The Truth About Lies

by Tracy Darnton

  “We don’t need Dan. He didn’t know Hanna anyway,” says Keira. “And his dad’s a vicar. He probably thinks these boards are the work of the devil.” The lighting makes her face look so ghostly.

  “And he’s stone-cold sober,” says Maya.

  Lena giggles. “I’m not, and I’m ready for anything tonight.” She winks at Makoto and takes a slug of drink.

  “Quiet now,” says Keira. We join hands in our circle. The whole experience is far-out crazy. Edward Scissorhands and a witch in an indecently short dress sit opposite me and I’m holding hands with a vamp and Morticia.

  “We call upon the departed souls tonight,” says Maya, breaking the circle to play a couple of spooky sound effects. ‘Whoooooooo! Creeeeeak!’

  “For heaven’s sake, Maya,” says Keira, grabbing the machine off her and throwing it on to the bed. “You’re ruining it. Shut up.” Keira waits for silence. I stop rustling in my dress, trying to make no sound at all.

  “Place your finger back on the planchette,” says Keira quietly. “We call on all those souls lost and travelling at this special time of All-Hallowtide. We call on those tormented between life and death who cannot yet pass on to help us find someone in the spirit world.

  “We are looking for our dear, dear friend, Hanna Camilla Carlsen. Hanna, are you there?” Keira closes her eyes, lifts her head and breathes in slowly through her nose.

  Lena stifles a giggle and then Makoto joins in, his shoulders jigging up and down as he tries not to laugh out loud.

  “Shh. Hanna, are you there?” repeats Keira.

  I can feel a twitch. The planchette jerks towards ‘Yes’.

  “Hanna’s here,” says Keira. “I can feel it.” She opens her eyes wide and stares around at each of us in turn.

  “Ooooh,” says Maya. “Creepy.” Her black wig hangs down over the board and she flicks it back as the pointer moves again.

  It comes to a halt at the letter ‘I’.

  I can’t tell who, or what, is moving the pointer as it slowly moves on towards new letters, shuffling back before diving off in a new direction: D-I-D.

  “IDID,” says Makoto. “What does this mean?”

  “Not IDID. I DID, two words,” says Maya.

  “Let it finish,” says Keira.

  The next letters are N then T.

  “I didn’t,” says Maya. “She’s saying ‘I didn’t’.”

  “You didn’t what, Hanna?” asks Keira in a hushed voice.

  There’s a pause. A silence. Nothing happens for a long couple of minutes then the pointer moves quickly across the next set of letters, producing a whole word:

  W-A-N-T

  T-O

  “OMG,” says Maya. “Quit messing now, whoever’s moving this thing about.”

  I can guess what’s coming. I’m holding my breath. I don’t want to make a sound. This time the planchette takes its time, sliding so, so slowly between letters.

  D-I-E

  “Die. I didn’t want to die,” repeats Maya. “This is horrible.”

  “Not fun, not funny,” says Lena, gripping Makoto tightly.

  “I thought she jumped,” says Makoto. “From the window.”

  “Or fell,” I say. “We don’t know for sure.”

  “This isn’t actually her,” says Maya. “Is it?”

  “Did something, somebody, make you jump?” asks Keira in a whisper.

  The torch goes off and the room’s in darkness. Maya yelps and grips my hand tightly. Makoto stands up and fumbles his way to the main light switch. “This is one scary English game,” he says. “Can we stop now?”

  I’m shaking. ‘I didn’t want to die’ is ringing loudly in my head.

  29

  Memory is dynamic, not a fixed page of history.

  Principles of Memory – Professor A.E. Coleman

  Dan’s waiting for me at breakfast. He has a told-you-so expression on his face as he hands me the jam pot.

  I give him the satisfaction without the need for a lecture. It’s too early and my head’s pounding. “You were right: a seance was a dumb thing to do.”

  “That stuff messes with your head,” he says.

  “And mine’s messed up enough already?”

  He raises his eyebrows and smiles wryly. “It’s all baloney – even if everyone’s adamant that they’re not moving the pointer. The whole thing relies on people’s insecurities and on wanting to believe.”

