The Friend Who Lied Read online

  Forbes jerks her chin at my prone body. ‘Looks like you got a birthday present as well.’

  Her insensitivity shocks, and I force myself up into a sitting position, even though it hurts like hell.

  I know I’ve pushed my luck the moment the monitor next to me starts bleeping wildly.

  ‘I lost a good friend at the weekend,’ I snarl. ‘I’m not sure what you’re insinuating here, but I don’t like your tone.’

  PC Phillips holds up his hand. ‘It’s simply routine enquiries.’

  ‘No, it’s not. This is harassment.’

  I’m saved from another comment from the Rottweiler as the curtain whips open and Delia stands on the threshold, glaring.

  ‘What’s going on in here?’

  Forbes pushes to her feet and does her best attempt at a sweet smile. ‘We were just leaving.’

  Delia says nothing, stands to one side to let the two officers pass, and then turns to me, her gaze softening before she hurries across to the bed and helps me lie down once more.

  I’m crying by the time we’re done, liquid fire seizing my stomach muscles and the wounds that have barely healed.

  Delia squeezes my hand. ‘You’re due some more pain relief in half an hour, not before.’

  ‘Will they be coming back?’ I whisper.

  She shrugs. ‘I suppose it depends how their enquiries go. You could always ask for someone to be present with you next time if you’re worried about them.’

  I shake my head and force a smile as she retreats.

  I don’t want to contemplate having to speak to Forbes again, but the reality is that if they’ve decided to investigate Simon’s death then it’s likely she’ll be back.

  But the thought of talking to her with a solicitor present seems ominous.

  After all, it’s not like I’ve got anything to hide.

  7

  Lisa

  I’m sipping room-temperature orange juice the next morning when there’s a knock on the door.

  David peers around it, his brown eyes lighting up when he sees me.

  His is the type of face that is not handsome, but not bad-looking either. He’s the sort of person who can fade into the background of a group photograph, unnoticed and unremarkable, despite being six foot tall. There’s a stillness about him that none of the rest of us can emulate or understand.

  He clutches a cycling helmet in one hand, his black hair sticking up in tufts that mirror the air vents in the helmet, and I glance down at his feet.

  He’s wearing trainers, not cycling shoes.

  ‘Yeah, I didn’t think it’d be a lot of fun walking across these tiles in cleats,’ he says.

  ‘Good job you put tracksuit bottoms on, too.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Lycra.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘You’re not the one who has to look at it.’

  I say the words with a smile, teasing. There’s a gentleness about him that I’ve always put down to shyness, a wariness that only appears around strangers and new places. Out of all my friends, he’s the one who is the best listener. A good friend, but nothing more.

  ‘You’re eating?’ he says.

  I gesture to the remnants of a modest breakfast on the tray before me. ‘First time since the op.’

  He closes the door, then perches on the end of the bed. ‘How’re you doing?’

  I take a moment to finish the juice before answering. It gives me time to coerce the jumbled thoughts going through my head into a coherent sentence.

  ‘They moved me in here last night. I took a turn for the worse, and they figured the peace and quiet would do me good.’

  ‘But, you’re going to be all right?’

  ‘I’m okay, in the circumstances. Even though—’

  ‘If Simon wasn’t dead, you would be.’

  There. One of us has said it aloud.

  I nod.

  ‘Survivor’s guilt,’ says David, the certainty in his voice punching me in the chest with its brutal honesty.

  ‘I haven’t seen that listed on the diagnosis,’ I reply, indicating the medical notes clipped to the board on the wall next to the door.

  ‘Amateurs,’ he says, and winks.

  I wipe the tears tracking down my cheeks. ‘Have the police spoken to you?’

  The smile disappears from his face. ‘After you’d been taken to hospital, yes. Just routine, I think. Why? Have they been here?’

  ‘Yesterday. A police constable – a bloke, and a woman. She was senior to him. Forbes.’

  ‘Ah, the attack dog. That’s the one.’

  We both smile at that, and then he turns serious once more.

  ‘What did they ask you?’

  ‘They wanted to know why we were there, who organised it, why I went.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Not a lot. I can’t remember much of it, to be honest.’ I place the empty cup on the tray, then nod my thanks to David as he scoops it off the bed and puts it on the table under the window.

  He helps me ease back onto my pillows, then when I’m settled he moves to the chair.

  I frown at the memory of the police questioning. ‘She was very rude. Demanded to know how I’d managed to go out if my health was so bad.’

  ‘Did you tell her you were a complete space cadet and medicated up to your eyeballs?’

  ‘After I’d had a go at her about her attitude, yes. They left after the ward sister interrupted them to ask what was going on.’

  David gives a low whistle through his teeth.

  ‘Yeah. I know,’ I sigh. ‘But she pissed me off.’

  He leans forward. ‘What do you remember?’

  It’s something I’ve been asking myself since the two police officers left yesterday.

  The clarity with which some of the day’s events come back to me is muted by the gaps in my memory, and it scares me.

  Not that I’ll tell David about that.

  Not yet.

  Instead, I clear my throat.

