The Lies We Told by Camilla Way (best book recommendations txt) 📕

She’d never just let herself in before, because she’d never needed to, and it felt a bit intrusive to start doing so now.

“Some bloke called round for him an hour or so ago, though,” Mehmet went on, turning down the radio from which Taylor Swift’s voice blared, “but I don’t know if he had any luck. I nipped out the back for a fag when he started knocking.”

Tom, she thought. Murmuring her thanks, she was about to leave when Mehmet added something that stopped her in her tracks. “He’s definitely in, though.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Mac? How do you know?”

“When I came back after my cigarette, I heard him crashing around like a herd of baby elephants a while back and he hasn’t left the flat since. I’ve been right here.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “Thought he was going to come through the ceiling at one point. What’s he doing up there—rearranging the furniture or something?”

The narrow staircase that led from the front door to Mac’s flat was silent as she climbed it, a sense of foreboding rising inside her with every step. When she reached the top, she found his front door ajar. “Mac?” she called nervously, but there was no response. Gingerly she gave it a push.

It took a few moments for her to make sense of the scene she was greeted with. A repetitive scratching sound filled the air. She listened to it in confusion until it dawned on her it was the sound of the needle rasping against the dead wax of a record on the turntable, the noise amplified by Mac’s prized Bowers & Wilkins speakers. To her right, the living room was a mess of upturned furniture and scattered belongings; even the TV had been knocked to the floor. Just like her flat the week before, Mac’s had been completely ransacked. She tried to call his name again, but fear made the words stick in her throat. It was only when she turned toward the kitchen that she saw his legs sticking out from behind the half-closed door. She cried out, her shock making the noise fight its way out past the knot of fear in her throat.

“Mac!” She ran to him, having to shove against the door to prize it open against the weight of his body; then she fell to her knees next to where he lay. A thin line of blood trickled across the pale linoleum floor; his skin was a deathly white, his eyes closed. “Mac,” she cried, “Mac, wake up, oh please, oh God, please wake up!” On the floor next to him was an unopened bottle of wine, its glass smeared with blood. Presumably it was what had been used to hit him. Sobbing now, she searched desperately for a pulse and cried out in relief when she felt the faintest flutter at his throat. “Okay,” she said, “okay, you’re okay,” and, her hands shaking, she scrabbled about in her pocket until at last she found her phone and called for an ambulance.

—

It was almost eleven p.m. and Clara stood on the street outside University College Hospital, blinking into the darkness, sick and disorientated after the bright glare of the intensive care unit. For several hours she had sat by Mac’s side, letting go of his hand only to be interviewed by the police and speak to Mac’s mother on the phone. He had woken once, opened his eyes and, finding Clara there next to him, smiled briefly. She had bent her head and cried with relief.

He was stable, at last, the doctors telling her that he would make a full recovery, that he had been “very lucky,” but that she should leave him now, should go home and get some rest.

Suddenly the enormity of it all—the shock of finding him, the horrible fear that he might die, the hours of stress and lack of food—hit her with full force and she staggered toward a lamppost, leaning against it as her legs almost buckled beneath her, choking back the bile that flooded her mouth. She realized she was shaking violently.

“Excuse me, are you okay?” A passing nurse on her way into the hospital’s main entrance stopped and looked at her in concern. “Are you feeling unwell?”

Clara nodded. “I’m fine.” She managed a weak smile. “Thank you. I’m just . . . tired.”

“You all right getting home?”

Clara nodded and moved on, fighting her exhaustion. Where could she go to tonight? Not to Mac’s, of course. She couldn’t encroach on any of her other friends either, not at this time. The only possible place she could go to was her own flat. She stood for a moment, hating the thought of it, swaying with tiredness. After a few moments, her heart sinking with resignation, she flagged down a passing taxi. “Hoxton Square, please,” she said.

—

When the cab dropped her off, she paused outside, staring up at the windows. Her heart jolted when she saw that there was a very faint light on in the top-floor flat. Alison. She swallowed hard and let herself in. Once she was on her own floor, she stopped for a moment and listened, but all was silent. Inside her flat, she hastily switched on all the lights as well as the television, knowing that she might go slowly mad if she sat in silence, jumping at every sound and creak from above. As she passed her door again, she noticed a piece of paper she’d not seen before, lying on the floor. It was a note from Tom. She stared down at it. Even the sight of his handwriting chilled her. How had he got into her building to post it through her door? Perhaps one of the downstairs neighbors had found it in the entrance hall and brought it up for her. Still, unease shifted inside her. Clara, she read, I must talk to you, it’s very important. I called round but have to return to Norwich now. I could drive