The Lie (18 page)
Authors: C. L. Taylor
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #Contemporary Women
“Take a seat.” Isaac angles me towards the armchair in the corner of his study and I’ve got no choice but to sit down. It’s 5 a.m. and the sound of the gong being banged in the meditation room next door carries through the wall. If Isaac tries anything, people will come running if I scream.
I watch as he crouches down beside the threadbare rag-rolled rug that occupies the floor space between the bookshelves and his desk and rolls it up, exposing a square hatch less than a metre wide in the centre of the floor. He pulls on the cylindrical iron ring in the centre and yanks it open, then places his hands either side of the hole and lowers his head.
“Kane? It’s me.”
There’s a hollow shout in reply, then a creaking noise, like a rusty ladder being climbed, and Isaac sits back on his heels as Kane’s scruffy head pops up through the hole. He grins up at Isaac but when Isaac nods his head towards me, the smile fades instantly.
“How’s Frank doing?” Isaac asks.
“Came round about two hours ago. We gave him some water then he started complaining that he’d hurt his arm. He thinks it’s broken.”
“What does Sally think?”
“She’s not sure. There’s no bits of bone sticking out; it could be a strain, maybe a fracture, she said.”
“Can he move it? Rotate his shoulder? Wiggle his fingers?”
“Yeah, well, he could until we …” Kane glances at me. “Should she be in here?”
“She’s fine. Look, stay with him until tomorrow, then we’ll make a decision. I don’t want him left alone, not even for a minute. Do you understand?”
“Sure. We done?”
“Yep.”
Kane’s head disappears back down into the hole, the ladder creaking under his weight as he descends back into the basement. Isaac watches him go then folds the hatch back, shakes out the rug and places it on the floor, smoothing out wrinkles or creases with his hands.
“You okay?” He glances at me. “I know this looks weird, but there’s nowhere else we can look after him and make sure you’re safe, too. There’s lighting down there and a camp bed and bedding, and other stuff we store down there.”
I nod to indicate that I’m fine, but it’s not true. I don’t know what to think about any of it and I feel sick with exhaustion. I don’t care what happened to Paula. I don’t care that Frank is locked in a basement under my feet. I just want to be a long, long way away from here. If it weren’t for the weather and Al’s ankle, I’d leave now.
“You are safe. You know that, don’t you?” Isaac holds out a hand and pulls me to my feet. “It’s important to me that you feel safe, Emma. More important than almost anything else. Now, why don’t you go and grab a bit of breakfast then go and have a sleep.”
I can tell the dining room is packed before I set foot in the room. The metal clang of cutlery scraping against tin bowls, and the sound of people laughing and talking, fills the hallway and obscures the soft flip-flop of my feet on the wooden floor. Word will have spread about what happened last night with Frank, and the second I walk into the room all eyes will be on me. What’s the alternative? Creep away to the girls’ dorm and spend time alone with the memory of what happened? No, I can’t do that. Not yet.
I take a step closer to the door then stop as Daisy’s laughter cuts through the hubbub. The sound feels so foreign, like the memory of another life. How can she laugh after what happened to me? She saw how upset I was. She must have guessed something awful had happened to me. Why isn’t she with me, supporting me? We’ve been there for each other through everything, and yet the one time I needed her most, she walked away. She wanted to comfort me, I know she did, but whatever Leanne whispered in her ear changed her mind. I can’t, I won’t let that go. Not again.
Silence doesn’t descend the second I step into the dining room. Rather it’s a gradual hush – a dropped spoon, a silencing glance, a raised hand, a meaningful look. Conversations drop away one by one, chairs scrape on the floor as they’re turned towards me, eyebrows flash and then furrow.
Al, Leanne and Daisy are sitting together at the table on the right-hand side of the room. Isis, Cera and Jacob are opposite them. Raj and Sally are seated with Johan at the large table to their left, with half a dozen women. On the far left of the room is a table occupied solely by men. For the longest time, no one says a word, and then I hear it, a muttered “bitch”. It came from the table of men, all of whom are staring at me with looks of undisguised disgust on their faces. Daisy shakes her head, Al looks down at her bowl and the smallest of smirks crosses Leanne lips before she bursts suddenly, and unexpectedly, into tears. Daisy wraps an arm around her and pulls her into her chest.
