Page 110 of A Game of Lies

‘Production costs are escalating and—’

‘Bullshit. I want more money.’

‘We agreed sixty.’

‘I want more.’

‘I haven’t got more.’

‘Bullshit! You put an envelope with my name on it in the box of secrets.’

‘So no one gets suspicious – mate, you’re behaving most oddly.’

‘What does the card say?’

‘That you’re a secret alcoholic, as we agreed,’ Miles said, but his gaze slid away. He was lying. ‘But that’s irrelevant, because you’re not going to be exposed. You’ll be the last man standing. The winner of a cool hundred—’ Miles corrected himself, ‘—sixty thousand pounds.’

‘I want half a million.’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘Half a million, or I expose this whole—’

Miles’s hand shot out, darting through the wire fence and twisting the neck of Henry’s sweater. His knuckles pressed into Henry’s windpipe, sending the edges of Henry’s vision black. ‘Do you think I don’t know your own secrets? Do you think I can’t carry out a little investigative work of my own?’ He gripped harder and pushed his fist sharply into Henry’s neck. ‘Stick to the agreement.’

Miles released Henry’s fleece and turned, sprinting back into the woods. Henry put his hands to his throat, gulping in air. Miles was playing a dangerous game, but he’d underestimated his opponent.

Henry had led a life which might charitably be referred to as ‘colourful’. He had a history of dubious journalistic methods, often involving young, vulnerable women already embroiled in the seedier side of life. Had Miles uncovered some of these murky moments? Impossible. But it was clear Miles had something, and now Henry would have to take action.

It took Henry several days to execute his plan, knowing that – at any moment – Miles might decide to expose him. Would Miles send him to the confession pod? Or perhaps he would feed information to another contestant, the way he had agreed he would do with Henry.

The group tasks proceeded as Henry and Miles had rehearsed, and Henry breathed a sigh of relief each time he realised he hadn’t been double-crossed a second time. The first, just a few hours after their conversation, was the ridiculous lie detector test Miles had concocted, and despite his concerns he couldn’t help being amused at the way he ‘passed’. ‘My name’s Henry, I have brown hair and blue eyes,’ he’d given as his three ‘control truths’, before the interrogation began. It didn’t occur to any of his competitors that all three statements might themselves be lies.

None of them suspected him. Not the contestants, not the police.

Until now.

Henry can’t hear the detective’s screams any more. Has he run too far to hear it? Or has enough water flooded in to fill that tiny room? Is she even now floating underwater, fingertips bloodied from clawing at the door, hair tangled around her staring eyes?

Henry smiles and keeps running.

FORTY-SIX

TUESDAY | FFION

Ffion can’t hear the water coming in now. She can only feel it, swirling around the chair on which she has climbed to escape the rising flood. Only there’s nowhere to go. Despite the extra height, the water is at her chest, the cold pressing her tight till her lungs are too small to take anything but small, panicked breaths. She stamps her feet up and down, keeping the blood flowing to her toes, which are so cold she can no longer feel them.

The door will not give. The confession pod is lined with something smooth, on which Ffion’s raw and stinging fingers can’t get a purchase. There is no escape.

Earlier, when the water was a metre or so deep, she’d tried to stem the flow of water. She’d taken off her jumper and rolled it into a tight ball, wadding it into the pipe. It had held for a while, but then the force of the water had propelled it out. Now, Ffion shivers in her wet clothes. She’s going to drown.

When Ffion was five, Mam taught her to swim. With the lake just minutes from their house, it was non-negotiable; Ffion wasn’t allowed near the water until she could swim a hundred metres without floats.

‘Mae dwr yn beryglys,’ Mam reminded her constantly.Water is dangerous.

Ffion chokes back a sob. Years later, it was Ffion who gave lessons in the lake, teaching a stubborn Seren first to float, then to swim. Is it really possible she won’t see Seren again? She might be seventeen, but Ffion’s only just begun to be her mother – surely life can’t be so unfair as to separate them now?

The water is up to her chest. Ffion stretches her arms to the ceiling, desperately reaching for something – anything – she can hold on to. She loses her balance and tips forward, and, when she moves her foot to correct herself, she steps into nothing.

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