Liars: Psychological Fiction at Its Best

Liars

Anita Waller

Patricia Dixon

Copyright © 2020 Anita Waller & Patricia Dixon

The right of Anita Waller & Patricia Dixon to be identified as the Authors of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 2020 by Bloodhound Books.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

www.bloodhoundbooks.com

978-1-913419-52-3

Contents

Love crime, thriller and mystery books?

Also by Anita Waller

Also by Patricia Dixon

Prologue

Book One 1978 – 1986

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Book Two 2016-2018

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

How this book came about

Acknowledgements

A note from the publisher

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To me, to you, to me, to you.

This has been the fun way of writing a book,

so Trish and Neet have dedicated this one to each other!

Sometimes you put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down.

Socrates

Love is like the wild rose-briar, friendship like the holly tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, but which will bloom most constantly?

Emily Brontë

Prologue

Present Day

I’ve been sitting here for over an hour now, staring at a blank sheet of writing paper and counting the petals on each of the daisies that adorn the border. They provided a welcome distraction, as did the two depressing news bulletins on Radio Sheffield, and that annoying yappy dog from next door. They were accompanied by my nagging conscience, an unforgiving voice that I could have done without, telling me to get on with it, have it over and done with.

The thing is, despite my burning desire to write this one last letter to you, I cannot find the right words, any words for that matter. How strange that after the thousands and thousands that have passed between us, when it matters most, I don’t even know where to start.

Our last letter. That sounds so harsh, doesn’t it, so final. Maybe that’s why I’m dithering, avoiding the inevitable. I still can’t believe this has happened, to us. It wasn’t meant to be this way, was it? You and I were best friends forever, we made promises, swore oaths.

I wish we could start over, go back to the playground where meaningless squabbles were resolved over a shared Wagon Wheel. Or the steamy canteen, one of us in the free-dinner queue, the other in the line of sniggerers who should have known better. We didn’t care about our differences, did we, not then. Like a second-hand uniform versus the overpriced school outfitters, working on the shop floor while the other typed notes and never got their manicured nails dirty. At the end of the day, when the school bell rang or the shift finished, you were always there, waiting at the gate, the special face in the crowd.

Secrets, we had so many. Daft things like who was our favourite Bay City Roller or that we shoplifted make-up and spot cream from Boots. The bigger things, which at the time seemed huge, we guarded like treasure because they were private and sacred. They were our bond. Crushes, first kisses and sex. Fears and failures. Hopes and dreams. And yet in the end, one huge secret, carried for years, unshared, a burden I suppose, that became our downfall.

My conscience is back, reminding me there’s another person at fault, at whose feet so much blame can be laid and even now I cannot bear to think his name let alone say it, but I will. Mike. That’s where it began, when the rot set in. One man drove a wedge between us, poisoned so many lives, and by his very existence altered the course of what should have been.

I can’t avoid it any longer, the inevitable. Otherwise I’ll be here all day, twiddling this pen and staring at daisies. I know what I have to do now, before I write my last letter to you. I need to revisit the past, accept our mistakes and lay them to rest. This means facing up to the bad memories and cleansing my soul of the festering hate that burns inside for him, that despicable man. He’s the one who really destroyed everything, who tainted our world and turned two women, lifelong friends, soulmates, into liars.

Book One 1978 – 1986

1

Ferme, La Chauvinais

Saint-Mar- la-Jaille

44540

France

20th September 1978

Dear Wendy, or bonjour, as we say on this side of the Channel.

I am here in France, safe and well and bloody knackered. I bet you never ever thought I’d be writing to you from an apple farm in the middle of nowhere but I am and I love it. Look at me with a Frenchie address!! This is where you send letters so copy it out exactly the same. I hope you are pleased to see that I’m using the fancy paper and envelopes you bought me – I bet you got them to make sure I write, but a promise is a promise and here I am. We are penfriends as well as best friends – fancy that.

I’ve got so much to tell you that I don’t know where to start.

The journey was vile. I thought I’d never get here cos the coach stopped at every sodding town between Sheffield and Dover then I honked up all the way across the Channel. I had to sleep in the station at Calais because I missed my connecting train but there were a few other backpackers in the same fix so it wasn’t too lonely.

