The Friend Who Lied Page 2

  I twist my head, trying to see where the nurse has gone but she’s out of sight, and I don’t want to push the button next to the bed. I’ve seen how hard she and her colleagues work on this ward.

  I try to tamper down my frustration, but it’s there bubbling away under the surface, threatening to turn to panic.

  What happened to Simon?

  Why did he die?

  4

  Lisa

  ‘Lisa!’

  I manage a smile as I set eyes on the petite blonde who bounds across the tiled floor towards me.

  At once, I wish I’d had the chance to brush my teeth or run a comb through my hair.

  Hayley Matthews is dressed immaculately in a cream trouser suit and white blouse, an air of efficiency in her step as she shoves her car keys into her bag and then lowers herself into the chair beside my bed.

  ‘You nearly missed visiting hours,’ I say, not unkindly.

  She has a habit of turning up late, but despite this we all love her. No matter her own troubles, she’s the one amongst the five of us who can always raise a smile.

  Four of us, I remind myself.

  She places her bag on the floor, twitches a tendril of hair behind her ear and leans closer, lowering her voice.

  ‘Sorry I haven’t had a chance to text you back. How are you doing?’

  I shrug, then wince as my stomach muscles protest at the movement. ‘The doctor says I’m doing well. He reckons I’ll be discharged within a few days. They’re just trying to get the anti-rejection doses right at the moment, before I can be released.’

  Her perfectly groomed eyebrows shoot upwards. ‘That soon?’

  ‘It’s normal for something like this these days.’

  ‘Wow.’

  Her expression softens, her bottom lip trembling, and I hold up my hand.

  ‘Mum and Dad were here earlier. They told me.’

  ‘Oh, Lisa – I’m so sorry.’ She pulls a paper tissue from her handbag and dabs at her eyes. ‘It can’t be easy. I mean, you’re not supposed to know who your—’

  ‘I know.’

  Hayley sniffs, then shoves the tissue back in her bag and straightens. She leans forwards and wraps her fingers around mine. Her nails are a dainty shade of pink. ‘Do they think it worked?’

  I exhale and rest my head on the pillow, avoiding the gaze of the nosy old lady in the bed opposite who’s been trying to engage me in conversation for the past three hours. I don’t want to know about her four cats, or her errant son-in-law. I’ve already heard her tell everyone else in the ward since the effects of the anaesthetic wore off, and I’m tempted to ask to be knocked out again if she starts talking to me.

  ‘Yes. It’s early days, obviously, but they say the operation went well. The kidney seems to be doing what it should, and my numbers look good.’

  She brightens for a moment. ‘That’s great, Lisa. Really great.’

  ‘What happened?’ I lower my voice to a whisper because Nosy Woman is doing her best to catch my attention. ‘What went wrong in the escape room?’

  Hayley glances across at the other patient, then stands and pulls the curtains closed around my bed to give us some privacy.

  I smile as she sits back in the chair. ‘That’ll drive her up the wall.’

  ‘Good.’ She nibbles at the skin at the side of her thumbnail before dropping her hand to her lap. ‘Have the police spoken to you?’

  ‘What? No – why?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ She shrugs. ‘They’re probably waiting until you feel better.’

  With the curtain closed, it seems like we’re cut off from the rest of the world, and the space between us shrinks.

  I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the perfume Hayley’s wearing. It’s new, and too musky; not the usual scent she wears. She’s agitated, too. Fidgeting. She twists the second of three studs in her left earlobe; a habit I haven’t seen her doing in years. Not since we left university, that’s for sure.

  ‘Hayley? What happened?’

  ‘Can’t you remember?’

  I shake my head and dig my fingernails into my palms. ‘I keep trying, but all I can remember is that there were a lot of flashing lights, and then it went dark. Bits and pieces come back to me, but it’s like I can’t keep hold of the memory.’

  ‘I expect that’s the effect of the anaesthetic. It’ll take time.’

