Tell the Truth: Or they’ll tell it for you…
Tell the Truth: Or they’ll tell it for you…
Amanda Brittany
TELL THE TRUTHOr they’ll tell it for you…Rachel’s childhood is a mess of fragmented memories, and her adult life is no less chaotic.Her mother and daughter were her only concrete links to the past and now they are slipping through her fingers. Fuelled by the fear of losing them both, she delves into her mother’s past, fast becoming entangled in her own tragic history.With eerie friend requests filling Rachel’s phone and shocking flashbacks filling her mind, she is plagued by her mother’s past, and soon realises that her entire life might just be a lie.Will she ever discover the truth?From the bestselling author of HER LAST LIE comes a chilling new thriller you won’t want to miss! It will have you questioning your own relationships and doubting if everyone in your life is who they say they are.Perfect for fans of The Girl on the Train and He Said / She Said.Praise for Amanda Brittany:‘An exciting new voice – Brittany reels readers in with this twisty, clever thriller that will have you second-guessing everything…’ Phoebe Morgan, author of The Doll House‘Brilliant, pacey, and will leave you suspecting everyone is involved!’ Darren O’Sullivan, author of Our Little Secret‘I was drawn in right from the rather original prologue and did not see that twist coming!’ Diane Jeffrey, author of Those Who Lie‘A triumph!’ James H on Amazon‘With all the right ingredients to keep you on the edge of your seat.’ Bookworm on Amazon‘Brittany got my attention from the get go’ Rosemary Smith on Netgalley‘Gripping and twisty, another book added to my best reads of this year list.’ Julia Beales on NetGalley‘If you like thrillers, read this and you will not be disappointed. If you’re not a thriller reader, try it anyway!’ A Reader on Amazon‘I loved this fast-paced, atmospheric, scary book.’ DeeLovesBooks on Amazon‘I can’t wait to read more from this talented new novelist.’ PSMode on Amazon
About the Author (#u94f38a5f-599b-540b-9e0f-2f21f73d4db1)
AMANDA BRITTANY lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and two dogs. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with family, travelling, walking, reading & sunny days. Her debut novel Her Last Lie reached the Kindle top 100 in the US and Australia and was a #1 Bestseller in the UK. All her eBook royalties for Her Last Lie are being donated to Cancer Research UK, in memory of her sister who lost her battle with cancer in July 2017. It has so far raised almost £7,000.
Visit amandabrittany.co.uk (http://www.amandabrittany.co.uk) to find out more.
Praise for Amanda Brittany (#u94f38a5f-599b-540b-9e0f-2f21f73d4db1)
‘An exciting new voice – Brittany reels readers in with this twisty, clever thriller that will have you second-guessing everything …’
Phoebe Morgan, author of The Doll House
‘Brilliant, pacey, and will leave you suspecting everyone is involved!’
Darren O’Sullivan, author of Our Little Secret
‘I was drawn in right from the rather original prologue and did not see that twist coming!’
Diane Jeffrey, author of Those Who Lie’
Also by Amanda Brittany (#u94f38a5f-599b-540b-9e0f-2f21f73d4db1)
Her Last Lie
Tell The Truth
AMANDA BRITTANY
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Amanda Brittany 2018
Amanda Brittany asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © December 2018 ISBN: 9780008305390
Version: 2018-11-28
Table of Contents
Cover (#u3e20818e-a8f9-5a2f-823d-c6520efa2cf4)
About the Author (#u9bcdc007-bad9-501d-a452-d6e7103feffe)
Praise for Amanda Brittany (#u7f9dd079-3dc6-5eb7-8149-e486e1e51a48)
Also by Amanda Brittany (#ub451d78a-0aaa-5054-b2c8-6a3e052858ea)
Title Page (#ud8e7f2b7-649d-5ca5-83f7-49ebafd4155e)
Copyright (#u41202a14-54a8-5c30-a393-42b5da904cbf)
Dedication (#udfb1047f-0543-5d20-ad8d-ab005a14b8bb)
Prologue (#u2bddbce3-1f6a-508d-b8cb-7a7cd4fb1e30)
Chapter 1 (#u54a1ed78-23bb-5902-9c1d-11a50443a0e9)
Chapter 2 (#u81b6cd51-a7b4-52f3-8edd-44b7b0d823a1)
Chapter 3 (#u8087d65c-8a17-5066-9a4f-4141c71b760c)
Chapter 4 (#u3ddc5290-58b4-5413-b8c8-6af27416c629)
Chapter 5 (#ue32d7027-9344-559e-bac5-7e0994d9080b)
Chapter 6 (#uebe3bb3c-4600-5c6d-a387-99d2e4a782d7)
Chapter 7 (#uc05e9977-13fe-5087-b08c-ad79e472b75c)
Chapter 8 (#u92c3be57-a617-5216-9e4d-bb6caaab9135)
Chapter 9 (#u862bd0b3-0835-577c-95a8-ef6f18a1557b)
Chapter 10 (#u077a20d7-c977-5abe-99d8-e437ad7ab423)
Chapter 11 (#u43d10acd-6be1-5c8d-9362-78bdf62253dd)
Chapter 12 (#ud3677b26-e6f3-5a71-a18a-0004b158ded3)
Chapter 13 (#u0fb89917-c15a-5ccd-9f4f-ee5de2ebc295)
Chapter 14 (#uf6ec8754-0998-5a1f-aa73-41b4a1309a2b)
Chapter 15 (#u72c99349-f760-51d0-ae01-a5517dcc556a)
Chapter 16 (#ubed36c10-d3f8-5947-a481-4a8dda7a1827)
Chapter 17 (#ua79dce2c-441d-559e-b23c-2aa3594aeeec)
Chapter 18 (#u569ec463-ada5-582b-96a3-c41ab30f64e7)
Chapter 19 (#ua551f7f5-5a16-5380-a9ef-87dee1a327ab)
Chapter 20 (#ua7d074a5-ed84-5527-ac95-e0d4f61452d7)
Chapter 21 (#u38116e97-1067-53c0-b3b4-9a585e9f9108)
Chapter 22 (#u6676be17-3875-5184-a3d0-65f25bd5273a)
Chapter 23 (#ufd075375-8647-5506-8ef2-225f25890e24)
Chapter 24 (#u6c6c093c-c55a-5db2-83a6-899ad40641e9)
Chapter 25 (#u82d07c47-653a-55db-be3c-69f439dbffa6)
Chapter 26 (#u6b969d22-d6f3-5a28-92b5-0560802ec9a1)
Chapter 27 (#u32856f68-0689-559e-bbfa-629bacf18d18)
Chapter 28 (#ue2270b90-bde8-5377-a5c3-6f95282b9c69)
Chapter 29 (#u9b9a2d2a-98df-54ee-8692-94822a74fbb2)
Chapter 30 (#u75c587b9-175f-54d5-a139-526f5cb9eb5d)
Chapter 31 (#u7a193f17-9a1a-5eb2-890d-041bfff426ed)
Chapter 32 (#u43759e55-d445-5bb0-af82-5d8b756b6327)
Chapter 33 (#u691c3ce6-592f-57fc-b2d2-83c2eb088f5c)
Chapter 34 (#u342622c8-5d0a-575a-b7c2-b652581fb43b)
Chapter 35 (#u068992e1-ffb5-52e0-979a-68f0cabe69eb)
Chapter 36 (#u8e947378-de9d-5259-bafe-10fede2cc3de)
Chapter 37 (#ua85241cc-2626-5cf7-b65b-bf6e0f08f131)
Chapter 38 (#uc905a309-eb66-5c39-a63f-590510da7115)
Chapter 39 (#u708161e1-6b7e-56d5-a82f-23cb7b739cb0)
Chapter 40 (#u0bb50266-4fa1-56c0-a7c9-57ece2a4e484)
Chapter 41 (#u4c1741ab-bb98-587d-949e-4701ba3a40e5)
Chapter 42 (#u392d57a8-761a-59d5-ab1e-f37f9c73577c)
Chapter 43 (#u43df36ed-368c-5134-9edd-bdd8c909f47f)
Chapter 44 (#ubfc60ab1-9e90-52d1-bfad-a8033fd2857e)
Chapter 45 (#u905efe15-ced3-5210-865e-b43cc04aec2a)
Chapter 46 (#u5f61c2ca-a049-5f87-84ca-3365d096c45c)
Chapter 47 (#u59e5d432-d130-5fbb-9324-27b7bd1e7a62)
Chapter 48 (#ue657400e-8e12-51a8-8845-c3e4ab132a1f)
Chapter 49 (#u5194a818-9b7d-5c69-88b4-64130aaa3ca5)
Chapter 50 (#u00b7e2df-921b-553a-b1d9-2227d3e1da02)
Chapter 51 (#u194a6702-1f56-5390-b5b4-5c6c5de0e09d)
Chapter 52 (#u5a78897f-0493-5cc3-921d-26b513f0b5bf)
Chapter 53 (#u4b263bc8-5797-5d3d-86f8-5daa6e85c223)
Chapter 54 (#u430c3e6f-6482-56a5-aa7c-8cc061728118)
Acknowledgements (#ud632c1dc-19f0-57f3-becb-3bd226555939)
Extract (#u012b8428-ded9-546b-af93-ba96d683e473)
Dear Reader (#u93723d01-78b1-54a4-b7ed-4380fd919b96)
Thank You for Reading (#u2da75ebc-c425-527a-a355-1c0b97d6fd19)
Keep Reading … (#u729af571-fb16-5f3f-8597-21d192b45f55)
About the Publisher (#u4a7f5ec3-25fc-5c51-8e3c-bd54b331a189)
With loving thanks to my mum, for always believing in me.
And to my dad for proudly reading everything I wrote –
I wish you were here to read Tell the Truth.
Prologue (#ulink_19cc1dae-7679-5942-9359-ef901a101269)
Born or made? In my genes, or was it what happened to me as a child? Maybe I was dropped on my head at birth.
I laugh inside. They tried to find out once: the shrinks. They talked to me for hours, those who thought they knew. They couldn’t see I would kill again.
I never meant to kill the first time – extinguish a life. Yes, the anger bubbled even then, but it wasn’t meant to end in death.
The second kill was different. I sent David and Janet Green up in smoke like a Guy Fawkes effigy. They deserved to die. To scream as flames licked their bodies, and thick, black smoke invaded their lungs.
It was the same with Ronan, and again with Flora.
They all deserved to die.
Now there are more lives to take. But this time I’m going to make a game of it – have some fun. And when the game is over, I will drop off the edge of the world, into oblivion, my job here done.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_67dc75bd-3a27-5160-a92c-db2a5cb1b860)
December 2017
The soft sofa felt as though it might swallow me. Suffocate me in its bright yellow fabric. I wasn’t keen on yellow, unless worn by a daffodil or buttercup. It tended to reflect off my normally healthy-looking skin, giving me an unflattering jaundiced complexion that clashed with my blood-red hair.
