Her Last Lie

by Amanda Brittany

  Roxanne dragged her fingers through her hair, growing agitated and impatient, when the email pinged into her inbox.

  To: SALLY Johnson sallyjohnson@windlemail.com

  From: ISLA Johnson islajohnson@windlemail.com

  Dear Mum

  I’m sorry I can’t go on living.

  I fell in love for the first time in my life in Canada, but I was let down so painfully. Andy is my everything. Without him, I can’t go on.

  I’ve been writing a blog since August – www.travellinggirlblog.com. It began as my travel blog, but later it was where I privately wrote my thoughts. I’ve sent you an invitation to read it, in the hope that when you do, it will help you to understand what I’ve been through and why this has to be goodbye.

  Isla xx

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Roxanne whispered, her thoughts confirmed. The email couldn’t have been from Isla. Isla’s email address was islajjohnson@windlemail.com. The email Sally had received had come from islajohnson@windlemail.com. There was no ‘j’ in the address. No ‘j’ for Jane.

  Doubt crept in. Maybe Isla had another email address, a secret one. But then she wouldn’t have contacted her mum with it, would she? And Isla had only ever used one email address in all the time Roxanne had known her.

  Roxanne rubbed her face, her heart knocking against her ribs. She was suddenly certain Isla never sent it. And it was the email that had directed them to the blog. If Isla hadn’t written the email, she hadn’t written the blog posts either.

  Isla had never been suicidal.

  Before she could register her thoughts, the door opened and Sally, Gary and Millie fell through, a sense of exhaustion wafting from them. They looked so pale – so cold.

  Roxanne shot up and, after a shower of hugs, Millie headed off to find their rooms, and Sally and Gary settled on one of the sofas, fingers entwined, her head resting on his shoulder. But Sally wasn’t sleeping. Her eyes were wide open, as though she daren’t close them for fear of missing a single clue that would lead them to their daughter.

  Roxanne looked down at Gary and tried for a smile.

  How are you doing? she wanted to say. But she didn’t have to ask. His skin was pallid, his eyes bloodshot. He was thinner too, if that was possible, his face unshaven. She knew exactly how he felt – she felt it too.

  ‘All right, love?’ he said, dragging his head up, his voice quivery and quiet, as though someone had turned down the volume.

  Roxanne perched on the edge of an armchair opposite them.

  ‘I don’t think Isla sent the email,’ she said, and began desperately trying to explain. They looked confused, tired, helpless. She could almost hear their unvoiced fears, as they avoided her stare, their eyes shimmering. If she didn’t write it, who did? If she didn’t write it, someone’s taken our daughter.

  Roxanne needed to say something, anything that would help. But what could she say? We will find her. Everything will be all right. Don’t worry. Her throat seemed to swell. Did she even believe that any more? Empty words filling empty spaces. She headed away to call the police.

  ‘Don’t you see,’ she said down the phone. ‘If Isla didn’t write the email, she must be in danger.’ But they seemed to struggle to understand the relevance. ‘Something’s not right,’ she insisted, voice rising. ‘You must do something.’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can, Miss Furaha. But we have little to go on. Your friend sent an email saying she was going to take her own life. We don’t . . . ’

  ‘But that’s what I’m saying. She didn’t send it.’ You fucking moron.

  ‘Calm down, we are doing all we can.’ A pause. ‘We’ve organised a search, and I’ll send two officers to Camp Arctic now.’

  When she returned, Sally was in floods of tears. ‘I keep thinking about her when she was a little girl,’ she was saying. ‘Seeing her with a high ponytail and a tinsel halo, the day she played an angel at infant school.’ She let out a sob. ‘She was so excited to be allowed to be barefoot on stage.’

  Roxanne reached over and squeezed her hand.

  ‘Gary wanted a son, didn’t you, Gary?’ Sally continued, as though she was doing a documentary on her daughter. This is your life, Isla Johnson.

  He nodded, eyes shimmering.

  ‘He even bought a football. But, once she was in the world, it hadn’t mattered, had it, Gary?’

  He shook his head again. A determined shake, as though he didn’t want his head filled with memories he couldn’t handle.

  ‘She wound you around her little finger from the moment she could smile.’ Her voice broke off, and she pushed her head into her hands.

