The Lie (24 page)

A chorus of excitable barks greets me as I approach the dog compound. I dip the soles of my shoes into the anti-bacterial wash outside, and then step inside and close the door quietly behind me. Only Jack is in his bed; the other dogs are in their runs outside. A low rumbling sound accompanies the cacophony of barks. The washing machine and tumble dryers are on. I head down the corridor towards the laundry room, stepping carefully so my shoes don’t squeak on the floor. Jack raises his head as I pass and then lowers it again when I don’t stop to greet him. I can see through to his run, beyond his indoor bed area and the dark patch of wire where Derek the handyman has done his best to patch up the hole the intruder made with wire cutters. Attempts were made to reach several of the other dogs – all of them the more dangerous breeds – but the largest hole was in Jack’s cage. I hate to think what would have happened if they hadn’t triggered the alarm. Jack would have been taken, of that I’m sure.

Another sound joins the hubbub as I draw nearer to the laundry room – a woman talking in hushed tones. Angharad has her back to me. Her neck is cricked to the right, holding her mobile phone between her ear and shoulder and she grabs armfuls of bedding and towels from the plastic bin at her feet, and lifts them into the machine.

“Yeah … yeah … no, not yet. It’s definitely her, though. What? No, I’ve tried but she’s a cold fish. It’s going to take me a bit longer than I thought. I reckon I’ll have everything I need by the end of next week. Okay, all right. I’ll talk to you then. Bye.”

“Angharad.”

She snaps round at the sound of my voice and her phone slips from between her ear and shoulder, landing on the tiled floor with a clunk.

“Jane! You scared me.” She ducks down to retrieve it, tucks it into her pocket then scoops an armful of blankets into the washing machine. “I’m nearly done with the blankets. The load in the tumble dryer is nearly finished and most of the toys have already been—”

“Angharad.”

She turns slowly.

“I think we should have a little chat with Sheila. Don’t you?”

“Everything okay, Jane?” Sheila gives me a warm smile as I walk into reception with Angharad trailing behind me. I haven’t said a word to her since we left the laundry room.

“Could we have a word? In the staffroom, if it’s empty?”

Sheila’s smile fades as she registers the look on my face. “Sure. I’ll just grab Anne to cover. One second.”

Angharad and I stand in silence as we wait for Sheila to return with Anne, her deputy, from one of the back rooms, and then the three of us troop into the staffroom and I close the door behind us.

“Would you take a seat, please, Angharad.” I gesture to a chair. Sheila frowns but says nothing as she sits beside me on the opposite side of the room. Angharad smirks and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. For someone who’s on the verge of being asked to leave the volunteer programme, she looks remarkably composed.

“So.” Sheila looks from Angharad to me. “What’s all this about, then?”

“I think Angharad should explain, don’t you, Angharad?”

“Actually” – she sits up straighter in her chair – “I think you should explain, Emma.” She pauses for long enough for a cold shiver to run down my spine. “Sorry, Jane. I forgot your name there for a second.”

She holds my gaze just longer than is comfortable, and I instantly understand. She wants there to be a confrontation, and she wants it to be in front of Sheila.

“Sorry, Sheila.” I stand up. “I’ve just realised that … Angharad, could you come with me for a second?”

Sheila looks at me blankly. “I thought you needed to talk to me. I just put Anne on reception.”

“I know.” I open the door and gesture for Angharad to follow me. “I’m sorry to mess you about, Sheila. I just realised something urgent that we forgot to do.”

“Who are you really?”

We’re standing outside the main doors of reception, on the edge of the car park. It’s cold and blustery and I rub my hands over my bare arms. It’s too cold to be working without a fleece.

“I could ask you the same thing,
Jane
.”

“I’m not playing games with you, Angharad. I know you were looking at my documents on the staff computer, and I’m pretty certain you stole a private letter from my cottage too.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, a self-satisfied grin on her face.

“Nice. I bring you a cake and do all your work when you’re off sick, and this is the thanks I get.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Paranoid, aren’t we, Emma?”

“Who are you? Tell me! Tell me who you are.”

She slips on her coat, buttons it slowly and deliberately, and then puts the strap of her handbag over her head and slips it across her body so it sits on her right hip. “It’s been nice working with you, Emma. I’ll be in touch.”