“Lying bitch.”
This time I catch who said it. It’s a dark-haired man, I don’t know his name; he works with the animals and keeps himself to himself.
“Yeah, you heard me. People like you shouldn’t be allowed here.”
A cold chill runs through me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No?” He raises his eyebrows. “Maybe we should ask Frank.”
“What’s going on?” I look at Jacob, who shakes his head. “Isis? Cera? What’s going on?”
They return my gaze, their faces expressionless, their eyes wide and blank. Neither of them says a word.
My hands start to shake. The sensation travels up my arms and then engulfs me. Every part of me quivers with fear. Why will no one talk to me? Why are they all staring at me like I just killed someone? “Daisy? Al? Please. Someone. Someone tell me what’s going on. I don’t understand. I—”
The silence is broken by the sound of a chair being pushed back, and Al stands up. She doesn’t say a word as she crosses the dining room. She raises a hand as she approaches me and, for one terrible second, I think she’s going to hit me. Instead, she grabs me by the wrist and pulls me out of the room.
She doesn’t say a word to me until we’re halfway down the garden, then she releases my wrist and turns sharply so we’re facing each other.
“I need you to tell me the truth, Emma.” Her cheeks are red and there’s a sheen of sweat in her hairline.
“Of course.”
“Did you lie about Frank attacking you?”
“What?” I instinctively glance towards the patch of riverbank where it happened. “No! Of course I didn’t.”
“Are you sure? Because someone’s pretty certain you did.”
“Who said that?”
“Someone who saw what happened. They said they saw you and Frank walking hand in hand along the riverbank. You kissed – apparently you were all over him – then you both lay down and you were about to shag when you saw Isaac coming and cried rape.”
A gasp catches in my throat. “That’s not true. Frank attacked me.”
“They said you led him on, Emma.”
“They’re lying. Daisy was there, Leanne too.”
She shakes her head. “All they saw was you sitting on the ground, Frank unconscious and bleeding and Isaac sitting beside him.”
“Al, you know I’d never lie about something like that. You know!”
She looks at me steadily, and at last her brown eyes soften in concern. “Of course I do.”
“Oh, my God.” I stumble backwards and she has to grip my hand to stop me from falling. “Why would you do that? Why would you put me through that?”
“Because” – she gestures for me to sit on the grass, then lowers herself down, too, her hand still on mine – “Leanne is convinced. I don’t know who told her, and she refuses to say, but they did a bloody good job of convincing her it’s true. She said she can never forgive you, not after she shared what happened to her as a teenager. She said it took a lot of courage to admit to being raped, and she can’t believe you’d lie about something like that.”
“But I didn’t! I can’t believe she’d start a rumour about that without talking to me first.”
“Actually” – Al lets go of my hand and runs her fingers back and forth in the grass – “Daisy started the rumour.”
“What?”
“She’s acting like the two of you are competing to ‘get Isaac’.” She makes quotation marks in the air with her free hand. “She believes you were getting it on with Frank, and then, when you saw Isaac coming, you pushed him away. She didn’t actually say you cried rape, but …”
I can’t take it in. It doesn’t feel real. Daisy’s my best friend,
was
my best friend. She knows me. She knows everything about me. She can’t believe I’d do something that awful, that immoral. I can’t believe it. I won’t.
“Did you actually hear her say that, Al?”
“Yeah …” Al touches me on the shoulder. “Emma, Daisy’s not herself. She’s bought into Isaac’s philosophical crap about attachment and detachment, and she’s taking it out on you. I don’t know why but she’s got it into her head that you’re the reason she’s unhappy, and that she needs to distance herself from you. The sooner we all get out of here, the better. My ankle’s nearly better and Johan reckons the worst of the monsoon is almost over. We can try to leave again in a couple of days – we’re due to leave soon, anyway – things will have died down a bit by then.”
“No.” I stand up. “I’m not waiting that long.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to get Isaac to tell everyone exactly what happened.”
“Don’t! You’ll stir things up even more.” She reaches out a hand to stop me as I turn to go back to the house, but I walk straight past her.