It was hot in the TV studio, but it was too late to remove my hoodie. The clock said almost eleven, and Emmy – the nation’s favourite morning presenter – had flicked me the nod. She was about to introduce me.
But I was crumbling, anxiety flooding through my veins. I had an excuse. Lawrence had left me.
A cameraman slid his heavy camera across the studio floor towards me. It seemed threatening somehow – a metal monster. I rolled my tongue over my dry lips, my throat closing up. Was I going to cope? I reached for the glass of sparkling water beside me, and gulped it back. I was about to talk about childhood memories to millions of people sitting in front of their TV sets at home. How was I going to do that, when I couldn’t shake Lawrence’s departure last night from my head?
Emmy finished telling the viewers about Stephen King’s latest novel – another nod in my direction. She had a pile of hardbacks on the table in front of her: Stephen King, Paula Hawkins, and Felix T Clarke. If she’d asked for my opinion I would have told her I love them all. That I adored Inspector Bronte, Felix T Clarke’s character who had come to life in over ten novels.
I scanned the studio, trying to stop my knee from jumping, still amazed Emmy had swung it for me to be here.
‘You’re perfect, Rachel,’ the producer had said when I met her. ‘The public will love your casual style, and your pixie cut is appealing – you’ve got a bit of a post-Hermione Emma Watson thing going on.’
I wish.
Five years ago, Lawrence loved my look, which, come to think of it, hadn’t changed since then. Perhaps that’s why he left. But then he’d once loved that I was a casual kind of gal, who lived in jeans, T-shirts, and hoodies. They say opposites attract, so when did I start to repel him? When did I pass my sell-by date in Lawrence’s eyes? When was the first time he suggested I wore heels, or that I might look good in a figure-hugging dress?
‘I want Grace in my life, Rach,’ he’d said last night about our four-year-old daughter, folding his arms across his toned chest. He didn’t have to say but not you –the words were in his eyes.
I admit I over-reacted, fired abuse at him, hoping to inflict pain. ‘I’ll move away. You won’t see Grace, if I have anything to do with it.’
He said I was over-reacting – that I should calm down. ‘I’ll get my solicitor onto it right away,’ he’d gone on, far too calm. ‘We’ll sort something out to suit us both. This can work. We can stay friends.’ And then he’d disappeared through the front door without a backward glance.
I confess to getting pretty angry with some inanimate objects after a couple – five – glasses of wine. But the truth was I’d been thinking for a while that our relationship wasn’t right. He worked long hours. I barely saw him. I’d wondered more than once if we were only together for Grace’s sake. But it still hurt. The memories of when things seemed perfect kept prodding my mind. And his timing was awful. How could he leave when he knew what I was going through with Mum? Or was that partly why he left?
‘We are lucky to have brilliant psychotherapist Rachel Hogan, who once worked for the prestigious Bell and Brooks Clinic in Kensington, in the studio with us today,’ Emmy was saying, bringing me out of my reverie. She didn’t mention that I now ran a private practice in a summerhouse at the foot of the long, narrow garden of my rented end-terrace in Finsbury Park.
The camera was on me, and my heart hammered in my chest. You can do this, Rachel. You can do this. The point was, if I did this right, they might ask me back for a regular slot – that’s what Emmy had said – so I needed to throw a metaphoric bucket of cold water over my feelings, and get on with it.
Emmy had been one of my clients for about a year. Looking at her now – her pale ginger hair spiralling over her shoulders, her sparkly green eyes, the sprinkle of freckles on her nose, her beaming smile – you would never have guessed the torment she’d been through. The persona she’d created for TV never gave that away. Although for a time, the medication had helped pull it off.
‘Hi, guys,’ I said, waving at the camera, trying not to imagine the number of people watching. ‘I’m here to talk about childhood memories. We’ve all got them, but how real are they? And what about those we’ve repressed, ones that lurk in the dark corners of our minds? In our subconscious.’
My confidence grew as I spoke – it was a subject I knew well.
Emmy chipped in. ‘I remember my second birthday party. My parents bought me a toy monkey with a huge red bow. And when I was three I had a little pushchair for my dolls, and I would take them for walks round the garden.’
I was wrong-footed. She’d lost her mum when she was a child, and now, in front of millions, I was about to extinguish her recollections.
‘Sadly, it’s unlikely they are real memories,’ I said, running my finger over my dry lips, as I looked her way.
‘Oh,’ she said, raising a brow, and giving a strange little laugh. ‘So, you’re saying I don’t remember my second birthday party?’ She’d lost her smile.
‘Well, it is possible, but rare to recall things from before the age of three or four. In fact, few memories are stored before the age of six. You may have kept the monkey and pushchair for years.’
‘I did, yes, Vanessa the monkey was my favourite toy until I was about twelve.’ Her smile was back – always so professional. ‘And before you ask, I’ve no idea why I chose that name.’
‘Maybe you’ve seen photographs of you pushing the pushchair?’
‘Oh yes, tons. My mum took mountains of pictures of me when I was little.’
There was a slight dip in her voice that only I would pick up on. I felt awful. I knew I’d hurt her, and wanted her to look my way so I could mouth that I was sorry, but she didn’t catch my eye.
Once the camera was back on me, I said, ‘I had a toy rabbit called Mr Snookum as a child.’ I smiled. ‘I still have him stashed away in my loft. My mother told me she gave him to me on my fifth birthday, and I’m sure I remember her handing him over and telling me to always take care of him.’ My voice quavered, and a lump rose in my throat. My poor mum. My poor, poor mum. I swallowed, and took a breath. ‘But I can’t be sure the memory is real. Vivid recollections of my childhood start much later, particularly her painting on the beach at Southwold.’ I gave a little cough to ward off my stupid emotions. ‘She’s an artist.’ Why am I sharing this with the nation?
My slot seemed to go on for ages, as I continued to discuss childhood amnesia, and the different methods of retrieving infant memories. I did my best to put on a front, hoping I was making a good impression.
Then it was the phone-in. The bit I’d dreaded most.
A woman suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder came on the line, and I went through breathing and muscle relaxing exercises with her, and suggested meditation and yoga. ‘Spending time with nature can be beneficial too,’ I concluded.
Next, a man suffering with agoraphobia called in.
‘Do you think it’s something in my childhood that I can’t recall, causing me to stay in my apartment day in, day out?’ He sounded defeated, on the verge of tears.
What a ridiculous position I was in. How was I meant to answer someone I knew nothing about?
‘Could be,’ I said. ‘Call your doctor as soon as possible. They can advise you.’ Pathetic!
‘We have John Burton on the line, Rachel,’ Emmy said, once the agoraphobic man had hung up. She pressed her finger to her ear, as though listening through her earpiece.
‘Hello, John,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’
‘Polly put the kettle on,’ he sang. ‘Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, we’ll all have tea.’
‘Do you remember that nursery rhyme from your childhood, John?’ I said, feeling uneasy, and glancing over at Emmy.
There was a pause, before he said, ‘Yes.’
Emmy furrowed her brow, and shrugged. Surely they would cut him off. Blame a poor connection.
‘What age do you think you were when you heard it?’ I asked, trying to sound professional.
‘Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, they’ve all gone away.’
The hairs on my arms rose, despite the heat of the studio.
‘I’m crying out,’ he said. ‘But they won’t listen. And now you must pay, Rachel.’ The line went dead, and within moments we went to a commercial break.
‘Oh my God,’ Emmy said as soon as we were off the air, jumping up and dashing over. She plonked down next to me, and put her arm around my shoulder. ‘Why the hell did they keep him on the line so long?’
I didn’t reply; instead, I dashed off set, barely looking at the concerned faces following me through the door. I rushed through the labyrinth of corridors, desperately seeking an exit, my heart thumping. Eventually I spotted the automatic doors that led to the car park, and raced through them, freezing air hitting me like a smack. I stood for some moments, my eyes darting around the area, trying to catch my breath.
I drove home, relieved Emmy was still on the air and couldn’t call me. I needed time to process what had happened, before discussing it. I collected Grace from Angela, keeping the conversation with my next-door neighbour brief so she didn’t see how anxious I was. ‘You knocked them dead, sweetie,’ she said in her throaty middle-class way, as I dashed down her path, holding Grace’s hand.
‘Thanks,’ I called back, certain she couldn’t have seen the live show.
Inside my house, with the bolts pulled across the door and the deadlock on, my heartbeat slowed to a normal rate. Grace settled herself in the lounge, building with Lego, and I padded into the kitchen to make tea, the song ‘Polly put the Kettle on’ worming its way into my head on repeat, driving up my anxiety.
I rummaged in the freezer for fish fingers for Grace’s lunch. As I closed the freezer door, I noticed a photo of Lawrence and me on holiday a couple of years ago, pinned amongst the magnetic letters. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, and touched Lawrence’s face with my outstretched fingertip. We were happy once. Weren’t we?
‘Mummy!’
I jumped at the sound of my daughter’s voice, dropping the box of fish fingers to the floor with a thud. I fell to my knees.
‘Are you OK, Mummy?’ Grace said, running over and crouching beside me, as I shoved broken fish fingers back into the box with shaking hands. She craned her neck to see my face, touching my cheek softly, and I realised tears were filling my eyes.
‘Don’t cry,’ she said.
‘I’m not crying, lovely. I’ve got something in my eye.’
What the hell was the matter with me? Was it Lawrence taking off, or the stupid call? I took a deep breath, trying to escape the silly nursery rhyme in my head. It’s just some weirdo. A troll. Nothing personal.
I rose and slipped the battered box onto the worktop, and lifted Grace up into my arms, burying my nose into her dark curls. She smelt of strawberry shampoo. ‘So did you have a lovely time with Angela?’ I said, as the kettle boiled.
***
The phone blasted on my bedside table. It was 7 a.m. Only one person would ring so early – someone who got up at five.
‘Emmy,’ I said as I answered the call, my voice croaky.
‘I’m so sorry about the odd phone call yesterday, Rachel,’ she said. If she’d been angry about my comments on air about her childhood, she’d let it go.
‘It wasn’t your fault. And I’m sorry too … for rushing off like that.’
‘No worries. You dealt with it all amazingly while you were on air. After the break we had that cute contestant from The Bake Off on, and carried on as though nothing had happened. There’s been a few tweets about it, but nothing major.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Live TV, especially phone-ins, can be a nightmare.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ I said, pulling myself up to a sitting position, and propping myself against the headboard.
‘I still can’t believe they let him stay on the line for so long.’ Her TV persona was confident, loud and bubbly, yet the real Emmy – the one on the other end of the line, was softly spoken. ‘The guys handling the phone lines said he sounded upbeat and friendly when he called in. Had a great question to ask you.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, raking my fingers through my hair. Despite ‘Polly put the Kettle on’ playing in my head during the night, I felt sure I was over the call. Lawrence had left. My mum was ill. I wasn’t about to let some creepy caller add another layer of worry to my life. ‘It was just some fool with nothing better to do,’ I said, sounding strong. ‘I’m sure the call wasn’t aimed at me personally.’
