The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  My lips stay locked.

  ‘Come on, let me help you. You can’t tell me that our whole friendship meant nothing. What about when you asked me to come with you to America? What was that about?’

  ‘It was easier to keep control of you that way. You were less likely to get suspicious.’ At my words, Alex looks at me like a child who has been told there’s no Father Christmas. He never existed for me.

  ‘You want to lash out, hurt me, I get it,’ she nods. ‘We both damaged each other. We both lied until we were blue in the face. There is more to me than distortion and falsehood, though, and I think the same can be said of you.’

  There is comfort in the smooth rhythm of my hair running through my fingers, round and round and round.

  ‘Okay, want to know the truth?’ I sigh finally. ‘I’ve got a real sob story for you. A violent dad, a mum too terrified of him to have any energy left for me, time in foster care, and, yeah, actually I did have a husband that beat me up all the time.’

  My lawyer had begged to use this in court to mitigate, but I’d refused. I didn’t want people’s pity – getting it for a lie was a very different thing than getting it for the truth. Why am I telling Alex? I don’t know, so I cover it with barbs and attitude.

  ‘I got into the habit of stealing people’s identities to make me feel better. I’d become whatever they wanted me to be, in order to be popular. Or I’d see someone who was popular and emulate them, trying to fit in. It never worked. They could always tell I was a fake. But I got better at it. That’s how I survived my crappy childhood, and it’s how I made a living as an adult. “Look after Number One because no one else is going to” is something I learned early.’

  The smirk returns as I sit back, drawn by my bravado. It gives me something to hide behind. ‘But how do you know that what I’ve just told you is the truth, or just another shitty lie to get your sympathy?’

  Fifty-Six

  Her head tilts. She studies, and sees everything.

  That’s why I hate Alex, because she seems to have a unique ability to see all the ambivalence, vulnerability, hurt, honesty, duplicity behind every truth and lie. Everything I try to keep hidden she lays bare.

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘I know because I can relate to bits of it.’

  ‘Now I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Listen, I certainly don’t condone what you did, but I can understand why you did that. As a kid, I mean. I was adopted. My parents loved me so much, but somehow they could never fill the hole that insecurity had dug in me. It made me vulnerable, and I made some poor choices along the way. I understand what it’s like to be desperate to fit in – and to be willing to do whatever it takes to protect yourself from hurt.

  ‘So I understand where you’re coming from, Carrie—’ She bites her lip. I’ll always be Carrie to her. ‘It explains why you’ve made bad choices, but it doesn’t excuse your actions any more than it excuses mine. We’re adults, we have to take responsibility and accept our pasts don’t have to shape us for ever.

  ‘I mean it when I say I’m here for you if you need me. I want to be your friend – I think you could do with one. I’m turning over a new leaf and moving on, and you can, too.’

  This has to be a bluff. I keep my poker face in place as she continues, her words gathering pace. She’s jabbing the table with her finger, creating a Morse code of emphasis.

  ‘Remember you once said there’s no fate or “meant to be”? I think you’re right. But I do believe there’s a reason why all of this happened between us: because we recognised core parts of our personality in one another and were drawn to each other. We’ve both been hurt by loved ones who should have protected us, and we’ve both developed lying as a way of protecting ourselves. You chose me for my vulnerability, but I share your strength – and you brought it back out in me.’

  She gives a breathless shrug, an apology of the shoulders. ‘I can see in your eyes that you don’t trust me, and I suppose I can’t blame you, after everything. But… I did tell everyone from the start that I was a liar.’

  ‘Yes – but who believes a liar when they’re telling the truth?’

  I’ve spent all day in a bad mood as a result of Alex’s visit. Shaking my head at her bleeding-heart hypocrisy, thinking of cutting remarks that I’d have said to her face if only they’d occurred to me at the time. Now that I’m locked in my cell, though, and lights off has been called, the shame I’ve been trying to keep at bay with annoyance seeps through me. It dampens my pillow with tears.

