Lie to Me: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist
Page 29
The first time she’s allowed a day pass, she takes the bus home. She hasn’t told Graeme she’s coming and she’s hoping he’ll be out, because she wants it to be a surprise. Saturday is usually supermarket day and there’s no reason why he’ll have changed the routine. Becca can’t wait to see the look on his face when he realises how much she’s changed.
She finds the key under the flowerpot, letting herself in quietly. But she feels disorientated. This isn’t how she remembers it. The big armchair has been swapped with the sofa so it’s nearer the television, and the dining table has been shoved against the wall. She walks into the kitchen. The surfaces are bare, everything tidied away in the cupboards, not how she arranges things at all. This feels wrong. It’s as if they’ve moved without her knowing and a different family lives here now. But she makes herself a mug of tea all the same and goes back into the lounge, standing by the window and looking out at the garden. There’s a small child’s swing in the centre of the lawn. That’s new, isn’t it? She stares at it, puzzled. She doesn’t think it was there before, but maybe it was. Meri had been asking for a swing, she remembers that, but Graeme had said she’d have to wait for her birthday. Unless Meri’s birthday has been and gone. What month is it, then? Becca starts to cry. Tears drip into her mug – she tries a sip, but the tea is undrinkable.
When she woke up this morning, she thought she was just going out for the day, but now she knows she doesn’t want to go back. She has to do something different, go somewhere new. Start again. She rinses out the mug and leaves it on the drainer. It’s important that he knows she’s been here today.
She goes upstairs to the bedroom, unsurprised to find no trace of her there either – the stack of books next to her side of the bed, her jewellery box and make-up bag on the dressing table, they’ve all been tidied away. She crosses the room and opens her wardrobe. At least her blouses and dresses are still hanging there, and her underwear is still stuffed higgledy-piggledy in the drawers. She drags a suitcase out from under the bed and starts filling it with clothes. She needs to work quickly now, before Graeme returns from the supermarket. If he finds her here there’ll be another horrible scene and he’ll take her back to the hospital. Must get away as far away as possible – another country, it almost doesn’t matter where.
Her passport is stored under P for personal in Graeme’s concertina file of documents – mortgage statements, electricity bills, receipts and instruction booklets. She pauses briefly to look at Meri’s birth certificate. FATHER: Name and surname – Graeme John Banks. Tears prick at her eyes. What chance would she have of getting custody? Zero. One day, she thinks, when I’m well again, I’ll return to England and fight him in the courts. Even if I could kidnap her and take her with me, it would be the wrong thing to do. Got to get myself well first, then I’ll get back in touch. The thought of being without her daughter makes her heart swell and crack, but she knows there’s no other choice. Meri’s better off with Graeme for now, but one day. One day…
A chequebook won’t be of any use abroad, she realises; what she needs is some cash. Graeme keeps a wad for emergencies in a secret compartment at the back of his desk – it’s an antique reproduction with a dark green leather top, edged in gilt. The key is in an old margarine tub in the top drawer, hiding among stubby pencils, erasers, drawing pins and paper clips. She pulls the desk away from the wall and unlocks the little box. There’s over two hundred quid there, but that won’t be enough. She goes back to the concertina file and finds her building society passbook. Just under six hundred pounds; that should do it. The local Halifax is open on Saturday morning; if she hurries, she should just get there in time.
She leaves the concertina file out and doesn’t push the desk back against the wall. She wants to leave clues behind that show she was in control and thinking clearly. Suicidal people don’t pack suitcases and withdraw their savings. They don’t take their passports and they certainly don’t wash up their dirty mugs. More eloquent than a note, she decides. And anyway, there’s not enough time to write down everything she wants to say, even if she could find the right words.
She puts the passbook in her handbag and wheels the suitcase to the front door, pausing for a second to look back at the place that once felt like home.
It’s a short bus ride to New Street station in the city centre, and then a train to Birmingham airport. Strangers rush back and forth, not noticing her. There are millions of people in the world, she thinks, and I’m just one of them. There’s no reason that I can’t start again and make it work this time.
She stares at the departures board. Paris. Stockholm. Munich. Vienna. None of the destinations seem real. It’s a game, she tells herself: buy a ticket for the first available plane, no matter where it’s going…
It’s going to Madrid.
Becca opens her eyes as she’s lifted off the pavement. The kioskero takes her to the bar opposite and orders a large brandy and a glass of water, talking to her rapidly in his local accent: ‘Qué te pasa, señora? Qué te pasa?’ But she can’t tell him what’s just happened, because she doesn’t know. The past and the present are weaving in and out of each other, knotting up her brain, and she’s lost all sense of time and place. The kioskero picks up the newspaper and tries to puzzle things out from the photos, but it makes about as much sense to him as it does to her. He puts it back on the table. She thanks him for his kindness and he says, ‘De nada,’ and goes back to his stall.
Becca sits there for several minutes, taking a sip of brandy followed by a sip of water until her heart rate starts to slow. The newspaper headline stares out at her. Whose day of reckoning was it? she wonders. She spreads the pages out, takes a deep breath and starts to read.
A Letter from Jess
Well, I guess this means you made it to the end! Thank you so much for reading Lie to Me; I hope you were caught up in the story and enjoyed exploring its themes and characters.
For me, the whole point of writing is to engage with readers. In the past, writers never knew what their readers really thought, but now we can communicate directly, which is great news. I’d love to know what you enjoyed most about the book, which characters particularly appealed to you, and how gripping you found the plot. So if you can manage to find the time to post a short, constructive review, that would be fantastic. Thank you.
Lie to Me is my first foray into the world of crime fiction. It’s been a very exciting and interesting journey and I’ve learnt masses from the experience, which I’m now putting into my next book. It’s a twisting psychological thriller, and hopefully you’ll want to read that too.
You can easily get in touch with me on my Facebook or Goodreads page, via Twitter or through my website. I’m always happy to hear from thriller fans, as well as other writers working in my genre. If you’d like to keep up to date with my latest releases, just sign up at the link below. Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.
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Thanks again for reading Lie to Me – it really does makes all the hard work worthwhile. I look forward to hearing from you!
Jess Ryder
@JessRyderAuthor
JessRyderauthor
jessryder.co.uk
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to the following:
Andy Trotter and Jayme Johnson, who gamely answered all my questions about detective work. Any errors are entirely of my own making.
My fantastic family, in particular my mother Brenda Page, who assisted with the research, and my son Harry, who has a keen eye for storytelling and helped with some ‘translation’.
My discerning thriller-reading friends Wendy Cartwright, Mary Cutler, Karen Drury, Fiona Eldridge and Christine Glover. Your comments were always valuable.
Very importantly, to my dynamic and perceptive literary agent, Rowan Lawton at Furniss Lawton; my rigorous and insightful editor Jessie Botterill, and of course, Lydia Vassar-Smith, who first commissioned the book.
And finally, to my husband, David. You know why.
Published by Bookouture - an imprint of StoryFire Ltd.
23 Sussex Road, Ickenham, UB10 8PN, United Kingdom
www.bookouture.com
Copyright © Jess Ryder 2017
Jess Ryder has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
ISBN: 978-1-78681-188-2
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
Published by Bookouture - an imprint of StoryFire Ltd.
23 Sussex Road, Ickenham, UB10 8PN, United Kingdom