Here We Lie Page 11

  Half an hour later Jed reappears. He shuts the living-room door and steers me onto the sofa.

  ‘It’s all good, baby,’ he says with a relieved smile. ‘I asked Lish how he felt about me being with you and he says that he’s pleased I’ve found someone, that he thinks you’re lovely. I pushed him about it, asked if he ever feels differently, if he ever feels resentful, and he said sometimes he makes out like it’s a problem to his friends at college because lots of them moan about their family situations and he says it just makes sense to try and look like you’re fitting in. I told him he should be his own man.’

  ‘Right.’ I can just imagine how such typically abrupt Jed advice will have gone down, but – again – I say nothing. What is far more important is the obvious point that Lish could be lying to his father and expressing the truth to his friends. However, before I can say anything else, Jed starts talking about a client at work. He couldn’t be making it clearer that he wants this to be the end of the matter.

  But how can it be?

  ‘Jed, I’m still upset about what Lish wrote,’ I persist.

  ‘Okay, but just remember that the boy lost his sister only a few months ago. He inadvertently bought the very headache powders that killed her. He’s allowed a little acting out, isn’t he?’

  I think of Lish’s grief-stricken look again. Was there guilt in that look? If so, could such guilt simply be down to his purchase of the ExAche? Or to something more sinister? Of course he’d feel bad but I don’t really see why being upset over Dee Dee’s death would make him tell his friends he hates me. I hesitate. Now is the time for me to pass on to Jed what Dan has alleged. And yet it sounds so ludicrous to speak out loud:

  I think your son who, by the way, may be a drug dealer, may also have been trying to kill me, but his sister died by mistake instead.

  ‘Come on, baby, since those first few months has Lish once been rude to you? Or made you feel uncomfortable?’

  ‘No,’ I admit. ‘But—’

  ‘Well, doesn’t that count for more than what he writes in a private message where he’s trying to look the big man and thinks that slagging off his dad’s fiancée is cool?’

  At last I let it drop, but as the day passes I find myself thinking about Lish and those hateful words he wrote on Facebook more and more. The worm of doubt that Dan planted inside my head wriggles around, poking into all the dark crevices of my mind. In the end I creep up to our bedroom while Jed and Lish are watching football on TV. I have to speak to someone. But who? I could talk to Rose, of course, but I don’t want to worry her. I know that if Martin found out what Lish wrote on his Facebook page he would call Jed immediately and insist that he takes his son in hand. Jed’s own brother, Gary, would probably use the whole situation to get at Jed, who definitely wouldn’t thank me for involving him. Which leaves friends: Moira in Australia is too far away and I can’t call up Mel or Julie out of the blue and bombard them with such a melodramatic-sounding story. In the end I ring Laura. I saw her recently, and she’s fully aware of both what happened to Dee Dee and how tricky things have been over the past year between me and Lish.

  ‘But I thought he totally accepted you after the first few weeks?’ she says, when I tell her about the Facebook entry. ‘God, Emily, are you sure he was writing about you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘There’s more.’ I repeat a shortened version of the tale Dan told me, about Lish drug dealing – and his theory that the cyanide in the ExAche was added deliberately, then the sachet resealed.

  ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t stop thinking about it.’

  ‘Mmn,’ Laura says. ‘Even if Lish is peddling pharmaceuticals, it’s still a massive leap from that to trying to deliberately poison you.’ She sighs. ‘Let’s face it, Emily, lots of kids struggle with step-parents, I did myself. But that’s a long way from trying to kill them. And anyway, it’s all a bit elaborate: putting cyanide in a random sachet then going to all the trouble of resealing it.’

  Everything Laura says is logical and sensible and yet I’m still feeling anxious when I get off the phone. It’s dark when, several hours later, Lish appears downstairs, ready for Jed to drive him home to Zoe’s house – just a short distance away in Highgate. There’s a threat of snow and it’s very cold. The heating has gone off, so I put it on again as Jed gives me a kiss and goes outside to scrape the ice off the car windscreen. A moment later Lish slopes up, his bag – still full of dirty laundry – clutched in his hand.