  She reaches over and tops up my water glass for me, and it’s a moment before I realise she still hasn’t answered my question.

  Her jaw is clenched; I can see the muscles tighten as she sets down the glass and then fusses with her bag, pulling out her mobile phone before giving a slight shake of her head.

  I’m staring at her as she raises her gaze to mine, and then opens her mouth.

  Too late.

  The curtain is pushed aside and the ward sister, Delia, glares at both of us.

  ‘If you close the curtain completely, I can’t keep an eye on you. It’s for your own safety.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble.

  Delia tuts, then turns her attention to Hayley. ‘Visiting hours finished five minutes ago. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.’

  Hayley’s expression is hard to define.

  At first, I think she’s embarrassed, but then I realise the truth.

  She’s relieved.

  She doesn’t have to tell me what happened.

  She pushes herself out of the chair, swipes her bag from the floor and shoves her phone into it before giving me a breezy peck on the cheek.

  ‘You look great, Lisa. I’ve got to go.’

  She brushes past Delia without a backward glance, and I shrug.

  ‘She runs her own business. She’s busy.’

  Delia shakes her head as she tucks the curtain back against the wall, then turns away. ‘Get some rest.’

  I watch her stalk across the ward to another of her charges – a middle-aged woman who had her appendix out two days ago – and Nosy Woman. I quickly lose interest; I’m too confused by Hayley’s reluctance to talk.

  Out of all of us, she’s usually the biggest gossip. Her capacity to talk knows no bounds. Despite the terrible, awful fact that Simon has died, she’d normally want to make sure I knew what was going on.

  Now?

  Now there’s a barrier between us, and one of Hayley’s making.

  Whatever happened to Simon, whatever happened to me, isn’t going to come from her.

  I’m going to have to try to remember.

  5

  Hayley

  A cloying stench of sweat and old food lingers on the overheated air.

  It reminds me of school dinners in a cramped canteen, of damp changing rooms after hockey matches, and I can’t breathe.

  A nurse bustles past, the crisp uniform she wears crackling as she swings her arms, propelling herself across the tiled floor towards one of the beds.

  A middle-aged couple sit huddled in chairs next to a teenage girl in the last bed on the ward, their murmured conversation drowned out by the squeak of a trolley that’s wheeled along the corridor by a lanky man with thinning black hair. His pace is unhurried, his eyes vacant as he fights a losing battle against a wonky wheel. The trolley rolls to the left, and he pauses to adjust its course before setting off once more, the squeak fading into the distance.

  My heels are too noisy on the tiled floor; my footsteps echo off the beige walls as I breathe through parched lips.

  Sweat itches at my temples and the nape of my neck. I tug at the silk scarf that I wore to set off the cream-coloured blouse I chose to wear, then scrunch it up and stuff it into the tan leather tote bag I cradle over one arm.

  My hands are shaking before I’ve escaped the ward.

  I pass through thick wooden double doors that have glass partitions three quarters of the way up and my reflection peers back at me for a split second.

  I’m taken aback by how calm I look.

  The doors swing shut.

  My heart rate is pulsing in my ears, acco
mpanied by a rushing sound that makes me blink to try to lose the spots in my vision. I still have to drive home, and I can’t do that if I can’t see properly. I can’t be stranded here, of all places.

  The stench of damp cabbage is replaced by burnt coffee beans; the sign for a coffee franchise pokes out from an open doorway and I peer inside.

  There are four or five tables, filled with visitors, hospital workers and who knows who else. Each of them is avoiding eye contact with the other, as if fearful a conversation might be attempted by the other person.

  I wrinkle my nose as I reach the counter. I can read the prices from here, and as I watch a splat of dark liquid eject from a machine on the back wall into a cardboard cup, I decide I can wait until I get home.

  I turn on my heel and hurry away.

  The corridor ends in a T-junction ahead of me and colour-coded signs hang from the ceiling pointing to the Accident and Emergency ward, X-ray department and – thankfully – the exit.

