Lie to Me: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Jess Ryder

  Cara thought it sounded more like a name for a cocktail than a left-wing touring theatre company – but before she had time to voice her opinion, Isobel told her she’d already designed the logo and had some letterhead printed. It was the inheritance money that was paying for all this, so it was right, Cara supposed, that Isobel made the main decisions, although in the past, she’d talked a lot about wanting to start a cooperative (or was it a collective? Cara didn’t really know the difference) in which everything would be agreed unanimously. What did it matter, anyway? Of the two of them, Isobel always had the best ideas, and it would be churlish to start raising objections. Her friend had thrown her a lifeline – not for the first time – and Cara had no intention of letting it go.

  She went to fetch her suitcase, dragging it upstairs and laying it on her bedroom floor. She unzipped the lid and took out her pyjamas. The radiator was stone cold and there was a nasty draught coming through the window, so she drew the curtains. Then she undressed, slipped on her pyjamas and got into bed, keeping her socks on. The mattress was very soft and dipped in the middle, so it took a while to find a comfortable position. She switched off the bedside lamp and lay in the darkness, her eyes still wide open. Her head felt too buzzy to sleep, her thoughts drifting further and further back to when it had all begun.

  It was almost painful to remember how she’d been when she arrived at university, that first bewildering week away from home. Mouse-haired and mouse-timid Cara Jane Travers, sitting primly on the only chair outside the admin secretary’s office, clutching her neatly filled-in forms, looking and feeling anything but the bohemian drama student. Everyone else was chatting to each other like old friends even though they’d only just met – boasting about their exotic gap years (she hadn’t been allowed to take one), rubbishing the importance of A-level results (she had three A’s) or comparing notes on the latest production at the Royal Court (she hadn’t even heard of the place). And they were all dressed the same, as if there was a uniform but nobody had sent her the list of requirements. The girls were wearing scruffy jeans, sweatshirts, coloured berets, oversized blazers with turned-up shiny lining cuffs, and big laced boots. Their hair was universally dyed with henna in varying intensities of red, and nobody wore make-up – all blemishes defiantly on display. They sat on the hard floor with legs outstretched, unaware or uncaring that people had to step over them to get past, leaning intimately on strangers’ shoulders, begging tobacco and rolling up their Rizlas with the expertise of workmen on a building site.

  The boys were no less self-styled, their skin, hair and clothes deliberately unwashed, dressed like would-be farmers or fishermen – flat tweedy caps, knotted neckerchiefs, hand-knitted Fair Isle tank tops, corduroy trousers and crumpled collarless shirts. They stood in earnest, competitive clusters, canvas bags covered in badges advertising various political causes lurching off their shoulders, and one of them was even waving the Morning Star. Someone had made a ghastly mistake, thought Cara – either the tutors for offering her a place, or her for accepting it. The corridor was becoming unbearably hot and crowded, so she finally unbuttoned her long beige raincoat, dismally surveying the plain brown skirt and orange polo-neck sweater beneath. It was blindingly obvious that she didn’t belong to this tribe.

  ‘Do you have a pen I could borrow?’ Cara glanced up to see a striking young woman with Snow White looks: wavy jet-black hair cut in a 1920s bob with a fringe chopped halfway down her forehead, skin as white as china and full lips the colour of freshly spilt blood. She was wearing a purple crushed-velvet dress, a short black embroidered jacket, lilac nylon gloves that reached to her elbows, fishnet stockings and black patent sling-backs.

  ‘Of course,’ Cara replied, rummaging in her bag and eventually proffering a blue biro.

  ‘Thanks… Can I perch?’

  Cara shifted obligingly to one side, balancing one buttock on the edge of the chair.

  ‘I’m Isobel.’ The girl paused expectantly. ‘Don’t you have a name?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, feeling herself redden with awkwardness. ‘It’s Cara.’

  Isobel scribbled down her details in large, generous handwriting and Cara watched her intently, breathing in her thick evening perfume, observing the layers of powder on her flawless face. She started to realise that the other students were staring – the girls mainly. What an odd couple they must have looked that first day: Beauty and the Beast.

