Gently, I push open the door, not making a sound. The distinctive smell of old books fills the air, enticing me. There are three people inside and not one of them looks up, too engrossed in what they’re reading. One of them is Carrie.
No, no, no, that couldn’t possibly be true. Confronted with the truth, I realise how much I’d been hoping to be proved wrong. Who would lie about having cancer? And why?
Financial gain. All that money that’s been raised for her bucket list.
Something stops me from surging forward and shouting at her, as planned. There are still so many unanswered questions, but gut instinct tells me that if I confront her she won’t give honest answers. Right now, it’s enough to know that I was right, that this hasn’t all been in my imagination. Finally, I’m starting to make headway and get the upper hand.
I step back before anyone can spot me, holding onto the door until it eases into place. Turn to go back to the car – and bump headlong into a man.
‘Sorry!’ He holds onto my shoulders as if to steady me. ‘Nearly sent you flying.’
He’s not much taller than me, but is really strong, judging from his grip. His eyes are bright blue, and they turn down slightly, just like Owen’s. But it’s his smile that I notice. It seems familiar, and he’s looking at me as if he recognises me, too.
Searching my memory, I suddenly realise I have seen him before – outside Crusoe’s. He’s the man who smiled at me when I was remembering my night of passion with Simon, and blushing.
‘Do we know each other?’ he checks.
I shake my head, make my excuses. With only the briefest glances back over my shoulder, I leave him behind. He’s still watching me, a curious expression on his face that makes me want to turn and speak to him again. Now is not the time to be flirting, though.
After forty-five minutes of sitting in my car thinking about everything I’ve learned, I drop Carrie a text.
Clinic was super-fast today, so am already back at hospital. Let me know when you’re ready.
The reply doesn’t take long to arrive – her treatment is over and she’s all set for her lift with me, apparently.
When she gets into the car I force my sneer into a smile.
‘How are you feeling? Did chemo go okay?’
‘Same old, same old.’ Her smile is weak and weary. There are grey smudges under her eyes, and I can’t help wondering how she manages that. Maybe there really is something wrong with her, but if there is, then why not tell the truth about that rather than pretend to have cancer? It’s just one more question about the conundrum of Carrie.
Pulling up outside her house, I watch her ease herself from her seat. Ginger movements, slow and painful. She’s one hell of an actress. Me, too.
‘I’ll pop back later and bring you a lasagne that I’m making. Got to keep your strength up,’ I smile. It only slips into a glower after I’ve waved and driven off.
I actually really resent making her meal now, but if I don’t it will look suspicious because, sucker that I am, I almost always do cook for her. On her birthday I’d even baked her a rainbow cake to celebrate because she loves rainbows. It had been a big step in my recovery, making it. Now I feel a total idiot.
Worse, other people have been made a fool of by Carrie, thanks to my encouragement. She must be doing it for the money – it’s the only logical explanation – but surely if she planned to steal the bucket list fund she’d know that I’d report it the minute it went missing. Then, like clouds parting to reveal the sun, I see what would happen. She’s waiting for the cash to be handed over when she ‘moves to be with her parents’, then she’ll skip off into the sunset with it, free to squander it away from prying eyes.
* * *
Back at home, instead of seeing a client, as I’ve told Carrie, I spend some time on the Internet again. First I check my account’s balance. Everything looks in order, but I change all of the security passwords, just in case.
There are some legalities I want to check out, and I’m not going to risk asking the police after yesterday’s debacle.
By the end of another long day of research on the Internet, I’m exhausted, and once again unsure of what to do next. The fact is, as vile as Carrie’s lies are, she hasn’t broken any laws by pretending to have cancer. To my knowledge she hasn’t submitted any insurance claims for her fake illness. I remember a while back asking Carrie if she had any kind of critical injury cover, and her joking that cleaners don’t have the money for that type of thing. Also, when I was looking for her address book, I didn’t come across any paperwork of that kind.
She hasn’t claimed any benefits she shouldn’t, either, always insisting she’s too proud – she even turned me down when I offered to look into whether she was eligible for anything and to fill in the paperwork for her. I can only assume it’s because anything official like that would ring instant alarm bells that she’s using a fake name. So no crime there.
And here’s the big one: she hasn’t defrauded anyone. Carrie hasn’t raised any money under false pretences – it’s me that’s asked people to donate to her fund, and the money is currently sitting safely in my account. All I have to do is give it back to those who’ve given it.
I can’t help thinking I should wait, though. She deserves to be punished for these horrible lies, and money must be at the root of it, so I’ll hold onto the cash for a tiny bit longer and see if I can trap her into making a mistake. Then moral and legal justice can be done.
If it doesn’t happen soon, though, I’ll let everyone know the truth anyway. Let Carrie face the wrath of the community.
Besides, there are still things I don’t understand. Who followed me? Who is sending the messages, and what do they mean? Does someone else know about Carrie’s lies, and is trying to blackmail her? Perhaps it’s Jackie, support group founder and former friend, who is perfectly placed to know so many people’s secrets. Until the whole story is revealed, I’m going to keep all fears and theories to myself. I have to, because the authorities already think I’m mad, Rosie believes I’m obsessed and no one is on my side. This has to be played carefully.
