Lying About Last Summer Read online

  I nod slightly. She sounds as if she knows what she’s doing.

  “Please! Wait.” Joe is running after us. “What’s happened? If it’s about Fay, I need to know.”

  “D’you know where she is?” Pippa asks.

  Joe shakes his head. “That piece of paper? Was it … ?”

  “I know you and Fay are close,” says Pippa. “When did you last see her?”

  “This afternoon, after swimming. She wanted to pack. What’s happened?”

  “We think,” Pippa speaks slowly, “but we’re not certain, that Fay may have taken an overdose, but we don’t know where she is.”

  Joe scrunches his eyes shut. “No. Not again.”

  Is it just coincidence that this is happening a second time to him?

  “This must be very hard for you,” says Pippa, “but I need your help. Has she phoned you this afternoon? Or texted?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I haven’t heard from her at all.” He sounds utterly convincing, but I don’t trust him.

  “Can you check your phone?” I ask, in case Pippa isn’t going to.

  “She hasn’t been in touch,” insists Joe, but he reaches into the pocket of his shorts to pull out his phone. He looks at the screen. “No messages.” He unlocks the phone and shows Pippa. “Nothing from her today. She knows I don’t like to use my mobile much.”

  The message he sent Fay the other night will be logged somewhere: Dream of angels Fay x. The choice of words seems chilling now.

  “Thanks, Joe,” says Pippa. “Come with us to the office. You can give the police a statement too.”

  “Sure,” says Joe. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

  Before he returns the phone to his pocket, I catch a glimpse of his home screen. It’s a photo of him and Fay. She has something round her neck that’s similar to something I’ve seen before, but not on her. A triangular piece of driftwood that has a little symbol on it. It’s pretty much identical to the one I saw on the photo of his ex-girlfriend. What disturbs me most, though, is that their glazed expressions are identical too.

  thirty-one

  Danielle, Joe and I sit in silence while Pippa makes phone calls. I can’t sit still though. I cross and uncross my legs, and bite the inside of my cheek. The whole of Yellow Group should be out looking for Fay. Someone should already be checking every inch of this place. I don’t understand why the police haven’t arrived yet, why I can’t hear their sirens. When the centre director arrives, he asks us what we know, takes notes, and says we should wait in the office while he and Pippa brief the instructors in the staffroom.

  As soon as we’re on our own, Danielle says, “This is going to hit my dad hard.”

  “You are unbelievably selfish,” says Joe. He stands up and walks to a noticeboard. “You should be thinking about Fay. And what you’ve done.” He has his back to us, head bowed, rubbing his temples, but I swear he’s reading a letter pinned on to the board.

  So much about him troubles me. The photos of Kyra and Fay with similar necklaces and expressions, his lies about Kyra’s birthday, his creepy behaviour. Yet it’s insubstantial, nothing I could tell the police without sounding flaky.

  I stand up too. I need to move properly, to do something. Through the window I see a couple of instructors arrive on their bicycles, making their way to the bike rack. They take their time locking their bikes. They’re chatting. I want to scream at them to hurry up. Fay needs to be found; time’s running out.

  Think. Think. Did Fay leave any clues about where she would go? What was going through her mind?

  The instructors move out of sight and I pace the room, ending up at the other window that looks out over the grounds. I lean my head against the window, craving the coolness of it on my forehead. The signpost to the different parts of Morley Hill is visible from here. Campfire Area. High-Ropes Course. Swimming Pool … The Lake. Fay’s words from the day we kayaked on the lake float into my head: I’d like to live on an island like that. Far away from everyone.

  She could be there on the island. She’d have kayaked over. It wouldn’t have taken long. It’s private. A place she liked the look of. People wouldn’t have noticed because there are often kayakers on the lake.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I say to Joe and Danielle.

  Danielle nods, but Joe stands up. “Where are you going? You have to stay here. That guy told you to stay here.”

  I ignore him, leave the room, and bolt to the staffroom. The instructors who I saw by the bike rack are at the door.

  “Please,” I pant. “I need to talk to Pippa urgently. I have an idea about where to search for Fay.”