  ‘I think we’re done here.’ Isobel stood up and smoothed down her dress. ‘Shall we go? Celebratory cocktails in the bar – my shout.’

  Cara had never had cocktails before, and she’d only ever drunk alcohol during the day at a cousin’s wedding, but she quickly nodded and stood up. If she was going to survive here, she was going to have to adapt, and fast. As they walked across campus towards the Student Union, Isobel’s pace a step faster than her own, Cara felt her old self peeling away, like the skin of a snake.

  A few weeks later, she’d left her student accommodation and moved in to share a room with Isobel in a large crumbling Victorian house on a once-splendid leafy boulevard only a short bus ride from the city centre. Their room was huge, with ceilings so high you had to stand a chair on the table to change a light bulb. They painted the walls lilac and the woodwork purple, bought giant cushions from the market and draped the stained lumpy sofa with Indian throws.

  Cara cut her long, lifeless hair, dying it blonde and swooping it dramatically over one shoulder – she looked a bit like Lauren Bacall, Isobel said. Out went the Marks & Spencer’s raincoat and the flat court shoes. They went to a vintage clothes market where Isobel picked out three patterned skirts with gathered waists and a black silk fifties dress ‘for parties’. Cara felt herself an entirely new person, on the outside at least. But after graduation she’d slipped back so easily into her dull suburban past that she’d started to wonder whether she’d actually changed at all.

  Now, thanks to Isobel again, she had a second chance. The Jimi Hendrix tune played in her head – ‘Purple Blaze, Purple Blaze,’ she sang quietly to the darkness. Her heart was galloping and thoughts danced joyously around her head. How would she ever get to sleep? She felt like a child on the eve of her birthday, desperate for tomorrow to begin.

  Chapter Five

  Me

  It’s half past one, and as usual, Eliot is late. What will the excuse be this time? This restaurant used to be one of our favourite haunts, ten minutes’ walk from the old flat, so he can’t pretend he got lost. I like Echo Beach, it reminds me of the old days, when things were easy between us and it never occurred to me that we wouldn’t be together forever. The name must come from the song – it was on an album of eighties hits Dad used to play in the car. Echo Beach, faraway in time, Echo Beach, faraway in time… Eliot and I discovered the place early on, before Time Out ranked it third out of the ten best restaurants in south London for weekend brunch. Now every Sunday people queue all the way up the street for their deep-fried duck egg and baba ganoush. Evenings are big too, with live music and a DJ on Fridays. But it’s relatively quiet at lunchtime so you can usually hear yourself talk. Not that I’ve got anyone to talk to yet. Where the hell is he?

  In a way, I find it comforting that Eliot is behaving just as he used to when we were together. I don’t like the idea of him improving under somebody else’s tutelage. Not that there seems to be a somebody else. Not judging from Facebook, anyway. I stab a Kalamata olive with a toothpick and suck it into my mouth – I’m proud to say that until yesterday, I hadn’t looked at his page for months.

  We met in the local pub, the summer after I graduated, and lived together like a proper grown-up couple for four and a half years, so understandably it took a while to get used to being single again – living in an all-girl house-share, having to plan things in advance so I don’t end up on my own on Saturday nights. But we did the right thing, splitting up; I couldn’t take any more of that stressful life. I thought it might be painful coming back here, but actually it’s fine. I’m o
ver him. Really, I am. Anyway, it’s good we’re still officially friends, because I need his help.

  I keep replaying the DVD. It’s like watching a human puppet show: Becca pulling invisible strings, raising Meri’s little clenched fist, holding an imaginary knife and bringing it down, up and down. I can’t leave it alone. Can’t stop looking at Becca either. I put the laptop on my chest of drawers and freeze on the shots of her – stare in the mirror on the wall above and compare our features. Sometimes I look so much like her, I forget I’m the child in the scene. I’m both people – victim and abuser – and yet Becca’s a victim too. She didn’t choose to have a mental illness, she didn’t mean me any harm. I don’t know what to think. I’m dreaming about her at night and waking up in a sweat. Stuff that’s lain dormant for years has suddenly been activated and I can’t put it back to sleep. There are so many questions I need to ask and only one person who can answer them: Dad.

