Читать книгу House of Lies: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist - E. Seymour V. - Страница 15

I sit in my car and let the wind scream around me. The sky, an unrelenting grey, hisses rain.

Like someone with locked-in syndrome, I think but can’t move. Not at all. I’m paralysed.

Tom Loxley is Adam Charteris.

My mind sprints: the dead parents who I found so credible; the extinct godmother I now think implausible. Through a fierce blur of stunned confusion I remind myself that Tom was married with a child and this is why he cannot marry me and refuses to father our children. It all falls into place and yet so much remains a mystery, not least why Tom would fake his own death? A spark of rage catches hold and lights me up inside.

How fucking dare he.

For if Tom had been living a lie for the past three years then, by living with him, so did I. And how could I be so easily and comprehensively deceived? Betrayed? What does that make me other than cheap, used, tawdry and second- best? God alone knows where this leaves poor Stephanie Charteris and her child. Should Tom appear at this very moment, I’d slap his face so hard his teeth would drop out.

Anger writhing inside me, I see that, in the light of my discovery, his behaviour stacks. The photograph signalled the ending of our relationship because, should someone who remembered him as Adam spot it, his deception would be exposed. No wonder he was worried. I was too close to finding out and paid the price. As motivation went, it felt solid. Knowable. Concrete.

But who the hell is Adam Charteris?

The sales office door swings open, startling me out of inactivity. Stephanie Charteris, scarf and coat pulled tight around her, runs toward the car park. Her eyes fix blindly on uneven tarmac and puddles, which she doesn’t bother to avoid. I doubt she will notice, but I slide down from view in case.

Listening.

Footsteps close by.

Cheep-cheep sound of a car unlocking.

Door swinging open and the dull tin thud of it closing.

An engine turns over. Tyres grip gravel at such speed, it spits sharp-edged bits exuberantly, machine-gun style, against the mudguards. I edge back up in my seat and watch a white Fiat 500 travel towards the exit and indicate to turn onto the main road. Quickly, I start my car and follow, dropping in two cars behind, and wish that my vehicle wasn’t quite so conspicuous.

At the end of the road the Fiat bears left at the first roundabout and picks up the A49 heading back over the border to Shropshire. Speed drops, its trajectory less erratic. Stephanie is calmer now, the upset of the morning wearing off. More than can be said for me. I shiver, despite banging the heater on full blast. Fractured thoughts swirl, collide and bruise. Instinctively, I rub my temple.

Stephanie believes her husband is dead.

How would she react if she found out that the father of her child lived somewhere else with someone else?

The thought makes me giddy. In a few words, I have the power to break down walls and destroy. God alone knows the fury I might unleash in Stephanie. But it would do nothing to expose Tom and, more than ever, I want him nailed; I don’t want him getting away with it.

A sign for Leominster appears. We travel in tandem for several miles. A car in front turns off. A tractor towing a trailer piled high with swedes slips in front of the Fiat. Although the journey is painfully slow and tortuous, it gives me time to survey this snapshot of unfamiliar scenery. Rolling countryside. Messy unkempt hedges. Muddy roads splattered with dirt and manure and debris. A beautifully tended estate that runs for miles behind black metal railings stands out from the rural crowd. Alongside twisty, turny roads, the landscape is alien and far from what I know in Cheltenham with its chic streets, wealth and café culture vibe. Far from what Tom aka Adam knew too.

At last, the tractor with its load pulls over, allowing the traffic to free-flow. The little Fiat speeds up, careering around bends in a way that suggests the driver is intimately familiar with these roads. I urge my old Fiesta on, pushing the engine to destruction, tearing up a fast stretch towards the market town and entrance to the Welsh Marches, Ludlow. Here, the Fiat veers left, heading for the centre, it seems. I follow too, over a narrow bridge, and straight up a hill, through a medieval stone arch and wide street flanked with cars on either side. The Fiat glides into a parking slot, leaving me with no alternative but to continue and funnel into the one-way system, where a narrow street packed with shoppers and pedestrians hem me in. People spill from tiny pavements onto the main thoroughfare. One guy puts the flat of his hand on the Fiesta’s bonnet to indicate that he is crossing the street, car or no car. I feel as if, expecting a Harrods experience, I wind up in Primark. Alien to Cheltenham, for sure, but alien to my groovy Totnes, Devon roots too.

