Читать книгу Trust Me: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a shocking twist! - Gemma Metcalfe, Gemma Metcalfe - Страница 11

CHAPTER FOUR

PRESENT DAY

Lana, 2.30 pm

‘Oh, God, shite… Mel?’ I swivel round on my chair and fly over to where she’s sitting a few metres away. ‘Mel?’ I try again, almost shouting this time. My hands are shaking, heart pounding in my chest.

She puts her right hand up near my face, index finger in the air. ‘Oh, of course, Mr Matlock,’ she purrs, her attention back on the phone. ‘It would be an absolute dream to be acquainted with you when you arrive.’ She meets my eye and smirks. ‘Now, sir… or do you mind if I call you Stanley?’ Giggling, presumably at his response, she flicks her strawberry-blonde hair to one side. ‘Oh, you naughty boy; don’t let Edith here you saying that. Hey, just one second, Mr Matlock.’ As she flicks up her mouthpiece, I take it as my cue to speak but, as the words jump off my lips, she raises that bloody finger again. ‘Just two ticks, chick – I’ve got him here.’ She then reaches in her bag and produces a miniature bottle of vodka.

‘What are you doing? I really need to speak to you.’ I realise I sound pretty desperate but she obviously doesn’t notice.

‘You want one?’ she offers, while unscrewing the top.

‘No, I…’

‘Okay, suit yourself.’ Leisurely, she pours herself a generous measure in a plastic Coca-Cola cup and swills it around with a pen, conceals the empty bottle back in her handbag, then adjusts her headset accordingly.

‘Mel, I really…’ I try again, but she’s already back on the phone.

‘Okay, Stan, I’m back. Did you miss me?’ She laughs, while taking a sip of the harsh, neat vodka. ‘Well, we just have the small matter of payment, then you must tell me all about those lovely Speedos.’ She makes a ‘mmm’ sound before continuing: ‘So how would you like to pay, my dear, apart from in kind?’

Oh, for heaven’s sake, I haven’t got time to listen to Mel and her alternate sales tactics. Instead, I rush over to Damien, who’s sat at his desk playing on Candy Crush and chomping on some BBQ-flavour Pringles.

‘Damien, guess what? Guess what’s just happened?’ The words trip out of my mouth on top of one another.

‘You haven’t gone and got yourself a sale, have you, babe?’ he states without expression, the word ‘tasty’ blaring out of his phone as he clears the candy.

‘No, it’s not that. But I was speaking to some guy and…’

‘If you haven’t got a sale, I don’t wanna know… Vamoosh!’ He waves me off dismissively like you would a chastised toddler.

‘Damien, please.’ I realise I’m close to tears.

He pauses his game, raises his head slowly. His brow creases as he nods for me to proceed.

‘This man I just called.’ I swallow hard. ‘He said he’s going to kill himself. Like now. He’s going to commit suicide or something.’ I stop talking, unable to provide any further information.

There’s a pause, a fleeting moment where we both stare at one another. Then Damien bursts out laughing.

‘Bleeding hell, Lana. I knew you were bad on the phone, girl, but actually making people wanna top themselves?’ He claps his hands together, leans back on his chair and screeches like a banshee. ‘Hilarious, absolute quality.’

‘I’m being serious,’ I shout, louder than I mean to. Tears of frustration threaten to escape as I inwardly plead with Damien to take me seriously. I can’t just allow that man to die now I know about it. I can’t just turn my back on him.

I did that once before… and I won’t make the same mistake again.

‘Listen, love,’ says Damien, as if reading my mind. ‘I’ve heard some excuses in my time but that’s the best.’ He smiles then, showing a teeny scrap of remorse, his face a mask of sincerity.

‘But…’ I struggle to speak.

‘But nothing,’ he barks, breaking the brief moment of sincerity. ‘Go and chill out, have a ciggie and nip over the road for a pint or something. Take five minutes. Then get back on the phone. Forget it. That man, alive or dead, isn’t going to keep you your job.’

So that’s it, conversation over. I go to respond but he’s already back on Candy Crush. I see he’s on Level 387.

Liam, 2.35 pm

I’m not expecting the girl to ring back, so when she does I get irate and tell her to piss off, not so much because I want her to piss off but because I desperately need to get on with the small matter of killing myself.

