The Sleeping Truth : A Romantic Thriller (Omnibus Edition containing both Book One and Book Two)

by Irvine, Ian C. P.

  Perhaps I’m making a big mistake. Maybe I should listen to what my body is telling me…this is wrong. This is just so obviously a really bad idea.

  For a moment I consider…for the hundredth time since I left this morning…just getting off the bus and going home. Not ‘home’ to Edinburgh, but ‘home’ as in my new room in Guy’s flat. But then, I know only too well, that what I’m doing now is perhaps the real reason that I came down to London. A reason that I can’t tell Guy about, or anyone else for that matter.

  Maybe it’s just too soon to do this? Perhaps I should just leave it for a while…after all, I only arrived in London a few days ago. I’ve not even settled in yet.

  But then again, I’ve always been confrontational. If something has to be done, then why wait? Why worry about it for days or months rather than face it head on…immediately. Procrastination is the mother of all stress.

  I take a long deep breath in again, hold it, then let it out slowly.

  Shit. I don’t have to do this…

  But I don’t get off the bus. And I don’t change my mind. Instead, as my bus carries on, leaving the houses and shops behind and emerging into a mini-oasis of greenery, I try to calm myself down by looking at the people walking and playing on Mitcham Common.

  From my seat on the top deck I can see a typical Sunday afternoon being played out before me: people walking their dogs, a football match, children flying kites with their dads, some kids throwing bread at the ducks in the small pond.

  I look at the map in my hand, printed off from Guy’s computer, and check how far I’ve still got to go. Probably another ten minutes bus-ride.

  Even if I were to stop and turn around and take the next bus back, it’s only a question of when, not if I do this. I have to know. I have to find out the answer, and the only way to do it is to follow the little map in my hand and go where it is trying to take me…

  The bus soon comes to where I have to get off, and I reluctantly leave the sanctuary of my seat and navigate my way down the stairs and out on to the street. Which way now? I hold the map up and orientate myself.

  Crossing the road, I walk a hundred yards backwards in the direction the bus just came from and turn left into Beech Gardens. Three minutes later I am standing on the opposite side of the road from Number 38. Not doing anything. Just standing there. Looking.

  It’s nothing like I thought it would be. It’s a terraced house, quite small. A small garden gate. A red-tiled path that leads up to a dark green door. The walls are pebble-dashed and painted white, although that was obviously a long time ago. There is a small bedroom above the door, and I notice that its window is cracked from the top left-hand side diagonally down to the bottom. Scanning the rest of the building I see that some tiles are missing from the roof and that the green window frames all need urgent attention.

  I feel disappointed. Almost let down. And somewhat ashamed.

  I contemplate stepping off the curb and crossing to the other side of the road. I try to imagine myself walking up the red path and knocking on the door. In my mind I picture the door opening, a figure appearing in the doorway…but instead ten minutes later I am once again sitting on the number 42 bus and heading back to Tooting Broadway.

  I am a coward.

  Chapter Five

  Monday morning.

  Day Five.

  ..

  ..

  It’s Monday morning and as the 8.15 a.m. train arrives at Clapham Junction I shuffle onto the train and manage to find the last empty seat in the carriage. Six minutes later and we are in the centre of London, the busiest and most exciting city in the world.

  I walk out of Waterloo and catch the number 26 for the short ride to Sandhurst Road. Getting off the bus and walking up to the main entrance of my new offices, I stop for a second to catch my reflection in a nearby window.

  Five-foot eleven, short light-brown hair, green eyes, broad shouldered and still quite slim, it seems that I spruce up rather well in a suit. Adjusting my tie, and trying out one of my best smiles on my reflected-self, I mentally pat myself on my back and wish myself luck.

  Walking through the front door into reception, I feel like I’m just starting my first day at school, and when I sign my name in the reception book and wait for my new boss to come down and pick me up, I can’t help but feel nervous.

  I look around the plush reception area, noting once again the stark comparison between this customer-friendly sales office and the drab factory offices in Edinburgh where I have worked for the past three years. Having been down here a couple of times already, I pretty much know what to expect: modern, clean, attractive open-plan offices full of large green plants; impressive corner offices, meeting rooms and a fantastic canteen that serves tasty, subsidised lunches to ‘Euro.coms’ two hundred London based employees. My move to London is actually a minor form of promotion, which means that in switching from being a Product Manager to a customer facing Marketing Executive, I’m now entitled to a five thousand pound pay increase and a car allowance.

  “Andrew, Hi! Welcome to London,” a voice suddenly booms out. I look up and see James Eccleston, my new boss, advancing towards me, hand outstretched and a broad smile on his face. “Sorry you had to wait a moment or two, but I got pulled onto a sales call with an important customer. That’s one thing you’ll notice down here in London…The customer always comes first.”

  “Hi James. It’s good to see you again.” I say, rising from my chair and shaking James’s hand. His grip is firm and strong, and in return I immediately increase the pressure on his knuckles, trying to make a good impression.

  “Well, I can see that you’ve already been given your pass to let yourself in and out of the building, so let’s just take you upstairs, show you your desk and get you settled in,” says James as he steps aside and directs me towards the lift with his free hand.

