Lie For Me Read online

  “Tell me again what happened,” Dad says. I do.

  “That swindling swine,” he grunts. “Should have buried him when he came up here all those years ago.” He looks at me and his features soften. “What’s happening between you and Jeremy, then?”

  I shrug, feeling the pain again. Jeremy is the best thing that’s happened to me and I don’t want to lose him. But I might not have much say in the matter anymore. It’s my fault. I should have been franker with him right from the beginning.

  But there’s no point in going back over this again. I need to look forward, for Molly if not for myself.

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Think some time apart will be good for both of us.” I say that without meaning it. I don’t want to spend time without Jeremy. We should be together, a family. I think about Joanne, having to deal with Tim’s funeral now. It seems weird so much has happened in these last few days. It has torn our lives to shreds, and it’s all down to one man.

  Anger boils inside me again. I want to make sure that Clive Connery gets his come-uppance, but I have to trust the police to deal with him.

  “Dad,” I say, “do you still have the gun?”

  He seems surprised. “You mean the Remington 600? My old bolt-action rifle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Replaced it for another Remington. It’s a semi-automatic.”

  “Can I see it?”

  I can see the questions behind his eyes. “You’ve not held a gun for years, lassie. Why do you want to try one now?”

  I shrug, keeping my face neutral. “Just because.”

  He takes a long look at me, then shrugs as well, as if letting go of whatever was on his mind. “Come with me,” he says.

  We go into the kitchen, then to a small cabinet behind the pantry, just before the back doors lead to the courtyard. Daisy, our German Collie who helps Dad herd the sheep, hovers around us, aware we’re up to something.

  “This is where it stays,” Dad says. There’s a digital keypad on the cabinet, and he pushes the buttons. “It’s your mother’s date of birth,” he says. I nod.

  The long door of the cabinet opens, and he pulls out the rifle. It’s black, made of carbon with a steel barrel. It feels much lighter than the old Remington. Dad shows me how to slide the rack, and attach the 30-cartridge magazine. He locks the safety on, and I take aim at the far wall. The rifle feels good in my hands. I can carry it without my arms getting too tired.

  “Can I try it out tomorrow?” I ask.

  “Only when I’m around,” he says firmly.

  We sit around and talk for a while, but I’m shattered after our long journey as well. I say goodnight to Dad and go up to my room. Daisy trots up the stairs with me, I seem to be her new favourite owner. I tell her to go downstairs and guard the kitchen, just like I used to with Pixie. She whines for a while, and I have to go down with her. The ground floor is dark now that Dad’s in bed. Wind and rain lash against the window and thunder cracks over the hills. I put Daisy in her bed of rugs and tell her to stay. She gets the message finally and obeys.

  I get undressed quickly, and join my sleeping daughter in bed. The bed and house feel new. I lie awake, thinking about everything, listening to the storm outside. I don’t know when I fall asleep.

  *****

  I feel refreshed when I wake up. Like I’ve had a good night’s sleep for the first time in ages. I didn’t drink last night, and it makes me feel good. My head feels much clearer, and I vow to myself not to drink during my stay here. Molly is bundled up into a ball of sleep, and I let her have a rest.

  I come down the stairs. It’s cold, despite the heating being on. Dad must have left it off overnight. There’s a smell of frying bacon, and I follow it into the kitchen. Dad is cooking breakfast, and for a while, I just watch him. Vivid memories of earlier years assault me. Mum standing there, in her pink and white floral apron, bustling about as she cooked breakfast for us and the farmhands. The cooking rangers were new then, shiny and cleaned. Now they have flecks of rust, the stone counter has chipped at the edges. The wooden hooks where the pots and pans hung are getting worn.

  I feel a rush of guilt. After Mum died, how much have I looked after Dad, really? I’ve been too busy making a life for myself down south. Dad says himself there isn’t much in the Dales. All the young people go down south or into the cities for jobs. There’s only so many families farming and tourism can sustain.