“No!” I hurry after her as she crosses the yard at a pace and takes her car keys out of her pocket. “Angharad!” I grab her arm as she points the key fob at her Polo. “Tell me who you are.”

“Don’t you dare.” She snatches her arm away from me, but the anger in her voice belies the fear in her eyes. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

“I didn’t … I …” I take a step back, palms out, and that’s when I see it: a blue knitted hat on the back seat of her car. “It was you. You were the woman at the fair at Chloe’s school.”

Angharad shakes her head and reaches for the door handle. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. How did you know we were at the fair? You followed us, didn’t you? Then you waited until Chloe was alone and you approached her.” I snatch my phone out of my pocket. “I’m calling PC Barnham.”

“No.” Angharad reaches out a hand. “Don’t.”

“Then
tell me
who you are.”

“Okay, okay. Fine. Put the phone away.”

“Tell me who you are first.”

She takes a deep breath then exhales slowly. “My name is Angharad Maddox. I’m a journalist at the local paper. I saw your photo in
The Post
about six months ago, when we ran a feature on Green Fields’ fundraising, and I thought I recognised you. You’ve lost a bit of weight your hair’s a different cut and colour, but your face hasn’t changed much: you look virtually identical to the photo in the
Daily Mail
article from four years ago. I knew from digging around that you’ve always refused to talk to journalists, and wouldn’t talk to me if I approached you directly, so …” She shrugs.

“So you pretended to be a volunteer, you followed me, you talked to my boyfriend’s daughter, you stole a letter and you looked at private files on the work computer.”

“Woah!” She shakes her head. “I didn’t steal anything, Emma.”

“Yes, you did. You stole a letter addressed to me when you dropped off the cake – the letter you wrote to try and scare me into talking to you.”

She shakes her head again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. The letter arrived the day before you started. A bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? I get a letter intended to freak me out, and then, all of a sudden, I’ve got a new volunteer who asks me all kinds of personal questions.”

“I didn’t send you anything, Emma.”

“No? So you didn’t set up a fake internet profile, either? You didn’t pretend to be Daisy?”

Her eyes grow wide. “Daisy your friend who disappeared in Nepal? Really?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“So, either Daisy’s back in the UK, or someone’s pretending she is?” She glances away, towards the road. When she looks back at me, there’s a light in her eyes. “Is this connected to your accident in any way? Sheila said something about a CID investigation. I thought she’d got confused, because CID wouldn’t get involved unless there was something a lot more serious going on … like … attempted murder.” She takes a step towards me, so she’s standing uncomfortably close. “Has someone been making death threats, Emma?”

I can almost hear the cogs whirring away in her head. She can’t have got much of a story up to now – Emma Woolfe becomes Jane Hughes, animal sanctuary worker, girlfriend to a local teacher, virtual hermit – but this this is something new. This is something her editor would be very interested in. I can see it in her eyes. She’s either a first-class actress or she genuinely wasn’t behind the letter, the text or the Facebook messages.

“Talk to me, Emma. This all sounds really scary.” She gazes at me with doe eyes, her face the picture of genuine concern. “Tell me your story. There’s been a cloud hanging over you since you returned from Nepal five years ago, what with all the speculation concerning Daisy’s disappearance and Leanne’s death, and this could be your chance to set the record straight. Our readers would be ever so sympathetic, especially with everything that’s happened recently.”

“No.” I back away. “I’m not interested.”

“It’s all going to come out anyway, Emma. You know that, don’t you? Sheila, Anne, Barry, Derek, they’re all going to find out who you really are. You may as well put your side across. I know the local community would be completely understanding of your pretence if they knew what you’ve been through.”

“No.” I take another step backwards. “I told you. I don’t want to speak to you, and I want you to go.” I gesture at her car.

“Go, or I’ll call PC Barnham,” I say through gritted teeth.

Angharad sighs, a resigned look on her face. “I’ll go, I’ll go. But if you change your mind, just give me a ring at
The Post
. I’ll handle your story sympathetically. Despite what you might think, I do actually like you.” She turns and opens the car door then slips inside. The tyres crunch on the gravel as she reverses out of her parking space then straightens up and drives out of the yard.

I press a key on my mobile then hold it to my ear. “PC Barnham, please.”

“Emma,” a female voice says. “Emma, sit up.”

