One Little Lie

by Sam Carrington

  I need to talk to someone. Who, I don’t know. I’ve alienated the friends I had. I hid myself away from the world after Sean’s murder, refusing every offer of company and, eventually, they stopped asking if I was coming out. The only other friends I had were through Nathan. Colleagues of his from the council, wives of his golfing buddies. But I pushed them all away and threw myself into work instead. Now I don’t have that, there’s no one to turn to.

  Christ. The realisation is like a smack in the face.

  Alice Mann was the closest thing I had to a friend.

  I stumble into someone who’s stopped dead in front of me. I’m about to make a remark when I see she’s not the only person who has come to a standstill. A group of people are congregating before the walkway running alongside the river. I back up slightly and make a move to go around them, but the road’s blocked. A policeman stands in front of his car, which is parked horizontally across the pavement. There are murmurs from the gathering crowd, speculation as to what’s happened. I am too short to see above the people, to see what they are looking at. All heads are turned one way.

  I’m briefly intrigued – I try to squeeze through, go on tiptoes to see – but my interest is lost quickly. I retreat, turn away, and then cross the road. I’ll catch the news later. A familiar structure looms ahead of me; I hadn’t planned on coming here. My office. This was meant to be. I’ve found myself here for a reason. I check my watch. It’s just after two-thirty. Marcie generally has a late lunch, leaving her desk around this time to go and get her favourite noodles from the kiosk in Market Walk. Maybe they’ve missed me at work, and she’s regretting giving me an order to go on leave. If I play this right, I could get her to change her mind, tell her the time I’ve had off has been much-needed and therapeutic, but now I’m ready to come back to work full-time.

  The thought bolsters my mood. I haven’t spoken to Marcie since that day in Costa. If I can come across as bright, cheerful, and most importantly, ‘together’, she’ll have to concede it’s time for me to return. It could be the start of me pulling back from this dark cave I’ve entered.

  I stand for what feels like an hour, but when I check my watch again, only a few minutes have passed. Marcie could be in a meeting, meaning I’m wasting my time hanging around here. My body tenses – there’s movement; someone is coming out. I catch a glimpse of long, blonde curls moving through the glass doors. It’s Marcie. She’s added in more hair extensions. She’s out of the building and I’m about to march up to her when I see she’s not alone. Another woman exits the building after her and then catches her up. I hang back, ducking into a shop entrance to watch them. I don’t recognise the woman Marcie’s with as an employee. Unless she’s my replacement. The bitch better not have replaced me. My chest hurts, the heart inside it feels as though it may burst. They disappear into Costa. Typical. Marcie obviously uses the place as a second office.

  While I can’t have a private chat with Marcie now, I can at least check out this other woman. I run my hands through my hair, neaten my clothes and cross the road. With my head held high, I walk into Costa.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Angela

  My euphoria at having finally met Deborah – and in a totally unexpected and unplanned way in a coffee shop – is short-lived.

  I think he’s killed again.

  I can’t help but join the gawping crowd. Police tape stretches across the walkway, police vehicles block the road, and uniformed and non-uniformed services swarm the area. I can see part of what I assume to be a white tent jutting out from the dense bushes running alongside the river.

  It’s Isabella, I know it. A pain grips my heart, a moan escaping my open mouth. Bill. I silently pray to God I’m wrong. One, that it isn’t her, and two, that it wasn’t my son who took her life. Not again. It will be impossible to keep protecting him if he’s responsible for this. They’ll find him, take him away.

  I can’t bear to think about him in prison.

  When I saw him in Coleton last month while I was waiting outside Alice’s workplace to catch her and find out what she knew, I’d assumed he was following me, keeping an eye on what I was doing. My horror at possibly being caught with a member of my support group had overwhelmed me and I didn’t consider he might have had other reasons for being in Coleton. Most of the time, Tom doesn’t leave the house. He stays in the basement and I even forget he’s there, living below me.

  I hadn’t noticed him coming and going from the house at all before last night, when I’d caught him sneaking back in. I’d thought that day in Coleton was a one-off. Thinking back now, he’d been angry with me afterwards. He’d raised his hand, smacked me across my cheek. I didn’t question him about the reason for his outburst – he often loses his temper with me and I’ve been on the receiving end of one of his ‘light slaps’ on more than one occasion. I didn’t think he’d seen me – I’d ducked behind Wendy – so didn’t link the two events.

  Has Tom been leaving the house regularly? I’m so stupid thinking he’s safe inside his basement room. Happy to be left alone on his stupid computer.

  It’s my fault. Again.

  I’m a bad mother.

  I need to get home, now.

  The journey’s the longest I’ve ever experienced. My legs are barely able to hold my weight as I walk up the hill towards my house. I moved us here four years ago to escape the town where Tom’s victim had lived. It’s only eight miles away, I know, but I thought it would be enough. Give us both a fresh start. How foolish of me to think that was possible.

  It takes a few attempts to get the key in to open the front door because my hands are trembling so much. It’s quiet inside, as it always is. Either he’s downstairs, or he’s out. Why haven’t I questioned this silence before? I told Connie I left him alone for an easy life, and that’s the truth of the matter. I can’t deal with any arguments, so I keep out of his way and pretend he’s not here. How is that a good way to deal with him?

