The Lie (15 page)

“Jane, are you still in there?”

Chloe’s plaintive whine drifts under the toilet door.

“I’ll be out in a second.”

I’m crouched on an infant-sized toilet at Ringwald Street Primary School with my mobile phone in my hands. Seconds after I saw the Facebook notifications from Daisy’s account, Chloe zoomed out of the cat living room and pressed the two kittens into my hands. After I’d safely secured them back in their enclosures, she grabbed my hand and half led, half pulled me to Will’s car, insisting that I sit in the back with her. I tried to object, saying I’d brought my bike, but Will immediately offered to drop me back after the fair to pick it up.

“Jane, all the loom bands will be sold if you don’t hurry up.”

“Coming!”

My heart lurches into my mouth as the Facebook Messenger App opens.

Daisy.

The profile photo is tiny but I can tell it’s her. Small, heart-shaped face framed by a mane of blonde hair. Her head is tipped back and she’s laughing, a glass of champagne or Prosecco in her raised hand. There are four messages. I open them one after another.

Help me, Emma!

Click.

It’s so cold.

Click.

You never came back for me.

Click. My hands shake as I read the last message.

I don’t want to die alone.

The cubicle starts to spin and my stomach clenches violently.

“Jane!” Chloe shouts. “Jane, are you being sick? Should I get Daddy?”

My hand is cold and clammy in Chloe’s grip as she drags me through the narrow school corridors. They ring with the sound of laughter, chatter and whining. Excitable children and harassed parents pass by me in a blur. My cheeks are burning, even though I splashed my face with cold water in the toilets, and my tongue is sour with the taste of cold sick.

“I can see Daddy!” We squeeze through the crowds at the entrance of the school and I gulp at the fresh air.

“Daddy!” Chloe raises a hand and waves as she leads me through the playground. “Daddy, Jane’s been sick. Oh, there’s Mummy! Mummy!”

I try to pull away as a tall, slim woman wearing a knee-length red skirt, black boots and black leather jacket turns at the sound of Chloe’s voice, but it’s too late. She raises a hand in greeting then looks me up and down. I pull at the hem of my navy polo shirt beneath my waterproof, suddenly aware that I’m still in my work clothes.

“Hello, darling!” Sara crouches down and opens her arms, then looks up at me as Chloe releases my hand and rushes to hug her. “You must be Jane. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Will, standing by her side, shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Jane was sick,” Chloe says, extricating herself from her mother’s embrace. “I heard her puking in the toilets.”

“Chloe, don’t embarrass Jane.” Sara shoots me an apologetic look. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I …” I press a hand to my stomach. “It must be something I ate.”

“You do look very pale.” Will reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. “Here” – he hands Chloe a five pound note – “go and get Jane a bottle of water.”

“Okay.” She takes the money and skips off across the playground, disappearing into a crowd of children surrounding the refreshment stand.

“Sorry.” Sara holds out her right hand. “Will isn’t very good at introductions, so I’ll do it, shall I? I’m Sara.”

I take her hand. She has a surprisingly strong grip. “Jane.”

“Chloe’s told me ever so much about you. She couldn’t sleep last night, she was so excited about going to your sanctuary.”

“Yes, Will said.”

Sara glances at him and smiles tightly. “Of course. So …” She looks me up and down again. “Are you back off to work after this?”

“No, I’ve finished for the day.”

“Do you often work Saturdays?”

“Occasionally, it depends on the rota.”

“Of course.”

“Sara’s an HR Manager,” Will says, a little too loudly. “She works for BT.”

I search my mind for something to say in response, but the best I can manage is, “Great.” All my attention is on the phone in my pocket, waiting for it to vibrate again. I’m simultaneously terrified and desperate at the prospect.

“It keeps me out of trouble,” Sara says, and laughs lightly. The second she stops, the silence is deafening.

“How is your thumb?” I ask, remembering her trip to A&E.

“On the mend.” She takes her left hand out of her pocket, revealing a neat bandage.

“That’s good,” I reply, and then the awkward silence returns.

“I think Chloe’s going to have to use her elbows to get through the queue at the refreshment table,” Will says, and, as one, we all turn to look in that direction.