  We go up to the second level and step out into a busy floor occupied by about sixty people, who I am told are mostly UK based Sales and European Marketing. My desk is across the other side of the building, a window seat looking out towards the River Thames which is only about a hundred meters away, and flowing past just beneath my side of the building. The view is fantastic, and as I sit down in front of my new PC, I can’t believe the comparison between my new working environment and the poky, little desk I used to have up in my old department in Edinburgh.

  “Not bad, eh?” James laughs, seeing the obvious pleasure on my face.

  “It’s amazing,” is all I can manage to mutter in reply. Outside the sun is shining, and on the other side of the river the sunlight bounces off spacious, large, golden, white granite buildings. Below me the sparkling river is alive: tourist boats, ferries, and barges plying their way back and forward, up and down the Thames. In the distance on the bend of the river I can just see the tall, impressive dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral standing proud and clear above the London skyline, and a little further on, the edge of the tall, bulbous, Swiss-Re building. Looking left I try to see if I can find the BT Tower, one of the few other London landmarks that I know, but realise that I can’t. Never mind. This is amazing.

  “Well, drop your stuff here and I’ll walk you around and introduce you to the rest of the team.”

  In contrast to the dingy Edinburgh office, walking round the London Euro.com offices today I feel as if I have started at a brand new company. Everything seems so fresh, so grand, and there is a tangible feeling of excitement in the air. I pick up on that, and soon I feel excited too. About what I don’t exactly know, but I do feel excited.

  As James walks me around the telesales, pre-sales and accounts departments, I walk from one desk to another being briefly introduced to woman after woman, all smiling, and all dressed in expensive business suits.

  “Although it may not appear to be the case, we actually do employ men too,” James jokes. “But most of them are account managers in the field, out on the road, and not office based. And the rest of the technical marketing department, which is p
robably about sixty percent men, are still at the Monday morning meeting downstairs.” He glances quickly at his watch. “They should be finishing up just now…let me take you downstairs and introduce you…”

  And so, minutes later I am meeting the rest of my colleagues. Seven men, and three more women. By the time I am walked back upstairs to my desk I am all-hand-shaked out, and I can’t remember anyone’s names.

  James apologises, and makes an excuse that he has run out of time and has an appointment to go to. He shakes my hand again, and then leaves, promising to return in an hour. I find myself sitting by myself looking dumbly out of the window, wondering what I should be doing next.

  A boat full of tourists passes by on the river below and I catch myself just in time as I half-raise my hand to return the wave of some children on the top-deck, waving wildly at everyone on the river bank.

  “Hi, Andrew?” a soft, melodic voice asks from behind me. I swivel around in my chair, to see who it is coming from.

  “Hi…” I stop dead in my tracks, dumbstruck.

  It’s Louisa. The woman, from last Friday night in the Road House in Convent Garden.

  She is staring at me, her face turning bright red. Her mouth is frozen open in the act of going to say something, but the words have just evaporated into thin air. For a moment we just look at each other.

  “Louisa…I…I tried calling you…a couple of times,” I blurt out, regretting what I say as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

  “Dianne...sorry. My name is Dianne…”

  “Dianne? You told me your name was Louisa…”

  “Did I? Ouch…sorry. I do that sometimes…I don’t always like to give out my real name.”

  “Your real name? What’s a name for, if it’s not for using? Does that mean you gave me a false number too?” I ask, immediately regretting how naive I must sound.

  “Probably. I was a little drunk… I can’t remember…” she says, looking quickly around her, checking that no one can overhear our conversation. “Anyway, …Andrew… James sent me up to see you. I work here in IT, and I’m meant to show you how your laptop works, how to use the Intranet in the office, and to walk you through the database applications you might want to use…”

  “So,” I start again, not able to stop myself. “Do you always give out false numbers and names when you go out, or was it just me?”

  “I always use a false name and number, because it’s easier that way. Friday nights are Friday nights and that’s as far as it goes. I don’t do relationships. Andrew, sorry…Okay, so I know this is perhaps a little embarrassing, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Do you want me to show you the office systems or not?”

  I stare at her. Not believing what I am hearing.

  “Well?” she prompts.

  “No,..actually, probably not. I’ll be fine…I’ll figure it out somehow…”

  “Okay, fine. But if you change your mind, just call the helpdesk on 4929, okay?”

  “Is that really the helpdesk number, or did you make that one up too?” I ask, unable to resist.

  She blushes again, smiles a little, then turns and walks away.

  “I don’t do relationships,’ I whisper to myself. What the hell does that mean?

  ..

  .

  Chapter Six

  Thursday Evening.

  ..

  ..

  I’m lying on my bed feeling a little sad about the whole fucked up mess with Kate in Edinburgh, and I’m listening to the rather aptly named “Every day I love you less and less” by the Kaiser Chiefs. Fed up with thinking of her, I try and distract my thoughts by starting to read the last few chapters of my latest novel, “Triumph of the Sun” by Wilbur Smith, when the phone rings just outside my room. A few seconds later Guy is knocking on the bedroom door, “Hey, it’s your sister on the phone.”