The train ride down here was okay but took almost a day because I had to change a few times and I was scared to death of getting on the wrong one. I kept pointing to the tickets the agency sent and prayed that I was going in the right direction. I eventually hooked up with two other girls who were going to the same place (thank God) and one of them can speak a bit of French so I relaxed after that.

I was so relieved when we were picked up at the station but then the trauma continued when we had a scary but hilarious ride in the back of a smelly truck that bumped along the road. We thought the driver, Yves (the farmer’s son who’s a bit of a flirt) was trying to flip us off the back so we lay down flat and hung on tight. Apparently, he does that to everyone for a laugh, the weirdo.

We live in caravans at the back of the farm. They are okay, a bit basic but clean. Four people share, same sex only so there’s no hanky-panky, not officially. I’ll get to that in a bit.

All our meals are provided and at lunch and teatime we have bucketloads of wine – seriously, they drink it like water here but I’m not complaining. The work is hard though. We start at 8am and finish at 6pm but we do get nearly two hours for lunch which is like a feast. I’ve never eaten so much bread and cheese. Thank God I like veg because there’s tons of it, and pig. We eat lots of pig in various forms because the farmer rears them. I refuse to eat brains and feet though. Just vile!

We get taken in trucks to the orchards which are so huge you could easily get lost. At first, the smell of apples was lovely but I’ve got used to it and I probably won’t eat one ever again, I even dream about them and Harvey! Ha, I know your ears have just pricked up. He’s from Wales but talks really posh and is here with a group of friends from university. They’ve been in France all summer, going from farm to farm, picking. They spent August in the lavender fields of Provence which sounds like heaven and I bet it smells the same. I’m going to go there next year, and pick grapes too. From what I’ve heard, you can earn a decent wage if you keep moving and work hard. It’s like the best of both worlds; you get paid, eat for nowt, are surrounded by lovely scenery, sun, sun, sun, wine, wine, wine and LOTS of men. Perfect. Not like dreary Sheffield. Sorry, I know there are nice bits, like where you live, but whenever I think of where I’m from I see grey and concrete and rain.

That’s why I’m determined to keep on travelling like I planned. I’ve made a few friends and I’m hoping to move on with them once the picking season is over. Anyway, back to Harvey. He’s really handsome, he’s got long curly hair like Roger Daltrey, and a goatee beard – so cool. He’s going to be an architect in his dad’s firm once he qualifies. I can hear alarm bells ringing from here because you think I’m going to get my heart broken but I’m not.

My new friends have a different outlook on life than we have back home. It’s like they are less worried about the things that tie us down and make us miserable so instead, they travel about looking for new experiences and adventures. Harvey believes in free love and I’m starting to believe in it too. I know he’s going to go back to uni in a few weeks and I’ll probably never see him again, so I’m making lots of hay while the sun shines. I will feel a bit sad when he goes but believe me, there’s no shortage of replacements on the farm and those dotted around the area. Oh, and I’m trying really hard to parlez Français with the locals who seem friendly enough, especially the men, can’t think why!!!!

You should see my tan. I wish I’d brought more hot pants but me and the other girls who I share with, they’re called Molly, Jen, and Helen by the way, swap clothes all the time and next weekend we’re off to the market to spend some of our hard-earned wages on new stuff. I’ve taken some photos but it might be a while till I get to the end of the roll. When I get them processed I’ll send you one. It’s a bit of a performance apparently because there’s only one shop that develops film and it’s in the next town and quite pricey.

Right, that’s enough about me. I want to know all about married life, oh and will you send me a photo of us at your wedding? Did they come out nice? I can put it in my album with the ones of us growing up. I was a teeny bit homesick when I got here. I think that was down to exhaustion from the journey, but looking at our old photos made me feel better. I’d like one of me in my chief bridesmaid dress and you looking glam and virginal in your posh frock (yeah right).

