Three Little Lies Read online

  By the time the buzzer goes, I’m a third of the way down a bottle of wine. Usually that would be enough to blur the edges, but tonight I’m razor sharp. I don’t go to the door straight away. Instead I carry on standing in the kitchen, looking at a photo of Sasha and me on the fridge. It was taken on a night out a couple of years ago – Rachel’s birthday, I think it was. Sasha’s wearing a black catsuit and her cheeks are highlighted in silver, sparkly face paint. She looks otherworldly, like a unicorn or a dryad. She’s smiling straight into the camera; I’m looking up at her adoringly.

  The buzzer goes again and I’m jolted out of my introspection. I buzz him up and then peer through the peephole until he appears, pushing his dark hair back impatiently, looking up and down the corridor. I open up and he comes straight in without being asked. There are dark hollows under his eyes, and he carries with him the faint scent of rolling tobacco and stale smoke.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ I ask his retreating back as he strides into the lounge.

  ‘Yeah, glass of wine, please,’ he throws back over his shoulder.

  When I come in with his drink and my own replenished, he is sprawled on the sofa, legs apart, one knee jiggling up and down frenetically.

  ‘What’s going on, Ellen?’ he says. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I sit down primly in the armchair – Sasha’s chair, the one she always sits in, to the point where I can feel the imprint of her beneath me. ‘If I knew that I wouldn’t have called the police, would I?’ Who does he think he is, barging in here without even saying hello or asking me how I am?

  ‘What did the police say to you?’ he asks, leaning forward. His elbow comes to rest on his knee and the jiggling stops abruptly.

  ‘They won’t do anything much. They say she’s not vulnerable, not high risk. And also…’ I am unwilling, for some unidentifiable reason, to tell him about the money.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  Shit, why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut? I try to make something up but my mind is slow, my thoughts sticking to me like thick, black treacle. Anyway, I suppose he might know something about the money, something that might help.

  ‘She cleared out her bank account last week. Took the lot – twenty thousand pounds.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought maybe you might?’

  ‘No.’ He looks genuinely bewildered, raking his fingers through his hair till it stands up on end.

  ‘She hadn’t mentioned anything, or… I don’t know… been anywhere?’ It’s a stab in the dark, but he frowns and starts nodding.

  ‘There’ve been a few times when she wasn’t where she said she would be.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I called her at work one afternoon and she wasn’t there. Her work phone kept going to voicemail and her mobile was off, so I called reception and they said she was on annual leave. When I asked her about it later, she said she’d gone out to a meeting, that the receptionist must have got it wrong.’

  ‘When was this?’ A sick feeling creeps into me, as it has every time someone has said something about her that doesn’t make sense, something I can’t understand.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago? I thought…’

  I know what he thought. I would have thought the same under the circumstances.

  ‘She wasn’t cheating on you, Jackson. I’m sure of that.’ I’m not sure of it, or indeed of anything, but loyalty to Sasha compels me to keep on playing my part. I wonder again about the Friday before she disappeared, what had put her in such a strange mood. ‘The police told me that you’d argued, a couple of days before she disappeared.’

  ‘I wish I’d never said anything!’ He jumps up and goes over to the window, staring out wildly. ‘I was trying to be honest, thought it was best to tell them anything that might help. What if they think I had something to do with it?’

  I’m not quick enough to reply and he whirls round furiously. ‘Not got anything to say to that? Maybe you think I’ve done something to her too?’

  ‘No! I don’t, Jackson. Honestly.’ I am tempted to tell him my fears about Daniel, but I don’t know how much Sasha has told him about what happened back then, so I hold back.

  ‘No, she’s taken off,’ he says. ‘I’m getting more and more sure of it. She was definitely up to something.’

  ‘Why are you so sure she’s to blame?’ Unexpected anger explodes within me like a rocket that whines slowly up and then bursts into scattering, incandescent sparks of burning light. ‘Why are you so quick to assume she’s in the wrong? You came barging in here on Friday, demanding to know where she was, and now you’re implying that she was up to something dodgy, that she’s run off with someone or something. Can you not step outside your stupid, selfish head for one minute and admit the possibility that something’s happened to her? That someone has hurt her, or taken her? Don’t you even care?’

  ‘Yes, of course I care.’ His eyes blaze. ‘What do you think I’m doing here?’

  ‘I think you’re trying to insinuate horrible things about her… That she was cheating on you. How dare you —’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ellen, she’s not perfect. In fact, she can be a total bitch when she puts her mind to it. What is it with you and her? Why are you still sticking up for her? It looks as though she’s pissed off without even bothering to tell you where she’s going and you’re still defending her.’

  I try to take a breath but there’s nothing there. His words have knocked it out of me. He stands up and walks to the door, taking one last shot at me before he goes.

  ‘I think you’re protesting too much. You know what I’m saying is true, you just don’t want to admit it. You know as well as I do what she’s really like. See you, Ellen.’