  I’ve been wrong. All this time I’ve been focussing on trying to make things right, maybe even seeking forgiveness from those who’ve been affected by my lack of good parenting, when all along I should’ve been concentrating on Tom. On my relationship with my son. On making him right.

  Seeing Deborah Taylor today has altered things. I saw her desperation for myself, witnessed her begging to get her job back. The pain in her eyes was as visible as it was the day Kyle Mann was sentenced to life in prison. I might’ve been a distance away then – high up in the gallery – but I could see enough to know she was in terrible pain. There’d been a sudden clarity in my thoughts when I saw her earlier, for the first time in four years: she is never going to forgive me. She will never give me the redemption I’ve been seeking all this time.

  I’ve been so short-sighted. Connie was spot on with her assessment about not, under any circumstances, meeting with Deborah. How it wasn’t a good idea for either person. I didn’t get to speak to Alice in the end, so I don’t have a clue what, if anything, she knows about the second person involved with Sean’s murder – if she has any idea it was my Tom. Hopefully her silence is guaranteed – she’s still in a coma and may remain that way. Even if she does have information which could damage Tom, and me, it will forever be locked in her sedated mind.

  I walk with more purpose now, to the door leading down to the basement. It’s locked of course, always is. I take a deep breath and hammer my fists against the wooden panels. I don’t stop. My hands burn, but I keep going. I know it’s pointless: he has soundproofing on the walls and his headphones will be on. I don’t even know if he’s definitely down there. But I can’t stop.

  Hot tears and snot run into my mouth.

  Years of guilt and anger continue to pelt the wooden door.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Connie

  The train ride from Totnes to Coleton passed in a blur. Connie hesitated as she was about to pass the taxi rank. Her house was close to the station, and usually it was a pleasant ten-minute st
roll home. The day’s events weighed heavily in her mind though, and some of that heaviness seemed to have seeped out into her body, affecting her muscles and making them tired. Sod it. She headed to the first taxi in the line and climbed in.

  As she got out of the car and turned towards her path, she stopped. A large bouquet of flowers obscured the top step. She looked up and down the street but there was no one in sight, and no delivery vans. Would they be for her or Lindsay? Connie reached across them to unlock the door, then hauled up the bouquet and took it through to the kitchen, placing it on the worktop. Amber rubbed against her legs.

  ‘Hello, baby.’ She scooped her up and gave her a cuddle, nuzzling into her soft fur. With Amber tucked under one arm, Connie checked the card attached to the bouquet. It was addressed to her. ‘Well, we weren’t expecting that, were we, Amber?’

  Letting Amber down, she pulled the small white envelope from the plastic cellophane. The flowers were beautiful, a mix of the exotic and the traditional, the colours vibrant. They could only be from one person. It was that knowledge which gave her pause. Not put off by her failure to respond to a single text, Scott had clearly moved it up a gear. It was a stunning bouquet – must’ve cost a pretty penny, as her mum would say. She opened the envelope. The card only had three words on it.

  Thinking about you.

  She turned it over. Blank. Did he assume she’d know they were from him? Fairly presumptuous – she could have many admirers, as far as he was concerned. She shook her head. Odd though, having clearly spent a lot of money, to not even write love from Scott on it. And thinking about her how? Still, it was a nice surprise to come home to flowers, so she shouldn’t knock it.

  Pulling at every cupboard door, Connie tried to find a suitable vessel in which to arrange the flowers. Settling on a huge metal jug, one she’d almost thrown out last month, she began the process of transferring the artistically arranged bouquet into it. She’d never been arty, and once she’d finished, they looked nothing like how they’d been presented. She wished she’d taken a photo of them to start with now. No justice done here.

  Even more tired after her efforts, Connie made a hot chocolate and headed for the lounge to sit down. She was exhausted. The blinking red light of the answer machine caught her eye and she pressed the button to listen. The voice, barely audible, was her mum’s. Why was she whispering? Connie stood closer, dipping her head towards the speaker.

  ‘Hi, it’s Mum. Everything okay, love? Not heard from you.’ She sounded muffled, like she had something over her mouth. Or maybe she had it on speaker and was far away from the handset. ‘Hope everything went well at the prison and you’re back to your own consultancy, are you?’ Her obligatory long pause ensued as she waited for an actual answer even though it was a machine she was talking to. ‘Did you see the news? I do hope the body they found wasn’t that poor girl, Isabella. Awful business. Anyway, give me a call, or pop around. I’ve made your favourite biscuits.’

  Damn it. The news. How could she have forgotten? She switched on the TV, but she’d already missed it. Flowers had taken her mind off a body being found. What did that say about her? She found the next news programme on the menu and pressed the remind button. A report about the body was bound to be on later. Connie sat down and took a tentative sip of her drink. So, even her mum was concerned it was Isabella. It was the natural conclusion really: she’d been missing for weeks and most people realised it wasn’t likely to be a good ending. She reached for her mobile: a Google search might give her enough to go on until the next news programme.

