Her Last Lie

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘I wish I could be there with you.’

  ‘Really? In the snow?’ She smiled, knowing he’d hate it.

  ‘Well, maybe not.’ He smiled too. ‘I hope you can get that bastard out of your head, Isla.’

  ‘I hope so too.’

  Jack pulled into a space by the side of the road opposite a church, and grabbed an Xbox game from the glove compartment. ‘Won’t be a minute,’ he said, getting out of the car.

  She watched him go, thinking how handsome he was, as he jogged along the pavement, wishing with every part of her that she wasn’t putting him through so much crap. He was one of the best. He’d be happier without her.

  Once he’d turned the corner, heading to where Matt lived on the High Street, she pulled out her phone and occupied herself for several minutes trawling through Facebook updates, adding loves and likes and wows to friends’ posts.

  It was as she slipped her phone back into her bag, she spotted someone in the graveyard opposite. She narrowed her eyes, a shot of adrenaline pounding her body. The man was too far away to see clearly, but he was wearing a green hat. She pulled out her phone again and, with shaking hands, snapped a picture. If she could show people the picture, it would prove she wasn’t going crazy. But when she looked at the screen, the picture was a blur. Whoever it was had moved.

  She climbed out of the car and, vaguely aware of a car braking sharply as she crossed the road in front of it, she walked towards the church. She ran her finger over the band on her wrist as she made her way under the ancient porch and into the grounds. Surely it was safe enough. The vicar must be about somewhere. But, as she weaved her way between the headstones, getting further away from the road as she went, and into the still silence of the graveyard, she became unsettled. What was she doing? What if it was Carl Jeffery? What if the article had been wrong? What if it was one of Carl Jeffery’s disciples?

  ‘Isla. What are you up to?’ She startled, and turned to see Jack behind her, looking pink-cheeked as though he’d been running.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, realising how stupid she was being. ‘It’s just . . . Nothing.’

  ‘We’d better head off. You don’t want to miss your flight.’

  As they drifted down the path towards the car, she glanced over her shoulder. A man wearing a green hat was placing flowers on a grave. It wasn’t Carl Jeffery. It wasn’t even a beanie. It was a cap, and the man was elderly, and had now been joined by a woman, who linked her arm through his. Was everything that had happened really just delusions brought on by her fear of Carl Jeffery?

  ‘You know what?’ Isla said to Jack once they were in the car, and she was trying to calm her anxiety. ‘I wonder sometimes if what happened in Australia messed with the wiring of my mind. I just don’t feel like me lately. I feel like I’m going crazy.’

  ‘You’re not crazy, Isla,’ he said, starting the engine, and thrusting the car into gear. ‘You just need some time out. You said so yourself. Anyone who went through what you went through will have bad times.’ He made it sound as if it was something and nothing. An off day because someone nabbed her parking space, or pushed in front of her at the supermarket.

  ‘But why now? Why after six years?’

  ‘You know why. It’s because of that bloody appeal. Just go to Sweden, relax, and when you get back, everything will be OK.’

  She didn’t reply, unsure if that was even possible.

  ***

  Departures at Stansted Airport was crowded, and Isla’s plane being delayed made her restless. She got up and left the café, where she’d been watching her coffee go cold for almost an hour, and made her way through the throng of people, searching for a quiet space.

  Relieved, she spotted a row of seats next to a huge window, just a man on the end seat reading a Dan Brown book, and a woman doing a crossword. Isla could cope with that.

  She sat down, gazing through the window at a stationary plane being refuelled by what looked like Playmobil people, and her stomach tipped. Not long now, surely.

  She pulled her phone from her carry-on bag, opened up her email account, and began typing.

  To: SALLY Johnson sallyjohnson@windlemail.com

  From: ISLA Johnson islajjohnson@windlemail.com

  Hi Mum,

  I’m about to take off. Please don’t worry about me. I won’t be gone long. I’m going to take loads of photographs, but mainly get my head down. Maybe I’ll complete Isla’s Journey – you never know.

