Naked Lies

by Karen Botha

  ‘Only for Paula,’ Mo teases.

  ‘Listen, I get what they’re trying to do,’ Lucy starts. ‘They’re your lawyers. It's their job to get you off, not to prove who did this to you.’ She rests her hand on my leg.

  ‘I know,’ I say, but I had expected more from them. It’s unfair. I have no reason to; this isn’t their battle to fight over and above their extortionate hourly rate.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ Mo says. ‘They've put a lot of the grunt work in for us. And their point about Nuala is quite valid.’

  Paula nods, sipping her drink quickly so she can speak. ‘It’s true. Have you considered Nuala, Adam?’

  ‘No, never. She is the most loyal person to me ever. She would never do anything to harm me. I trust her more than I trust myself.’ And then I get another, now familiar, sinking feeling.

  ‘What is it?’ Lucy asks.

  I take a breath. ‘Her husband… he installed and manages my CCTV - at the casino and at home.’

  ‘OK…’ Paula says, waiting for more.

  ‘But the security camera footage contained in files on your computer was missing earlier when you tried to forward the history to the police?’ Lucy says.

  ‘Hmm, they were. And then when I was in the security office the other day watching Jack, the camera filming the back area where they left from was out. I asked Tom if he’d reported it, and he said it happens periodically and implied it’s never a quick fix.’

  ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’ Mo asks.

  I feel like a schmuck. Talk about hindering my own investigation. Bloody donkey. ‘Well, I didn’t think of it, there’s just been so much going on. And I trust Nuala. I don’t understand why she’d do this.’ That sounds wet, even to me.

  Paula takes the reigns. ‘OK, before we all run off accusing Nuala and her husband of sabotaging your life, let’s see if we can find a good reason.’

  ‘He’s just said he can’t see a good reason for her to do this Paula,’ Lucy says.

  ‘He’s also just said he’s not looked, Lucy. Now let’s look!’ Paula has a point.

  ‘Nuala gets a few things out of this. One is to destroy you. Assuming all this evidence is somehow tied together into one case, she’s also devastating the lives of young refugee girls, which seems an unlikely driver. The other benefit she gets is money.’

  Lucy's eyes pop. ‘Jerome said the same thing.’

  My humiliation doubles. We’ve already been told what to look for, and I’ve missed it.

  ‘Why would Nuala need cash, Adam?’ Mo asks.

  ‘Her son, Toby. He has cancer. It’s a rare form of malignant tumour; MRT. It has a small survival rate. They’ve been treating him with chemo, but it’s not particularly effective on this type of disease. I know they’ve been searching for different treatments, but I didn’t realise they’d found one. I assumed she’d mention it if she had found a potential cure.’

  ‘Did they find any?’ Paula asks.

  ‘She’s not mentioned it for a while…’ As I say this, I wonder why. ‘They did take a holiday in Mexico a few months ago. I thought it was a long way to go with a sick kid, but I never asked. I expected it was somewhere he wanted to visit…’

  Mo makes more notes. ‘We’ll look into ground breaking treatment in the area for this. What's the official name of Toby's condition?’ he asks.

  ‘Malignant rhabdoid tumours, I think.’

  He scribbles it down.

  So, assuming that they needed more money, and that you've omitted to ask how her sick kid is, Adam, you could, at a stretch, start piecing together this puzzle,’ Lucy says.

  I crick my stiff neck back and draw breath in. ‘I guess so. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just that time passes quickly, and I didn’t realise I’d not asked for a while.’

  ‘That you’d not enquired for a few years?’ asks Paula.

  ‘Possibly,’ I answer hanging my head forward. Oh no, how could I let this happen? ‘If she needed the money all she had to do was ask.’

  Paula

  With full bellies and alcohol to wash away the stresses of the night, Mo sends a crew to bring Nuala in for questioning. If I’m honest, my head is spinning. A combination of no sleep, a bunch of stress, and some serious painkillers have my eyes rolling around in their sockets.