  ‘Bye, Emily,’ he says. He is smiling, making proper eye contact for the first time since this morning. Perhaps I have overreacted to his Facebook post after all, just like Jed suggested. I take a deep breath and walk right up to him. I put my arms around him.

  ‘It’s been lovely having you here,’ I say, giving him a squeeze.

  Lish hugs me back. A proper hug. I smile, relieved, and then I glance up. For a split second I see Lish’s face in profile reflected in the hall mirror. He is looking away from the mirror, an expression of total disgust on his face. His eyes burn with it. As I look up he pulls away and forces his mouth into a smile again.

  ‘Just going to the bathroom.’ He disappears into the toilet by the front door.

  I stand in the hall, frozen to the spot. Lish can lie to his dad all he likes, but I’ve seen the truth in his eyes. He hates me. I drop to my knees and yank at the straps of his bag. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I need to find out what Lish is carrying in here. The stench of his dirty laundry fills my nostrils. I plunge my hand into the bag, past T-shirts and boxers. My fingers circle something hard, like cardboard. I pull it out. It’s a roll of twenty-pound notes. Jesus, there must be over five hundred pounds here. Where the hell did Lish get this? The answer flashes through my head: drugs, this must be drugs money.

  IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU, WHORE.

  He was trying to get rid of me. And his poor sister died instead because I gave her my headache powders.

  I have the text, I have Dan’s claims, I have the ugly, angry way Lish just looked at me and I have his money.

  But none of it is proof. And this is Jed’s son. I can’t go around making empty claims. I need proper evidence. Something I can take to Jed, not conjecture that Lish can easily wriggle out of. I’m certain if I ask about the cash he’ll just say he’s borrowed it, or taken it out of the account Jed set up for him to buy furniture or some such for the flat.

  I shove the money back to the bottom of the bag and flip the top back over. I stand up as the toilet flushes and Lish reappears. He picks up his bag and slings it over his shoulder without looking at me.

  ‘Thanks, Emily, it’s been great.’ He turns and goes.

  I stare at the front door as it closes behind him, then I walk into the kitchen and sit down at the table. I am surprisingly calm, my hands resting on the warm wood. My bracelet, the same as Dee Dee’s, rests on my wrist. This isn’t just about me. I owe it to Dee Dee to find out the truth and to bring her killer to justice.

  Whatever it takes.

  PART THREE

  February 1995

  Rose picked up her phone. She knew what she had to do. But before she could even scroll to Andrew’s number, Emily had stormed into the living room.

  ‘I just found out Laura is going to FamFest as well,’ Emily shouted, throwing herself down on the sofa. ‘That means all my friends are. You have to let me go too.’

  Rose gazed thoughtfully at her little sister. The past two years had been harder than she would have thought humanly possible. The immediate shock of losing Mum and Dad had given way first to the searing guilt that she could have prevented the accident that killed them, then, as she buried that particular agony deep in her soul, to the ongoing pain of being without them. Despite the fact that they’d rowed on an almost daily basis, she missed Mum terribly, her solid presence at the heart of the house. As for Dad, with his arched eyebrows and quick wit, in losing him she had lost the one person who always, unfailingly, made her feel special. But just as that
loss became absorbed into everyday life, Emily had transformed before her eyes from a sweet-eyed little girl to a troublesome teen. Everyone had told her that once Emily hit adolescence things would get tricky, but Rose hadn’t been prepared for the level of selfishness which her once thoughtful and generous sister would display. Rose was certain that she herself had never been so difficult. Ironically Emily still looked like a child: fairly late to develop, she only had small buds of breasts and her skin remained smooth and clear, not a spot in sight. The slight narrowing and lengthening of her face and those long, coltish legs were the only real indications of the beautiful young woman she promised to be.

  ‘Rosie?’ Emily’s mouth wobbled and fat tears swelled in her eyes. ‘Please? It’s just a two-day festival. Only one night’s camping. And it’s a family festival. Some of the parents will be there the whole time.’

  ‘No,’ Rose said. ‘It’s too far and it’s not safe. There’ll be drugs and alcohol and—’

  ‘But I won’t take them,’ Emily persisted. ‘I would never do that. Anyway, you’d be able to check I was all right if I had a phone.’