So, come on, dish the dirt, do you have wild sex every night now you’ve got a place of your own and you don’t have to bonk Mike in the back of his van? Have you turned into a domestic goddess? Does Fanny Craddock have competition? It seems so weird to think of you being wed, all serious and grown up. I honestly thought you and I would carry on being best friends forever and ever, and nothing would change which is so stupid. I know you were upset when I said I was leaving but I still think it was the right thing to do. Three’s a crowd and all that, and let’s face it, I’ve never been your Mike’s favourite person so maybe it was time for a change. No matter what, you will always be my best friend, never mind how far apart we are.

Get me being serious and soppy.

Have you seen my Aunty Sue? Has she rented my room out yet? It wouldn’t surprise me if she has. I wrote her a short note that I’ll post with this but I don’t expect she will reply. It was just to be polite and let her know I got here and so she can’t throw it in my face that I didn’t bother. You know what she’s like, the grumpy old cow. The only thing she’ll miss about me is the rent money. She was pissed off enough when I turned sixteen and the social stopped paying out so I suppose she’ll have to get a lodger in, or cut down on the booze and fags. Serves the old witch right.

If you see anyone from school, make sure you tell them that I’m living it up in France and getting laid by sexy posh boys. When I send the photos you can show them how gorgeous it is here, and I’ll try to get one of Harvey and his mates cos I swear they look like they’re in Supertramp and everyone will be SO jealous.

It’ll certainly shut them up when they find out that Nell Bradshaw from the estate has done okay and their sarky comments about me being from the children’s home didn’t stop me from having an adventure and getting away from that shithole town. Show the girls from the factory too, especially that bitchy Beryl. Has she had her sprog yet? I hope she looks like the back end of a bus and it’s like squeezing a watermelon out. I’m never having kids; I’m going to see the world and wear hot pants and miniskirts till the day I die. Well, not quite but you know what I mean.

So, are you going to stay at the factory now you’re legally wed or will Mike want you to be a kept woman? I realise he hates you working there. Perhaps he likes the idea of his domestic goddess waiting for him when he gets home!

Don’t forget, tell me about your honeymoon and your house and how you’ve decorated it. I want to know everything, like what you’ve had for tea and about the weather and the latest gossip from the factory. Just because I’m not there anymore doesn’t mean I can’t be in your life. It’s going to be hard being apart, that’s the truth of it. We can’t wipe away fourteen years, best friends since the sandpit, but I know we will survive. You’ve got Mike and I’ve got to get on with being a super hippy!

I know we made tearful promises before I left but that might have been the Babycham and Cherry Bs, we did drink a lot that night. I truly meant all of mine. You will always be the sister I never had, the best friend I could’ve wished for and no matter where I end up, I’ll be thinking of you. You never let me down, not once. You stuck up for me and took care of me when I had nobody (apart from Aunty Sue who is worse than useless even on a sober day) and I will be forever grateful. The miles can’t part us, not in our hearts.

I hope you will be really, really happy with Mike and married life is everything you wished for. If it isn’t you can run away, leave the laundry and Mike’s socks, sod making shepherd’s pie and hook up with me. The offer is always there.

I’ve gone soppy again so I’ll sign off and get this in the post. I hope you appreciate that I have to cycle three miles to La Poste (see I’m almost fluent already) but you’re worth it.

Please write back really quickly.

Love you lots, miss you more. Your best friend forever,

Au revoir,

Nell x

2

Wendy sensed Mike’s reluctance in handing over the letter, and she wondered what she could possibly have done wrong this time. It was a letter, for God’s sake, not a bloody court order or something. She reached across, and he gripped it for a second too long.

‘Mike!’

He let go, and stared at her. ‘I thought we’d heard the last of her, as she’s taken herself off to France.’

Wendy had, of course, recognised the pretty envelope, decorated with flowers, and knew he wouldn’t be happy. She had deliberately chosen a distinctive stationery set as a leaving gift for Nell, hoping she would take pleasure from using it and write with details of her new life; she simply wanted them to not lose touch.

‘Mike,’ she said slowly, ‘Nell and I have been friends since we were five. We’re hardly going to write each other off because she’s temporarily left the country.’

‘I thought it was a permanent move.’

‘I don’t think so. She’ll be back, she likes to try new things at times, and that’s all this is.’