  ‘I remember Bec picking me up from Mum and Dad’s. She was late – it was the first time she’d been there, because she usually collected me from the flat if we were going out anywhere and it was her turn to drive.’

  We don’t mention the fact that I had to sell my flat once my health deteriorated to the point where I couldn’t care for myself.

  ‘You looked really pale. I was worried,’ says David.

  ‘Mum was fussing – she was concerned I wasn’t wearing enough clothes and that I’d catch a cold, even though I looked like—’

  ‘An Eskimo.’

  I reach out for his hand. ‘I’ll be honest, I felt like shit, but you’d all organised it and I didn’t want to let you down.’

  ‘You could’ve said something. We could’ve cancelled.’

  I squeeze his fingers and let go. ‘But it was meant to be our last time together. I couldn’t cancel that. Besides, I’d taken extra painkillers.’

  His brow furrows. ‘Was that wise? I mean, those things could floor a horse.’

  ‘I just wanted to enjoy myself,’ I say in a small voice.

  I won’t admit it, but he’s got me worried now.

  Because maybe I shouldn’t have taken the extra dosage. David’s got a point about the strength of the medication I was on.

  I recall being given the first tentative prescription by Doctor Ashwan, the lecture that accompanied it, and the fact that when I got back home to Mum and Dad’s I tore up the instructions into tiny pieces before flushing them down the toilet because I was too afraid to read them.

  ‘Lisa?’

  David is watching me, and I realise I’ve been silent for too long.

  ‘I remember Hayley being excited.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘If Forbes is a Rottweiler, then Hayley is a Yorkshire Terrier.’

  We laugh, and the tension leaves the room for a moment.

  ‘We won the first game, didn’t we?’ I say.

  ‘We did. Beat the record by fifteen seconds, w
hich is why we took the next challenge. The haunted house. I got the impression you were struggling by then.’

  ‘I was.’

  I’m not kidding. If it hadn’t been for Simon’s insistence that we continue to play, and his derisory remark about making memories – he meant well, but it sounded callous coming from him of all people – then I’d never have agreed to it.

  ‘What do you remember about that?’ says David.

  ‘Not much. I think Hayley was helping me along by that point. I felt woozy.’

  ‘The painkillers?’

  ‘Must have been. Plus, all those flashing lights and special effects. It was disorientating.’

  ‘It was meant to be. They don’t want you to have an easy win.’

  ‘I realise that.’ I’m not cross with him, but he does have a way of stating the obvious sometimes. I don’t berate him, but instead point to the water jug on the dresser and he obliges by filling a glass and passing it to me.

  I gulp half, then exhale. ‘I remember the lights going out. Hayley let go of my arm, and I lost my sense of direction. Simon laughed because she screamed, and then I tripped over something. I heard you saying they should switch the lights on, and then it all went quiet. I couldn’t hear anything except my own breathing. I panicked. I thought you’d all left me. I called out, but no one answered. I – I can’t remember anything after that.’

  ‘I don’t remember you calling out,’ said David. ‘Are you sure the drugs weren’t making you hallucinate?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  But then I pause.

  Am I?

  8

  Hayley

  Her name is Harriet Roxburgh, and according to the internet search I typed in yesterday after she called, she’s the youngest daughter of a business mogul who keeps his offices in Canary Wharf and owns property in Mayfair.

  Her husband is a distant nephew of a minor royal, and it’s estimated that their wedding eight years ago cost well in excess of six figures, which goes some way to explain why the house is on a prestigious spit of land overlooking a marina.

  I’m not surprised. She sounds like the sort of woman who should have a title in front of her name. A Lady, or an Honourable. Something like that.

  I’m taken aback when she answers the solid oak front door to the five-bedroom detached house in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, because she looks like neither of those. She’s older than I imagined – perhaps late thirties – and has a red-faced toddler balanced on her hip.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says in a clipped, practised voice that manages to hide almost all but the subtlest of Geordie accents. ‘I was on the phone to my mother-in-law.’

  She rolls her eyes for emphasis as she steps aside to let me over the threshold, pushing her light-brown hair out of her eyes.

  I’m immediately aware of the sweet scent of furniture polish wafting through the airy light space I’ve walked into.

  It’s not a hallway – it’s too wide for that. It’s more like an atrium, and as I raise my gaze I’m astounded to see criss-crossing beams that intersect this part of the house. Above and in front of me there’s a balcony, and I’m sure I can spot the soft furnishings of a bedroom beyond.

  Stairs lead up from my right and sweep across the hallway under the balcony and off to a mezzanine level from which the soft sound of classical music emanates. It’s all strings and cellos and sweeping sonatas.

  The door swishes closed behind me, and Harriet shifts the kid from one hip to the other. ‘I suppose all of your clients have a clean around before you turn up.’

  I smile, as she expects me to, and then utter the words that I used to rehearse and now spew out on autopilot. ‘Not all of them are as fastidious about their cleaning as this. Your home is wonderful.’

  Her shoulders relax as she breaks into a grin. ‘Do you have kids?’

  Fuck, no. Perish the thought.

  ‘Actually, no. I find my nieces enough of a handful.’

