I Never Lie Read online

  14

  May 2017

  Dear Diary,

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt this bad, ever. It’s a mixture of what I’m going through physically and what happened with Alex. I thought I’d found a friend, someone who got me, but she just left me high and dry.

  I went to the pub yesterday to tell them that I couldn’t work there any more. There was a guy there. He was wasted. He fell over and the manager had to call a taxi to send him home. Apparently his missus had just left him. He was in such a state. He looked really broken. A bit like me. It’s terrible how people treat each other, it really is.

  Amy, the girl I work with, said he’d been plastered in the pub every day this week. I wondered if I could help, seeing as I know a thing or two about drinking, but then I didn’t want Amy to know about that. Funny that his name was Greg, though. The only Greg I’ve come across recently is Alex’s fiancé, the man who answered her phone and told me to stop calling. I wondered if it might be the same guy. I thought if I spoke to him, I might be able to recognise the voice, but I still don’t have the confidence to do things like that, approach complete strangers, so I didn’t bother.

  Work were sorry to see me go, but they understood. They’ve known about my drinking for years, apparently, and are glad I’m finally doing something about it.

  15

  The Wilcox home is orderly. Everything has its place. A hint of furniture polish wafts through the tidy hallway. The coat stand has a box for umbrellas and a separate rack for hats. It’s the kind of house I dreamed of raising a family in with Greg.

  We haven’t said a word yet. I follow Mrs Wilcox over terracotta tiles so well polished they glint in the morning sun. The hallway walls are covered in framed photos of a teenage girl, a younger Sarah. She’s an only child, by the looks of it. We enter the kitchen at the back of the house – a well-designed room with shiny surfaces. It’s so clean it looks like it has never been cooked in. A handful of newspapers are spread on the kitchen counter. Sarah’s smiling face stares back at us. Haunting as it is, it’s a find, too. Work will be pleased.

  Mrs Wilcox leads me out of the house to a beautifully groomed garden, where we sit on painted metal chairs by a matching table on a spotless stone patio. I can’t get over how composed she is. Not a hint of emotion. It feels strange, but then you never know how people will react to these types of events.

  She takes a cigarette from the pack and lights up. She offers me the box and pushes the lighter across the table in a suggestive manner. I join her. I know I shouldn’t – it doesn’t go well with trying to get pregnant, or with a hangover for that matter – but I’m so messed up today I don’t think it will make much difference, and there’s a bond formed in sharing a cigarette. I’ll just have one. Maybe it’ll encourage her to open up to me.

  ‘Don’t feel guilty… Haven’t done it for years myself, but today… well, today is today.’ She has a Manchester accent. It feels friendly, soothing and familiar.

  I smile and nod empathetically, then light my cigarette, take a long drag and watch the smoke melt into the morning sunlight.

  ‘Have you ever lost someone you love?’ She’s looking at me curiously.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A family member?’

  I shake my head. My life fell apart a year ago, but it’s not really the same. A speckled bird lands on a feeder at the end of the garden. The ashtray on the table contains three cigarette ends.

  ‘We lost Sarah a long time ago.’ She pauses. ‘I haven’t cried yet. I can’t. It’s strange that, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s the shock,’ I say.

  I take another drag on my cigarette. It’s so quiet I can hear the tobacco smoulder, and wonder what it’s doing to my lungs and possibly my ovaries. Mrs Wilcox has been drinking; I can smell it. I don’t blame her. I know how that goes. Every parent assumes they can keep their child safe.

  ‘Have the police been in touch?’ I ask.

  She nods.

  ‘I see.’ I wonder what she knows that we don’t. It still feels odd to be here reporting on this.

  ‘So you’re after a headline like everyone else, are you, Ms South?’

  I’m not sure how to respond, so I nod. We sit in silence, smoking, watching the bird on the feeder as another one joins it. My body is crying out for a drink. The cigarette is helping with the need to put something in my mouth, but my legs are starting to cramp.

