Kitabı oku: «Trust Me: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a shocking twist!»

For Auntie Kath – who always loved to read.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue

Author's Mailing List

Acknowledgements

Endpages

Copyright

PROLOGUE

As she stepped through the door, her first thought was how deadly silent it was.

Especially given the circumstances.

‘Hello, where is everyone?’

The long, narrow hallway was encased in darkness, thanks to the bulb blowing a few days previously. She fumbled around in the dark with the toggles of her coat in an attempt to take it off, her fingers stiff with cold thanks to the buckets of icy rain which had pissed all over her on the journey home. Finally freeing herself, she attempted to hang the coat on the rail, but the lack of light meant it fell to the floor with a thud.

‘Hello?’ she shouted again into the darkness, her voice catching in her throat for a reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on. ‘Anyone in?’

Nobody answered.

Gripping hold of the banister rail, she gingerly made her way upstairs and towards the bathroom. Opening the door, her teeth chattered hard as she flicked on the light with her elbow, too scared to use her hands in case she got an electric shock. Leaning over the bathtub, she wrung out her heavy, soaked, blonde hair, while sniffing up loudly in an attempt to stop her nose dripping like a tap.

It was then that she heard a noise.

Opening the bathroom door, she let the light seep out, illuminating the stairs and hallway.

What happened next would change her life for ever.

Running into the living room, she saw him – curled up in a ball, a pool of blood by his side. Perhaps due to the shock, or her hysterical screaming, she didn’t notice the mobile phone; nor did she hear the pleading voice on the other end of the line.

CHAPTER ONE

PRESENT DAY

Lana, Tenerife, 9.30 am

‘What is the first rule of sales?’ asks my manager, Damien, a pathetic, bald-headed, little Scouser who has a surprisingly large forehead and an even larger ego.

‘Well?’ he demands when nobody speaks, a manic grin plastered on his face thanks to the bag of cocaine he’s no doubt just shoved up his hooter. He cracks his knuckles twice, looks around the room for an answer. We stare ahead uninterested, dodging eye contact.

Through the window of the office – a characterless, white, walled box packed to the brim with computers and sweaty bodies – I catch a glimpse of paradise. Tenerife looks especially beautiful this morning: pale-gold sand meets crystal-blue sea, blending effortlessly into a cloudless sky; lazy morning sun beats down on half-naked bodies like warm honey; couples arm in arm, forgetting for at least one week about the damp, cold weather and depressing recession, which are destined to greet them off the plane home. I swivel around in my chair ninety degrees and can just about make out the harbour in the distance: rich people’s yachts bobbing up and down with the fresh morning breeze; excited babies being rocked on their mothers’ knees, their chubby faces covered in bubble-gum ice cream. Damien says I have the best desk in the office, next to this window. He calls it ‘the window of opportunity’. He likes his play on words does Damien – that’s one of the many reasons why I think he’s a prat!

‘Lana!’ he often barks, while looming over my desk with his Armani tie swinging in my face and his beer breath wafting up my nostrils. ‘If looking through that window doesn’t inspire you to sell holidays, you might as well go and look in the job-centre window, instead.’ Then he laughs hysterically before giving way to a smoke-induced coughing fit, like the wit he possesses needs to splutter out before he spontaneously combusts.

So, anyway, the first rule of sales is to not believe a word the client on the other end of the telephone says. Obviously, I know this but I wouldn’t give Damien the satisfaction by answering. He is right, though: they all lie to you from the second you say, ‘Hello.’ One lady, a Mrs Chilton, aged seventy-two, from Brighton, once told me she couldn’t possibly take up my offer of a beautiful, luxurious holiday because her parrot had separation anxiety. Apparently, he had taken to pulling out his own feathers and hanging upside down while singing Lionel Richie songs whenever she left the house. Perhaps this one was true – either that or Mrs Chilton is an absolute legend!

‘The first rule of sales is to never believe the client,’ declares my colleague Terry, smugly, like Jeremy Kyle revealing his lie-detector results. Damien almost whoops, ecstatic that somebody has actually paid attention. He then screeches a decibel louder than is necessary.