There’s something else troubling me, too. Several times now I’ve offered to give Carrie money from her bucket list. She could easily have got me to hand it all over. But every time I’ve offered her the money, she’s refused.
So what on earth is going on?
Thirty-Eight
With a new day comes a new determination to end this nonsense. I’ve spent all night thinking about it, and I can’t see any other way of getting to the truth besides confronting Carrie. All this running around trying to play detective like a character in a film is going to lead to unnecessary complications. Instead, I’ll go straight to the source, tell her I know she’s lying about the cancer and find out the full story from her own lips. I need the closure of looking her in the eye and hearing the truth.
After making myself eat a full breakfast to give me strength for the confrontation, I walk round to Carrie’s house. The wind is whistling, blowing a fine, powdered snow into my eyes that billows around like a bitter sandstorm. On my right, below my pavement vantage point, the sea boils and churns a cauldron of death. The clouds, laden with snow and icy rain, seem to mirror it.
Despite the freezing conditions, that group of boys is racing around Carrie’s cul-de-sac on their bicycles. Children don’t seem to feel the cold like adults, and for a moment I indulge myself, imagining Elise and Edward on their bikes, eight years old, their cheeks glowing as they race each other, and me and Owen calling them from the warmth of our home. I can almost see them. Sometimes my imaginings feel so real I feel like I’m being given a peek through to another life, where everything worked out perfectly. Owen and me and our two beautiful children are all happy together. But not in this universe. Deep down, I know the idyllic images would not have been anything like the reality.
These are the thoughts running through my head as I nod an acknowledgement to the boys that makes them scatter like b
illiard balls across a table. Then I press on, steeling myself for a horrible confrontation with the person I’ve come to think of as a second daughter.
A swift rap on the door. When Carrie answers and invites me in, she seems so normal. Although if I look closely there does seem to be a little tightness in her jaw, her shoulders set slightly higher than normal. She’s clutching a jumper.
‘Everything okay?’ I can’t help but ask. I’ve been worrying about her too long now for it not to come automatically, despite myself.
‘I’m fine, as well as can be expected that’s for sure. But I’ve been talking to my parents, and we’ve agreed it’s time for me to move back in with them. They’re coming to get me tonight.’
‘Tonight? Why the big hurry, all of a sudden?’
‘What’s the point in wasting time I don’t have? I was going to call you later, but I’ll be honest… I wasn’t sure if I could really face saying goodbye to you.’
There are tears in her eyes as she glances at me, then looks quickly away and starts folding the jumper in her hands. Perhaps she’s realised her charade has been discovered. Either that, or she’s about to ask me for the money.
‘Carrie, are you really leaving with your parents, or is there something else going on?’
The folded jumper goes onto a pile of clothes. She picks up a pair of jeans, fingers fumbling.
‘Of course I’m leaving with my parents. What are you trying to get at?’
‘If this is the way that you want to play it… I know, Carrie. I know you don’t have cancer.’
Carrie’s hands are on her hips, and her eyes are wild with indignation, but I’m sure I can see a seed of panic there, too. She barges past me, out of the room, me following closely. Vitriol cascades behind her.
‘I can’t believe you’d say such a vile thing. What’s wrong with you, are you sick in the head or something? You been having weird hallucinations again because you’re not eating properly?’
The words are like a slap. I step back, gasp in shock that she would deliver such a low blow. Instantly she turns round again, and I brace myself for more accusations. But Carrie doesn’t attack, instead she wipes at her wet face.
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that. It was an awful thing to say.’
‘That’s okay,’ I reply. ‘Attack is the best form of defence, after all. I get it, you’ve been caught out and you’re trying to put me on the back foot. It doesn’t change what I’m saying to you, though. I. Know. That you. Don’t. Have. Cancer.’ I hold up my hand. ‘Don’t try to deny it. Yesterday when you said you were having treatment, I followed you, and you were nowhere to be seen in the chemotherapy room. I spoke to the nurses, and they confirmed that you’re not sick. In fact, you’re just a hospital visitor, aren’t you – who isn’t even called Carrie. That’s how you know Wendy.
‘I have to admit, that was either incredibly lucky or incredibly clever of you, bumping into her the other day, because I was already suspicious of you. Seeing you two together made me doubt myself – I thought I was a terrible person for thinking you could lie about something as hideous as having cancer.’
‘I’ve… You’re mad. I just got muddled about the time of my treatment yesterday, and got embarrassed about you putting yourself out giving me a lift – that’s why I pretended to have chemo when I hadn’t. No, you’ve had your say, let me finish. I don’t know which nurses you spoke to, but they don’t know what they’re talking about, clearly, because I have got cancer. Terminal cancer.’
She starts to glance around, searching for something. ‘I can, erm, I can, hang on, I can give you my doctor’s number if you want. No, actually, she’s really busy, so if she doesn’t know you then she might not speak to you. But if I call her then I’m sure she’ll find time to speak to us.’
‘You’re babbling.’
‘I’m not! I’m just, just shocked by what you’re saying. It’s horrible. Horrible! Look, I’m phoning my doctor now.’
