Little White Lies (17 page)

“Your mum’s taken up knitting—you never see her without her needles now,” Joe says. “And your dad’s quit the pub quiz team—spends most of his time cooped up with his crosswords instead. It’s like... Never mind.”

“What?” Christian says. “What’s it like?”

Joe sighs. “It’s like they’re grieving. Which I suppose they kind of are.”

Christian looks away.

Joe shifts uncomfortably. “And you know your grandad—”

“Died, yes,” Christian sighs. “Three months ago.” His face darkens with sadness.

“It’s been hard, mate, I won’t lie.” Joe sighs. “But they’ll be made up to see you—have you told them you’re back?”

“No.” Christian looks up quickly. “They can’t know. No one can know, Joe. It’s too dangerous.”

“Course. Of course. Sorry.” Joe frowns. His gaze flicks to the door again; then he glances at me and springs to his feet. “Coffee! You wanted coffee, Louise, sorry! Just milk, right?”

“That’d be lovely, thanks.” I smile.

“Actually, I’m all out of milk,” he says suddenly, grabbing a set of keys from the coffee table. “I’ll just nip to the corner shop. Have you guys eaten?”

“Yes,” Christian says quickly.

“Half a sandwich since breakfast,” I argue. “I’m starving.”

“I’ll get a takeaway too, then,” Joe says. “Do you like Indian, Louise?”

“If I could live on korma, I would.” I smile. “Thanks, Joe.”

“Actually, Lou, shouldn’t you be going so you can get back while it’s still light?” Christian prompts.

“It’s half past four, it’s too late for that anyway,” I reason. “Besides, I can’t drive on an empty stomach, and I’ll need a coffee to keep me awake.”

Christian meets my gaze.
Stalemate.

“Okay, well, I’ll be back in a flash.” Joe grabs his jacket and flicks the TV on. “Make yourselves at home.”

“Actually, do you mind if I grab a shower?” Christian asks, jumping to his feet. “I’m really grubby.”

“Of course!” Joe grins, disappearing through the front door. “Help yourself.”

“Christian, wait—” I start, but he hurries from the room before I can stop him. I sigh; then my eyes flit back to the photograph and I pick it up.

Christian’s parents look so nice, so kind. His dad has graying hair at his temples and crinkly, smiling eyes. One arm is wrapped round his beaming wife’s waist, while the other rests proudly on his son’s shoulder as she ruffles his hair.

I try to imagine them now, attempting to come to terms with the fact that their child has been ripped from their lives, never to be seen or heard from again. As good as dead. They don’t deserve that. No one deserves that—I know what losing a child can do to people.

Beside me, the theme for the news fanfares.

“Good evening,” the newsreader begins. “Police are hunting for convicted criminal Leo Niles.”

Joe’s photo smashes on the floor as the face of a blank-expressioned teenage boy stares out from the TV screen. His hair is blond and cut short, his face slightly on the chubby side, but those blue, blue eyes are exactly the same.

It’s Christian.

My blood runs cold as the newsreader continues.

“The case hit headlines last year when the now infamous ‘burglary gone wrong’ left a teenage girl fighting for her life while her father was convicted for killing her attacker,” she says somberly. “But this morning Niles, who was released nearly three months ago, broke the conditions of his parole and is thought to have gone on the run—just hours after the girl tragically died.”

Something like a sledgehammer hits me straight in the gut.

It can’t be true—it can’t be
!

I can’t think.

Can’t move.

If I move it’s real, if I move it’s really true....

As the red-haired schoolgirl’s smiling face fills the screen the ground trembles beneath me and the room begins to spin.

In the bathroom Christian begins to sing. The sound makes my skin crawl, and suddenly I snap to my senses. I flick off the TV, race to the front door, and yank the handle.

It’s locked. Frantically, my fingers fumble over the array of bolts on the door, but still it doesn’t budge. It’s locked from the outside!

Shit
!

I glance at the frosted glass pane in the door, but it’s too small for me to fit through, so I rush to the large living-room window instead—but we’re three floors up and it’s a straight drop.

I’m trapped
!

The blood rushes in my head as the running water gushes in the shower.

I have to get out of here before Christian discovers his cover’s blown—that his face is all over the news and I know who he really is. There’ll be no need to pretend now. No “witness protection” cover story, no “nice guy” persona to hide behind or keep up. The whole mask has been ripped off, and there’s nowhere to hide.

For either of us.