I remain where I am, curled up on my side on the floor. At some point, someone must have left me a blanket, which I’ve pulled around my shoulders, but it’s sodden and uncomfortable. I push it back and cover my eyes with my hand as light floods the hut. Someone has opened the door.

“SIT UP!”

The light disappears as a female shape steps into the hut, blocking the doorway.

“Jesus,” another voice says. “It fucking stinks in here. Fucking Isaac; he should do his own dirty work.”

I try to push myself up with my arms but they buckle beneath me as I blink up at the woman. She crouches beside me. A scarf is covering her nose and mouth but I recognise her eyes. “Cera? What’s going on?”

She shakes her head and hooks a hand under my armpit. “You need to stand up, Emma. You need to take a shower and get changed.”

“What day is it? How long have I been in here?”

“Emma.” There is a warning tone to Cera’s voice. “You need to stop asking questions and do what you’re told. Do you understand?”

I nod, looking beyond her now, transfixed by the tree outside the hut, bending and swaying in the wind.

“Isis!” Cera shouts. “I’m going to need a hand.”

Isis appears from nowhere, darting into the hut with a bundle of cloth in her arms. She looks me up and down and sighs.

“Put your arms up, Emma.”

I do as I am told and a soft cotton dress is pulled over my head. When she lets go, the hem drifts to the floor and tickles my ankles.

“Step into these.” She crouches down and holds out some knickers, and I obey.

“Flip-flops.” She reaches into a cloth bag slung diagonally across her body and pulls out some sandals. I slip them on. I feel like I’m a doll, being dressed by a rough-handed young girl.

Isis looks at Cera, who shrugs her shoulders. “That’ll have to do until we get her down to the waterfall for a wash.”

“Right, Emma.” Cera takes me by the shoulders and turns me to face her. “We’re going to take you down to the waterfall so you can have a wash. Then we’ll have a little picnic so you can get a bit of food and water in you” – she glances at the bucket and screws up her nose – “then we’ll take you back up to the house.”

“Where’s Isaac?”

The women exchange a look and laugh.

“Busy,” Cera says.

Isis puts my arm over her shoulder and nods to Cera to do the same.

“Can you walk?” she asks. “Try to take a few steps.”

I take a step forwards, towards the light and air outside. My legs wobble but I take another step.

“That’s it,” Cera says. “Now remember, if anyone asks where you’ve been, you’re to tell them you’ve been detoxing and that it was the most amazing experience of your life.”

The tree outside is buffeted to the right. It bends so sharply I think it might snap, but then the wind drops and it rights itself.

“Who gave you the knife?” Isis asks as I step outside the shed and breathe in a lungful of fresh air.

I shake my head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The knife you attacked Isaac with. Sally said it’s one of the kitchen knives and only people who work in the kitchen could have had access to it. Leanne and Al were working with Sally and Raj. Which one of them gave it to you, Emma?”

Isaac’s clearly on a witch hunt and wants to pin the knife incident on Al, Sally or Raj. Why? To use it as an excuse to get rid of them?

Or maybe he already knows who gave me the knife. Leanne’s his half-sister, but she’s also Al’s best friend. Where does her loyalty lie now? She’s already sold Al out by telling Isaac about her brother Tommy and then lying about it when Daisy and I were trying to get to the bottom of Isis’s “psychic” reading. What was it she said – she’d never tell anyone about Tommy, because it was too personal? She saw how distraught Al was, and yet she said nothing. I know exactly where her loyalties lie.

“Emma?” Isis says again. “Who gave you the knife?”

I look her straight in the eye. “No one. I stole it.”

Cera and Isis don’t leave my side for the rest of the day. Everywhere I go, they go too – to the girls’ dorm, to dinner, to the meditation room, to the toilet. The first time we see another member of the community – Sally, down by the waterfall, washing her clothes – they both stiffen. Sally looks up as we approach, a pink T-shirt in one hand, a grey rock in the other. Fear flickers in her eyes.

“Hello, ladies.” Her smile barely registers on her lips. “How are you?”

Cera throws an arm around me and pulls me towards her. Her nails dig into the top of my arm. “Emma’s just come out of her detox.”

Sally’s gaze flicks from Cera’s hand to my face. “Congratulations! I’d hug you but I’m up to my arms in muddy clothes. The vegetable patch won’t weed itself.” She laughs but there’s a hollow ring to it.