‘I’m not so sure, Rach,’ she said. Words I didn’t want to hear. The phone line went quiet for a few moments, and I imagined her twirling a curl of her hair around her finger, forming the words she sometimes struggled to get out. A trauma twelve months ago had triggered a childhood stammer, although she could mainly control it now and rarely stuttered on air. ‘The thing is …’
‘What is it, Emmy?’ I leaned forward on the bed, and threw back my quilt, suddenly hot. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened exactly,’ she went on. ‘And to be honest, I’ve been deliberating over whether to tell you – but then I feel you should know. Just in case.’
‘Just in case what?’ The hairs on my arms rose.
‘The thing is, a man came to the studio looking for you earlier this morning.’
‘Was it the man who called in?’ Is that fear in my voice?
‘No. Well, I don’t think so. I don’t know who he was, but he was quite normal, nothing like the bloke on the phone. He was waiting outside when I arrived. He’d been there a while, as he was soaked through.’
‘It’s raining?’ I glanced at the window. Part of me didn’t want to hear what she had to say. Let’s talk about the weather instead.
‘It’s dried up now. Rach, are you taking this in? Did you hear what I said?’
I nodded, as though she could see me, before rising and pacing the room. ‘Of course. Yes.’
‘He didn’t tell me his name, despite me asking several times.’ Another pause. ‘Just that he was desperate to talk to you. I hope I’ve done the right thing in telling you. I thought you should know.’
Just in case.
‘Yes, yes thanks, Emmy. You did the right thing.’
‘He looked nice. Normal,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, Rachel. Listen, I must go, I’m back on the air in five. Talk soon. And please don’t worry.’ She ended the call before I could answer.
It’s nothing, I told myself, continuing to pace the bedroom. I’d been on TV. Things like this happen all the time. But my neck tingled, and a chill ran through my body. Had it been the same man who called in to the studio?
And if it was, why was he looking for me?
Chapter 2 (#ulink_896ebd5a-62ad-5d94-96a2-ac05f9464051)
February 2018
We were on our way. Zoe driving, me holding on to the overhead handle, knuckles turning white.
She always drove too fast, and was taking the car to seventy mph along dark, narrow roads. Twigs, like bony fingers, scraped the window as she raced past the hedgerow, barely missing oncoming traffic. Despite the harrowing journey, I was looking forward to the evening ahead with my friend. It would be good to unwind, and I loved being with Zoe. She was the tonic to my gin.
It had been a long two months since Lawrence left. At first I was grieving, I supposed – well, I’d certainly wanted him dead. But after an initial love affair with gin and chocolate – a useless attempt to shave off the sharp edges of my crap life – I’d almost accepted we were over, and my sadness was now fully focused on my mum.
I still hadn’t come to terms with her early onset dementia, and wasn’t sure I ever would. In fact, sometimes, on bad days, it was as though I’d already lost her, and yet she was still here, reminding me of the life we’d once had together.
I’d first noticed the signs a year ago, just before her fiftieth birthday. The confusion and forgetfulness I’d witnessed back then would later be attributed to Alzheimer’s. It hadn’t seemed possible, and her rapid decline had made it even crueller.
Zoe reached over and turned up the radio, as she sang along to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. It was as though she’d forgotten I was there. Zoned in to her singing, she continued to swing her red Clio along the spiralling country roads towards the spa, seeming oblivious to the frosty February evening – the chance of ice on the road. A sprinkling of snow had coated the pavement earlier, and the forecast promised snowstorms heading from Siberia. Slow down! Please.
I stared her way, and as though sensing my eyes on her, she turned, and stopped mid-Galileo.
‘You OK, Rachel?’ she said, tucking her chestnut-brown hair behind her ears with both hands.
‘Hands on the wheel, Zoe, for Christ’s sake,’ I yelled.
‘Jeez, you don’t have to shout,’ she said, doing as I asked. ‘Are you OK?’ she repeated.
‘Of course.’ I smiled. Tonight I was determined to purge thoughts of Mum’s illness from my head and de-stress. Enjoy myself. Lawrence had Grace for the weekend, and the care home had my mobile number. I could relax. It was Friday night. Surely I was allowed to chill every so often, uncoil my tension.
‘Almost there,’ Zoe said, slowing down. ‘I’ve booked us both in for a facial and a head massage, and maybe we could swim too.’ She didn’t wait for a response. She knew what she’d said. ‘Oh God.’ She covered her mouth. ‘I’m such an idiot.’
‘It’s OK. It’s no big deal.’ I smiled, and patted her arm, wishing I hadn’t told her about my fear of water – I didn’t like to make a fuss about it. ‘Actually, I fancy a long read on a hotbed. I’ve brought my Kindle.’
Her eyes were glued on me as I spoke, and her car veered to the right. ‘Keep your eyes on the road or you’ll kill something,’ I cried, although I felt sure it would be us if we didn’t reach our destination soon.
I was relieved when she indicated and pulled onto a sweeping drive, lit by white lights. She manoeuvred into a space in front of Mulberry Hall. I hadn’t been here since it became a spa.
As she pulled on the handbrake, I picked up my bag from the car well, unzipped it, and rummaged for my phone. I found myself constantly checking for missed calls from the care home. My mum had nobody but me. She’d never been one for making friends – a bit of a recluse in many ways – and my grandparents had died before I was born in a car accident. She’d never been close with them anyway, she told me once.
There were no missed calls, only a notification on Facebook. I clicked on the app. ‘Ooh, I’ve got a friend request.’
Zoe glanced over. ‘Well it can wait, can’t it?’ she said, getting out. ‘We totally need pampering.’
I slipped my phone back in my bag, and jumped from the car, eyes scanning the prestigious Victorian building. Both the spa and the luxury apartments had once been an insane asylum, and later a psychiatric hospital.
‘I fancied buying one of those apartments when I moved this way,’ Zoe said, nodding towards Mulberry Hall. ‘But allegedly it’s haunted by old patients.’ She wiggled her fingers and made a howling, ghost-like sound.
‘Oh for God’s sake, Zoe.’ She looked amazing in a red three-quarter-length coat with a fur trim, over tight-fitting leggings and expensive trainers. She was tall, slim, elegant; whereas I was small, and a whisker away from chubby when I’d been on a chocolate binge. A flash of memory came and went – Lawrence telling me that ‘with a bit of effort’ I could look as good as Zoe.
I zipped up my hoodie and hunched my shoulders against the cold, my teeth chattering.
‘They used to do awful things here in the late 1800s,’ she said, her eyes skittering over the building. ‘What a terrible time to have lived if you showed any signs of not fitting the mould.’
‘Mmm.’ I glanced at the towering building. ‘Put in asylums for no good reason half the time.’
‘I know. You could have been admitted for anything from novel-reading to nymphomania – so that’s me admitted.’
‘I didn’t know you read novels.’
‘I don’t.’ She burst out laughing, and I laughed too. ‘Seriously though,’ she said, sighing. ‘They would even admit poor souls for grieving.’
‘It’s hard to believe now how terrible the mental health system was back then.’
‘The treatments were awful. They would immerse patients in ponds until they were unconscious, or tie them naked to a chair and pour cold water over them.’ She looked about her and shivered. ‘I wouldn’t want to be out here alone,’ she said. ‘There’s something spooky about this place, don’t you think?’
I shrugged. It was quiet, yes – but it seemed peaceful, and the apartments were stunning. Anyway, I didn’t believe in ghosts. Truth was, I was more scared of the living.
‘I saw a ghost once,’ she said. ‘When I was a child, I slept with my arm dangling out of the bed. I woke one night feeling certain something cold had touched my hand.’ She shuddered. ‘A girl in blue stood by my bed.’
‘A dream?’ Tingles crawled up my neck, despite my determination not to believe in the paranormal.
‘It must have been. Although I never slept with my arm out of the bed after that.’ She laughed. ‘Let’s go inside before we freeze to death.’
I looked over my shoulder, trying to imagine lost souls looking down from the many apartment windows. And despite only seeing the stunning apartments, lit by what I imagined were happy dwellers, I couldn’t help wondering what secrets the walls held.
As we walked, Zoe nodded towards the lower building we were heading for, built from the same mustard-coloured brick as the apartments. ‘Apparently the swimming pool is where the morgue used to be,’ she said, reaching the door.
‘Good God,’ I said with a laugh. ‘I’m actually glad I don’t swim.’
‘Hello, ladies,’ said the man behind the counter as we approached, his Irish accent charming. He was in his early forties, with a sprinkling of grey in his dark hair.
‘I’m the manager, Connor Mahoney.’ His eyes drifted to Zoe, a look of appreciation on his face. Men seemed to like her.
‘Zoe Marsh,’ she said.
While he glanced at his computer screen and tapped on his keyboard, I studied Zoe’s perfectly made-up face, her blemish-free skin, her full lips, and her perfect eyebrows. I tended to hide my brows under my fringe. I’d never got the hang of plucking, and now power-brows were the in thing, and I hadn’t got the first clue how to shape and fill them. I’d been a bit of a tomboy when I was a kid, so never acquired the skills to be feminine – but it had never bothered me.
Zoe owned a salon in Islington, so knew ways to highlight her beauty, and make men notice. ‘Come along to my salon sometime,’ she’d often said. ‘I could do your colours.’ I never had. I suppose I was happy as I was, with my boxed hair dye, and my cheap-as-chips make-up.
We’d met at a yoga group about six months ago and hit it off. I’d seen her a few times before we finally got chatting, and admired how she’d managed to make all the moves look so graceful. Whereas I’d made the mountain pose look more like a molehill. I was quite sporty – fastest in my class at the hundred-metre sprint when I was twelve – but elegant yoga poses, I struggled with.
‘So you’re both booked in for a facial in an hour,’ Connor said, looking up from the screen.
‘I don’t suppose you could book me in for a full-body massage,’ Zoe said. Her words were tangibly flirtatious.
‘Sorry, we’re fully booked,’ he said, his eyes locking with hers. There was an instant chemistry, and I suddenly felt like a ham sandwich at a vegan wedding.
He handed us robes and towels, and gestured for us to go through the frosted-glass doors. ‘We’ll just take some details and then you can enjoy your evening.’
As we headed towards the hotbeds, Zoe smiled. ‘He’s rather nice, don’t you think?’
‘I guess so,’ I said, and then whispered, ‘But what about Hank?’
She stopped suddenly and covered her mouth with her hand, her chin crinkling.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I said, stopping, and two women walked into us. ‘Sorry,’ I said, as they skirted round us, rolling their eyes and muttering. ‘We should have brake lights,’ I called after them, but they didn’t look back. ‘What’s wrong?’ I repeated, my attention back on Zoe, whose eyes had filled with tears.
‘We broke up.’ She removed her hand from her mouth, and slapped the tears from her cheeks. Straightening her back, she carried on walking.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I was going to tell you earlier, but didn’t want to ruin the evening. I still love him, Rach. Always will. But I can’t handle it any more.’
‘The drugs?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve tried so hard. You know that, right?’
‘I know you have, lovely,’ I said, linking arms with her and pulling her close, so we walked as one.
