Only the Truth Read online

  ALSO BY ADAM CROFT

  Her Last Tomorrow

  Knight & Culverhouse

  Too Close for Comfort

  Guilty as Sin

  Jack Be Nimble

  Rough Justice

  In Too Deep

  In the Name of the Father

  Kempston Hardwick Mysteries

  Exit Stage Left

  The Westerlea House Mystery

  Death Under the Sun

  The Thirteenth Room

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 Adam Croft

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503941793

  ISBN-10: 1503941795

  Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com

  To someone very small, who I’ve not yet met, and doesn’t yet know it, but is about to change my life forever.

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

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  21

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  24

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  29

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  31

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  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  READ FREE BOOKS AND SHORT STORIES BY ADAM CROFT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  This job has its perks. One of the best ones is lying next to me right now, giggling as she catches her breath.

  ‘Sounds like you need to exercise more often,’ I tease.

  She punches my arm – gently, playfully – and tells me she’s more than happy with the workout she’s just had. ‘It’s gone three,’ she says, padding at my shoulder. ‘I’ve got to get back downstairs. That reception won’t run itself. And you’re going to need to get some dinner before you risk turning into an Adonis yourself.’

  She’s got a point – I’ve got a bit of a beer belly, but it’s hardly noticeable when I’m lying down. And, let’s face it, that’s the position she’s mostly seen me in since I came to stay here almost a week ago. Like I said, the job has its perks.

  ‘Jesus, look at the state of my make-up,’ she says, standing up and glancing in the mirror at the other end of the room. As she leans to the side, the faded scar below her belly button becomes slightly more pronounced. Just another small thing that makes Jess unique. She pulls her face in all sorts of odd directions, as if that’s going to fix her make-up. That’s one of the things I like best about her – she’s got that remarkable vain streak in a personality that otherwise doesn’t give a shit. I’ve only known her a few days, but she intrigues me more than almost any woman I’ve met.

  And I’ve met a lot. This job takes me all over the country – and further, sometimes. It’s a nice way to separate life from reality, giving you a sense of adventure whilst earning an honest crust. Not many people are able to say that. I’m lucky. You only need to mention to women that you work in TV, and you’re golden. Even when you elaborate and tell them you just supply and help erect lighting rigs, all they want to know is which celebrities you’ve met and what film sets you’ve worked on. I don’t mind; it’s a means to an end.

  ‘You know,’ she says, finally relenting and climbing back into bed, ‘I really should fix that telly for you one day.’

  ‘I’ve only got a day and a half left here. It’d be a shame to waste it.’ I plant a long kiss on her lips.

  I’ve always been quite good at telling when a woman is interested in me, and I’d judged from her body language when I arrived at the hotel a few days ago that things might be promising. You can just tell. I’m rarely wrong. I’d gone up to my room, left it a few minutes, then came back down to tell her the TV wasn’t working. Right on cue, she offered to take a look herself. Since then, the ruse of ‘fixing the TV’ had taken on a whole new meaning altogether.

  She leans her head on my chest and plays with the hairs around my navel. ‘I can hear your heart beating,’ she says.

  ‘Always a good sign,’ I reply, running my hands through her hair. It feels so soft and light. Carefree. Just like her.

  She giggles and taps me on the chest. ‘At least it shows you’re alive. That’s a start.’

  ‘I often thought I wasn’t.’

  ‘Oooh, deep,’ she says. ‘Far too deep.’

  I laugh. ‘Nah, seriously. My dad was a doctor and I remember him trying to teach me basic first-aid stuff when I was younger. The usual stuff: how to put someone in the recovery position, how to tie a tourniquet. He used to get really short-tempered when I couldn’t find pulses. I was terrible at it. I could just about find one on the wrist sometimes, but for some reason I couldn’t do it from the neck. It used to drive him mad. He told me I’d be a terrible doctor.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very nice.’

  ‘He was right, though,’ I say, laughing. ‘The human body’s not really my area of expertise.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she says impishly. ‘You seem to know your way around pretty well. Tell me about your family.’

  This takes me a little by surprise. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You mentioned your dad. Tell me more about them.’

  I’m never really one for talking about my family or my childhood, nor do I see why I should make an exception for a girl I barely know, but she seems genuinely interested. Very few people are genuinely interested in me.

  ‘They were good people,’ I say. ‘Very good people.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘What more do you want to know? He was a doctor; she was a legal secretary.’

  ‘Was?’

  I swallow. ‘Yeah. They’re dead now.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ I reply. ‘And before you ask, cancer. Got them both within eighteen months. Mum’s was bowel, Dad’s was lung. Ironic for a man who spent his life telling people to stop smoking and who knew all the signs to look out for.’

  ‘What kind of doctor?’