  Suddenly Eliot’s standing next to me saying, ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry, couldn’t get away, I had to finish this interview and it took way longer than I’d expected and now I’ve only got twenty minutes…’ I stand up and we hug, holding on a few seconds longer than friends do, catching the memory of each other. He sits down and removes his light silk scarf, sticking it in his jacket pocket. One of the first presents I ever bought him; I wonder if he remembers, if he chose it deliberately today.

  ‘The waiter was pushing so I had to order,’ I say. ‘Hope you still like ham hock croquettes.’

  ‘Of course. You’re having the Burmese chicken salad, yes?’

  ‘Of course,’ I echo.

  ‘So predictable, aren’t we?’ He laughs and beckons the waiter over to order sparkling water, refusing to join me in my bottle of Rioja – he has a meeting at two sharp and then a load of paperwork to get through this afternoon. Still on the twelve-hour shifts, he explains ruefully. As the waiter tops up my glass, I have a brief flashback to those solitary evenings on the sofa wading through endless box sets, my legs stretched out into the space where Eliot should have been sitting, persuading myself that his absence meant I could watch girlie stuff but actually bored out of my skull. If I succumbed to wine and waited up, I was leery by the time he got home, spoiling for a row. Then he’d tell me what he’d just seen – a woman with an eyeball hanging out of its socket, jaw caved right in, teeth scattered across the carpet like a broken string of beads. I never could compete with that.

  ‘This is nice,’ he says, leaning back in his chair. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m good, thanks.’

  ‘I’m really pleased to hear that…’ He pauses. ‘Cos I heard you’d been through a bit of a rough patch, you know, after we ended…’

  ‘Really?’ I try to look as if I’ve no idea what he means. One of our mutual friends has clearly been gossiping. There’s female loyalty for you. ‘No,’ I reply airily. ‘I’m absolutely fine, thanks.’

  We hold a smile for each other. He’s wearing a shirt I don’t recognise and his wiry black curls have been cropped tight against his skull, much smarter than the old Afro. Same Eliot, though. I can still remember what he looks like naked. Long brown legs, muscular arms, a spray of dark freckles across his back, birthmark on his right – no, left – thigh. Has somebody else discovered that fluff collects in his belly button? I pull my thoughts up short and reach for my wine glass.

  ‘How’s your dad?’ He moves aside his cutlery and places his elbows on the table, resting his hands on his chin. ‘Someone told me he had a heart attack.’

  ‘He’s okay, pretty much fixed. Horrible when it happened, though. Got two stents, on medication for the rest of his life. Did you know he retired? He’s just moved to Suffolk.’

  ‘Good for him, sounds like he needs the rest.’ He catches my expression. ‘How do you feel about it?’

  ‘Well…’ I say, about to embark on my story, but the waiter arrives with our food and the intimacy of the moment is lost.

  As we eat, Eliot asks me how my work’s going. I wave it aside, telling him it’s the ‘same old, same old’, that I’ve had enough of online marketing but can’t think of what to do instead. Eliot’s the opposite: he’s always wanted to be a policeman and one day he’ll be a chief superintendent or a commissioner or something, but for now he’s a detective constable in Lambeth’s Domestic Violence Unit. He spends a few minutes moaning about the CPS blocking their investigations at every turn, refusing to let cases go to court unless they’re a hundred per cent watertight; tells me how bad he feels for the poor women he’s encouraged to speak out, only to leave them at the mercy of their husbands/boyfriends/exes. I’ve heard it all before, several times over.

  ‘It’s time I moved on,’ he says, leaning across the table to steal a sip of my wine.

  ‘I was sure you’d be a sergeant by now. Didn’t you sail through your OSPRE?’

  He shrugs modestly. ‘I’m just waiting for the promotion.’

  ‘They’ll give you something really juicy; isn’t that what the High Potential Development Scheme is all about?’

  ‘Supposed to be.’ He takes a sneaky glance at his watch. ‘What I’d really like is murder.’ I’ve heard that before too. I have to cut this subject short or my twenty minutes will be up and I’ll have got nowhere.

  ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, you said on the phone. Didn’t mean to bang on.’

