Naked Lies

by Karen Botha

  A groan involuntarily escapes as my chin jams my teeth together, I taste blood. My head shakes like jelly, I wince as pain scorches my temples. I scrunch my eyes, not willing to let tears escape. They will not break me. The hopelessness of my situation floats through my consciousness. Like a balloon waiting to be caught, I let it drift away. That will not help. I need to be strong to get through this.

  I think I drifted off, the chloroform or whatever was on that rag they smothered me with at the house, still having some effect. The van has stopped, and I can hear activity outside. This time, I’m prepared when the lid of my metal booth opens and brace myself to be manhandled like before. It’s Ginger, Baldy is no-where to be seen, and I wonder if he returned Adam’s duplicate vehicle to the property I was kidnapped from. Ginger picks at the knots until the ropes slacken and then release round my ankles. My wrists are still locked behind my back.

  ‘Stand up and get out.’ His voice is chirpy, confident, but yes, most definitely chirpy.

  My legs feel light, like I’m a puppet being controlled by strings rather than a mental thought process. My head is banging, probably from a combination of the drugs they gave me and the pulsing egg on the back of my skull.

  I’m in the middle of a field. Several old farm vehicles are knocking around. They don’t seem to have been used in the last decade. A barn looks like it’s going to be my home. I’m unwilling to accept this could be where I’ll end up permanently.

  He may have given me the use of my legs back, but Ginger is no less rough with me now that he’s alone. He rams me towards the entrance. I struggle to try to see whether any of the farm machinery has keys left in their ignitions. I’m not able, though I reckon they are my best chance out of here. I’m through one door and then a second in close succession. It’s cold and there’s a musty stench of wet hay hanging in the air. Goosebumps change the complexion of my skin.

  ‘Where am I?’ Worth a try.

  ‘Shut up!’ Another shove.

  I end up on my knees in a stable. Ginger, unties my hands and slams the door, his footsteps echoing as he marches away.

  Adam

  The awkwardness that I’d cogitated over for more hours than I’ll admit was non-existent when I met Lucy. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t tension. This was way worse than anything I could have anticipated. Her best friend is missing, kidnapped by some gruesome louts, and I’m to blame.

  ‘Hello Adam. Thanks for meeting me.’

  She doesn’t come near. It seems appropriate to shake her hand which is odd; I’ve never shaken her hand in my life. Instead, I fiddle with my watch strap.

  ‘Of course, I’m delighted to help out where possible.’ Her eyes widen. That came out wrong. But I can’t bite it back in. ‘I don’t mean it like that, just that I want to do whatever I can to speed up the process.’

  She nods. Remains tight lipped. I’m not sure if she gets it.

  ‘Lucy, look. I didn’t expect Paula to take risks on her own. I simply handed her a job, I was trying to help her out with some work. She should have more sense if this is how she makes her living.’

  She sighs. ‘I know.’ Her lips are still thin strips.

  ‘She was always saying how she wants to get involved with some more interesting cases, I thought she’d lap this up.’

  ‘She did, Adam, she did.’

  I reach out and touch her arm. She looks up from the ground and meets my eyes. A piece of me crumbles at the sight of her dark reserves of pain. ‘Come here.’ Without pause I pull her into me, wrap both my arms around her back, pulling her cheek to rest against my chest. I cup her head, and our breathing moves to the same rhythm. Who is being more comforted is up for debate, but as I hold my lips to her hair, I know I never want to be with anyone else. Her arms tighten behind me, conjoining us further. We stand for a few moments like that in the street. Everyone’s lives continuing as they were whilst we’re locked in a moment. Nothing, and yet everything, said.

  I had little problem convincing Jerome of who I am when he answers his door to us.

  ‘Yeah, hi,’ was all he said. Then he turned to Lucy, ‘Hi sweetie, how are you?’

  Lucy stares at him, eyes glinting. ‘I’ve been better Jerome. How are you?’ Her Northern vowels drawl out Jerome’s name.