  ‘Just a GP,’ I say, as if this is some sort of ignoble choice of profession. ‘He had his own practice by the time he retired. Then he was dead within four months. Mum followed soon after.’

  ‘So now you’re a poor little orphan boy?’ she says, lightly and teasingly, although th
e comment stings me more than it has any right to.

  ‘Yeah. Something like that.’

  She kisses me on the lips, more gently this time, then slides back out of the bed and bends down to pick up her underwear. I can’t help but admire the light curves. She’s small, petite, but perfectly formed. It’s almost as if it gives her a charm and innocence – something which is quite a big turn-on, seeing as I know she’s far from innocent.

  ‘I must say, I’m quite enjoying having a broken TV,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘It’s certainly got its advantages.’

  ‘Well, yeah, not having Channels 4 or 5 is definitely an advantage,’ she says, winking at me in the mirror as she starts to touch up her make-up.

  ‘I dunno. I quite like to spend my mid-afternoons watching Countdown. I’ve not had any better offers recently.’

  She picks up my boxer shorts and throws them at me, the soft fabric landing on my chest. ‘If you’re not careful, I’ll fix your damn telly and you can watch as much Countdown as you like. Now, you’d better go down to the restaurant. Dinner’s included in your room cost, you know.’

  ‘I know. Good job, too, as I doubt many people would actually pay for it.’

  ‘Harsh,’ she says. ‘But true.’

  ‘I’m going to take a shower,’ I say, standing and tossing the boxer shorts onto the chair beside the bed. ‘Probably best I don’t follow you straight downstairs. People might start talking.’

  ‘Well, we wouldn’t want that, now, would we, Dan?’ she says, with a slow wink which gets me hard again.

  She kisses me again at the door and leaves, somehow managing to look just as flawless as she did twenty minutes ago. And, once again, I’m on my own.

  2

  The water from the shower feels softer, lighter than usual. It always does when I’m by the coast. I know there’s likely no rhyme or reason for it. I don’t know if it’s something to do with hard-water and soft-water areas – I don’t even know whether I live in a hard-water or a soft-water area anyway. Water’s just water, surely? It’s probably all in my mind. But it’s got to be said – showers feel better in Herne Bay than they do in East Grinstead. As a matter of fact, most things feel better in Herne Bay than they do in East Grinstead. The women certainly do.

  I rinse the lather from my body, switch off the shower and towel myself down. It’s weird – showering’s such a private thing, yet I wonder how many people have had a shower in here, how many have used this towel, slept in that bed, sat on that toilet. People could have even died in here, for all I know. If you think about how many rooms are in a hotel and how many people stay there each week, it must happen pretty regularly. It’s one of those odd unspoken truths about hotels, and for some reason none of us seem to mind. It’s a case of having to deal with it, I think. You play the hand you’re dealt. It’s all you can do. Another job, another hotel. That’s the way it is in this industry.

  We’ve been working on the set of a period drama. A few big names, but it’s still a load of bollocks. These things always are. Junk-viewing for the masses. If you starve people for long enough, they’ll happily eat shit. Seven days here, then we’re done and back to sunny Sussex. It’s easy enough work – very early starts, but then we’re usually off the set by 2 p.m. I say that, but in reality I’m barely on it other than when a rig needs moving or taking down. It’s almost like being on a paid holiday, except you do need to do a few hours’ work every now and again. Not that I can really call it work. There’s a lot of standing around, followed by a lot of frantic construction and dismantling, followed by a lot more standing around. They say working in TV is glamorous, but it’s actually really very boring.

  One of the big benefits is being able to see a lot of the country, and other countries too from time to time. The production company I work for tends to do UK-based dramas, but on the rare occasion when I get to go abroad, it’s always an extra bonus. There aren’t many jobs where you get to sit in a deckchair in Marrakech, for example, watching some of TV’s biggest stars do their thing. To be perfectly honest, it’s far from being the worst job in the world. But the grass is always greener, isn’t it?

  Herne Bay’s not quite Marrakech, I must admit. It’s a pretty little coastal town, not somewhere I’ve been before, but there are certainly some very nice sights around. And yes, Jessica’s one of them. The beauty of it all is that she knows nothing long-term’s going to happen. She’s a receptionist at a hotel, and I live seventy miles away – when I’m even home – with my wife. Okay, so she doesn’t know about that last bit, but why should she? It’d do no-one any good to start rocking the boat now. It’s not an act of deception. Not really. Lisa knows I’m an independent sort of person. She knows I’ve got history and that it’s no use trying to put shackles on me because then I fight harder. I’m not the perfect husband, but who is? We’ve all got our faults and our weaknesses. Mine is other women. It could certainly be much worse.

