Lying About Last Summer Page 9

  “You said you used to live near here…”

  Stop talking about this.

  “There’s not much going on this afternoon,” continues Brandon. “If it’s not too far, I wondered if you wanted to go and see your old house?”

  “What? Why would I want to do that?”

  “It helped me to see mine. I know it’s not the same. Nobody drowned. But my brother died there. When my parents split up, we moved and I dreamed about the house all the time. I went back once and I saw it was just bricks and stuff and it shifted a few things for me in my head.”

  I’ve thought about seeing Yew Tree House again. I discussed it with my new counsellor, thought about what it would be like to go back, either now, one year on, or in the future. There were two ways I imagined it – either going with Mum or Dad, who’d be crying uncontrollably, or with Oscar when he was older and I was trying to explain what I’d done. Or not done.

  What would it be like to go with Brandon? “There’s a big fence,” I say. “I wouldn’t be able to see the swimming pool. Only the top of the changing room and the house.”

  Brandon nods towards my phone. “We could find out about train and bus times.”

  Why are you pushing me to do this?

  “I heard we’re only allowed out of the grounds between three and five to visit the village shop.”

  “We wouldn’t sign out. We wouldn’t go through the reception building – we’d go over that gate we found. No one would miss us.”

  What if I bumped into someone I knew? Everyone knows we moved away – wouldn’t they think it was strange that I’d come back to look at my old house? But if it made a difference to my nightmares it might be worth it. It’s so close, Yew Tree House, close enough to feel it luring me back. But what if seeing the house freaked me out and added a whole new horrible layer to my dreams?

  “So?” prompts Brandon. “Up to you. What d’you reckon?”

  “Not today,” I say finally. “I can’t face it.”

  “No worries. It was only an idea,” says Brandon. “You shouldn’t force yourself to go unless you really want to.” He stands up. “I’ll go check out the croquet. See you later.”

  I nod, and when he’s gone, I pick up my phone and move to the tatty sofa at the far end of the room. Curled up so that hopefully nobody will notice me if they glance through the door, I swipe through my photo gallery. There are still photos on my phone that I took before term finished last summer. Selfies of me with Annika. The biology field trip to the coast. Eating Krispy Kreme doughnuts on the field for someone’s birthday. Me with Max Tomkins at the swimming club picnic. I enlarge that one. See how over-the-top happy I am that he’s kissing me on the cheek for the selfie, and delete it. The swimming crowd did their best after Luisa died, but I slipped away from them, first by not going to so many training sessions, then by having panic attacks in the pool, or by not being able to force myself into the water in the first place. When I moved away they must have been relieved.

  I go into MessageHound. No messages. Half of me wishes there would be one so I can have that brief painful hope before my brain reminds me it’s all false. I post the You Do Not Scare Me Scrabble sentence, quickly before I can overthink it, then reopen the photo afterwards, imagining the person at the other end receiving it. I hope they’re taken aback. Surprised.

  Setting the view to slideshow, I watch the MessageHound photos spool through in a loop. Something’s bothering me but I can’t pinpoint it. Something to do with the photos. I need to back them up, but that’s not it. It’s about viewing them, and then it occurs to me that the person who hacked into the MessageHound account has access to all the photos and messages linked to it, which means if they’d scrolled back far enough they’d have read Luisa’s message about not being able to find salt and vinegar crisps when she was Interrailing, and they’d have seen the photo I sent to her at uni of me dressed up as Ron Weasley for Annika’s Harry Potter party.

  And that means anyone could be the imposter.

  seventeen

  Yew Tree House, last summer

  Luisa storms into my bedroom. I’m lying on the carpet, catching up on series four of an Australian reality show that Max got the whole swim squad into. Luisa is hopping mad. Literally. She can’t stand still she’s so wound up. In her hand is the pink envelope that I used to place Annika’s birthday present in, that I left in the kitchen to give to Annika this evening. Uh-oh.

  “Why did you use this envelope?”

  I can see it wasn’t such a bright idea now. Luisa uses them for her business and they probably cost a fair bit, being that metallic paper. I told her she should have her business name printed on them, and she said she didn’t have a business name yet, and no, it wouldn’t be a good idea. I guess it’s all about the profit.