  Not that again. Rose sighed.

  ‘It’s no good, Emily, it’s not just you I’m worried about, there could be older boys trying to take advantage of you.’ Rose shook her head. ‘For goodness’ sake, you’re not even fourteen yet.’ Why wouldn’t Emily understand that all Rose wanted was to protect her? Couldn’t she see that there was just no way Rose could risk losing her? That their parents dying so suddenly proved how fragile life was, how easily everything can be taken away from you?

  ‘So what?’ Emily was weeping now, tears streaming down her face. ‘I won’t do anything. I’m not stupid.’

  ‘I know you’re not.’ Rose said. ‘I just—’

  ‘You just don’t want me to have any fun.’ Emily sprang to her feet, arms raised theatrically in the air. ‘I hate you.’

  She tore out of the living room, slamming the door behind her. Rose stood numbly for a second, then sank onto the arm of the chair behind her. The screen of her phone blurred as her own tears pricked at her eyes. She had been planning to spend the weekend hanging out with Andrew, but there was obviously no way she could do that now. Apart from anything else, she didn’t trust Emily not to run off to bloody FamFest as soon as her back was turned.

  Why was it so hard? Rose tried to imagine what Mum would have done. She would have been firm and consistent about the festival, Rose was certain of that. But how would she have dealt with Emily’s hysteria? Her hate?

  It wasn’t fair. Rose was only trying to do the right thing. Had been trying to do it for over two years now. All her friends had gone off to uni. Rose planned to go herself, but not now. Not yet. She couldn’t contemplate the upheaval of such a big life change while Emily was still such a problem, taking so much of Rose’s time and attention.

  None of Rose’s friends had to deal with a difficult teenager. Molly Gibson had a baby, which was a lot of work too, but at least babies were cute. Molly’s friends doted on little Ayesha, cuddling her and buying her baby clothes and oohing and aahing whenever they went round. Nobody came round to Rose’s house any more. Why would they? Emily was always stomping about and, while never openly rude to Rose’s friends, she cast a pall over every room she entered. Anyway, the sort of late nights that her student friends enjoyed during the week were out for Rose, who was always in bed by boring o’clock to be ready for work and to get Emily up for school in the morning.

  Rose’s fingers hovered over Andrew’s number. She didn’t want to speak to him; she would text instead. With a sigh she wrote a short, polite message:

  So sorry can’t make next weekend after all.

  This was the third date she’d had to skip in a month. She could sense Andrew growing impatient. If he loved her, he wouldn’t mind, so if he did mind he didn’t love her and wasn’t worth hanging on to.

  Rose told herself this, but it didn’t make her feel any better.

  She sent the text then set down her phone. There was no way she could take months more of Emily acting out without getting help. And there was only one person she could think of who could give her that help. He was out right now, of course. Martin spent most of his time going out these days. Rose had long given up nagging him over his A-levels. She suspected he was going to flunk the lot of them, though Martin himself seemed confident his grades would improve over the next few months.

  Anyway, Emily adored him. And that made Martin Rose’s best – perhaps her only – hope.

  Martin knocked on Emily’s door.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘S’mee,’ he said.

  There was silence, which Martin took as permission to open the door. Emily was sitting on her bed, surrounded by school books.

  ‘Pretending to be a workaholic, Flaky?’ he asked with a grin.

  His little sister grinned back. Martin sat on the edge of the bed. He didn’t really see what the problem was. Emily was fine with him. In all honesty he thought Rose created half the difficulties herself. Stopping Emily from going to a family-oriented festival with a school friend and her parents was ridiculously overprotective, but it was more than that. Rose was hard on Emily without realizing it, forgetting to treat her with the little courtesies that were so important when you were trying to grow up. For instance, Martin was pretty certain that Rose wouldn’t have bothered knocking on Emily’s door just now, thereby setting up resentments before a conversation had even started.

