Her Last Lie. Amanda Brittany
walking round to the driver’s side.
‘Oakley Court. It’s an apartment block in—’
‘I know it,’ he cut in, as she climbed into the back seat. ‘My daughter lives near there.’
Once in the taxi, the driver accelerated away. The journey would only take five minutes, but the thought of being sealed in with a man – even a pleasant-faced man in his fifties wearing a turban – prodded at Isla’s anxiety. It was probably because she was tired. When she craved sleep, thoughts she could normally control encroached. Was it really safe to get into a car parked outside a railway station with a man she didn’t know?
‘You been on holiday?’ the driver asked.
Oh God, he was going to be a talker. She could do without a talker right now.
‘Yes,’ she said, cursing the fact she’d been brought up to be polite. Never wanted to offend.
He indicated and pulled onto the main road. ‘Somewhere nice?’
Please stop talking. ‘Canada,’ she said.
‘Very nice indeed.’ He nodded, approvingly. ‘I’ve always wanted to go. Did you see Niagara Falls?’
‘I did, yes.’
‘I read on the Internet that five thousand people have committed suicide there.’
Why would anyone say that? ‘Yes I know, it’s awful.’
He shrugged. ‘Sorry, not a very cheerful subject.’
No, no it’s not.
His brown eyes met hers in the rear-view mirror, and even though his tone was light and friendly, her neck tingled, and anxiety bubbles rose in her chest. She ran her finger over the band on her wrist and averted her eyes.
‘And there was that woman who went over the waterfall in a barrel and survived. I saw a documentary on the telly-box.’ He paused. ‘Not that I watch documentaries very often. I like gardening programmes. Alan Titchmarsh is my favourite. Do you like Alan Titchmarsh?’
‘I don’t mind him.’
‘It’s my wife who’s the documentary addict. If there’s been a documentary about it, she has watched the documentary. Ooh, I seem to have said documentary rather too much.’ He laughed, as he indicated and turned a corner. ‘We saw that documentary on Netflix about the chap who got charged with murder and went down for years. He didn’t do it, so they got him out again. Then he got banged up again for another murder, would you believe? And now they’re trying to get him off again. He must feel like he’s doing the murder hokey-cokey – in, out, in, out, shake it all about. You seen it?’
Thoughts of Carl Jeffery pushed into her head. Would it be better if she knew the outcome of his appeal? She shook away the thought. If he was out – free to kill again – the knowledge would break her.
‘Santa’s beard,’ the driver said. ‘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 car’s 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