The Lies We Tell Read online

  Darted back towards the low fence.

  Clambered up onto it. Over it.

  Jumped …

  … into thin air –

  ‘Katherine, are you OK?’

  Opening her eyes, Katy sees Dirk, Janssens' boss of bosses, staring at her intently. With a quick nod, she reaches for the water jug. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she replies, though her throat is tight. ‘My fault for skipping breakfast.’

  ‘On which point,’ Sally-Anne declares, checking her watch, ‘where are those sandwiches?’

  Seizing the moment, Katy puts down the glass she’s just drained. ‘Why don’t I go and chase up Dawn?’ she offers lightly, pushing back her chair.

  Sally-Anne carefully puts the lid back on the unused fountain pen she’s held throughout the meeting. ‘Yes. And don’t worry, we can finish off here without you.’

  As the door of the conference room closes behind her, Katy sees Dawn emerge from the lift carrying sandwiches bought from Pret a Manger which have been unpacked and carefully arranged on a silver platter. An unmistakable aroma of tuna makes her stomach clench. Fish of any kind has made her nauseous since discovering she is pregnant. Food poisoning is the excuse she gave Dawn when the PA marvelled at how, suddenly, Katy’s lunchtime favourite had fallen from favour.

  Registering her distress and quickly decoding the cause, the younger woman mouths a single word – ‘Sorry’ – as, with barely a nod, Katy darts past her through an adjacent doorway to the stairwell that will lead her down towards the ground floor.

  *

  The concrete city radiates a grubby kind of heat as Katy hurries in the direction of St James’s Park a few minutes later. Her breath is short; her face slick with sweat. Yet she registers neither, for though it has taken immense effort, like the rolling back of a stone, she’s distracted by the decision she’s just made. To make one quick call, just to make sure. Not from work or from her own mobile phone but somewhere anonymous and private. Untraceable.

  She strides towards two red phone boxes that stand sentry to please the tourists halfway down Birdcage Walk. As she reaches the nearest she sees the equipment inside has been smashed. Next door, a foreign student wearing a brightly coloured backpack is shouting into the receiver in Spanish. Exasperated, Katy clicks her tongue but has no choice but wait, jiggling distractedly against the pane until the tourist slams down the receiver and pushes his way outside.

  Tugging the handle, she tries not to gag at the fetid smell within as with clumsy fingers she reaches into her bag. Does an 0207 code still mean central London? she wonders, staring at Jude's number, punching it in. After the sixth digit, however, she falters. What the hell is she doing? A trickle of sweat dribbles into her left eye which she crossly brushes away. What will she say? Nothing. She’ll say nothing, she reminds herself. For when Jude answers she can simply listen. Hear that voice. Confirm it really is her. Then once she knows she’ll decide what to do.

  With a drumming heart, the final buttons are pressed. Tightening her grip on the receiver, Katy waits. There’s silence, just for a second or two, but long enough for her mind to conjure those last few desperate moments amidst the thrashing bushes. To stoke the guilt that it took years to eventually acknowledge, accept, then pack away; to rekindle the old fear. Then there is a distant click followed by a dull monotone. Though deflated, her heart skips with relief as she replaces the receiver. She leans against the glass.

  At least I tried, she thinks as a blonde woman in her twenties knocks sharply on the door, demanding in broken English to know if she has finished. It’s not my fault the number is dead. Or if Dawn took it down wrong.

  Pushing her way outside, Katy gulps the petrol air like a drowning swimmer. Tightening her grip on her bag, she crosses the road and heads into the park where office workers swarm along the footpaths, their laminated security passes blinking in the midday sun. On every patch of grass people sit in panting clusters nibbling sandwiches, swigging from bottles, carefully forking salad from greasy plastic tubs.

  In search of refuge, she heads towards the bridge across the lake where a loose cluster of tatty pelicans desperately mug for tourists in the hope of a stale crust or discarded banana skin. She chooses a path through the dappled shade of trees whose foliage has grown heady in the unseasonably warm weather that's yanked high summer forwards a good six weeks. The arid grass beneath her feet has already turned a mustard yellow and the once garish occupants of adjacent flower beds now stand limp, their heads hanging like condemned men.