  I keep thinking about the thing Alex said about new starts and not being shaped by lies. I remind myself once again that she’s the one who put me here. She’s also the closest thing I’ve ever had to a real friend, and the only person who’s visited me. Try as I might, I can’t think of an angle for her to be working.

  Maybe she actually means what she said, a small but persistent voice pipes up inside my head. Perhaps, for the first time in my life, someone truly knows me – and loves me for myself.

  Could I actually change and have a normal life? For the first time I think about everything that I’ve said and done. I’ve no regrets about leaving Dad far behind. As for Andy, after the way that he emotionally and physically abused me over a period of twelve months, I reckon taking a bunch of gay soft porn photographs of him is very mild revenge. Simple but effective, as I haven’t heard so much as a peep from him since, let alone have him launch a campaign of terror against me. Every lie I’ve told after that was a case of survival, I tell myself.

  Okay, that’s not one hundred per cent true.

  The patchwork of deceit unfurls, and I study it. Feel ashamed.

  My lying is as compulsive as saying I’ve brushed my teeth when I haven’t. Nothing I can say or do will ever make amends for what I have done. I’ve taken advantage of good people and ripped them off; I disrespected people who are genuinely sick, and deprived charities of money that has the potential to cure cancer.

  No harm done. That’s what I told myself, even though I knew what I was doing was despicable.

  No harm until Joanne.

  She’d been so easy to net. I hadn’t even had to join any support groups; we’d just got chatting in the pub the day after I moved to Cromer. Grief made her talkative, and I listened patiently as she told me about her ten-year-old daughter, Alice, who had died of childhood leukaemia a handful of months before. When she heard about my terminal cancer she’d started to fill up. Gripping my hand, she told me how brave I was and that I’d beat this terrible disease. That was the moment I knew I’d got her hooked.

  What with my terminal cancer, and then my evil ex stalking me, it wasn’t hard to get her to cough up the money initially. The problem was that she instantly worried what her husband would do if he found out that she’d cleared out her bank account. She’d even taken out a loan for me. She begged me to give the money back. When I guilt-tripped her into backing away from that idea, she pleaded to be allowed to confide in her husband about me.

  My big mistake had been choosing a target with a strong support network. I couldn’t let her tell them about me. Drastic action had been needed.

  But I didn’t kill her. I am not a murderer – I hadn’t even hurt my cat; the blood smeared on his collar had been all mine. I’d deliberately cut my leg where no one would see the wound, so Alex wouldn’t put two and two together. The worst thing I’ve done to Smudge was put him back on the streets where he’d come from. He lives with Alex now, well-loved and looked after. See, I’m a good person really.

  That little Jiminy Cricket voice pipes up again in the back of my mind. You may not have killed Joanne, but you are responsible for her death.

  I manipulated and emotionally blackmailed her until she felt completely backed into a corner. She couldn’t possibly tell her husband or anybody else what she’d done with that money because she’d be letting down a dying woman on the run. She’d be stealing my chance of finding peace in my final days. Joanne became more worked up and emotionally
unstable as pressure built on her. I knew there was one thing guaranteed to push her into doing what I wanted.

  ‘Don’t worry about helping me. Honestly, I can get by begging – it’s amazing how kind people are,’ I’d said. ‘Alice would be so proud of everything you’ve done for me already.’

  The seed of the thought grew in Joanne’s mind, and I watched it bloom into a choking weed. She was imagining her helpless daughter in my position, on the run, homeless, begging, and the drive to protect her vicariously was overwhelming. After that Joanne had promised to keep her mouth shut when I left with all her money.

  I tell myself that Joanne was tormented by demons of loss, and that her desperation to be with her daughter was to blame for what happened next. I’m not sure I believe it. There was no big confrontation, no violent act, no desperation on my part. Instead, Joanne and her demons walked arm in arm into the sea’s eternal embrace, where she drowned under the weight of guilt over stealing from her husband.

  Anger, confusion, embarrassment, disgust, worthlessness – all that and more rips through me at the memory. How could I have let that happen?

