Bright Lies: A Chilling Psychological Thriller Read online

  “Are you cold?” Oli reaches out and strokes my hair.

  “No.” I steel myself not to react. Nothing bad will happen. Jack and Cassie are here, and Jack protected me last night.

  “I thought you were shivering. Trick of the light.” Oli transforms from admirer to businessman. “Nice work today, Emily. You’ve got a job. Five days a week, twenty pounds a day to clean the club and run the cloakroom. Cash. What do you say?”

  “That’s way below the minimum wage.” Cassie sticks up for me again.

  “She can keep half the tips.”

  “Still…” Cassie jibs.

  “Take it or leave it.” Oli sounds bored.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Wise move.”

  As we say our goodbyes, I sense him still ogling my bottom.

  Chapter 32 October 2016 - Emily

  Back in Jack’s velvet nest, I slump onto the cushions. At least my exhaustion stops me chewing over my problems. The atmosphere is stuffy, but I’m happy to swap the warmth of the heater and the cosy lamplight for the rainy day outside.

  The others sit on the mattress as Cassie doles out cash: nine pounds each to me and Jack.

  “That means you have a pound more,” I object half-heartedly.

  “I did the negotiating.”

  “Leave it, Emily,” Jack says. “What’s 30p between friends?”

  He’s right, and she did win me a better deal from Oli too. “Want a coffee?” I offer, standing and stretching.

  Cassie yawns. “Sure do. Then I’m going home. Got a wedding to plan.”

  I gawp at the couple.

  She pats my arm. “Not mine, dear. It’s my job. I’m a freelance events organiser.”

  “You don’t just work for your dad, then?”

  “I work for him if he pays me. It’s my gap year, and I’m saving up before going to uni.”

  “You must be really clever,” I stutter, thinking that even if I’d stayed at Marston Manor, I wouldn’t have scraped into university.

  “I certainly am. Four A stars and a place waiting at Birmingham University. I’ll read Business Studies and I’m aiming for a first.”

  It’s impossible to stop goggling at her. Cassie isn’t modest, but she doesn’t behave like someone with a supersized brain either. Mine must be really useless, as no-one in my family is academic. Mum has a few bottom grade GCSEs and my real father’s probably weren’t any better. I’m glad I won’t have to sit exams now I’ve left my old life behind.

  “One day, I’d like to try for A levels again.” Jack’s face is rueful. Again, a shutter falls before I can quiz him, and he says, “Didn’t you mention coffee?”

  He owns four mugs, mismatched and neatly stacked in a cardboard box. I’ve already noticed how quick he is to clean crockery as soon as it’s been used. Taking out the three with the fewest chips, I spoon Tesco Value coffee into them.

  It’s a long way from David’s chrome Nespresso machine, or tea with Mum, served in cute polka dot china. Jack has no milk and black instant is all that’s on offer. Filling the kettle means descending the ladder alone, which is scary when there may be rats at the bottom. Penny isn’t around, no doubt wheedling food from soft-hearted workers somewhere.

  Luckily, there are no rodents, just a faint smell of cat pee. Mission accomplished, I return and finish making the drinks.

  “Thanks.” Cassie grabs hers from the crate straight away.

  “You must have a cast iron gob,” Jack teases her.

  She ignores him. “You did rather well out of Oli today, Emily. Of course, it helps that you’re Jack’s friend. Oli will do anything to keep Jack onside, as long as it doesn’t cost much.”

  “Can you get me a pay rise?” Jack says.

  She fingers her chin, musing. “Not yet. I did try.”

  “You let Oli hit on you.” He doesn’t say it accusingly.

  “What of it, Jack? I can handle Oli. Hear me out on the pay rise. Since you started three months ago, you’ve been attracting more punters, but you’re not at a tipping point. The Bobowlers is still more important than you. Oli will up your wages once it flips round. Want to know how to get there?”

  “You’ll tell me anyhow. Dating you is like listening to those TED talks you go on about.”

  “I should charge you.” Cassie’s eyes twinkle beneath their sweep of false lashes. “All right. You have to build a brand, like Hannah Wants at the Rainbow. Her fans follow her, not the venue.”

