Truth Games

by Caroline England

Genres: Noir; Domestic Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

'Stunning. . . dark undercurrents and sinister twists' AMANDA ROBSON

'Her ability to conjure the detailed ordinariness of everyday domestic life makes her writing all the more powerful when she evokes psychological menace and dramatic plot twists' The Daily Mail

She tries hard to be the perfect mother, the perfect partner, the perfect daughter - but Ellie never seems to get it right. When an old friend from university re-enters their lives, dark memories from Ellie's past begin to resurface.

As Ellie starts to unravel some shocking and sinister realities, she realises that she must choose between keeping the family she loves - and facing the truth.

From the Top Ten ebook bestselling author, this twisty psychological thriller will have you hooked from the first page to the last jaw-dropping twist.

Praise for Caroline England:

'A twist that I didn't see coming!' T. M. LOGAN

'Kept me gripped' B. A. PARIS

'Incredibly twisty. . . deliciously satisfying' CLAIRE ALLAN

'A taut, tantalising thriller' SHERYL BROWNE

'Truly terrific!' MARTINA COLE

Release date: November 19, 2020

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

TRUTH GAMES by Caroline England

‘It has to be the truth, the honest truth. Everyone agree?’
‘But what is truth?’
‘It’s only a game, man. Besides, another slug and we’ll know.’
Six young adults in the high-ceilinged room, two cuddled on the sofa and four on the floor. A girl and two guys sit around a candlelit coffee table. Though late, it’s still balmy, the leaded windows ajar. They’re drinking Jack Daniel’s from shot glasses.

The girl snaps open the second bottle and pours. Her nails are bitten, her nose pierced, her short hair dyed black. Her attention is focused on the man stretched out on the floor.

Lifting his dark head, he glances at her. ‘Isn’t there anything other than that American shit?’ he asks, his accent distinct. He goes back to his spliff and takes a deep drag. ‘OK. Then we’ll use the correspondence theory of truth,’ he says. ‘A belief is true if there exists an appropriate entity – a fact – to which it corresponds. If there’s no such entity, the belief is false.’

The fair-haired boy laughs. ‘OK, genius, I’ll start.’ Blue-eyed and neat featured, he looks younger than his twenty-years. ‘A secret. A true secret . . . ’ He knocks back the whiskey. ‘I’m in love with somebody in this room.’

The girl whips up her head, her stark make-up barely hiding her shock.

‘Tell us something we don’t already know!’ This man is huge, his voice booms Home Counties. ‘Come on, old chap. What did you say? The honest truth. Something you haven’t told anyone before.’

‘Right; here’s one. My mum tried to snog me once,’ he says.

Everyone but the girl laughs.

‘No, it’s true, I’m not joking. Dad had buggered off, so she spent all the time drinking and crying—’

‘And snogging you?’

‘Yes, Your Honour.’ He guffaws. ‘The truth and the whole fucking truth, eh? Only the once, thank God, when she got close enough. I can’t do needy. Fucking disgusting.’

A silence of drunk embarrassment, then the eloquent voice again: ‘Are you two lovebirds playing?’

They turn to the couple on the sofa. The young woman is asleep. ‘We’re living our secret,’ her boyfriend says. ‘But one you don’t know . . . Let me think. My brother and me, we used to spit in the take-outs. Special treat for the racists we knew from school.’

‘Nice.’
‘Nah. Good try, but it won’t put me off your delicious—’
‘I saw my father beat up my mum.’ The man on the floor looks fixedly at the ceiling. ‘Badly. Watched the blood spurt from her nose. Did nothing to stop him.’

The Goth girl stares, but doesn’t speak.
The blond boy leans over. ‘Fuck,’ he says. ‘How old were you?’

‘Still a kid. But I blamed her. Probably still do.’ He sits up and throws back his shot. Then he squints through the smoke at the girl, still sitting cross-legged and silent. ‘What about you, nice middle-class miss? You’re not saying much. What’s your secret?’

Everyone is watching, all eyes are on her. ‘A secret truth?’ she asks, turning to him. ‘With an actual fact to which it corresponds?’