  Andy isn’t speaking to me. In fact he called me a ‘dickhead.’ It made me laugh, because he’s right, but that fuelled the fire. The phone went dead. My energy is low as it is, so I don't possess any resources to deal with his histrionics. I’m unsure how I feel about him. The last few days have taken me back to a time in which he didn’t exist in my life. Working out how he fits into this is not without complications, especially with Steve knocking around.

  He cornered me earlier under the excuse of helping me make a drink. Apparently, my wheelchair is too low to navigate the department’s kitchenette. It didn’t take him long to tell me he wants me back.

  ‘I’ll leave Claire. I should have done it years ago. I was just thinking of the kids, but they never see me anyway with this job. They’ll be better off with happy parents and scheduled days with me. At least that will be quality time.’

  I don’t comment. It’s not my place to get involved with how he runs his life with his kids. But, if I've learnt anything about this career, it’s that time off is never scheduled.

  He kneels down, puts his arms around my waist. I can’t back away but then, I don't really want to. The amount of times I’ve yearned for him to say these words, but now that he does, is it too late? My blood pressure surges, all thoughts of a hot cuppa forgotten. My mind races with video playbacks of our good times. Him ripping at my underwear in his unmarked car down an old country lane; the tingle of my skin as his hands sneak under the desk and up my thigh in meetings. Oh, and I allow myself to linger on the memory of him strapping my wrists to the bedpost, making me writhe as he stimulated my pert nipples.

  I got rid of that headboard. It wasn’t worth the memories when we split. To be fair, he never specified he was single; he just never mentioned he was married. But I didn’t think to question his honest lies.

  ‘Steve, back off. I’m not up for this now. Too much has happened.’ I push his biceps, rolling away from him.

  ‘What do you mean? That too much happened in the past, or with you being kidnapped now?’ He asks.

  ‘Both. You can’t just waltz in here and expect us to pick up where we left off because it suits you now. You’ve said all of this before. Does it take a near death experience for you to realise you want me?’

  ‘Well, it does help to focus the mind somewhat…’ he scrunches his eyebrows together. Even he knows that wasn’t a great response. I leave it.

  ‘Plus, I’m with someone else now, anyway.’ And there it is. Andy thrown in as an afterthought. Not so much part of my decision-making process, but more as a justifier.

  ‘She’s here,’ Clive, part of the team shouts into the kitchenette.

  ‘Come on, let’s go save some lives.’ Steve winks, nudging me. I balance my tea on my lap, then realise I can’t wheel with one hand. He picks the cup up, ‘Come on, slowcoach.’ He walks ahead of me, dumps it on the desk I’m using and then disappears towards the exit.

  Jerome has been looking into the finances of Nuala’s husband’s security firm. They work with one big client, 'Bright Nights,' but no others of significance. They take home a fair income, enough to fund a lavish lifestyle, but not enough to support ongoing groundbreaking cancer treatment in Mexico.

  The team have been working hard whilst we’ve been filling our bellies. They've unearthed a respected research facility for MRT in South America which uses sono therapy to dissolve cancerous cells. Nuala, her husband, and Toby flew out there four times within the last eighteen months. How Adam could not realise this is testament to how far up his bottom hole his head has been! I’m thankful, seen as it looks like they’re well on the way to being a couple, that Lucy won’t allow him to get away with that behaviour.
Not anymore.

  We pass to our respective work stations and tune in as Steve appears on our computer monitors showing Nuala into Interview Room Three. After going through the cautions for the tape, he explains the situation to Nuala. ‘We wouldn’t normally bring only you in; we’d collect your husband as well. But, we understand your son is sick, and so we’re being lenient with you. I hope that you’ll show us the same courtesy in return, and be forthcoming with your information.’

  Nuala clutches her arms together across her chest and rocks slowly backwards and forwards. She says nothing. It continues this way for some time. She doesn’t seem to register the position she’s in.

  Steve takes a break and leaves to fetch her a hot drink from the canteen rather than the terrible machine which delivers even more terrible drinks. He’s pushing the boat out, trying to woo her. In such an intense situation, a decent hot beverage can make huge inroads into a stagnant case.

