Bright Lies: A Chilling Psychological Thriller Read online

  As the evening wears on, the geeks get bombed on the cheap cider they’ve brought, chased down with Andy’s vodka. Jack’s still sober. He shared a spliff with them, even tried chatting up girls, but they weren’t interested. It’s business as usual, then.

  Deciding it’s time to go home, he says goodbye to his mates and looks around for his less-than-gracious host.

  Bailey’s still in a clinch with Maddie. Jack shudders, his gaze sliding over Andy and Cara as he turns to leave.

  He stiffens.

  Cara’s barely conscious. Andy’s sitting on the floor, cradling her in his lap. One hand holds her upright; the other is up her jumper.

  She’s only thirteen, hardly older than Katie. He has a sudden, nauseating image of his little sister lying on her bed with teddy bears around her, and Andy looming above.

  “She needs to go home, mate. I’ll phone for a minicab.” That’s next week’s lunch money gone, but at least he’ll get to ride home in comfort too.

  Andy laughs. “I’ll put her to bed upstairs.” He calls, “Bailey! Front room, yeah?”

  Bailey tears himself away from Maddie’s clinch for a moment. “Sure.”

  “No.” Jack stands over Andy and Cara, puffing himself up like an angry cat. He doesn’t want a fight – like everyone else, Andy’s taller than him – but he can look after himself if he needs to.

  Andy’s gaze sharpens, as if calculating odds, then he nods. “Okay, mate, call a cab.” He shifts himself carefully, placing Cara in a sitting position against the wall. Her head lolls.

  Jack punches the number in his phone.

  “Wait,” Andy says. “No hard feelings. How about a line before you go?”

  Jack remembers the explosion of energy, the feeling of the world lying at his feet. He nods. Maybe Cara will sober up a bit if she stays another thirty minutes. He can keep an eye on her.

  Andy places a finger on the worktop, tuts at its stickiness. “Got a mirror, Bailey, mate?”

  Bailey goes to find one, returning with a pine-framed square which must have been hanging on a wall.

  Andy lays it flat on the kitchen table. He sets out three lines, as before. This time, he uses his own banknote to take his share.

  “Bailey – want some?”

  Bailey obliges. One or two guys are watching, but most of the partygoers are smoking weed outside, or have left. Maddie is holding up a girl who’s vomiting into the sink.

  Now Jack snorts the remaining track effortlessly, as though he’s done it all his life. Power surges through his veins. “Want some help, Maddie?” he calls.

  Andy’s laughing. He picks up the note and stuffs it in his pocket. “You guys,” he says, catching Jack and Bailey’s eyes in turn, “You’re so adult about this. Both of you are doing her, right?”

  Bailey looks first at Andy, then Jack, and finally, Maddie. He reaches over and slaps her face.

  Maddie screams, letting go of her friend. The other girl staggers backwards, then grips a mixer tap and manages to stay on her feet.

  Jack lunges forward instinctively, pushing himself between Maddie and Bailey. He reaches upwards to place a restraining hand on Bailey’s shoulder.

  Red-faced, Bailey takes a swing at him.

  Jack dodges it easily, but Bailey throws a second punch straight away, a piledriver aimed at Jack’s stomach. The floor is wet and Jack slips. As he staggers, the blow connects with his chest, leaving him gasping for breath.

  Bailey scents victory. His face contorted in a drunken leer, he lurches forward, ready to deliver a strike with all his weight behind it.

  Breath coming in painful gulps, Jack feels a wave of adrenaline rip through him. His right fist flies in a tight arc to smack square into Bailey’s nose.

  The cracking sound is echoed by a loud thud as Bailey falls, the vinyl floor barely cushioning the impact. On his back, blinded by blood streaming over his face, he seems only able to flail about.

  “Wow,” Maddie says, her tone awestruck.

  A snarl tearing through his lips, Jack sets upon Bailey, not caring anymore if his rival’s undirected knuckles slug him. There’s no rational thought in his mind: nothing except the compulsion to destroy his opponent. Gravity on his side, he pounds Bailey’s head and torso without mercy.

  “Stop it, mate, you’re done.”

  Hands yank Jack upwards from the groaning, bloodied mess, as if an octopus is grappling with him.