“Are you coming to the party tonight?” Isis asks.

“Party?”

“Yeah. Isaac’s organised a Pokhara run for tomorrow. It hasn’t rained for a couple of days and the ground’s a bit firmer than it was.”

“Do you know who’s going?”

“Gabe, of course,” Cera says, “and … nope, can’t tell you. Isaac’s going to announce it at the party. He wants it to be a surprise.”

“It’s not Raj, is it?” Sally asks. She cups her hand to her mouth, but it’s too late. Her question hangs over her like a flashing neon sign.

“Would it matter if it were?” Cera leaves my side and takes a step towards her.

“Of course not.”

“Are you quite sure about that? The two of you spend a lot of time together. People are talking.”

“Oh, come on.” Sally shakes her head airily. “We’re all starving. Who could blame me for hanging around the chef? The only thing I’m attached to is his dahl bhat.”

Isis and Cera laugh as though she’s just told the funniest joke in the world. Sally laughs too, but the knuckles on the hand that’s clutching the rock whiten as she tightens her grip.

“Is it me?” A wave of hope courses through me, and I touch Isis lightly on the arm. “Am I going to Pokhara with Gabe tomorrow?”

She stops laughing and places her hand over mine. “I don’t think Isaac’s going to let you go anywhere. Do you?”

We are walking back to the house when I see a tall, hulking figure crossing the patio. I clutch hold of Cera, too terrified to speak.

“Emma.” Cera pulls at my hand. “Let go, you’re hurting me.”

“Emma!” Isis pulls at my fingers, peeling them off Cera’s arm. “Stop it. What’s the matter with you?”

“Johan.” My arm shakes as I point towards the patio, where he’s dragging a felled tree towards the woodpile at the front of the house.

Johan interrupted me when I was reading Leanne’s emails in Isaac’s study. I threw them onto the floor when I jumped out of the window. Oh, my God. A cold shiver courses through me as the memory of my first night in detox comes flooding back. It was him. He was the one who came into the hut.

“What about Johan?” Cera snaps.

“He asked Isaac if he could sleep with me.”

“So?” Cera shrugs. “It’s no big secret. It was all round the dining room last night.”

Isis laughs. “Kane was really pissed off. He didn’t even know you’d gone into detox.”

“Kane?”

“He wanted to sleep with you after Isaac, but Johan asked first.”

I stare after Johan as he drags the tree around the side of the house and disappears. The front gates have been locked since Gabe came back from the mountain with Ruth’s body. The key is in Isaac’s room somewhere. I need to get it. I need to escape, but Cera and Isis are watching my every move. Even now they’re studying my face intently. I have to pretend that everything’s fine, that the detox was a good thing.

“Why do you think Isaac locked Frank up in the basement?” Cera laughs lightly. “He didn’t wait his turn!”

So it wasn’t because Frank was raping me; it was because he dared to try and have sex with me before Isaac.

“And what if I don’t want to sleep with anyone else?” I ask.

“Your choice. No one’s going to force you, Emma.”

“Really?”

“Jesus!” Cera stares at me in horror and tucks a loose dreadlock behind her ear. “What do you take us for? The guys have to register their interest in the new detoxers to prevent jealousy and competitiveness, that’s all. You should be flattered, not freaked out. Who you sleep with is up to you.”

“As long as you don’t form a relationship with them,” Isis adds, “because then attachment is inevitable and that goes completely against the Ekanta Yatra ethos.”

Her gaze flicks towards the orchard. Sally is hanging up her damp clothes on a washing line strung between two trees. She senses us watching and raises a tentative hand in greeting. She’s too far away for me to make out the expression on her face.

“So has everyone slept with Isaac, then? All the women who’ve had their detox?”

“Yes.”

“What about Ruth? Did she?”

They exchange a look then Isis looks back at me. “Ruth was a troublemaker.”

“In what way?”

She reaches into the bag she’s wearing over her shoulder and pulls out a bottle of water, unscrews the lid, takes a sip then hands it me. “Have you ever had a one-night stand, Emma?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

I shrug. “Four or five.”

“And were you drunk when you slept with them?”

“Possibly.” I wipe the neck of the bottle on my dress then raise it to my lips. “Probably.”