  ‘The police said they’d send a family liaison officer, but they haven’t. We don’t know what’s going on.’ She takes in a lungful of smoke. ‘All we know is that they want to talk to her.’

  She seems angry.

  ‘She hasn’t been in London long.’

  I’m in the middle of taking a drag on my cigarette and I realise in this moment that securing the interview is going to be harder than I thought. My phone is buzzing in my pocket but I can’t look at it now. It’s probably Audrey asking what’s going on. I try to move the conversation on from what I know to what Mrs Wilcox knows.

  ‘Does she like London?’

  ‘I don’t know. We haven’t spoken since she moved. Don’t even know where she lives. After she moved, she stopped telling me anything. Just cut me out.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Do you know why?’

  ‘She hates me. She has good reason.’

  I’m not sure how to respond to this, so I don’t. I try another approach and talk about something less charged.

  ‘Your garden is really beautiful.’

  ‘Sarah used to help sometimes. She loved it out here.’

  ‘I can see why, it’s so peaceful. I’m sure there will be a logical explanation for all this.’

  She exhales, letting the smoke stream out of her nostrils this time like a real smoker.

  ‘Logical explanation?’ She’s standing now. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘If it’s not too much bother. Sure. Why not.’ I follow her lead. I do need to drink something, and at this point anything will do.

  ‘Why don’t we go into the house? It’s a bit chilly, isn’t it?’

  ‘Okay.’ I stub my cigarette out next to hers in the ashtray and follow her back indoors.

  ‘Can I use your toilet?’

  ‘In the hallway.’

  I lock myself in the downstairs loo and text Audrey. She replies immediately. She’s getting impatient. There’s only a few hours before the lunchtime bulletin; more than likely she’s feeling the pressure from London.

  In the kitchen, Mrs Wilcox makes the tea and plates up some shortbread biscuits, then suggests we sit in the lounge. There’s something very cold about her, something I can’t put my finger on. She’s so composed for a mother who has had this kind of news. I would have expected her to be more distraught.

  ‘Sarah loves shortbread. It’s her absolute favourite.’

  I follow her into the lounge and perch on the edge of the firm velvet chesterfield, which is the same colour as Mrs Wilcox’s outfit. There are more family photos in here. Happy images, it seems. But photographs can lie, can’t they?

  ‘So you want to interview me? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Only if you feel comfortable, yes.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘My producer, Audrey. She’s very good at tracking people down.’

  That doesn’t sound quite right, but it’s too late to take it back. Mrs Wilcox stares out of the window for a moment, lost in her own thoughts, before speaking again.

  ‘Sarah’s dream was to be a writer. It seems she may have finally got her story.’

  Her gigantic diamond engagement ring sparkles as she rubs her neck with her left hand. I can see some marks on her wrist. Telltale signs of attempted suicide. This is a troubled home.

  ‘I wish she’d never gone to London. We should have helped her buy a flat here. She’d met a nice man, Greg I think his name was. They were quite smitten with each other, or so she said.’

  The name hits me like a cold, ha
rd slap across the face. Not my Greg? Surely. Mrs Wilcox continues talking.

  ‘I’ll give you your interview, but only if you promise to keep me informed of any developments in the case. It seems you’re a better bet than some family liaison officer. The police are only talking to me to help the investigation. They don’t actually care about our feelings.’

  I’m still trying to work out what she just said about her daughter and a man called Greg.

  ‘So is that a deal?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Anything I can do to help.’

  Be rational, Alex, I tell myself. Keep it together. Hearing his name has kind of knocked me sideways, and right now I’m desperate for a drink. ‘Do you know where he lives? This Greg? Perhaps he could help with finding her?’

  A telephone rings somewhere in the house, stopping her from answering my question. She excuses herself and leaves the room.

  I let out a huge breath of anxiety and shake myself down. I need to keep my cool and get the interview done; my career depends on it. I can see a bottle of gin on the shelf and wonder if there’s time for me to have a quick swig to perk me up. Almost at once, Mrs Wilcox reappears right behind me.