  Jack frowns. “She’s got artistic freedom, but I haven’t. Oli’s wedded to Radio 1. He’s not interested in supporting underground music.”

  “Set up your own club night somewhere else.” Cassie fingers her chin. “I know, I know, you need money to hire rooms. You’ll get back it by selling tickets, though. And you’ll become better known and get more gigs.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, Cass. I’ll start saving up. Maybe in the new year.”

  “Meanwhile, sneak your own mixes into the playlist. Just a few times each shift, so Oli doesn’t notice.”

  Jack nods. “Yeah. Not bassline; that’s too hardcore for him. A bit of garage. I’ll sample Oli’s old vinyl. He asked me to.” He points to a box stacked with what look like slim pieces of cardboard.

  Cassie pulls one out. The record sleeve is decorated with a moody grey cityscape. From one edge, she removes the large black disc. “Original eighties. How quaint.”

  “I’ve got a deck for it.” Jack sighs. “All my cash disappears on kit. I don’t know how I’ll get enough to start a club night, let alone afford rent on a flat.”

  “You’d better try. Your kit could easily disappear when your only security measures are an old table and a cat.”

  “They’d have to know the stuff was here,” Jack points out.

  She purses her lips. “I’m not spending the night in this tip when the snow howls in and your pipes freeze over.”

  I sympathise. If I had any choice, I wouldn’t stay here either.

  “So work on your brand,” Cassie says. “You need a punchier name too. DJ Jackdaw, perhaps? With a statement gold chain like Oli.”

  “Medallion Man? Do me a favour.”

  “It’s for your own good. End of lesson. Emily next.”

  Sipping the last of my coffee, I prick up my ears.

  “Emily, do you fancy Oli?”

  I splutter the coffee all over my warmest jumper. “Sorry? No.” It’s as if she suggests I go to the Post Office to pick up pensioners.

  “Thought not.” Cassie eyes me, appraisingly. “Right. We’ll have to make sure he doesn’t make a nuisance of himself. You need a look. Trust me?”

  “Yes,” I say, hesitantly. Apart from doing no cleaning and taking 30p extra, she’s being supportive today.

  “Great. A big change, no half-measures.” She glances at my bruised wrist. A surge of understanding hits me. Cassie knows I don’t wish to be found.

  “Jack, have you bought an electric shaver yet?” she asks.

  “No.”

  Cassie sounds exasperated. “You still wet shave? Then we’ll have to do this the hard way. Bring me some towels.” She points to the space on the mattress he’s vacated by standing up. “Sit here.”

  When I do, she festoons me with towels. Producing nail scissors from her cross-body bag, she starts snipping at the roots of my hair.

  I pull away, horrified at the blonde locks glistening on my lap. “Stop it.”

  Cassie tuts. “Do you always scream at your stylist?”

  Jack laughs. “To be fair, it’s no ordinary style.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Cassie says. “You’d better let me finish, because half of it’s off already.”

  I have no choice, although once she’s shorn as much as she can, Jack insists on carrying out the wet shave downstairs. He says he’s had more practice. I have to sit, fully clothed and draped in towels, on the toilet. He finds a socket and plugs in the warm air heater. Then he squirts ice-cold shaving foam on my head.

  I
scream again.

  “Relax,” Jack says. “It won’t hurt.”

  He scrapes the wet razor across my scalp until he’s satisfied. Finally, he towels it down.

  “Radical.” Cassie thrusts her iPhone at me.

  I gulp at the reflection in its mirrored screen. “Why?” I sob. “I liked my hair.”

  “So does Oli. Anyway,” Cassie’s tone is practical, “I can get you thirty quid for it. Natural blonde is highly sought after. Now, sit there, dry your eyes, and I’ll do your face. Is your bag upstairs?”

  “Yes,” I mutter.

  “I won’t be long.”

  “Have faith,” Jack says, as we hear the clang of Cassie’s feet racing up the ladder. “It’s extreme, but it suits you.” He shouts, “Cass! Why does she need make-up?”

  Too upset to reply, I dab my eyes with a towel. If Cassie tries to turn me into a clone of herself, I’ll wash it straight off.

