House of Lies: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist. E. Seymour V.
D awn breaks and the body of the boy is almost imperceptible in its still-grey light. There are no obvious marks upon him, no apparent cause of death. His eyes are closed, lids tinged Delphic blue. His body, which is small for his age, curls in the way it once did in his mother’s womb. Safe and warm. Now dreams he once dreamt lie smashed around him like falling stars. Not for him a future of bright city lights or rural anonymity. No rough and tumble with the lads. No jibes thrown or hurled in boozy pumped-up heat of the moment. No lover awaits him. No marriage or hope of becoming a good old boy and passing on a legacy through his children and their children. For him there is no tomorrow. From this moment on he will be forever in the dark.
Present Day
It kicks off the moment Tom spots his photograph in our county magazine.
“For God’s sake, how the hell did that happen?”
It all began with a party at Lily Gin’s, a popular cocktail bar off the Promenade. Free booze. Ear-bleeding beat. Everyone hollering. The local newspaper I work for has a sister magazine that held a joint bash there for advertisers and the great and good of Cheltenham. Their way of saying ‘thank you’. A roaming rookie photographer snapping folk glad-handing is the source of Tom’s ire. It’s strange because he isn’t confrontational or quick to anger. Not chilled, like me, but quiet and mostly silent with an undertow of edge that I find a bit Darcy-like and dead exciting. Tom blowing his stack isn’t a thrill at all; it’s worrying.
Personally, I think how nice he looks. “It’s a great snap.” It really is. The picture isn’t posed. We are deep in conversation. Slightly turned away from the camera, the scar at his temple that makes him look dangerous and sexy is more prominent than usual; dark-blonde beard neatly trimmed; his nose with a slight kink at the bridge, full kissable lips close to my cheek. For once we are captured together, which makes a change. Anyone viewing my photo album for the past few years could be forgiven for thinking I’m single.
“Fuck’s sake, you know I hate having my photograph taken.”
To the point of phobia, but as it was clicked, with Tom unawares, by some newbie photographer, I can’t see what the problem is. Sleek, monumentally happy and relaxed, Tom is whispering something in my ear that makes me smile, although I can’t for the life of me think what it was, mostly because I’m now half into my dress, trying to get ready for work.
“It’s only the county mag,” I point out, finally zipping myself up.
“Yours,” he says, fury in his eyes, as if I am personally liable. I don’t bother to point out the inaccuracy of his accusation.
“For goodness’ sake, I’m not the editor, Tom. You know very well I don’t write a thing for the magazine these days.” Still, he glowers. “Look, I’m sorry,” I say, spreading my hands, thinking that I really should be heading out. It was all right for Tom to chunter on. He’d got a day off from the restaurant where he works as a chef.
“I told that bloody photographer to go away.”
“She’s only a kid.” Which explained why the celebrity especially invited didn’t get so much as a look-in, to the embarrassment of all.
“I never wanted to go to the launch in the first place,” he growls, prowling around our tiny sitting room.
Didn’t you? I can’t recall any protest at the time, but think it best not to say so. “Well, you did. It’s done now,” I say, softening my tone. In my experience with men, it’s never a good idea to get arsey. Not really in my nature in any case. Others remark that I’m laid-back to the point of horizontal, a family trait, care of my mother. Somehow my chalk-and-cheese relationship with Tom works. Classic attraction of opposites.
“In a week’s time it will be in the recycling bin,” I add. “Forget about it.”
“How can I forget when it’s online for the world to see?” His normal deep tone is high and tight. How someone raised in South London can sound as if they have Welsh vocal cords remains a conundrum.
“Jesus, if you looked like the Elephant Man, I could understand it but …”
“It’s an invasion of my privacy.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I appreciate that Tom is a private person. He’s not into social media like all my friends. He’s more of a low-profile, right-under-the-radar kind of guy. I get all that, but this is an extreme reaction by any standard. Time to shake him out of it. “For goodness’ sake, lighten up.”
“Don’t you dare fucking speak to me like that.”
My cheeks never flush because I have a sallow complexion. Heat fills my face as if I’d been plunged head first into hot water. “Will you please keep your voice down,” I hiss. “You’ll wake Reg.” Reg is my younger brother. He’s actually called Max; more suitable for his rock god, shag everything that moves, image, but I christened him Reg years ago because I thought it would annoy him. Somehow, it stuck.
Tom’s expression is one part grimace, two parts hauteur. “I don’t think that’s very likely, do you?”
He has a point. Reg, who has the lifestyle of a bat, stumbled in around four in the morning and is dead to the world. But I could do without Tom’s sarcasm.
I try to outstare him and fail. The stubble on his cheeks, the set of his jaw, the rawness and slightly lost expression in his eyes, which are the colour of dark rum make him despite myself, maddeningly attractive.
“Bloody hell, Tom. Are there to be no photographs at our wedding?”
He blanches. “What wedding?”
He was joking, wasn’t he? He means no photographs, no twenty thousand quid down the toilet matrimony? Stupidly, I burble on. “And family snaps with kids– ”
Now he looks as if I plunged his head into hot water. “Kids?”
“The ones we’re going to have.” I practically screech, thinking the row has taken a surprising and horribly revealing turn. Didn’t we discuss this? I’m sure we did.
Lines set into his forehead contract. “I don’t want them.” His brutal words pound into me, smacking the air out of my lungs. Dear God, he means it.
Had I been kicked in the gut by a mule while drinking ten double Stollys in quick succession, I couldn’t feel more wounded. At thirty-seven years of age, my biological clock, unlike some of my friends’ timepieces, ticked, tocked and apparently stalled. I have many ambitions but, as much as I have a life plan, I envisage children being part of them. My mum gave birth to my brother when she was forty-three. Everyone says she looks younger than her years and that she passed that same ‘youth’ gene on to me. In my head I reckon I’m roughly thirty, same age as my kid brother. Surely state of mind and disposition count for something when it comes to reproduction? Besides, Tom is younger and in his prime. Even if my fertility is jeopardised by age, there is always adoption or fostering. To know that the man I love simply does not want children leaves me stunned. Bereft. Desolate.
“Besides,” he continues quietly, “it’s not really on the cards, is it?”
Words that threaten to tumble out of my open mouth halt in the back of my throat, retreat and expire. Had they lived, they would have gone something like: “YOU BASTARD. WHAT ABOUT ME? YOU NEVER SAID YOU DIDN’T WANT KIDS.” So much for my horizontal ‘hey man’ and chilled disposition.
I gawp at him, trying to contain the hurt in my expression. Denial dribbles out of me. “You don’t mean that.”
He stares stony-eyed – so much worse than saying something.
“You’re being daft, Tom.” My voice is dead shaky.
“Am