  “Hanna said, I mean, someone said, through the Ouija board that she didn’t want to die,” I say. “I didn’t want to die. Spelled out letter by letter.”

  “Well, obviously she didn’t say that.” Dan looks directly at me, waiting for me to reply.

  “No. Obviously,” I say quietly. I know he’s right, so why am I so unsettled by it all?

  “Who do you think was moving it?” he asks.

  “I couldn’t work out who was deliberately doing it. I tried.”

  “It may not be deliberate. You can’t tell if they’re making unconscious movements.” He pauses and crunches his toast. “It could even have been you.”

  “Me? Moving the pointer?”

  “Your subconscious could be trying to tell you something. About that day. The day Hannie died.”

  “Hanna. Only her family called her Hannie.”

  “Sorry, my mistake. And what did it mean, the ‘I didn’t want to die’?”

  “Nobody wants to die. Unless…”

  “And Hanna? What about her?”

  “I-I don’t know. I guess I’ll never know if she jumped or fell.” Hanna liked being the centre of attention. But even she would have drawn the line at being smeared across the pavement for some extra attention, wouldn’t she? One minute she was sitting on the windowsill…

  “Oh my God, my head this morning.” Maya joins us at the table, with a black coffee and no food. “But honestly, wasn’t it the best Halloween ever? The best night ever. When the torch went out at the seance, I mean, crap, I actually peed myself a teensy bit. Sorry, Dan.”

  “The phone ran out of charge, that’s all,” I say.

  “Or did it? Duh, duh, duh,” says Maya. “I sure as anything wasn’t moving the planchette. And it can’t have been Makoto because his English spelling’s still terrible. And Lena was too pissed to spell anything, especially upside down. Pass the sugar, will you?”

  If Maya’s telling the truth about herself, that leaves Keira.

  Unless Dan the psychology student could be right – and my subconscious is trying to tell everyone the truth about what happened. That maybe it was me. It was my fault Hanna was confused and anxious, that she fell, or jumped. Why would she even open up the window that wide? But I can’t say that to him or Maya or anyone. Ever. More lies.

  My head hurts. I’ve got image after image of Hanna again. The sound of her soft body hitting the hard ground. The physics of it all. I stand up to go and sway slightly, grabbing at the table.

  “You OK?” asks Dan, reaching out to steady me.

  “Sure. Hungover. You designated drivers have it easy. I’ll see you at Theory of Knowledge.” I leave the dining room before I chuck up right there in front of everyone. My phone’s buzzing insistently in my bag. Aside from a very small circle, two of whom I’ve just left having breakfast, no one has this number. It’s a non-contract phone I purchased as part of my minor spending spree when I left the Programme. The display’s showing ‘No Caller ID’ so I don’t answer straight away. If it’s a dodgy call centre trying to flog me something they’ll soon get bored and ring off. But it keeps on ringing so finally I accept the call. All I hear is a click at the other end.

  *

  Mr Desai’s twitchy in class today. He watches the door as though he’s waiting for someone to arrive.

  “Review,” he says. “This is how we embed our memories, transferring them from short-term to long-term. I want you to review the mind maps you drew up for a revision topic of your choice, the mnemonics and your memory palaces. Fill in more exercises in your workbook.
” He pauses and repeats: “Review your memories. Your long-term memories are still unstable, not set in stone. You need to reconsolidate them. Pull them out, review and store again.”

  “I get it,” says Dan. “He wants us to review.” Keira giggles in that simpering, extremely annoying way of hers.

  “I’ve been called away to deal with something,” says Mr Desai. “I may not make it back before the end of the lesson. It can’t be helped.” He packs his papers into his briefcase and fastens the old-fashioned catch. His coat’s like something from a dodgy melodrama. I’m struck that he’s playing at being a teacher from a movie with the bow tie and the briefcase and the strange turn of phrase. He’s watched the Harry Potter films and Dead Poets Society, visited a fancy-dress shop and assumed a role.