  Lisa and I are very different people. We live almost completely separate lives, apart from the odd few days a month when I’m actually home for any decent period of time. She’s always been into physical jobs, too, from farm work to delivery driving. That’s not to say she hasn’t got an academic brain – she certainly has – but she gets far more pleasure out of physical work, which I can appreciate. It’s one of the only similarities we have, apart from the unspoken truth that we’re never going to have kids. It’s never something that’s been mentioned, but we both know the other doesn’t want them and we’re both fine with that. I guess deep down we’re both free spirits trapped in the same rat race and faceless world as everyone else.

  These are the sorts of things that tend to go through my mind while I take a shower. Other people sing; I philosophise. Usually about the strange disconnect I have between my two deep desires: firstly, to pack in all this travelling around anonymous and impersonal hotels and stay at home; secondly, to just up sticks and disappear somewhere, embracing my inner being. I think that’s the constant state of suspension most people are in at some point in their lives. It’s human nature at its very simplest level. It’s fight or flight.

  Although I don’t mind being away from home, I miss my creature comforts. After what I went through in my childhood, I don’t take anything for granted. I’m perfectly used to not having them most of the time – I went for years with nothing but my own company – but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss life’s little luxuries. Things like food. I like my own cooking, and always have. I wouldn’t say I’m fussy about food, but I know what I like and I know what I don’t like. Unfortunately, as glamorous as working in television might sound, the truth is you’re usually put up in the same bland orange chain hotels with the same bland orange walls and the same bland orange food. ‘You always know what you’re getting’ is their big selling point. For me, that’s half the problem.

  I prefer charm, personality. I like something a bit different and out of the ordinary. I guess that’s one of the things that attracted me to Jess. Her slightly alternative look is something that appeals. It speaks of a woman who can control herself, who knows what she likes and isn’t afraid to go out there and get it. I think most men would find it hard not to be turned on by those qualities in a woman.

  You need a bit of variety and spice when you’re working in a job like this. It’s far more boring than people think, but it’s all I know. It didn’t require any fancy degrees or A Levels – just a keen eye for detail and the ability to work really strange hours whilst drinking your body weight in coffee every day. All things I excel at.

  When I come to think of it, this job is just as faceless as the hotel they’ve put me up in. Far too many people are pretending they like each other and telling everyone how talented they are, when really they’re just in it for themselves. I’m not going to lie – I’m exactly the same. That’s the truth. Only the truth hurts sometimes.

  3

  There’s writing on the wall. It’s illegible, but there’s an arrow going from it, pointin
g to a crude drawing of what looks like a penguin. It’s been there ever since he’s had this bed, and he knows its every line and angle. Every last piece of graphite dust. He doesn’t know what the picture means, but that’s irrelevant. It’s a distraction. It’s something for him to look at, something for the mind to concentrate on while he tries to block out the sobs of Teddy Tomlin. Even at his age, he knows what those sobs mean. He’s heard them many times before and he’ll hear them many times again.

  He knows what it’s like. He’s been there himself, not so long ago. They have to show you who’s in charge, have to make it perfectly clear that they’re doing you a favour and giving you food, warmth and an occasional smattering of comforts. And they’re doing it because no-one else will. Because you’ve got no other option. Because your parents didn’t love you enough to keep you. Because you’re a bastard child. Because your mummy and daddy were too selfish to stay alive.

  The whitewashed brick walls should be cold, firm, unloving. But to Daniel they’re the warmest part of this whole place. They feel so warm because they signify the outside; the big wide world that he’s going to be allowed out into in just a few years’ time. They won’t let him out now, because he’s only seven years, three months and fourteen days old. Tomorrow he’ll be seven years, three months and fifteen days old. One day nearer his sixteenth birthday.

  Even though this is all he’s ever really known, he’s certain that the outside world will be kinder to him. It’ll present opportunities, direction. It’ll be free from early-morning bell calls, free from nuns floating innocently down corridors, free from whitewashed walls.

  He doesn’t remember much from before. Nothing, really. He thinks it’s because he was very young at the time, but the Mother Superior says it’s because God is protecting him. He isn’t sure if he believes in God, but he doesn’t have a choice in a place like this.

  It’s very odd, he thinks, how he’s being told that he’s here because he’s godless, because God has punished him, yet God is protecting him. He’s a funny bloke, God. A strange mix of anger, benevolence and whimsy. It reminds him rather of Mr Duggan, who comes to visit the home occasionally. The Mother Superior tells the boys Mr Duggan is a very important man, but he’s not sure how. Whenever Mr Duggan comes to visit, a couple of the boys are sent to see him. Sometimes they go one at a time, sometimes in pairs. The boys are never very happy when they come back from seeing Mr Duggan. Some of them are quiet; some of them cry. Some of them have faces filled with hurt and anger. Most of them seem confused.