‘He’s never going to listen. The other day I found him so out of it, I thought he was dead.’
‘Oh God, Zoe. You can’t live like that.’
‘I know.’ She sniffed, her eyes still watery. ‘It was the final straw. I can’t bear to think that one day I will find him dead.’ She dashed another tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.
‘Of course you can’t.’
I’d only seen Hank a few times. He would pace the pavement some distance away, while waiting for Zoe to finish yoga. And even from across a busy road, I noticed his skin was far too pale, his clothes dishevelled, and his whole demeanour agitated.
‘He still refuses to get help, so for my own sanity I walked out on Tuesday.’
‘You’ve done the right thing, lovely,’ I said, fishing a tissue from my bag and handing it to her. ‘You’ve done everything you can.’
‘Thanks. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate your support,’ she said, dabbing her cheeks. ‘And I know I sound a bit cold flirting with Connor – but I need the distraction, and I suppose the comfort. It’s been hell with Hank for a long time.’
‘You have to do what’s right for you,’ was all I could muster.
‘Life’s short and all that,’ she said.
It wasn’t until later, as I relaxed on a lounger, that I looked at the friend request I’d received earlier. My heart sank as I opened it. I was expecting a long-lost friend, or even a boyfriend wanting to meet up because he’d heard about my breakup with Lawrence – but it wasn’t a name I recognised.
David Green: CONFIRM/DELETE REQUEST
It was no big deal, I told myself. Lots of people got requests from strangers. But then I’d never had anything like it before. My anxiety rose, though I couldn’t put my finger on why.
The temptation was too much. I clicked on his profile. David Green’s profile picture was an image of a lake. His cover photo was of a row of grey houses with red front doors, the words ‘Mandan Road, County Sligo’ at the foot of the picture. He had no friends that I could see, and his timeline only revealed one status update:
Here comes a candle to light you to bed
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head
Below the words was a cartoon gif of a blazing fire.
I shuddered, trying to convince myself it must be a mistake, or some kind of joke. But my heart hammered in my chest. I was born in County Sligo. My mother grew up there. Was it a coincidence? And if so, why did I suddenly feel so vulnerable?
Chapter 3 (#ulink_268a84d8-8b5e-5b3c-87ae-92d15d38f095)
July 1995
The flames dance like magical beings – telling me I’m right – telling me they deserve to die.
They’d left the back door open, so it was all so easy.
And now I can see David from my window. He can’t get out of the bedroom. I wedged a chair under the door handle.
‘Help!’ he cries as he presses on the glass; well, I think that’s what he’s yelling. I can’t be sure. I’m too far away to hear.
‘Nobody will help you,’ I whisper.
He looks down and I wonder if he’s going to leap from the bedroom window, but the fire grips his pyjamas, and his face changes shape as he cries out in agony. He slips out of sight.
I draw the curtains, rest my head on the pillow, and close my eyes.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_f74f4796-ac0d-5acb-8b31-a876f1ecf955)
February 1987
Laura let herself into the house she grew up in. It was hers now. The house her father built, with its oversized windows and oddly angled sloping roof, far too modern for the stunning surroundings. The towering trees and wildlife looked on and laughed at it – that’s what she’d thought as a child.
A flick of the light switch illuminated the lounge, the paintings on the walls, the vases cradling dead flowers. The wealth was tangible. Her parents had had far too much: spoilt children wanting more, more, more. Except they’d never wanted her, had they?
Laura flung her denim jacket onto the sprawling leather sofa, and attempted to push the creases of the journey from her orange kaftan. She’d been staying at a hotel in Sligo Town for two weeks. Now she was here, and the shock of her parents’ death was slowly wearing off, bubbles of anger rose in her chest.
She dived towards the drinks cabinet, poured vodka into a cut-glass tumbler, and placed it to her lips. With a jolt, she remembered.
You’re pregnant. You fool.
She abandoned the drink and padded towards the window, barely able to see into the darkness – just a reflection of the room and her still-willowy shape. She would be isolated here, in this ridiculous house she’d inherited, along with far too much money. She would sell soon – once she felt she could move on with her life.
Thoughts of Jude swam into her head. ‘There’s been an accident,’ she’d told him three weeks ago. And when he took her into his arms, she’d buried her head in his shoulder, breathing in the smell of his Brut aftershave, and Consulate cigarettes. She’d hoped at that moment he’d changed his mind. That he would put her and their unborn child before his law degree, before his monstrous parents. That he would care enough to stay.
‘They’re in intensive care,’ she’d gone on. ‘Will you come to Sligo with me? I need you, Jude.’
He’d pulled away, his grey eyes cold – the shock of finding out a few days before that he would be a father still reflecting on his handsome face. He looked too young to be a parent, but then she was young too.
‘You know I can’t, Laura. I’m sorry. Please think about a termination.’ He’d said it so softly, that the word termination didn’t sound so bad. But the truth was, she was already attached to the baby growing inside her – even if it was only the size of a peanut. This would be her and Jude’s child.
She’d cried as he pulled on his jacket, and dragged his woollen hat over his dark curls. And with a final, ‘I’m so sorry,’ he opened the door, and disappeared into the night.
Controlling her desire to race after him, she’d dashed up the stairs to her rented room, flopped onto her bed, and cried into the early hours.
The following morning, her holdall slung over her shoulder, she headed for Connolly Station, and boarded a train for the three-hour journey to Sligo.
She’d told no one she was pregnant. Not that there was anyone to tell. The people she’d rented with had never been close, and although she had friends at university in her first year, falling for Jude meant she’d let them slip away. Even before uni, growing up in her parents’ isolated house meant she’d had few friends – and part of her liked it that way.
As the train rattled along the tracks, she placed her hands on her stomach, imagining her child with Jude’s curls and cute nose, rather than her straw-like hair and sharp features. But it would have her blue eyes – an amazing child that Jude wouldn’t be able to resist, once he’d had time to reflect. He would love their baby. They would be happy. The three of them.
‘Your mother’s gone,’ the nurse had told her when she reached the hospital. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
A crushing numbness took over. She’ll never love me now. Her eyes ached, but no tears came. She’d dreamt that one day she would be close to her mother – that they might even become friends. It had been a ludicrous dream.
The nurse touched her arm gently. ‘Would you like to see your father?’ she said, after a few moments. ‘Although I must warn you, he’s in a poor way.’
The week that followed had been long and painful. Her father was attached to drips, and the beeps of the monitor penetrated Laura’s head, making it ache. He had been an arrogant man – so vain. Yet now he was swollen and bruised, and she cursed the wicked thought that invaded her head, as she sat by his side. You deserve this.
But still she visited each day, waiting for it all to be over.
‘Why?’ she asked him on day five, a question that spanned so much. But he never woke.
Why did you always drive so fast? Had it been for Mum? Her mother had loved the wind in her hair, as he treated back roads like racetracks.
Laura had been told the woman coming the other way had died instantly. That the child strapped in the back had survived. A child lost her mother because of you.
It was on the seventh day she asked, ‘Why didn’t you want me?’ A tear finally rolled down her cheek, and she imagined for a moment that he squeezed her hand – that he was saying he was sorry. But there was no way he could have. He’d died ten minutes earlier.
And now, Laura stood in her parents’ house, her hair damp from a shower and loose about her shoulders, her feet bare on the cold wooden floor. She knew she wouldn’t go back to university – to the room her parents had paid for. It was time for her to get off the merry-go-round of life, pause time until she had the strength to climb back on – and what better place to come to terms with her parents’ death, her pregnancy, and Jude letting her down, than here in this isolated house in the middle of nowhere?
The phone blasted, bringing her out of her reverie, and she raced to pick it up.
‘Jude,’ she said, twirling the phone cord around her fingers. He was the only one she’d given her parents’ number to.
‘It’s Abi.’
Laura froze. She’d been friendly with Abi in her first year, but she didn’t need her right now.
‘I just wondered if you’re OK,’ Abi went on. ‘Jude told me about your parents. He gave me this number – I hope you don’t mind me calling.’
‘I’m fine, Abi. Honestly. I just need some time out, that’s all.’
‘Well, give me a call, won’t you, if you need anything. I can come up and see you at the weekend, if you’d like me to.’
‘No.’ It came out too sharp. Abi was a good person. ‘Sorry. It’s just I’m fine. I don’t need anyone right now.’
‘Well, OK then. But you know where I am …’
‘I do. Thanks.’
Laura ended the call. The only person she needed right now was Jude.
She cupped her hand over her eyes, and peered through the window, and into the woods, her nose touching the glass. The lake where she’d swum as a child was visible through the glade. There had been some happy moments, hadn’t there?
She narrowed her eyes. Someone was out there, by a distant tree. She blinked. She was tired, imagining things. The area had been deserted when she first arrived, and the nearest life a farm half a mile away. It was the shadows – the shapes of the hedgerow playing tricks.
She lowered the blind and spun round, her eyes skittering around the room. An oil painting of her parents filled the wall above the fireplace. That would have to go. In fact she would bag up most of their stuff and give it to charity. Her father would die again if he knew.
She grabbed her holdall and climbed the twisting staircase, and then stood in the doorway of her old room for the first time in two years. When she’d gone off to the University of Dublin to study art, she’d never looked back, never called – not once. Deep sadness consumed her.
She padded into the room, lifting books from the shelves. They were all educational – no Noddy or Famous Five. Her parents had expected so much of her. It was probably for the best they’d never known about the baby – that she’d made the decision to drop out of university.
Laura had begged her parents for a toy rabbit when she was a child, like Jenny’s at school. ‘Babyish,’ her father had said. She’d been seven at the time.
My child will have toys – all the toys they desire.
She flopped onto the bed, eyes wide and looking at the ceiling, imagining her parents’ awful accident on Devil’s Corner – and how the poor woman had died. Had it been instant? Had the little girl in the back seat witnessed it, or had she been sleeping? How would such a young child cope without her mother?
She felt suddenly cold, and pulled the duvet over her. She curled into a tight ball, cradling her knees.
‘We’ll be OK, little one,’ she told her unborn child, her eyes growing heavy. ‘When Daddy comes, everything will be all right.’
