The Lies We Tell

by The Lies We Tell (retail) (epub)

  ‘Michael –’ Katy starts to object.

  ‘We need to be a team, you and me, but it feels like we’re living on two different islands,’ he presses on, moving towards the door where he hesitates, briefly. ‘Get a grip of yourself, Katy. Sort yourself out. It’s time to grow up. Because there’s only room for one child in this house – and I’m not talking about floor space.’ Turning away from Katy, Michael steps out onto the landing then makes his way downstairs.

  ‘Don’t wait up, by the way,’ he calls from the front door. ‘I might be some time.’

  Chapter 33

  Let me tell you about my baby. A bit of a handful – as you’d expect – but not a bad boy. Though that’s not what his teachers said. Disruptive, they called him. We had to keep changing schools, you know, until he walked out at the age of 16 fit for nothing better than signing on. It was Siobhan’s idea he join the army. And it could have been the making of him, too, if there hadn’t been a fight one Saturday night in town. It was self defence. Even so, he got a conviction for aggravated assault – more than enough for the army to throw him out. Failed by everyone but, as Siobhan always said: especially me. Which was rich coming from the one who’d spoiled him rotten.

  Chapter 34

  London – July 2013

  Hand over hand, like a diver battling buoyancy, Katy tugs herself towards oblivion; wills herself to sleep. Though she can only stay down so long and after just an hour or two she is wide awake, her mind fizzing with thoughts of Michael’s betrayal. Lying on her side, her back towards him, she wonders what time he turned in. Whether he too is conscious in the half light, restless and troubled. But the room is silent, the mattress still.

  If she is gentle, maybe she can shift position without waking him. So cautiously re-positioning her left leg to adjust her weight, she tilts her body then lowers her spine down onto the sheet before turning her head. But the far side of the bed is empty and, judging by the plumpness of the pillow, unused.

  Katy glances at the bedside clock. It’s half past four and though the sun is yet to rise the air is thick and soupy. Where did he sleep last night, she wonders, pulling herself upright.

  The glass on the bedside table at her side is empty. Suddenly thirsty, she climbs out of bed, slips out onto the landing and towards the stairs. Down one flight and she finds the door of the study is open and the room inside is empty. Down another and she can see the kitchen is pristine. All the debris from last night’s cooking has been neatly washed, dried then out away. Gently pushing open the sitting room door, she peers inside and sees a folded sheet and pillow resting on one arm of the sofa. Other than this, there’s no sign that Michael’s been there.

  Turning around, Katy notices the door of the landing cupboard is ajar and pulls the handle. The shelf where he keeps his running stuff is empty and his trainers and Camelbak are also gone. But it’s still so early – can he really have gone out for a run? It seems unlikely, but as she peers down through the half light towards the front door she can see he has left it unchained.

  Powered by a sudden fear of being found undressed when he returns, she hurries back upstairs to the bedroom and tugs on some clothes. Only as she starts to re-trace her steps back towards the kitchen in search of iced water does she notice the door to Michael’s store room, the one he uses for his cameras and usually keeps locked, is open. It is a small box room, barely large enough for a single bed, with a tiny window which when covered makes it ideal for developing photographs using his dad’s old Leica.

  Leaning against the wooden door panel, careful not to move it, Katy listens for any evidence of movement from within but there is none. Willing herself to ignore the drumming in her chest, she reaches out, gives the door a light push and peeps inside. Airless and stuffy, sealed from the outside world by a black-out blind drawn tightly across the window, the room is empty.

  Curious, Katy steps inside and turns on the light. Against one wall is a narrow trestle table beneath which a selection of rigid metal boxes containing camera equipment are stowed. But it is what is on the table’s top that catches her attention. Michael’s laptop, open, beside a pile of papers. As she approaches, she brushes the table with her thigh making the sleeping screen flicker into life. At the sight of the St. Olave’s Hospice home page Katy’s stomach clenches.

  Why would he have this open on his screen, she wonders, as the previous evening’s anger starts to stir. How dare he!

