House of Lies: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist. E. Seymour V.

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СКАЧАТЬ in a kitchen environment but not outside it. I briefly wonder how long he’ll last.

      “Do you know where he might have gone?”

      “What’s it to you?”

      I turn to the second chef. Silent until now, he stands, watching me like I’m the dish of the day. “I’m his girlfriend,” I say with a pleasant smile, even though it near kills me. It isn’t reciprocated.

      “Left you in the lurch, has he?” He runs his hands down his apron in a suggestive manner. Creepy sod.

      Grease-face intervenes, the self-elected spokesman. “Tom isn’t here. That’s all we have to say.”

      My eyes scope the kitchen. Food piled high. Unwashed plates. Hobs and workstations all in need of a good clean. Nothing like the glam disorganisation of TV cookery shows.

      “Could be on a bender. It happens. Maybe he’ll come back.”

      I look at the young guy who spoke and is doing his best to make me feel better. The second chef is still stripping me with his gaze. The tip of his tongue touches the corner of his mouth, as if he imagining what I might taste like.

      I force a smile. “Sorry to have bothered you.” My shoulders round. My hands plunge into my pockets as I back out and exit.

      Fuming, I walk slowly, head down. A fast footfall behind me, I twist around into a fug of cigarette smoke that darts straight into my eyes. It’s the young guy. “Fag break,” he grins, jabbing the air with a lit cigarette. “My name’s Stevie, by the way.”

      “Thanks, Stevie, I really appreciate what you did in there.” I look furtively in the direction of the kitchen. “I don’t want you getting into trouble on my account.”

      “Fuck ‘em. They don’t own me.”

      Telling the world to screw itself is the luxury of naïve youth. How much I miss it. Being dumped makes me feel spectacularly middle-aged. “Mind me asking why they are so defensive?”

      “Easy.” He takes another drag. “Chef runs a little business on the side. Not that I’m knocking it. Cooking is a high-pressure game.” I ignore the pun because I’m staggered by what Stevie, so like my brother, infers.

      “Drugs?”

      “Blow, uppers, downers, you name it. For the right price he can get you anything.”

      My thoughts spiral. I remember Vick’s perception of Tom as a nervy guy. I recall Reg’s declaration that Tom bummed smokes off him. “Was Tom taking anything?”

      “Reddys.”

      “Speed?” I splutter.

      “Red capsules, amphetamines,” he expands.

      How could I miss something like this? “Did he take them often?”

      “All the time. Good for your confidence, although the headaches can be a bit of a fucker.” He blows out another cloud of smoke, narrows his eyes, reading me. “You really his girlfriend, then?”

      Angry tears brim to the surface of my eyes in response.

      “Harsh,” he says. “Might have been a bit contained, private like, but I reckon he was fond of you.” Fond, but not in love with. “He hated working really late because it meant you were on your own, see?”

      I’m puzzled. “That worried him?”

      “Proper mind-fuck.”

      “Was he jealous?”

      “Tom?” He snorts with a loose grin. “No way. Cared. You on your own and that.” He says it with emphasis as if I am dim as well as deaf. Again, I feel all of my thirty-seven years.

      “Ever thought he was about to flit?”

      “Not really.” Which is not the same as no.

      I hike an eyebrow. “Another woman?”

      Stevie pauses. “If there was, he never said.”

      “So?”

      Stevie looks left and right as if he expects Tom to stride out of the darkness. “He wanted me to do something for him, couple of weeks ago.”

      “Yeah?”

      “Asked me to buy contact lenses off the net.”

      My mouth screws into a frown. “Tom never mentioned a problem with his eyesight.”

      “Nah, you know, the ones that change your eye colour.”

      Disguise, I think with a thud. ‘For what?’, I say.

      “He wanted blue. Tom had– ”

      “Brown eyes, I know.” I baulk. By chucking simple details in the air, the bigger picture is about to come crashing down, gashing open my scalp badly enough to require ten stitches.

      “Did Tom have enemies?” I’m scrabbling for something tangible to grab hold of, something that makes sense and provides a lead.

      Stevie hitches a shoulder. “Never said.”

      “Anyone he had a problem with, someone he disliked?”

      Stevie considers, his face serious, and then breaks into a stupendous smile. “Yeah, actually.”

      “Who?” I catch my breath. Could this be the breakthrough I’m looking for?

      “Frank Sinatra. Couldn’t fucking stand him. Shit,” he says, dropping the cigarette to the ground and stubbing it out with the heel of his trainer. “Gotta get back.”

      “Thanks,” I call after him, dazed. Like quicksilver, he’s already gone.

       Chapter 7

      Tom smokes. Tom takes drugs. Tom cares about me, but isn’t in love with me. Tom is a jabbering heap underneath a spiky hostile exterior, or so Reg would have me believe. And what’s with the contact lenses? I gulp, for if, as Stevie claims, Tom requested them a couple of weeks ago, Tom’s exit was premeditated. The utter shit planned his getaway. How does any of this fit into the image of Tom, the quiet, solicitous, dependable boyfriend?

      Screaming inside, I cut down an alley, something I would never usually do. God help anyone who attempts to mug me.

      The rain abates. The wind drops. The pavement is slick with surface water and I splash my way back home.

      This time the silence is welcome. I dump my sopping-wet coat, rub a towel through my hair and kick off my shoes. My appetite is non-existent and I put on the kettle and make coffee. No beans. No machine. When I’m done I sit and try to calm down and reduce my anger to a lower level. I should take Reg’s advice. Forget about Tom. Move on. No point СКАЧАТЬ