  She hadn’t realised I’d been following her to see what she’d do. I’d stood on the beach and watched her final moments, frozen with disbelief and indecision. Telling myself that she’d change her mind. Any minute, she’d turn around and wade back to shore. By the time I realised she was really going through with it, it was already too late. The waves closed over her head, and she didn’t come up. Kicking off my shoes, I’d bombed into the water, gasping at the cold and plunging through the rollers to reach the spot where I’d last seen her. Again and again I dived under the murky surface, coming up each time empty-handed. Coughing and spluttering and desperate, I’d screamed her name. No one heard me. Despite my best efforts I hadn’t been able to save her. Every night when I close my eyes and replay that scene, that’s what I tell myself.

  I’m so desperately sorry for how I have affected people. I’ll turn my life around and become a better person, with the help of Alex. It might take a long time for people to believe I have changed, especially as such awful manipulation came to me with such ease, but I can do it. I can become different. After all, it’s what I’ve done my whole life.

  I turn over in bed and clench my jaw in determination. I can do this!

  I wish I could put my whole life out in the open, no part of me camouflaged, every lie, every indiscretion on view, so everyone can see I don’t want to hide any more.

  I still believe in that happy ending I’ve longed for.

  I still believe I can make it in the end.

  I still believe most people are good – and that I can be good, too. Hopefully. One day.

  Or am I lying to myself?

  Fifty-Seven

  Children shout and paddle, bare legs showing beneath their coats, pink in the cold. Dogs bark, chasing waves and sniffing at things invisible to their owners. The sharp, mouthwatering smell of vinegar mingled with the salty sea air. Scattered along the beach are knots of kelp, deep green and thick as rope. Go near and smell the iodine.

  Leon and I walk hand in hand along the beach, finally coming to a stop in the shadow of the church. Too cold there; I step out into the sunlight and watch my goosebumps disappear. Kick off my shoes and sink my toes into the sand. Gasp when an ice-cold wave gently laps over them. The tide is on the turn; it’s time. As the waves retreat over the sand, they urge silence.

  Shhh!

  I’ve kept quiet for too long, though.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Leon asks.

  ‘It’s been a long time coming, but yes, I finally am.’ I face the sunset-blushed sky.

  The last time I saw Rosie, just after the trial two months ago, she suggested that writing a letter to my children might be a good way of saying goodbye and getting closure. Although I liked the idea, it’s taken me this long to find the peace and courage inside myself to write what needs to be said.

  Rosie had stuck with me during the nerve-racking run-up to the trial. Of course, she hadn’t realised that the real reason I’d been nervous was because I was stitching up my friend so that she could then enjoy a fresh start. Everyone had believed my version of events without question. The evidence backed me up completely, plus it turned out that police in Norfolk had started to look at Carrie Goodwin’s background to see if she was connected in any way to Joanne or Natalie.

  Sophie’s clean slate will be worth its tough start, I’m sure. Now it’s time for me to wipe my own slate clean, and writing to my children is a huge part of that. Getting the truth down has been a huge help to me, and now I want to set it free.

  ‘Would you do the honours, please?’ I hand the glass bottle to Leon. ‘You can throw it further than me,’ I explain in reply to his raised eyebrow.

  The start of our relationship was a baptism of fire, what with all my baggage along with his own marriage breaking up not long before we met. Luckily it means we’ve forged something strong. Along with everyone at the support group, which I no longer attend, he knows about Owen, Elise and Edward. Most of it, anyway.

  ‘We don’t need to bare our souls about everything immediately,’ he’d said when I’d told him, guessing I was omitting some details. ‘Falling in love is the easy part, it’s getting to know one another and to trust that takes the time. We all have locked boxes inside us that only certain people get the keys to.’

  One day I’ll let the lock click open and reveal the full story of my family. Soon, I’ll tell him what I did to Sophie, too. Perhaps he can help me wrestle with my conscience about whether, sometimes, it’s justified to do what’s wrong in order to achieve what’s right. I’m certainly hoping so, which is why I visited Sophie.