“Emma!” she shouts as I start to run. “Emma, don’t! You’ll make things worse.”
I jolt awake the second I hear my phone. It’s the fourth night I’ve slept on the sofa with the lights on, and everything aches as I sit up and reach for my mobile. The room is still dark, there are no chinks of light escaping between the curtains, and the world outside my windows is quiet.
“Hello?” I press the phone to my ear. “Sheila? What time is it?”
“Two. Listen, I’m sorry to disturb you but there’s been a break-in and the police are here.”
I sit up sharply. “At Green Fields? Are the animals okay?”
“They’re fine. Look, could you come up? The police want to ask you a couple of questions. Sorry, Jane, I know it’s the middle of the night. I’d come and collect you myself but—”
“No problem. I’ll jump on my bike. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
It’s so dark outside I have to use the light of my phone to find the hole in my bike lock. I push the key in and turn it. Thirty seconds later, I’m on the road. The weak, amber glow from the light on the front of my bike illuminates a couple of metres in front of me. Everything else is cloaked in shadow. I call it the main road but it’s so narrow there are verges every hundred metres or so where cars are forced to pull in to let vehicles coming the other way pass. The hedges on either side are overgrown and I’m forced to cycle down the centre of the road to avoid being scratched. It’s a clear night. The moon is large and round, and the Plough and Venus twinkle overhead.
My head is still hazy from sleep and I take deep breaths of the cold night air to try and clear it as my feet pound the pedals, and I lean forward as I approach the hill that leads to Green Fields. I was the last person to leave tonight. Did I lock everything up? I mentally run through my normal routine – check all the dogs are in their enclosures, ensure they’ve all got water for the night, lock the dog compound, do the same for the cats and the small animals, check on Freddy and the pigs, enter the main building through the back, lock the back door, do various checks, lock the front doors. Walk to the side entrance of the animal enclosure – the entrance the gardener and tradesmen use – and check that’s locked, too. A pulse of panic passes through me. Did I do that? Angharad was with me as I locked up. She was talking to me as we walked through reception, asking what my parents did for a living. I was trying to throw her off, giving her some half-baked reply about them being retired, and then she walked off to her car and I went to check the side entrance. Or did I? Did I hurry to my bike instead, keen to check my phone for the umpteenth time that day?
Something small and dark leaps across my path and I squeeze the brakes and jolt to a stop, nearly tipping over my handlebars. A tiny rabbit lollops across the road and disappears into the bushes on the right. The leaves rustle then fall still.
Shit.
I press a hand to my heart then put my feet to the pedals and start cycling again. It’s harder now I’ve restarted mid-way up the hill, and my thighs ache as the wheels revolve slowly and the bike creeps upwards. Just another five hundred metres or so and I’ll be there. I grip the handlebars and stand up, leaning my weight into the downward press. Will told me off for cycling like this. He says it’s a really inefficient way of getting up a hill. According to him, you should raise your saddle and stay seated. That’s fine for him to say; he’s got thighs like tree trunks, while mine—
My train of thought is interrupted by the distant rumble of a car engine. It’s coming from behind me, so I tuck my bike as far left as I can and keep cycling. My rear light is on but in my haste to leave home, I forgot to grab my high-visibility jacket or helmet. All I could think about was getting to Green Fields to check the animals are okay. The car driver should see me in good time; there are some tight bends up here, and if they’re local, they’ll slow down.
The sound of the car engine grows louder. The gears crunch as they slip down from third to second as the hill takes its toll, but they’re speeding up not slowing down. What if they’re not local? What if it’s a stag do that’s been camping down on Griffiths’ Farm, and they’re pissed after a night out in town? The car revs its engine and I speed up. I rock from side to side, and my thighs burn as I climb, climb, climb up the hill. There’s a side road down to a farm about a hundred metres away. I can pull in there, and then—
The first thing I feel is a jolt and, for a split-second, I think I’m okay – the car just clipped me and I’ve managed to stay upright – but then my hands feel as though they’re ripped from the handlebars and my stomach falls away as I’m lifted into the air. High, high, high in the air. I hang there forever, and then …
And then the air is knocked from my lungs and there’s a searing pain in the side of my face and everything goes black.