  We head into his lounge, which is more like a tech library. He has a worktop which stretches from one end of the open plan living space to the other with eight computers of varying sizes and portability. The floor is stripped floorboards, the varnish worn along the line where he wheels his comfortable office chair between computer terminals. The system in the corner is burring as it runs a DOS program. The other screens are quiet except one. We follow him over.

  ‘Two secs.’ He rushes off, materialising a few moments later with two fold-up chairs. ‘Here, sit.’ We oblige. ‘So, let me show you what I’ve found. Pleased to meet you by the way Adam,’ he turns and outstretches his arm. ‘Pleasure doing business for you.’

  It’s the first time he’s truly acknowledged me, but I’m to find out he probably doesn’t feel the need. The guy knows more about me than I do myself.

  ‘Right, so, Adam. You must not be upset with me, part of doing my job well is to follow individual threads. That includes a fair amount of snooping on you I’m afraid. Sorry, if it’s a bit awkward.’

  I wonder whether he’s gay. He has a feminine way about him, but I’m unsure. I push it from my mind; it’s not important anyway, a stray thought. ‘That’s fine, I understand.’

  He giggles, and it warms the room as it rolls around, bouncing off walls and ceilings. It’s unexpected and glorious in this moment of despair.

  ‘What did you find, Jerome?’ Lucy asks.

  ‘Ah well… now Adam, this friend of yours - sorry employee, Graham; he is not a good friend.’

  My heart sinks. I knew what he was going to say, I could see the signs, but I’m still saddened. ‘He’s my foster brother.’

  Jerome continues as though this is inconsequential. ‘Yeah? Oh dear. Well, his day-to-day banking is all squeaky clean, but how often does that happen?’ We’re not required to answer his question, he carries on. ‘So, I started digging into a second, and even third account, digging for something more hidden. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for. To say he’s a Financial Director, he’s not great at this whole secret accounting thing, I have to say. It was an easy find. Anyway, sorry, I digress. Yes, so I found this account.’ He points his index finger at the screen.

  ‘Hmm.’ Lucy chews on her thumb nail.

  ‘Yes. It shows illegitimate deposits. I double checked these against the invoices you provided to Paula. Not only did the timings nor amounts not correlate, but neither did the account which was making the deposits.’

  ‘Oh, OK. So, then what?’ I ask.

  ‘So, I looked a little harder at the companies you were suspicious of. Now, this did take a little while, I’m sorry to say, as I’ll obviously be billing you for that time.’

  I clench my jaw - as if cash is the issue right now. Instead I say, ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘Well, so you know, I did have to do quite a bit of back and forth, but in the end, I made the connection.’

  ‘OK, and…?’ Lucy sighs.

  ‘Well, long story short because we don’t have a lot of time, all these three companies have a part ownership in another company.’

  ‘What’s it called?’ I ask wondering whether I know it.

  ‘Bright Knights.’

  Lucy looks at me, her jaw open.

  ‘But that’s the name of my casino?’ I ask rather than state.

  ‘No, that’s what people are meant to think I’m sure, but this is spelt with a K, whereas yours is simply Nights without the K.’

  ‘So, why would someone want to set a business up that sounds like mine?’

  Jerome raises his eyebrows. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Did you find out?’ I ask.

  ‘Everything in time. First things first.’


  I watch the instinctive warmth I felt towards him earlier fly out of the window on a head of steam. In an attempt to shut down my frustration, I nod, handing him the power, hoping to speed him along.

  ‘So, Bright Knights, the one with a K, has four directors. You’ll not be surprised to learn that each one is also the main shareholder in the companies from whom you brought me invoices, albeit indirectly through Paula. The fourth is guess who?’

  ‘Graham,’ Lucy and I say together, playing along with Jerome’s game.

  ‘Exactly. And to state the obvious, this is where Graham is getting his money.’ He pauses and takes a sip from a tumbler containing an amber liquid. He runs it through his teeth before letting out a whistle.

  ‘OK, so what does Bright Knights do?’ I ask, half knowing what is coming but not wanting to believe it.

  ‘Hospitality.’

  ‘Meaning?’ I cringe.