  I need fresh air.

  The crackle of a radio from around the corner reaches me and I stop dead in my tracks next to a gurney with an elderly man on it.

  He peers up at me with quizzical grey eyes, swaddled in pale-yellow blankets, his mouth trembling as he tries to form words.

  There is no one with him.

  The radio spits to life again – a barked instruction that peters out as the volume is adjusted, and then a male voice murmurs a short response.

  I swallow as my hand dives into my bag and wraps around the spiky cold surface of a bunch of keys.

  The car park is only a few metres away, but it seems like miles.

  I look around for the police, wondering if they’re here.

  I don’t want to talk to them again. I spoke with them at the escape room, two men in uniform who wore concerned expressions and spoke with an efficiency that frightened me. Then yesterday, a woman – a detective – knocked on my front door and asked all the same questions over again, her eyes suspicious.

  She went away, eventually.

  But I know she’ll be back.

  Movement out of the corner of my eye snags my attention. The old man is trying to reach out to me, his eyes beseeching.

  I step away from him, and his hand drops to his side as I square my shoulders.

  I can’t stay here.

  I have to get out.

  I flick my hair over my shoulder and stalk around the corner, then almost stumble.

  It’s not the police.

  Two paramedics in dark-green jumpsuits are at the nurses’ station, chatting with a porter in blue overalls. The older of the paramedics, a woman with fashionably spiky black hair, is leaning against the wall with a clipboard in her hand while her male colleague – who looks about sixteen – holds a walkie-talkie to his mouth, his words clipped and concise.

  I pick up my pace. There is nothing to be feared here for now.

  I manage a smile at the woman as I pass, then the automatic glass double doors swish open, parting to let me through.

  A cold blast of air smacks my nose and cheeks, whisking away my fear for a moment as I concentrate on making my way across a zebra crossing and then the poorly lit asphalt expanse towards my car.

  It sits under a pyramid of light cast by a yellowing street light, a shimmer sparkling on the ground from fresh rainfall. Ozone has scorched the air around me, and I gulp it in, remembering summer storms and ruined barbecues, the reality still several months away.

  I sink behind the steering wheel, push the key into the ignition and stare at the exit from which I’ve escaped.

  Beyond the glass doors, the two paramedics advance towards the exit, their movements hurried, but determined. There is no indication of panic as they leave the hospital and head towards one of the ambulances parked on the concrete apron outside the doors.

  The siren wails once they reach the main road, and I grip the steering wheel as I gasp for air in between sobs that catch in my chest.

  It wasn’t meant to be like this.

  It was never meant to be like this.

  6

  Lisa

  The minute I set eyes on the two police officers that enter the ward the next morning, a shiver crosses my neck and shoulders.

  The male police constable wears a uniform with a bulky vest over the top of it. The pockets of the vest bulge with equipment: a radio is clipped to the right hand side, and a set of handcuffs hang from a clip underneath it.

  He gives me the briefest of smiles before closing the curtains – he’s obviously charmed Delia. He stands next to the wall and reaches into the utility vest that looks like it weighs half a ton, then extracts a small black notebook and pen.

  I twist my neck to find the woman on the left-hand side of the bed, her jaw set. She’s wearing a charcoal-grey suit that does nothing to offset the harsh brown dye she wears in her hair. She blinks once, then forces a smile.

  I’m reminded of a Rottweiler.

  ‘Miss Ashton – Lisa – I’m Detective Constable Angela Forbes. This is my colleague, PC Steve Phillips. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Sore.’

  I’m not lying. I know Doctor Ashwan has what he calls my “best interests” at heart, but my abdomen aches like hell and it’s swollen from the gas they used to inflate it during the operation.

  Normal, he says, for someone who had a new kidney transplanted only three days ago. And for someone he has every intention of kicking out of hospital within days, if everything continues to go as well as it has so far.