  Whilst the cameras cease recording, Mo speaks. His tone is soft, as if cajoling a child. ‘Are you aware of the situation you are in Nuala?’

  She nods.

  ‘Good, well, we need your help here. Do you think you can do that?’

  She does nothing to acknowledge that he even spoke.

  Mo continues. ‘We’re aware Toby is ill, Nuala. And we know that your husband has sabotaged the security of the casino, and Adam’s personal system. You have also been committing ongoing fraud in his name. We understand why, but it will be better for you if you help us close this case so we can move on.’

  She nods.

  ‘Will you help us please, Nuala?’

  She speaks. ‘Why do I need to do anything if you know all of this already?’

  ‘Because it will help your case. It will mean that you may not get a custodial sentence, that you may be around when your son needs you rather than being locked up.’

  Nice one, Mo!

  Steve returns and places a polystyrene cup down on the oval table in front of her.

  ‘I want a lawyer.’ Her icy blue eyes meet Mo's warm chocolate ganache ones.

  ‘What?’ Mo asks.

  ‘You heard me. I’m not saying anything without a lawyer.’

  The office, including me, cry out in disbelief.

  Graham

  I’m slumped in my armchair in my office. It’s upstairs, away from her constant TV chatter and the only comfortable place to sit in this entire house. I’ve had it fitted out with made-to-measure units. I selected walnut, with a wonderful polish which brings out the wood grain. My desk arcs around, a true sign that it’s been custom-built, but it also provides me time to switch my screen if Emma appears at my door unannounced. It’s not always possible to hear movement with such luxurious carpets. I survey the books on the shelf behind my workstation. There’s nothing that interests me, and so my attention rests on a picture of our wedding day. Emma placed it there, said it softened the space that the dark wood was too masculine. How a room can be too masculine is beyond me, but I let it stay.

  Our wedding was a quick affair. I proposed three months after we met. We tied the knot abroad two weeks later. It’s impossible to maintain a charming facade for long, so I needed to capture this one with a certain degree of urgency. I wooed her with charm, texts, gifts, and a promise of a lifestyle she found attractive. She would be perfect on my arm at functions - she looks the part - whilst being compliant enough to not ruffle any feathers. Yes, she would be the flawless accessory to my path up the corporate ladder. She was easy to snare, a trusting individual by nature, and I unashamedly exploited it.

  The door rattles as Emma knocks. She opens it a slit, poking her nose in where it’s not wanted. As she leans over, the breasts I paid for splay out of her top. I crane my neck, spot a sliver of nipple where her bra has gaped.

  ‘Would you like anything?’ she asks.

  ‘Come here,’ I instruct.

  She hesitates, then walks towards me. I swivel around in my chair, beckon her to my side of my desk. She obliges as I undo my belt buckle. My zip catches and I only half spring free.

  ‘Deal with that.’ I reach for her shoulders and push her onto her bended knees in front of me, slipping her bra straps and top free of her shoulders in one practiced action.

  She opens her mouth, fiddles with the rest of my zip, and slides me down her throat.

  ‘Not like that,’ I say.

  Saliva dribbles down one corner of her mouth as she lifts her face, eyes wide, watering. I clutch her breasts, knead both hard. I grab them, they stretch under my grip as I use them to pull her towards my penis. Oh, the relief as I slot between their softness, moving between their fullness. As my pleasure increases, so does my grip. My rhythm pounds into her and I release over her chest and neck.

  ‘Go and clean yourself up.’ I wipe myself with a tissue from my bottom drawer, then discard it in the wastepaper basket next to my desk.

  She uses my legs to push herself up to standing, white fluid dipping down the crack between her breasts. Her eyes are hard; I could touch her hatred if I reach out. My stomach flips, elated that she feels like this, and yet, I have control over her most sacred self.

  By the door, she hesitates. She pulls it closed, but then just a fraction before it clicks into place, she reopens it. Fully.

  ‘I want a divorce Graham.’ She's standing full height in the doorway.

  ‘What are you talking about? You have no money of your own. You can’t survive without me.’