  ‘Here’s their website.’ Jerome flicks his screen to show us a luxurious African villa with sun shining on sandy beaches, along with two smaller shots. The first of a safari and the fourth of a team of so called hospitality managers.

  ‘Please tell me that these are genuine hospitality managers, not models in situ.’

  Jerome says nothing, but pushes his chin into his chest.

  The screen ticks over, refreshing with a picture of a Bedouin tea being served on mats in a tent. Then, a belly dancer and finally, a wonderful, if not more rustic hotel backdrop to what is apparently the perfect holiday.

  ‘Jerome, am I named on this business?’ I whisper. My neck stiffens.

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  The pressure on my chest lifts.

  ‘You’re on the parent company.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yep.’ Jerome says.

  ‘But how can he be, without knowing?’ Lucy asks.

  ‘He can’t. So, like you Lucy, I wondered the same thing. I went to Companies House where they store all the details of UK based Directors and did some digging. Big trouble if I get caught for that one, so please don’t say anything. They do indeed have your paperwork on file, signed.’ He flips to another screen. ‘Is this your signature, Adam?’

  I study the document in front of me, not prepared to make a snap decision on whether this signature is forged. ‘It certainly looks like mine. Is there anyway to get this to a handwriting expert for analysis?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure the police will have contacts. I don’t.’

  ‘Have you had a chance to look into what this company does?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, it’s funny you should say that. They have an awful lot of money coming in. Collectively, I’m talking millions. But, not from corporations.’

  ‘Where is it coming from?’ Lucy asks before I get the chance.

  ‘Well, it’s cash deposits, so it’s tricky tracing it back. I have to find the individual deposit times and locations and then hack into the security cameras to see if I can grab a meaningful image. It’s going to take time. I expect those behind this will hide their identities, even getting someone else to pay in the money on their behalf.’

  A growl rumbles out of my chest. My frustration boils over. Lucy and Jerome exchange a we’d-better-strike-a-break look before Jerome changes the subject.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like that drink, Adam?’ Jerome offers.

  It sounds fabulous, I nod. He reaches to his left, pulls down a bottle of cheap whisky off a shelf, and pours it into a plain glass tumbler. It strips the surface off my throat. I wheeze.

  ‘Not what you’re used to?’ Jerome laughs, Lucy joining him. It lifts the tenor of the mood up a welcome notch.

  ‘So, on to Paula. Talk me through what happened properly, and I’ll see where I can help.’

  And so we do. It doesn’t get easier with the telling explaining how I basically sat at a safe distance, inadvertently setting Paula up for a colossal fall.

  ‘And you say that your lawyers are looking into your stolen identity, Adam?’

  I nod.

  ‘OK, so I just need to crack on with your brother, Graham. Have you considered that the two cases could be linked?’

  ‘It had crossed my mind, but one is white collar crime, the other most certainly is not, so I didn’t make a connection.’

  ‘Money is the connection, Adam, and where money is involved, people are prepared to go to all sorts of lengths you wouldn’t expect.’ Jerome is nodding, his glasses magnifying his eyes.

  Lucy chips in. ‘Paula did say that the wife beating aside, Graham’s home was so clinical he must have control and jealousy issues. I didn’t quite get what she was going on about if I’m honest. Something to do with him controlling his house and partner to the extent that his home appears unlived in. She said that with those characteristics, she’d also expect him to care about appearances way beyond what is legal to keep up with the Joneses.’

  ‘Well, we have to trust her - Paula is good.’ Jerome says.

  ‘Hmm…’ I’m thinking. ‘Graham has always been the type to ignore my authority, but I put that down to us being brothers. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one to let off at every turn about being the boss, but it’s the little things. He walks into my office where other people knock, he’s late for meetings when everyone else is prompt. That kind of behaviour. It grates me, but I never considered it being a fight for dominance.’

  ‘OK, so if we assume that Graham was jealous of you and fighting for your stature, albeit a long stretch, would that lead to him ultimately stealing your identity?’ Lucy asks.