  Emily sat back against her pillows. Her room was a mix of the little girl she was growing out of, revealed by the row of teddy bears under the window, and the adult she was eager to become, as evidenced by the large heap of make-up on the floor by the bed and the tiny-cupped bra draped over the back of the chair. Martin noticed the bra in passing. Some of his friends were obsessed with tits, but Martin didn’t really see the point of them – sexually, that was.

  ‘I hear you’re upset,’ Martin ventured, smoothing his hand over the duvet. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Just Rosie being mean.’ Emily scowled. ‘She thinks she knows how to be a mum but she’s pants at it.’

  Martin pursed his lips. If Rose were in the room, he was certain she would be urging him to defend her. But that was likely just to wind Emily up – and Martin didn’t want a row. There was enough drama in his life without that. He thought of Mum. He missed her every day. In the two long years since she and Dad had died, Martin had often wished he could have talked to her again. He would have liked to have taken her out too, to her favourite restaurant, and made her laugh over wine and salad. She hadn’t been happy with Dad – she’d more or less told Martin that. Not that he could tell anyone now.

  But Mum was gone and no one else at home knew his secret. At school he was still pretending to like girls, to joke with the others about who he thought was hot – and not. But away from the sixth form and the need to fit in, Martin was starting to find himself. In bars and on the street looks would be exchanged and interest shown and felt – and sometimes acted on.

  Martin knew who he was and he wasn’t ashamed of it. But being open about it was another matter altogether. He wanted to talk. He was ready to talk. He was just waiting for the right moment.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Emily narrowed her eyes.

  Martin cleared his throat, remembering why he was here. ‘I know Rose can be a bit harsh.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s a fucking fascist.’

  ‘Well, maybe you could show her how to deal with you better?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Tell her how you feel, what you want.’

  ‘I do.’ Emily let out a low moan. ‘She doesn’t listen. She treats me like a baby.’

  ‘You have to be honest about how you really feel . . .’ Martin stopped. What was he doing? How could he lecture his sister on honesty, when he had been afraid for so long to tell her, to tell anyone he knew, who he really was.

  He’d talked to Mum. And Mum had died, which had – he saw it now
– totally freaked him out, like it was a jinx. But that was in the past. It was time to be open about the future. His future. And there was no one he trusted more to accept him as he was than his little sister.

  ‘What is it?’ Emily asked.

  It was time. Martin took a deep breath and then he told her.

  December 2014

  Dan answers on the second ring.

  ‘Em?’ His voice is a mix of concern and delight. Something inside me shifts; I am reassured just by the familiarity of that deep, Essex-boy accent. Is it because Dan and I were so close once? Or just that Dan sounds like I do, unlike Jed, whose own accent is subtly but distinctly posher, so that when he says ‘years’ it sounds like ‘yahs’.

  ‘Em?’ Dan falters slightly. ‘Is that you?’

  I hesitate. Dan’s voice may sound familiar, but it’s been a long time since I knew Dan himself. I have to keep remembering he is a stranger now.

  ‘I . . . I’ve been thinking about what you told me,’ I say. ‘I’d like to meet up again.’

  ‘Right.’ There’s a pause. ‘Okay, that’s good, Em.’ Dan suggests a pub near King’s Cross. I vaguely remember going with him there before, ten years ago. At the time Dan lived in a rundown house share on Caledonian Road, but when he and I moved in together we rented a flat south of the river, so I could stay closer to Rose. At first life in our one-bed flat in Camberwell was bliss, then Dan started staying out later and later in the evenings. Sometimes I’d join him, but mostly he was off with the lads, his east London friends, drinking pint after pint and rolling in drunk around midnight. He was always pleased to see me but I hated it. It was like he wanted me to be at home waiting for him, but didn’t want to come back there himself until the evening was almost over. At first I tried to be patient, then I grew angry. We started arguing, which just led Dan to stay away even more often. Finally, I said I thought I should move back in with Rose, hoping it would be the moment he came to his senses but instead he nodded and said he’d been thinking the same thing. I moved out, deeply hurt, and the following week Dan announced he’d decided to take a new job in the States. There was never any talk that I might have gone with him. Or that we should keep the relationship going while he was away. My blood still chills at the memory of Dan telling me very matter-of-factly that his move offered us the chance of a natural break.