  ‘Ah.’ She jiggles the toddler, who looks like he might throw up. ‘This one here was a complete surprise. I didn’t expect to start late in life. How do you normally do this? Should I show you around first?’

  ‘That’s a good idea. That way I can get my bearings, and then we can discuss what services my company offers that will help you achieve a more balanced lifestyle.’

  I follow her through the hallway into a living room with the most enormous television I’ve ever seen bolted to one wall, and then to a bespoke kitchen that looks as if it cost as much as the wedding, and then upstairs to ooh and aah at the lavish interior design and strategically placed soft furnishings.

  All the time, the brat on her arm is whining, fidgeting, his gaze moving from his mother to me to see if his antics will get the attention he wants because the focus – for now – isn’t on him.

  I ignore him. I’m too in awe of my surroundings to be bothered with a snivelling kid.

  By the time Harriet’s mobile phone rings, interrupting her monotonous commentary about the way the skylights in the house were angled to catch just the right amount of sunshine in the mornings and evenings, it’s all I can do to batten down the envy that is coursing through me.

  Instead, I smile politely as she turns away. I move towards the floor-to-ceiling window in here, the upper lounge room according to the potential client.

  ‘I’m sorry – this is going to take a moment,’ she says, jiggling the kid who’s stopped looking sick and now appears ready to throw the tantrum to end all tantrums. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  I hold up a hand to let her know that’s fine with me – as if I have a choice – and turn away.

  Beyond the glass, beyond the masts in the marina, I can see the edges of Southampton city centre, the trees that form a perimeter around the Common.

  A shiver crawls down my neck and across my shoulders.

  I turn away from the view and run my gaze over the trinkets and curios that have been dotted across the surface of a baby grand piano. I wander over and run my fingers over the lid that hides the keys, then sniff the air.

  She has polished all of this as well, and as I peer under the lid at the dusty keys I wonder how often the instrument is actually played, and how much of its presence here is for show.

  Perhaps one day the snivelling brat will be forced to have piano lessons; a final justification for the exuberance of having the piano in the first place.

  I can still hear her in the other room. A floorboard creaks as she paces back and forth. Whatever the conversation, it sounds like she’s going to be a while yet.

  I sigh and check my watch.

  The hospital’s visiting times have another two hours to go, but I’ve got no intention of seeing Lisa there again.

  Once was enough.

  I don’t want to bump into the police. I mean, they’re going to go there, aren’t they?

  They’ll want to speak to her, like they spoke to me the morning after Simon died.

  I couldn’t believe it when they turned up at my front door.

  Two of them: a woman, whose chin jutted out the moment I swung the door open as if she was ready to pounce, and a younger man in uniform who looked terrified to find himself within fifty feet of her.

  She barked a string of words starting with her rank and name and, after inviting herself in, spent the next twenty minutes grilling me about what went on in the escape room.

  What did she expect went on in a bloody escape room? We were trying to escape, I told her; that was the whole point.

  Her colleague smirked at my answer and for a moment I thought I’d scored a point there, but then the woman – Forbes, that’s her – glared at me. We went over and over the same things, and for a moment I wondered if I was talking nonsense before I realised what she was trying to do.

  She was trying to trip me up, see if I made a mistake in my retelling of what we did, where we went, what happened.

  I was shaking by the time they left. I hated the way she left me exposed, questioning my own r
ecollection, and worrying if I’d said too much – or too little.

  I square my shoulders and move across the thick carpet to a bookshelf where Harriet has arranged matching photograph frames.

  There are the obligatory pre- and post-birth studio photographs, perfect poses belying the sleepless nights and crappy nappies that surely followed the glamorous pregnancy. Next to these are older images showing the smiling couple – I’m presuming that’s her husband – holding up glasses of frothing beer, ski goggles on their heads; canoeing along a river somewhere green and lush and definitely not anywhere near Southampton; and then—

  I stop.

  The last photograph shows a younger Harriet and the same man amongst a group of friends all piled onto a too-small sofa and holding champagne flutes in their hands. In the other hand, each of them is holding a certificate.

  A graduation certificate.

  I put the photograph down before I drop it and turn away, my mouth dry.

  From the other room, the kid screams in frustration, driving needles into my already frayed nerves.

  The photograph has brought back the wrong memories, and now that they swirl around in my head, I know I won’t sleep tonight.

  Because it reminds me too much of my own university days.

  With the others.

  With him.

  And then, without him.

  Because, for a brief spell in that first year, there were six of us.

  Not five.

  9

  David

  The narrow street is lined with cars, delivery vans and school mums in hulking four-by-four vehicles too big for them to handle. A cacophony of engines, car horns and frustrated shouting fills the air.

  Half past three on a Wednesday afternoon; school’s out; bedlam.

  The pavements of this 1950s-created urban sprawl are too narrow, too uneven, too cluttered with café blackboards, buskers, and pensioners who congregate in the middle of the path to chat with someone they only saw yesterday but might have missed some gossip in the meantime.

  They stand, oblivious to people who split like river tributaries around them, such is their eagerness to pass the time of day repeating the news rather than go home to an empty room to stare at the walls, alone.