  He pauses by the door and taps the side of his head. “Sometimes everything we need is in here. We simply need to retrieve it.” His deep brown eyes linger on me longer than is necessary and then he goes.

  “Intense,” says Dan.

  “Excellent,” says Maya. “Free period. I can sort out my photos and do some printing.” She’s uploaded them to her laptop and edited them into black and white or sepia already. “I’m going to put them straight in my portfolio. We all look amazing.”

  I go through the shots and ask her to print a couple off for me too. She’s surprised but pleased. I love the one of Dan leaning on the arch in the cloisters. It captures his gaze as I walk past, my veil flowing out behind me, which I didn’t see at the time. I like the way he’s looking at me. The intensity of it. The lanterns are lit all along the wall leading up to the chapel door and the whole shot has the look of a classy black and white film. I can put it in a frame and give it to him as a thank-you for the earrings, like a proper girlfriend would do. Maybe there’s more worth to photos than I thought.

  I choose between the other shots as Maya goes to sort out the printer. I scroll through the ones of all of us which she did on the self-timer. In the background, there’s another figure in profile standing by the chapel door. Somebody photo-bombed us, like a passing ghost. I enlarge the zoom. The figure’s leaning to the side as though he doesn’t want to be in the photo, but why else stand there? Why didn’t whoever it was offer to take the shot for us? They must have seen all the hassle Maya was having with the tripod. I expand the photo more on screen, blowing up the background as best I can. It’s blurry, and the face is turning away and obscured by the pillar. But I recognize the coat with the distinctive cut like a Victorian gentleman’s frockcoat from a bygone era. It’s Ramesh Desai. Watching us from the shadows.

  *

  I run back to pick up the postcards from my room and go looking for Desai. My memory’s reviewing all his TOK lessons and the times I felt he was speaking directly to me. Not so paranoid now.

  He’s loading bags into his car, the dark blue BMW way too flashy for a teacher’s salary. He starts when he sees me.

  “Dashing back to Coleman?” I say. I throw the postcards at him. “Finished scaring me half to death?”

  “That was never my intention,” he says, bending to pick them up. “And I don’t work for Coleman. Quite the opposite.”

  “So who are you, really? When you’re not pretending to be a schoolteacher or sending secret messages to schoolgirls? I assume it was you getting Dr Harrison drunk to read his files. I should go straight to Principal Barker.”

  “No. I’d rather you didn’t. And I don’t think you will. But I do realize I owe you an explanation.” He gestures for me to sit in the car but I step back. “I have a PhD from Harvard in neuroscience and my specialism is memory. I had a brief post in Professor Coleman’s department in London.”

  He sounds like he’s introducing himself on a dating show or University Challenge.

  “You’re rather over-qualified for teaching Theory of Knowledge at Dartmeet College,” I say.

  “I came to Dartmeet to find you: Freya Walsh, the memory wonder child that Coleman liked to keep to herself. A tech-whizz friend of mine helped out. Every time you searched online for certain keywords like Coleman or hyperthymesia, and accessed certain journals or research papers, you were laying a trail, a cookies profile. And then I got a lead from another ex-researcher, Nadia Hashimi, who said your mother had talked about sending you well away from the Programme to an international college in Devon. The two trails converged and here I am.”

  He gestures around him, as though he can’t quite believe how he’s got from Boston to a college car park on Dartmoor.

  I’m relieved that he knows Nadia. I trusted her. And if she’s confided in him, she must trust him too. “Did you have to be so theatrical about it?”

  “First I had to be sure that Jess Wilson was really Freya Walsh,” he says. “I had no photo of you, only a description from Nadia. I wasn’t even sure you’d still have the amazing memory. Adolescence can mean you grow out of it. But after all you’ve been through already, I didn’t want to trigger further trauma that could irreparably damage your memory.” He hands back the postcards.

  “So you thought you’d spook me with cryptic messages instead?”

  “I hoped you’d be intrigued by them and start reviewing what had happened to you on the Programme. It was safer than me wading straight in. The brain’s a delicate organ, more vulnerable than you think. In retrospect, it wasn’t my smartest move.”