“Ever sleep with someone you didn’t fancy particularly?”

I pause, mid-sip. I want to say no, that I fancied everyone I’ve ever slept with, but that’s not true. There were at least two men I’ve slept with that I wouldn’t have gone near if I’d been sober; men I only took home with me because Daisy encouraged me to.

“That’s a yes, isn’t it?” Isis says when I don’t answer. “Everyone’s done it, Emma. You might have slept with them because you were drunk or horny or lonely or sad or bored, but you did it, you enjoyed it, and, other than a hangover the next morning, it didn’t do you any harm, did it?”

“It made me feel hollow.”

“But you did it again?” She puts both of her hands on my shoulders so I’m forced to look at her. “All I’m saying, Emma, is that you might find life a little easier here if you let go a bit. Have a drink, have a smoke, and let go of your inhibitions. You can learn to view sex differently. It can be recreational, adventurous, comforting or just a release. And if you can appreciate people for more than just their looks or how sexually attracted you are to them, you’ll find it hugely liberating.”

I want to ask her if she really believes that, if she never misses the intimacy of loving one person and being loved in return, of crawling into a cocoon of just the two of you and blocking out the rest of the world, but I know she’d never admit to it – none of them would.

“Johan’s a very attractive man.” She glances towards the patio, but he’s long gone. “Kind, too. You could do a lot worse, Emma. A lot worse.”

“Okay, Emma.” Cera points me towards the pile of beanbags in the corner of the meditation room. “If you could put the beanbags out, Isis and I need to go and have a word with Raj.”

She steps out of the room and, with Isis at her side, crosses the hallway towards the kitchen. She doesn’t drift, as she normally does. Her head is up and her shoulders are back, but her arms don’t swing at her side. Each step is heavy, determined. She strides into the kitchen and gestures to Isis to close the door behind them.

What do I do? I could run down to the orchard to warn Sally that they’ve gone to speak to Raj about his relationship with her, but I don’t know her well enough to predict how she’d react. She might thank me and head up to the kitchen, or she might get angry and deny everything. She might tell them that I spoke to her. She might tell Isaac. I can’t risk it. I can’t get involved.

I wince as I bend to pick up a pile of beanbags. The skin on my back is still tight and sore, and the cotton dress, a size too small, rubs at my wounds.

“And this is the meditation room.” I look up at the sound of Isaac’s voice. He steps into the room, followed by three women and a man I’ve never seen before. He glances over at me as the group, all clean and shiny in their cut-off shorts, walking boots and anoraks, chatter excitedly, their faces shining with wonder and apprehension.

They remind me of us – me, Al, Leanne and Daisy – on our first day. One of the women, a short blonde with a wide face and a flat nose, is even wearing the same bracelet I bought from a blanket laid out with jewellery outside one of the refreshment stops on the way up the mountain, all jangly bells and cheap silver plating.

My heart twists in my chest as the flat-nosed blonde hooks an arm through the tall, skinny girl’s elbow and excitedly presses her head into her shoulder. They have no idea what they’ve just walked in to.

“Five beanbags, please, Emma.”

I respond automatically, drifting back and forwards across the room. I lay them neatly on the floor, one beanbag in front of the altar, the other four laid out in a semi-circle in front of it. When I straighten back up, Isaac isn’t looking at me; he’s staring at the third woman – a short, curvy girl with long dark hair to her waist and wide-set green eyes. She breaks off her conversation with the flat-nosed girl and smiles at him, the base of her throat colouring pink.

“Thank you, Emma,” Isaac says.

The tall, thin man to my left laughs nervously, but I’m barely aware of him.

“Thank you, Emma,” Isaac says again. This time he turns to look at me, but his gaze is cool and detached. The knife wound on his cheekbone has faded to a thin, pink scratch above his stubble. I barely grazed him.

“Hi, guys. Welcome to Ekanta Yatra!” He angles himself towards the group and holds his arms wide, a warm smile lighting up his face. Everyone looks up at him excitedly. I have been dismissed.

The door to the kitchen is still shut, but I can hear raised voices behind it.

“We know something is going on between you and Sally,” Cera says. “You’d be doing everyone a favour if you just admitted it.”

“I’ve told you, we’re friends.”

“You do know I’m going to have to go to Isaac with this.”