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Amanda Brittany
TELL THE TRUTHOr they’ll tell it for you…Rachel’s childhood is a mess of fragmented memories, and her adult life is no less chaotic.Her mother and daughter were her only concrete links to the past and now they are slipping through her fingers. Fuelled by the fear of losing them both, she delves into her mother’s past, fast becoming entangled in her own tragic history.With eerie friend requests filling Rachel’s phone and shocking flashbacks filling her mind, she is plagued by her mother’s past, and soon realises that her entire life might just be a lie.Will she ever discover the truth?From the bestselling author of HER LAST LIE comes a chilling new thriller you won’t want to miss! It will have you questioning your own relationships and doubting if everyone in your life is who they say they are.Perfect for fans of The Girl on the Train and He Said / She Said.Praise for Amanda Brittany:‘An exciting new voice – Brittany reels readers in with this twisty, clever thriller that will have you second-guessing everything…’ Phoebe Morgan, author of The Doll House‘Brilliant, pacey, and will leave you suspecting everyone is involved!’ Darren O’Sullivan, author of Our Little Secret‘I was drawn in right from the rather original prologue and did not see that twist coming!’ Diane Jeffrey, author of Those Who Lie‘A triumph!’ James H on Amazon‘With all the right ingredients to keep you on the edge of your seat.’ Bookworm on Amazon‘Brittany got my attention from the get go’ Rosemary Smith on Netgalley‘Gripping and twisty, another book added to my best reads of this year list.’ Julia Beales on NetGalley‘If you like thrillers, read this and you will not be disappointed. If you’re not a thriller reader, try it anyway!’ A Reader on Amazon‘I loved this fast-paced, atmospheric, scary book.’ DeeLovesBooks on Amazon‘I can’t wait to read more from this talented new novelist.’ PSMode on Amazon
About the Author (#u94f38a5f-599b-540b-9e0f-2f21f73d4db1)
AMANDA BRITTANY lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and two dogs. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with family, travelling, walking, reading & sunny days. Her debut novel Her Last Lie reached the Kindle top 100 in the US and Australia and was a #1 Bestseller in the UK. All her eBook royalties for Her Last Lie are being donated to Cancer Research UK, in memory of her sister who lost her battle with cancer in July 2017. It has so far raised almost £7,000.
Visit amandabrittany.co.uk (http://www.amandabrittany.co.uk) to find out more.
Praise for Amanda Brittany (#u94f38a5f-599b-540b-9e0f-2f21f73d4db1)
‘An exciting new voice – Brittany reels readers in with this twisty, clever thriller that will have you second-guessing everything …’
Phoebe Morgan, author of The Doll House
‘Brilliant, pacey, and will leave you suspecting everyone is involved!’
Darren O’Sullivan, author of Our Little Secret
‘I was drawn in right from the rather original prologue and did not see that twist coming!’
Diane Jeffrey, author of Those Who Lie’
Also by Amanda Brittany (#u94f38a5f-599b-540b-9e0f-2f21f73d4db1)
Her Last Lie
Tell The Truth
AMANDA BRITTANY
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Amanda Brittany 2018
Amanda Brittany asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © December 2018 ISBN: 9780008305390
Version: 2018-11-28
Table of Contents
Cover (#u3e20818e-a8f9-5a2f-823d-c6520efa2cf4)
About the Author (#u9bcdc007-bad9-501d-a452-d6e7103feffe)
Praise for Amanda Brittany (#u7f9dd079-3dc6-5eb7-8149-e486e1e51a48)
Also by Amanda Brittany (#ub451d78a-0aaa-5054-b2c8-6a3e052858ea)
Title Page (#ud8e7f2b7-649d-5ca5-83f7-49ebafd4155e)
Copyright (#u41202a14-54a8-5c30-a393-42b5da904cbf)
Dedication (#udfb1047f-0543-5d20-ad8d-ab005a14b8bb)
Prologue (#u2bddbce3-1f6a-508d-b8cb-7a7cd4fb1e30)
Chapter 1 (#u54a1ed78-23bb-5902-9c1d-11a50443a0e9)
Chapter 2 (#u81b6cd51-a7b4-52f3-8edd-44b7b0d823a1)
Chapter 3 (#u8087d65c-8a17-5066-9a4f-4141c71b760c)
Chapter 4 (#u3ddc5290-58b4-5413-b8c8-6af27416c629)
Chapter 5 (#ue32d7027-9344-559e-bac5-7e0994d9080b)
Chapter 6 (#uebe3bb3c-4600-5c6d-a387-99d2e4a782d7)
Chapter 7 (#uc05e9977-13fe-5087-b08c-ad79e472b75c)
Chapter 8 (#u92c3be57-a617-5216-9e4d-bb6caaab9135)
Chapter 9 (#u862bd0b3-0835-577c-95a8-ef6f18a1557b)
Chapter 10 (#u077a20d7-c977-5abe-99d8-e437ad7ab423)
Chapter 11 (#u43d10acd-6be1-5c8d-9362-78bdf62253dd)
Chapter 12 (#ud3677b26-e6f3-5a71-a18a-0004b158ded3)
Chapter 13 (#u0fb89917-c15a-5ccd-9f4f-ee5de2ebc295)
Chapter 14 (#uf6ec8754-0998-5a1f-aa73-41b4a1309a2b)
Chapter 15 (#u72c99349-f760-51d0-ae01-a5517dcc556a)
Chapter 16 (#ubed36c10-d3f8-5947-a481-4a8dda7a1827)
Chapter 17 (#ua79dce2c-441d-559e-b23c-2aa3594aeeec)
Chapter 18 (#u569ec463-ada5-582b-96a3-c41ab30f64e7)
Chapter 19 (#ua551f7f5-5a16-5380-a9ef-87dee1a327ab)
Chapter 20 (#ua7d074a5-ed84-5527-ac95-e0d4f61452d7)
Chapter 21 (#u38116e97-1067-53c0-b3b4-9a585e9f9108)
Chapter 22 (#u6676be17-3875-5184-a3d0-65f25bd5273a)
Chapter 23 (#ufd075375-8647-5506-8ef2-225f25890e24)
Chapter 24 (#u6c6c093c-c55a-5db2-83a6-899ad40641e9)
Chapter 25 (#u82d07c47-653a-55db-be3c-69f439dbffa6)
Chapter 26 (#u6b969d22-d6f3-5a28-92b5-0560802ec9a1)
Chapter 27 (#u32856f68-0689-559e-bbfa-629bacf18d18)
Chapter 28 (#ue2270b90-bde8-5377-a5c3-6f95282b9c69)
Chapter 29 (#u9b9a2d2a-98df-54ee-8692-94822a74fbb2)
Chapter 30 (#u75c587b9-175f-54d5-a139-526f5cb9eb5d)
Chapter 31 (#u7a193f17-9a1a-5eb2-890d-041bfff426ed)
Chapter 32 (#u43759e55-d445-5bb0-af82-5d8b756b6327)
Chapter 33 (#u691c3ce6-592f-57fc-b2d2-83c2eb088f5c)
Chapter 34 (#u342622c8-5d0a-575a-b7c2-b652581fb43b)
Chapter 35 (#u068992e1-ffb5-52e0-979a-68f0cabe69eb)
Chapter 36 (#u8e947378-de9d-5259-bafe-10fede2cc3de)
Chapter 37 (#ua85241cc-2626-5cf7-b65b-bf6e0f08f131)
Chapter 38 (#uc905a309-eb66-5c39-a63f-590510da7115)
Chapter 39 (#u708161e1-6b7e-56d5-a82f-23cb7b739cb0)
Chapter 40 (#u0bb50266-4fa1-56c0-a7c9-57ece2a4e484)
Chapter 41 (#u4c1741ab-bb98-587d-949e-4701ba3a40e5)
Chapter 42 (#u392d57a8-761a-59d5-ab1e-f37f9c73577c)
Chapter 43 (#u43df36ed-368c-5134-9edd-bdd8c909f47f)
Chapter 44 (#ubfc60ab1-9e90-52d1-bfad-a8033fd2857e)
Chapter 45 (#u905efe15-ced3-5210-865e-b43cc04aec2a)
Chapter 46 (#u5f61c2ca-a049-5f87-84ca-3365d096c45c)
Chapter 47 (#u59e5d432-d130-5fbb-9324-27b7bd1e7a62)
Chapter 48 (#ue657400e-8e12-51a8-8845-c3e4ab132a1f)
Chapter 49 (#u5194a818-9b7d-5c69-88b4-64130aaa3ca5)
Chapter 50 (#u00b7e2df-921b-553a-b1d9-2227d3e1da02)
Chapter 51 (#u194a6702-1f56-5390-b5b4-5c6c5de0e09d)
Chapter 52 (#u5a78897f-0493-5cc3-921d-26b513f0b5bf)
Chapter 53 (#u4b263bc8-5797-5d3d-86f8-5daa6e85c223)
Chapter 54 (#u430c3e6f-6482-56a5-aa7c-8cc061728118)
Acknowledgements (#ud632c1dc-19f0-57f3-becb-3bd226555939)
Extract (#u012b8428-ded9-546b-af93-ba96d683e473)
Dear Reader (#u93723d01-78b1-54a4-b7ed-4380fd919b96)
Thank You for Reading (#u2da75ebc-c425-527a-a355-1c0b97d6fd19)
Keep Reading … (#u729af571-fb16-5f3f-8597-21d192b45f55)
About the Publisher (#u4a7f5ec3-25fc-5c51-8e3c-bd54b331a189)
With loving thanks to my mum, for always believing in me.
And to my dad for proudly reading everything I wrote –
I wish you were here to read Tell the Truth.
Prologue (#ulink_19cc1dae-7679-5942-9359-ef901a101269)
Born or made? In my genes, or was it what happened to me as a child? Maybe I was dropped on my head at birth.
I laugh inside. They tried to find out once: the shrinks. They talked to me for hours, those who thought they knew. They couldn’t see I would kill again.
I never meant to kill the first time – extinguish a life. Yes, the anger bubbled even then, but it wasn’t meant to end in death.
The second kill was different. I sent David and Janet Green up in smoke like a Guy Fawkes effigy. They deserved to die. To scream as flames licked their bodies, and thick, black smoke invaded their lungs.
It was the same with Ronan, and again with Flora.
They all deserved to die.
Now there are more lives to take. But this time I’m going to make a game of it – have some fun. And when the game is over, I will drop off the edge of the world, into oblivion, my job here done.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_67dc75bd-3a27-5160-a92c-db2a5cb1b860)
December 2017
The soft sofa felt as though it might swallow me. Suffocate me in its bright yellow fabric. I wasn’t keen on yellow, unless worn by a daffodil or buttercup. It tended to reflect off my normally healthy-looking skin, giving me an unflattering jaundiced complexion that clashed with my blood-red hair.
It was hot in the TV studio, but it was too late to remove my hoodie. The clock said almost eleven, and Emmy – the nation’s favourite morning presenter – had flicked me the nod. She was about to introduce me.
But I was crumbling, anxiety flooding through my veins. I had an excuse. Lawrence had left me.
A cameraman slid his heavy camera across the studio floor towards me. It seemed threatening somehow – a metal monster. I rolled my tongue over my dry lips, my throat closing up. Was I going to cope? I reached for the glass of sparkling water beside me, and gulped it back. I was about to talk about childhood memories to millions of people sitting in front of their TV sets at home. How was I going to do that, when I couldn’t shake Lawrence’s departure last night from my head?
Emmy finished telling the viewers about Stephen King’s latest novel – another nod in my direction. She had a pile of hardbacks on the table in front of her: Stephen King, Paula Hawkins, and Felix T Clarke. If she’d asked for my opinion I would have told her I love them all. That I adored Inspector Bronte, Felix T Clarke’s character who had come to life in over ten novels.