Desperately, I scan the pavement below, the courtyard, the car park, but the basketball players have gone and the area around the tower block is deserted. I stare round the flat helplessly.

Think
!

Phone! Joe must have a phone somewhere. I scan the surfaces frantically, shoving aside papers and post and leaflets and litter, but there’s nothing.

Where would he keep his phone
?

Finally my brain kicks in. A phone needs a phone
line
! I dash to the wall, searching every centimeter of it till finally I find a socket. I grab the wire and follow it till at last I find the base unit...

But no handset.

Sweat beads on my forehead and I want to scream. I glance at the bathroom—the water’s still running—but panic bubbles inside me, making it impossible to think.
I search behind the TV, under the coffee table, down the manky sofa cushions—still nothing.

My eyes fly desperately round the room; then I spot the kitchen doorway. I rush inside, scanning the counters, shoving aside takeaway menus and dirty dishes, till finally a shiny black phone tumbles to the floor. My heart jumps in relief as I snatch it up.

Then I spot a large pair of kitchen scissors on the counter. Light flashes on the long silver blades as I pick them up, fear throbbing in my temples as I stare at the sharp edges, imagine stabbing those blades into Christian’s stomach, tearing his flesh, blood gushing out....

My stomach convulses, vomit threatening in my throat as the room begins to spin.

Could I really do it
?

Sweat trickles down the back of my neck as I slide the scissors inside my hoodie pocket, praying
I won’t have to.

My fingers fumble as I dial 999, then press the phone to my ear. It’s only then that I’m suddenly aware of the complete silence in the flat. The sound of the shower has stopped.

“Lou?”

The handset clatters to the floor as I spin round to find Christian staring at me. Then the phone. His eyes widen.

“What are you—who were you calling?” He strides towards me and I snatch the phone and hang up quickly before he can see who I rang.

“Jeez, Lou, what were you
thinking
?” he cries. “You know we can’t call anyone. It’s too dangerous!”

“I—I was just calling the hospital!” I lie hastily. “I wanted to see how Gran’s doing.”

His face immediately softens. “Shit. I’m sorry, Lou. How is she?”

I stare at my feet. “No change.”

“I’m so sorry.” He sighs. “And I’m sorry I yelled. It’s just this is the only place I feel safe at the moment, and if anyone finds out I’m here, it’s over.”

I nod. That’s what I’m counting on
.

“I don’t know what I’d have done without you today,” he says gently. “I wouldn’t be safe, I know that much.”

I force a smile.

“So thank you.” He steps closer. “For everything.”

He tries to hug me and I flinch, scared he’ll feel the scissors in my pocket.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing!” I shrug, managing a tight smile.

He shakes his head. “You’re such a bad liar.”

I look up sharply. “What?”

“It’s written all over your face. Plus you’ve barely said two words since I came in.”

My skin prickles and I take half a step backwards.

“It’s your own fault, you know,” he sighs. “You made me this way.”

“What?” I stare at him.

He shrugs. “You chose the dye.”

“
I didn’t choose to
—what?” I frown at him.

“
Cappuccino,
my arse.” He gestures at his hair, which is the color of a dog turd.

“Oh. No, it’s... great.” I smile in relief. I hadn’t even noticed he’d dyed his hair in the shower. “It looks lovely. Really. You done in the bathroom?” I duck past.

The moment the door’s bolted, my legs turn to jelly, my breath coming in great shuddering gulps as the tears that have been threatening finally burst from me and I dissolve to the floor.

She’s dead
!

I can’t believe she’s
dead
!

I crumple over, the pain in my stomach sharp, unbearable, her beaming school photo torturing my mind.

She’ll never smile again....

Never laugh....

Never breathe....

Never
hug
me ever again....

My heart twists painfully.

Because of Christian, my beloved Poppy is dead.

Tears burn my eyes as a million memories crowd my head—Poppy racing me to the park swings to see who could fly the highest; starting ballet class together like a pair of twirling sugarplum fairies; giggling and gossiping in the department store changing rooms while Uncle Jim waited patiently for us to
finally
come out; big picnic parties in the park playing hide-and-seek with Millie; shrieking and squealing as we skipped through the sprinklers... coming back from Mexico to find her thin and pale and broken in a hospital bed.

The number of tubes and wires spaghettiing around her took my breath away.

“She must be very,
very
tired,” Millie sighed, slumping in my lap. “She’s been sleeping for
ages
.”

“She’s just getting her beauty sleep,” I told her.