  And the Dales are far, it’s not like I can come and go in a few hours. But that sounds like an excuse. As I watch Dad, back bent with approaching arthritis and age, flipping the bacon rashers, checking the eggs, I realise I have been too wrapped up in my life. Which is also Molly’s life. This farm will one day be her inheritance. Will I leave a scrapyard for her? I think of the new outhouses that look like log cabins in the forest. Maybe Dad sees the writing on the wall, and is trying to be open-minded about the tourism option. His ageing body can only do so much, even with the farmhand’s help.

  I walk towards him, and he turns around. “Hey up.” Typical Yorkshire greeting, in his typical hearty voice.

  “Morning, Dad.”

  “Where’s our Molly, then?”

  “Fast asleep.”

  “Will she eat this? I remember you used to be well fussy.”

  “Actually she likes bacon, so yes, she will.”

  I take a cup of coffee and go upstairs. Molly is sitting up in bed, looking a little confused. I get her ready and then go downstairs. The bell goes downstairs, and I leave Molly in the kitchen to check.

  “Probably the farmhand,” Dad calls out after me.

  I look through the window and it’s a young lad in his late-teens, with acne marks on his face. I tell him to come around the back and then lock the door shut again.

  CHAPTER 50

  Dad fires up the buggy, which is the same size as I remember it, like a large golf cart, diesel-powered. Molly and I hang on as it wobbles over the grounds. We leave the barn behind, and the land dips and the undulating dales come into view. Its watercolour grey now, meadows drowsy with rain and fog. The hill goes down into a gentle V that stretches for several miles before rising up again into the green and yellow shades of a hill. The drystone walls act as boundaries. Part of this land is ours. There isn’t another farmhouse around for fourteen miles but then we only own ten of those. Farmers have grazing grounds around us. Above the far hills is a quarry that Dad started to dig several years ago with some friends. It used to make money but I don’t know what’s happened to it recently. With Molly in tow, I have no wish to go near a quarry.

  We pass through the sheep field, much to Molly’s delight. She gets out and strokes a woolly lamb, and I have stop her from hugging it. We leave the farmhand and Daisy to open the gates and lead the sheep downhill to the stream, where they can graze and drink. Mathew, the farmhand, waves at us as we round the corner and come up to a crop of woods.

  There is a small clearing adjacent to the woods. Dad shows me again how to load and release the safety catch. I get a feel of the rifle, sighting through the viewfinder at a far tree. I’m wearing jeans, and I go down on one knee. I take my time and press the trigger midway through a breath, as Dad taught me.

  The rifle is suppressed, but I have earplugs on Molly anyway, in case she gets scared. The noise is like air coming out of a cycle tyre. I miss my mark by miles, and try four times before I hit the tree. Dad takes the rifle from my hands.

  “You can’t be blamed, chuck. When was the last time you fired a rifle?”

  “Seven, maybe eight years?”

  “I reckon ten,” Dad harrumphs. Then he winks at me and smiles. He stands, and with the practised ease of one used to shooting, he fires at the tree. Bark flies off as the bullet hits the target. I practise a few more times, then stop as Molly’s getting bored. Dad has things to do around the farm as well, so he takes the buggy and goes further down, to open his gates to let the other farmer’s animal graze. Dad gets some grazing money if their cattle come onto
our land. He offers to give us a lift but I decline. Molly and I need to stretch our legs.

  It feels so peaceful. Apart from the odd bleating of sheep, and the crying of a wading bird up in the moors all I can hear is the sound of our boots on the wet grass. The rain has relented thankfully but judging by the skies, it’s a temporary respite.

  Molly and I climb up a ledge, her smaller legs keeping up with me perfectly well. If anything, I start to get winded before she does. Molly is skinny and quick. She gets to the top of the ledge before I do. There’s not much shade, and we sit on some rocks, staring at the scenery in front of us. I have the urge to take out my notebook and sketch.

  But I need to keep an eye on Molly as well. Out here in the hills I don’t want her to wander off. There’s something about the Yorkshire Dales that’s not advertised well, and most visitors don’t know about it.