  Ahead is a noisy cluster of French school kids taking it in turns to capture themselves on their mobiles pulling faces beside the ungainly birds. Beyond them Katy spots an empty bench that sits in the sun’s direct line of fire and heads towards it. Sitting down, she feels her pulse begin to calm. She shuts her eyes, surrendering to the narcotic effects of the sun, and recalls the days that followed that last afternoon with Jude.

  Her stay in the County Hospital had lasted almost a week. For the first day or two she drifted in and out of consciousness due to concussion. She had a dislocated shoulder and broken wrist. A cut on her cheek which needed eleven stitches. Extensive bruising. Nevertheless, she’d spent the last few days begging to be allowed to go home. Pleading to be allowed to phone Jude. But her parents were united, for once, in their determination to play down whatever it was that had happened.

  A fire on the heath caused no end of confusion, her father, Charles, gently revealed. Then, just as a search party was being readied, word came that Kat had been found by a passing motorist. There was no mention of any one else on the heath – which had struck Kat as strange as, with an awkward glance towards his travel bag on the floor beside her bed, his face was lightened, briefly, by an apologetic smile. The look of him made Kat's stomach clench. The dark rings pooled beneath each eye. His chin which, unbelievably, was rough and unshaven. How his pinstripe suit was all creased. Had she caused this?

  A sudden sob from the other side of the hospital bed made Kat aware of her mum's presence. Diane Parker was seated on a low-sprung chair in front of the window, carefully folding then unfolding an embroidered handkerchief. I'm sorry, Mum mumbled. It's just I thought we’d lost you, again …

  When Kat got home she found the world poised on the cusp of change. Andrew, pre-occupied, packing the last bits and pieces for his round the world trip. Mum, tearful and upset at his imminent departure. Her father, grumpy and irritable because of both. And everything tainted with the lingering aftertaste of the incident on the heath which hadn’t even made it into the local paper. The closest reference she could find was a short news item about an outbreak of fire on the heath that same day which had most likely been caused by a discarded match or cigarette.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  Squinting upwards into the solar glare, Katy can only just make out the figure standing before her. His face is in shadow and there is an umbra around his head which makes her think of a Renaissance painting of a fallen angel.

  Before she has time to answer, he is moving towards the free end of the bench. A mid-height man in his early twenties whose face is obscured by a pair of pilot-style, wire-framed dark glasses and the shade cast by an out-sized snapback hat bearing the oddly punctuated logo: Im The Truth. Khaki combat trousers sag ludicrously low beneath the waistband of his boxers. A long-sleeved check shirt, worn unbuttoned over a white T-shirt, is spattered with black which also flecks the toes of his Nike high tops.

  Sitting down at the other end of the bench, the stranger rummages in the pocket of his trousers then extracts a pair of white ear phones which look comically tiny, Katy decides, given the size of his hands. Then without a word, he stretches out his legs, places a piece into each ear, leans back and shuts his eyes. After a minute or so he reaches out his arms along the back of the bench and starts to drum his fingers. She can hear the music’s faint jangle and recognises the track. Something by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Andrew’s favourite.

  The youth's left hand now rests un
comfortably close to Katy's shoulder, so she shifts along the bench and gazes across the lake towards the distant Mall and Green Park beyond. As she drifts back to the afternoon she got home from hospital and how gently Andrew had helped her from the car, she closes her eyes.

  OK Shrimp?

  Andrew always used to call her that, and she’d loved it. But her smile faded as she noticed his bulging rucksack, meticulously packed, waiting expectantly by the front door. She hadn’t realised her brother would be leaving for Sydney so soon.

  Carefully, he'd led her into the sitting room. Guiding her towards the freshly-plumped sofa beside which a lavish arrangement of freshly cut flowers sat on the coffee table. But she'd barely acknowledged his concern back then as, frustrated with the awkwardness of her cast and the infuriating feebleness of her still healing body, she sank back against the cushions. What time are you off, then? How hard she'd tried not to notice the way the adventure that lay before him made his eyes gleam. Then he reached down for a white plastic bag on the floor beside the armchair. Dad was running him to the airport at seven, he said, upending the bag's contents into her lap.