  Reaching out towards the touchpad she hesitates for a moment. For isn’t what she is about to do the same as what she last night condemned him for? But this is different. A response to his provocation. So she quickly opens his recent search history. As her eyes scroll from the bottom of the screen up she sees a postcode she does not recognise and a Google Map she does – it’s of the area where she went yesterday. Then there is a street map detailing Hill Rise, another mystery postcode and finally the hospice’s details.

  Has he been following her?

  She notices the corner of her mobile just visible beneath the pile of paper. Tugging it free, she sees she has a text from Sally Anne: ‘Something big’s come up – we need to speak ahead of Monday. Call me as soon as you get this.’ Sent just an hour or two earlier. Christ, does the woman never sleep? As Katy exits the message, however, she notices something else – an icon on the phone’s screen depicting two stick people; an app she’s not noticed before. Curious, she taps it with her finger and sees a small icon moving across a local map and, beneath it, Michael’s name.

  Baffled, Katy turns to the computer and taps into Google the name of the app. The first result is a five star review of how it allows users to follow people by tracking the location of their mobile phone. Glancing back towards the map on her mobile she sees Michael, for the pulsing dot is surely him, moving along beside the river on the south side near Kew Bridge. He is on the return leg of his usual Thames-side running circuit, she realises. Fifteen maybe twenty minutes away.

  Stunned, Katy’s mind races as she tries to decide what to do. She could pretend she’s seen none of this, of course – go back to bed like it didn’t happen. But though she needs his help she must be able to trust him, too. Not that he can trust her, of course. For isn’t that what all this is about? Trust or rather, lack of it. And it’s all her fault. If she had opened up to him something sooner. The thought she might have left it too late makes her eyes well with tears.

  As she wipes her face on her T-shirt, she reads for the first time the top sheet of the pile of papers. Notices the photo accompanying the estate agent details describing their home. How could he do this without telling me, she thinks, staring at the sheet now clutched in her hand. There is business card attached to a letter beneath bearing the same logo – from a company called Estelle Property Services.

  Angrily, her eyes scan the letter of appointment. The standard terms and conditions. The sender’s details. An Estelle Davies, Managing Director. Her throat tightens. Davies with an i-e-s, of course. But how …?

  Tears come now, hot and fast. Because he’s doing it, selling their home without telling her. Appointing Jude to manage it all, too. Which is some kind of scam on her part, of course. Another trick to get at them. But if that’s all it is, why’s she hand-written a personal message on the back of the business card? ‘Always at your service,’ it reads above what must be Jude’s mobile number beside which she’s added, in brackets: ‘Any time, day or night. x.’

  Katy rams the card into her pocket and backs out of the room. She is outraged by his behaviour but fearful, too. With a barely suppressed sob, she thinks of Michael’s lame excuse for searching her bag. How long has he been spying on her?

  Spurred into action by the sudden thought that in just a few minutes he will return, Katy darts back towards their bedroom. She will stay at Mum’s for a few days, she decides. For as long as it takes to get things straight. There’s a twenty four hour mini cab office just ten minutes away but in the opposite direction to Michael’s running route. That’s where she wi
ll wait, unobserved, for a driver to take her to Richmond where she will find somewhere to wait, buy a coffee perhaps, for it to be late enough to wake her mum.

  Katy scans the bedroom, fingers drumming on the chest of drawers as she tries to think. After what feels like minutes, she spots an old sports bag on the shelf above the cupboard. She has to clamber up onto a chair to tug it down then, as soon as it falls onto the floor, she is on her knees stuffing inside whatever’s closest to hand. A change of clothes. Some underwear. A pair of plimsolls. From the bathroom, toiletries and make-up.

  She hesitates, uncertain what else she should take, until she spots the bed-side phone charger and crams it into her shoulder bag. Then she has an idea. Pulling free her mobile, she briskly keys in the number from Estelle Davies’ card.

  Enough’s enough, she decides as she hurtles down the stairs two at a time. The words of the text she will send once she is safely belted inside the minicab start to assemble. This has to end. Meet me this morning, alone. Text to confirm where.

