Bright Lies: A Chilling Psychological Thriller

  BRIGHT LIES

  by A.A. Abbott

  Copyright © 2020 A.A. Abbott

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction, although there are occasional references to real people and places. The Bobowlers nightclub is not real, however. Nor are the people who work there, including Ray and the Ravers. Vimal Korpal and Sofia Ali are real people who have agreed to be featured in the story. Apart from them, the characters and incidents portrayed in the book are a product of the author’s imagination. Any other resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events, is entirely coincidental.

  To anyone who judges Emily’s actions harshly, please remember she’s a young girl, below the age of consent in the UK. British law protects children under the age of 16 for a reason.

  A.A.Abbott asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Perfect City Press.

  This book was written by a British writer in British English. English Midlands dialect words like bab and bobowler are occasionally used.

  ISBN 978-1-913395-04-9

  She’s learned too much, too young. Can she break free?

  Emily’s dreams come true when her mother marries wealthy painter, David. Thanks to him, Emily’s artistic talents shine. Then he starts teaching her things a 14-year-old shouldn’t know. When Emily escapes from David’s luxury mansion, she’s penniless and forced to sleep in a rat-infested alley.

  Bad boy Jack has turned his life around. Working as a DJ with ambitions to open a club, he rescues Emily from the streets when he sees a woman in trouble. He doesn’t know she’s still only 15 - and trapped in a dark web of secrets and lies.

  David must find Emily and silence her. As he closes in, Jack faces the hardest choice of all. If he saves Emily, he’ll kiss goodbye to his future...

  What would you sacrifice for love?

  Chapter 1 December 2019 - Emily

  “You don’t have to see him, Emily. We could just go home. It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  “No, Mum. We’ve been through this. Please don’t talk. I’ve got to concentrate on the traffic.”

  We’d agreed I’d drive so I’d have to focus on that rather than the meeting. I risk a sideways glance at Mum, though. Her lips are tight. It’s obvious that her support for me is costing her dearly. I feel a flood of gratitude. She’s never faltered in her love, despite my fear she would.

  Just in time, I notice the lorry cutting in front of us. I brake sharply, a chill surging through me at the near miss.

  To her credit, Mum doesn’t criticise. She was relaxed earlier, too, when the engine stalled and I scraped the gears. Her pink Fabulous Flowers van has already taken a few knocks in the streets of Bath. One or two more won’t make a difference.

  Edgily, I crawl behind slow lines of traffic in yet another village high street, barely noticing the festive glitz in every window. Motorways would be quicker, but I’m too nervous to use them yet. I only passed my test in March, and my skills leave a lot to be desired.

  Removing the L-plates should have been a rite of passage, like my eighteenth birthday. I’m technically an adult now, but I had to grow up a long time ago.

  As we near the prison, the roads are quieter, the rural landscape almost without colour. Brown fields and bare trees sit under a dull grey sky. You wouldn’t know a huge city like Birmingham was a few miles away. We could be travelling through a land of ghosts. I shudder.

  Mum says, “Sweetheart, this is stressing you out. I can’t believe Maya suggested it.”

  “She said I’d get closure.” It’s not true; my counsellor told me it was a bad idea. I still couldn’t stop myself from writing one last time. When a prison visiting order actually turned up, I was surprised and relieved. Now, nerves churn my stomach as I drive into the tree-lined carpark.

  Mum will stay in the vehicle. She doesn’t want to go inside, and I’m fine with that. It will be hard enough doing this on my own.

  “Still sure?” she asks again, before I open the door.

  I nod.

  “Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry, Mum.” My lips twitch as I try to smile.

  It’s been nearly three years. Even after all the counselling and the promises I made to myself, I can’t get him out of my mind.

  PART 1 Dreams Come True

  Chapter 2 March 2014 - Emily

  I’m embarrassed but trying to hide it from my friend. Megan is complaining about her portrait while the artist is right in front of us. Does she realise?