  The Dales are home to Europe’s largest underground cave system. Potholes can suddenly emerge underfoot, and rivers are swallowed up into bottomless caves. It’s all limestone here, soft and crumbly, and the rivers snake down the mountains, turning into waterfalls.

  I know the terrain, which is one of the reasons Dad has left me alone with Molly. If I don’t call back soon he’ll be out looking. I check the reception on my phone. It’s working, which is a miracle.

  “Sit with me, Molly,” I say to her.

  “I want to go up there.” She points.

  “No. Sit down, now.”

  She sulks, but sits down next to me. I pacify her by taking a photo, and then a selfie of the two of us.

  I try to take a photo of the hills opposite us. There’s a ride a few hundred yards away that is covered in trees. I focus on it.

  As I do so, a figure emerges from the margin of the trees, and walks to the edge of the ridge. It’s a man. Must be a farmer, I think. The man walks to a piece of rock and he can’t go any further. I notice that he has turned towards me. I put the camera down hastily. The natives here don’t like being photographed which is understandable.

  The man is facing us, and a curious sense of dread pools inside my gut as the seconds tick away. He lifts his hand and waves at me.

  “Who’s that man?” Molly asks. He’s too far away to identify, but something about his shape is making a hollow appear in my stomach, a familiar sick feeling growing inside it.

  My phone begins to ring. Caller ID unknown. My mouth is dry as I realise the man is holding a phone to his ears. I can make out that much.

  Heart hammering against my ribs, I answer.

  “Hello, cupcake.” The deep voice rumbles like an earthquake against my eardrum. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  CHAPTER 51

  I am running. The slate-grey hills are slippery with rain, but I don’t care. Molly is keeping up with me somehow. Breath rasps in my throat, a panicked growl waiting to be let out. Both of us are panting, small clouds of vapour collecting outside our faces. I am wearing hiking boots and Molly has grips on her wellies.

  “Mummy, slow down,” she says. I think of picking her up and running but she’s too heavy for me. I have to slow down, for her sake.

  The sleepy countryside around me now has deep pits of fear, like the potholes that can appear beneath our unwary feet. I need to get out of here. Panic is tingling my skin like fire, burning in the rain.

  We slip, slide and climb up the path and finally I see the stone walls of our sheep pen. I can see the head of the farmhand.

  “Mathew!” I call out, but he can’t hear me. I stop, gasping. Molly sinks down at my feet. I take out my phone and check it. Damn it, only one bar of reception. I call Dad, but it goes to answerphone. He could be anywhere. All I can do is keep walking till I get to the farmhouse. The land is flatter now, gently sloping upwards. I can see the outline of the farmhouse, wood and brick against the grey sky.

  I call Mathew again, and this time he hears me. With Daisy, he is walking up, but the sheep are still down at the stream. I know he will go back in a few hours to put the sheep back in their pen. He’s surprised to see me running and breaks into a sprint towards us.

  His face is flushed when he catches up with us. “What did you see?” The expression on my face must be awful, I think. “A wolf, or big cat?”

  I try to catch my breath. Molly has done very well, but the poor thing is shattered, still resting at my feet. I don’t have the strength to pull her up.

  “Nothing, don’t worry. Can you go back and get the buggy down here? I need to get back up to the farmhouse.”

  My phone rings again. It’s Eva. Fear blooms inside me. I turn the phone off, wanting to throw it down the hill. Is she here as well?

  Molly and I lean against the stones of the sheep pen. I am looking up and down. Molly is hugging me, and both of us are wet and shivering. A pale sun lurks behind clouds, and the silvery rain forms a luminous vale that drags across the landscape. The dales far down below are almost invisible, but the hills opposite can be seen. The ridge where I saw Clive is around the corner, and only its tip is visible.

  Did he follow us to King’s Cross? He would have known from the train I took where I was headed. After all he has been here before, when I brought him up to meet Dad. I curse myself for that day.

  The rumble of a machine comes from above us, and Dad appears, driving the buggy, fast. He brakes to a stop and jumps out.

  “What’s going on, like?” he says. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, lassie.”