  The details of where I’m staying can be found here: www.camp-arctic.com. There’s a phone number, and pictures of the place. They provide snow wear, so I won’t freeze, and I’ve bought some of those little hand-warmer thingies, which I can also use to keep my camera battery warm. I’m hoping the weather will be perfect for the Northern Lights. Love you lots and please give my love to Dad too. Isla xxx

  She closed her emails and clicked on the text message icon:

  Hi, Jack. I’m so sorry I’ve been acting so odd. Forgive me. Isla xxx

  Next she pressed the Facebook icon.

  At Stansted Airport waiting for my flight. Camp Arctic, Abisko, here I come – WHOOP!

  She stopped herself from messaging Roxanne. Even though she knew she shouldn’t believe what Trevor had told Sara, Roxanne had been a wild card at university, sleeping with everyone on campus. Taking drugs. Was it possible she’d slept with Trevor? It wasn’t that she cared now, of course. It was more that their friendship had been based on a lie.

  Before she switched off her phone for the flight, she registered that Ben Martin still hadn’t accepted her friend request, even though Sara had mentioned her to him. She sighed deep and long, trying to summon the girl she’d once been. It was time to head to Scandinavia, write, and live the final chapter of Isla’s Journey. She hoped it would be special, and she could leave the UK and the stress of the last week behind her.

  But as her phone screen buffered and went black, she felt small and lost. The giant toad of Stansted Airport overwhelmed her. She glanced about, pinged the band on her wrist, and took a deep breath. She looked down at her passport and boarding pass in her hands, and up at the sign that now told her to go to her gate. The first flight with Ryanair would take her to Stockholm. From there, Norwegian airlines would take her to Kiruna.

  In four hours she would have reached her final destination.

  She rose to her feet, her stomach leaping, her subconscious screaming, ‘Go home, Isla.’

  But she had to go.

  She couldn’t give up now.

  Chapter 27

  Five and half years ago

  For six months Isla had been cocooned in her old bedroom at her parents’ house. It hadn’t changed since she’d left for university five years before. Her old paperbacks jostled for space with Disney videos on a cheap bookshelf. And as she burrowed herself under her duvet, like a rabbit down a hole – scared of life, The Spice Girls and Take That looked down from posters Blu-Tacked to her butterfly wallpaper, reminding of the person she had once been.

  Over the months following the attack, she’d eaten just enough to keep alive, showered when her mum told her politely that the smell was getting too much. Her hair hung long and greasy. Her skin had an unhealthy grey tinge.

  She’d had a job lined up for her return from Australia in a café by the River Hiz that a friend of her mum’s owned. She’d planned to work there while she thought about her next step. Eventually it was given to someone else. They can’t wait for ever for you, Isla, love.

  Her mum had kept her updated about the constant flow of people calling – asking after her. They’d seen what had happened, on the news, in newspapers, online. ‘They care about you, darling,’ her mum would say, reeling off names she didn’t take in. She didn’t want or need anyone. They meant nothing. And anyway, all they wanted was to pick over the bones and walk away.

  Through the months her mum had pinned on a smile, as though she thought Isla might catch it and wear it too. She never did. She couldn’t smile. In fact,
the pills had made her feel so numb her face felt like it was set in a plaster cast. Her body a shell carrying around half the person she once was.

  Roxanne would turn up with piles of glossy magazines and paperbacks – rom-coms to cheer her up. Isla never read them.

  ‘She’s doing OK, Roxanne,’ she would hear her mum say, and Isla wondered if her mum believed her words. Whether she was in that much denial.

  ‘I’m thinking of going to Africa,’ Roxanne said one day, full of smiles as she plonked yet more magazines on Isla’s bed. ‘I want to help out out there – be useful, you know.’

  ‘Great!’ Isla said.

  ‘Really?’ Roxanne said. ‘I won’t go until I know you are OK,’ she added.

  ‘I’m fine. Go. Fuck off,’ Isla said, voice rising. ‘I don’t need you.’ She grabbed her battered bear from the bedside unit, her skull tingling, a feeling of panic rising at the possible loss of her best friend, and she disappeared under the duvet. ‘Just leave me alone.’

  ‘You need to eat more,’ Millie said, staring at the uneaten cod and chips on the floor. ‘It’s been over five months, Isla. You look so thin.’

  Isla was sitting up in bed, bolstered by pillows, her dirty hair tied into an untidy ponytail. She was flicking through the TV channels at speed, the noise blaring out.