  “I thought Annika would like it,” I say. “I’ve only used one. I’ll pay you for it if it’s that much of a problem.” I press pause on my laptop screen. “I bought her some of those liquorice allsorts earrings in Hoathley,” I say, in an attempt to deflect the conversation.

  “My business has to be secret,” says Luisa.

  “Just because your pills aren’t approved yet doesn’t mean you have to get all paranoid about the envelopes,” I say.

  “Just accept what I tell you. There are things about my business that you don’t need to know.” She’s speaking slowly and tightly, as if she’d rather be yelling. “You can’t leave those envelopes lying around.” She shakes her head. “God. If Nico had come round and seen it on the counter, he’d have gone ballistic.”

  “Nico?” I sit up. “Is he part of the business too?” I’m disappointed because that means he’s probably going to be her boyfriend for a lot longer than I was hoping.

  Luisa chews her lip. I hold my hand out to take the envelope from her. She rips it open, removes the small tissue-paper-wrapped package, hands me that, and keeps the envelope. Her face is flushed but she’s calmer now. Talk about an overreaction. She used to be far more laid back. “No more taking envelopes, Skye. OK?”

  She leans against the door frame on the way out. “The nutrition thing is only a sideline. I’m actually thinking of starting a clothes stall in the vintage market.”

  Sometimes I get the impression that she tests out her half-formed ideas on me, but because she never gives me all the facts, I can never give her the right feedback. “Cool,” I say.

  Later that morning, I walk up the track to start my shift at the farm shop. It’s the first summer I’ve been paid for helping, which means I’m not allowed to spend my time eating the testers or playing around with the pricing gun. I have to dust and clean, count things in the stockroom, and stack shelves. Occasionally I’m allowed to use the till. I sometimes work with Pat, Toby’s mum, or Wendy or Carol from the village, but mostly I’m with Toby.

  “Want to come on a delivery when Wendy gets here?” he asks me this morning as I stand on the stool to check the sell-by dates on the chutneys, and arrange them so that customers take the oldest jars first.

  That word delivery gives me a jolt because I was thinking about Luisa and the pink envelopes.

  “Sure,” I say.

  There are days when I feel more at home here than I do in my own house. There’s less tension and I like the orderly chaos. The changing crates of seasonal fruit and veg, and the shelves of preserves, honey, vinegars, olive oils and Lower Road Farm sauces. The displays of locally made cakes and fudge, and the boxes of muddy eggs. I even like the sharp smells which make Oscar wrinkle up his nose every time he comes in – strong cheeses, fresh meat, onions and olives.

  When Wendy arrives, I help load up the rusting Volvo estate car with boxes of produce, dashing from the shop to the car in the drizzling rain. It’s good fitness training. I persuade Toby to take Kip, the youngest springer spaniel, with us. He sits in the footwell and rests his chin on my thigh. I play with the little tuft of fur on top of his head, spiking it up, then braiding it.

  “Is Lu out with Nasty Nico t
onight?” asks Toby as he rattles down the track.

  “Don’t think so,” I say. Nico was here a few days ago, staying for three nights. I hope it’s a while before he’s back.

  “Tell her some of the old gang are meeting at the pub and she should come along,” says Toby.

  I’m fed up with Toby inviting her to things via me. “Ask her yourself on the way back,” I say. “She’s at home.”

  Toby frowns. “You think so?”

  We park on our drive an hour or so later, and because Mum’s out with Oscar, we bring Kip into the house. Luisa’s lying on the sofa in the living room, texting. She looks up as Kip rushes over, paws clicking on the wooden floor.

  “Wha—?” says Luisa when she sees Kip, but by then Kip has jumped up on to the sofa and is panting over Luisa’s face. “Eughhh. Toby, get him off me. He stinks.” But Luisa’s laughing, and Toby goes over and launches himself on the sofa, kind of on top of her but not, pretending to pull Kip off her. “Eughhh, you stink too, Toby. Have you been delivering cheeses?”