  A dull thud came from the hallway. Connie reluctantly heaved herself up from the sofa. A parcel in brown paper lay on the doormat. She hadn’t ordered anything, and it was late in the day to receive mail. It had no address, just Connie scrawled in black pen. She threw the front door open and stepped outside. No one was close by. She squinted. A figure was disappearing around the bend at the far left of the road. All Connie caught was a flash of blue jacket, hood up. She shivered and went back inside, closing and locking the door behind her.

  There was something about seeing her name written in black ink that rattled her. Probably always would, given a murderer had inscribed it onto a dead man’s hand last year. Her heart gave a nervous flutter. She had an uncomfortable feeling that whatever the brown paper concealed, it would be bad news for her. She’d had enough surprise presents for one day. She should wait until Lindsay came home, open it in front of her.

  Placing the parcel on the coffee table, Connie sat back on the sofa. As she stared at it, she drummed her fingers on the sofa arm, going through the various possibilities of what it could be. She sat forwards and grabbed it, gently shaking it from side to side. There wasn’t any movement. It wasn’t heavy. She squashed the package between her fingers, it felt like bubble wrap beneath the paper.

  It was no good. She had to open it.

  Carefully unpicking the tape at one end, she slid out the contents. Then unravelled the bubble wrap.

  A Nokia mobile phone fell into her lap.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Tom

  A distant, soft drumming noise infiltrated his ears. It wasn’t anything in his room, or in his basement. He didn’t usually hear the rain; his soundproofing insulated him from the world outside. He lay down his headphones, scooted his chair away from the desk and opened the door. The soft drumming changed to loud, urgent banging. What the fuck was going on?

  He took the steps from the basement two at a time. Jesus, she was hammering at the door like a madwoman. That didn’t bode well. He could hear sobs between the pounding.

  She knew.

  The news had got out. The body must’ve been found.

  It was a good thing. He didn’t want it hidden away for no one to ever find, or for dogs to eventually sniff it out weeks later. He didn’t want to get caught, but at the same time, he didn’t want what he’d done to be unknown. It was complicated; a fine line. There had to be a pay-off for his efforts, for his impeccable game play, one that gave him a sense of achievement and knowledge that he was good at something. Knowing people would be talking about this non-stop, that his actions would be discussed, analysed and reported for weeks to come gave him such a buzz.

  Right now though, she threatened to dampen his mood. He leant against the door, feeling the vibration from each thud course through his body. She’d have to tire soon. Then he’d open the door. She’d be easier to deal with if she’d expended all her energy. Although he’d guessed she would find out, and had considered how he’d handle it when the day came, the reality now gave him cause for concern. She was already displaying a reaction he hadn’t anticipated. She hadn’t been physically angry last time. This was new. Did it mean she wasn’t going to protect him on this one? An uncomfortable sensation pulled at his gut. She’d failed him once, and promised never to let him down again. He’d believed that. Counted on it.

  If she threatened to hand him over to the police now, how was he going to manage her?

  The banging was slowing down, with more time between each fist hitting against the door.

  Still he waited.

  Waiting for her to completely calm down would give him time to think about what he was going to do with her.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Deborah

  At least the woman wasn’t my replacement. It’s all the silver lining I can gain from the mistake I made today. The way she looked at me made my skin crawl. Her face was familiar, although I couldn’t place her. She’d said she was a friend of Marcie’s, but the look which passed between them when she introduced herself as such was enough to make me realise it was a lie. The woman – Angela, I think she said her name was – seemed a bit of a frump. A cardigan wearer. Not a professional-looking person, probably a home-maker. It was the only reason I decided she couldn’t be about to take my job. I can usually read people quite well. Like I did with Alice. There were similarities between Angela and Alice, now I think of it, but Alice’s face was more open. What
you saw was what you got. I had the impression Angela was insincere, secretive. Not to be trusted. Why the hell was she with Marcie?

  Oh well, it’s not my concern. Now, back at home, sitting at the island in the kitchen reflecting on my coffee shop performance, I’m cursing myself for my lack of control. I thought I’d hold it together, show my strength. Instead, more emotion flooded out. Thankfully I didn’t cry. But I did hear myself begging. Pleading Marcie to let me return to work, and all in front of that other woman. My cheeks heat up with shame.

  I scratch at my arms, leaving harsh red lines. The stinging pain releases my frustration. I hate myself right now.

  I hear the front door opening.

  I’d locked myself in, hadn’t I?

  I spring from the bar stool, launching towards the knife block on the worktop. I slide the largest knife from its wooden slot, holding it up, ready to confront the intruder.

  ‘Shitting hell, Deborah!’

  Nathan backs away, one hand on his chest, the other outstretched, palm up in a defensive position. It hadn’t crossed my mind that it could be him.

  I let out a long breath, and lower the knife.

  ‘Why didn’t you call first?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise I needed permission to enter my own home.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Nathan. Of course you don’t. But seeing as you haven’t set foot in this house for over a week, some warning would’ve been appreciated. I thought I was being burgled.’

  ‘Well, thankfully that isn’t the case.’ He moves towards me, slowly removing the knife from my hand and replacing it in the block. His skin is insipid; weary-looking. He doesn’t look like he’s slept.