  Millie snatched the remote and turned off the TV.

  ‘I was watching that. God’s sake, what do you want, Millie?’

  Millie sat down on the edge of the bed, turning the remote in her hands. ‘I’m worried about you, Isla.’

  ‘I know. You’ve told me a thousand times. I’m fine.’

  Millie placed the remote on the bed, and tucked a straying tendril of Isla’s hair behind her ear. ‘You pop so many pills. You never go out. You never eat. You won’t see a counsellor.’ She tilted her head, furrowing her forehead. The I’m worried about you look. ‘I just want my sister back, that’s all. I miss her.’

  ‘Life’s hard, Millie,’ Isla whispered. ‘Too hard.’

  ‘Everyone’s life is hard, Isla.’

  ‘What?’ She glared, catching Millie’s eyes for a long moment.

  ‘It is, Isla,’ Millie said, looking away. ‘Everyone has problems.’

  A bubble of anger rose. ‘So you think being almost killed by a serial killer is the same as having a beautiful, funny, amazing daughter with Asperger’s?’ she spat.

  ‘I didn’t say that. But my life isn’t exactly easy. It’s all relative, Isla.’

  ‘Jesus, Millie.’ She closed her eyes. Her sister could be so stupid at times, barging in with her big feet.

  ‘I know there’s no comparison. I realise that. But . . . ’ She rested her hand on Isla’s, her voice soft and caring. ‘Julian thinks maybe you should take the bull by the horns. Get out of bed and get on with it. Try to get your act together.’

  The slap was hard, and tears shot to Millie’s eyes. The print on her cheek was instant. Julian. Why did you have to mention bloody Julian? Isla’s body began to shake, and tears prickled at the reality of what she’d done. ‘Oh God, Millie, I’m so sorry.’

  The door opened and their dad peered round. ‘Is everything OK, girls?’

  ‘Dad,’ Isla said, sinking lower down her bed, tears streaming her cheeks.

  ‘I heard raised voices,’ he said.

  ‘It was nothing.’ Millie got to her feet and fumbled for a tissue in her pocket.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ Isla sobbed, burying herself under her duvet, her shoulders heaving, hysteria setting in – and as she cried she felt the weight of her sister on the bed once more, cradling her body through the duvet, the summery floral smell of her giving her comfort.

  ‘Don’t cry, little sis,’ Millie said through her own tears. ‘Please don’t cry. I can’t bear it.’

  ***

  And then Isla had no choice. She’d dragged herself from under her duvet. He may go free if you don’t.

  The journey to Australia was long and tiring. Two flights. A stop-off in Singapore, where they’d grabbed a burger, and dozed, stretched on the floor in the airport like they were homeless.

  ‘You OK?’ Sally gripped her daughter’s hand.

  Isla nodded, but she was far from it. To go back to where it all happened was horrendous, scary, what nightmares were made of.

  ‘We’ll be landing soon, love,’ Sally went on, peering through the window at the fluffy white clouds above Sydney. ‘Won’t be long now.’

  Johan Arnold, the prosecution lawyer, was confident, his Aussie twang strong. It had made Isla flinch when she first heard it. Sad. She’d always loved the accent before.

  ‘What Jeffery did to you that night, Isla,’ he’d said over Skype a week before they took off, brushing a hand over his silver-grey beard, ‘along with his DNA on Bronwyn’s body, the fact he admitted to you that he killed Sophie Stuart and Clare Simpson, topped up,’ he’d gone on as though he was filling a glass of fizz, ‘with the eyewitness accounts. It’s enough. But we need you here, Isla. We can’t do this without you.’

  Once in the courtroom, dressed in a drab brown skirt suit, it hadn’t taken Isla long to realise the defence’s tactics.

  ‘Yeah, too right Isla Johnson’s violent.’ It was Coral Reynolds from school talking over a live link to the UK. ‘Nearly gave me brain damage.’

  Isla stared at the woman on the screen – still thin with cropped blonde hair – but now she had a tattoo of a windpipe on her neck. Isla placed a shaking hand on her own neck. Tears burned.