  With that he is gone, leaving a bitter, dark cloud in his wake. Every time I try to breathe in, it’s as if I’m inhaling his vicious words. They echo through my mind, running through my bloodstream, faster and faster, until I’m close to passing out. It’s the grain of truth in them that is the worst part, the part that really hurts.

  I need to do something to drown out his voice in my head. Something practical, to help Sasha. I think about what Olivia said about Daniel. I can understand why she’s had to shut it out, what he did. God knows, I’ve tried to do it myself over the years. I guess Sasha did too because we rarely spoke about it. For the five years he was in prison, I could breathe, but everything changed when he was released. We had been told at the time to expect his custodial sentence to be around five years, so it shouldn’t have come as a complete shock, but it did. I had almost managed to convince myself that it was never going to happen, that he had magically disappeared and I’d never have to think about him again. It was the first time we’d heard anything from Karina since the trial. She didn’t contact us directly, but she asked her mum to tell my mum. They were legally required to let Karina know he was coming out. We’d have realised anyway, because it wasn’t long after that the letters started.

  I google him periodically, of course. I can’t help myself. There’s never anything new, but adrenaline buzzes through me nonetheless as I open my laptop, feeling the warmth of it on my crossed legs. I type ‘Daniel Monkton’ into Google. I am quite au fait with the other Daniel Monktons. One of them is a magician in America, with a good line in children’s parties; another enjoys posting racist memes on Twitter. The ones that do relate to him are all old articles about the trial that I’ve read before. I do my usual round of searches – Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn. Nothing. His present-day digital footprint is non-existent – no mean feat in this day and age. It’s as if he simply doesn’t exist.

  I drum my fingers on my laptop, unable to stop my thoughts straying to one person – a person who, in a way, is the last who would know anything, the last person who would want to see him. She won’t want to see me either. But Sasha and I, we went out on a limb for Karina. We testified in court against Daniel. I’ve always secretly felt that she
should have been more grateful than she was, but I suppose given what she’d been through, it was unreasonable of me to have expected anything of her at all. But I wonder now if she knows anything – after all, she was told when he was released from prison. Maybe they keep her informed of his whereabouts? And if they don’t, then don’t I have a duty to warn her? If Daniel has done something to Sasha, Karina is in danger too. As am I, but I am trying to keep that particular thought firmly at bay. Sasha needs me to be functioning. I mustn’t let her down.

  I’ve looked for Karina on Facebook before, but she doesn’t seem to be on there. I try again though, scanning down the list, but as ever, none of them are her. I suppose she might have got married, or changed her name for other, murkier reasons. I google her, but I can only find other Karina Bartons, ones who are doing charity runs or posting on Instagram or offering aromatherapy services. I check them all out, just in case.

  My fingers dance over the phone’s keypad without me having to think about it at all, and after a couple of rings she answers.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Mum, it’s me. Is… is everything OK?’ Even though I know she always answers the phone sounding as if some terrible disaster has befallen her, I still have that moment’s fear, every time, that this time, something actually has.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Have you heard from Sasha?’

  ‘No, that’s why I’m calling. The police won’t do anything, not yet, anyway, so I’m trying to speak to anyone who might have an idea where she is. I thought… I might speak to Karina?’ I sense waves of concern rippling down the telephone wire. I go on, not giving her a chance to voice them. ‘I wondered if you had a telephone number or address for her mum? Obviously I know they moved, but I wasn’t sure where to.’

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ she says, careful to keep any judgement from her voice.

  ‘I don’t know, Mum!’ Frustration bubbles up. ‘Did you not hear what I said? Sasha has disappeared. I’ll do anything, talk to anyone.’

  ‘Is it a good idea to go digging all that up, though? Are you sure Sasha’s not taken herself off somewhere? You know what she’s like.’

  I thought I did, but I can still hear Jackson’s words, still feel them.

  ‘Please, Mum, I need to know what’s happened. Do you know where Karina’s mum lives?’

  She sighs and I can hear rustling as she flips through the pages of her address book, an ancient tome in which the dead are crossed through with a black magic marker.

  ‘I’ve got an address,’ she says. ‘Dilys gave it to me when they moved. She said she’d get in touch when they got a telephone number sorted, but she never did. I didn’t expect it, really. She did write to me when Daniel was released from prison, but she still never gave me her number.’

  She gives me the address, a street I know in Forest Hill, ten minutes or so from where they used to live.

  ‘They didn’t go far, then,’ I say.

  ‘No. Dilys’s life was around here, wasn’t it? She just couldn’t stand living opposite… well, you know.’

  Opposite the family of the boy who had ruined her daughter’s life as it was just beginning. I extricate myself from the conversation as soon as I can, and sit staring at the scrap of paper on which I’ve written the address, my mind a jumble of conflicting thoughts.