  Chapter 35

  He followed me to London. And do you want to know why I didn’t stop him from getting involved? Stalking you. Hospitalising Diane. Pretending to be your downstairs neighbour. Because of those last weeks in the hospice. Those hours he spent by Siobhan’s side soaking up her bile. And she almost won. Nearly turned him against me with her talk of his dad being the elder brother of a rich school friend. She was only guessing, of course. Because I said nothing – what right did she, of all people, have to know? He pinned me against the wall the night she died, you know. With his hand around my throat, taunting me to deny I was a dirty, lying slag when the only reason I said nothing was I didn’t know. But it was all worth it, later, when he said sorry. Anything, I’ll do anything, he cried, to make things right. What else could I do, Kat? At last, with Siobhan finally gone, I’d got James back.

  Chapter 36

  London – July 2013

  The interior of The Rainbow Café smells of cheap margarine and fried fat. Inside a glass-fronted counter is an array of ice cream tubs filled with an assortment of sandwich fillings – shreds of iceberg; slivers of dry-edged cheese; a tuna concoction bearing a passing resemblance to cat food. To one side, a selection of rolls and bread slices are stacked in anticipation; to the other, days-old doughnuts make a stale pyramid. But all Katy orders is a drink.

  Choosing a seat at the window, she perches on a stool then puts her cup onto the Formica ledge running the entire length of the window. Scattered strategically along the counter are plastic salt and pepper shakers like the ones she remembers from school. She doesn’t need her fingers to brush the wipe-down surface to know it is sticky to the touch. On the street beyond the window, the early Sunday morning traffic is starting to build on Brompton Road.

  Katy checks her watch. Nine o’clock outside the main entrance to the cemetery, she’d told Jude. A strange place to meet, perhaps, but one she knew well as Dad’s buried here; a place she’s chosen because it is familiar; somewhere she feels safe. Her lips curl into a half smile. Will Jude guess, she wonders? But her mood is dark.

  Jude had tried to take control, of course. Suggested meeting somewhere else at a different time. But Katy was determined to remain strong. For both of them, she thinks, glancing down at her belly. Now it’s just us two.

  Her body braces as something hot and wet scalds her thigh. Coffee from the cup she’s barely noticed she’s still holding. What’s wrong with you? the voice inside her demands as, with a fistful of paper serviettes from a nearby dispenser, she dabs herself dry. Inside her bag Katy finds a compact mirror which she now uses to inspect her face. Exhaling, slowly, she works every fibre of her being to regain control.

  Yes, they are in this together, the two of them, as Jude said. Just like they always have been. Complicit. But in spite of her own fumbled attempts at self denial, Katy now knows what she has done. But what will it take to make Jude go away?

  From her vantage point beside the window Katy can monitor the approach of any passers-by from either direction. The pavement the near side of the busy thoroughfare is almost deserted. Across the road, though, pedestrian traffic is busier and a flower seller is doing brisk trade from his mobile stall beside the cemetery’s wrought iron gates. Glancing down she checks the screen of her mobile phone which rests on her lap, juggling for a beat the hope that Michael has sent some message by way of an apology. But there’s no evidence he’s even tried to get in contact.

  A phone rings behind the café’s counter. The man who’s just served her, a middle-aged Pole with grey hair who’s teased his dark moustache into a tight curl either side of his nose, answers the call.

  Staring at the only other customer, an old woman sitting alone in the corner nursing an empty tea cup, Katy listens idly to the man’s guttural response as he grunts into the receiver. The distraction is a welcome one. The call ends and then, like a novelty town crier, he clears his throat to broadcast his announcement.

  ‘Is there a Catparker here?’ The voice is heavily accented and his smile encouraging as his gazes darts between the two women until one of them, Katy, nods.

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘Message for you,’ he continues. ‘Mrs Jody says she has change of plan. You will meet her inside. Go to the bench by the war memorial halfway down Central Avenue.’