  “Come to the pub with me tonight,” says Toby. “Naz and the old crew are going to be there.”

  Luisa sits up and pushes Kip away although Kip thinks it’s a game and lunges for the cushion. “I can’t,” she says. “Nico wouldn’t like it.”

  I don’t know if she’s lying to avoid going out with Toby, or if she’s become the sort of person who puts up with a jealous boyfriend.

  “Really?” says Toby, seeming to echo my thoughts.

  The rumble of car tyres on gravel make us look at one another as if we’re little kids again. Mum’s going to hit the roof if she sees Kip in here and chewing on one of her cushions.

  “Outside,” says Luisa.

  We shoot into the garden and arrange ourselves on the patio chairs as if we’ve been there for a while, even though it’s not really a sitting-in-the-garden temperature.

  “Hi!” calls Mum. She hears our shouts and comes outside, Oscar trailing after her.

  She’s pleased to see Toby; less pleased to see Kip digging in a flower bed. Oscar is delighted to see both of them.

  “You Mulligans must come for a barbecue at the weekend,” Mum says. “We haven’t seen you in ages.” She talks for a few minutes about the farm with Toby, then goes inside.

  “Have you taught Kip any tricks yet?” asks Oscar as Toby heads towards the side gate so he doesn’t have to take Kip through the house.

  Toby does his best where-have-you-been-all-these-weeks voice. “You mean you haven’t seen Kip’s incredible weaving talents?” he asks.

  Oscar, small and pale, wearing his faded old Spider-Man T-shirt which has been too tight for a long time, jiggles with pleasure.

  Toby requests that the three of us stand in a line, side by side, facing the pool, with our legs apart. Then he whistles for Kip, who darts in and out of our legs, with Toby doing a lot of whistling, waving and overpraising.

  “Can he jump?” asks Oscar when Kip makes it to the end and sits, hoping for a treat to appear. The Mulligans’ other two dogs love to jump.

  “Of course,” says Toby, and he has Oscar lying on the grass and Kip leaping over him. And then Oscar wants Luisa, Toby and me to lie down next to one another to see if Kip can clear three of us. And because it’s Oscar we do. We lie together, but Luisa makes sure that I’m in the middle so that she doesn’t have to get too cosy with Toby.

  I’m squished between Luisa and Toby, the three of us giggling and squealing because the truth is Kip’s a haphazard jumper, liable to land clumsily on top of us. Luisa grabs my hand and gives me the Colton family hand-squeeze – three times in a row as fast as you can for I love you.

  Oscar gives Kip a motivational talk and then a running start. Miraculously he flies over the top of us, and the three of us lie there for a couple more beats than we need to before standing up because it feels like old times. When we were close and comfortable with one another.

  eighteen

  Now

  I play my music on shuffle in the common room and think about how when internet trolls are exposed, they’re not always the inadequate, obsessive loners that people expect. Something brushes my shoulder, and I turn with a start to see Kerry standing there with Alice, trying to get my attention. I pull out an earphone.

  “You want to come into the village with us and Dani?” says Kerry. “We’re going to check out the shop.”

  I pull an I’m-not-sure face. “Come on,” she says. “It’s stopped raining, and it’s free time now. We’ve heard they sell sweets in jars, like in old-fashioned sweet shops.”

  Up the other end of the room, Danielle has found a remote control and is flicking through the TV channels.

  “All right,” I say, though I know Kerry’s probably only inviting me because she feels sorry for me having my pool phobia so publicly blabbed. “Thanks.” I walk with her and Alice towards our rooms to fetch some money. Danielle catches us up and doesn’t seem bothered either way when Kerry announces I’m coming into the village with them.

  “See you two in the reception building in ten minutes,” says Alice as she and Kerry veer off towards their accommodation block.

  Danielle’s mobile rings as she pushes open the glass entry door to our block. She looks at the screen. “What d’you want now, Dad?” she mutters, but when she answers the call, her voice is far sunnier: “Hi, Dad! What’s up?” She indicates for me to carry on while she wanders back outside.

