The Lie. C.L. Taylor

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СКАЧАТЬ – Missed call, Will.

      17:58 – Text from Will:

      Sorry, just wanted to check. You do eat sea bass, don’t you? I know there’s one kind of fish you don’t like but couldn’t remember if it was sea bass or sea bream? Not too late to pop to Tesco if you don’t like it!

      Shit, I forgot I was supposed to be going to Will’s for dinner.

      The phone vibrates in my hand and a tinkling tune fills the air.

      Will.

      I’m tempted to swipe from right to left and pretend I’m working late, but he’ll only worry and ring back.

      “Hello?” I press the phone to my ear.

      “Jane!” He says my name jubilantly, his voice infused with warmth.

      “Hi! Sorry I didn’t get back to you about dinner but I’ve only just finished my shift. One of the dogs developed explosive diarrhoea when I was doing final checks, so I had to strip his bed and get it in the washing machine.”

      “Mmmm, explosive diarrhoea. I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

      He laughs. I want to laugh too but I can’t.

      “So, are you still on for tonight, then?” The smallest note of tension enters his voice. Ours is still a fledgling relationship in many ways. We’re still on best behaviour, still testing the waters, still figuring each other out. “Because I’ve got a bet with Chloe, you know.”

      Chloe’s his daughter. She’s nine. Will’s not officially divorced from her mum yet, but they’ve been separated for eighteen months and, according to him, living separate lives a lot longer than that.

      “What kind of bet?”

      “She thinks you’ll be dead by morning.”

      “You can’t be that bad a cook!”

      “The first time we took her to bonfire night, she sniffed the air and said, ‘Smells like Daddy’s cooking.’”

      This time I do laugh, and the tension evaporates.

      “I’ll be round in half an hour,” I say. “I just need to lock up here and pop home for a shower first.”

      “Do you have to?” Will says. “I was looking forward to a whiff of eau de diarrhoea.”

      “You’re grim.”

      “And yet you still like me, so what does that say about you?”

      My grin disappears the second I leave the staffroom. I lock the doors to reception first then walk through the building so I’m outside the dog compound. The sound of frenzied barking greets me as soon as I step out into the dusk. I enter the building and double check that all the doors to the kennels are shut, the bedding and toys are clean and there’s water in the water bowls. I completed my checks before I finished my shift, but I have to reassure myself everything’s still in order before I leave for the night. As I round the building and approach the runs, the barking increases and cages rattle as Luca, Jasper, Milly and Tyson throw themselves at the fences. Only Jack stands motionless and silent, staring at me through his one good eye.

      “You’ll be okay, boy.” I speak softly, my eyes averted so we’re not making direct eye contact. “You’ll be okay.”

      His tail wags from side to side but it’s a hesitant movement. He wants to trust me but he’s not sure whether he should. Unlike Luca, Jasper and Milly, Jack’s details won’t be entered on our website to advertise him as available for re-homing once his seven-day observation is over. Instead, like Tyson, we’ll look after him until his neglect case comes to court, whenever that might be. He could be here for months, but I’m not planning on going anywhere. Or rather, I wasn’t until the letter arrived earlier.

      I check the other dog compound then cross the yard to check on the cattery. Two of the cats press their paws against the glass and mew plaintively, but the others ignore me.

      I pass quickly through the small animals facility, checking doors are locked and windows are secured. It’s quieter in here and my reflection – pale and ghostly – follows me from window to window as I hurry down the corridor.

      “Hello! Hello!”

      The sound makes me jump as Freddy the parrot makes his way along the cage towards me.

      He tilts his head to one side, his beady eyes fixed on me. “Hello! Hello!”

      He used to belong to a retired army major called Alan, who taught him to swear at visitors, particularly unsuspecting Jehovah’s Witnesses and double-glazing salesmen. When Alan died, none of his relatives wanted anything to do with Freddy, so he ended up here. He’s an expensive breed of bird and I don’t imagine he’ll be here long, but we tend to rush any visitors of a sensitive disposition past him as quickly as we can.

      “Bye, Freddy,” I call as I head towards the main doors. “See you tomorrow.”

      “Bitch!” he calls after me. “Bye, bye bitch!”

      Will has been talking for the last ten minutes but I haven’t the slightest clue what he’s on about. He started by telling me about something funny that happened at school this morning, some ten-year-old who confused tentacles with testicles in his lesson about octopuses, but the conversation has moved on since then and I can tell by the look on his face that smiling and nodding isn’t enough of a response.

      The letter is burning a hole in my pocket. It has to be from a journalist, that’s the logical explanation. But why not sign it? Why not include a business card? Unless they’re deliberately trying to spook me into talking to them … It’s been five years since I returned to the UK, and four years since a journalist last tried to get me to sell my story, so why now? Unless that’s it – it’s the five-year anniversary of our trip to Nepal, and they want to dig it all up again.

      “You lied, didn’t you?” Will says, and I look up.

      “Sorry?”

      “About the sea bass? It’s not the sea bream you don’t like; it’s the bass. That’s why you haven’t touched it.”

      We both stare at the untouched fish on my plate, the dill and butter sauce congealed around it like a thick, yellow oil slick. “I’m sorry, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

      “Spill …” He runs a hand through his dark hair then rests his chin on his hand, his eyes fixed on mine. “You know you can tell me anything.”

      Can I, though? We’ve known each other for three months, been sleeping together for half that time, and yet I feel we barely know each other, not really. I know that his name is William Arthur Smart, he’s thirty-two, separated with a nine-year-old daughter called Chloe. He’s a primary school teacher, he likes folk music, his favourite films are the Star Wars trilogy, and he can’t stand the taste of coriander. Oh, and he’s got a sister called Rachel. What does he know about me? I’m called Jane Hughes, I’m thirty, childless and I work at Green Fields Animal Sanctuary. I like classical music, my favourite film is Little Miss Sunshine and I don’t like the texture СКАЧАТЬ