The man snorts. ‘Yeah. Come on, then; try me.’ She opens her inky lips—

 

1

‘Mum, Mum, Harry’s used my toothbrush again!’
Ellie shook herself awake. The dream had dissolved already but it felt familiar, warm. She hadn’t been smothered or drowned, or whatever happened in that nightmare.
‘Mum, did you hear what I said? Harry has used my toothbrush again. It’s disgusting.’
She propped her head on one arm and listened to the thud of a slamming door. She was usually up before the boys, showered and dressed, Marmite on toast at the ready. But sometimes her middle son Jake beat her to it, and if he was awake, the whole house was too. She smiled and swung her legs out of bed; today’s complainant was Toby, her eldest, so that was OK; even Harry knew better than to touch anything of Jake’s.

She yawned deeply and shuffled to the bathroom. Glancing at her reflection, she raked her auburn hair with slim fingers. It needed its six-weekly trim; she’d make an appointment and drive up the road into Gorton. ‘Over the bloody border to Chav Land,’ as Cam would say, which was ironic, given that’s where he was born.

She leaned further into the mirror and lightly touched the blemish on her cheek. It was barely visible these days, but still felt like a nudge, a reminder of her fortunate life. Her gaze swept over the rest of her face. The pale purple smudges beneath her eyes were evidence of her interrupted night. If only she could capture the dreams like a ghost on celluloid; freeze-frame the snowflakes before they melted. Perhaps then she could exorcise them, lay them to rest, have a whole eight hours’ flaming sleep.

‘Mum? Mum! Are you coming down? Someone’s eaten all the Coco Pops.’

Harry’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She groaned at the woman looking back. There was no doubt about it: she resembled a crumpled newspaper. It was time to iron out the creases.

                                                      _

Ellie looked around the doctors’ waiting room, willing the latest patient to hurry out. With an indulgent smile, she’d watched a dark-haired little girl play with a bead frame, she’d read all the notices about pregnancy and HIV, and listened to two patients loudly whisper about the ‘village oddball’ sitting opposite them. As ever, the poor woman was wearing several layers of luminous pink clothing and holding a matching parasol. The open brolly was bad luck, Ellie supposed, but the obvious tittle-tattle about her wasn’t on. Besides, she admired her quirkiness. She was once like that herself.

She frowned at the gossips. ‘She’s eccentric, not deaf,’ she wanted to admonish, but she was trying very hard not to say or do anything that might embarrass her son more than he already was. Twenty-six minutes had gone by since they’d arrived. Toby was sitting three seats away from her, as silent and rigid as his hard plastic chair. When she’d attempted to make conversation, his gaze hadn’t left the huge digital display that repeatedly reminded them of the importance of immunisation for flu and shingles.

They were here for a rash on his scrotum; no wonder he was grumpy. Remembering yesterday’s embarrassment, Ellie winced. Toby had haltingly tried to describe the hives on his groin and she’d casually replied, ‘Do you want me to look?’, not for a moment expecting him to say yes. But he had, poor boy; no doubt petrified of deformity, leprosy or lice, or one of the other million things twelve-year-olds worry about. Not least, had masturbation caused it, like God’s plague or locust wrath?

She hadn’t known what to say as she stared. The rash was livid. Toby was nearly a teenager and it was both awkward and unsettling to discover that the nether regions of her firstborn were more man than boy.

Boys and their bollocks were really Cam’s department, but he was working away again. ‘It’s only scrot rot,’ he’d said with a snort when he’d finally telephoned late last night. ‘All boys get it. Buy some cream from the chemist.’

She had cringed at his typically graphic epithet. Now he tells me, she’d thought. How was she supposed to know about that, or all the other testosterone-related joys of having sons? Ellie loved her boys, but at times they were a mystery. Men were a mystery. Thank goodness she had Mum.

Leaning across to Toby, she had another go. ‘Maybe grab the jabs while you’re here. “Preparation is all, young man”, as Grandad would say,’ she mimicked, in her best Maurice voice.