Elliott, thankfully, dozed off a few moments ago, so I carried him upstairs and placed him in his dinosaur bed. Actually, it’s just a normal wooden bed held loosely together by those crappy screws and pins, which are probably all in the wrong place. But he has dinosaur bedding, which he absolutely loves. As I tucked him in, and pulled the covers up just underneath his chin, my heart broke all over again. To think of everything he has been subjected to in his short life. That’s why I have to do this now. Without Elliott, my life is nothing, and I’m going to lose him one way or another – that much is a given.

At least my death will give him a shot at life.

Walking past the master bedroom on the way back downstairs was shockingly surreal: the realisation that I’ll never again sleep in my bed, never draw the curtains, never kick off my boots after a hard day’s graft, never snuggle down under the covers on an icy winter’s morning, never wake up ever again…

Through the crack in the door I noticed Jessica’s earplugs, casually tossed on the bedside cabinet. Her side of the bed was unmade, the quilt ruffled up like somebody was hiding underneath. I choked back a sob at this normal, everyday picture of married life. Nobody ever looks a fraction deeper, but soon they will.

I’ve googled how long it takes to die from an overdose but, as always with Google, there’s no straightforward answer. I realise I haven’t got very long. Soon she’ll be home and then I couldn’t possibly go through with it. Will she blame herself? Who knows?

Ignoring the phone as it rings yet again, I subconsciously surmise that this takes nuisance calls to a whole new level. ‘Stop ringing,’ I spit under my breath. Beads of cold sweat are forming on my upper lip. I realise I’m finding it difficult to swallow, my heart hammering against my ribcage like it’s going to smash straight through and kill me in an instant… I guess that’s one way to go.

Marching into the kitchen, I drag open the drawers, frantically grabbing at any medication I can find and tossing it onto the kitchen table, knocking off Elliott’s painting in the process. The A4 paper, stiff with dried-up poster paint, wafts high in the air, then sways rhythmically downwards until it skims the cold, hard floor below. I go over and pick it up, stick it up on the fridge with a palm-tree magnet we bought many moons ago in Tenerife.

When you see people take an overdose on television or in films, they always have the correct ingredients: twenty packets of the same tablets and a bottle of the finest malt. What do I have? Three packets of aspirin, sixteen Valium, four individual Pro-Plus and an unopened packet of laxatives; all washed down with a quarter bottle of vodka, a can of Stella and a WKD Blue. As the foam erupts from the can of Stella, the phone rings yet again.

‘Listen, sweetheart, just leave me alone, all right?’

Lana, 2.40 pm

‘I can’t leave you alone’

I hear him sigh on the other end of the line before taking what sounds like a huge gulp of something, most probably whisky. Isn’t that the drink of choice for suicide? I hear a loud burp down the line, which makes me wrinkle up my nose.

‘Pardon me,’ is all he offers.

There’s suddenly a silence as I try to figure out what to say. How do you convince a stranger to not take their own life? I can’t even convince someone to come on holiday for a measly ninety-nine pounds.

‘Are you all right?’ I know it’s a ridiculous question the second it hits the receiver. No wonder I’m three hours away from unemployment.

I hear the snapping of plastic, followed by more frantic gulping.

‘You’re not?’ My blood turns to ice. ‘Please, tell me they aren’t tablets?’

Another pause… he swallows hard.

‘Hello? Are you still there?’

‘Sorry, darling, but I’m against the clock here.’ The sudden sound of his voice makes me jump.

‘Shit!’

‘Shit, indeed.’ He allows a small, sad laugh. I’d place him in his late thirties, perhaps early forties. His accent, clearly Mancunian, has a certain texture to it: gravelly, like a man dragged down from the moment of his conception.

‘But why?’ I realise I’m stabbing my pen frantically into my pad. I take a quick glance around to see if anybody has noticed. The midday sun, which is shining through the closed window, is burning holes into my head. I scrunch up my eyes tightly, cover them over with the palm of my hand.

‘It’s complicated. You wouldn’t understand.’ He sniffs up and I think he might be holding back the tears. I bite my bottom lip hard as I contemplate how to proceed. He must have read my mind as he gives me a bail-out. ‘This isn’t your problem, Lana.’

Wow, he remembered my name. Nobody ever remembers my name. Most of the time, they don’t wait around long enough to hear it and if they do they always forget. At best I get the odd, ‘Thanks, Laura,’ or ‘I’ll bear it in mind, Hannah.’