  Hearing footfalls on the wooden floorboards behind her, Roxanne turned to see Millie approaching. She handed Sally a key.

  ‘Mum said you’ve seen the police, Roxanne,’ Millie said.

  She nodded. ‘They’re going to search the area and send over officers.’

  ‘Good.’ Millie’s eyes looked red and sore. Her hair scooped into a messy ponytail. ‘Can I get anyone some coffee?’

  ‘No thanks, love,’ Gary said.

  ‘Loganberry juice?’ Millie went on, as though determined to fill the air with words.

  Would it be wrong to ask for gin? A double – no triple, maybe even a quadruple gin, no ice, no mixer, just mind-numbing, thought-squashing, intoxicating, gin?

  ‘I’m fine,’ Roxanne said. Fine? What a stupid, stupid word. Nobody here’s fine.

  ‘I’ve finally heard from Julian,’ Millie said. There was sharpness in her tone. ‘He said he’ll put a message on his model railway forum about Isla.’

  And that will help, how?

  ‘That’s kind of him,’ Sally said, pulling a tissue from her bag and mopping her eyes.

  Millie picked up the jug of juice and began pouring. She filled the glass so it splashed over the edges like a waterfall. She didn’t seem to notice, just picked it up, and sipped it. ‘Julian’s an arse,’ she said almost to herself, taking the glass from her lips and tapping her chin with it three times. ‘When this is over, and we find Isla – because we will, I know we will – I’m going to tell him that. I’m going to tell him he’s a fucking, fucking arse, and I want a divorce.’

  The quiet that followed, broken only by Alma tapping on her computer keyboard, and the dogs’ heavy breathing, seemed to go and on, as though they were travelling in an endless dark tunnel, with no bright light at the end.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  Roxanne looked up to see a woman of around forty with a mop of wild blonde hair. Next to her was the boy Roxanne had spoken to the night before.

  ‘Apologise,’ the woman snapped at the boy.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, head down.

  Roxanne rose to her feet, and gestured for the woman to move away from Sally and Gary. And they headed into the dark, empty restaurant.

  ‘I found my son with a wad of money,’ the woman continued. ‘The thing is, he lied to you.’

  ‘Lied?’ Roxanne’s eyes slid across to the boy.

  ‘Someone paid him to tell you he’d seen the woman you’ve been looking for. They said he was to tell you he’d seen her with the man in a photo. I’m so ashamed, and so sorry.’

  ‘So he didn’t see her?’ Roxanne continued to glare at the boy. ‘You didn’t see Isla with the man in the photo?’

  ‘No,’ the boy said, head still down, as he scuffed his boots along the wooden floor.

  ‘Oh my God, you little shit,’ Roxanne spat. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Now calm down,’ the woman said curtly. ‘There’s really no call for foul language. He’s said he’s sorry.’

  ‘Oh, so that makes it all right, does it? You misled me. She could be dead because of you.’ Roxanne’s deepest fears were out there now – they were real.

  ‘I was paid a thousand kronas,’ the boy said, with a shrug. ‘Who wouldn’t lie?’

  ‘Who the hell gave you this money?’

  ‘A woman,’ he said. ‘She was old-ish, about thirty.’
<
br />   ‘You bloody idiot,’ Roxanne said, stepping closer, and the boy cowered.

  ‘Enough,’ the woman said, adding something in Swedish and, grabbing the boy’s arm, she hurried him away.

  Roxanne pulled out her phone and called the police again, relaying to them what the boy had told her, insisting, once more, that something was very wrong.

  ‘Two of our officers will be with you shortly, Miss Furaha, and please be assured we have police searching the area.’

  She ended the call and, after several deep breaths, returned to reception.

  ‘Has anyone heard from Jack?’ she said, deciding not to mention what the boy had said. For now, at least, she wouldn’t worry them further. There was nothing they could do.

  Sally shook her head.

  Time seemed to slow even more, crawling along like an injured animal. This was all too much. Roxanne felt so helpless. Should she go out in the snow and hunt for her friend? But where would she start?

  ‘I think I’ll call it a night,’ Millie said.

  ‘Of course – try to get some sleep, love.’ Sally dropped a shredded tissue onto the table in front of her. ‘We can start afresh in the morning.’