  For a while I wanted to hate her; it would be so much easier if I did. But I can’t lose the love I had for the person I thought she was, and can’t escape the fact that we’re as bad as each other. Sadly, it seems she’s not ready for us to face the truth together, but I’ll give it another go. What I won’t do, though, is keep banging my head against a brick wall – ultimately it’s up to her whether she wishes to grab the lifeline of a fresh start that I’ve thrown her.

  That’s what I keep telling myself. But parents don’t turn their backs on their children, and in my heart of hearts I still feel she’s the daughter I never got the chance to raise. It’s no coincidence that after meeting her, my image of Elise became more like Sophie, from her clothes to her character. She even started wearing Sophie’s garish pink diamanté skull ring.

  I’d always imagined my daughter would be straight-talking, too, and persuade some sense into me. Sophie had. Ironically, all those pep talks that she’d given me about grabbing life finally worked. She made me fight; she made me move past my problems and start living in the real world instead of my fantasy bubble. Despite everything that’s happened between us, I’m better for having known her. Now I need to make her better for having known me. Together, we can find redemption. I want to do right by this ‘surrogate daughter’; which is why, at some point soon, I’m going to ask both Leon and Sophie how they feel about her coming to live with us after her release. Just until she gets on her feet.

  Leon has been busily rolling up his trousers while I’ve been lost in waves of thought. Now, he grabs my hand and we wade calf-deep into the water, gasping and giggling and doing a little dance until we acclimatise.

  ‘Any words you want to say?’

  I shake my head. ‘They’re all written down.’

  Beside me, Leon’s arm arcs back then catapults forward. The bottle flies out and lands with a splash in the sea’s embrace. I say a little prayer as I watch the truth contained inside it bobbing with the waves into the distance, slightly further with each pull of the tide. Floating and glinting, then disappearing in the ocean’s game of hide-and-seek.

  There is a chill in the air as the sun starts to kiss the horizon, but I’m warm in Leon’s embrace. We can’t see the bottle any more, but still we don’t move. Finally, it’s Leon th
at stirs.

  ‘Come on, let’s go home. Smudge will be wondering where we are. I’ll cook us something nice for tea, eh?’

  Home. At last, I think I’ve found it.

  Fifty-Eight

  Dear Elise and Edward,

  I’m not sure how to write this letter, even though I’ve practised it in my head a hundred times. There are too many things to say and I’m worried it will jumble into a mess of words, so please bear with me if I meander.

  My beautiful children, it’s time for me to finally come to terms with losing you, and let you go. It doesn’t mean I’ll stop loving you. I’ll still think about you every single day and grieve for the lives you should have had, but I can’t cling to you any more – I need to let your spirits fly free. In truth, I need to so that I have the breathing space to start living again, because I’ve been the walking dead for too long.

  I’ve met someone, and we’re hoping to adopt a child. It would mean the world to think you’ve given your blessing to that. Leon is a good man. I’ve never trusted people since your father. I loved him so much, but he didn’t always deserve it. There, I’ve admitted it, part of the shameful truth I’ve hidden for what feels like an eternity. The good inside him was the part that he gave to make you, though, and it’s also the part of him that survives in spirit now that the three of you are together.

  Growing up, I’d always felt insecure, knowing that from my first breath I’d been rejected by my birth parents. Poor Mum tried so hard to fill the unfillable hole in me, but none of my problems were her fault. The diffidence was inherent in me. I’d found it difficult to make friends at school, and I’d worked to fit in, even trying to smoke, though it made me cough and feel queasy. When Mum and Dad discovered a packet of cigarettes in my room they sat me down and talked everything through with me, understanding rather than lecturing – although Dad gave me a good scare about lung cancer, thanks to his knowledge as a GP. It wasn’t the first time Mum told me I needed more confidence in myself and to not be so easily led, and it wouldn’t be the last, but I’d got stronger as I’d grown up.