  I am wired when I get into bed, with no chance of sleep. Yes, I’m worrying about Sasha, I’m thinking about Karina, plus the argument with Jackson still reverberates through me. It’s not only that, though. After a few minutes of lying there, every muscle in my body tensed, I realise what it is: I’m listening. I’m alone in the flat, and the only person with a key is the one person I want to see more than anyone in the world. And yet I am listening and, more than that, I am waiting. Waiting for the creak of a floorboard, the tinkling of glass; for a sign that the day I have been awaiting for five years is here. The day Daniel Monkton makes me pay.

  Olivia

  July 2007

  I am desperate for the loo, but Dilys is sitting in my path, at the end of my row. We’ve got an hour for lunch and I assumed she would be getting up to leave, but she looks rooted to her seat. I’ll either have to ask her to move or squeeze past her, feeling the warmth of her skin, hatred oozing from every pore. I consider waiting, but I can’t, those two cups of coffee I had to sustain me before I came in pressing urgently on my bladder. I briefly consider climbing over the bench in front and going along the next row, but I’ll look ridiculous, plus I’ll attract her attention anyway doing that. I stand up and move along our row until I get to her.

  ‘Excuse me, please.’

  She doesn’t look up; doesn’t acknowledge me.

  ‘Dilys, please.’

  ‘Don’t use my name,’ she hisses, still not looking at me. ‘Don’t you dare speak my name.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, unsure exactly what I am apologising for. Using her name? Making her move out of her seat? Raising a depraved sexual predator of a son? ‘I need to go to the lavatory.’ I curse myself for using such a ridiculous, upper class word. I haven’t said ‘lavatory’ since I was a little girl and my mother told me that ‘toilet’ was vulgar.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, you need to go to the lavatory?’ She elongates the word, putting on an absurdly posh accent. ‘Why on earth didn’t you say?’ She stands up so I can get past, and I am nearly out of the door that leads down to the loos, but she hasn’t finished with me.

  ‘Why couldn’t you have stayed away from her?’ I get the sense that these are words she has been trying to keep in, words she wanted but also didn’t want to say, that are now spilling out of her in a torrent of bile. ‘With your music, and your pictures, and all those books? Staring out of that window all summer. She thought I didn’t notice but it was all she could talk about. She was perfectly happy before you came on the scene.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, weakly.

  ‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? Much too late.’ We stare for a few seconds, eyes locked, until I drop mine.

  ‘I must…’ I mutter, and escape through the door, running down the stairs, my heart thudding in my chest. My instincts are screaming at me to run out of the courthouse and keep running, to get as far away from Dilys as I possibly can. I won’t, though. I can’t. I have other, stronger impulses that bind me to this place, until it is finished, one way or the other.

  I avoid her when I get back, sitting in the last row with my back to the wall, but she ignores me anyway, completely focused on Karina as she re-takes her place on the stand, looking more nervous than ever.

  Daniel’s barrister stands up and I notice for the first time how small and slight she is. Her dark hair is tied back in a glossy ponytail under her wig.

  ‘Miss Barton,’ she begins. ‘On the evening of the thirty-first of December 2006, did Daniel Monkton hurt you in any other way, other than the wounds to your thigh? Were there any other physical signs that you had been forced into sexual intercourse?’

  ‘No.’ She sounds unsure, and again I am torn between my natural female impulse to believe her, and my opposite maternal protective instinct.

  ‘There are witnesses that say you were… let’s say… interested in the Monkton family before you had even met them. That you observed them moving into the house opposite yours in the summer of 2005, and that you subsequently spent many hours watching them from your window. That your interest verged on obsession. Would you say that was true?’

  ‘No,’ she says, back on surer ground. ‘Of course I saw them moving in: they live right opposite. I became friends with Sasha when she started at our school. But I wouldn’t say I was obsessed with them. Not at all.’ She’s lying now, I’m sure of it. I had seen the hunger in her face, but stupidly thought it harmless. In fact, more than that: I was flattered. I loved how she had cast me as the welcoming head of this bohemian, musical family, a family so much more interesting than her own. I thought I was broadening her horizons, showing her what life could be. What ridiculous vanity
that seems now. But I was distracted, wasn’t I? I was looking the other way; I thought danger lay in another direction. I was so busy taking care of the other situation, I completely missed this one.

  ‘OK,’ says the barrister thoughtfully. ‘This relationship that you say you had with Daniel Monkton in the three months preceding New Year’s Eve 2006 – did anybody know about it?’

  ‘No, not as far as I knew at the time.’

  ‘You didn’t tell any of your friends?’

  ‘No. He wanted us to keep it a secret. He didn’t want anyone to know.’

  ‘None of your family or friends ever questioned where you were going when you went to meet him?’

  ‘No. We… we didn’t see each other all that often. He was… busy.’ There’s a vestige of shame at having to admit to how little she’d been prepared to accept. Something shifts inside me, as it does every time she says something that sounds true.