  She turns and walks away from me. She actually leaves the door to my office open. I watch her stroll down the hallway towards our bedroom and feel a swell of satisfaction as I hear her washing in the bathroom.

  She materialises a few moments later, lugging our holiday paraphernalia.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I scream.

  ‘I told you, I’m leaving. I want a divorce.’ She’s damned calm. Ice cold.

  ‘No, you are not!’ I snatch at her. But she’s ready and drops to the floor. A tsunami of rage overpowers everything in its wake. Emma is screeching, but she’s not scared anymore, this is different. She’s fighting me. Hitting at my chest, scratching my face, poking into my eye sockets.

  I grab her hands. ‘You will never leave me,’ I hiss. Her wrists are fragile against my heavier body and downward strength.

  She bucks, kicks my back. ‘I. Am. Leaving.’ Her teeth are gritted. She throws me off, the power of her will matching my fury.

  I clutch her legs as she scrambles for the steps. She shakes loose. I capture one ankle. She turns at the top of the stairs, boots me with her free leg, pulling and pushing herself free. I let go, and she tumbles. I see her roll. I watch in slow motion as her skull collides with the wall half way down. Her neck cracks into an odd angle, and her ragdoll head flops around as she topples down the remainder. Her body thuds against the hard flooring at the bottom, head first, legs spread vertical.

  Time dissolves, my perfectly constructed life melting through my flaccid grip.

  I’m panting, my mind not receiving the air to process effectively, to filter the myriad of thoughts which collide head-on, shattering anything half-logical.

  Emma is silent. She's still. I stand and stare. I don’t touch, I don’t crumble, I just stand and stare. The air is restrained, even my breath turns quiet. There’s an eerie sense of tranquility that instead of soothing my nerves, builds in a crescendo of tension.

  I creep down the staircase, bend over her, press my cheek to her mouth, feeling for her breath.

  Nothing.

  I grip her wrist, there's only my own pulse drumming in my ears. Spark plugs ignite in my abdomen, grabbing at my breath so I have to work faster and harder to catch oxygen. I have a primal urge; flee, get out of here. Just leave all this behind.

  I ignore it.

  I will not abandon my life’s work for this whore.

  I scan the room, looking for inspiration. I have not planned this situation, have no back up upon which to rely. I find my phone in my pocket, flip through my c
ontacts. Hana!

  Slumping against the wall facing my dead wife, I dial my mistress. The line connects, but she cuts me off.

  Panic surges again, that tsunami re-igniting. I grab it by the scruff and hold the storm steady.

  Think!

  They answered my call in a matter of rings.

  ‘I’d like to report a break in. There’s been an accident, my wife has been hurt. I don’t want to move her, she’s lying in an odd position at the bottom of the staircase. I don’t think she’s breathing.’

  They take the details and promise to send someone round quickly. I jump up, adrenalin making my limbs jittery. I crowbar our exterior door and then sit myself next to Emma.

  Finally, I may allow my tears to fall.

  I’m crying for Emma, for this whole messy situation, but most of all, for myself. All the tension that has been building dissipates. By the time the blazing sirens arrive, I have snot running from my nose and I’m nearly hysterical.

  Paula

  A desk phone derails the frustration. ‘Paula, it’s for you.’

  ‘Ooh, getting calls now on the landline?’ Mo says. The office cheers.

  I wave my hand. ‘Transfer it over here, please.’

  I speak very little during that call. Listening intently to the few words spoken, taking notes, not yet formulating thoughts on their meaning.

  Positioning the handset onto the receiver, I lean back in my chair and dissolve a breath. It’s then that I become aware of everyone looking at me, the atmosphere once again tense.

  ‘Ginger and Baldy broke into Graham’s house. His wife, Emma, was DOA.’

  ‘Whoa, they killed her?’ Steve says.

  I don’t speak, my personal memories of the two thugs not yet far enough in the past for me to remain unaffected.

  ‘Uniform are bringing Graham, her husband, in,’ I say. ‘But his statement is already on the system.’

  Mo pushes me aside and logs in, the screen brings up Graham’s words. I hone in on the nitty gritty.