  She returns, and, ignoring Jack’s protests, begins by plastering my face with foundation. Gradually, she adds colour, finishing by pencilling my brows and brushing glitter on my lips.

  “Wow.” Jack seems impressed. “You really need to see this, Emily.”

  The wall mirror is too high, so Cassie whips her phone out. I stare at my reflection. She’s used bright, shiny shades around my eyes: blue, lilac and turquoise. My lips are fuchsia, flecked with sparkles of silver.

  “You’re a mermaid,” Cassie says.

  “No, mermaids aren’t bald as an egg. What if Oli decides I’m weird? He won’t give me a job after all.”

  “It’s too good a deal for him. And the club can cope with a strong look like that. It’ll get him off your back, that’s all.” Cassie is adamant.

  Jack agrees. “He’ll hardly recognise you.”

  “Nobody will.” Cassie winks. She checks me over, clearly pleased with herself. “Tasty.” Without warning, she plants her lips on mine.

  The kiss is tender, its shock overwhelmed by a flare of desire. That vanishes the instant I recall the first time David did the same. He didn’t ask either.

  How real was the arousal I felt then, and, briefly, for Cassie now? Panicked, I shrink from her, my naked head hitting the cold metal lavatory pipe behind me.

  “What’s wrong? You liked it.” There’s a mischievous fire in Cassie’s eyes.

  “What happened to consent?” I gasp.

  “Still…” Cassie coaxes.

  “Still no.”

  Cassie shrugs. “You don’t know what you’re missing. If you’re into boys too, Jack’s up for a threesome, aren’t you, Jack?”

  “Back off, Cass. She already said no, more than once.”

  “Jack, you’re an old woman.”

  “And you’re a control freak.”

  They snipe at each other as I watch, guiltily wishing I hadn’t caused the argument or at least knew how to stop it.

  Chapter 33 October 2016 - Emily

  Cassie doesn’t stay over, although she and Jack kiss and make up. She walks with me to a supermarket on the way to catch her train.

  “Be cheeky when you’re working the cloakroom. Insult the punters. It’s the only language they understand, especially the men. Are you a feminist?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I mumble, unconvinced that feminism will help me deal with Oli or anyone else at his club. Miss Broadstone has given stirring lectures on equality at our school assemblies, but even she fits into the system by wearing stilettos and flirting with the dads.

  Cassie seizes on my uncertainty. “It’s time you proved it. Don’t do all the cooking for Jack. You’re letting the side down.”

  “Suppose I cook because I want to eat more than toast? Anyway, Jack’s given me a roof over my head.”

  Cassie’s eyes roll. “Perpetuate the patriarchy if you must. He’s not as useless as he pretends to be, either.” Her tone is scathing.

  She leaves me outside Tesco’s and stomps off to New Street station. We’ve already walked past another railway station called Moor Street, and Cassie has pointed out the Bullring shopping centre, which is sandwiched between them. There’s a huge branch of Selfridges at this end, a shiny silver blob looking more like a spaceship than a building. It’s just ten minutes away from the printworks and a leap into another century.

  Despite the allure of the Bullring, it will have to wait for another day. My purse only stretches to food. I choose carefully, as Mum and I used to. The shopping basket is piled high with reduced and value items. I’m tempted by a fridge full of white wine, but I can’t afford it and I don’t have ID. No way could I pass for eighteen.

  A uniformed security man catches and holds my gaze. It can’t be my bare head that has attracted his attention: it’s covered by my hood. I look away and hasten to the tills.

  Queueing, my eyes settle on the rack of newspapers nearby. In the top left corner, above headlines about the prime minister, my picture stares from the front of the Daily Mirror. I gasp, suddenly dizzy.

  “Are you okay?” The woman behind me steadies my arm. She’s middle-aged, an office worker in a suit.

  “It’s too hot in here,” I mutter, unconvincingly. Like me, she must feel the wave of cold air from the beer fridge nearby.

  Shuffling away from her, I pick up the paper. The photo is captioned ‘Missing Schoolgirl’ and the story is inside. I start to flick through the pages.

  The security guard sidles up to me. “Are you buying that?” he asks.