With a hint of a smile, Toby opened his mouth, but his reply was cut short by his name on the screen, shortly followed by the intercom. ‘Toby Hastings. Room two, please.’

‘We’re up. Come on, love.’ Ellie stood and covered the cringe with a smile. Oh hell, the announcer was female; she hadn’t thought to ask for a man. Hoping she was wrong, she guided Toby to the door, knocked and entered. Oh joy: not only a woman, but young, far younger and prettier than a doctor should be.

‘Hello, Toby and Mum. Sorry for keeping you waiting,’ she said. ‘How can I help you today?’

Pink and sullen when they left the surgery, Toby was still glowering when they arrived at his high school. He made no move to climb out of the car.

‘Have a good day. See you later,’ Ellie said, unintentionally adopting the sing-song tone of the doctor. Then, trying for a Cam- like chivvy, ‘Come on, Toby, it’s time for school now. Scrot rot isn’t an excuse to stay at home all day.’

‘Really? Can’t I just—’
‘Absolutely not! Get thee to the classroom . . . ’
Though she wanted to hold him tightly, she pushed him playfully from his seat. A nasty scrotal rash might not be a reason to hide, but humiliation and embarrassment definitely were; she knew that more than anyone.

Telling herself she’d done ‘the right thing’, she watched him throw his rucksack over his shoulder and slouch into the glassy entrance. Pat on the back for Eleanor Wilson from Maurice! Her father Maurice, who’d instilled the importance of doing the right flaming thing in the baby, the child and above all the teenage Ellie.

Almost wanting her son to reappear, she stared at the door for several moments. Had she let Toby down? Trying to shake off the discomfort, she pulled the car out, but the journey was cut short by the peal of her mobile. She glanced at the screen, then did another take. Oh hell; it was Mrs Laverne from Jake’s primary school. The familiar lurch hit her stomach; at only eleven o’clock in the morning, a buzz from the head teacher was not going to be for a friendly chat.

‘Oh, ignore the ancient bat,’ Cam often said. ‘They’ll get rid of her soon.’ But soon wasn’t soon enough. Mrs Laverne, purple perm and patronising intolerance, was there now.

‘Have you considered that perhaps a specialist school would be more appropriate for Jake?’ she said regularly. But Ellie wanted mainstream for her middle boy, almost as much as Cam did. The psychologist had agreed: ‘Jake is at the very lower end of the autistic spectrum,’ he’d said. ‘He’ll have some difficulties during his education, but nothing he can’t overcome.’

‘Too right,’ Cam had responded. ‘He’s a Hastings! Bloody nanny state.’

Steeling herself for the call, Ellie now sighed. Her sons were indeed ‘Hastings’, but she wasn’t.

She pressed the icon. ‘Mrs Laverne. Hello. Is everything—’

‘There has been an unfortunate episode with Jacob already,’ the woman interrupted.

‘Unfortunate episode? Why, what’s happened?’

‘I’ll explain when you’re here. I’d like you to come in straight away.’

Her jaw set, Ellie stood at the entrance to Purple Laverne’s office. She stared at the plastic stopper that wedged open the door. Did she have the guts to kick it away and give the bloody woman a mouthful? It was fortunate Ellie didn’t have a formal job, but these demands to turn up at a moment’s notice for some minor Jake misdemeanour were getting ridiculous.

Mrs Laverne peered over her glasses. ‘Do sit,’ she started crisply. Then she leaned forward and sighed, apparently changing tack. ‘Jacob, oh Jacob. What are we going to do with him?’

Ellie had heard that preamble before. In the past she’d made the mistake of asking Laverne what the answer was, and she wasn’t going to fall for it again. Sure, Jake had stubborn episodes from time to time, even an occasional tantrum, but they could be resolved if handled properly. His current teacher was brilliant, but sometimes she was ill or on a training day. ‘You said there had been “an episode” with Jake this morning?’ she asked instead, folding her arms.

The brusqueness returned. ‘Attacking another boy. An assault. And I don’t use that word lightly. The boy had a nasty red mark on his throat, which the playtime staff can verify.’