‘Listen up! I’m going to announce the Star of the Week.’

He breathes in deeply, psyching himself up for the grand revelation, as if we were finalists on The X Factor.

I look around to see if anyone’s actually listening. Over in the far corner, next to the fire extinguisher and overflowing bin, I see Louise playing on her iPhone. Next to her, Max is looking intensely at what looks like a piece of chewing gum on the floor, and Holly is giving the wanker sign to Martin. Mel, who is sitting next to me, seems to be concentrating extremely hard on not vomiting all over her new flip-flops.

‘Are you all right?’ I whisper into her ear, careful to keep my voice low so that Damien doesn’t acknowledge my existence.

As she responds with a dry heave, I can’t help but smile at the slightly faded admission stamp on her hand, which advertises ‘a free shot with every drink’.

The people who work with me are all British expats. They’re a harmless mismatch of eighteen-year-old party animals, bored housewives and young suits who fancy themselves as the next Wolf of Wall Street.

Well, I’m definitely no Jordan Belfort! Five months I’ve been working here and I haven’t sold one single holiday. I’m that skint I can’t even afford mayonnaise to mix in with my dry tuna pasta, which is currently sitting in a Tupperware container on my desk, sweating in the sticky morning heat.

But now things have become serious. Damien pulled me to one side yesterday and placed his skinny, moist palm on my arm. I dodged the spittle flying at me as he spoke in his whiny Scouse accent.

‘No sale tomorrow and you gotta go… sorry, girl.’

Speaking of Damien, I see he’s finally sat down. Who won Star of the Week? I half wonder. Oh, well, I suppose it’s time to pick up the telephone and annoy some people. A huge poster looms above me: ‘smile while you dial’.

‘Are you listening to me, Lana? I said, do you want a brew?’ Mel nudges me on my arm, her Katie Price perfume billowing above our heads like a cloud of lemon sherbet.

‘If you can manage it without puking.’ I wink at her, letting her know my banter is well intended. She sticks her fingers up at me in classic Mel fashion, before turning on her heel and sauntering off.

As I fire up my computer, I, unfortunately, catch my reflection in the monitor. God! I desperately need a good night’s sleep and a bit of TLC. I’m twenty-six and I look about forty: dark-brown circles have started to form under my eyes and unruly, coarse eyebrow hair is sprouting out in all directions like the chits on an old potato. My limp, blonde hair is pulled back lazily into a ponytail with Amber’s butterfly clip shoved in as an afterthought. Oh, yeah, I have a daughter, by the way: Amber. She’s six. It’s because of her I had to leave our home in Manchester.

It’s because of her I’m on the run.

CHAPTER TWO

PRESENT DAY

Liam, Manchester, 1.45 pm

Don’t mistake my relief for happiness. It’s vital that you understand the difference.

I suffer with asthma, but when I was younger it literally consumed me; probably down to my father’s forty-a-day habit and the fact we lived right next to the Mancunian Way. When an attack took hold, I felt like fifteen rugby players were in a scrum around my windpipe. You never get used to that crushing feeling; desperately trying to drag in air that evaporates the moment it reaches your lips. Then my foster mum would appear, as if by magic, with a reassuring smile and an inhaler tucked inside her pinny.

‘You’re always losing them, Liam,’ she would say soothingly. A quick press of the nozzle and the deadly grip loosened. For a blissful moment I felt free… but definitely not happy. How could I be happy when I knew all too well that the feeling would return… and the next time it could be fatal?

Today I have pressed down the nozzle, figuratively speaking, of course. I’ve struggled through the denial, fought against the sadness, given into the anger. But I know the relief will soon evaporate, leaving cold droplets of fear in its place… it always does.

I sit down tentatively in my easy chair, light up an Embassy No 1 and draw in deeply. I need a minute to think. I know I shouldn’t be smoking, by the way, so you don’t need to lecture me. I close my eyes lightly, inhale the finality of the situation along with the tar. It is there that I see her, floating just behind my eyelids, her face just slightly out of reach: Alice, my beautiful, darling Alice.