I scanned the studio, trying to stop my knee from jumping, still amazed Emmy had swung it for me to be here.
‘You’re perfect, Rachel,’ the producer had said when I met her. ‘The public will love your casual style, and your pixie cut is appealing – you’ve got a bit of a post-Hermione Emma Watson thing going on.’
I wish.
Five years ago, Lawrence loved my look, which, come to think of it, hadn’t changed since then. Perhaps that’s why he left. But then he’d once loved that I was a casual kind of gal, who lived in jeans, T-shirts, and hoodies. They say opposites attract, so when did I start to repel him? When did I pass my sell-by date in Lawrence’s eyes? When was the first time he suggested I wore heels, or that I might look good in a figure-hugging dress?
‘I want Grace in my life, Rach,’ he’d said last night about our four-year-old daughter, folding his arms across his toned chest. He didn’t have to say but not you –the words were in his eyes.
I admit I over-reacted, fired abuse at him, hoping to inflict pain. ‘I’ll move away. You won’t see Grace, if I have anything to do with it.’
He said I was over-reacting – that I should calm down. ‘I’ll get my solicitor onto it right away,’ he’d gone on, far too calm. ‘We’ll sort something out to suit us both. This can work. We can stay friends.’ And then he’d disappeared through the front door without a backward glance.
I confess to getting pretty angry with some inanimate objects after a couple – five – glasses of wine. But the truth was I’d been thinking for a while that our relationship wasn’t right. He worked long hours. I barely saw him. I’d wondered more than once if we were only together for Grace’s sake. But it still hurt. The memories of when things seemed perfect kept prodding my mind. And his timing was awful. How could he leave when he knew what I was going through with Mum? Or was that partly why he left?
‘We are lucky to have brilliant psychotherapist Rachel Hogan, who once worked for the prestigious Bell and Brooks Clinic in Kensington, in the studio with us today,’ Emmy was saying, bringing me out of my reverie. She didn’t mention that I now ran a private practice in a summerhouse at the foot of the long, narrow garden of my rented end-terrace in Finsbury Park.
The camera was on me, and my heart hammered in my chest. You can do this, Rachel. You can do this. The point was, if I did this right, they might ask me back for a regular slot – that’s what Emmy had said – so I needed to throw a metaphoric bucket of cold water over my feelings, and get on with it.
Emmy had been one of my clients for about a year. Looking at her now – her pale ginger hair spiralling over her shoulders, her sparkly green eyes, the sprinkle of freckles on her nose, her beaming smile – you would never have guessed the torment she’d been through. The persona she’d created for TV never gave that away. Although for a time, the medication had helped pull it off.
‘Hi, guys,’ I said, waving at the camera, trying not to imagine the number of people watching. ‘I’m here to talk about childhood memories. We’ve all got them, but how real are they? And what about those we’ve repressed, ones that lurk in the dark corners of our minds? In our subconscious.’
My confidence grew as I spoke – it was a subject I knew well.
Emmy chipped in. ‘I remember my second birthday party. My parents bought me a toy monkey with a huge red bow. And when I was three I had a little pushchair for my dolls, and I would take them for walks round the garden.’
I was wrong-footed. She’d lost her mum when she was a child, and now, in front of millions, I was about to extinguish her recollections.
‘Sadly, it’s unlikely they are real memories,’ I said, running my finger over my dry lips, as I looked her way.
‘Oh,’ she said, raising a brow, and giving a strange little laugh. ‘So, you’re saying I don’t remember my second birthday party?’ She’d lost her smile.
‘Well, it is possible, but rare to recall things from before the age of three or four. In fact, few memories are stored before the age of six. You may have kept the monkey and pushchair for years.’
‘I did, yes, Vanessa the monkey was my favourite toy until I was about twelve.’ Her smile was back – always so professional. ‘And before you ask, I’ve no idea why I chose that name.’
‘Maybe you’ve seen photographs of you pushing the pushchair?’
‘Oh yes, tons. My mum took mountains of pictures of me when I was little.’
There was a slight dip in her voice that only I would pick up on. I felt awful. I knew I’d hurt her, and wanted her to look my way so I could mouth that I was sorry, but she didn’t catch my eye.
Once the camera was back on me, I said, ‘I had a toy rabbit called Mr Snookum as a child.’ I smiled. ‘I still have him stashed away in my loft. My mother told me she gave him to me on my fifth birthday, and I’m sure I remember her handing him over and telling me to always take care of him.’ My voice quavered, and a lump rose in my throat. My poor mum. My poor, poor mum. I swallowed, and took a breath. ‘But I can’t be sure the memory is real. Vivid recollections of my childhood start much later, particularly her painting on the beach at Southwold.’ I gave a little cough to ward off my stupid emotions. ‘She’s an artist.’ Why am I sharing this with the nation?
My slot seemed to go on for ages, as I continued to discuss childhood amnesia, and the different methods of retrieving infant memories. I did my best to put on a front, hoping I was making a good impression.
Then it was the phone-in. The bit I’d dreaded most.
A woman suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder came on the line, and I went through breathing and muscle relaxing exercises with her, and suggested meditation and yoga. ‘Spending time with nature can be beneficial too,’ I concluded.
Next, a man suffering with agoraphobia called in.
‘Do you think it’s something in my childhood that I can’t recall, causing me to stay in my apartment day in, day out?’ He sounded defeated, on the verge of tears.
What a ridiculous position I was in. How was I meant to answer someone I knew nothing about?
‘Could be,’ I said. ‘Call your doctor as soon as possible. They can advise you.’ Pathetic!
‘We have John Burton on the line, Rachel,’ Emmy said, once the agoraphobic man had hung up. She pressed her finger to her ear, as though listening through her earpiece.
‘Hello, John,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’
‘Polly put the kettle on,’ he sang. ‘Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, we’ll all have tea.’
‘Do you remember that nursery rhyme from your childhood, John?’ I said, feeling uneasy, and glancing over at Emmy.
There was a pause, before he said, ‘Yes.’
Emmy furrowed her brow, and shrugged. Surely they would cut him off. Blame a poor connection.
‘What age do you think you were when you heard it?’ I asked, trying to sound professional.
‘Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, they’ve all gone away.’
The hairs on my arms rose, despite the heat of the studio.
‘I’m crying out,’ he said. ‘But they won’t listen. And now you must pay, Rachel.’ The line went dead, and within moments we went to a commercial break.
‘Oh my God,’ Emmy said as soon as we were off the air, jumping up and dashing over. She plonked down next to me, and put her arm around my shoulder. ‘Why the hell did they keep him on the line so long?’
I didn’t reply; instead, I dashed off set, barely looking at the concerned faces following me through the door. I rushed through the labyrinth of corridors, desperately seeking an exit, my heart thumping. Eventually I spotted the automatic doors that led to the car park, and raced through them, freezing air hitting me like a smack. I stood for some moments, my eyes darting around the area, trying to catch my breath.
I drove home, relieved Emmy was still on the air and couldn’t call me. I needed time to process what had happened, before discussing it. I collected Grace from Angela, keeping the conversation with my next-door neighbour brief so she didn’t see how anxious I was. ‘You knocked them dead, sweetie,’ she said in her throaty middle-class way, as I dashed down her path, holding Grace’s hand.
‘Thanks,’ I called back, certain she couldn’t have seen the live show.
Inside my house, with the bolts pulled across the door and the deadlock on, my heartbeat slowed to a normal rate. Grace settled herself in the lounge, building with Lego, and I padded into the kitchen to make tea, the song ‘Polly put the Kettle on’ worming its way into my head on repeat, driving up my anxiety.
I rummaged in the freezer for fish fingers for Grace’s lunch. As I closed the freezer door, I noticed a photo of Lawrence and me on holiday a couple of years ago, pinned amongst the magnetic letters. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, and touched Lawrence’s face with my outstretched fingertip. We were happy once. Weren’t we?
‘Mummy!’
I jumped at the sound of my daughter’s voice, dropping the box of fish fingers to the floor with a thud. I fell to my knees.
‘Are you OK, Mummy?’ Grace said, running over and crouching beside me, as I shoved broken fish fingers back into the box with shaking hands. She craned her neck to see my face, touching my cheek softly, and I realised tears were filling my eyes.
‘Don’t cry,’ she said.
‘I’m not crying, lovely. I’ve got something in my eye.’
What the hell was the matter with me? Was it Lawrence taking off, or the stupid call? I took a deep breath, trying to escape the silly nursery rhyme in my head. It’s just some weirdo. A troll. Nothing personal.
I rose and slipped the battered box onto the worktop, and lifted Grace up into my arms, burying my nose into her dark curls. She smelt of strawberry shampoo. ‘So did you have a lovely time with Angela?’ I said, as the kettle boiled.
***
The phone blasted on my bedside table. It was 7 a.m. Only one person would ring so early – someone who got up at five.
‘Emmy,’ I said as I answered the call, my voice croaky.
‘I’m so sorry about the odd phone call yesterday, Rachel,’ she said. If she’d been angry about my comments on air about her childhood, she’d let it go.
‘It wasn’t your fault. And I’m sorry too … for rushing off like that.’
‘No worries. You dealt with it all amazingly while you were on air. After the break we had that cute contestant from The Bake Off on, and carried on as though nothing had happened. There’s been a few tweets about it, but nothing major.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Live TV, especially phone-ins, can be a nightmare.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ I said, pulling myself up to a sitting position, and propping myself against the headboard.
‘I still can’t believe they let him stay on the line for so long.’ Her TV persona was confident, loud and bubbly, yet the real Emmy – the one on the other end of the line, was softly spoken. ‘The guys handling the phone lines said he sounded upbeat and friendly when he called in. Had a great question to ask you.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, raking my fingers through my hair. Despite ‘Polly put the Kettle on’ playing in my head during the night, I felt sure I was over the call. Lawrence had left. My mum was ill. I wasn’t about to let some creepy caller add another layer of worry to my life. ‘It was just some fool with nothing better to do,’ I said, sounding strong. ‘I’m sure the call wasn’t aimed at me personally.’
‘I’m not so sure, Rach,’ she said. Words I didn’t want to hear. The phone line went quiet for a few moments, and I imagined her twirling a curl of her hair around her finger, forming the words she sometimes struggled to get out. A trauma twelve months ago had triggered a childhood stammer, although she could mainly control it now and rarely stuttered on air. ‘The thing is …’
‘What is it, Emmy?’ I leaned forward on the bed, and threw back my quilt, suddenly hot. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened exactly,’ she went on. ‘And to be honest, I’ve been deliberating over whether to tell you – but then I feel you should know. Just in case.’
‘Just in case what?’ The hairs on my arms rose.
‘The thing is, a man came to the studio looking for you earlier this morning.’
‘Was it the man who called in?’ Is that fear in my voice?
‘No. Well, I don’t think so. I don’t know who he was, but he was quite normal, nothing like the bloke on the phone. He was waiting outside when I arrived. He’d been there a while, as he was soaked through.’
‘It’s raining?’ I glanced at the window. Part of me didn’t want to hear what she had to say. Let’s talk about the weather instead.