I crawl past a square with an outdoor market in full swing despite the sodden weather, search for somewhere to stop when, right in front of me, I spy Ludlow castle. There’s a car park nearby in a street between a chocolatier and a slick- looking Pizza Express. I park in the pay and display, grab a ticket for two hours for the simple reason I don’t have the right change, and head back out to the square, but not before I walk past the castle entrance. To my left, as I cast a glance at the ancient stone, there is a small grass area with benches. In front, a cannon squats. A tiny piece of a bigger picture fits. This is where Stephanie stood, thinking of her beloved husband. This is the shot that appears on her Facebook page. Perhaps Tom/Adam even took the photograph. Madness almost attacks my mind, propelling me back to my car, but more primeval instincts kick in – survival and a blind desire for knowledge and certainty and, hell, payback – and I dart away and head towards the centre, past a group of middle-aged women who chatter away in Welsh, all hard consonants and upward inflexions. The street narrows and I turn right, down the hill, to where Stephanie’s Fiat is parked.

It’s absolutely bitter. Further west, and bordering Wales, the climate seems to have its own weather system: frigging cold and several degrees down on the rest of the country.

“Hey,” a voice calls behind. I twist around. “Thought it was you,” Stephanie says, pink-cheeked with embarrassment. “Look, about earlier, I hope I haven’t put you off.”

I smack a fake smile on my lips. “Not a chance, as you can see. Why else check out the surrounding territory?”

“Unfortunately, there isn’t much in the way of new-builds here. Not yet, at least.”

“Pity.”

“It’s a lovely place to live.” She casts around, her gaze resting on the ancient building, a half-smile on her face. With pride.

“Your home town?”

She nods.

I stand clumsily. Frozen inside and out. There is so much I want to ask but daren’t for fear of messing up. Stephanie looks awkward too, her face tense with strain. “I was having a particularly bad day, I’m afraid. So sorry about what …”

“Absolutely no need to apologise. It’s me that’s sorry. Anita explained.”

“Did she?” She flinches and her eyebrows draw apart. Sensitive. It’s one thing to endure tragedy in your life, another to have someone talk about it to a complete nobody. I touch her sleeve lightly. Make a connection. It’s not hard. I like Stephanie on sight and it’s not because she looks like me, or sounds a bit like me, or that we share the same lover, but because I sense that she is a better person, somehow. More grown up. More sorted. Perhaps motherhood does that to a woman. Inside, I squirm with longing.

“It’s all right. I understand.” I feel no fraud in the loss department. We both forfeited the same man. We were both duped. God alone knows why.

She studies me for a second. Thoughtful. Weighing me up.

People tell me I have a listening face. At this moment Stephanie is wondering whether she can trust me and, perhaps, tell a perfect stranger things she won’t tell anyone else. Except I’m not a stranger. We are more alike than she could ever imagine.

A great burst of cold air surges past, vandalising an A-frame sign, almost knocking us off our feet. Fearful the opportunity passed, I blunder in.

“Look, is there anywhere we could grab a coffee? Of course, if you have other plans,” I add in a ‘no problem’ manner.

She glances at her watch, frowns. “I’ll overstay my parking space.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, thinking it matters enormously. Pushing my luck, I blurt, “I just don’t want to be on my own.”

“Oh?”

“Must seem pathetic by comparison to you, but, well …” Breaking off is not part of my act. I’m straying into deeply dangerous territory, from which retreat may be completely cut off.

“Yes?” she says, eyebrows drawn together in concern.

I swallow. “I lost my job this morning. My boyfriend dumped me yesterday. Been living together for years. Thought he was the real deal.” There is a catch in my voice. A tear creeps into my eye. I’m not faking either. Saying it aloud to Stephanie makes me so exquisitely and maddeningly sad.

“You poor thing,” she says, resting her fingers lightly on my arm.

“I’m okay.” My smile is shaky. The tear now trickles down my cheek and plops onto the pavement. Oh God.

I hate the way my emotions hijack me. I need to stay angry. I must. If I do, I’ll be all right. Cry later, and only if I have to, but not until I get to the bottom of Tom’s massive Houdini-like vanishing trick.

Fired up again inside, I stand a little straighter. A decent woman, Stephanie raises her chin, freshly determined, strangely mirroring my moves, “If you don’t mind jumping into my car, we could get something to drink at my place. I live on the other side of town.”

She’s so trusting and open and, although I feel bad for me, I feel worse exploiting her. “Are you sure? I really wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“What else will I do until my daughter comes home? Sit around and mope? Come on,” she says. “You need cheering up.”

I snap a smile, thinking that Stephanie was a pushover for someone as manipulative as Tom Loxley.