The Lie (8 page)

I’m still staring at the note. It’s not Will’s handwriting. The letter “a” is formed differently throughout the note, with a loop at the top, more like the “a” on a keyboard rather than an enclosed “o” with a tail.

I thump the van’s steering wheel with the flat of my hand in frustration.
Of course
it’s not Will’s handwriting. What possible motive would he have for trying to scare me like that? Everyone who knows him – including his head teacher and the board of governors – thinks he’s a good man. He’s either fooled us all and he’s a high-functioning sociopath, or he’s as trustworthy and caring as he appears.

I was being ridiculous even considering he was responsible for the letter. Ridiculous and paranoid. I was lying to myself when I said that your past doesn’t shape your future. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. Your memories are the one thing you can’t run from, the one thing you can’t change.

I slide my mobile out of my pocket and tap the keyboard with my thumb. I need to apologise to Will for running off when he put Chloe to bed last night. I overreacted when I saw he’d been reading Al’s article about Ekanta Yatra on his iPad. Whatever his reasons for reading it, surely he can’t have had any kind of malicious intent. We need to talk.
I
need to talk. I compose a careful text.

Sorry about last night, Will. The alarm went off at work and I was worried someone had broken in to take their dog.

I delete the last sentence. I have to stop lying.

Sorry about last night, Will. I need to talk to you. Could we meet for drinks at The George tonight? 8pm okay? x

I press send then scroll through my contacts, pausing when I reach “Mum Mobile”. It’s been three months since we’ve spoken. She insisted, as she has done ever since I returned from Nepal, that I move home and “give up the charity nonsense and get a proper job”. Oh, and see a psychologist. I’ve told her over and over again that I’m fine, that I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been, but she won’t listen. According to her, I need to go home to deal with my “unresolved trauma”. I don’t know where she got that phrase from; she probably read it in the papers.

I don’t know why I expected her to be different when I got back from Nepal. Maybe because I’d changed, I expected she would have, too.

I tuck my phone back in my pocket and open the van door. Sheila texted me this morning to ask if I’d mind doing a pick-up, as the pet owner only lives a few miles away from my cottage. Usually, the Green Fields inspectors do the pick-ups, but on this occasion it’s just a couple of rabbits from a pensioner who can’t get to the sanctuary to drop them off herself. It’s a simple enough pick-up for me to handle.

Joan Wilkinson greets me at the door with a rabbit under each arm and tears in her eyes. She’s so thin I can see the ridge of her collarbones through her flowery housecoat. Her cheeks and eyes are sunken, her mouth lined with wrinkles, and her sparse grey hair is clipped back on either side of her head with a pink sparkly Hello Kitty hairclip. She has to be at least seventy.

“You from Green Fields?” she asks, squinting at the name badge on my polo shirt then peering past me to look at the van.

“Yes, I’m Jane. I heard you need our help. Rabbits getting a little bit out of control, are they?”

Joan hugs the rabbits closer. One of them, a grey one, objects by pounding her stomach with its left leg. “I can cope, you know. I didn’t want to ring you, but my neighbour made me. She said they’ve been getting into her garden and it’s only a matter of time until her dog goes after one.”

“These two look well.” I gesture at the rabbits she’s holding to reassure her. “Lovely coats, bright eyes, nice and alert. Could I come in for a little chat?”

She eyes me suspiciously, then eases the front door open a little wider with her elbow. “You’re out of luck if you want tea, because my milk’s gone off, but you can have water, if you like.”

“No problem,” I reassure her, with a smile. “I had a cup of tea before I left home.”

The stench of ammonia hits me the second I step through the front door into the hallway. It’s like stepping into a rabbit cage that hasn’t been cleaned for years.

From hip level upwards, the living room looks normal: on the mantelpiece stand porcelain figurines of ballerinas alongside framed, faded photographs of weddings, picnics and children playing in a garden; a pile of
Reader’s Digest
magazines is stacked haphazardly on the coffee table next to a green corduroy armchair; and a cream lace doily slip is spread across the back of the dusty-pink sofa. It’s all just as I’d expect of an elderly lady’s home. But the floor tells a completely different story. The beige carpet is spotted with dark patches of urine, speckled with sawdust and pebbled with rabbit faeces. There are rabbits everywhere, at least ten or twelve, hopping over torn newspapers, shredded toilet rolls and rotting vegetables, nibbling at the anaemic spider plant in the corner of the room and peeking out from beneath the furniture. The air is ripe with the scent of sawdust, animal hair and faeces.

This isn’t a straightforward “pensioner unable to care for a couple of rabbits” collection; it’s a job for one of the inspectors. Officially, I should call Sheila and request an inspector visit, but I want to check that none of the animals are in any immediate danger.

I am careful to keep my expression neutral as I pick my way through the detritus and perch on the edge of the armchair. Joan hovers beside me, the two rabbits still wriggling in her arms. Her eyes are wide, her lips pursed.

“Have you kept rabbits for long, Mrs Wilkinson?”

