Her Last Lie: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist!. Amanda Brittany
‘Who’s this pillocky person behind me?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Some ruddy moron’s gating my tail.’
Isla glanced over her shoulder, and squinted. The back window was filled with the full beam of a car’s headlights, far too close.
The taxi driver slowed, and whoever was behind heeded, putting some distance between them.
‘Sports car,’ the taxi driver said with a grumble. ‘Some idiot going through a midlife crisis, I shouldn’t wonder. Probably bought a guitar too, and wants to be the next Bryan Adams.’
He pulled into the car park at Oakley Court, which had once been the sweeping drive of a now-converted Victorian house.
‘Thanks,’ Isla said, opening the door, relieved the journey was over.
He jumped out, opened the boot and pulled out her case.
‘Thanks,’ she said again, paying him.
He drove away, and she began stabbing the passcode into the keypad on the front door, before glancing over her shoulder. The sports car that had tailgated the taxi was parked across the road, lights on. Someone was sitting at the steering wheel, but it was impossible to see who it was – no more than a silhouette.
Unnerved, she fumbled the rest of the code into the keypad, and pushed open the door. She heaved her case up the flight of stairs, and put her key into her front door and turned it. As she pushed against the door, something prevented her from opening it fully. Her heartbeat cranked up a notch, but she realised quickly that a newspaper and a pile of letters were blocking the door. She reached her hand round, and pushed them aside.
Inside, once the door was closed behind her, she stood in the darkness and took a long, deep breath, frustrated that her anxiety had risen to what she called silly levels. She’d been fine in Canada. Things had gone so well.
The apartment was quiet without Jack and Luna to greet her, and she missed the comfort of their presence.
Jack rarely went to Dorset. His mum must be very ill.
She flicked the hall light switch, but the inky darkness remained. The bulb had blown.
As she wheeled her case through the blackness, she noted the air was musty and heavy with a faint mingling aroma of Jack’s aftershave and the slight waft of bacon.
The floorboards in the lounge creaked as she padded towards the window and looked out. The sports car was still in the lay-by opposite, lights off. She yanked the curtains closed.
In the kitchen, she turned on the tap and streamed water into a glass. She swallowed half of it, her dry throat thanking her, and poured the rest onto the dry soil of a sad-looking plant that Jack had forgotten to water. She took off her coat and slipped off her shoes. She knew she should shower to eradicate the journey, but instead made her way into the bedroom and fell onto the bed fully clothed. Closing her eyes, she drifted into a doze.
Five minutes later, the intercom buzzed. Her eyes sprang open. Could it be Jack home early? He often forgot his key. She rose and headed from the bedroom, her heart pounding as she took in how still and silent the apartment was. She approached the front door, fighting back memories of six years ago, frustrated by her fear. She didn’t do this any more, she told herself. She wasn’t afraid any more.
She pressed the talk button on the intercom. ‘Hello. Jack, is that you?’ There was no reply. Maybe the intercom hadn’t buzzed. Perhaps it had been part of a dream. It wouldn’t have been the first time her dreams seemed real. When she’d been taking tablets, she would often have vivid nightmares that felt far too real. But that was a long time ago. ‘Jack?’ she said again, noting the wobble in her voice.
She released the button, headed into the lounge, and crept towards the window. She peered through the gap in the curtains. Someone, hood up, was crossing the road, jogging away from the apartment block. The sports cars lights flashed, and whoever it was flung open the door, jumped inside, and sped away with a screech of tyres.
Isla hurried back to bed and dived under the duvet, where she cradled her knees. Tears filled her eyes, as memories of Carl Jeffery swooped into her head.
Six years ago
He stood at the bar, pretending to look lost. ‘You’re so pretty, I’ve forgotten what I was going to ask for.’
She’d known immediately it was Carl Jeffery. Bronwyn, a girl who was staying at the same hostel as Isla, had told her about him. ‘He’s fucking gorgeous,’ she’d said. And there was no doubting that he was. Rugged good looks, dark hair curling into the collar of his checked shirt. The kind of Aussie she could imagine living in the outback in a shack, boiling water in a tin kettle on an open fire, undeterred by huntsman spiders and venomous snakes.
But Carl’s flattery was transparent.
‘It can’t be that hard to remember what you want,’ Isla said, folding her arms and rolling her eyes. ‘It’s a bar, for Christ’s sake. Now what can I get you?’
Charmers had never taken Isla in. In fact, she hadn’t been interested in men at all at that time. Her breakup with Trevor still rattled around her head even then. How he’d wanted her to settle down. How he didn’t want her to travel. It had all got so messy. The last thing she wanted was another relationship.
‘So, what’s your name, pretty lady?’ Carl’s smirk was lopsided, his eyes deep set.
She thrust her hands on her hips. ‘Seriously? That’s your best line?’
He laughed. ‘Oh come on, give a guy a break.’
‘You’re really not my type.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t waste your time.’
‘You’re gay?’
‘So I have to be gay not to fancy you?’ She knocked the lid off a bottled lager, and handed it to a worse-for-wear customer who was leaning on the bar holding out a five-dollar note.
‘So what will it be?’ she said, eyes back on Carl.
‘Lager,’ he said, pulling himself onto a stool.
‘Coming right up.’ She bent to get one from the fridge.
‘So when did you arrive?’ he asked, as she handed him the cool bottle. ‘I haven’t seen you around.’
‘Two weeks ago,’ she said, watching as he parted his lips and took a long gulp.
‘Staying at the Bristol?’
She nodded.
‘You like it there?’
‘Yeah, it’s cool.’ She moved away. She really wasn’t interested. And anyway, Bronwyn fancied him.
During the evening, women gravitated towards him, and he ended up at a table with an attractive blonde who seemed to fuel his ego, and kept him topped up with drinks. His laugh was loud and confident, and Isla found herself watching him, despite an inner instinct not to. She watched the way he leant forward to listen, attentive as the woman spoke, the way he rested his tanned hand over hers, so it became invisible.
‘There’s a fucking dancing possum in here,’ yelled the drunken bloke at the bar, snapping Isla out of her dream world, as he fell off his stool. ‘Did you see it? Did you see it? It’s wearing clogs and a pink hat.’
‘Oh, Ernie, you’re imagining things again. You need to give up the amber nectar,’ she said, coming out from behind the bar. Despite her small size, she pulled him to his feet. ‘You’ve had enough, mate,’ she continued, escorting him across the bar, and out through the door. ‘Now go home to Mrs Ernie.’
‘Chucking out the drunks again?’ said Bronwyn, appearing through the night, and following Isla back into the bar. ‘So how’s it going?’ she continued, her friendly Irish lilt just one of the things that made her so likeable.
‘Yeah,