  “Fetch Andy,” Bailey whines.

  Jack is starting to come down now. He knows exactly what’s happened when Andy appears, zipping up his flies, Cara nowhere in sight.

  Andy’s intense gaze shines with triumph. “You’re in so much trouble, Jack,” he says softly. “But I’ll help you. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  Chapter 8 February 2015 – Jack

  The phone’s persistent ringing wakes Jack from his slumber. He wriggles around in the warmth of his narrow bed, rubbing his eyes. The air is cold on his cheeks and water vapour condenses on his breath. Glancing at the window, he’s glad that at least there’s no ice on the inside. It isn’t unknown in his draughty bedroom. The house has central heating, but the radiators upstairs are permanently switched off.

  Uncle Ken has answered the phone. Jack can hear his bass voice rising on an angry note. It’s all the more reason to stay in bed, under Ken’s radar.

  Jack feels his ribcage carefully. It’s tender, but no bones are broken. Bailey, on the other hand, was in a mess last night. Maddie patched him up. It turned out she’d done first aid training, and she wasn’t too drunk to use her expertise. His nose will always be crooked now, though. Andy told him to call it a rugby injury.

  Whatever Jack’s reservations about him, he’s grateful that Andy took charge last night. Bailey’s going to tell his parents he was mugged, but he didn’t want to cause them alarm by ringing them. Everyone else knows they’re not to tell, and why would they? Thailand’s not the only place where coke, weed and pills are illegal.

  Andy even organised the semi-conscious revellers to clean up the kitchen and sweep up the spliff ends littered outside.

  Yes, it could have been worse. Jack tries not to think about Cara. Maddie had checked up on her in the spare room, had said she was okay.

  He reaches for his phone to check the time, sees he can afford to sleep another hour, and pulls the duvet over his head.

  He has a Sunday lunchtime shift at the burger bar, but if he drifts off, Aunt Mon will come and wake him. Her method – tugging his foot – is ungentle but effective.

  Today, her services aren’t required. Uncle Ken comes thundering up the stairs and into the bedroom. He pulls the duvet to one side.

  “Out of bed, Jack. You’re packing your bags.”

  Jack’s slow to digest the words. “What’s going on?”

  “You’re going, that’s what. I want you out of my house. Now.”

  Jack jumps up, forgetting the chill. “Why?”

  Ken’s expression is grim, blue eyes colder than winter in his puffy, unshaven face. “I told you it was your last chance before Christmas, when you fought the Dando boys. Now, I’ve had Councillor Bartlett on the phone saying you beat up his son yesterday.”

  Jack groans. So much for Bailey’s cover story. He’s puzzled that it’s unravelled already: he didn’t think the Bartletts were due back until much later.

  “So it’s true.” Ken folds his arms.

  “I didn’t start it,” Jack says.

  “You never do. According to you. At least this time, the police aren’t involved.”

  He’d accepted a caution when Richie Dando was hospitalised. Richie and his brother are bullies; Jack suspects the local bobby was secretly pleased someone stood up to them.

  Ken’s rant isn’t finished. “I said to Mr Bartlett, ‘Tell the police if you want. Let them deal with it,’ but no, he said his son insisted they weren’t involved.”

  That shows sense on Bailey’s part; he’d open a can of worms if the police knew what had happened
at the party.

  “You can’t afford to annoy important people like that,” Ken lectures. “Mr Bartlett cuts short his break because his neighbours say someone was smoking marijuana in his garden―”

  “Were they?” Jack plays for time, hoping Ken will calm down and say his talk of a suitcase is a joke.

  “Don’t play the innocent with me.” Ken eyeballs him, up close and personal. “Lucky for you, he found no evidence of drugs, just his son nursing bruises and a broken nose.”

  “He hit a girl,” Jack says.

  “I don’t need to hear your excuses. This is a respectable estate and we’re respectable people, making something of our lives. I rue the day Monica said we should take you in.”

  Jack has heard this many times before.

  “Bad blood,” Ken mutters.

  Mon pops her head around the door. She glares at Ken, no doubt in response to his last comment. Jack’s mother was her younger sister.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Jack,” she says. When she’s stressed, her West Country accent is strong, despite upwardly mobile Ken’s attempts to eradicate it.