“All my life.” She avoids eye contact, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere to the left of my face. “I was given a rabbit for my fifth birthday. I only got to keep him for a few months.”

“What happened?”

“We went to India. My father was a missionary, mother was a nurse.”

“I see. That must have been upsetting.”

“It was.”

“And did you have pets in India?”

She shakes her head. “Mother said it would be unfair to the animals because we’d only have to move again.”

“Right.”

“I got these two after my Bob died.” She glances at the faded wedding photograph framed on the mantelpiece. “He wouldn’t let me keep rabbits. He said Spot would go after them.”

“Spot’s your dog?” There are no signs of a dog in the living room – no leads, bedding or bowls.

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“Ran away.”

There’s something about the way her eyes just flicked towards the door at the end of the living room that makes me nervous. “Did you report it?”

She shrugs. “I might have. I can’t remember. It wasn’t my fault he ran away. He didn’t want to live here after Bob died.”

“How long since your husband died, Mrs Wilkinson?”

“Eighteen months.” Her eyes mist with tears and it’s hard not to feel sorry for her. Cruelty cases may seem cut and dried when they’re reported in the media, but they’re not always about evil men and women abusing animals. So many of the cases involve lonely, desperate people with mental health issues. They take on an animal, thinking it will be good company, but find they can’t cope. If you’re struggling to look after yourself, how can you look after an animal, too?

“I’m so sorry for your loss. That must have been very upsetting. Do you have children or relatives who look in on you?”

She shakes her head again. “My parents are dead and my brother lives up in Leeds. It was only ever me and Bob. We couldn’t have children.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She looks back at the point just to the left of my head. “We were happy enough.”

I gesture towards the door at the other end of the living room. “Do you mind if I have a look around?”

“Why?” The wistful look in her eyes vanishes.

“Just to get an idea of how many rabbits you’ve got.”

“Sixteen.”

“Okay. I’d still like to take a look around, if I may, just to see them for myself. Is that okay?” I take a step towards the door but Joan grabs me by the wrist. Her grip is surprisingly powerful for a woman of her age and build. The two rabbits she was holding escape and hop towards the curtains.

“You can go in the kitchen, but don’t go in the larder.”

“Why not?”

“There’s a fly problem. I don’t want you letting them out and upsetting the bunnies.”

There are three more rabbits in the kitchen, one in a wire cage, the other two in the cupboard under the sink. The door is long gone, the hinges ginger with rust. The sink and surfaces are stacked with crusty pots, pans and dishes, crumpled newspapers, bills, plastic bags and assorted junk. There are two doors at the end of the kitchen, both closed. The glass-fronted one leads outside. The doorknob on the other door, the one I assume to be the larder, is hanging off.

I head towards it, picking my way over split bin bags and rotting food, a single light bulb, hanging from the ceiling on exposed wires, humming ominously over my head. It isn’t just the inspector I need Sheila to call. Social Services will have to get involved, too.

“You’ve seen everything you need to see,” Joan says from behind me. “And I’d like you to leave. I’ve changed my mind about you taking my rabbits.”

I was expecting this. I’ve been careful to try and hide my reaction from her, but she’s not stupid. She knows I’m not going to take a couple of rabbits away and then leave her to it. I could just go. I could explain what’s going to happen next, then return to my van and call the sanctuary, but I can’t leave without looking in the larder. If there’s an animal in there, and if it dies because I didn’t act, I’d never forgive myself.

“I’d like to look in the larder, please, Joan.”

“No.” She shakes her head violently. “No.”

“Please. I want to help you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“I think you do.”

I reach for the door handle and two things happen at once. As I step into the larder, a swarm of flies hits me in the face like a buzzing black cloud, and the door slams shut behind me. I cover my face with my hands as the flies buzz around me, landing on my arms, my hands, my hair, my neck. The air is thick with the stench of death. I gag repeatedly into the crook of my elbow. With no window, it’s pitch black apart from the pale pool of light at the bottom of the door. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, but then I see it, lying at my feet and swarming with maggots: the decomposing body of a dog.

I reach for the doorknob but it’s gone, lying at my feet next to the remains of the dog. It must have fallen off when the door slammed shut. I barge the door with my shoulder then kick it as hard as I can. It holds fast.

“Mrs Wilkinson?” I pound on the door with one fist, my face still buried in the crook of my elbow. There are flies in my ears, in my hair, creeping down the front of my polo shirt.

“Mrs Wilkinson!” I bang again. “Joan, you need to pick up the doorknob on your side and feed the pole part back into the hole so I can reattach the knob on my side. Joan? Are you there?”

I stop banging and listen, but I can’t hear a thing above the drone of the flies.

Panic rises in my chest and I take a run at the door, smashing into it with the full weight of my body.

I’m about to shout Joan’s name again when my back pocket starts to vibrate.

“Sheila!” I press the phone to my ear. “I’m at twenty-seven Allinson Road. I’m trapped. She’s locked me in! She’s going to hurt me, Sheila. Please, please, get me out.”