  I shake my head to clear my thoughts because the Rottweiler is talking, and I’ve missed half of what she’s said.

  ‘Am I under arrest?’ I blurt.

  The Rottweiler – Forbes, I remind myself – frowns. ‘No. This is a formal interview though, so that’s why I’ve had to caution you.’

  So, Hayley was right.

  They are treating Simon’s death as suspicious.

  But why?

  I wince as a bolt of pure fire shoots across my stomach, waves of pain rippling across my body.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  The male officer – Phillips – steps forward, concern etched across his features.

  I grit my teeth and nod, sweat pooling at my brow. ‘Part of the healing process, according to the doc.’

  Forbes grimaces. ‘Sounds like he should try it himself before making a statement like that.’

  I can’t help myself, and snort.

  Turns out the Rottweiler has a sense of humour after all.

  ‘What did you want to ask me about?’

  She pulls the visitor chair across the tiled floor and turns it around to face me before dropping into it with an ill-disguised sigh.

  ‘We’re investigating the death of Simon Granger,’ she says. ‘I realise it’s highly unusual for patients to know who their donor was, but as we understand it, he was your final hope, wasn’t he?’

  I bite my lip, then nod, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. ‘Why are you investigating his death?’

  ‘It’s just a routine enquiry,’ she says.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  Forbes leans back in her seat. ‘Why don’t we start at the beginning? Why were you at the A-Maze Escape Room?’

  ‘It was to celebrate my birthday,’ I say. I swallow. ‘It was meant to be my last one, just in time to join the twenty-seven club alongside Cobain and Winehouse.’

  She doesn’t register the sarcasm. ‘Who organised it?’

  ‘The gang. It was a surprise.’

  ‘Who do you mean by “the gang”?’

  ‘Everyone who was there. Hayley, Bec, Simon and David.’

  ‘Can you explain your health situation at the time?’

  ‘My kidneys were failing,’ I say, keeping it simple for her. I’m acutely aware of how much medical jargon I’ve absorbed osmosis-like these past eleven months. ‘If I didn’t receive a donor kidney within the next four to six weeks then I’d get more and more sick, until—’

&nbs
p; I stop and take a deep breath. There’s a rushing sound in my ears as the reality catches up with me.

  I should be dead.

  Not Simon.

  ‘Do you need a glass of water?’ Phillips steps forward.

  I shake my head. ‘No. Sorry. I just—’

  The concern on his face remains. ‘Weren’t your parents a match?’

  ‘No, and I don’t have any siblings.’

  ‘They couldn’t offer you dialysis?’

  ‘There were complications – my heart is too weak to cope.’

  That’s putting it mildly. By the time Doctor Ashwan had finished listing all the reasons why the dialysis option was off the table, both Mum and Dad were crying.

  I remember the numbness that had started in my fingers and slowly crawled up my arms and across my body until it was all I could do not to scream.

  ‘Why were you given Simon Granger’s kidney?’ Phillips says. ‘I thought transplant lists meant it was a first-come, first-served basis.’

  His question is naïve, but one I would’ve asked myself if I wasn’t so familiar with the process now.

  ‘You’re right. We were both brought here from the escape room. My surgeon said he was carrying a donor card,’ I say, ‘and I was the best match on the donor list.’

  ‘Convenient,’ says Forbes. ‘If you were so ill, how did you manage go to the A-Maze Escape Room to play with your friends?’

  My head whips around.

  Forbes is leaning forwards once more, her gaze predatory.

  ‘Pardon?’ I’m shocked at the underlying menace of her question.

  ‘If your health was so bad, how were you able to go to the escape room with your friends?’

  ‘Because I was doped up to the nines on painkillers,’ I snap. I force myself to relax. ‘The doctor agreed to it. By that time, they were already talking about end-of-life choices for me. They didn’t know how long I had once the dialysis was off the table. So, the thought of one last birthday with the gang was what kept me going. I thought it’d be my last chance.’