  ‘Sorry, that was my sister checking up on me.’

  She’s standing next to a very well-stocked drinks cabinet.

  ‘Will you join me for one? I know it’s early, but it’s been quite a morning.’

  ‘I don’t usually drink when I’m working.’

  ‘Go on. Won’t hurt, will it. Just a quickie. I’m sure you have the capacity for it as a journalist.’

  Thank God for small miracles. I was starting to get twitchy. This will level me out until after the interview.

  ‘Is Mr Wilcox around? Maybe it’s better that you’re not on your own.’

  She hands me a heavy crystal tumbler. I take it, pretending to be reluctant. I desperately want to knock it back in one go, but instead, I sip at it cautiously. Better to make it last anyway, because I’d only be ready for a second. She puts the bottle on the coffee table within reach of a refill, which is tempting.

  ‘He’s at work. Always working. Always worried about money. I don’t know why, we have plenty of it.’

  She’s knocked back her own drink and is pouring a second, this time without tonic.

  ‘Shall I call my cameraman in? He’s sitting in the car.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s get this over and done with. I’ll go fix my make-up.’

  I nod with a half-smile. After she’s left the room, I have a second quick shot of gin and find a stick of gum in my bag before calling Audrey, who appears almost immediately, like a guard dog. We set up in the garden. Mrs Wilcox is as good as her word and gives a great interview, after which we exchange telephone numbers and promise to keep in touch.

  On the street afterwards, Audrey is euphoric about what we’ve just pulled off.

  ‘Well done, Alex.’

  ‘I’m not sure you can really congratulate me on flogging the emotions of a middle-aged woman who is obviously lonely, confused and guilty about something, but I’ll take the compliment.’

  ‘The editors are going to be really pleased with this. It’s an exclusive.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ There is nothing else I can say.

  ‘I suggest we drive back to town and send it from the bureau.’ Dutch lights up a ciggie. ‘It’ll be faster than trying to do it remotely.’

  The craving for another fag is niggling at me. ‘Can I have one?’

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’ Audrey looks on disapprovingly.

  ‘I don’t. It’s just…’

  ‘It’s just that you’ve spent an hour with a mother who is extremely upset because her child is missing and wanted in connection with a murder.’ Dutch finishes my sentence and looks at Audrey before he hands me a cigarette.

  She doesn’t reply, but gets in the car, leaving us to smoke.

  ‘You okay, Alex?’

  ‘That was tough.’ I don’t mention the details.

  ‘Yeah. Must have been.’

  ‘She said they haven’t spoken in months.’

  ‘I wonder why. Says something about her parenting, if you ask me. You got kids?’

  ‘No.’ I say it a bit too curtly.

  ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m just feeling precious. It happens.’

  ‘Sure.’ Dutch is swiping his smartphone. ‘Looks like Sarah was a troubled person. This article says she went to rehab just six months ago. People can discover bad things in rehab. I wonder if that has anything to do with it. Something definitely felt a bit off with the mother, don’t you think?’

  16

  May 2017

  Dear Diary,

  I went round to Amy’s house today to see if I could find out anything on that bloke who was in the pub, Greg. I couldn’t get it out of my head that he might be Alex’s Greg and therefore he might be able to tell me how I could contact her. Amy didn’t really want to help, but in the end she did, after I begged her. She called a mate who knows him and got his address. It’s less than half a mile from the pub, so I walked over there. When I knocked on the door, I was so nervous, but I knew I was there for the right reason so I stood my ground and waited. When he answered the door, I recognised him from the pub, but he didn’t recognise me. He must have been so drunk that day.

  I asked if I could come in, but he told me to piss off, so I explained that I was looking for Alex and wondered if he knew where she was. It was a shot in the dark, but it worked. He got really angry. Told me how he never wanted to see her again. That she was his fiancée but she had just got up and left. Walked out without a word. Left him high and dry. He was drunk again. After his ranting, painful monologue, he slammed the door in my face.