Instinctively placing a hand on her cheek, Ellie felt an icy spread. ‘An assault?’ She pulled out the chair and sat. ‘I’m so very sorry, Mrs Laverne. Please tell me what happened.’

6

The call came just as the kettle popped.
‘Ellie!’ There was something in the way Cam said it, she later thought, or perhaps it was the absence of the usual Manchester Airport noises, but disappointment hit her chest the moment he spoke.

‘Sorry, babe,’ he continued. ‘I’ve been in meeting after meeting, so couldn’t call before now. A small hiccough with production, so I’ll have to stay until tomorrow, maybe Monday. If there was any other way, sweetheart . . . Well, you know that. But, hey, just a couple more days until I’m home, three at the most. Makes it all the more sweet. Look, I’m wanted. Phone you in a bit. Oh, and say hi to the Walshes.’

What? Really? Dumb with shock, she didn’t speak for a moment. Then the need to yell and ask a million questions set in, but he’d already gone with a ‘speak later’.

She glared at the screen. Cam had let her and the boys down dreadfully, and his main concern was for her to say ‘hi’ to the bloody Walshes? Like hell she would. Outrage replacing dismay, she flung the handset to the table. It skidded and dropped to the ground with a smack. Oh hell, she’d probably broken the damned thing. Did she care? No. Right at this moment she willed it to be smashed into a thousand pieces so she’d never have to speak to Cam again. Silly, she knew, and it would cost her a fortune to replace, but she was so very angry.

Fighting hard not to scream, she rested her head in her palms. Cam had altered plans a few times before and she had accepted it grudgingly. She had no option, after all. Yet this one felt different; like a shadow, there was a nagging concern in her mind that she couldn’t quite grasp. And why did he have to wait until the last minute to tell her? Why did he think it was OK to casually move the goalposts, to always put work before the family?

Like a fucking doormat; it felt too, too much like Maurice and her mum.

Without moving, she gazed at the open doors to the decking, waiting for the rage to quell, for her face to clear sufficiently to find the boys and break the news.

‘If not for me, then what about your sons?’ she wanted to shout. How good it would feel to gather them and say, ‘Your dad is a selfish bastard. I didn’t want him to work abroad; I asked him not to go. He couldn’t wait to escape. The nightmares have got worse since he’s gone. He’s only ever thought of himself.’

But that would be unfair to them. And, with Jake, wholly unproductive.

Headphones around his neck, Toby sauntered in. ‘Mum, shouldn’t we be leaving to collect Dad by now?’ He jerked at the sight of the phone on the floor. Picking it up, he peered for a second. ‘The casing’s dented, but it looks OK.’ His eyes searched her face. ‘Hey, Mum. Are you all right?’

Ellie shook her head. His look of concern had brought a clot of emotion to her throat, preventing her from speaking.

He gave her a quick, tight hug. ‘It’s OK, Mum, I’m here. You can tell me.’

His attempt to be manly stung her eyes. ‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ she managed, blinking back the tears. She took the proffered mobile. ‘That was Dad, I’m afraid he’s been—’

The phone abruptly rang, surprising them both. Like a hot potato, Ellie tossed it back to Toby and shook her head. She wasn’t ready to talk to Cam again, wouldn’t be for a very long time.

‘Hello?’ Toby asked. And then, politely, ‘It’s Toby. I’m fine thanks. Yes, I’ll put her on,’ he said, handing it over.

Who the heck was it? ‘Ellie speaking . . . ’
‘It’s Sean,’ a voice said. ‘I’m just checking about today.’
Still fuming, Ellie couldn’t help herself: ‘Cameron isn’t coming home today and as far as I’m concerned, he can stay in Stockholm or Copenhagen, or wherever he is,’ she said crisply. ‘So, thank you so much for the kind invitation, but no we won’t be coming. Oh, and don’t pretend you didn’t know, Sean. You can do me a favour and fuck off too.’

She threw the mobile again, but more gently this time, into Toby’s lap. A wave of hilarity struck. She’d regressed years, but it felt strangely liberating.