  They look at me, then each other with surprise, as if they didn’t think anyone else but Morley Hill staff knew that Fay was missing.

  “Er. OK,” says one. He pokes his head into the staffroom. “She’s on the phone.” He looks in my direction again. “What’s your idea, then?”

  “The island in the lake,” I say.

  “Yeah, OK. No probs. I’m sure we’ll be searching the whole grounds. We need a briefing first.”

  “You need to get a move on,” I say. My voice cracks. “Can I speak to the centre director?”

  The instructor looks blank. “The who?”

  “The tall man.” Great description, Skye. I can’t remember his name or what he was wearing. A grey T-shirt with a white logo on it? I shake my head. I can’t waste any more time. “Forget it. Tell Pippa as soon as she’s off the phone.”

  “All right.” But I barely hear his answer because I’m on my way to the boathouse.

  *

  The only place I failed to look in the boathouse earlier was the racking, to see if any of the boats were missing. I yank the big doors at the front. They creak open, gather momentum, swing back and bang loudly against the building. One of the wooden slots is empty, damp from where a boat out of the water has been stored at the end of the afternoon’s session, and then removed.

  Either Fay took it, one of the other water-sports instructors took it, or the centre was always one boat short of a full racking and the shelving is wet because boats have been rearranged. I’m going with the theory that Fay took it, and I can’t wait for anyone else to act on it. Too much time has already spun by with note-taking and briefing.

  All the kayaks are singles. If Fay’s on the island, I’ll have to either persuade her to paddle back alongside me in her boat if she’s capable, or wait for help from the instructors. I haul out the closest one to me and set it on the ground, before running to snatch a life jacket and paddle from inside the boathouse.

  With my life jacket on, I lug the boat on its side to the water’s edge without dropping it, the paddle and my flip-flops tucked inside. For a few seconds I contemplate using the jetty, but I opt for dragging the kayak into the lake. Before the water reaches the hem of my shorts, I hold the kayak as steady as I can and lift one leg up and into the boat. Gradually I ease the rest of my body in. I’m in, but my paddle is stuck under the seats. I yank it and the boat lurches.

  Keep steady. Breathe deeply.

  The water is darker and colder than the other morning, and smells of damp caves, or a cellar where bad things happen.

  My technique’s bad but I’m moving forward in the right direction, and the boat is mostly stable. The further out I go, the quieter everything is. In the distance there’s the mocking squawks of birds; closer, the slap and drag of water against my paddle.

  My shoulders stiffen and burn from the effort of paddling as fast as I can. I keep my eyes on the chunk of land ahead, with the trees that stick out like a bad haircut. Pulling the paddle through the water becomes harder and harder. At last, I see the lake changing colour, becoming lighter, and I’m in shallower water. A sign set back from the shore says Keep Out. Nature Reserve. I try and touch the bottom with my paddle. I can but it’s still too deep to jump out. Another five strokes, and I can’t wait any longer. I swing one leg out, rock the boat too far and that’s it. I’m in the water. It’s s
hallow enough to stand up in but it’s still deep enough to drown in, I’m soaked up to my waist, and the weight of the water is dragging my shorts down.

  But I made it.

  “Fay!” I shout. “Fay, it’s Skye!”

  The kayak doesn’t want to be dragged up the gravelly shore of the island. It wants to bob about on the water or drift back into the middle of the lake. I push it instead, imagining the chaotic pattern of jagged scratches that I’m creating underneath. Eventually I wedge it far enough up the beach to stop it sliding back, and dump my thick life jacket on top.

  Heavy raindrops land like small paint splatters on and around me and the sky darkens. Any moment now there’s going to be a full-scale downpour.

  The island looked tiny from across the water. Now it seems like an enormous jungle, the size of the Mulligans’ largest field. If Fay took out a boat, it’ll be here somewhere because it wasn’t floating about on the lake. I find my flip-flops but they’re uncomfortable with my feet being so wet, so I carry them. Now I think about it, Fay’s bound to have hidden her kayak further round the island where it can’t be seen from the boathouse. I should have kayaked around the island first instead of being in too much of rush to reach the shore.