  I noticed him right away, because he looks like Liam Payne from One Direction. They’re my favourite band and Megan’s too, although she’s a Harry Styles fan. No-one else from 1D is allowed in her bedroom, which is plastered with Harry’s posters. I can’t Blu-Tack anything to my walls because our cottage is rented. A single image of Liam smiles from my wardrobe door.

  Megan frowns. “It’s so babyish, Em.”

  I wish she wouldn’t gripe about it, but I know what she means. It’s been painted from a school photo, not even this year’s, because her mum thought the last one was prettier. Megan’s frizzy red hair was longer then, her face rounder.

  “It’s lovely. You look pre-Raphaelite.” I’ve surprised myself with such a long word, and I can see it’s startled Mrs Harris, Megan’s mum, as well.

  Megan’s scowl vanishes. Now, she’s just puzzled. “That’s a good thing, is it?”

  I nod. “Yes, I love the pre-Raphaelites.”

  With luck, I’ve stopped an argument. It’s so exciting to be at a real-life art exhibition and I don’t want anything to spoil it.

  Mrs Harris’s face softens. She runs a hand through her own bob, a straighter and darker version of Megan’s style. Megan says she irons it. “Emily, you’re right. I’ve always admired the pre-Raphs, too.”

  “I s’pose it’s okay,” Megan concedes.

  The artist, standing proudly by his work, seems amused. There’s a mischievous grin on his face. I catch his eye and he winks, carefully, so Megan and her mum can’t see.

  “I’m glad I don’t have to paint it again,” he says.

  “No, we couldn’t ask you to do that.” Mrs Harris is gushing. “It was a nice surprise to win your competition, wasn’t it, Meg? When I sent your photo to the paper, we weren’t really expecting anything, were we?”

  Megan shrugs.

  “Do have a glass of wine, Sue.” He hands Mrs Harris a plastic tumbler with an inch of straw-coloured liquid in it. “Sorry, it’s soft drinks only for Megan and her friends. I’m a fan of the French way myself, giving children a responsible amount of alcohol, but the venue won’t have it.”

  “Thanks. Just the one, as I’m driving.”

  Megan hisses, “Children,” at me in disgust.

  I pretend not to hear. “Let’s look around.”

  The large, oblong room’s white walls display a dozen or so images of women, and a girl with flowing blonde locks. She’s probably around our age: twelve. Perhaps she’s the artist’s daughter. He’s fair, too, his short hair longer on top and falling forward in a floppy fringe.

  His name’s David Anderson. It’s his first exhibition. We’ve been invited to the opening night in Bath because the local paper ran a prize draw for a free portrait. Megan was lucky to win such a valuable painting. I caught a glimpse of the price list when we came in: the others are all over five hundred pounds.

  “Before you dash off, tell me what you know about the pre-Raphaelites. I’m a great fan of Rossetti but I wasn’t sure this audience would see the influence.” He points to the small groups dotted around, chatting and drinking wine.
His brown eyes gleam.

  Megan and Mrs Harris have already drifted away, I realise with a surge of panic. I shiver, tongue-tied. He’s good-looking and something within me flutters when I’m the centre of his attention. It makes me uneasy.

  As he gazes at me expectantly, I finally manage to speak. “We learned about them at school. Romantic realism.” The words emerge as a stammer, but once I start talking, it becomes easier. “I love art. It’s the only subject I’m any good at.”

  “Me too. My teachers despaired of me. What sort of stuff do you paint?”

  Whatever we’re told to do in class, I think but don’t say. “I’m working on a still life at school. Apples and oranges. Acrylic on canvas.” There must be a million such paintings in the world already. Still, I know Mum will give it pride of place in our tiny living room.

  “That’s a great start. I’m thinking of switching to acrylics, but these are oils, as you can see.”

  “They’re awesome,” I say timidly, knowing instinctively why his work is so expensive. There is joy, light and movement in the images. They are better versions of their subjects. I wish Mum had entered me for the competition.

  His face lights up at my praise. The resemblance to Liam is amazing. He looks so young that the girl can’t be his daughter. “Thank you. I’m thrilled that someone’s actually buying them. You’ll know that, as a creative person yourself, you seek validation for your work but you’re never certain you’ll get it.”