  Here, I got you something.

  It was a selection of cassettes – some bought, others home-made – including the Red Hot Chili Peppers album she'd meant to ask him to record. Touched by this unexpected act of kindness, Kat looked up and smiled. Then she remembered the Zippo she’d bought him to replace the one he lost which was still wrapped in its plastic bag in her bedroom drawer.

  Later, Andrew said, encouraging her not to get up before shooting a conspiratorial glance over his shoulder to check their parents were out of earshot. Listen, he began, awkwardly touching her arm. Everything will turn out OK, you know. You’ll feel back to your old self soon. Sixth form will be fun, just you wait and see. And Mum and Dad, well, they’ll soldier on the way they always do.

  A lump welled in Kat’s throat as she wrestled with the urge to tell him not to go; to admit how she longed for him to stay or – even better – to take her with him. But although touched by the intimacy of this brief moment she knew the days of their old closeness had long gone. Much had changed since he’d moved into the sixth form, and her friendship with Jude. She dropped her voice.

  I need to call her. I’ve been asking and asking but mum keeps changing the subject.

  While Kat was being seen to, Jude had turned up at camp alone, one of the girls' classmates, Ruth, had revealed when she'd visited her in hospital during the days that followed. Then, as Kat was being taken to hospital, Siobhan had turned up, unannounced, to take her own daughter home. It was the last anyone had seen or heard of either of them. I’ve got to know how she is. Something happened, you see …

  Her voice faltered, and the silence was suddenly filled by a deafening roar. Until at last her brother spoke.

  Haven’t they told you? She’s gone – I heard mum say. Moved away. He laughed. A dry, humourless sound. If you don’t believe me, call. Her brother gestured towards the garden. Do it now – I’ll keep them busy.

  She could barely breathe as she dialled Jude’s number a few minutes later, waiting for the familiar pause before the connection was made. But the silence lasted longer than usual. A lifetime. Until, eventually, there was a click and then a dull tone. Kat replaced the phone in the cradle and dialled again but the same thing happened. Then she tried a third time, just to be sure. But there was little doubt. The line was disconnected.

  It was a week before Kat made it into town. Charles' mood had lightened considerably since temporarily moving back in with Diane after visiting his daughter in hospital. He had booked a last minute holiday to a small village in the mountains just inland from Estepona in southern Spain. A private villa with a pool – not that Kat would be able to swim with her arm still in plaster. Nevertheless, a last minute dash to Boots for holiday toiletries was an ideal subterfuge.

  He dropped her a little later that morning at the bottom of Telegraph Hill, usually a ten minute walk from Jude’s house. But today it took closer to twenty which made her hot and sticky. By the time she turned into Station Road her head was starting to ache. Turning back, however, wasn’t an option, Kat thought grimly as she stepped onto Jude's street.

  The red brick house looked no different from the dozen or so others that lined either side of the road in almost every respect. But something was missing. Neighbours’ homes had their windows thrown open, cars crammed in narrow driveways, and sprinklers on full to resuscitate wilting plants. Yet with its curtain-less windows, its ragged drive and brittle lawn, the Davies' place seemed lost in time.

  How could she? a voice inside her wailed. Leave without even a word?

  Rubbing the tears from her eyes Kat saw Jude’s face. Her eyes were closed to the domed sky as she floated in the pool with hair fanned outwards like a lioness’s mane. The pale skin around her nipples was puckered by the water’s icy touch. Then a middle-aged man appeared, pulled towards her by a small terrier on a lead. Do you know when they’ll be back? she called out brightly.

  But no, he didn't. Because they left before dawn a few days earlier, he told her, his scarlet face now slick with sweat. Next thing everybody knew there was a ruddy great ‘For Sale’ sign standing in the front garden. Which ticked him off, he told her, the lobster-pink belly overhanging his waistband glistening in the sun. Because Siobhan still owed him fifty quid. Gone back to the coast where they originally came from, was his best guess, she'd been talking about it a lot since coming into some money a while back.