  It’s too risky to argue. I place it in my basket and hope I can spare another sixty pence. Luckily, once I’ve paid, it turns out that I still have a pound left.

  Outside, I sit at a bus shelter and unfold the paper.

  ‘Police are seeking a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl missing from Bath, possibly abducted. Pretty blonde Emily Dennis is thought to be in London…’

  That must be where my phone ended up. I read on.

  ‘Mum Rachel Anderson says, “Emily is the light of my life. I haven’t slept a wink since she disappeared.”’

  My tears well and I can’t focus on the words. Mum is obviously devastated.

  I miss her too. Homesick and guilty, I stagger away from the bus stop, seeking a quieter place where I can weep openly.

  Mum would feel even worse if she knew about me and David. She’d want rid of me forever. I can never go home. Screwing up the newspaper, I throw it in a bin.

  At least I have a place to live and if the police are searching in London, they won’t find me any time soon. Through Ray Cross’s kindness, I’m in Birmingham. Thanks to Cassie, no-one can tell I’m blonde.

  Back in Digbeth, the street is empty again, cars and commuters gone. Standing outside the printworks, I sob until my tears run dry.

  Glancing anxiously over my shoulder, I use the code Jack has given me: three rings of the bell by the boarded up main entrance, pause, three more rings and run down the alley to the door.

  Jack must have sprinted down the ladder: he’s already waiting for me.

  “Spag bol tonight.” I hope he’ll eat it, but it has to be an improvement on toast.

  “Great. I’m starving.” He looks at me searchingly. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “Nothing. Grit in my eyes,” I lie.

  Jack takes my heavy carrier bag upstairs, then sits at his desk. A laptop is open, with headphones plugged into it. He was obviously in the middle of something. As I start unpacking, he dons the headset and begins clicking his keyboard mouse.

  The cat appears, sniffing at the groceries. “Later, Penny,” I tell him, impressed at his ability to arrive when a meal is in the offing. Leaving the ingredients on the desk, I tackle Jack about his kitchen arrangements by waving a hand in front of his screen.

  “You want me to move?” He immediately jumps up and sits on the mattress, laptop wires trailing after him.

  I plug in his two-ring hotplate. There are just enough pans, plates and cutlery to prepare and serve a meal.

  “We need another chair. I’ll keep an eye out for sk
ips.” Jack returns to the mattress with his plate, balancing it on his lap. Expertly, he twirls spaghetti and sauce around his fork. “Thanks, this is delicious.”

  “My contribution to the rent you don’t pay.” I’m quietly pleased he’s mentioned a chair. It means he’s definitely accepted me as a lodger.

  “About that. Cass is right, an irritating habit of hers.” Jack frowns. “No-one will take me seriously as a DJ while I squat in a rathole. But I could get a flat if you shared the cost with me. You could have your own room. Well, perhaps a couch.”

  I stare at him, excited. “That would be amazing. Could we have a TV? And wi-fi.”

  “Defo. Especially wi-fi. I go to the library to use theirs at the moment. It’s a pain.”

  Reality hits. “I don’t know if I can afford it. I need more clothes, like a winter coat and a nightie.” That’s the trouble with packing to run away from home when you’ve never done it before. “I was going to do a few more shifts at the club, then visit the Bullring.”

  “Don’t bother. Cass can show you the charity shops. Anyhow, you’ll get tips when you run the cloakroom.”

  I try to work out the maths. It isn’t my strong point. “Maybe I should see how big the tips at the Bobowlers are? Even then, can we live near a Lidl or Aldi, please?” It’s going to be much easier if I can halve the grocery bill.

  Jack laughs. “Yes, good plan. We need to save for the deposit, anyhow. It’s always a couple of months upfront.”

  We won’t be moving soon, then. As the euphoria fades, we stop chatting. My sleep deficit overtakes me and I’m yawning once we finish dinner.

  Doing the dishes is the last straw. The dirty things have to be carried to the white sink downstairs, together with the kettle to provide hot water. By the time I’ve put away the clean utensils, crockery and saucepans, I barely have the energy to wash my face and brush my teeth.

  “Will you be able to sleep?” Jack watches me as I snuggle on the cushions, fully clothed under a blanket. “I need the light, I’m afraid.”