  I nod, out of my depth. Mum loves everything I produce. Our fridge is covered with my drawings.

  “You see the little red dots next to three of my paintings? That means I’ve sold them. Anyway, best of luck with your endeavours. I hope your mum and dad encourage you.”

  “Dad’s dead. Mum likes art, though. That’s her, there.”

  She’s standing with her back to us, accepting more wine from Mrs Harris, who is on her second. I hope she’s remembered she’s driving.

  The artist raises an eyebrow. “Your mother? I thought you were sisters.”

  Mum spins round, smiling. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  She wouldn’t normally say something like that. Her cheeks are pinker than usual. It must be the wine.

  He beams back at her. “You’re two peas in a pod. Blonde hair, blue eyes… Forgive me for the presumption. When I contacted Sue to invite her, she said Megan would bring friends, and I naturally thought they’d be her age.”

  “I was curious,” Mum says. “We don’t usually get asked to this sort of event.”

  She’s not kidding. We can’t afford to buy art. Our Somerset accents are out of place, too. Whenever I catch snatches of conversation, it’s in loud, snobby voices. David doesn’t seem snooty at all, though.

  “The exhibition’s on for a week. Tell your girlfriends about it. It’s free to browse, and there’s no obligation to buy. I’m just pleased that my art is bringing enjoyment to others.” He picks up a bottle of wine and splashes more into her tumbler.

  Megan nudges me. “There’s cake. Want some?”

  I glance reluctantly at the artist, but I can see he’s focused on Mum now. It suddenly feels as if the sun has gone behind a cloud. “Cake’s exactly what I need.”

  Mrs Harris unlocks her grey Vauxhall Zafira, holding Mum’s arm steady at the same time. “How much did you drink, Rachel?”

  “Wasn’t counting,” Mum giggles. “What about you?”

  Mrs Harris opens the passenger door for her. “Two of those little cups. Hardly anything in them.”

  Mum almost falls into the car. I’m relieved that we parked right outside the gallery.

  “I’m glad you came along,” Mrs Harris says to Mum as Megan and I strap ourselves in behind them. “It does you good to get away from the village and out of your comfort zone. Did you meet anyone nice?”

  “I swapped phone numbers with David Anderson.”

  “Really? You lucked out, then. He’s well fit,” Mrs Harris says. “Shame he’s a struggling artist. Lives on cold beans in an attic, I suppose.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Mum sounds smug. “He inherited a furniture business from his parents. He has a big house outside Bath.”

  “Go, girl. When are you going to ask him out?”

  “We’re meeting next Tuesday.”

  “How about a sleepover at ours, Emily?” Mrs Harris suggests.

  “Sure.” I try to sound keen, but a pang of jealousy catches me unawares.

  Chapter 3 April 2014 – Jack

  Next to the karaoke set, wine bottles sit on the coffee table. They’re decorated with trees and flowers. The labels are almost poetic: Blossom Hill Chardonnay and Peach Tree White. Jack suspects the daughters of Aunt Mon’s friends draw inspiration from these sources to choose baby names.

  His father drank beer and cider: manly-sounding brands like Breaker and White Lightning. Uncle Ken, on the other hand, favours whisky. It’s because her husband is away that Mon feels relaxed enough to host the ladies Ken calls her coven.

  Mon went to school in Bristol with all three of them, which means Ken doesn’t approve because they should mix with a better class of people. Ken and Mon have bought their council house, while the others still rent. Worse, Tracy is a single parent. Ken thinks she should have been sterilised. It doesn’t matter that both Tracy and her daughter are nurses at Southmead Hospital.

  ‘The girls’ aren’t aggressive drunks. Even Ken is only maudlin when he’s overdone the Johnnie Walker. Still, Jack steadies himself as he obeys Mon’s summons to the living room.

  Mon is refilling glasses, her newly conker-coloured hair falling over her face. The others beam at him. Wine has brought a sparkle to their looks, easing the wrinkles collected over the course of fifty years.