Her hands are trembling as she pulls out her phone and pretends to scroll through a contacts list that I know only contains my number and the pub where she does cleaning and bar shifts. It feels tragic, watching her pacing up and down, talking to a make-believe person, lying through her teeth. Like I’m watching the death of the person I thought I knew.
‘Dr Patten? Yes, hi, it’s Carrie Goodwin. I just wondered if you had a moment speak to a friend of mine, Alex Appleby. I know it sounds crazy, but she wants to hear the details of my condition, and I’m giving you permission to speak to her about it freely. What’s that? Oh, you’re busy right now. Any chance of speaking to her later today? That sounds perfect, I really appreciate it.’
She rattles off my mobile number before saying goodbye, looking at me triumphantly as she ends the call. ‘She is hoping to be free in the next ten minutes to half an hour. She’ll call you then and explain everything.’
My hands rub over my face, eyes, cover my mouth, because I don’t know where to look or what to say. It’s mortifying, seeing her like this. I thought I’d be furious with her; instead, I’m embarrassed by her desperation to dig herself into a deeper and deeper hole. She can feel it, too.
‘Would you mind leaving? I know we still have things to sort out,’ she says, gently taking hold of my elbow and leading me towards the front door, ‘but I’m feeling a bit queasy, to be honest. This is all too much for me, and I really need to sit down and rest. There’s still so much to do.’ She gestures around at the few goods she has to pack. It’s only a couple of bags of clothes, to be honest. She owns so little.
Pity is the last thing I should feel after what she’s done, yet for the sake of the friendship we once had, I’m tempted to leave her with what tiny shred of dignity she has left. She doesn’t deserve it, but all I ever wanted was the truth, and now I’ve proved my point I’m not the type to pursue vengeance. There are still things to be cleared up between us, though.
She takes advantage of my hesitation and chivvies me out the door.
‘Hang on! Carrie!’ I protest.
That little body of hers is stronger than it looks. Before I know it I’ve been shoved onto the step. She closes the door on me with the good grace to look embarrassed. I’m left on the doorstep doing a goldfish impression, mouth opening and closing.
Thirty-Nine
The red door glares back at me, implacable. I don’t know what to do. Part of me wants to rap on it and give her what for; the other part never wants to clap eyes on her again. There were so many other things that needed to be tackled between us, but what’s the point?
Staring at her door isn’t doing any good, that’s for sure. I head for home, pondering. Do I just let her go without any punishment for her lies? She’s taken people in, fabricated and fawned, but I suppose she hasn’t actually hurt anyone – and she hasn’t even benefited. Thoughts swirl like the fine snow that’s freezing my face.
I’m a few streets away when my phone rings, making me jump I was so lost in my thoughts. The number is withheld but I answer anyway.
‘Hello? Is that Alex Appleby? This is Dr Patten. A patient of mine requested I call. What would you like to know?’
A huff of impatience clouds the cold air in front of me. I plough through the wisps. ‘Carrie, stop putting on that phoney Scottish accent.’
‘What on earth are you talking about? I’ve never been so insulted. Now, what exactly do you want to know about Carrie Goodwin? She has inflammatory breast cancer, which is rare but aggressive – it starts with a rash, you know, not a lump, so don’t forget to check yourself for that. The tumours have now spread to other parts of her body: her lungs, spine, brain and in her bones. It’s terminal.’
The accent wavers in and out. I’m not convinced one bit – in fact, I’m furious at the obvious lie. All thoughts of letting her off the hook disappear. She’s treating me like I’m an idiot! Turning round, I march back towards Carrie’s house.
‘Okay, Dr Patten, I’d really love to come in and speak with you about C
arrie’s condition. Is that possible?’
‘Well, I’m happy to answer any questions that you have on the phone. I don’t really have time for face-to-face meetings at the moment.’
‘I bet you don’t.’
‘I really don’t understand your attitude, Ms Appleby. I’m speaking to you now to try and help you, and help a patient, but all I’m getting back is attitude.’
‘That’s because I know you’re lying, Carrie.’
‘I’m trying to be helpful, but I don’t know what else to say to convince you. Your friend has cancer. She’s been getting treatment here for several months now and is receiving palliative care as her condition is now terminal. You really do need to come to terms with this. I understand that you’re in denial, but—’
The wind catches my laugh and tosses it into the North Sea.
‘You’re so right,’ I reply. ‘That’s why I’m actually heading back to my friend’s house right now, because it would be very helpful for me to speak to both of you at the same time. No doubt that will help me come to terms with everything that’s happening.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t stay on the phone any longer, another appointment’s due here any moment—’
‘Just a second longer. I’d like you to help me understand how much longer Carrie has left to live. You see, I’m struggling with the reality of the situation, and would so appreciate your help. Oh, and I’m almost at your door, I mean, Carrie’s door.’
The ‘doctor’ is making spluttering excuses. Putting on a fake voice is the action of a child; I can’t believe she thought it would fool me. I’m feet away from her home now. There’s a parcel or something on her doorstep, but it barely registers as I stomp on, ready for a right royal row.
‘Stop playing games. Open up, Carrie.’
The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller Page 18