C.L. Taylor - The Lie

“Here?”

I yelp as he prods a tender spot under my ankle. I spoke too soon.

“Family history of diabetes?”

I nod my head, astonished.

“And here?” I twitch as he rolls my calf under his hand. “Problems with your lungs?”

I nod again. He must have picked up on the fact I feel like I can’t breathe when I have a panic attack.

“And here?” His fingers dig into the soft, fleshy instep of my right foot. “Digestive problems,” he says, his tone jubilant, and I wince as he presses the same spot again. “Diarrhoea. Food passes right through you.”

“Ummm … not really.”

“Are you sure? Because I can definitely feel some tenderness here.”

“Well, sometimes, I guess.”

“And difficulty sleeping? You suffer from insomnia.”

I shrug. I don’t want to say no. He was doing so well.

“I can sort it.” He continues to knead the sore spot with his fingers. “If we do a couple of sessions a week, you’ll be good in no time. Now, if you’d like to strip down to your knickers, we can get started with your massage. There’s a towel to your right. If you lie on your front and pull that over you, I’ll turn my back. Shout when you’re ready.”

He turns and stands with his back to me, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his shorts. Do I really want his hands all over me? Having a massage from a woman in a beauty salon or spa is one thing, but letting some random man massage you? Kane clears his throat. If I wanted to, I could gather up my clothes and slip out of the shed. I could be back in the house before he even knew I’d left. I glance back at the door, at the thin shaft of sunlight illuminating my blanket bed, and I yank off my T-shirt and shorts and flip over onto my stomach. I pull the towel over me so it covers my knickers.

“Ready?” Kane asks.

“I’m ready,” I say.

The massage stops and the cool breeze from the half-open door tickles the top of my scalp. My limbs are dead weights and my thoughts are jumbled, dancing on the edge of my subconscious as I fight sleep. I part my lips to ask Kane if I should leave now, but I’m so tired I can’t open my eyes.

“Ssssh,” Kane soothes as he places his hands on my shoulders again. He presses the base of his palms into my flesh and circles them around slowly, sliding his hands over my oiled skin, then presses his thumbs into my tight muscles. They click and clunk as he rubs out months of tension, and I groan with relief.

I mentally will him to work on my neck, sore and stiff after four nights sleeping on a thin mattress, but his hands remain on my back – slipping and sliding over my skin, skimming my shoulders. His touch is lighter now, his fingertips barely grazing my body, and a shiver runs through me. It feels sensual, like I am being caressed rather than kneaded, but I don’t fight it. Instead, I wait for him to continue to pound my knotty muscles.

Kane’s hands slip down to the base of my spine and his fingers wrap around my hips then slide over my waist, and I gasp as he strokes the sides of my breasts as his hands travel back to my shoulders. Suddenly I am hyperaware, my body prickling, anticipating where his fingers will go next.

“Sssssh.” His hands move to my shoulders and, as his thumbs rub at the tight knots above my shoulder bones, I force myself to relax again. It was an accident. He didn’t mean to do that. I’m being oversensitive.

His hands slide back down my sides, pausing as they reach the curve of my breasts, and his fingers brush my nipples.

“Kane!” I flip over onto my side, one hand covering my breasts, but Kane isn’t the man massaging me.

“You okay, Emma?” Isaac sits back on his heels and smiles down at me.

“No.” I reach for my clothes. “No, I’m not. Where’s Kane?”

“Kane was needed elsewhere. You looked so relaxed, I didn’t think you’d mind if I took over.”

Mind? Of course I mind. I haven’t had many massages, but even I know professional masseurs don’t just change over without informing the client, never mind the inappropriate touching. I should have requested a woman to massage me; I should have trusted my instincts.

“I have to go.” The smile doesn’t leave Isaac’s face as I wriggle out from beneath him and shuffle backwards, towards the door, my clothes pressed to my chest. “I … I have to go.”

Someone grabs me the second I slam the hut door shut behind me.

“Hear that?” Al clutches my arm and points further down the river, towards the third hut in the row.

Still pressing my clothes against me, I grab her hand and pull her away, towards the orchard, before she can say another word. She looks confused but willingly follows me as I run, the barren soil scratching the soles of my bare feet. When we reach our favourite hammock, I turn my back to her and pull on my bra, T-shirt and shorts, my eyes never leaving the closed door of hut number one.

“Daisy’s having sex,” Al says, pointing towards the third hut as I turn back towards her, “with Johan, that long-haired Swede – listen.”

All I can hear is cicadas chirping, birds singing and my heart pounding in my ears, but as I stare across the orchard, another sound reaches me. A man grunting and a woman shrieking and moaning in pleasure. I’ve heard the sound before. I heard it when Daisy and Al drunkenly slept together in my flat seven years ago (a one-off event none of us ever talk about). I heard it after I passed out on the sofa after a night of heavy drinking a few weeks ago, and discovered Daisy on the living room floor with the man I’d brought back.

“Al,” I say, “there’s something I need to tell you about my massage. Kane was doing it, but then …” She turns to look at me; her eyes are wet with tears. “What is it? What’s wrong, Al?”

She passes a hand over her face and shakes her head, but the tears keep falling.

“Al.” I clutch her arm. “What is it?”

“Did …” She clears her throat and takes a deep breath. “Did Kane tell you anything weird? Did he say anything to you about someone you’d lost?”

“Lost? What do you mean?”

“Isis knew about Tommy, Emma. She said his name.” She pulls away, runs her hands through her hair and takes a few steps towards the house, then turns back. “She was doing reiki on me, her hands cupped over my face, and I had my eyes closed and I could smell something warm and minty on the palms of her hands, and then she said his name – ‘Tommy’ – just like that. ‘You lost your brother Tommy.’”

Al’s brother Tommy died in a motorbike accident when he was eighteen and she was fifteen. It happened the day after she came out to her parents, after she’d been suspended from school for punching a girl who was spreading a rumour that Al was a dirty dyke who checked out Year 8 girls in the changing rooms. Her dad had flatly refused to discuss the matter, while her mum reacted with tears and recriminations, blaming Al’s lesbianism on everything from the ibuprofen she’d taken when pregnant with Al, to the fact that they’d let Al play with her brother’s toys. Al couldn’t deal with it so she packed a bag and caught the bus into town. Tommy found the note she’d left on the kitchen table when he got back from work, and went after her. He was hit by a car that was pulling out at a T-junction. Eye-witnesses said Tommy was driving over the speed limit and the driver didn’t see him until too late.

“Seriously, Emma. She knew everything about him. She knew about the motorbike. She knew how old we were. She knew his last words and about Mum and Dad arguing about whether he’d want to donate his organs. She knew everything.”

“Have you told anyone here about him? Maybe she overheard you talking to Leanne or Daisy.”