  “You’ve got a treat for us, Jack,” Tracy says.

  “Oh?” He hopes it’s nothing onerous. Having returned from the burger bar an hour ago, he still has homework to finish.

  “You’re going to sing us a tune.” Deb is Mon’s hairdresser. Her own tresses, long and bleached blonde, barely quiver as she giggles. She lights a cigarette.

  Mon looks up, her hazel eyes apologetic. “Can you do that outside, please, Deb? You know what Ken’s like.”

  “Sorry, my lover. I forgot myself.” Deb stubs it out on her glass.

  “I was telling the girls about Ken’s Elvis Appreciation Society,” Mon says.

  “Thirty of them now,” Deb says. “And you’re Ken’s young apprentice, Jack?”

  “He’s been learning the songs since his voice broke at fifteen,” Mon announces with pride.

  “Well, he should be word-perfect then.” Deb accepts a fresh glass and immediately gulps down half of it. “You’re what, sixteen now―?”

  “Seventeen.” Jack stretches, but he’s aware he’s short for his age. At least he gets away with half fare on the bus.

  “And you’re working at SupaBurger? I saw you there at little Blossom’s birthday party.” Lesley is quieter than the others, but she does like to remind them she’s a grandmother.

  “It’s part-time. I’m studying for A levels.”

  Deb swigs the rest of her wine and helps herself to more. “I suppose you need the money for trainers and computer games, and all the other things young people want.”

  Jack is silent. So is Mon. The cash goes straight into Ken’s pocket; he has insisted on rent since Jack turned sixteen.

  Deb stares at him. “Mon says you have a wig, with sideburns. Put it on for us.”

  Mon has the grace to blush. “No. He’s embarrassed enough when Ken makes him wear it to Society meetings.”

  “Close your eyes, Deb,” Tracy suggests.

  “Shall I sing Heartbreak Hotel?” Jack asks. The sooner he begins, the faster his humiliation will be over.

  “Why not? The King’s first, and his best.” Tracy passes over the karaoke mic, which has a pink metallic finish but feels like plastic. She flicks a switch on the speaker.

  His curly brown h
air is nothing like Elvis’s quiff and he can’t do the moves, but Jack belts out the old standard well. They can probably hear him five doors away.

  The girls clap hands and whistle as he reaches the end.

  Mon has tears in her eyes. “You have such a fine voice. Like your dad. It’s what attracted―”

  She stops abruptly, obviously tipsy but not too drunk to remember his father must never be mentioned, and certainly not in a positive light.

  “You didn’t wiggle your bum,” Deb says. “Sing us another and shake your hips, my lover.”

  “You said just one,” Jack points out, desperately.

  Tracy rescues him. “You did say that, Mon. Anyway, it’s my turn. I do a mean Shania Twain.”

  Jack flashes her a grateful glance. “Bye, then.”

  “Take care, Jack. Thanks for the song.” Tracy begins selecting another number.

  Jack hastens upstairs to his small bedroom, feeling a sense of sanctuary as the door closes behind him. Mon’s request was harmless, but he wishes he’d pretended to have the cold that is flying around school. His fists clench with hatred for Elvis, Ken and his father. One day, he’ll go to university and they’ll be nothing more than a distant nightmare.

  Chapter 4 July 2014 - Emily

  Mum is in love with David Anderson, and it’s like all her dreams have come true. At first, she couldn’t believe he was interested. He’s rich, handsome and successful. When Mrs Harris heard he was thirty, she said it was cradle-snatching. Mum’s thirty-five, after all.

  David treated Mum to a surprise holiday in Thailand, where he has a furniture business, then proposed to her on the beach. They chose a pearl ring made by local fishermen. She gave it to me once they were back and he’d bought her a proper one, with a massive diamond.

  Suddenly, life is fun. We have a new TV on the sideboard. Mum and I sit in front of it eating popcorn and watching Disney DVDs. She always felt bad that she couldn’t afford them before. Although she says she didn’t struggle so much for cash before Dad died, I was two then. I don’t recall those times, or him, at all. Now money’s no object. David has loads.