“Like Sleeping Beauty?”

“Sort of.” I smiled. “Just think how pretty she’s going to be when she wakes up.”

“But I want her to wake up
now
!” Millie moaned.

“We all do, sweetheart.” Aunt Grace smiled weakly. “We all do.”

“I know!” Millie whispered suddenly, her huge brown eyes lighting up. Quickly, she leaned towards her sister and, ever so gently, kissed her cheek. She looked up at Poppy expectantly for a moment; then her face fell and broke my heart.

How I despised the two guys who had broken into our house, who’d attacked Poppy when she startled them, who’d shattered my family to pieces when they left her in a coma and made Uncle Jim a criminal—s
entenced to five years in prison for manslaughter just for trying to protect her—for killing the thug who hurt her.

I wanted to
scream
at the injustice of it. Uncle Jim should never have gone to jail—he was a hero! A police officer, for God’s sake! It was like the whole world had gone stark raving mad, especially when the guy who fled the scene—Chri
stian—was given a shorter sentence than Uncle Jim. How crazy was that? They charged him with burglary—
burglary!
If it was a burglary, why did they hurt Poppy? Why was nothing stolen except Poppy’s bag, and why didn’t they run away when they discovered she was home, instead of beating her up?

Or maybe attacking Poppy was the plan all along? She was a teenage girl alone in the house, after all—in her bedroom. What would have happened if Uncle Jim hadn’t come home when he did?

I feel sick at the thoughts that have been swarming round my head for the last year.

Was the burglary just an excuse? A way to avoid being charged with something much, much worse? Was
that
the lie Christian admitted to telling the police when we played Never Have I Ever? He said he’d lied about taking a bag—did he mean he lied about being a
burglar
?

Hate surges in my veins as the tears flow faster.

Either way, burglar or not, he killed Poppy. He might not have struck the fatal blow—or who knows, maybe he did, then blamed his dead accomplice
?—but he was there, he did nothing to stop the attack on my cousin. And they let him go before serving even
half
his sentence—after just over a
year
?

How
could he be allowed a new beginning, a fresh start, while Poppy was still dangerously hovering between life and death
?
How was that justice? How was that
right
?

The newspapers had the right idea:

CONVICTED CRIMINAL RELEASED AS HERO DAD ROTS IN JAIL

KILLER ACCOMPLICE GETS NEW IDENTITY!

CRIME PAYS—AND TAXPAYER FOOTS BILL!

They decried the fact that public money was being spent giving him a new home, a new identity. Why should
he
get a new life when he’d wrecked ours forever? Why should he get to walk away scot-free? Forget what he’d done? Pretend he was
normal
? That he was innocent, ordinary Christian Marcus Webb?

So I decided to do something about it. If the justice system wouldn’t hold him accountable, it was up to me to make sure “Christian” didn’t—
couldn’t—
forget what he’d done. To make his new life as unbearable as possible. I just had to find out where they were sending him.

My skin prickles as I remember the night Kenny and I broke into the police headquarte
rs—how close we’d come to getting caught by Neil—the utter thrill when Kenny gave me the memory stick containing Christian’s new address in Sheffield. It was like the stars had finally aligned.

Like it was fate,
I think, remembering Christian’s words when we’d met.

If only he knew.

It was ridiculously easy—getting the place at Sheffield University through clearing, putting Christian’s phone number on fake taxi cards, jogging past his house every day to discover his routine, bumping into him in the café and “accidentally” spilling coffee on his jacket so I could nick his wallet, giving me an excuse to see him again and him a reason to trust me. It was so simple, pretending to twist my ankle to get into his house, then pinching Christian’s keys from his jacket as he left the pub that night, to frame him for my break-in, hoping he’d be sent straight back to jail. Of course, I didn’t know about his curfew then....

And even though it was annoying at first when Kenny showed up, and I don’t approve of all his methods, he turned out to be a great asset. He orchestrated the Facebook offer which, along with poisoning Heidi, got me the job at the bar, giving me the perfect opportunity to “bond” with Christian. Scratching his bike and ordering the unwanted pizzas were lovely touches too—I really thought Christian was going to punch that pizza guy! Then when Kenny spiked his juice at my party, causing Christian to turn up at work late and hungover—along with the suspicions I’d already planted in Mike’s mind that Christian was behind the break-in—we got Christian fired.