  “I saw Clive, Dad. He was standing on the ridge opposite the woods. I went up, and stopped just below the moors. We sat down on the rocks. Who owns that land?”

  We got into the buggy as Dad thinks. “That’s old Johnson’s farm. He’s dead now and as far as I know it’s empty.”

  Dad fires up the engine and we head back up, bouncing and shivering as the wet wind howls around us.

  The farmhouse door is open, which is not a sight that fills me with confidence. But that’s the way around here. No one locks the door. I have been locking the front door since I arrived but Dad has left it open now.

  It’s warm inside, and a welcome respite from the rain. I get Molly undressed and into new clothes. Then I make her a hot chocolate.

  “Is something bad going to happen to us, Mummy?” Molly says after a few sips of her chocolate.

  I tuck a few strands of her curly hair behind her ears. “No, darling,” I say, trying to sound like I mean it.

  “Did you see a wolf?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “A wolf.”

  She gazes at me in silence for a while then sips her chocolate again. “So, you grew up on the farm, but you never saw a wolf. Is that why you got scared?”

  “Yes, darling.”

  “Who’s Clive?”

  A pair of pincers grab my heart and twist it violently. I need to say something, she knows when I lie to her. “Someone I used to know. Finish your drink now, come on. What do you want for dinner?”

  She makes a face. I don’t blame her, the hot chocolate is probably filling her up for now.

  “Not hungry,” she says.

  Neither am I. Food is the furthest thing from my mind. I think of the gun in the cupboard behind the kitchen, and how secure it felt in my hands. How safe I felt with it in my hands. Is that a weird feeling? I don’t know. I can’t make much sense of anything right now.

  My heart races when I hear the front door rattle open. In a flash I am out of my seat and in the hallway. It’s Dad. He takes off his large sheepskin jacket and shakes it dry. Raindrops scatter on the stone floor.

  “Raining harder now,” Dad says. “Anyone would have to be barmy to be out in this weather.”

  I think about Clive prowling around in the dark and I shiver. The sense of safety I felt in this place has now gone. Every door and window now looks like an entry point. I doubt I’ll sleep much tonight.

  My phone rings again, making me jump. I remove it slowly from my pocket, afraid to look at the screen. I s
igh in relief. It’s Suzy.

  I go upstairs as I answer the phone. Suzy is the only friend I can speak to now. She might even know where Eva is.

  “He’s here,” I gasp, and then tell her everything. After a pause I say, “How do you think he found me? I mean, only you and Jeremy knew where I was going.”

  “Have you told Jeremy about this?”

  “No.”

  “Are you wearing headphones?”

  The question throws me. “What do you mean?”

  “I want you to look at something on your phone. But I might have to talk you through it. Do you know what a location tracker is?”

  “You mean like the location services on the iPhone?”

  “Yes, a bit like that. The location services will activate your GPS. You can share location with others if you want. But there are location trackers that you can download onto any phone which will always keep GPS activated on the phone, and the owner won’t know about it, unless they check.”

  “OK, hold on.” I run downstairs, and rummage inside my handbag till I find the white wires of the headphones. I can hear Dad and Molly in the kitchen. I recheck the front door is locked, then dash upstairs again. I hear thunder crash outside, and lightning flashes through the windows.

  Suzy says, “Right, go into Privacy, and look at location services.”

  I do, and it’s turned off. She says, “Now go down the list and see if you can find something called Third Party Software.”

  There are only four items there. At the bottom, I see it. My heart skips a beat.

  “It’s here,” I say with bated breath. Without her asking me to, I click on Third Party Software. It takes me to a page where there’s an app installed called Mysite. Next to the name, there’s a toggle switch, with the app being turned on, showing green. At the top, where the arrow icon normally indicates that location services are turned on, is absent. I turn the third party app off as quickly as I can.

  “It’s off now,” I say. “How did you know it was there?”

  “I didn’t. But a lot of what you said didn’t make sense. How did Clive always know where you were? I mean, he got it down with pinpoint accuracy, right? Each time. It made me wonder if there was a tracker app on your phone. It was just a hunch, and it paid off.”