Snapping my eyes wide open, I cast them onto the front-room door, just slightly ajar, my heart hammering so fast I feel almost giddy. I look and wait, not daring to take another breath. But Alice isn’t there. Of course she isn’t.

Looking over towards the huge bay window, I notice that the curtains are closed. I realise only then what a blessing that is. It’s nice to feel hidden; cocooned against the torrential rain that’s bouncing off the window panes and the howling of the wind as it smashes against the door knocker.

Elliott is eyeing me suspiciously, like he knows I shouldn’t really be smoking in the house. I bring my finger up to my lips.

‘Shhh.’

He smiles. I wink.

It’s then the situation really hits me, as I look into my boy’s open, trusting face. The brief freedom of a few seconds earlier disintegrates in front of my bloodshot eyes, just like I knew it would. I begin to feel a stirring in my stomach, an acidic cocktail of panic and regret thrashing around, desperate to erupt. I take another drag of my cigarette, this time more harshly than I should, deep into the lungs. I pray the nicotine will banish any feelings of doubt. I’ve no room for doubt. ‘Smoking kills’ reads the label on my half-smoked packet. I realise I’m crying.

Elliott whines from across the room. ‘Sorry, pal,’ I whisper, while rubbing my eyes with the cuff of my sleeve. I rake my free hand through my thick, chestnut hair, greying just slightly at the sides. At thirty-six, I have what you would call a ‘lived-in’ face: rugged around the edges, with emerald-green eyes and naturally tanned skin. I suppose I used to be handsome, before all of this happened, of course. Now, every time I look into a mirror, I can’t help but notice that my cheeks are a little too hollow and my eyes have lost their spark. Still, there’s worse things in life to worry about than your own appearance, isn’t there?

As I lay my head on the squashy headrest of my chair and close my eyes, the salty tears run freely down my cheeks. ‘It will be okay,’ I protest; to myself, or maybe to Elliott? I’m not too sure.

He continues to look at me strangely, which makes me feel even worse.

‘Just the smoke making my eyes water,’ I offer, while wafting the cigarette in his general direction. It’s pointless really as I know Elliott doesn’t understand. I then notice Bob the Builder is on the television, his absolute favourite. Balancing the half-smoked cigarette on the side of the ashtray, I walk over to where he’s sitting, crouch down so we’re eye to eye. As he looks up at me, I focus on his dark-blue eyes, eyes that draw you straight to him, mesmerise you.

‘I love you, mister. Everything I have done, and everything I am about to do, is for you. You know that, don’t you?’

In response, Elliott cranes his head around me, transfixed instead with Scoop the digger and Jess the cat. Or am I getting confused with Postman Pat? What’s Bob’s cat called? Pilchard, that’s it. I laugh; fancy thinking of such trivial things at a moment like this.

‘You’re a little sod, you are, pal,’ I laugh through my tears, while ruffling his soft, Milky Bar curls. ‘It’s all right, son, I’ll let you off. Watch your programme.’

God! I adore that little boy so much.

And yet I’ve no choice but to leave him behind.

CHAPTER THREE

PRESENT DAY

Lana, 2.00 pm

So far I’ve been sat at this pigeonhole of a desk for almost five hours and the only thing I’ve booked is a dental appointment. Four hours to go; now I’m really sweating. I owe the landlord six hundred euros on our shitty, one-bedroom apartment that’s crawling with cockroaches and ants.

Today is it – shit or bust! I can’t even consider the consequences.

I bash the next number into my computer keyboard while screwing up my eyes tightly so I can see the digits. I curse myself for leaving my glasses back in Manchester. But then again, I guess I did leave in a hurry.

‘Hello, 2010.’

Oh, God, I hate it when they answer like that. I know your number, love, I bleeding dialled it. ‘Oh, hello. Is it possible to speak to a Mr Meaking?’