  I finish the paragraph, turning down the corner of the page to mark where I am,…a habit that used to drive Kate mad…, and pick up the cordless phone from the hallway. I haven’t spoken to my sister Hannah for almost two weeks.

  “Hi Hannah…” I mutter sheepishly into the receiver, almost squirming in anticipation of what I know is coming.

  “Andrew…What the hell are you doing in London? I can’t believe it. You move to London and you don’t even tell me? When did you leave Edinburgh?” she demands to know.

  “Last Thursday…”

  “A whole week ago? Why didn’t you tell me you were going?”

  “Because I knew you’d try and talk me out of it…”

  “…Oh, hang on a second, …you’re not planning on doing anything stupid are you?” she starts, right on cue.

  “I suppose it depends on what you classify as ‘stupid’ ” I reply.

  “You are, aren’t you? Why? …Come on, we’ve talked about this before…”

  “Yeah, but that was before…and anyway, that’s not what I came to London for.”

  “Like hell it isn’t. As soon as Kate told me that you had gone to stay with Guy, I knew exactly what you’re up to. Just don’t do it, okay? Promise me?”

  “You spoke to Kate? Please, don’t talk to her anymore.”

  “She called me. Kept calling me...”

  “Why?”

  “She wanted Guy’s address.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t give it to her, did you?”

  Silence at the other end of the phone.

  “Did you?” I urge.

  “Andrew, I hate being piggy in the middle. The girl is really upset. I think she’s desperate. She needs some sort of closure. Just talk to her one more time.”

  “Why? I told you what she did! I think that fucking some other bloke’s brains out behind my back, is pretty much all the closure she needs…” , I pause, trying to stay calm. “…and I can’t believe you gave her my address. I mean, I just travelled 400 miles to get away from her, to start a new life, and you’ve just told her where I am. Thanks.”

  “I’m sorry, okay? But she already knew you were at Guys. I didn’t tell her that. Anyway, Andrew, I think you two should talk…”

  A moment’s silence.

  “By the way, do you know that your mobile number is not working?” she carries on. “I tried calling you, but it say’s the number is no longer in service…”

  “I know,” I reply. “I changed it last week so that Kate couldn’t contact me anymore.”

  “So, when were you going to give me the new number?”

  “Sorry. Soon. Tomorrow probably…Anyway, how did you get Guy’s number? It’s ex-directory…”

  “From Mark in Germany. I looked up the school he teaches at on the internet, and they gave me his number. He says ‘hi’.”

  “Did you give this number to Kate?”

  “No. I’m not stupid.”

  “…but you did give her my address?”

  “Sorry…I got that from Mark too.”

  “Listen, I’ve got to go now, okay? Guy’s calling me from the kitchen…” I reply, not wanting to talk to her anymore.

  “Fine, but don’t be angry with me. Please?” she says, but I don’t reply. “….And by the way, don’t forget it’s Dad’s birthday next Thursday.”

  “I won’t. Are you going to see him?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Good. Are you taking him flowers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you take some for me too?”

  “Carnations?”

  “I suppose so. Thanks”

  “Will you call me soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,...And I’m sorry, okay?”

  Click, and she hangs up.

  Chapter Seven

  Friday Evening.

  ..

  ..

  The end of a long first week finally arrives, and by 6 pm. I find myself with a gang of other Euro.com employees downstairs in the Lemon Tree pub near Charing Cross. We’ve already had a pint each and I am at th
e bar queuing to buy the next round and waiting for Guy and Sal to arrive.

  “A vodka with orange juice and a pint of Bombardier,” a woman’s voice beside me says. I turn to look at its owner, and recognise her as one of the girls from the telesales department.

  “Hi, you’re Andrew right?” She says. “We met on Monday…”

  “Yes, that’s right. And you are…”

  “Gail,” she completes my sentence for me. “Don’t worry. You must have met millions of people on Monday, and there’s no way you could remember all our names,” she laughs.

  We walk back towards the others, carrying two trays full of beer and glasses of wine. Everyone reaches forward and grabs their drinks, and after a brief round of “Cheers” I find myself standing beside Gail. I just start telling her what a difference the London office is in comparison with Edinburgh, when Guy walks into the pub.

  “Listen, there’s been a small change of plan. Sal has gone out with some work friends, and she just called to suggest we go and join her there. I said we’d have a few drinks here first, and then join them later...”

  Sal and her friends are in a pub called Porter’s Bar, a very large Irish bar near Covent Garden. When Guy and I walk in around ten o’clock it’s packed solid: hundreds of Friday night party animals, a mixture of tourists and office workers, all out to have a good time.

  We eventually find Sal in the middle of a group of women, who Guy says are the usual gang she hangs out with after work at the end of a day in the Recruitment Consultancy office where she works. I comment to Guy how good looking Sal is tonight and how lucky he is. I haven’t seen her dressed up in work clothes before and she looks great. A lot different to when she comes round during the week in jeans and thick, woollen jumpers.