  He runs his hand nervously through his hair and looks around. “Someone’s been making inquiries about me. I can’t stay – not if I might lead Coleman to you. But I’m making arrangements to get you away and I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.” He puts the last bag in his boot and slams it shut.

  “So you’re just abandoning me here?”

  At least he has the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m on your side.”

  “I didn’t know there were sides.”

  “There are always sides. You have to make sure you’re on the right one. There are people who fear what Coleman’s working towards, who want to help you.”

  “And who the hell are they?”

  He doesn’t answer but gets in the driver’s seat and winds down the window.

  My mind is whirring through the black notebooks. “Wait! What do you think ‘CV’ would stand for in her notes?”

  “Cognitive vaccine, of course. The crux of her research.” He checks his watch and starts the engine. He pulls slowly away, raising a hand to wave. “Keep reviewing your memories. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. Tell no one, trust no one.”

  I watch the car pass under the gatehouse and screech away on the gravel drive.

  A cognitive vaccine. That’s what those lists in the black notebooks were: the doses, the equations, the formulae.

  Coleman wants to give people the power to forget. Permanently.

  30

  Continue the room-system technique. You’re in a beautiful house in Kensington… The hall has a tiled floor and a hat stand. You leave by the blue door. You walk along a street of stucco-fronted houses and small front gardens with shiny black railings. You hear a car…

  Work Your Memory

  I check out Ramesh Desai online as best I can. I read some of his PhD thesis and other articles published in the States. There’s no mention of his time in London on the Programme, of course. The dates and his qualifications all match with what he told me, but that doesn’t mean that I should fully trust him, does it? And yet if Nadia does…

  I go swimming at midnight to calm my thoughts. Up and down, alternating breaststroke and front crawl. Then I float on my back looking at the reflections of the ripples on the roof. I feel like Coleman’s closing in on me. I’m running out of time to find out what I need to know about the past. Is there something she’s made me forget? Has she dosed me up with her ‘cognitive vaccine’?

  *

  Dan and I have had different lessons today but he’s texted me to say he’s heard back from the DVLA. I’m in the Common Room, biting my lip and picking at my cuticles. If we can contact the registered owner of the
Range Rover, we might find out what actually happened on the day of the accident.

  As soon as he comes in, I lead him out on to the decking so no one can hear us.

  “I haven’t opened it yet. Chill,” he says. He checks his smartphone. “The car was registered to a Mr Brett Young of Ainsley Gardens, London SW1. That’s B – R – E…”

  My heart skips a beat. “I can spell Brett,” I say grimly. “And I know who he is and what he looks like. Distinguishing feature: small chunk missing from his right ear.”

  “Blimey, how well do you know this guy?”

  “Well enough to have taken a bite out of his ear.”

  “Jeez, remind me never to get on the wrong side of you.” Dan gently pinches my earlobes. “What do we do now? What does it mean?”

  “Brett Young is Coleman’s assistant. He’s nasty,” I say. Just saying his name out loud brings a rush of fear and hate.

  “But if the car was registered to him, if he was driving?” Dan lowers his voice. “That changes things.”

  “If her assistant was driving the car, not a random little old lady as I supposedly remember, they lied to me. It means they definitely lied.”

  And things are not as I remember them.

  “All this time I’ve been thinking it was an accident,” I say. “One of those terrible life events that turn your world upside down. An event which Coleman and the Programme ended up using for the ultimate post-traumatic memories test.” I take a moment to swallow the lump in my throat and hold back any tears. I can’t give in to grief when I need to think straight. “Seeing your mother die,” I continue. “That’s way worse than anything even that sadistic thug Brett had dreamed up for me before. But I’ve always thought Mum stepped off the pavement without looking. I saw it. There was nothing the driver could do, whoever they were. At least, that’s what I remember. Or thought I did. Is any of it true?”

  Dan looks at the view across the gardens and breathes out deeply. “We know the colour of the car and the driver are both wrong in your memory,” he says. “So maybe this mantra you have that there was nothing anyone could do is wrong too. Brett and Coleman are the ones who fed you that line.”