Page 3 of A Game of Lies

‘You work with someone else or you don’t go. Simple as that.’

Ffion looks first at Alun, then at Georgina, neither of whom look wildly enthusiastic about the prospect of teaming up with her. ‘Talk about a rock and a hard place,’ she mutters.

Alun chortles. ‘I’ve got a hard—’

‘Georgina,’ Ffion says firmly.

Malik fixes Alun with an unforgiving stare. ‘The 1980s called. They want their inappropriate banter back.’

‘Sorry, sir, won’t happen again.’ Alun’s cheeks blaze and Ffion suppresses a snort.

‘Are you ready?’ Georgina stands with her coat over one arm, as though Ffion’s the one keeping her waiting.

‘I was born ready.’ Ffion opens the door. ‘Come on, Dave.’

TWO

MONDAY | FFION

Ffion’s Triumph Stag is parked in the section reserved for motorbikes. She finishes the roll-up she smoked in six long drags as they crossed the rear yard, and holds out Dave’s lead to Georgina.

Georgina eyes the dog with trepidation. ‘Can’t he go in the back?’

‘He gets car sick. He’ll be alright with you.’

‘It’s not him I’m worried about.’ Georgina gets gingerly into the passenger seat, holding the lead as though it might explode. Dave squeezes himself into the footwell, his head almost level with Georgina’s. Ffion pulls back her hair into a ponytail. This morning, after another of Alun’s ‘hilarious’ asides, she’d tightened it with such force that her hairband had snapped, leaving her hair a tangle of red frizz that could only politely be called curls.

Ffion tugs a spare band from the stash she keeps on the Triumph’s gearstick. She bought the car with the money her dad left her, and she has since spent ten times that amount keeping the russet-brown rust bucket on the road.

‘Is this car legal?’ Georgina is eyeing the – ingenious, to Ffion’s mind – piece of cardboard wedged into the passenger door to stop the window from dropping open.

‘It was serviced last month, as it happens,’ Ffion says, omitting the fact that TreforGarejtold her it was abloody death trapand he was only letting her have it back because his cousin was married to Ffion’s dad’s nephew’s wife, and she’d give him a row if he didn’t.

The road that runs from Bryndare to the other side of Pen y Ddraig mountain is narrow and twisty, with a sheer drop on the passenger side. Georgina doesn’t flinch. She’s more preoccupied with keeping Dave – and his motion-sickness drool – confined to the footwell. Despite her best efforts, by the time they drop towards Cwm Coed the dog is on Georgina’s lap, his head brushing Ffion’s shoulder. Every few minutes a mournful whine cuts across the noise of the car’s ancient engine and he paws at Ffion’s lap, as though she might have forgotten he was there. Fat chance.

Ffion took on Dave in a rare moment of weakness, after attending an arson at a rescue shelter where Dave was several years into what was turning out to be a whole-life sentence.He’ll be put to sleep next week, a shelter volunteer told Ffion.It’s so sad – he’s got so much love to give.They saw her coming, Huw said afterwards.They make out all the dogs are on death row, you wally. Twenty quid says you end up giving it back to them.

It isn’t the twenty quid, Ffion thinks grimly, as she wipes drool from her shoulder, it’s the principle. However much she regrets her impulsive decision to take Dave, losing a bet to her ex-husband is out of the question. Besides, beneath the bad breath and the flatulence Dave has some redeeming qualities, she’s sure of it. She just hasn’t found them yet.

The sky is a vibrant blue, but drifts of mist lie in the pockets of space beside the mountain. They blur the edges of the road, but Ffion knows the twists and turns as surely as she knows her own body. Far below them, Llyn Drych snakes along the valley. The lake is as narrow as a river in some parts, and Ffion spent her childhood summers swimming from one side to the other. She would pause in the middle, treading water on the unseen border between England and Wales, feeling – for that instant – as though she belonged to neither place. The hamlet of Felingwm Isaf, which roughly translates into English as Lower Mill Valley, lies at the northern tip of Llyn Drych – or Mirror Lake, as the incomers call it. Ffion slows, looking for the turning that will take them up to Carreg Plas, the farmhouse currently being used by theExposurecrew. The single-track road climbs steeply and Ffion hopes they don’t meet anyone; TreforGarejhad had a few choice words to say about her brakes.

‘What’s the score with thisExposure, then?’ Georgina says.

Ffion navigates around a sheep which is reclining on the warm tarmac. ‘Don’t you watch telly? The ads have been on every five minutes.’

‘I only use streaming channels really. There’s never anything decent on terrestrial.’

Ffion begs to differ. At least, she would, if she could be bothered, which she can’t. Terrestrial TV (or, as Ffion calls it, normal telly) is comfort TV. It makes Ffion think of bringing Mam a cuppa whenEastEndersis starting; of teenage negotiations over watchingHollyoaksinstead of S4C. It makes her think of highlighting the films in theRadio Times, the Christmas before Dad died; of Mam asking Ffion to play with baby Seren tillTeletubbiescame on. Plus normal telly hasHomes Under the Hammer, Ffion’s guilty pleasure.

Ffion glances at Georgina, who is attempting to rotate her face, owl-like, away from Dave’s hairy snout. ‘Like the boss said, it’s a reality TV show. Seven contestants living on Pen y Ddraig mountain for a fortnight. The usual challenges, a public vote – you know the sort of thing.’

‘Not really.’

Ffion looks at her. ‘You’ve never watchedBig Brother?’

‘No.’

‘Love Island?’

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