  She’s a softer touch than Ken. Jack wonders if he can get her onside, then she’d persuade Ken to relent. “Sorry,” he says.

  “You’re a bad role model for Katie. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Katie is her darling, the daughter Mon always wanted and couldn’t have. She’s the reason that Jack has a home here at all. Social Services told Mon that the two children came as a package.

  “I’ll get my A levels this year and go to university,” Jack says desperately. “That’s setting a good example, isn’t it?”

  “And that’s another thing,” Ken says. “Mr Bartlett doesn’t want his son to see you again, ever. He said if you don’t leave the school immediately, he’ll have you thrown out.”

  “He can’t do that.” Alarmed, Jack stares at his uncle.

  To be fair to Ken, he doesn’t look happy about it. Jack’s academic prowess is, at least, something to boast about to his cronies at the pub.

  How could Mr Bartlett persuade a school to expel a straight A student? Jack contrasts the faux castle in Sneyd Park with Ken and Mon’s little semi, bought from the council with a huge mortgage. The Bartletts have money and power. They don’t even need to use them; all it takes is for Bailey to engineer a fight on school grounds and make sure Jack is seen as the aggressor.

  It’s not as if Bailey was ever his friend. He’s still not sure why he was invited to the party. Below the surface of his mind, a dark thought lurks: he was supposed to bring someone disposable, for Andy to use and discard like a filthy tissue.

  “Twenty minutes,” Ken says. “Then I want you gone.” He stomps off.

  Mon stays. He sees the pity in her eyes. Framed by greying hair, her heart-shaped face is kind, prone to breaking into smiles despite Ken’s testiness. Katie will probably look like that one day.

  “He’s worried about his job,” she says. “His boss just pitched to the council for a contract.”

  “Mr Bartlett won’t know he works for them.”

  “Those people know everything.” She twists her face in disgust.

  “You believe me, don’t you?” Jack asks. “Can you talk him round?”

  Mon shakes her head. “Not this time. He’s sick of you getting into fights. I said, ‘boys will be boys,’ but he won’t listen. You can’t blame him, really.” She adds in a whisper, “I phoned my friend, Tracy. She’ll put you up tonight. Just for one night, mind.”

  “Thanks,” he forces himself to say.

  “Katie’s just got out of bed. Get packed and you can say goodbye to her.” Mon looks at her watch. “You’ve got sixteen minutes. I wouldn’t push it.”

  Jack doesn’t own a suitcase. He fills his school backpack and sports holdall with as much as he can. Clothes, textbooks and laptop are crammed in. There’s only just room for his chocolate box of treasures – faded pictures of his parents and Katie, school awards, a journal. The PS4 he saved for is left behind.

  He drags the bags downstairs, into the hallway. For a moment, he pauses by the framed, signed photo of Elvis. It’s Ken’s most prized possession. Aware that memories fade, Jack tries to make the scene stick in his mind. Then, thinking of a use for his PS4, he retraces his steps to retrieve it.

  Katie is sitting at the kitchen counter in her pink Disney pyjamas, eating toast. Mon has already plaited her long brown hair. Jack thinks Ken and Mon want to keep her childlike, their little girl. He doesn’t necessarily disagree with it, but it’s a battle for them on this estate. Whatever happens, though, he doesn’t doubt their love for her. That’s all that matters.

  “You can have my PS4, Katie,” he says, placing it next to her plate.

  “Thanks.” Katie doesn’t smile. Her hazel eyes are solemn. “Auntie Mon said you had to go. Why are you leaving, Jack?”

  “I hit someone by mistake.”

  She flinches.

  “Katie, don’t worry. He’s still alive.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t get into fights, Jack.”

  Despite the gravity of his situation, he’s amused. “You sound like Uncle Ken.”

  In answer, she reaches for her piggybank. Opening the bottom, she shakes out a pile of change, about five pounds’ worth. “Take this, Jack, you might need it. Now do I sound like Uncle Ken?”

  “No.” It nearly breaks him up. He doesn’t want to take the money, but he stuffs it in a pocket. She’s right: he might need it.