  I tried to call her, but the number was dead. I tried to find her on Facebook, but I think she’s blocked me. It’s really bad. How can she just get up and leave like that? It makes no sense. No sense at all. I considered that Greg might have done something to her. Something terrible that made her leave.

  On my way home, I passed three off licences where I was tempted to buy wine, but I didn’t have any money on me so I couldn’t put those thoughts into action. It’s a trick I’ve started doing to stay sober – not carrying money. They suggested this at the meetings as a way of stopping yourself from buying booze. Now I just have to figure out how not to touch the stash at home. There’s always plenty there.

  At the meeting there was a woman who hasn’t had a drink for six years. It was inspiring. I cried when I listened to her story, it was so touching. I wonder if I will ever be like that. I hope so. I want to be. I want to be sober and live a healthy life. I’m powerless over alcohol. I have to remember that.

  I feel quite lost since Alex upped and left. Just disappeared without any explanation. Cut me out. I thought we were friends. Best friends. That we would always be together no matter what. That’s what she said. We made a pact to always look out for each other. That we would always be there for each other so that we could stay dry, but now I don’t know where she is.

  Drinking or not drinking consumes my every thought, but I’m not going to let that get the better of me. I went to a meeting today, which helped. It’s the third one I’ve been to this week. At the meeting, I discovered there are others like me who feel very lonely. I feel hurt, abandoned and rejected all at the same time. I don’t know why she would treat me this way. I just don’t get it.

  It is good to have AA, though. The connection I experience in that room is profound and life-changing. I can listen to others. Just listen. I recognise myself in them. I’m starting to feel that there is a way through this darkness. They all talk about their higher self, but it’s my lower self I need to get a handle on. That part of me that caves in to the addiction. That part of me that gets annoyed and frustrated with life, with people like Alex. I shouldn’t let it affect me so much.

  17

  The Manchester bureau is much bigger than I expected. There are at least
fifteen members of staff all eager to meet me. Such is life being a local success story. I’m in no mood to talk to anyone after the morning I’ve had. Audrey, bless her, can see my fatigue and reminds them we have a pressing lunchtime deadline, asking politely that they leave us alone until later in the day. They adhere to her request and shuffle off.

  I let Audrey take the lead on this as she’s gunning to do it and I’m not feeling particularly well. I’ve made an excuse about a migraine and she’s taken it upon herself to sort the sound bite and let me rest. So while she finds an edit suite, I take refuge in one of the meeting rooms. I close the venetian blinds to create some privacy, then sink into the worn leather sofa.

  My muscles hurt as much as my brain but less than my heart. Greg’s name is still whirling around in my head. The opportunity to ask Mrs Wilcox for clarification didn’t really present itself after we’d done the interview, but I do need to follow that up. Perhaps I’ll text her this afternoon, casually, to thank her for talking to us. For lack of knowing what else to do, I resort to my go-to distractions, Facebook and Twitter. That’s one thing social media is great for, filling time.

  There’s plenty of public outrage about the police not having released the name of the dating app and instead dishing out advice on how to date safely.

  I have a friend request from Nigel. The dilemma of the second date continues. Thankfully a message alert from my fertility app interrupts that thought.

  TRYING TO CONCEIVE (TTC) TIP: Staying well hydrated helps you produce plump eggs and follicles, and will make your cervical fluid more fertile, helping the sperm travel to the egg.

  I look in my bag for water, which I really need more of anyway, but instead I find a shot-size bottle of vodka hiding in the bottom. I probably bought it on the train on the way up or swiped it from the hotel minibar. For a brief moment I wonder if I’m slipping back into my old habits, the ones that drove me and Greg apart, but I dismiss this thought as soon as I’ve had it. I’m so much better than I used to be. I’m about to be featured on the lunchtime news for two days running. I’m a success story, not a failure.