‘It’s dried up now. Rach, are you taking this in? Did you hear what I said?’
I nodded, as though she could see me, before rising and pacing the room. ‘Of course. Yes.’
‘He didn’t tell me his name, despite me asking several times.’ Another pause. ‘Just that he was desperate to talk to you. I hope I’ve done the right thing in telling you. I thought you should know.’
Just in case.
‘Yes, yes thanks, Emmy. You did the right thing.’
‘He looked nice. Normal,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, Rachel. Listen, I must go, I’m back on the air in five. Talk soon. And please don’t worry.’ She ended the call before I could answer.
It’s nothing, I told myself, continuing to pace the bedroom. I’d been on TV. Things like this happen all the time. But my neck tingled, and a chill ran through my body. Had it been the same man who called in to the studio?
And if it was, why was he looking for me?
Chapter 2 (#ulink_896ebd5a-62ad-5d94-96a2-ac05f9464051)
February 2018
We were on our way. Zoe driving, me holding on to the overhead handle, knuckles turning white.
She always drove too fast, and was taking the car to seventy mph along dark, narrow roads. Twigs, like bony fingers, scraped the window as she raced past the hedgerow, barely missing oncoming traffic. Despite the harrowing journey, I was looking forward to the evening ahead with my friend. It would be good to unwind, and I loved being with Zoe. She was the tonic to my gin.
It had been a long two months since Lawrence left. At first I was grieving, I supposed – well, I’d certainly wanted him dead. But after an initial love affair with gin and chocolate – a useless attempt to shave off the sharp edges of my crap life – I’d almost accepted we were over, and my sadness was now fully focused on my mum.
I still hadn’t come to terms with her early onset dementia, and wasn’t sure I ever would. In fact, sometimes, on bad days, it was as though I’d already lost her, and yet she was still here, reminding me of the life we’d once had together.
I’d first noticed the signs a year ago, just before her fiftieth birthday. The confusion and forgetfulness I’d witnessed back then would later be attributed to Alzheimer’s. It hadn’t seemed possible, and her rapid decline had made it even crueller.
Zoe reached over and turned up the radio, as she sang along to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. It was as though she’d forgotten I was there. Zoned in to her singing, she continued to swing her red Clio along the spiralling country roads towards the spa, seeming oblivious to the frosty February evening – the chance of ice on the road. A sprinkling of snow had coated the pavement earlier, and the forecast promised snowstorms heading from Siberia. Slow down! Please.
I stared her way, and as though sensing my eyes on her, she turned, and stopped mid-Galileo.
‘You OK, Rachel?’ she said, tucking her chestnut-brown hair behind her ears with both hands.
‘Hands on the wheel, Zoe, for Christ’s sake,’ I yelled.
‘Jeez, you don’t have to shout,’ she said, doing as I asked. ‘Are you OK?’ she repeated.
‘Of course.’ I smiled. Tonight I was determined to purge thoughts of Mum’s illness from my head and de-stress. Enjoy myself. Lawrence had Grace for the weekend, and the care home had my mobile number. I could relax. It was Friday night. Surely I was allowed to chill every so often, uncoil my tension.
‘Almost there,’ Zoe said, slowing down. ‘I’ve booked us both in for a facial and a head massage, and maybe we could swim too.’ She didn’t wait for a response. She knew what she’d said. ‘Oh God.’ She covered her mouth. ‘I’m such an idiot.’
‘It’s OK. It’s no big deal.’ I smiled, and patted her arm, wishing I hadn’t told her about my fear of water – I didn’t like to make a fuss about it. ‘Actually, I fancy a long read on a hotbed. I’ve brought my Kindle.’
Her eyes were glued on me as I spoke, and her car veered to the right. ‘Keep your eyes on the road or you’ll kill something,’ I cried, although I felt sure it would be us if we didn’t reach our destination soon.
I was relieved when she indicated and pulled onto a sweeping drive, lit by white lights. She manoeuvred into a space in front of Mulberry Hall. I hadn’t been here since it became a spa.
As she pulled on the handbrake, I picked up my bag from the car well, unzipped it, and rummaged for my phone. I found myself constantly checking for missed calls from the care home. My mum had nobody but me. She’d never been one for making friends – a bit of a recluse in many ways – and my grandparents had died before I was born in a car accident. She’d never been close with them anyway, she told me once.
There were no missed calls, only a notification on Facebook. I clicked on the app. ‘Ooh, I’ve got a friend request.’
Zoe glanced over. ‘Well it can wait, can’t it?’ she said, getting out. ‘We totally need pampering.’
I slipped my phone back in my bag, and jumped from the car, eyes scanning the prestigious Victorian building. Both the spa and the luxury apartments had once been an insane asylum, and later a psychiatric hospital.
‘I fancied buying one of those apartments when I moved this way,’ Zoe said, nodding towards Mulberry Hall. ‘But allegedly it’s haunted by old patients.’ She wiggled her fingers and made a howling, ghost-like sound.
‘Oh for God’s sake, Zoe.’ She looked amazing in a red three-quarter-length coat with a fur trim, over tight-fitting leggings and expensive trainers. She was tall, slim, elegant; whereas I was small, and a whisker away from chubby when I’d been on a chocolate binge. A flash of memory came and went – Lawrence telling me that ‘with a bit of effort’ I could look as good as Zoe.
I zipped up my hoodie and hunched my shoulders against the cold, my teeth chattering.
‘They used to do awful things here in the late 1800s,’ she said, her eyes skittering over the building. ‘What a terrible time to have lived if you showed any signs of not fitting the mould.’
‘Mmm.’ I glanced at the towering building. ‘Put in asylums for no good reason half the time.’
‘I know. You could have been admitted for anything from novel-reading to nymphomania – so that’s me admitted.’
‘I didn’t know you read novels.’
‘I don’t.’ She burst out laughing, and I laughed too. ‘Seriously though,’ she said, sighing. ‘They would even admit poor souls for grieving.’
‘It’s hard to believe now how terrible the mental health system was back then.’
‘The treatments were awful. They would immerse patients in ponds until they were unconscious, or tie them naked to a chair and pour cold water over them.’ She looked about her and shivered. ‘I wouldn’t want to be out here alone,’ she said. ‘There’s something spooky about this place, don’t you think?’
I shrugged. It was quiet, yes – but it seemed peaceful, and the apartments were stunning. Anyway, I didn’t believe in ghosts. Truth was, I was more scared of the living.
‘I saw a ghost once,’ she said. ‘When I was a child, I slept with my arm dangling out of the bed. I woke one night feeling certain something cold had touched my hand.’ She shuddered. ‘A girl in blue stood by my bed.’
‘A dream?’ Tingles crawled up my neck, despite my determination not to believe in the paranormal.
‘It must have been. Although I never slept with my arm out of the bed after that.’ She laughed. ‘Let’s go inside before we freeze to death.’
I looked over my shoulder, trying to imagine lost souls looking down from the many apartment windows. And despite only seeing the stunning apartments, lit by what I imagined were happy dwellers, I couldn’t help wondering what secrets the walls held.
As we walked, Zoe nodded towards the lower building we were heading for, built from the same mustard-coloured brick as the apartments. ‘Apparently the swimming pool is where the morgue used to be,’ she said, reaching the door.
‘Good God,’ I said with a laugh. ‘I’m actually glad I don’t swim.’
‘Hello, ladies,’ said the man behind the counter as we approached, his Irish accent charming. He was in his early forties, with a sprinkling of grey in his dark hair.
‘I’m the manager, Connor Mahoney.’ His eyes drifted to Zoe, a look of appreciation on his face. Men seemed to like her.
‘Zoe Marsh,’ she said.
While he glanced at his computer screen and tapped on his keyboard, I studied Zoe’s perfectly made-up face, her blemish-free skin, her full lips, and her perfect eyebrows. I tended to hide my brows under my fringe. I’d never got the hang of plucking, and now power-brows were the in thing, and I hadn’t got the first clue how to shape and fill them. I’d been a bit of a tomboy when I was a kid, so never acquired the skills to be feminine – but it had never bothered me.
Zoe owned a salon in Islington, so knew ways to highlight her beauty, and make men notice. ‘Come along to my salon sometime,’ she’d often said. ‘I could do your colours.’ I never had. I suppose I was happy as I was, with my boxed hair dye, and my cheap-as-chips make-up.
We’d met at a yoga group about six months ago and hit it off. I’d seen her a few times before we finally got chatting, and admired how she’d managed to make all the moves look so graceful. Whereas I’d made the mountain pose look more like a molehill. I was quite sporty – fastest in my class at the hundred-metre sprint when I was twelve – but elegant yoga poses, I struggled with.
‘So you’re both booked in for a facial in an hour,’ Connor said, looking up from the screen.
‘I don’t suppose you could book me in for a full-body massage,’ Zoe said. Her words were tangibly flirtatious.
‘Sorry, we’re fully booked,’ he said, his eyes locking with hers. There was an instant chemistry, and I suddenly felt like a ham sandwich at a vegan wedding.
He handed us robes and towels, and gestured for us to go through the frosted-glass doors. ‘We’ll just take some details and then you can enjoy your evening.’
As we headed towards the hotbeds, Zoe smiled. ‘He’s rather nice, don’t you think?’
‘I guess so,’ I said, and then whispered, ‘But what about Hank?’
She stopped suddenly and covered her mouth with her hand, her chin crinkling.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I said, stopping, and two women walked into us. ‘Sorry,’ I said, as they skirted round us, rolling their eyes and muttering. ‘We should have brake lights,’ I called after them, but they didn’t look back. ‘What’s wrong?’ I repeated, my attention back on Zoe, whose eyes had filled with tears.
‘We broke up.’ She removed her hand from her mouth, and slapped the tears from her cheeks. Straightening her back, she carried on walking.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I was going to tell you earlier, but didn’t want to ruin the evening. I still love him, Rach. Always will. But I can’t handle it any more.’
‘The drugs?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve tried so hard. You know that, right?’
‘I know you have, lovely,’ I said, linking arms with her and pulling her close, so we walked as one.
‘He’s never going to listen. The other day I found him so out of it, I thought he was dead.’
‘Oh God, Zoe. You can’t live like that.’
‘I know.’ She sniffed, her eyes still watery. ‘It was the final straw. I can’t bear to think that one day I will find him dead.’ She dashed another tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.
‘Of course you can’t.’
I’d only seen Hank a few times. He would pace the pavement some distance away, while waiting for Zoe to finish yoga. And even from across a busy road, I noticed his skin was far too pale, his clothes dishevelled, and his whole demeanour agitated.
‘He still refuses to get help, so for my own sanity I walked out on Tuesday.’
‘You’ve done the right thing, lovely,’ I said, fishing a tissue from my bag and handing it to her. ‘You’ve done everything you can.’
‘Thanks. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate your support,’ she said, dabbing her cheeks. ‘And I know I sound a bit cold flirting with Connor – but I need the distraction, and I suppose the comfort. It’s been hell with Hank for a long time.’