  ‘No, no, we can’t just give up,’ Roxanne said, her eyes darting over their helpless faces. ‘There must be something more we can do. There has to be.’ But the truth was, there was nothing. She’d failed. Isla was in danger, and she’d failed her.

  Suddenly the door swung open, and they all looked towards it.

  ‘Jack!’ Roxanne cried, as he stumbled in, Isla wrapped in a blanket in his arms. He laid her on one of the sofas, as everyone rushed towards them.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ he yelled over to Alma, his teeth chattering, dried blood on his forehead. ‘Call an ambulance. Now!’

  Chapter 46

  Isla

  Isla opened her eyes.

  A monitor beeped, and there was a muffled distant chatter of faceless people. She was in a bed on a hospital side ward, attached to a drip that pumped clear liquid into her veins. Her head ached. Her body ached. Everything ached.

  Jack was on a chair next to her, head slumped to one side, sleeping.

  As though sensing her stare, he stirred and opened his eyes. He looked so pale. ‘Isla,’ he said, leaning forward and taking hold of her hand.

  Her mouth was dry, and that familiar feeling of nausea oozed through her body. ‘What happened?’ she said, her voice croaky.

  He gripped her hand, his bloodshot eyes filling with tears. ‘Sara tried to kill you.’

  A snip of memory squeezed through. ‘They’ll think you didn’t care about them at the very end. Just like my father never cared about me.’

  Panic bubbled up inside her, and her eyes shot to the door. ‘Where is she?’

  He looked down, and closed his eyes. ‘She’s dead, Isla.’

  ‘Dead?’

  He nodded. ‘Hanged herself.’

  She leant over and grabbed a cardboard tray from the cabinet, and retched. Jack edged forward and pulled back her hair.

  ‘Your mum and dad are here,’ he said, as she lowered her head back onto the pillow. ‘And Millie and Roxanne. They’ve just gone to get something to eat.’

  ‘You saved me, didn’t you?’ she whispered.

  ‘I just got to you in time, thank God.’

  ‘Tell me what happened, Jack?’ she said, wanting desperately to fill in the gaps. ‘From the beginning.’

  ‘OK.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I came back to Camp Arctic, realising I’d made an awful mistake leaving. That’s when I saw her.’

  ‘Sara?’

  He nodded. ‘Even though she was wearing a wig, I knew it was her. I was going to approach her, ask her what she was doing there, but she left quite suddenly – got in a car and drove away.

  ‘I followed in my hire car, keeping my distance, and saw her pull into the drive of Resan Slutar Lodge about three miles out. I parked up and carried on on foot.

  ‘She was outside chopping wood. She saw me. Struck me with a bloody great piece of wood, like a woman possessed.

  ‘I woke later, lying behind a shed. She’d covered me with snow – left me for dead, I reckon.’

  ‘Oh my God, Jack.’

  He touched his head. It had been patched up with stiches.

  ‘I was freezing. Thought I was going to die of hypothermia.’

  ‘Your worst nightmare.’

  ‘I know. I hate the fucking cold.’ A hint of a smile crossed his lips, but it vanished as quickly as it came. ‘I could barely walk, but managed to climb into the back of her car. I crawled under a pile of blankets. Figured if I kept warm, I could do something. But I must have passed out again, as I came round when she’d parked up with you.

  ‘I got out of the car, adrenaline keeping me going, I guess. I saw what she was doing to you, heard what she was saying. She was one cruel bitch,’ he said, his eyes darting with anger, as though he was back there. ‘I’ve never known evil like it.’

  ‘I have,’ Isla whispered, squeezing his hand.

  ‘Isla!’ She looked up to see her mum and dad rushing through the door towards her. ‘Everything is going to be OK, lovely girl,’ her dad said, as they hugged her so close.

  ‘Is it?’ Isla said, but nobody seemed to hear.

  Chapter 47

  Isla

  Six weeks later

  ‘Hey, remember when we made lasagne for the first time at uni?’ Roxanne said.

  Isla could hear her friend talking, could even make out the words, but she wasn’t computing.

  ‘How to burn pasta in one easy lesson,’ Roxanne went on, with a forced laugh. ‘And scorchio mince.’

