Her Last Lie. Amanda Brittany
said, sitting back down and placing two freshly poured mugs of coffee in front of them.
‘I think I have,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Well, a haunting of ghosts, actually.’
‘A haunting of ghosts?’
‘Like a gaggle of geese, but ghosts,’ she said, with a smile.
‘Pretty sure you just made that up.’
She hadn’t really looked at Trevor’s Facebook profile when he’d added her in July. She’d just registered at the time that his profile picture was a wolf howling on a mountain and his cover photo a generic beach somewhere. But she looked at it now. He had a dozen friends, including those he’d invited to the reunion.
‘Isla?’
‘What?’ She glanced up and met Jack’s enquiring eyes. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’
Jack placed his hand over hers. ‘I was thinking, do you fancy taking off on Saturday? Maybe have a picnic by the sea? I know it’s October but …’
‘Yes, yes, why not? Sounds great,’ she said, barely hearing his words.
‘So when is this reunion?’ He removed his hand from hers and nodded at her phone.
She sucked in a breath. ‘Friday night.’
‘Where?’
‘Spoons in Cambridge.’
‘Will you go?’ He swallowed a gulp of coffee.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Could be fun meeting up with old friends. And I’ve got a backlog of Game of Thrones to watch, so I need you out of the house.’ He laughed.
‘Yeah, maybe I will.’ She looked at the phone once more. ‘Ben Martin is going. He’s in publishing.’
Jack’s eyes widened. ‘That could be good, right? He might publish your book.’
She smiled at his naivety. ‘I’m not sure he’d be best pleased if I started bombarding him with questions, but you never know.’
‘You should go, Isla,’ Jack said, his voice serious. ‘You’ll have a great time.’
She returned her eyes to the screen, clicked yes before she could think too much, and put down her phone. ‘Done,’ she said, leaning over the breakfast bar and pressing her lips on Jack’s, kissing him long and hard.
‘That’s more like it,’ he said, slipping down from the stool. Taking her hand, he led her to the bedroom.
***
Later, Isla spotted a butterfly on the work surface next to the kettle. Her stomach leapt, as she reached out to touch it, expecting it to spring into life and flutter around the kitchen, but it didn’t. She stared at the bright turquoise triangles on its wings, the deep black around the edges, recalling the photos she’d taken of the species when she was in Sydney.
Carl had called her Butterfly Girl because she took so many pictures. He’d teased her, saying the Blue Triangle was common out there – nothing special. ‘You need to search out a Richmond Birdwing,’ he’d said, his smile seeming so genuine. She’d thought he loved her. Perhaps he had in his warped way – that’s what Roxanne had said in a bumbled attempt to heal her.
‘The Richmond’s wings stretch almost sixteen centimetres,’ Carl had gone on. ‘Saw one once when I was a kid.’ Now the thought of his smile – and the way he’d later morphed into a monster – sent a shudder down her spine.
‘How did it get in?’ she said, her words barely audible, as she glanced around at the sealed apartment windows.
Jack looked up from shoving clothes from his holdall into the washing machine. ‘Sorry?’
‘A butterfly.’ She felt strangely helpless. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘Ah.’ Jack rose and slammed the washing machine door closed. ‘I found it by our front door yesterday. Forgot to say. I know you like butterflies, and—’
‘On our doormat?’
‘Yeah. But I’m pretty sure the poor thing’s dead.’
She gently touched its wing once more. ‘It’s not dead, Jack. I don’t think it’s real. It’s made of silk or something. What the hell was it doing on our doorstep?’
He shrugged. ‘No idea. I just brought it in. Thought it might get a new lease of life.’
‘It’s silk, Jack. I just told you that.’
‘Yeah, well I didn’t know that at the time.’
She held it in her palm, a slight tremor in her hand. ‘What was it doing out there?’
‘I guess somebody must have dropped it. The bloke upstairs likes weird and whacky things. Maybe it’s his.’
‘What bloke?’
‘Some professor type, moved in while you were away.’ He stepped towards her, and she flinched, dropping the butterfly, and it floated to the ground. ‘It’s just a butterfly, Isla.’
‘No, it’s not just a butterfly, Jack.’ She was close to tears. ‘It’s the Blue Triangle, found in Australia.’
He looked at her for a long moment. ‘Isla, I don’t get what the problem is. Is this something to do with Carl …?’
‘No. No, of course not,’ Isla cut in. ‘Ignore me, I’m just a bit jet-lagged, that’s all.’ She pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes to stop the tears.
‘You sure you’re OK?’ he said, and she looked up to see him studying her face.
She couldn’t tell him that Carl had burrowed his way into her head. That she was worried he could be out, but was too afraid to find out. He’d be upset she hadn’t told him about the appeal and then he would worry about her – she couldn’t have that.
Jack stepped closer and pulled her gently into his arms, where she leant against his chest. A tear burned the corner of her eye, before rolling down her face.
Two years ago
‘It closed in 1994,’ Jack said, coming up behind Isla as she photographed Aldwych Station in London.
She turned into the bright sunshine, squinting as her eyes met his. Taking in that he was tall and slim, and wearing a faded Captain America T-shirt and a cap over dark hair. His hands were rammed into the pockets of knee-length shorts.
‘Sorry?’ she said.
‘The underground station.’ He nodded towards the building she was photographing. ‘It opened in 1907, closed in 1994.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She turned away from him. She’d already researched the building ready for an article on the London Underground she’d been commissioned to write. ‘And before Aldwych, it was Strand Station.’
‘Yeah, but the sign gives that away.’
She glanced at the ‘Strand Station’ sign on the red-brick wall above the closed metal gate.
‘So that’s kind of cheating,’ he said.
A smile flickered on her lips, as she aimed her camera.
‘Did you know it’s been used in films?’ he said.
‘Aha.’ She kept her eyes focused. ‘Atonement.’
‘Superman.’
‘28 Weeks Later.’
‘V for Vendetta.’