Gwen’s smile was sweet and encouraging. Chatting pleasantly, she led Dee from one painting to the other, discussing the artist, the composition. No mention of the price.
She guessed that the people who bought artwork in the gallery weren’t the sort that needed to count the cost. ‘I like this one.’ She stepped back to one that really did appeal to her. It might have been a seascape, she wasn’t sure, but the colours were vivid and captivating.
‘A good choice. Scott Naismith is one of our most popular artists.’
‘The colours are mesmerising.’ Dee stepped closer. It really was very beautiful. She’d never thought about purchasing a painting but decided she wanted this one. Maybe it would fill the gap that Toby had left. Something entrancing to feast her eyes on. ‘How much is it?’
Gwen told her, following the price with an obviously rehearsed speech about how art was an investment, especially art as charismatic as this.
Charismatic. Like Toby. ‘I’ll take it.’ It was a change to spend money on herself. Thankful for her generous overdraft limit, Dee hesitated only a second before handing across her credit card. Her hesitation, worry that Gwen would comment on the surname, was unnecessary. The card was barely glanced at before it was slid into the card reader to be processed.
Gwen chatted away as she wrapped the painting, congratulating Dee on her purchase as she did. ‘You’ll have years of pleasure from it, I have no doubt.’
‘I’m sure I will.’ The neatly wrapped painting was small enough to take with her. Gwen opened the door and Dee left the gallery with the package clasped to her chest.
She would hang it in her lounge where it would stay.
It wouldn’t wander off… wouldn’t find a better wall to hang on, or a more admiring viewer to stand and stare at it.
It wouldn’t disappear and leave her sad and bereft.
37
Misty
I sat in front of my computer, switched it on, brought up the book I was writing and tried to focus on getting the words down. The optimistic daily word count I aimed for was four thousand. I didn’t always get there, and recently not even close, but it was something to work towards.
Only a few words later I stopped, my fingers poised over the keys. The sun shone through the window, light bouncing off the glass paperweight that sat nearby.
It had become a habit to curl my fingers around it when I was struggling for a word or drowning in a plot hole and my hand crept over it now, sliding over the slippery cold surface. The chill from it slithered up my arm, a strange darkness sweeping in its wake. I wanted to take my hand away but, instead, my fingers squeezed the glass, tighter and tighter. I pictured it exploding, sending vicious shards of glass like arrows to pierce my skin. With a gasp, I finally pulled my hand away.
It was minutes before the strange sensations faded. I laughed, stopping abruptly when I heard the edge of hysteria in the sound.
What was wrong with me?
Strangely afraid to touch the paperweight again, I used a sheaf of paper to push it to the back of my desk, moving catalogues that were waiting to be read some day out of the way to make room for it, piling them on top then to hide it from my sight.
It was another few minutes before I returned to my work. My fingers were once more on the keyboard, tapping out the secrets and lies of my characters. Sometimes it was that easy. The words would come, the story unfolding with each sentence.
A few minutes later I stopped. My eyes flicked back over what I’d written and I pushed away from the desk with a cry of horror. The wheels of the chair caught in the rug behind and with another cry I spun round and jumped to my feet. I had to get away and staggered across to the door to wrench it open and run.
Only when I had the door open, when my escape was assured, did I look back to my computer screen, a hand creeping over my trembling mouth.
How could I have written that? It wasn’t true.
I shut the door behind me with a bang, tempted to reach inside for the key and lock the door from the outside. But that was being ridiculous… crazy.
I wiped my face with the sleeve of my kaftan. Maybe I was hungry. I couldn’t remember eating that day and wasn’t sure I’d eaten the day before. Hunger, that was it. Probably a low blood sugar as a result. That was all. It was making me hallucinate.
A shiver of relief at the simple solution loosened the band of tension that had wrapped around me.
Downstairs, I opened a tin of mushroom soup, poured it into a bowl and put it into the microwave spinning the time control randomly.
A search of the freezer for bread to go with the soup was in vain. It might be a good idea to do an online food order that afternoon. But that would mean going back to my computer. It would mean looking at what I’d written, reading those terrible words.
Only three words… but repeated over and over for several lines.
I killed Toby.
The ping from the microwave distracted my thoughts. I opened the door, groaning when I saw the mess. The soup had been in for too long: it had boiled over, filling the microwave tray with volcanically hot liquid.
Too hot to clear up. I shut the door with a bang and turned away, wringing my hands.
The glass paperweight. That was the key. Hadn’t I lifted it that night? My memory was hazy. Toby’s rejection had been so shocking it had thrown me off track, I simply couldn’t remember what had happened.
But I did remember picking the paperweight up from the floor the following day. How had it got there?
Had I thrown it at him?
Was it possible that what I’d written was true? That I had killed him?
My head was spinning. I dropped onto a chair and put my hands over my face. I wasn’t a violent person, was I?
All those evil, murderous creatures I was so easily able to conjure up – where did they come from?
I remember I’d screeched at Toby with words I’d researched for the worst of my characters to use. Words I’d never spoken aloud. Angry, ugly words.
Had they been enough, or had I resorted to action?