  I hobble along the gravelly beach. As the shoreline curves, I see a large tree has fallen across the beach and I put a spurt on. The thick trunk is the perfect place to hide behind.

  The deluge comes as I’m almost there. Within seconds I’m soaked and freezing, and the lake water and sky merge to the same blurry grey. The fallen trunk is so big I have to clamber over it. Fragments of bark and moss stick to me. As I jump down on to the stony beach the other side, I see a kayak sticking out of some bushes.

  “Fay!” I scream as I fall upon the boat. “Faaaaaaaay!” The boat’s empty apart from the paddle. She must have gone into the woods. I run along the mass of nettles and brambles, scanning for a path or the place where they’ve been trampled. When I spot a slight opening, I drop my flip-flops to the ground and wriggle my feet into them. The stones give way to uneven, spongy ground as I take careful steps into the woods. Rain pounds down in occasional gaps in the trees and gushes over me when I dislodge the puddles that have collected on large leaves. In the first few metres I’m stung by nettles multiple times, and jump at the sound of something small scuttling nearby, but I push on through the undergrowth. My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I follow the path of flattened vegetation, my wet feet slipping on flip-flops that have no grip either.

  Wet shorts rub my thighs, and my exposed skin is attacked by nettles, thorns and clouds of insects. I’m scared I’ll stumble over Fay’s body or brush against it, hanging from a tree. Of what she’ll look like. Whether she’ll be alive or dead.

  “Please tell me where you are,” I say in a voice she’ll never hear over the sound of the rain.

  In this damp and shaded world, there are uncurling ferns, new shoots and dried, fallen leaves, now turning soggy, and rotting berries. Life and decay going on at the same time. I squeeze between two dense bushes and I see pink. Fay’s shorts. She’s lying on her dad’s old swimming towel, on her side, in shorts, koala T-shirt and sopping wet canvas shoes. Her legs and arms, like mine, are covered in scratches and a rash of nettle stings. She’s asleep, unconscious or dead.

  “Fay? Fay! Can you hear me?” I roll her on to her back and tap her cheeks, like I’ve seen people do in films. “Please. Open your eyes.” It’s hard to tell if she’s breathing. Her face is pale, but not super-white. Her chest is still and I can’t find a pulse. I swallow down my panic and hold my hand up near her mouth. There’s a tiny tickle against it. Shallow breathing.

  “I’m going to lift you up,” I say as I slip one arm under her cold neck and the other under her knees and lift her up. She weighs less than my brother, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold her. Her body is floppy, and her head falls back.

  “It’s OK, Fay,” I say. “I’m going to help you.” As I stagger through the undergrowth with her, I can’t keep the branches from hitting me or the dusty bits from the trees from getting in my eyes and hair. Muscles, joints, everything in my upper body is crunched with the strain of carrying her.

  “We’re nearly at the lake,” I say. “You’re going to be OK.” I stumble out of the woods into the rain and sink to my knees on the stony beach, unable to carry Fay any further. The moment I lay her down, she moans.

  I hover over her face. “Fay? Can you hear me? It’s Skye.”

  Her eyelids flutter but fail to open fully. “Don’t…” she croaks. “Don’t leave me.”

  “I won’t. I promise.” Water drips from my soaking clothes, and I shiver. It’s bad enough for me, but Fay’s going to worsen quickly in these conditions.

  It would be impossible for me to paddle back to the shore with her draped over a kayak. How long will it be before someone comes over to the island to help us? We’re too far round for anyone to see us easily. I’ll have to go back to my kayak, find my neon-orange life jacket, and wave it for attention. The quickest way is over the tree, but it’ll be difficult with Fay. I stand to assess the tree, to work out if I can lift her over, or if I should go on my own, despite my promise not to leave her. It might be the only way I can do this. There’s a movement the other side of the tree trunk. I rush towards it. Please let it be a person. Someone who can get Fay help faster than I can. It’s a figure in a black wetsuit, hair slicked back, jogging along the beach. “Over here!” I shout into the wind and rain. “Hurry.”