Between us, Christian didn’t stand a chance. We made him lose his job, and he’d have lost his mind too within a few months if everything had gone to plan—if Vix hadn’t overheard us the night of my birthday, if Christian hadn’t decided to ride his bike while unwittingly over the limit, if I hadn’t panicked he might get killed and raced after him, then completely lost my head when he kissed me....

The taste of Christian’s lips on mine flashes into my mind and I feel sick to my gut for my moment of weakness, for letting myself forget who he really was, what he did.... My blood runs cold as I remember the last time I saw Poppy—the last time I’ll
ever
see her alive—how I promised her I’d get justice, that everything would be okay if she’d only wake up.... But now things will never be okay. I choke as fresh tears flow down my cheeks.

Poppy’s gone. She’s never coming back. She’s dead.

And if Christian discovers who I really am, I could be too. Who knows what he’s really capable of...

“Lou?” I jump as Christian knocks on the door. “Are you okay?”

“Fine! Just having a shower!” I call, hurriedly turning on the taps, my pulse spiking in my veins as I look around the bathroom. I’m trapped. There’s no window, and one glance at the flimsy lock tells me it won’t last long against any kind of force.

“Only I need to wash out the hair dye—the longer it stays in, the worse it’ll get!”

I know the feeling.

“I’ll be out in a minute!” I tell him, buying time.

“Okay.”

Okay.
I take a deep breath, sliding my hand into my hoodie pocket, feeling for the scissors. At least I’ve still got a weapon.

But to my surprise, my fingers close around something smooth and hard instead.
Gran’s phone.
I stare at it incredulously. I completely forgot I had it.

Quickly, I try to dial 999, but of course it’s off—it died on me last night. I press the power button anyway, hoping against hope it’ll last for one more call.
Come on, come on....
The screen lights up; then the phone beeps loudly.

Shit
! I fumble with the buttons, trying desperately to find mute.

“Lou?” Christian knocks again. “What was that?”

“It was just my... watch!” I lie quickly. “I forgot I’d set an alarm.”

“You have an alarm on your watch?”

“Yup—it was a present from Kenny. The gadget king.”

I stare at the phone helplessly. Should I risk calling 999 again? After two close shaves, if Christian hears me talking to anyone in here, I’m screwed. And that lock won’t keep him out.

The screen flashes silently as a text message arrives from Aunt Grace:

Mum, please call. Really worried after we got cut off last night—are you all right? Can’t get hold of Lulu either. I really need you both. Please call me back asap.

My heart aches as every part of me itches to call her back. What must she be going through? I reread her message.

Really worried after we got cut off last night

So
that’s
who Gran was on the phone to when she collapsed.
That’s
why she was so upset—Aunt Grace must’ve just told her about Poppy.

My breath catches as I remember Gran’s last words: “Oh my God!
That’s
who—”

That’s who Christian looks like,
I realize suddenly.
That’s
what she was going to say—she must have recognized him. Within ten minutes she’d discovered her granddaughter was dead, and that she’d come face to face with the man who was responsible. No wonder she had a heart attack.
It’s all my fault
!

If I’d never hunted Christian down, never followed him to Sheffield, she’d never have come anywhere near him, never have had her heart attack, and I wouldn’t be trapped in this flat with a violent criminal, not even able to call for help.

I stare miserably at the text; then suddenly my heart leaps.

I can’t
call
anyone... but there might just be enough battery for a
text!

Quickly, I message Kenny.

Help! Call police! Trapped in flat with Christian—39 Jonas Towers, Bexley—he’s on news! Hurry!

Suddenly the screen fades as the battery finally dies.

Did it send?
I press the power button again, desperately trying to resuscitate it, but it’s no use. I shove it back into my pocket miserably.

Now all I can do is wait. I just have to hold out till either the police or Joe get here. As long as Christian doesn’t know I know who he really is, I’m safe. I close my eyes as I remember how close we’ve come to blowing it before. First when Kenny spiked Christian’s drink and started asking him probing questions—if Christian had let slip who he really was, it would have been curtains then and there, as once he realized what he’d done he’d have moved away for sure, and I’d have lost him for good. Then when Vix overheard the police mention his curfew I knew it wouldn’t be long before she realized he was on parole—so thank goodness I came up with the witness protection story. It was meant to throw her off the scent and stop her confronting him about it, but it’s proved invaluable to me too, allowing me to tell Christian that I know he has a secret identity and that people are after him, and come with him to keep tabs on him—all without revealing that I know the truth. That I’ve known all along.