“I should get going,” I say as Sara glances at her watch.

“Yes.” She nods as if in agreement. “Me too, though I did promise Jo I’d visit her stall and buy a few raffle tickets first. Will, could you tell Chloe where I am when she gets back?” When he nods, she looks at me. “Lovely to meet you, Jane. I hope you feel better soon.”

“Thank you.”

The knot of anxiety in my stomach untwists, ever so slightly, as she strolls away, head held high, waving at other parents across the playground.

“Sorry,” Will says, the second she’s out of earshot. “I didn’t know she’d be here.”

He’s standing close enough that I could touch him if I reached out a hand, but the distance between us feels greater than that. It’s as though we’re both cloaked with invisible force fields; one step too close and the other will be repelled. I’m struck with the sudden urge to tell him how much I enjoyed watching
Battlestar Galactica
the other night, after I forced myself to watch it, but it feels too intimate. It’s the sort of conversation we’d have had before he decided we needed some space from each other.

“There she is!” His shoulders slump with relief as Chloe bursts through the crowd of children at the refreshment stall, a bottle of water raised victoriously above her head.

“Got it!” she shouts as she runs towards us and thrusts the plastic bottle into my hand. “Sorry it took me so long. I’d just got to the front when a lady in a blue hat started asking me questions about Jane.” She uncurls her right hand and presents Will with a palmful of coins. “Here’s your change, Daddy.”

“A lady asked you about me?” I press a hand to my chest.

“Yeah. She asked me if Daddy calls you Jane or Emma.” She looks from me to Will and back again as though gauging our reactions. “And I told her that was a silly question because everyone knows your name is Jane.”

“Chloe.” I fight to keep my voice steady as I slip my hand into my pocket and close it over my mobile. “Did the lady ask you anything else?”

She shakes her head. “She tried to, but then Connor Murphy from Year Four pushed in and Jake Edwards said he’d punch him if he didn’t go and stand at the back, and then …”

Will and I exchange a look as she continues her story about the fight that never happened in her shrill, excitable voice. When he looks away, it’s with a slight shake of his head.

“What did she look like, the lady?” I ask, when Chloe finally draws breath.

“Just a normal lady.” She shrugs. “In a blue hat.”

“This has to be illegal.”

We are standing on the banks of the river, a rectangular wooden pyre looming out of the darkness beside us, the only light the soft glow of the flares that were dug into the soft mud this morning. Two days have passed since Isaac broke the news about Ruth’s death. Somehow, I’ve managed to avoid the promised “chat” with him, although I’ve been nervously anticipating him approaching me at any time.

Al is beside me, her hand in mine. Leanne and Daisy are standing on the other side of her, crying silently. Every couple of seconds they unclasp hands to wipe their cheeks with the back of their hands, but fresh tears take the place of the ones they’ve just rubbed away. There’s something disingenuous about their over-the-top grief. They never knew Ruth, never even met her, but they’re sobbing like they’ve lost a close relative.

“We need to go to the British Consulate,” Al whispers back. We are flanked on either side by members of Ekanta Yatra, so have to keep our voices low. “And the press. People need to know what’s happening here.”

“We need to get back to Pokhara first.”

“We’re stuck here for at least another month, according to Johan. I can’t believe Leanne brought us here in monsoon season. What was she
thinking
?”

That this would happen,
I think but don’t say.

“Anyway.” Al shrugs. “It doesn’t look like Daisy and Leanne are bothered about leaving any time soon.”

I glance at Daisy. She still hasn’t spoken to me since our argument in the girls’ dormitory. Instead, she’s glued herself to Leanne’s side, attending every meditation, every talk and every yoga session. At meal times she sits with Leanne or members of Ekanta Yatra, while I sit at a different table. Sometimes Al sits with me; sometimes she sits with Daisy. She’s trying to be diplomatic but it still hurts.

“It’s sick.” Al nods towards the pyre. “These people are living on a different planet.”