  Relief switches to gut-wringing fear when I see who it is: Joe.

  thirty-two

  “I don’t know why you’re looking so terrified,” says Joe as he leaps on to the tree with ease and jumps down. “Did I make you jump?”

  I lumber backwards in a futile attempt to block Fay from his view.

  He comes closer. “How is she?” he asks. He touches his hair to see how wet it is.

  “Leave her alone,” I say.

  Joe peers round me as my heart thuds, sees enough, then backs off. “Leave her alone?” he says. He looks amused. “That’s precisely what I’m doing.”

  “Where are the instructors? Pippa?” I look past him, willing someone else to be coming along the beach.

  He glances up at the sky. “Ah, look, the rain’s easing off a bit.”

  “Where’s everyone else, Joe?” I ask slowly.

  “I’m the search party for the island.”

  I take a step back. “What?”

  “I said I’d cover the island with the water-sports instructor, Tim. Remember Tim? He rescued you when you capsized.”

  I speak as calmly as I can. “So where’s Tim?”

  “He’s not here yet. Pippa says he lives quite far away. I thought I’d come across first. I’m a Level 1 kayak coach at my club. Unfortunately I don’t have any phone signal here. And I don’t think your phone is working. Is it?”

  Alarm ricochets through me. He lies and manipulates so smoothly. “You knew she was here all along, didn’t you?”

  “We discussed it, yes. It seemed a tranquil place to start the next stage of her process.”

  Her process? I’d like to laugh in his face, but I have to be careful. The heavy thuds of my heart are a measure of what I think he’s capable of.

  “What are you talking about?” I say, crouching next to Fay to put her into the recovery position in case she vomits. If he’s spouting his strange theories, then he’s less likely to concern himself with what I’m doing.

  “The universe demands balance, yes?”

  Time slows into a heightened version of reality as I watch Joe settle himself on the wet gravel, leaning back on his elbows, his legs stretched out. It could be a mood shot for an advert. A wetsuit-clad surfer dude deep in thought on a wild, secluded beach in the rain, with woods in the background. He picks up a stone, larger than most of the others, and turns it over in his hands, inspecting the surface.

  I rearrange Fay slightly, and pull away the sharper-looking pebbl
es underneath her to make her more comfortable.

  “If the balance is disturbed, things go wrong,” says Joe. “Look at our twisted world. Too much food and consumerism for some, while others starve. For every action there has to be an equal and opposite reaction. It’s Newton’s undisputed third law of motion.”

  I need to grab my life jacket and attract attention. Now. But I can’t leave Fay with Joe. I have no choice. As I lift her up, as gently as I can, Joe jogs over.

  “What are you doing?”

  I ignore him.

  He blocks my way, standing so close I can smell wetsuit with a base note of sweat. “You’re not getting this, are you?” he says, peering at her face. “Fay needed help to right the wrong she did by causing her father to crash his car. In order to purify each and every one of us. She was full of shame and darkness. There was a solution – cleansing herself by destroying the shame.”

  “By taking an overdose?” I walk round him, Fay heavy now in my arms, and he lets me.

  So he’s not going to do anything to help Fay, but restraining me isn’t part of his plan. Not at the moment.

  “That was the route she chose herself,” says Joe.

  I’ll lay Fay on the fallen tree trunk, at the lowest point, climb over first, then pick her up. Joe follows me.

  “I didn’t force her to do this. I wasn’t anywhere near her when she took those pills.” It’s the first time he’s sounded defensive.

  “But she did it for you.”

  “She did it for the universe. It’s not death. Fay will exist beyond time. She’s learning and growing.”

  I stare at him and out of the corner of my eye I notice movement out on the lake. Kayaks! Help’s on the way. I open my mouth to scream but close it again in stunned disbelief when I realize. There’s no one in the kayaks.

  “A strong offshore wind,” says Joe, with a pretend-sad face. “Too bad we didn’t tie up our boats properly in our panic to find Fay.”