. Killer, killer, killer. He was the man who woke up in the middle of the night and wrapped his arms around her, the man who gave her anything she wanted and told her that she looked perfect with a hangover and a bare face, the man who could make her laugh even when she was moody and hormonal. Killer.

  CHAPTER 42

  Gina had told her to pack. She felt for her weekend bag under the bed and began to fill it with clothes. She had bought the bag thinking about jaunts to London or popping over to Paris. Not this. She’d never imagined this.

  ‘Poppy,’ Drew called. ‘Please, open the door.’

  What did she need? She wrapped her hands around her head, trying to quiet all the noise. Jeans. Underwear. T-shirts. Jumpers. Socks. Shoes. Her handbag was downstairs, with her credit cards, cash, cheque book.

  ‘Poppy?’ There was a break in Drew’s voice. ‘Poppy?’

  His credit cards. Her husband. A little girl was dead because of him.

  That was why he had chosen her.

  The realization hit her like a train ripping through a station.

  Not because he had seen her across a crowded room and fallen for her.

  ‘Poppy, I just want to talk to you. You don’t even need to open the door, but please, just listen to me.’

  Not because she was funny or clever or because he liked the way her nose wrinkled when she was thinking. He must know about Caroline. About Jim. About everything that had happened there. He knew what she had done. And he thought they were the same; he thought they were both guilty. Dirty and stained and damaged.

  That was the only reason he wanted her. He thought they were the same. But Poppy was not a murderer.

  A beam of white light came through the window. Headlights. Gina was here. She must have broken every speed limit. Poppy got to her feet and pulled the door open, the bag hanging from one arm.

  ‘Please,’ he exploded, following her down the stairs. Reaching for her arm to slow her. ‘Let me explain.’

  ‘How?’ She turned halfway down, her voice high. ‘How can you explain all of this? You killed a little girl.’

  His face was blank while the words filled the room, bouncing from the walls and the ceiling. He must, she guessed, have b
een called terrible things. People must have said far worse to him before now. Why wasn’t he reacting?

  ‘That’s why you wanted me, isn’t it?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  Gina’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Poppy. Come on. Let’s go.’

  ‘Gina?’ Drew started, looking down at her. ‘What are you doing here? Poppy and I need to—’

  Gina interrupted him, her eyes bright. ‘You don’t need anything from her, you sick fuck,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you did this. I can’t believe you made me part of your fucked-up little scheme. You—’

  ‘You took the money, didn’t you?’ Drew shouted back, his voice tight with anger. ‘So you can get off your high fucking horse.’

  ‘Poppy, we’re leaving,’ said Gina with a shrug. Was she enjoying this? Happy to finally see Drew reduced to shouting and begging?

  ‘Please don’t go,’ Drew said quietly. He held his hand out, not grabbing at Poppy’s arm, but hovering over it. ‘Please.’ His voice cracked.

  ‘How did you know?’ she asked, her voice not much more than a whisper. ‘How did you find out what I did?’

  ‘Poppy, I fell for you, but I still had to be careful. I didn’t want to ask for a prenup, you were using your middle name, I wanted to be sure—’

  ‘How did you know?’ She ground out the words.

  He sighed. ‘I had someone look into your past.’

  ‘And thought I’d make a perfect companion for you. Mr and Mrs Murderer.’

  ‘That’s not why I married you.’

  She looked away, trying to shut him out. ‘You’re a liar.’

  ‘I never wanted to lie you. That was what the whole deal was about.’

  She half-laughed. ‘Oh come on.’

  ‘I know,’ he said again. ‘I get it. I understand like no one else could.’