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

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СКАЧАТЬ in All Saints Road to a drab seventies-style office block in the centre of town. It usually takes under fifteen minutes at a good walking pace. Today, I bomb it in ten, which is impressive considering my mind is blown with disappointment and my legs feel vaguely sticky and tremble from instant and urgent sex. Tom’s behaviour is counter-intuitive for someone who professes never to want children. On my race to work, this thought consumes me.

      Elliott takes one look at my shiny, perspiring face and hikes a hairy eyebrow. “Miss Outlaw, so glad you can join us.”

      “Erm … sorry, I got held …”

      He raises one pudgy hand, the thin band of his wedding ring almost buried in his fleshy finger. My boss doesn’t believe in excuses, no more than he believes in God, or accidents. Suspicion, the single most important attribute for a journalist, or so he tells me, is as firmly enmeshed into his corpulent physique as his DNA. I believe curiosity is a pretty good attribute too. Elliott also maintains that this is why he gets to do all the juicy investigative stuff instead of me. When I once argued the point, he left me in no doubt about where I stood.

      “I don’t want you landing me in court.”

      “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

      “You’re simply not ready, Rosamund. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that you have to walk before you can run?”

      My mother told me a lot of things, mainly about auras, finding my bliss and the necessity of being centred, but walking before running was not one of them. A product of the hippie generation, she spent her youth in a commune in Totnes, Devon, where she met my dad. Frankly, I count myself lucky not to be born with a name like Zoflora Moonstone, particularly as I have weird-coloured eyes that are a similar hue to the gem. Put it this way, my parents were free spirits until the spliffy glow wore off and they decided to rejoin the real world. Safe to say, she believes in us kids ‘going for it’, as she puts it, which is why she never smashes Reg’s dreams and tells him to find a proper career. To be fair, she never warned me of the perils of aimlessly flitting from one dead-end job to the next well into my thirties either. When I finally decided to settle down and get a degree in journalism, admittedly from a little-known college that punched above its weight to obtain uni status, it wasn’t due to any parental guidance.

      With our faraway parents, my brother and I have a strange, more complex, relationship. Physically absent for much of our adult lives, in the past five, our dad is displaying more interest than during the previous twenty. Age and impending mortality does that, but it’s hellish confusing for offspring.

      I glance over to Helen’s desk. Our sports correspondent, she is one of the few full-time staff. Most of our crew are contributors who write columns in return for a by-line. God only knows what the National Union of Journalists would make of that. I can be writing about counterfeit items one day and interviewing a local publican about his plans for a new venture the next. Book and theatre reviews sometimes fall into my lap and that’s great because it means I have a constant delivery of brand-new releases and get to see all the best plays fresh from the West End. For a couple of days a week, I basically go where Elliott, the editor, and hulk of a man, sends me. Jack-of-all-trades, I also knock out blogs for any company that will pay; the odd bit of copywriting when I can lay my hands on it. I’m not a workaholic. By nature, I’m lazy. Financial needs drive me. In short, I’m a woman trying to make up for decades of drifting and earning a pittance. Not good. Unlike when my parents belatedly decided to make waves, you’re now considered over the hill in the career stakes after the age of thirty-five.

      Helen grins and winks. Goodness, is my mascara smudged? Surely, my knickers aren’t caught in my dress? I surreptitiously smooth down the creases and run an index finger under each eye. I badly want to talk to her about Tom but, judging from the predatory light in Elliott’s eye, he has my day already mapped out.

      “Get yourself down to the train station,” he says.

      Fabulous. London beckons, or could it be Oxford, Birmingham, perhaps? “Where am I going?”

      “Nowhere. You’re going to interview train users about the travelling experience at Cheltenham Spa.”

      “Is this a wind-up?” Purleese, surely we have more important issues to report than this?

      “Spend what remains of the morning there and, this afternoon, two o’clock sharpish, you’re interviewing Detective Sergeant Mike Shenton.”

      At this I brighten, dare I say. My nosy gene kicks in good and proper. “Terrific. About what exactly?”

      “The force are– ”

      “Can’t call it that any more. It’s a police service.”

      “Whatever,” Elliott says, “although it’s pleasing to see that you’re paying attention to detail at long last.” Why is it that Elliott always manages to turn my desire to impress into an insult? “The police are running a big initiative to target sexual crime and crime against the person. You are covering it.”

      “It’s such a wide subject, wouldn’t it be better as a rolling news story? We could expand it over several weeks?”

      Elliott briefly closes his thick-lidded eyes. “Did they teach you nothing at that college of yours?” College? Before I can respond he taps his watch and thrusts me a dirty look. I get it. Scarper.

      Train stations are hubs enabling travellers to get from A to B. That is their sole purpose in life. They are not supposed to be entertainment centres or the hippest place in which to meet your best mate for coffee. It’s stating the obvious and why, whether coming or going, nobody wants to be rail-stepped by someone like me and especially on a day when the wind is howling and the rain is sheeting. The only good news is the cafeteria on the platform, from where I purchase several cartons of coffee. Variations on a similar theme emerge. Frankly, I could have written them myself from the comfort of my own kitchen table: ‘For what they charge for the rail fare they could fly us to the moon’; ‘The service to London is crap.’ One glossily dressed woman complained: ‘You should see the state of the toilets,’ although which toilets she is referring to I have no clue because she pings off her impossibly high heels and leaps into a taxi, speeding off before I can ask her to be more explicit.

      Fed up and freezing, I decide to slope back home. Tom’s outburst and white anger bother me. Correction, it undermines and concerns me. His challenge to my worldview makes me question the entire nature of our relationship. I think I get him and now realise I don’t. I think I understand myself, too, and that, also, seems elusive. To my mind, I’m a strong resourceful individual. In my heart, I’m a mushy mess. If Tom doesn’t want marriage and kids, really doesn’t want them, where does that leave us? Is it an emotional deal-breaker? Honest answer: I don’t know.

      Nabbing a cab, I turn up with an hour to kill before my appointment later at the police station in Hesters Way. I don’t want sex and I don’t think I can iron things out, hey presto, but checking in might, at least, help me to appreciate my lover’s point of view. Maybe he’s plain scared of being a dad. Lots of blokes are like that. His parents died in a boat accident when he was eleven and an elderly godmother brought him up, a lady I never had the chance to meet because she passed away not long after we met. Despite the tragedy of his childhood Tom never gives the impression of having a messed up life, and he rarely talks about his past, although it would be fairly impossible to emerge from that sort of thing unscathed. And true, I occasionally catch him with a lost look in his eyes. My upbringing, punctured by divorce, seems like a saunter in the sunlight by comparison. When Tom walked into my life he seemed such a good fit because he was so different. We certainly clicked on a sexual level. Naively, СКАЧАТЬ