“Jane? Will’s here to see you, sweetheart.”
Someone strokes my left hand and I peel open my eyes. My right eye is still sealed shut, so swollen from my fall that I can’t see through it. I peer at Sheila through my left eye.
“Will?” I croak.
“I called him. I thought you’d want him to take you home rather than me.”
“Hello, Jane.”
His face is clouded with worry as he crosses the room and stoops to kiss me.
“You look awful.”
I try to smile but it hurts. “Thanks.”
“I’ll give you some time alone.” Sheila pats my hand. “And don’t you worry about Green Fields. It wasn’t your fault. The police are checking the CCTV. They’ll catch the buggers.”
“Thanks, Sheila.”
“Will said he’ll take you home. You rest up and I’ll pop by and see you tomorrow. Drink if you can.” She pours me a glass of water from the jug by the bed, presses it into my good hand then scoops up her enormous handbag from the chair and breezes out of the room.
Will, still hovering by the left side of the bed, takes her seat and pulls it close. “How are you feeling?”
“Bruised.”
“Is there anything I can do?” He glances at the full cup of water in my hand. “Do you need a straw?”
I try to shake my head, and grimace.
“Sheila told me about the break-in,” Will says. “Thank God none of the animals were hurt.”
Not for the want of trying. The police found bolt cutters by the fence, and evidence that they’d been used on at least three dog cages. Fortunately, the intruders weren’t able to make more than a few small holes before the frenzied barking of the dogs woke Sheila and she realised what was going on. Lucky her house is so close. The cages have been mended, she told me, but it’s taking forever to remove the graffiti from the walls. Whoever broke in sprayed “BASTARDS” in at least five or six places, Sheila said.
One of the cages the intruders tried to get into was Jack’s, and I’ve already spoken to the police about the conversation I had with his owners last week, and the weird interview yesterday with Rob Archer, the man who wanted to adopt a Staffordshire bull terrier. I’m convinced one or both of them must have had something to do with the break-in. Sheila also said she saw two people, probably men, in balaclavas, run off and jump into a car then speed away. Everyone assumed that was the car that hit me, but there was no way. According to Sheila, they turned left out of Green Fields and headed towards the lake. I was coming up the hill from the right and, unless they did a loop and were returning to Green Fields, it’s highly unlikely it was they who’d struck me.
I was lying on the grass verge when I came round. I don’t know how long I was unconscious for, but when I opened my eyes – my left eye, at least – it was still dark, my bike was in the bushes and my left arm and shoulder ached when I moved. Sheila and a policeman were standing beside me. They’d heard the impact and the screech of the car’s wheels on the road as it had sped away. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, an ambulance arrived. The paramedic was concerned that I felt nauseous and light-headed, and, according to Sheila, I hadn’t made any sense for the first couple of minutes after I’d come round, so he insisted on taking me to A&E to get checked over. He was also fairly certain I’d dislocated my left shoulder. I was seen very quickly after I arrived at the hospital, and was sedated before a doctor reducted my shoulder and put my arm in a sling. Then I was moved to the observations ward to wait for a CT scan. The results came back clear an hour ago. I just need the doctor to officially discharge me, and I’m free to go home.
“Did you manage to get my phone?”
Will laughs. “Bloody hell, Jane. You’re addicted to that thing. Yes, yes, I’ve got it.” He digs into the messenger bag he’s wearing across his body and hands me my mobile. “Most people would ask for a change of clothes and a good book, but no, you need to check Facebook. Or is it Twitter you’re addicted to?”
I look at the screen. There are no new Facebook notifications, but there is a new text message. It’s from a number that isn’t registered in my phone …
“Chloe says hello,” Will says as I click on the message icon. “She wanted me to find out if you’ve got to have your arm in a cast, because she thinks the pink ones are really coo— Jane? What’s the matter? Why are you crying?”
I turn the phone around so he can see it.
“
Only the good die young
,” he says, reading the text message aloud.
“That’ll explain why you’re still alive, then
.” He stares at me, his mouth agape. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Jane?” I flinch as he wipes a tear from the scratched, swollen side of my face. “What does it mean?”