Suddenly anxious, she glanced at her son. For a beat he looked astonished, then he started to laugh, a deep belly chortle. A moment later, she joined in.

‘Sorry, Toby,’ she said after blowing her nose. ‘I know it was funny, but I was bang out of order.’

‘It’s OK, Mum. I guess Dad isn’t coming home yet.’

Looking at him carefully, she nodded. She hoped her behaviour hadn’t damaged him somehow. She and Cam rarely argued, and certainly not in front of the boys. Cam dodged, charmed and evaded; she silently fumed; that’s how it worked.

Mostly, at least.

‘And my language . . . ’
Toby rolled his eyes. ‘Words I’ve never heard before, Mum.’

She smiled a small smile. ‘Yes, but still.’
A recollection abruptly surfaced, one from university she’d all but forgotten. Bloody Sean Walsh in her box bedroom. Blithely raking through her paintings without permission. She had told him to fuck off that day too.

‘So what’s the plan, Mum? Do you want me to tell Jake?’

‘Sorry, love?’ Shaking herself back, she focused. Perhaps it was the loneliness, but she increasingly found herself in dreamland. From seconds to minutes, lost in thought and forgotten memories.

‘Oh yes, Jake, poor Jake. No, it’s fine, thanks. I’ll tell him.’

She reached for Toby’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Psychotic mother over. Let’s have a drink, give it twenty minutes, then I’ll go to Jake with a peace offering. Shall I take chocolate or chocolate? Talking of which, where’s Harry?’

Toby grinned. ‘Where do you think?’

His fingers and clothes gloopy with droppings, wispy fur and sawdust, Harry had been ‘cleaning’ out the rabbit hutch.

Even as Ellie scrubbed his dirty nails at the utility tap, it was hard to be cross. ‘I know you’re trying to help, love, but how many times, Harry? Not with bare hands! Right, clothes off, but leave them in here so I can give them a soak.’

At the bottom of the stairs, she took a deep breath. She had swilled the worst of the bunny dirt off Harry’s arms and hands at the outdoor tap. He’d laughed as the icy water sprayed his face and his T-shirt; he’d shrugged at the news about Cam. If only her middle son was that easy.

She tapped on Jake’s door and poked her head in, but the room was empty. Her heart already sinking, she took in the smell of adhesive and stepped in further. The collage of the word ‘DAD’ was propped on his desk. Created from paper he’d clearly coloured himself, the scraps had been cut the same size, shaped and glued with precision.

Though she didn’t turn, she knew her boy was behind her. His breathing shallow and fast, she could feel his excitement, his tense anticipation. She rotated slowly. His face was expectant, so heartrendingly keen. ‘Jake, that is so beautiful. Dad will absolutely love it, but—’

The ping of the doorbell cut in. Not now. Who was it? But before she took stock, Jake had flown from the room, his footsteps pounding the stairs.

The sound of Toby’s chatter flew up, followed by a man’s. For one glorious moment she thought it was Cam, that the earlier call had been some sort of wind-up, but as she reached the top of the landing, she realised it wasn’t his voice, but the Irish timbre of Sean Walsh.

Shit and how embarrassing, were the first thoughts that came to mind, rapidly followed by the idea of hiding, which was truly pathetic. She peered down to the hallway. Toby and Harry looking on, Sean was crouched in front of Jake, quietly talking to him.

Alarm and self-consciousness swamped Ellie’s cheeks and her chest, hell, her whole bloody body. Hoping it didn’t show, she crept down towards them.

‘Jake?’ she asked. ‘Is everything OK?’

Her son turned, but the agitation and upset she expected to see were absent from his face. Instead, his eyes were bright, his breathless words rushing out. ‘Sean says that Dad can’t come home today, but that if you don’t mind we can go in his new car and have a sleep-over at the Walshes’ tonight.’ Then after a moment. ‘It’s an Audi Q7.’

Four pairs of eyes looked expectantly at Ellie. Bloody hell, Sean was still a clever bastard. But she reluctantly acknowledged he had handled Jake and the Cam situation very well. From her peripheral vision she could see Toby studying her with interest.