‘No, pet.’ The lady sounds ancient, her Geordie accent scratchy and hoarse.

‘Err… okay. When would it be possible to speak to him?’

I hear her cackle and cough in response, both actions happening simultaneously. She finally comes up for air and replies: ‘I think you’ll be waiting a while, my darling.’

‘Right,’ I stutter. ‘Do you know where he is?’

There’s a fleeting pause and I get the impression she’s smiling. ‘Well, I can’t be sure but I’m pretty certain he’s still boxed up in the cemetery where we put him four years ago.’

‘Oh, good God!’ I instantly feel the heat travelling up my body before resting on my chest and neck, leaving red, angry blotches. ‘I’m so very sorry.’ I want the ground to swallow me up along with the late Mr Meaking. But Mrs Meaking is clearly enjoying her Friday-afternoon chat.

‘Oh, don’t apologise, love; best place for the miserable old git. He always liked the outdoors, anyway.’ She then starts whistling the theme tune to the sitcom One Foot in the Grave, so I take it as my cue to hang up.

Right. I dial the next number. This one has to be a sale. I hear the phone ring out and psyche myself up.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, hello. Is that Mr Simpson?’ I ask in my telephone voice.

‘I’m sorry, dear, can you speak up?’

‘I’m looking for a Mr Simpson?’ I direct the question slowly and loudly.

‘Who do you want, cocker?’

Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’m getting frustrated now. Why leave a telephone number when you can’t bloody well hear the person on the other end? ‘I want a Mr Simpson… a Mr Bart…’ I realise just in time.

‘Excuse me?’ croaks the old boy on the other end of the line, clearly about ninety, clearly not Bart Simpson. Thank the Lord for deaf people!

‘Never mind,’ I say, but he’s already gone.

At two-thirty, the sun is high in the sky, beating its powerful rays on all its unsuspecting prey below. A stag party blunders past; T-shirts with names printed on the back. I can just about make out ‘Mad Dog’, who in real life is probably a bank manager called Paul with a wife, two kids and a Honda Civic. The groom is stumbling all over. I presume he’s the groom, seeing as how he’s wearing a giant-cock hat. I shake my head while rolling my eyes.

‘James Carter speaking?’

‘Hello, is that Mr Carter?’

‘Yes, of course it’s Mr bloody Carter. I’ve just said that, haven’t I?’

I get the vague impression Mr Carter isn’t going to book a luxurious holiday for a fraction of the normal price, but I swallow loudly and push on regardless.

‘Hello, Mr Carter, it’s Lana, here. I’m calling from…’

‘Are you selling something?’

Shit, hate that one, no answer is ever good.

‘I… no, well, yes, but…’

‘I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling, goodbye.’

I think right at this moment Mr Carter is the person I hate most in the entire world, even more than Damien, even more than… no, we won’t go there. I need to focus.

‘What are you playing at, Lana?’ howls Damien in my ear, making me jump and throw my plastic cup of tea in the air. Luckily, it was only lukewarm and the spillage isn’t much; just enough to soak through my sales sheet. Tomorrow, it will look like one of those old treasure maps I used to make in primary school with cold, wet teabags. I vaguely wonder if I’ll be here to see it.

‘Look what you’ve made me do,’ I mutter half-heartedly, while rubbing at the booklet with my cardigan sleeve.

‘If you don’t get a sale in the next two hours, you’re out on your ear, girl. Stop arsing around!’

He slaps me on the back a bit too hard and struts off.

‘I’ll get it?’ I shout after him. It is meant to be a statement but it comes out as a question. My head begins to pound and my eyes start to water. Quickly, I throw back two paracetamol, swish them down with the last dregs of cold tea, breathe in deeply, count to five, and dial the next number…

Liam, 2.25 pm

Bob the Builder has just finished. It’s almost two-thirty. She’ll be home from work shortly. Best get a move on.

I force my legs to stand.

The rain has stopped; the rhythmic dripping of the drains is all that can be heard outside, along with the occasional bark from next-door’s dog. It’s possibly because of the eerie silence that I jump when my mobile phone rings.