38
Misty
I couldn’t get my thoughts straight… one moment convinced I must have had something to do with Toby’s disappearance, the next that I was suffering from delusions brought about by hunger and stress. Dealing with the hunger situation seemed to be a sensible step.
But before I could leave the house, I needed to delete those shocking words. I returned to my office and looked at the computer. The cursor was blinking at the end of the lines of the repeated ‘I killed Tobys’ that filled the lower quarter of the screen. I put my finger on the backspace key and held it there, deleting those words and more. I didn’t care. The rest saved, I shut down the programme and left the room.
The day was hot and clammy but I still wasn’t brave enough to leave the house in my kaftan. I didn’t want to get a reputation as that crazy eccentric writer lady. I pulled on chinos and a T-shirt, slipped my bare feet into flat shoes and ran a comb over my hair.
At the front door I hesitated, suddenly wary. The figure I thought I’d seen, it had simply been my imagination, hadn’t it?
It couldn’t have been Toby. Toby was dead. The thought popped into my head unbidden, unwanted. I shook it away and opened the door.
There was nobody to be seen but the wariness lingered. I was sure I hadn’t imagined it when I’d seen Babs lurking outside. Perhaps she blamed me for Toby’s disappearance? Was I to blame?
The thought that I was somehow responsible seemed to have dug its tentacles into my brain. I was mixing fact and fiction, that was all. Tiredness, overwork and stress were enabling the twisted characters from my pages to take possession of my thoughts. Of my actions?
I wish I could remember what happened that night after Toby left. But all I could remember was the sound of my shrieking before I buried my head in my headphones and lost hours.
Hours.
Had I really stayed at my computer for all that time or had I got up t
o do something?
Like get rid of a body?
I tried to laugh it off. What, was I superwoman? Toby wasn’t a big man, maybe five nine but it would have required enormous strength to move his body. And if I had found that superhuman strength, what would I have done with it… drag his body down the stairs, out into the garden, dig a grave and bury him.
Maybe I would have found the thought amusing if I weren’t slightly worried that I was wondering if it was possible.
Maybe I’d have found it bloody hilarious if I weren’t still standing on my doorstep with my head spinning. I had to concentrate on what might be a real threat. Babs had launched a violent, terrifying attack on me for “stealing” Toby from her. What would she be capable of if she thought I was somehow involved in his disappearance?
I stepped out of the house and stood on the doorstep for several minutes. There wasn’t a heavy footfall on the street. There were more direct ways from the nearby train station to the centre of Hanwell and only the occasional stranger passed my house. I waved to a neighbour from a few doors up. I didn’t know her name, had never done more than say hello. People kept to themselves. It suited me. The house next door, separated from me by a passageway, was empty for most of the year, the owners spending long stretches of time in what they described as their villa in Spain.
The house to the other side was occupied by a quiet elderly couple who rarely left their home. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen them, only the regular opening and shutting of their drapes told me they were still alive.
Normally, the quiet semi-isolation suited me, but that day I wished for helpful, even nosy neighbours, ones who would answer if I called for help.
I pushed my hand into my pocket and closed fingers around my mobile phone. My sisters would come if I called. It gave me some reassurance. I shut the door, then grunted with annoyance and opened it again. From the cupboard under the stairs, I pulled out two carrier bags and tucked them under my arm.
This time, I settled for a glance up and down the road before stepping out and walking briskly along the street. It wasn’t far. The day was sunny. An occasional car passed in each direction. A man on the other side of the street, walking faster than me, sped by and was around the corner before I’d gone halfway. It was all so normal.
What wasn’t was my convulsive grip on the phone, my need to look behind me every few steps, my indrawn breath when I saw the man across the street, my fixation on him until he’d passed, until he was out of sight. What wasn’t normal was my heightened perception of the individual noises. My footsteps seemed strangely loud, so did the man’s. There was only a slight breeze but it whistled in the leaves of the trees as I passed. My breath rasped as I picked up speed, a demented percussionist pounding in my chest.
The contrast of the quiet inside the shop was even more startling. It was a popular convenience store and it was unusual to be the only customer. The silence was almost as disconcerting as the noise had been. I stood without moving, waiting for something to happen.
When it did it was almost bizarrely normal.
The young assistant popped up from behind the cash register, looked across and smiled. ‘Hi,’ she said, piling paper bags on the counter beside her. ‘A lovely sunny day, isn’t it?’
I rang a desiccated tongue around my even drier mouth and managed to emit a squeaky, ‘Yes.’
The assistant’s normality did something to restore calm. I was being silly and allowing my imagination to overpower common sense.
I pried a basket from the stack that was piled to one side of the door and walked up and down the aisles picking up items in a haphazard manner. My basket was full to overflowing when I put it on the cashier’s desk.
A heavy bag hanging from each hand seemed to ground me on the walk home and I reached my front door without a return of the earlier panic. I dismissed it as simply the result of hunger and thirst. I might even use it all in a book one day. With that thought putting a smile on my face, I unpacked my bags and decided that scrambled eggs on toast would make a healthy breakfast.
It was much needed, very satisfying and I finished the lot then sat back with my mug of coffee feeling better than I had in days. That was all I’d needed. A decent meal.