She was shaking with anger when I found her in the orchard two days ago. I’d escaped unseen from the kitchen pantry, and Al was sitting under a walnut tree, the knuckles of her right hand red and raw. There was blood on the bark of the tree. Neither of us said anything for several minutes then Al launched herself forward and smacked the hard ground with both fists.

“Her fucking family!”

I didn’t need to ask who she was talking about.

“I want to punch Isaac.” The muscles in the side of her jaw clenched tight. “I want to put my fist in his smug, self-satisfied face. All those fucking people, Emma, and you were the only one to speak up. What’s wrong with everyone?”

She started to cry then, silently, sitting cross-legged on the ground with her hands covering her head. I sat down beside her, gently stroking her back until the sobs slowed and she straightened up and reached for her packet of cigarettes.

That was our last opportunity to talk in private. Isis and Cera joined us seconds later, saying they needed our help to clean out the chickens. They haven’t left us alone since. Even now, when they’re further down the line of mourners, I can still feel their eyes on us. It’s almost as though they know what we’re planning on doing.

“If we could have silence for the arrival of Ruth’s body, please.” Isaac’s voice rings out loud and clear through the garden as he walks across the patio. He is flanked by Johan and Gabe, each carrying a flare in their right hand and an incense bowl, dangling from chains, in their left. The firelight illuminates their faces, casting dark shadows under their eyes, cheekbones and chins. A cloud of smoke drifts after them. Six men step through the smoke. They’re carrying a body draped in a shawl and raised high on their shoulders, the grey, waxy face of a woman partially revealed.

It can only be Ruth.

The line of mourners on the riverbank parts as they approach the pyre. Al presses herself against me. I can feel her trembling through the thin material of her waterproof jacket.

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“You can.” Leanne looks across at her, her angular face peering out from beyond the swathes of material she’s fashioned into a headscarf. “You’re stronger than this.”

“I’m not. I’m really fucking not.”

She falls silent as the body is placed on the pyre, and Isaac reaches for the flare in Jacob’s hand. He holds it towards the dry leaves and kindling at the base. As a single flickering flame licks at the dry wood, Al yanks her hand from mine and sprints off into the darkness, back towards the house.

“I’ll go.” Leanne puts a hand on my shoulder. The gesture disarms me. It’s the first time she’s touched me since we arrived here. Is she trying to reassure me or stop me from going after Al? She sprints off into the darkness before I can react, her scarf falling from her head and trailing behind her as she runs.

Daisy glances across at me from beneath her woollen hood. She’s discarded her waterproof jacket in favour of a yak’s wool blanket, like the Ekanta Yatra women wear. Her eyes are hooded and tired, her lips set in a thin, tight line.

“I don’t know what Al’s problem is,” she says. “Ruth wasn’t close to her family and she obviously didn’t have any other reason to return to the UK. Why else would she have burned her passport?”

“Dais—” Her name forms on my lips but she turns and walks away, strolling down the line of mourners, before I can say it. She passes Frank, who sees me watching and raises a hand in a silent hello. I ignore him, too busy watching Cera enveloping Daisy in a warm hug.

The flames are dancing higher now, licking at the soft frayed edges of Ruth’s burial shawl. I can see the silhouette of her profile above it, the curve of her belly, the shape of her arms crossed on her chest. I can see all of that – I can see that there is a body on the mound of wood five metres from me – yet I still can’t accept that it’s real.

“It’s hard to take in, isn’t it?”

“It’s surreal,” I say as Johan stands beside me, blocking my view of Daisy and Cera. Johan doesn’t reply. His eyes are fixed on Ruth as the flames engulf her feet, her calves, her torso. The shawl catches fire quickly and she’s lost in a cloud of black acrid smoke.

“What’s Isaac doing?” I ask, watching him walk anticlockwise around the body three times before standing still.

“Saying goodbye. Hindus walk around a dead body three times – once for Brahma the creator, once for Vishnu the preserver and once for Shiva the destroyer: the trinity of Hindu gods. We do this to say goodbye to Ruth’s body, her mind and her spirit.”

The fire crackles and pops, and several women in the line cover their noses and mouths with their scarves or arms.

I look at Johan. “Was Ruth a popular member of Ekanta Yatra?”