‘That’s nice that you remembered my name.’ I smile despite the situation. I can’t help but warm to this sweet, suicidal stranger.

He laughs again, a bit happier this time, almost a chuckle. ‘I wasn’t lying when I said I liked your name.’

‘And were you lying when you said you were going to kill yourself?’ I hold my breath.

‘No, sorry. I wasn’t lying.’ As he speaks I hear the snapping of foil; it’s quick, like tiny bullets being popped from a gun. Of course he’s not lying.

‘I’ll ring the police, or an ambulance. Both, maybe I’ll ring both.’

I hear the scraping of a chair, the clattering of cupboards being opened and a glass being banged down firmly on something hard. He seems to be completely ignoring me.

‘Did you hear me?’

He’s pouring himself a drink. I can hear it trickling into the glass. Either that or he’s decided to have a piss.

‘Liam?’ I demand, the fury and frustration seconds from eruption. From across the room, I get told to ‘pipe down’ by Terry, who’s in the middle of obtaining some old dear’s credit-card number.

‘Lana, just go, all right. This isn’t fair on you. God, you don’t even know me. Just go.’

I don’t speak, but I don’t hang up either.

Liam, 2.45 pm

I tell her to go because it is the right thing to do, even though I want nothing more than to carry on talking to her. The truth is, now it’s come down to it, I’m absolutely petrified. I don’t want to die. What if it’s painful? What will be waiting for me on the other side? How long will it take Elliott to forget I ever existed?

Living, unfortunately, just isn’t an option. She’s seen to that… Jessica. How they will all feel sorry for her. Poor Jess. How could he? With little Elliott in the house as well?

I guess you’d get the odd person on Team Liam, them do-gooder types that go to church and always volunteer for Neighbourhood Watch. But nobody will ever know the real truth. I suppose I could leave a note? Expose Jessica? But there really isn’t time. And would it really matter, anyway?

‘Lana? You’re still there, aren’t you?’

I feel slightly drunk now, having knocked back the Stella with a full pack of aspirin. My fingers hover over the box of Valium but, instead, I down more aspirin. I don’t want the Valium to knock me out before I make sure there’s enough inside my stomach to end it all. Closing my eyes lightly, I tip my head back and take a deep breath, fighting back the panic slowly bubbling away inside of me. Its okay, I tell myself. You’re just going to sleep, and all the pain, all the betrayal and hurt… will float away.

‘I’m still here. Tell me, Liam, do you have a family, a wife?’

Suddenly, an image jolts me almost sober. I allow it to swim into focus.

Standing at the altar, I fidget with my shirt button, my stomach crunching with nerves. Looking over my shoulder, I give a small smile at my foster mother, Barbara, who in turn beams at me, her thumb up in the air. Her hair is freshly permed and for some reason that makes me prouder than I ever thought possible. Flicking my eyes over to my sister, Patty, I notice how she is clutching the order of service tightly to her chest, like it is the most precious jewel in the whole world. Suddenly, tears spring to my eyes as Elton John’s ‘Your Song’ fills the church. At first I don’t dare to look around, terrified I won’t be able to control my emotions.

But of course I do look… and my life changes for ever.

‘Liam, are you still there?’

Opening my eyes, I stutter as I try to reply, unsure of how to respond. But Lana is talking about the present… isn’t she? Only I am trapped in the past.

‘Yes… Jessica.’ Her name feels like poison on my tongue.

‘Children?’ she continues, oblivious to the images that are now scratching around inside my head. ‘What about children?’

I think about little Elliott, out for the count in his bed, unaware of just how much I love him. I briefly consider mentioning my stepdaughter, Amy, eighteen and a mini version of her mother. What about the others? Should I mention them?

‘Just one,’ I finally say. ‘Elliott. He’s the sweetest boy you could ever wish to meet.’

‘I have a daughter,’ she responds. ‘Her name is Amber and, likewise, she’s the sweetest, funniest girl you’d ever wish to meet.’ She laughs a little and then sighs and I briefly hear her sniff up, as if tears may be forming. I suddenly feel incredibly sick.

‘I need to go, Lana. I’m sorry.’

‘I just want to understand.’

She sounds sincere, genuinely interested. Maybe I could tell her? It’s not like it’s going to matter much. In approximately half an hour, I will have passed out; an hour tops and I’ll be dead. Perhaps I could tell her. So at least one person in this whole world knows the truth…

The real truth.