‘Well, seeing as it’s an Audi Q7. And if Sean and Ciara don’t mind ...’

The boys cheered and scattered, leaving her with no option but to look at Sean.

For an iota he gazed, those green eyes thoughtful. Then he smiled and seemed to blink the intensity away. ‘It goes without saying that you’re invited too, Ellie. The burgers and sausages are already cooking, with The Judge in charge.’ He lifted his dark eyebrows. ‘And you’ll remember his culinary skills. Or lack of them. So speed is the thing.’

Accepting defeat with as much grace as she could muster, she nodded. ‘Thank you, Sean. That sounds nice. I think I’ll give the sleep-over a miss, though. I’m sure my offspring will have more fun without me keeping the evils on them. Just give me two minutes to grab my things.’

Her heart clattering her ribs, she searched for her shoes. Sean and Ellie. The Irish Beast and Miss Eleanor Wilson. Polite and civilised.

And so very surreal.

9

Sean didn’t speak to her again through the long afternoon. Ellie helped dry his kids as well as her own with rough outdoor-dried towels; she made sure shredded lettuce was included in their hot dogs or burgers with at least one cherry tomato; she sat with Paul and Ruth and listened to their comical banter; she even managed polite chat with Ciara in the kitchen and helped with the coffees.

The children soon dispersed and the adults retired to the high decking, drinking chilled wine and chatting through the long afternoon.

‘Mum?’ She heard the call but didn’t register her son’s voice for a moment. ‘Mum! Mum!’

Holding a large can, Harry was below in the garden, his saturated top stuck to his skinny chest. ‘I fell in the stream, I’m freezing. But I did catch a tiddler. Come and look.’

As if by magic, Ciara appeared at the patio doors. ‘I’ve got it,’ she called, running back into the house and returning with a bath sheet. She disappeared again, her voice on the breeze. ‘A clean outfit is on its way.’

‘Good catch, Harry,’ Ellie said, inspecting the tiny fish, then wrapping him in the towel.

Reappearing with clothes, Ciara tutted and took over. Almost mesmerised, Ellie watched another woman briskly strip, dry and re-dress her boy in a too-small Thomas the Tank Engine T-shirt and shorts. It felt like a reflection of her fears. And the worst was that Harry didn’t mind; her Cam-like son simply shrugged it off and sauntered back whence he’d come.

Relief spread through Ellie’s shoulders when she finally glanced at her watch. She’d evaded those searching eyes, and it was a reasonable time to escape and go home. She slipped away to the loo, then pulled out her mobile in the cool hallway to search for an Uber.

‘No need for a taxi, Ellie.’ Sean made her jump. ‘I can drive you; I’m going near you anyway.’

Wanting to hide the anxious flush, she stared at her phone. ‘Oh, thanks, but that’s fine. I’m sure there’ll be a cab somewhere fairly near.’ Then, lifting her head and trying for normality, ‘Even here in the flipping sticks. Besides, I’m sure we’ve all had too much to drink.’

Folding his arms, he leaned back with a quizzical frown. ‘I gave up the booze a long time ago.’

The hot blush increased. ‘Oh right, sorry; not thinking straight.’

Had Cam told her this? She doubted it; Sean Walsh without a narcotic of some sort, she would have remembered. And there it was again, that disorientation, the world at an angle.

She came back to him. Despite his dark beard, his jaw was clearly tight. She’d offended him and she really didn’t want to. Covering her agitation, she smiled. ‘It’s beyond the call of duty when you’ve already fed and watered us all, but if you’re going out anyway, a lift would be great, thanks.’

Lit by the evening sunshine, Ellie gazed at the hills, trees and rooftops as they sped towards Stockport. Not knowing what to say, she said nothing, and besides, the silence felt safer. Conversation was dangerous, like then in the hallway.

So Sean didn’t drink; why had Cam never told her? And what about all those boozy weekends away at Sean’s place in Ireland, at a pub or bed and breakfast, or wherever Cam had allegedly stayed?

No, she didn’t want to talk; talking would open a can of insidious worm-words.