  “Time’s up.” Ken drums his fingers on the door.

  “I love you, Katie.” Jack hugs her.

  “Love you too.”

  “Message me, okay?” Jack disentangles himself, grabs his bags and walks away. He doesn’t look back.

  Chapter 9 May 2015 - Emily

  Megan and I are giggling when we leave the train at Bristol Temple Meads. As usual, we’ve travelled without paying. There are no ticket barriers at the village station, and no-one checked tickets on the train.

  We’ve only ever been caught out once, and then we said we’d got on at the last stop. The train manager, a young man, laughed and said he wouldn’t bother charging us.

  When we go shopping in Bristol, we get off at Bedminster. It’s another tiny station without barriers; we can easily walk to the city centre a mile away. Today, though, we’re changing trains at busy Temple Meads.

  We used to hang out with Alicia all the time before her parents split up and she moved to Bristol. It was Megan’s idea to visit her. “You know that history project we’re doing on Homes for Heroes?” she said. “Alicia lives in one. We can see her and write it up as an interview.”

  That’s how we end up catching another small three-carriage rattler at Temple Meads today. First, we check where the train manager is standing on the platform, then sit as far away from her as possible.

  The train’s engines begin to roar, and it pulls away through the suburbs: Lawrence Hill, Stapleton Road, Montpelier, Redland, Clifton Down. We keep a watchful eye for the train manager. The carriage is full of Saturday shoppers, so we should be able to avoid her. It’s understood between us that, if we see her approach, we’ll get off at the next stop.

  The train dives underground, whistling as it chugs through the tunnel. On the other side, it follows the river until it stops at Sea Mills.

  Alicia is waiting on the platform. It’s a hot day for May, but she looks cool in a flowery red and white playsuit. It shows off her long black hair and tanned limbs.

  “Great outfit,” Megan says.

  “Jade got it at Primark,” Alicia says. “Dad doesn’t like it, but he’s at work. I’ll get changed later.”

  I’d forgotten her dad does security and might be out. “What’s your stepmum like?” I ask.

  “Jade’s okay.” Alicia’s face suggests Jade isn’t okay at all.

  We walk through a park to her house, a white box on a long curved road of white boxes.

  “Can you tell us about Homes for Her
oes?” I ask her.

  “Can’t you Google it?” Alicia says. “I thought we’d play music.”

  “Let’s chill in your garden, then we can take a few pictures around the estate,” Megan suggests.

  As it happens, when Jade finds out about our project, she’s very helpful. She’s lived in Sea Mills all her life and knows a lot about it.

  “Have a cuppa with me in the kitchen and I’ll show you some books,” she says.

  We all sit around an oval pine table. Jade puts the kettle on. She wears a playsuit like Alicia’s, but in a different colourway: navy and cream. Her hair is braided in long blonde plaits, tinged with blue. It’s a strong look. I wouldn’t be impressed if Mum chose it.

  The kettle boils. Jade brews a pot with tea leaves, rather than bags. I’ve never seen that before. She pours the tea into mugs through a strainer, adds milk, and passes around a plate of Jacobs Club biscuits.

  “Ready?” she asks.

  Megan takes a notepad and pen from her bag. “Can I quote you, Mrs Pavey?”

  “Jade, please. When our soldiers returned from the First World War, there was this big scandal, because they only had slums to come back to. So Bristol City Council built houses that heroes would be proud to live in. I expect you know that?”

  I nod, biting into the rich chocolate and savouring it. Alicia looks bored. She picks at her nails.

  “The rents were actually quite high. Not all the heroes could afford them. But my gran’s family managed to get a house around the corner from here, on Trymside, when she was five years old. Her parents couldn’t believe their luck. They used to share an outside toilet with two other houses. Now they had a bathroom and toilet inside their home, all to themselves. And a large garden.”

  I gaze outside. Alicia’s garden is lovely, big enough for a summerhouse and a pond with a fountain.

  “They grew apples, pears, raspberries, runner beans – all sorts. My dad remembers. Gran got a council house herself when she grew up. Dad had an idyllic childhood here, playing in the woods and by the river. He took the train to the seaside at Severn Beach and went fishing.”

  “And you?” Megan asks.