  ‘Isla threw me across the classroom,’ Coral went on with a shrug. ‘I banged my head on a desk, and there was, like, blood everywhere.’ Isla turned away from the screen, the memory of Coral, a girl she’d barely known, insulting Millie pushing its way into her head. ‘Your fat-arse sister’s been knocked up by a creep,’ Coral had spat back then.

  She had gone around winding people up, lighting touchpapers, and getting off on their reactions – the chaos. Anyone would have retaliated. But it was such a long time ago – they’d been kids – thirteen, fourteen maybe? Why was she dredging up ancient history, defending a man who’d killed three women? In fact, how had they even found her? But it was simple. She’d found them. She hadn’t changed.

  ‘The defence are clutching at straws, Isla. We’ve got this in the bag,’ Johan said, when she expressed a desperate need to go home. He’d looked harassed, eyes dull, frustrated. ‘They’re dredging up stuff to make it look as though you attacked Carl. It’s pathetic. We will win this.’ He hadn’t given her a chance to respond, just walked away with his briefcase, his expensive suit creased.

  Day after day, the defence picked over Isla’s life. And, day after day, she watched on as the prosecution held up the green beanie, the scarf, photos that made her stomach turn. Day after day, she shared the courtroom with Carl Jeffery. Went over and over what had happened that awful night, knowing his eyes were on her.

  It was a Friday – Isla remembered because it was the thirteenth – when her dad climbed onto the witness stand, visibly shaking.

  ‘Mr Johnson,’ the defence began. ‘Are there any moments when, growing up or even more recently, Isla has been prone to violent outbursts?’

  Gary looked over at Isla, no longer shaking. There had been moments – teenage tantrums when Isla rebelled a little. Threw things. But more recently there had been that awful moment when she’d lost control and slapped her sister – hard – bruised Millie’s cheek. He’d known about that. He may not have seen it, but he’d known.

  ‘Never,’ he said, always fiercely protective of his daughters.

  The turning point came when Carl was questioned about his mother. Isla couldn’t be sure if Johan had expected the reaction he got, but his eyes went from dull to bright in moments. He began firing cleverly crafted questions, shooting them at his victim.

  ‘Talk to my sister,’ Carl Jeffery cried, his eyes searching the many faces of the public gallery as though he hoped she was there. He began stuttering over his words, crumb
ling like a child. ‘Me and Darleen went through hell when Mum left.’ His eyes darted around the courtroom, and he began to cry. Helpless tears. ‘Mum knew what he did, but she still left us with him.’

  Suddenly he wasn’t the Carl Jeffery who’d attacked Isla, or even the Carl Jeffery she’d fallen for. He was the lost child his mother walked out on, and a wave of pity consumed her, bashing against the revulsion and hatred, causing a concoction of confusion.

  Isla should have felt elated when Carl Jeffery got three life sentences, but it wasn’t elation she felt that day. There was some relief, but the truth was she knew she would continue to share her journey with Carl Jeffery. He would always be there. Riding trains with her. Buses. Planes. Walking a few steps behind. Lurking in the shadows on dark nights, among the crowds on bright summer days, just hidden enough that she couldn’t quite see his face. The fear would always be there; she would just have to learn to live with it.

  Chapter 28

  Now

  Isla’s eyes ached as she gazed out at the miles and miles of freshly fallen snow, the bright sun reflecting off its brilliant whiteness. It was quiet, nobody for miles, and she felt so absorbed by the silence that sitting in the back of a taxi felt unusually easy.

  A moose in the distance wandered, slow and lumbering, and Isla pulled out her camera. She lowered the window, the bitter cold air making her face tingle.

  ‘Are you staying here long?’ the taxi driver asked, as she rested the camera lens on the glass, zoomed in on the moose and snapped a picture.

  ‘A week,’ Isla said. ‘I wish it was longer.’ She slid the window to a close, and the driver dashed a look over his shoulder. He was about thirty, with a friendly smile.

  ‘I live in Kiruna,’ he said, his English good, although there was no doubting he was Scandinavian.

  She glanced out once more at the miles and miles of endless snow. This was perfect.

  ‘Kiruna’s the most northerly town in Sweden,’ he continued, as though proud of his home. ‘Although it will all move eventually.’