She glanced at Sean’s hands on the steering wheel. He was as quiet as her; what was he thinking? And who was he, really? He didn’t seem to bear any resemblance to the man who’d slept in a bedroom opposite hers. Weed, whiskey and women had seemed to be his raison d’être back then. Road to Damascus, or what? Pious wife and even more saintly daughter, a hundred kids, no alcohol and those strangely kind eyes.

A thought slapped. Oh God, was it pity? Did he know some- thing about Cam that she didn’t?

Her heart galloped again. Don’t let him speak. Do not let him speak. If he did he’d say something she did not want to know.

Trying to rationalise the sense of danger, she stared through the window and wished the old Sean Walsh back. That brought a small inward smile. What the hell was wrong with her? At times, she’d detested that man.

Get out and fuck off.

Yes, she remembered that clearly. She had hated resorting to expletives rather than expressing herself cleverly like he did, but sometimes swearwords hit the spot. Momentarily, at least.

Her afternoon art lecture had been cancelled and she’d returned early to Alston Terrace to find him in her bedroom, his long mane tied back. Holding up a canvas, he was examining it closely.

He didn’t flinch or turn when she cleared her throat noisily.

‘Why are you so angry?’ he asked instead, holding up the black- and-white abstract to the light.

‘Well, funnily enough, I’m never particularly delighted when someone thinks it’s OK to come into my bedroom and have a nosy at my stuff.’

He glanced at her. ‘I meant all these paintings.’
‘I’m not and they’re not and anyway, it’s none of your business.’ He put the canvas down. Holding her breath, she followed the movement of his dark head as he scrutinised her meagre possessions. The poster of Johnny Cash giving the finger, the box of tampons on the dressing table, the card in a heart shape from her mum; the unmade single bed, Cam’s trainers on the floor.

‘So, what did you want?’ she asked, finally breaking the silence. Fearful he might tell her something she didn’t want to hear, she willed him to leave.

‘Looking for Cam. Thought that he might be in here. He usually is.’

‘Oh, are you jealous?’

The moment the words were out, she knew how preposterous they sounded. He and Cam had all-night sessions, drunk on whiskey and debate. If the ‘Irish Beast’ clicked his fingers, Cam would dance; the other housemates, too. And occasionally, when she’d interrupted them mid-bottle, the room would fall silent and she’d just know from Sean’s artful glance that he’d warned Cam off her for no other reason than spite. And there he was in her box room, gazing for a beat, then laughing. She’d never seen him like that before. It was almost worse than his verbal disparagement.

‘Oh, fuck off, Sean,’ she’d snapped. ‘Get out and fuck off.’

‘Ellie?’ The echo of his voice tugged her back to today. His car was parked outside the house; he was looking at her quizzically. ‘It’s none of my business, but . . . Something’s bothering you. What is it?’ he asked.

That old guffaw of disdain was fresh in her mind. And the strange power he still had over Cam. She opened the door, glad of the cool breeze. ‘Nothing. Really. I’m fine. Thanks for the lift.’

‘You seem—’

She inhaled deeply. Did she want to yell or to sob on his shoulder? Neither would do. ‘Look, Sean, I know you mean well, but we don’t really know each other, so . . . ’ God, she hated the quiver in her throat.

He smiled. ‘I think I know you a little.’
‘For a few months, last year of uni. A long time ago. So ...’

He seemed thoughtful. ‘You never came to visit. With Cam, to Ireland. I thought you might.’
It was true, she hadn’t. She really hadn’t wanted to; but then again, had Cam ever asked her along?
Feeling emotional and tipsy, she shook her head. She wanted to sleep, to escape from this surreal little drama. She swung her legs from the car, but Sean touched her arm.

‘If it’s Jake, I can help. I’m lecturing full time now, but child behaviour is one of my areas, so feel free to ask. And Cam being ...’

Unable to speak, she nodded and climbed out. Keeping her face averted, she strode to the porch and opened her handbag. Scrabbling for her keys, her fingers finally touched metal.

The door relenting, she stepped into the hall and let out her trapped breath. Cam being what? What, exactly, was Sean going to say?