  But Isla was trancelike. Thoughts of Sara consumed her, as they had since she got back from Sweden. The efforts the woman had gone to to ruin her life had been so extreme, it made her sick to think about it. Fake Facebook profiles, a blog pretending to be Isla, and the setting up of the reunion only scratched the surface of what she’d done. Truth was, Sara hadn’t even met Ben or Veronica.

  Isla had tried so hard to piece it all together. Had Sara chosen the name Andy for her phantom lover, after seeing Isla’s Canadian holiday acquaintance on Facebook? Had she found Isla’s mum’s email address when Sally left her settings open? Isla knew she may never know.

  ‘Earth to Isla, come in, Isla,’ Roxanne said, waving her hand in front of her friend’s face.

  Isla covered her mouth, trying not to cry. ‘Sorry,’ she said through her fingers. ‘I’m really not myself.’

  ‘No, no of course you’re not, lovely lady.’ She paused. ‘Isla, you do believe me that I never slept with Trevor Cooper, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh God, Roxanne, of course I do. You don’t have to keep asking. She just made that up to put a wedge between us. And she could never do that.’

  But Sara had at the time. She’d planted the doubt, and Isla had sucked it up. And she’d fooled Roxanne and her parents too, led them away from Abisko, by pushing a woman in front of a car in Narvik and planting Isla’s bag on her.

  ‘Do you want to go home?’ Roxanne asked, looking deep into Isla’s eyes.

  Isla nodded and laid down her fork on the bed of chicken and crisp lettuce leaves she hadn’t touched. ‘I’m really not hungry, anyway.’

  ‘You should eat.’

  ‘I do eat.’ It came out as a snap. ‘Sorry, sorry . . . I know you’re just being kind . . . I’m so sorry . . . ’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.’ Roxanne placed her hand over Isla’s. ‘I just thought if we came out for a meal it might help, but it’s clearly not working.’

  Isla shook her head. She knew Roxanne wanted to talk. Bring out the pain and swaddle it in so much love that it would suffocate and die. But it was going to take a lot more than that.

  ‘How did she get the photograph into my room at Abisko?’ Isla whispered. Every little bit of what happened moving around her head like the living dead. ‘How did Sara get it in there?’

  ‘P
robably when the room was being cleaned – housekeepers take little notice of who stays in which room. If Sara popped in when your room was being cleaned, and left the photo, a cleaner wouldn’t have batted an eyelid.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Isla ran her fingers over the rubber band on her wrist. Her skin was pink and raw, and a scab had formed where she’d drawn blood a few weeks back. Tears itched behind her eyes. It’s way too soon. This was going to take a long time to get over – if she ever could.

  Roxanne tilted her head, eyes shimmering – the pitying look. Isla had seen it so many times since Abisko, since she’d appeared on the front cover of newspapers two days on the trot. People had looked at her the way they’d looked at her six years before.

  There had been a media storm after Sweden, just as there had been after Australia. Flashing cameras blurring her and her family’s vision as they left the hospital, and later in the UK as they left the airport. Journalists talking on phones; a woman with silky blonde hair, and a rainbow-coloured blouse, from a news channel; a man wearing a blue and white checked blazer she recognised from the TV.

  ‘Hey, Isla! Why do you think this has happened to you twice?’ one had called, as her parents rushed her to the car.

  ‘Can you tell us more about Andy?’

  ‘Are you sleeping with Trevor Cooper?’

  ‘Is there a connection with Carl Jeffery, Isla? Or are you just unlucky?’

  ‘Why do you think Sara killed herself?’

  ‘Any chance of a link to the blog?’

  ‘Do you think killers are drawn to you, Isla?’

  Snappy, clever headlines followed Sweden. Photos of Isla and Jack filled pages. There were pictures of Sara too, at university and more recent ones. Her metamorphosis, they seemed to think, was a story in itself.

  There were images of Trevor Cooper too, poor innocent Trevor, whose only guilt seemed to be loving Isla, and the photograph of Isla and the red-headed man sitting outside a café found its way on to the front page. He was Steven Russell, a maths teacher from Stevenage, a father of equally red-headed twins. He’d just happened to sit down at Isla’s table on a busy market day, when she was writing in Hitchin. It wasn’t taken in Canada. Sara had simply snapped them from a distance and cropped out landmarks, and based the fictitious Andy on the man.