  So I tell him about the videotape. Becca’s paranoid fantasies about the bad man, Meri stabbing with her little fists, the accusation, all of it, right down to the strawberry lolly. His generous brown eyes widen, and at one point he puts his fork down and murmurs, ‘What a thing… what a thing.’ When I finish, he reaches out and lays his hand gently on my arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Meredith. I knew your mother had mental health issues, but that’s appalling.’ Eliot is the only boyfriend I’ve ever told about Becca. ‘So what does Graeme say? Did he know the tape existed?’

  ‘Oh yes, he knew. When I showed it to him he got himself in one hell of a state.’ I tell Eliot about our ugly fight. ‘Now he’s behaving like I’ve betrayed him. He won’t answer any of my calls. He was supposed to be moving yesterday. I’m guessing it all went through. He didn’t even let me say my last goodbyes to the place. I mean, that was my childhood home.’

  ‘He’s trying to punish you,’ says Eliot. ‘Don’t worry, he won’t be able to keep it up. Give it a few more days and he’ll be texting you every other minute again.’ Every other minute is an exaggeration, but Dad usually texts me morning and evening; it’s a ritual he’s been performing since I left home: ‘Hope the meeting goes well xxx’… ‘Rain’s expected, don’t forget your umbrella xxx’… ‘How’s the cough? Thinking of you xxx’. The caring but slightly bossy messages used to get on my nerves a bit, but now I miss them. Dad will hate the fact that I’ve turned to Eliot for help, but he’s left me with no choice.

  I take a DVD from my bag and push it across the table. ‘I burnt you a copy. Tell me what you think.’

  He picks up the disc and spins it between his fingers. ‘About what? Sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘On the tape Becca mentions two names – Cara Travers and Christopher Jay. I need to know if they’re real people, if there was an actual murder.’

  Eliot screws up his face. ‘Why? What difference does it make?’

  ‘I just need to know.’

  ‘You’ve googled them?’

  ‘Honestly, El, I’m not a complete idiot. Nothing comes up, but it was a long time ago, so maybe…’ I hesitate. ‘I mean, not everything’s on the internet. And if there was a murder, I thought you might be able—’

  ‘So that’s why you asked me to lunch. You want me to look at police records.’

  ‘Could you?’ I lean forward.

  He puffs out a sigh. ‘You were four when the video was made, right? That’s twenty-five years ago. So if there was a murder, it would have been before we were fully computerised and the HOLMES database was created. It could
have taken place anywhere in the country – nothing was joined up back then…’

  ‘I’m not asking for a full investigation. Just have a quick peek. Please?’

  Eliot gives me a pitying look. ‘Okay, but I’m not sure what it is you’re hoping to find.’

  ‘Nor am I. But thanks, it would mean a lot.’

  He looks at his watch again. ‘Gotta go.’ He takes out his wallet and searches for a note.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it,’ I say. ‘Just call me as soon as you find out anything.’

  ‘Promise.’ He swoops the scarf – my scarf – around his neck. ‘So good to see you… I miss you, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ I opt for mock-dismissive. ‘Now piss off and do some detecting for me, Sherlock!’

  I watch him go – weaving his way to the door, spinning through and hanging left, leaving the frame without once looking back, without so much as a wave. I turn my gaze to his empty chair, soaking up the memory of his eager, restless face, the soft, broad nose and high cheekbones, the trusting brown eyes. How long is it since I’ve had sex? Don’t go there, Meri.

  I return to the office feeling strangely elated. The lunch went well, considering. Being friends with an ex is hard, even when you no longer have feelings, as they say. Neither of us asked if we were seeing new people – I wonder if that’s significant. Does it suggest that we don’t want to think of each other with new partners, or did it just not come up in the conversation? We had other, more urgent things to discuss, so maybe he just didn’t get around to it. Maybe I just didn’t get around to it. No, that’s not true. I wanted to know, but I couldn’t bear to ask, because… because? …

  Only a few emails have come in since I left my desk. It’s Friday afternoon; everything’s winding down for the weekend, there’s nothing urgent or interesting. I compose an email from self to self, with no message, just a heading: Stop analysing everything.