‘You have to do what’s right for you,’ was all I could muster.
‘Life’s short and all that,’ she said.
It wasn’t until later, as I relaxed on a lounger, that I looked at the friend request I’d received earlier. My heart sank as I opened it. I was expecting a long-lost friend, or even a boyfriend wanting to meet up because he’d heard about my breakup with Lawrence – but it wasn’t a name I recognised.
David Green: CONFIRM/DELETE REQUEST
It was no big deal, I told myself. Lots of people got requests from strangers. But then I’d never had anything like it before. My anxiety rose, though I couldn’t put my finger on why.
The temptation was too much. I clicked on his profile. David Green’s profile picture was an image of a lake. His cover photo was of a row of grey houses with red front doors, the words ‘Mandan Road, County Sligo’ at the foot of the picture. He had no friends that I could see, and his timeline only revealed one status update:
Here comes a candle to light you to bed
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head
Below the words was a cartoon gif of a blazing fire.
I shuddered, trying to convince myself it must be a mistake, or some kind of joke. But my heart hammered in my chest. I was born in County Sligo. My mother grew up there. Was it a coincidence? And if so, why did I suddenly feel so vulnerable?
Chapter 3 (#ulink_268a84d8-8b5e-5b3c-87ae-92d15d38f095)
July 1995
The flames dance like magical beings – telling me I’m right – telling me they deserve to die.
They’d left the back door open, so it was all so easy.
And now I can see David from my window. He can’t get out of the bedroom. I wedged a chair under the door handle.
‘Help!’ he cries as he presses on the glass; well, I think that’s what he’s yelling. I can’t be sure. I’m too far away to hear.
‘Nobody will help you,’ I whisper.
He looks down and I wonder if he’s going to leap from the bedroom window, but the fire grips his pyjamas, and his face changes shape as he cries out in agony. He slips out of sight.
I draw the curtains, rest my head on the pillow, and close my eyes.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_f74f4796-ac0d-5acb-8b31-a876f1ecf955)
February 1987
Laura let herself into the house she grew up in. It was hers now. The house her father built, with its oversized windows and oddly angled sloping roof, far too modern for the stunning surroundings. The towering trees and wildlife looked on and laughed at it – that’s what she’d thought as a child.
A flick of the light switch illuminated the lounge, the paintings on the walls, the vases cradling dead flowers. The wealth was tangible. Her parents had had far too much: spoilt children wanting more, more, more. Except they’d never wanted her, had they?
Laura flung her denim jacket onto the sprawling leather sofa, and attempted to push the creases of the journey from her orange kaftan. She’d been staying at a hotel in Sligo Town for two weeks. Now she was here, and the shock of her parents’ death was slowly wearing off, bubbles of anger rose in her chest.
She dived towards the drinks cabinet, poured vodka into a cut-glass tumbler, and placed it to her lips. With a jolt, she remembered.
You’re pregnant. You fool.
She abandoned the drink and padded towards the window, barely able to see into the darkness – just a reflection of the room and her still-willowy shape. She would be isolated here, in this ridiculous house she’d inherited, along with far too much money. She would sell soon – once she felt she could move on with her life.
Thoughts of Jude swam into her head. ‘There’s been an accident,’ she’d told him three weeks ago. And when he took her into his arms, she’d buried her head in his shoulder, breathing in the smell of his Brut aftershave, and Consulate cigarettes. She’d hoped at that moment he’d changed his mind. That he would put her and their unborn child before his law degree, before his monstrous parents. That he would care enough to stay.
‘They’re in intensive care,’ she’d gone on. ‘Will you come to Sligo with me? I need you, Jude.’
He’d pulled away, his grey eyes cold – the shock of finding out a few days before that he would be a father still reflecting on his handsome face. He looked too young to be a parent, but then she was young too.
‘You know I can’t, Laura. I’m sorry. Please think about a termination.’ He’d said it so softly, that the word termination didn’t sound so bad. But the truth was, she was already attached to the baby growing inside her – even if it was only the size of a peanut. This would be her and Jude’s child.
She’d cried as he pulled on his jacket, and dragged his woollen hat over his dark curls. And with a final, ‘I’m so sorry,’ he opened the door, and disappeared into the night.
Controlling her desire to race after him, she’d dashed up the stairs to her rented room, flopped onto her bed, and cried into the early hours.
The following morning, her holdall slung over her shoulder, she headed for Connolly Station, and boarded a train for the three-hour journey to Sligo.
She’d told no one she was pregnant. Not that there was anyone to tell. The people she’d rented with had never been close, and although she had friends at university in her first year, falling for Jude meant she’d let them slip away. Even before uni, growing up in her parents’ isolated house meant she’d had few friends – and part of her liked it that way.
As the train rattled along the tracks, she placed her hands on her stomach, imagining her child with Jude’s curls and cute nose, rather than her straw-like hair and sharp features. But it would have her blue eyes – an amazing child that Jude wouldn’t be able to resist, once he’d had time to reflect. He would love their baby. They would be happy. The three of them.
‘Your mother’s gone,’ the nurse had told her when she reached the hospital. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
A crushing numbness took over. She’ll never love me now. Her eyes ached, but no tears came. She’d dreamt that one day she would be close to her mother – that they might even become friends. It had been a ludicrous dream.
The nurse touched her arm gently. ‘Would you like to see your father?’ she said, after a few moments. ‘Although I must warn you, he’s in a poor way.’
The week that followed had been long and painful. Her father was attached to drips, and the beeps of the monitor penetrated Laura’s head, making it ache. He had been an arrogant man – so vain. Yet now he was swollen and bruised, and she cursed the wicked thought that invaded her head, as she sat by his side. You deserve this.
But still she visited each day, waiting for it all to be over.
‘Why?’ she asked him on day five, a question that spanned so much. But he never woke.
Why did you always drive so fast? Had it been for Mum? Her mother had loved the wind in her hair, as he treated back roads like racetracks.
Laura had been told the woman coming the other way had died instantly. That the child strapped in the back had survived. A child lost her mother because of you.
It was on the seventh day she asked, ‘Why didn’t you want me?’ A tear finally rolled down her cheek, and she imagined for a moment that he squeezed her hand – that he was saying he was sorry. But there was no way he could have. He’d died ten minutes earlier.
And now, Laura stood in her parents’ house, her hair damp from a shower and loose about her shoulders, her feet bare on the cold wooden floor. She knew she wouldn’t go back to university – to the room her parents had paid for. It was time for her to get off the merry-go-round of life, pause time until she had the strength to climb back on – and what better place to come to terms with her parents’ death, her pregnancy, and Jude letting her down, than here in this isolated house in the middle of nowhere?
The phone blasted, bringing her out of her reverie, and she raced to pick it up.
‘Jude,’ she said, twirling the phone cord around her fingers. He was the only one she’d given her parents’ number to.
‘It’s Abi.’
Laura froze. She’d been friendly with Abi in her first year, but she didn’t need her right now.
‘I just wondered if you’re OK,’ Abi went on. ‘Jude told me about your parents. He gave me this number – I hope you don’t mind me calling.’
‘I’m fine, Abi. Honestly. I just need some time out, that’s all.’
‘Well, give me a call, won’t you, if you need anything. I can come up and see you at the weekend, if you’d like me to.’
‘No.’ It came out too sharp. Abi was a good person. ‘Sorry. It’s just I’m fine. I don’t need anyone right now.’
‘Well, OK then. But you know where I am …’
‘I do. Thanks.’
Laura ended the call. The only person she needed right now was Jude.
She cupped her hand over her eyes, and peered through the window, and into the woods, her nose touching the glass. The lake where she’d swum as a child was visible through the glade. There had been some happy moments, hadn’t there?
She narrowed her eyes. Someone was out there, by a distant tree. She blinked. She was tired, imagining things. The area had been deserted when she first arrived, and the nearest life a farm half a mile away. It was the shadows – the shapes of the hedgerow playing tricks.
She lowered the blind and spun round, her eyes skittering around the room. An oil painting of her parents filled the wall above the fireplace. That would have to go. In fact she would bag up most of their stuff and give it to charity. Her father would die again if he knew.
She grabbed her holdall and climbed the twisting staircase, and then stood in the doorway of her old room for the first time in two years. When she’d gone off to the University of Dublin to study art, she’d never looked back, never called – not once. Deep sadness consumed her.
She padded into the room, lifting books from the shelves. They were all educational – no Noddy or Famous Five. Her parents had expected so much of her. It was probably for the best they’d never known about the baby – that she’d made the decision to drop out of university.
Laura had begged her parents for a toy rabbit when she was a child, like Jenny’s at school. ‘Babyish,’ her father had said. She’d been seven at the time.
My child will have toys – all the toys they desire.
She flopped onto the bed, eyes wide and looking at the ceiling, imagining her parents’ awful accident on Devil’s Corner – and how the poor woman had died. Had it been instant? Had the little girl in the back seat witnessed it, or had she been sleeping? How would such a young child cope without her mother?
She felt suddenly cold, and pulled the duvet over her. She curled into a tight ball, cradling her knees.
‘We’ll be OK, little one,’ she told her unborn child, her eyes growing heavy. ‘When Daddy comes, everything will be all right.’
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Amanda Brittany
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 25.04.2024
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О книге: TELL THE TRUTHOr they’ll tell it for you…Rachel’s childhood is a mess of fragmented memories, and her adult life is no less chaotic.Her mother and daughter were her only concrete links to the past and now they are slipping through her fingers. Fuelled by the fear of losing them both, she delves into her mother’s past, fast becoming entangled in her own tragic history.With eerie friend requests filling Rachel’s phone and shocking flashbacks filling her mind, she is plagued by her mother’s past, and soon realises that her entire life might just be a lie.Will she ever discover the truth?From the bestselling author of HER LAST LIE comes a chilling new thriller you won’t want to miss! It will have you questioning your own relationships and doubting if everyone in your life is who they say they are.Perfect for fans of The Girl on the Train and He Said / She Said.Praise for Amanda Brittany:‘An exciting new voice – Brittany reels readers in with this twisty, clever thriller that will have you second-guessing everything…’ Phoebe Morgan, author of The Doll House‘Brilliant, pacey, and will leave you suspecting everyone is involved!’ Darren O’Sullivan, author of Our Little Secret‘I was drawn in right from the rather original prologue and did not see that twist coming!’ Diane Jeffrey, author of Those Who Lie‘A triumph!’ James H on Amazon‘With all the right ingredients to keep you on the edge of your seat.’ Bookworm on Amazon‘Brittany got my attention from the get go’ Rosemary Smith on Netgalley‘Gripping and twisty, another book added to my best reads of this year list.’ Julia Beales on NetGalley‘If you like thrillers, read this and you will not be disappointed. If you’re not a thriller reader, try it anyway!’ A Reader on Amazon‘I loved this fast-paced, atmospheric, scary book.’ DeeLovesBooks on Amazon‘I can’t wait to read more from this talented new novelist.’ PSMode on Amazon