  I place my phone on my chest of drawers and select a thick-ish shirt to wear over my T-shirt for warmth. Tartan. Something to rival Brandon’s shirt collection.

  As I fish out some money from my purse to take with me, my phone pings. I lunge at it.

  LUISA: I want you to be happy but I’m upset with you.

  I didn’t save you. That’s my first thought. Until I pull myself together. Someone either knows what happened last summer, or they’ve found out from the internet. It wouldn’t be difficult to work out from newspaper articles about Luisa’s death that I was the “unnamed teenager in the property at the time of the incident who was treated for shock at the scene.” Perhaps I made things worse with my You Don’t Scare Me reply. Is the person pretending to be Luisa trying to provoke a reaction for the fun of it, or is there menace in their message?

  I yank open the room door and look for Danielle through the entry door. She’s still on the phone, pacing slowly up and down on the grass outside. She sees me and tips her head up and down to say to me All right, all right. I’m coming.

  “Relax,” she says when she comes back into the room. “We’ve got loads of time. Kerry and Alice won’t go without us.”

  I could find a reason to go home and escape this, or at least feel safer. It would be like hiding though, and I’m not doing that. I tuck my phone into my shirt pocket, next to my money, and wait for Danielle to find her purse and change her shoes.

  The village shop is disappointing. There are three large jars, containing chipped sherbet lemons, strawberry toffee bonbons and jelly beans, and that’s their entire old-fashioned sweet selection. Alice buys a small paper bag’s worth of jelly beans. It costs her three times as much as if she’d bought them in plastic packaging and she receives a disproportionate amount of green ones. The rest of us choose an assortment of chocolate bars and flip through the magazines until we’re told if we look any longer, we’ll have to buy one, so we pay for the chocolate and plonk ourselves on the bench up the road, next to a grey stone cross. The village war memorial. A few cars hurtle past us and a white cat climbs a tree on the other side of the road.

  “Not a lot happens in this village, does it?” says Kerry.

  Danielle shrugs. “Just cos you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”

  Alice hands round her jelly beans, telling us to close our eyes and guess what flavour we’ve picked. We’re not making much noise but an old man who’s shuffling towards the shop stops to lean on his stick and stare at us.

  “Old people annoy me,” says Daniel
le when he’s moved off. “I hate that they’ve survived beyond forty-four years old.” She wanders up to the stone cross, stands on the first step of it and reads out a few names. “The Truss family were hit hard.” She jumps down. “Who wants to play that game where you see how long you can lie in the middle of the road for?”

  Kerry laughs. “Dani, you’re a nutter. You haven’t even been drinking.”

  “All right. I’ll go first,” says Danielle. She smooths out the front of her T-shirt and lies down on the black tarmac in front of the stone cross, her hands under her head. “This road’s really warm,” she says.

  I stop eating my Twix. Cars can come from three directions, round two blind corners or from the junction next to the war memorial. The three of us on the bench look at one another.

  “I can hear something coming,” says Alice.

  “No, you can’t,” says Danielle.

  I stand up, my ears straining. Sweat gathers under my arms. A high-pitched whir of machinery comes and goes. There’s something else now. A rattling noise.

  “Get up, Dani!” says Kerry.

  “It’s a trailer,” says Alice, moving away from us towards the direction she thinks it’s coming from. A few seconds later a Land Rover appears, coming towards us from the side road next to the memorial, a low trailer bouncing along behind it.

  My mouth is too dry to shout, but I rush forward to Danielle, to pull her up. She’s on her feet, pushing me away. “Calm down, Skye. No need to panic.”

  The driver of the Land Rover barely looks at us as he turns left, away from us.

  “OK, I’ll have one more go,” says Danielle. She sits down on the road.

  “Hang on,” says Alice. Kerry is saying something too. We’re all in the road.

  There’s definitely a vehicle coming, this time from the right, and it’s fast.

  “Move!” I shout, and we stagger back into the grassy verge together as a white van emerges from the tunnel of leafy trees. It slows down past us, as I shriek and cling on to Alice to avoid sliding further down into a boggy ditch, but picks up speed again at the memorial.