‘Shit,’ I mutter to myself. ‘Who on earth can that be?’ I start to panic. But I must answer it. I reach over and grab it off the coffee table and press the green button. ‘Hello?’ I speak more abruptly than intended. I’m standing in the middle of the room but it doesn’t feel right to sit. There’s a screeching noise on the other end, a really bad connection. ‘Hello?’ I try again, purposefully sounding lighter this time.

‘Oh, hello. Is that Mr Roberts?’

The girl sounds serious. My heart lurches and I feel a twisting in my gut. I change the phone onto my good ear. ‘Yes, this is he.’

‘Oh, hello, Mr Roberts. I’m calling from Getaway Holidays in Tenerife. You left us your details on a competition website around four years ago and…’

Right, just a sales call. Thank the Lord for that. I realise I’m holding my breath, so I breathe, and as I do I feel my stomach muscles relaxing, my windpipe expanding. I’ve got to keep these nerves under control. It occurs to me then that the girl has paused, expectant perhaps of a response. I flop down in the easy chair, grateful for the small reprieve. ‘Carry on,’ I instruct, as I light another cigarette, the previous one now nothing but ash.

‘Well, it’s about the holiday you’ve won. Well, when I say won, I mean sort of won. It’s like a “pay for one night get six free” kind of thing and, well…’

‘What’s your name, love?’ I’m not sure why I ask.

‘It’s Lana,’ she whispers softly. I can almost hear her smile.

‘Lana’s a nice…’

‘So, as I was saying,’ she interrupts, a steely determination suddenly taking hold of her, ‘have you ever been to Tenerife before, Mr, erm, Mr…?’

‘Roberts,’ I rescue her. She laughs nervously and I hear the turning of a page. Am I the furthest she’s ever got to a sale?

‘So, have you, Mr Roberts…? Have you been to the beautiful tropical island of Tenerife?’

I start to feel guilty. I know what she wants and I’m wasting her time, desperate as I am to stall the inevitable.

‘Look, love, I’m sorry,’ I offer reluctantly. ‘I’m not in the position to take a holiday, all right?’ I flick my cigarette ash as I speak; it misses the ashtray and lands on my jeans. I rub it in carelessly.

‘Oh, well, isn’t that a surprise!’

‘Pardon?’ I wonder if she’s been switched. Is this their sales tactic? Good cop, bad cop?

‘Let me see,’ she continues, her voice shaking with every syllable. ‘You’re all booked up, you have no time, and you aren’t in the market for a holiday right now?’ I can almost see her making air quotes above her head.

‘Sorry, love, it’s just really not convenient.’ I sound bored but really I’m just sad. A holiday would be nice.

‘Why? Why not?’ Her voice balances on the edge of tears; tears of frustration, no doubt. I stay silent, suddenly unsure of what to say. ‘Go on, then?’ she persists. ‘Why can’t you come on this holiday you registered for?’ A holiday you left your number for?’ She really emphasises the ‘you’.

‘I’m sorry, it’s just…’ I draw on my cigarette, desperately trying to think of a plausible excuse.

‘What? Go on! I’m all ears! Tell me your excuse so I can file it down in my book along with all the other shit excuses?’ There’s a moment’s pause. ‘Sorry.’ She laughs sadly, as if she may suddenly be embarrassed by her outburst.

I don’t know why I say it, because, as the words slip off my tongue, I know it’s a really bad idea – though maybe I want to shock her, maybe I feel really bad for her and I want to make her see I’m not just like every other time waster, or maybe I just really want to tell someone – but, whatever the reason, when I say the words, it feels good, it feels cathartic to say it out loud, even if only to a total stranger. ‘I can’t come, darling,’ I say quite calmly, ‘because, in a minute…’

‘Yeah?’ she mutters, the fight now gone.

‘In a minute, I’m going to kill myself.’

I’m not sure who hangs up first – perhaps it’s me, or maybe it’s her – but, suddenly, the line is completely dead.