Wendy placed the envelope by the side of her plate, and instead of opening it, she picked up a piece of toast.

‘You’re not opening it?’ It came out as a growl.

‘Later. When I’m on my own.’

‘When you’re on your own? I thought we were married and shared everything?’

‘Do we?’ Wendy could feel the anger building. Mike had changed so quickly in the three months of their marriage, and she had decided to stop biting her tongue and become confrontational, or he would feel he could totally dominate her. Nell’s letters, and Wendy hoped there would be many, would be her private domain.

He said nothing more. He picked up his lunch and newspaper, and stomped out of the kitchen. She heard the slam of the front door, and watched as he passed the front window heading towards his car.

She finished her toast and still she waited. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see him return; he wasn’t used to insubordination and it would prey on his mind.

The long finger clicked on the twelve telling her it was ten o’clock, and finally she picked up the letter. She hadn’t wanted him to see the contents. She knew it would be Nell in despair. It had been a crazy idea, swanning off to France to find herself, and Wendy hadn’t wanted Mike to get any hint of that. His sarcasm when Nell had told her of her plans had bordered on vitriolic, and there was no way she wanted him to have proof that his thoughts had been correct.

Wendy stroked the envelope. The daisy in the top left-hand corner had a big hand-drawn heart in the middle of it, and she couldn’t help the smile that formed. She eased the envelope flap open, not wanting to rip it, and took out the letter.

Nell’s familiar handwriting flew off the page towards her, and Wendy smoothed the folded paper carefully and placed it on the table. She began to read.

Ludicrous! It seemed her best friend was having the time of her life, getting all the sex she wanted, and picking apples! Wendy pushed her chair back and winced as it grated along the floor. It wasn’t right – Nell should have been on her way back home by now, tail between her legs, in a different way, not the way she was describing it in her letter.

It seemed Nell was happy, enjoying the madcap life she had adopted, and was actually learning to speak French, possibly as a prelude to staying there long-term. But she couldn’t… Nell had been Wendy’s chief bridesmaid, and as such had certain responsibilities towards her best friend, like being twenty minutes away when she needed to talk, not in another bloody country.

She couldn’t tell her in a letter how disappointing marriage was proving to be, particularly marriage with a man ten years older who was set in his ways and controlled by his mother. Wendy needed to talk face to face, but according to the letter, that wasn’t going to happen anytime in the near future.

Wendy made a pot of tea and carried the tray through to the lounge. She placed it on the coffee table, poured herself a cup and took it across to the bureau.

She had placed an identical set of stationery in the bottom drawer, and she leaned down to remove it. They had promised to write their letters using their sets until there were no sheets left, and she eased out her first piece of notepaper.

Hillside

17 Langley Dell

Sheffield

27th September 1978

My dear Nell,

Thank you so much for your lovely letter. It arrived as Mike was leaving for the office, so we came back inside to read it. He was late for work, because we were so engrossed in your words. We think you are brave to change your life so completely, and I’m immensely proud of you.

Apple-picking sounds like such fun, and you seem to have quickly made lots of friends. Don’t forget me, will you?

I love living in this house. Mike said I could spend whatever I wanted, and make it how I wanted it. The walls are cream now, and I’ve got beautiful velvet curtains in the lounge, lovely rich, dark green. It looks so much smarter than when he lived here with Margaret, no wonder he decided his best course of action was divorce. Everything was dark; dark brown curtains, dark beige walls, a hideous patterned carpet. I’ve changed all of that. I never mention Margaret, of course. Mike made it clear he didn’t want her name spoken out loud. So I don’t.

My kitchen has everything I could possibly need, which is good because I do lots of cooking, although not shepherd’s pies! I’m not sure the people I entertain would appreciate pies of any sort. They’re more steak people than pie people.

I’ve finished at the factory. Mike says I am more use to him at home, because of the dinner parties. Last week we had a couple of managers from his firm, along with their wives, and it really was a lovely evening. We had prawn cocktails for starters, and steak for our main course. I did baked apples for dessert because it reminded me of you.

Instead of my wage, Mike gives me an allowance. It’s not as much as I was earning, but I don’t have bus fares and lunches and stuff