  How dare she? Though this is text book Jude, of course. Even if it is odd she didn’t bother calling Katy direct on her mobile. Because both network coverage and battery level are fine, she notes, glancing down at the screen. Noticing the time she wonders if, with five minutes still to go, Jude’s inside already waiting. Slipping off the stool, she approaches the counter to pay then, with a nod, turns to leave.

  ‘Only a short walk,’ the man smiles. ‘But use main entrance, not West Gate. Just three or four minutes at most.’

  *

  Inside the cemetery, Katy hurries along the Central Avenue towards the main gate. It has taken her longer than she hoped to reach the Brompton Road exit from the Fulham end the far side of the domed chapel, not far from Dad’s grave. And all she wants now is to reach the meeting point in good time.

  Checking her watch once more, Katy finds herself hungry for their meeting – unlike last time. For things have gone far enough. People – Mum, for god’s sake – are getting hurt. Which is why all this has got to stop, she thinks, touching the barely perceptible lump of scar tissue on her upper hand for a moment; grateful for the reminder of it. How even now, the injustice it embodies keeps her strong.

  She may only be starting to get used to the idea that Jude’s real father was her own; that the anger and resentment Jude clearly still feels towards her is for this as much as it is for what she did on the heath that long, hot summer’s day. Yet she is in no doubt the time has come to stop running; to challenge and defend herself from the campaign of retribution waged by Jude and her son. Her phone rings. Expecting it to be Jude she answers it without checking the screen then stumbles to a halt at the sound of Sally-Anne’s voice.

  ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ her boss demands.

  ‘Sorry?’ Katy mumbles, blindsided by both the woman’s meaning and tone.

  ‘When you offer someone a leg up professionally speaking you expect some kind of acknowledgement, at least – unless they’re playing you off against a better offer from somebody else. So what’s the story. Are you thinking of leaving?’

  ‘Leaving? What, me? Really, no. It’s just that now, well, it’s not really a good – ’

  ‘It’s Sunday morning, I know. And we’re meeting tomorrow morning, of course. But I need to talk to you ahead of that. Today. Because there’s – ’

  ‘No,’ Katy interrupts, firmly. ‘I’m sorry, Sally-Anne but … I’m flattered, and definitely interested … and more than happy to speak to you later today if you need to. But I really … can’t do this … not right now.’

  Sally-Anne laughs. ‘You’re out running,’ she exclaims. ‘Why didn’t you say?’<
br />
  ‘I did try – ’

  ‘Keep at it, and call me back when you get back home.’

  Thrusting her phone back into her pocket, Katy tries to get her bearings. Just ahead, an imposing wall of arches line the avenue on either side sheltering the grey battalions of silent figures, marble tombs and stone crosses that face the footpath like hungry crowds. A few paces on, the avenue cuts through open ground that’s rough and grassy.

  Here, the cemetery is mathematically dissected by smaller footpaths leading away from the high rent, city centre domain of the rich and influential to memorials of humbler scale scattered randomly beneath bushes and trees. So she runs on until, at last, in the distance but fast approaching, she sees the main gates. Their bleak ironwork is thrown open wide to embrace all comers – legitimate mourners, the curious, or simply exhausted refugees from the hectic Brompton Road.

  Almost there, she thinks, darting left along the gravelled footpath that she knows will lead her to West Gate and, beyond, The Rainbow Café. But before she can reach it she sees a familiar figure crossing the avenue ahead. A figure which she recognises immediately.

  ‘Jude,’ Katy shouts. ‘Stop. You’re going the wrong way.’

  With a diesel roar, the nearby traffic suddenly snaps back to life and the sound of it swiftly carries her words away. Which explains why the figure ahead shows no sign of having heard her. So Katy presses on, quickening her pace to narrow the gulf between them; tugging free her mobile from her pocket at the sudden sound of a text alert.

  Change of plan, it reads. Meet me by the war memorial halfway down Central Avenue.

  Just keep on running, she thinks with grim determination as the path spins away beneath her; as the knuckled ground bruises her pounding feet. Bridge the gap, override the stitch now ripping into her side. How the hastily-packed bag on her shoulder makes the skin beneath her armpit chafe.