  ‘It’s possible, although I don’t believe it. He does have access to pretty much all my data - well more than anyone else other than Nuala, but he wouldn’t. I gave him that position. I don’t expect anything from him for that, other than him performing his tasks of course, but Hana thinks he’s a chump, surely he’s grateful for me sticking out my neck. He wouldn’t ruin my life.’ I reply. Then as an afterthought, I add, ‘Jerome, do you have any idea where the deposits are being made?’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry, didn’t I mention that?’

  ‘No!’ Lucy chimes.

  ‘Oh, I do apologise. Afghanistan, Syria, and Eritrea.’

  Paula

  My heart is pounding, it’s resonating through my torso and down my legs, then up to my head which swishes. This is not helpful. I crumple onto the bleak floor and rest my face in my hands. The throbbing zips behind my eyeballs. I shut my eyelids and count to ten.

  I open my eyes and gaze around as though I’ve been presented with a clear pair of glasses, digesting the fine details of my prison. The timber reaches to the top of the barn, twelve feet above me. The stable door is, of course, split into two, the bottom half wood, the upper part metal bars.

  I stand on my swollen ankle and ignore its complaints as I kick the panels with my weaker left leg. The panels move slightly, making a feeble thud which is embarrassing considering my level of effort. No point trying my right leg, albeit stronger, it’s not going to tackle a building constructed to withstand braying hooves.

  I scour the floor for an object to jimmy the door with, hoping but not expecting to find a crowbar lying forgotten in a corner. It’s not a huge surprise when I find zilch. Nothing. Hmm. I rub my top lip with my forefinger and think. I tap my pelvis; the idiots didn’t empty my pockets. I pull out my cigarettes and flip open the box, retrieving my lighter. Thank goodness I didn’t quit amidst all the media hubbub like so many. Far from killing me, smoking may well save my life.

  I scrabble around on the stone floor, collecting remnants of hay. I pile it into a nest in a corner of the barn sporting an innocuous looking knot, resulting in a vulnerable spot in my prison. There’s a poof as my lighter flares, my nerves soar, every sense on high alert. I angle the flame so the blue section connects nicely with the straw, but it’s damp and to be honest, not much happens. I had visions of the whole place going up as if I’d lit a gas canister. Not to be.

  I tear the small packet into even more tiny strips a
nd stack each section criss-crossed at angles retaining part of the lid and coated plastic. Once it’s sizzling, I rest the burning piece central to the card and as soon as the other catches, replace the stray hay on top. It starts to fizzle. I blow, but it’s too much. My escape plan fades out.

  ‘Shit!’

  I unzip my fleece and remove my arm, ripping my tee shirt and bundling it into a loose ball. There’s a clink as the flint hits the stone in the lighter and it ignites again.

  ‘Come on!’ I will as the section of my sleeve catches alight. I stack three cigarettes into my mouth and bend forward, inhaling to light them all at once and lay them into the flames for extra oomph. I’m not sure it will help, but I’m not taking any risks. I rest my tee shirt over the flickering, hands shaking as I stand-by for it to ignite.

  This should be strong enough now to catch the timber frame, but whether it burns long enough to set the barn on fire rather than singe it remains to be seen. I wait.

  It crosses my mind for the first time that I could be signing my own death warrant. Will I become engulfed by flames, or smoke, before the wood burns thin enough for me to be able to kick my way through?

  Oh well, no time to worry now. The timber is catching.

  I cast about for a few more strands of hay or anything to maintain this fire long enough to give my freedom a chance. To give my life a second chance.

  There’s not enough. I’m going to have to remove more clothes. I pick up my jacket but stop short.

  I can’t throw this on, it will melt. It won’t add any value to the fire, I’ll be better off holding onto this to at least keep me warm in my escape and my dignity intact. Instead, I remove my jeans and toss the thick fabric amidst the flames.

  The fire is going. The timber is actually burning, I can’t believe it!

  My heart thuds in my ears as I sit on the floor and replace my boots.

  I wait.

  Despite the cold, moisture collects inside my synthetic jacket. A lone bead of sweat trickles between my breasts and rests in the elastic of my bra. I choke on the rising smoke, spitting out dark phlegm.