Page 95 of A Game of Lies

THIRTY-SIX

CERI | DAY SIX OFEXPOSURE

A year ago, Ceri Jones’s life was perfect. She’d started seeing a woman called Lou, who had been on holiday in North Wales the same week Ceri decided to give Tinder a go. A weekend’s dalliance had become a long-distance relationship, and they’d alternated between Ceri’s house in Cwm Coed, and Lou’s swanky apartment in London’s Canary Wharf.

‘The great thing about dating at our age,’ Lou said, the first time Ceri visited her in London, ‘is we’re both grown-ups.’ Lou had picked a stunning restaurant, with prices that made Ceri choose the cheapest thing on the menu, even though aubergine tastes like sponge. ‘We’re both working, both homeowners … we’re equals.’ Lou smiled as the bill arrived. ‘Shall we go Dutch?’

Ceri got out her bank card and ignored the alarm bells ringing in her ears. Yes, they were both working, but Ceri was a postie and Lou a pension fund manager. Yes, they were both homeowners, but Ceri’s mortgage was eighty-five per cent and interest-only, and Lou had casually mentioned having bought her apartment outright.

Over the next few months, the two women visited museums and galleries, and enjoyed theatre trips and spontaneous weekend city breaks, during which Lou sought out the best restaurants and Ceri suggested picnics in the park. Ceri’s credit card was soon maxed out, so she took out a loan.

It was a relief when the relationship ended. Lou sent her a text message(Darling, I’ve had the best fun, but all good things must come to an end! Lots of love, Lou x)and Ceri took a deep breath and added up her debts.

The money she owed kept her awake at night. Each morning, as she trudged around the back streets of Cwm Coed, she tried to come up with money-making schemes, but the interest alone was more than she could afford.

The ten-pound note was almost an accident.

She found it at the bottom of a post bag when she finished her round. It would have fallen out of a birthday card; it happened occasionally. The protocol was to list it in the book and put it in the safe, where it would wait until someone reported it missing.

Heart pounding, Ceri slipped it into her pocket, then used it to put fuel in her car.

Nobody reported the missing cash, but Ceri felt sick with guilt. It would be someone’s birthday money; hard-earned by a doting aunt, sent with love and abuy yourself something special.

‘There’s not a parcel for me is there, Ceri love?’ Dee Huxley asked a few days later. Ceri was delivering at The Shore, the holiday resort on the opposite side of the lake.

‘Nothing in the van,’ Ceri said.

‘My new kettle’s gone astray.’ Dee tutted. ‘Never mind. I’ll get them to send a replacement.’

Something pinged in Ceri’s mind. If she took the right parcel, she could sell the contents online. Big companies could afford to take the hit, the customer would get their replacement, and Ceri could pay off her debts and get her life back.

Over the next six months, Ceri took a parcel from every morning round. Every evening, she listed her spoils for sale. Once a week, she drove to Chester to send her packages from a post office where no one knew her. Slowly, her debt shrank.

People reported the losses, of course. There was even some gossip about a temporary postal worker who’d been shipped in to cover a maternity leave. But no one ever pointed a finger at Ceri. She’d grown up in Cwm Coed. She wouldn’t steal from her own community.

Then one day Bronwen came into the break room just as Ceri was transferring a parcel from her locker to her rucksack, and it was all over.

‘I’ll have to report this,’ Bronwen said, after a tearful Ceri had told her everything.

‘I won’t do it again, I promise. I can’t lose this job, Bron, I won’t be able to pay my mortgage.’

‘How much have you stolen?’ Bronwen said.

‘I’m not sure. I’ve got a list.’ Ceri had meticulously noted down what each item was worth, and what she sold it for; how much it was chipping away at her debt.

‘I want to see it.’

Ceri sent it to Bronwen that evening, along with a long email begging for forgiveness. They settled into an uneasy agreement. Ceri wouldn’t steal anything again, and Bronwen would keep Ceri’s secret.

But did she?

The moment Roxy Wilde made that awfulExposureannouncement, Ceri knew which secret of hers would be in that metal box.

It’s the sixth day of filming, and Ceri knows her days are numbered. Jason and Pam have been exposed and evicted, and the atmosphere in camp is charged with suspicion. She lies in her bunk and stares numbly at the tent’s walls, feeling simultaneously sick with dread and bored out of her mind. Like being a remand prisoner, she thinks, waiting for trial.

Trial by public jury.

Will she be given a chance to explain? Ceri can’t excuse her actions, she knows that, but the debt was crushing her. She felt as though she couldn’t breathe, as though she’d never be free from it.

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