  Later, when Kat told her, her mum said with a tight laugh that she wasn’t surprised. That from what she’d heard, Siobhan was just the sort to do a moonlit flit. Unpaid bills, probably. Or man trouble, more likely. Then Diane's voice had softened, unexpectedly, as she grudgingly conceded that either way with a mother like that it was hardly surprising. Poor Jude, she added with a shake of her head. I mean really, that girl never stood a chance.

  The muffled sound of a ring tone makes Katy look up. The tune, a few bars of a rap track she doesn’t recognise, grows louder. The youth, who is still tapping his fingers to the jangle in his ears, seems oblivious. Reaching towards him, she touches his forearm.

  ‘Your phone,’ she says. ‘I said: your phone – it’s ringing.’

  ‘What?’ Pulling out an ear piece, he finally hears the sound. ‘Yeah?’ he barks into the phone. ‘… No, I’m in London, but I’ll come to you if it’s worth my while … Sounds a bit steep, if the gear’s OK I’d give you £300 … Send me a picture. Right, the Hotmail address. But remember it’s J Davies all one word, no capitals. And the Davies is spelled i-e-s, OK? Great. Later.’

  Katy stares as the youth slides the phone back into his pocket, slowly and deliberately leans forward, clears his throat then spits a shiny gobbet of phlegm onto the patchy grass at the foot of an over-flowing rubbish bin. Then he turns towards her, and as his eyes meet hers his lips crease into a sly smile. Unnerved, she looks away. A coincidence, that’s all, Katy reassures herself. Loads of people would spell out Davies that way.

  Nevertheless, she makes a show of checking her watch then rises to her feet. Now all she wants is to get away from him. The memory of it. And besides, it's time she was getting back.

  ‘Time’s up, is it?’ Now he’s asking her a question.

  ‘Pardon?’ She reaches for her bag.

  ‘Your break?' he repeats. 'Time to get back. To work?’

  'Yes. Something like that.’

  ‘Me too,’ he calls after her as she turns her back and walks away.

  A nearby clock strikes one and, as if on cue, through the gates of the park pour crumpled refugees in cheap suits from nearby offices. They are desperate to make the most of their allotted time in the sun, yet all Katy craves now is to be back indoors. Briskly retracing her steps, she heads against the tide towards the exit facing Birdcage Walk. She stops briefly at an ice-cream cart to buy a Pepsi Max from an elfin-haired girl in an army-coloured Royal Parks T-shirt whose plucked eyebrows give
her face an expression of cartoonish surprise.

  Only as she is paying does a figure a short distance behind her catch Katy's eye. It’s the youth from the bench. Leaning against a tree. And he is looking her way. Determined not to make eye contact, she drops her gaze. Stuffing her purse back in her bag, she hurries on.

  Heading back along Birdcage Walk, however, she risks a quick glance behind her and spots him again. Standing beneath a lamp post, running his tongue along the edge of a cigarette paper. Without warning he looks up, sharply. Their eyes meet. Is he following her, she wonders. Or is it just an over-active imagination? Perturbed, she darts away. Turning swiftly down a side-alley then left again into a single one-way street, she doubles back on herself.

  Finally, at the Underground station, she slows her pace to cast a nonchalant glance over each shoulder. But by then the youth has gone.

  Chapter 3

  So here we are then. Thrown together by … well, you know the rest. Though when you think about it, I never really went away. Which is why, if you are wondering what made me choose to come back now you're missing the point. Because the two of us are bound by what happened that day. What we did and what we didn't do. The choices we made. Inseparable, like past from present. I didn't choose to come back, you see, Kat … sorry, it's Katy now, isn't it? Events forced me to. Though it was, as we surely both must know, always inevitable.

  Chapter 4

  Guildford – September 1988

  A brisk knock on her bedroom door woke Jude abruptly. It was the morning of her first day at her new school, St Mary’s, and she had overslept. Quickly, she reached for the dressing gown that until recently she’d so rarely bothered to use, hugging the silky fabric tightly around her body as she waited for the familiar refrain.