The back of the house faced west and the afternoon sun flooded the small garden with light. Previous owners had extended, converting the original galley-kitchen into a kitchen/diner with French doors opening to the garden.
I rarely sat at the dining table to eat, hadn’t done so since Toby left, instead taking my meals through to the living room to eat as I watched TV.
When Toby lived with me, it had been different. We rarely ate in – he preferred restaurants and eating out on my credit card – but on the rare time when we stayed home he insisted that the ambiance was part of the eating experience. I’d laughed and spent money on several candle holders and non-drip candles. I’d light them and position them around the room where they’d be reflected in the darkened glass of the doors. We’d sit, chat, eat the meal I’d cooked and drink the expensive wine he’d chosen and I’d paid for.
I sipped my coffee to wash away the sour taste of tainted memories. What a fool I had been. With a sigh, I looked through the glass doors to the garden. When I moved in I’d planned to fill the small patio area outside with pots of flowers that would bloom all summer. But I’d never managed to find the time, always too busy with the next book.
It had been Toby’s idea to redesign the garden. ‘You could make so much more of it,’ he’d said, waving his hands around dramatically. He grabbed a sheet of paper and pen and with a few strokes drew his idea of how it could look.
‘See. Raised beds on either side of a grassy area – AstroTurf, not real grass. And brick raised beds, none of your sleepers that need work to maintain. So this–’ He tapped his hastily drawn plan. ‘–is the formal part. Then here, a pathway through wide beds planted with wild flowers would give amazing colour in the summer.’
I had smiled at his enthusiasm. ‘What about the shed?’ The garden was long, ending in a narrow v at the bottom. Previous owners had plonked a wooden shed at the end cutting off a few feet of ground behind that they’d used for a compost area.
‘I’d keep it,’ Toby had suggested. ‘But paint it to make it a feature rather than something practical.’
Probably nothing would have come of his idea if a leaflet promoting Seb’s Garden Services hadn’t come through the letterbox the following morning.
‘Kismet!’ Toby had laughingly insisted.
I’d agreed and phoned the number on the leaflet and that was it. Seb took a look at the plan, asked a few questions, and a week later started work.
He’d done a wonderful job and the fuchsia he’d planted in the raised beds were already filling out and flowering.
Perhaps I’d buy pots and plants and ask him to organise them for me too. Some colour, even this late, would brighten the area outside the door and lift my spirits. I got to my feet and stood at the door picturing pots filled with flowering plants. Maybe more fuchsia? The ones in the beds were so pretty. I looked across to the shrubs in question, then tilted my head and frowned.
Turning, I put my nearly empty mug on the table. The French doors were uPVC, locked with a key that sat in a bowl on the counter. I reached for it, inserted it into the lock and pushed up the handle to open the door.
It was a hot day. The sun was working its way around the sky and would soon fill the garden. I stepped outside with my attention fixed on the far bed. The day after Seb had finished, I’d come out to assess his work, more than pleased at the care he’d taken, the well-built raised beds, the small patch of real grass I had chosen over the AstroTurf Toby had wanted.
Seb had suggested laying grass turf between the beds rather than seed and I’d agreed, delighted with the immediate impact of lush grass.
Grass that was now flattened for a stretch of several feet in front of the far bed.
And the fuchsia… I’d laughingly ask
ed Seb if he’d used a measuring tape to get them so evenly spaced. Now, no matter which way I looked at it, it was clear that the shrubs were out of alignment.
I walked backwards and stumbled when I got to the tiled patio, losing my balance as I stepped into the dining room. Flailing, I reached for the back of the chair, knocked it over and tumbled on top of it, banging my chin on the seat. I lay there unable to move.
My lost hours.
Maybe it hadn’t been my imagination… maybe I had killed Toby.
And buried him in the garden.
39
Misty
I barely slept. How could I with thoughts galloping through my head like those scythed chariots in Ben Hur slicing their way through any attempt at making sense of it all.
I lay tossing and turning, reluctant to get up and face another day. When I did finally struggle from the bed to head downstairs, the peal of the doorbell startled me to an instant halt, one foot hovering in the air. I peered down to the front door with eyes that were gritty from lack of sleep. Was it my imagination, or was the door moving? My breath caught as I waited for the explosion and I half turned to run away. Then the doorbell pealed again, a prosaic ding-dong that served to make me blink away my flight of fancy.
Down in the hallway, I checked the safety chain was in place before I opened the door and looked around the edge. If there’d been any colour in my face… and I knew there wasn’t, I’d seen my vampire-pale face in the bathroom mirror and had wondered about applying concealer to the dark shadows under my eyes before deciding not to bother… but if there had been any, it would have leeched away at the sight of the detectives standing on the doorstep.
‘May we come in.’
I tried to get some sense of what they wanted, but although the older detective had kinder eyes, it was impossible to gauge from either of their expressions whether they were there with bad news or good. ‘Do I have a choice?’ I didn’t wait for an answer. Closing the door over, I slid the safety chain off and opened the door wide. ‘Come in then.’
The Lies He Told: a gripping psychological suspense thriller Page 14