A muscle twitches in his cheek and he swipes at his eyes as thick, grey smoke drifts towards us. It smells, disgustingly, of cooked meat.

“Popular?” The muscle twitches again but his expression remains impassive. “Well, I liked her.”

“Did Isaac?”

He doesn’t reply. His eyes blink and water as the smoke swirls around us, but his gaze doesn’t waver from Ruth’s body.

“Did she come here alone?” I ask.

“No. She came with Sally.”

Sally and Raj are talking, further down the row. They’re angled towards each other so as to exclude anyone else from their conversation, but their bodies aren’t touching. As they chat, the backs of their hands touch and they intertwine their fingers. It’s a small but intimate gesture. Sally senses me watching and slips her hand from Raj’s. He looks at her in surprise and then sees what Sally sees – me watching them – and takes a step away from her.

“What is it?” Johan looks at me curiously then towards Sally and Raj. They nod hello. Johan nods back.

“Emma?” He looks back at me. “What did you see?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because we’re on patrol.”

“What for?”

“Gaps or holes in the fence, any attempts at breaking in.” He gestures away from the river and towards the fence. There are flaming torches every couple of metres, but the majority of the perimeter is shrouded in darkness. “Isaac seems to think we’re in danger from the people who attacked Gabe and Ruth.”

He sets off without waiting for a reply, striding off towards the orchard. I remain where I am. Making polite conversation with him in full view of the others is one thing, but disappearing into the night alone with him is another. He was instrumental in turning Daisy against me, and I don’t trust him, no matter how laid-back and friendly Al may think he is. Still, he might be able to answer some of the questions I don’t want to ask Isaac. I wait a few minutes, then head slowly after him.

We walk in silence for five or ten minutes, striding around the perimeter of the retreat, only pausing so Johan can investigate small gaps in the fencing or unusual objects on the ground. So far, he’s deposited a pink flip-flop, a trowel and a small piece of wood into the canvas bag he’s wearing across his body. When we reach the log pile, stacked waist-high with an axe propped up against the side, he pulls the piece of wood from his bag and chucks it on the top.

“Johan,” I say as he puts his hands on the lock and chain that secures the front gate and gives it a hefty tug. It holds firm. “Can I ask you a question about the attachment thing?”

He shoulders the gate. It creaks under his weight but doesn’t give way. “What about it?”

“You believe that you need to give up your attachments in order to find peace, right?”

“Correct.”

We lapse into silence again as we turn back to walk through the orchard. There’s a mango tree just a couple of metres from the fence, on our side, its branches grazing the barbed wire, as though desperate for escape.

“So is it …” I pause to think how to phrase the question. “Is it frowned upon to be part of a couple, then? Here, I mean.”

“Were you at the seminar where Isaac talked about attachment?”

“No, not that one.”

“Right, well you won’t understand what we mean by the toxic mind, then. Basically, if we’re to be truly happy, we need to free our minds of anger, ignorance and attachment.”

“So no falling in love? No …” Daisy’s face flashes through my mind. “… close friends?”

“You can love. Of course you can. We positively encourage you to love those around you, but we discourage the kind of love that claims another as a possession. When we love someone exclusively, we’re welcoming all sorts of ugly emotions into our lives – jealousy, mistrust, suspicion, attachment, need, desperation, confusion, frustration.”

“You say that, but what about trust, warmth, caring, intimacy—”

“We share all those emotions collectively, Emma.” Johan stops walking and faces me. “But because we’re not exclusively attached to individuals, there is no jealousy, no possessiveness, no anger. We can no more claim another person as our own than claim the air we breathe.”

“But don’t you miss it? Don’t you miss having one person love you and you love them back?”

Johan’s expression remains the same – emotionless, stalwart, in control – but something flickers in his eyes, a spark of regret or longing, and then it’s gone.

“No,” he says. “Why would I? I get to sleep with whomever I want, whenever I want, and no one gives me any shit. Isn’t that every man’s dream?”

He throws back his head and laughs, but the laughter seems forced and the fine lines around his eyes don’t crease when his eyelids shut.

He’s lying.