The Lies We Hide: An absolutely gripping and darkly compelling novel

by S. E. Lynes

  I was happy, in that moment. I was wildly, precariously and – whilst I did not realise it at the time – dangerously happy. And even though I was only a child, what I said next to hold on to that happiness, I still regret.

  Twenty-Two

  Richard

  1992

  It is four minutes past three on Friday afternoon. Graham did not come last week or the week before. He did not come yesterday; he has not come so far today. He has not put in an application to come, so far as Richard knows, and it is hard not to feel a sense of loss and failure. He of all people should have known how to coax the boy out of himself without frightening him away. But then who is Richard to advise anyone on how to talk?

  He can listen, though. And the other men here have spoken in their sessions; good Lord, they haven’t stopped. Lost boys, stories to make your hair stand on end. Hopelessness, educational failure, chaotic home lives, drugs, generations of unemployment, poverty, boredom, absence of love to make a stone heart break … Richard has heard everything in the hush of this chapel whilst all around the constant noise reigns – industrial cleaning machines, chatter and shouts, the jangle of keys, and always, always the tuneless whistling.

  Compared to the rest of the prison, the chapel is almost too quiet sometimes, he thinks. Maybe it is the silence that stifles Graham, puts too much pressure on him, like the blank canvas terrorises the painter. If he can miss weeks, it’s more than likely that he won’t come back at all. It’s frustrating, because Richard believes he can help him. He has even wondered whether God has sent Graham to him for some greater purpose, though as yet he doesn’t know what this might be. Graham did say he’d come back. But he hasn’t. These boys are full of broken promises, resolutions unfulfilled. It isn’t personal, Richard tells himself. It’s just the way it is.

  At ten minutes past three, Graham walks into the chapel, whistling with almost comedic nonchalance.

  ‘All right?’ he says with that low-key swagger of his.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ Richard replies carefully, determined not to appear too pleased. ‘How’re you getting on?’

  ‘Not bad, thank you for asking.’ Graham rubs his hands together, as if he were cold. The room is, as always, stuffy. ‘What shall we t-talk about t-today, then? The w-w-weather?’

  Richard ignores the sarcasm. ‘It’s raining.’

  ‘Is it? I always remember the weather as s-s-sunny, for s-s-some reason.’

  Richard digests the fact that for Graham, weather is a memory. It’s true, now he thinks about it: after a day enclosed within these six-foot-thick walls, these permanently sealed windows, trapped in the stale smell that sticks to his clothes and hair, in the evenings, the weather always takes him by surprise.

  ‘It’s p-probably just my s-s-sunny d-disposition, like.’ Graham wraps his tongue and teeth around the word ‘disposition’, saying it oddly, as if it belongs in inverted commas.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ says Richard, and smiles.

  Graham points at him briefly, almost returns the smile. Perhaps this is what he wants: a bit of banter. Richard isn’t sure he can manage that – he’s never been particularly witty.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh, you know, went to the p-piccies, the p-pub, hired a s-s-sailing boat, that t-type of thing, like.’

  Richard folds his arms, leans back in his chair and waits.

  Graham rolls his eyes and moves his head from side to side. ‘I’m working on a design for a t-tattoo.’

  Richard doesn’t know much about tattoos, but this is the only nugget of information Graham appears willing to give up, and progress by millimetres is still progress.

  ‘A tattoo. Sounds interesting. What of? Are you allowed to bring it to show me?’

  Graham’s neck looks like he might have cricked it. ‘You’re not arsed about s-s-some p-poxy t-tat.’ There’s nothing wrong with his neck; it’s twisted only by suspicion, the wariness of a cat.

  ‘I tell you what.’ Richard meets his eye. ‘I’ll make you a promise. How does that sound?’

  ‘What do you mean, a promise?’ Graham’s neck rights itself, but his eyes are screwed up and ancient-looking.

  ‘A promise. My promise is this: I won’t lie to you. I swear it before God.’

  ‘But I don’t believe in G-God.’

  ‘I know. But I do. And it’s my promise.’

  Graham sits back, his legs apart – recalcitrant, as if to say, so what? ‘Are you a priest then, are you?’

  ‘I’m a chaplain,’ Richard says. ‘I’m Catholic, though if anything, my faith is a personal interpretation. It has to be. But in an emergency, I could make the sign of the cross on your head with water, you know, to prevent you from going to hell, for example.’

  ‘I think it m-might be a bit l-late for that, to be honest with you.’ Graham addresses the words to the floor before standing up.

  ‘Graham?’

  But he has already turned away. Without looking back, he raises a hand and begins to amble out. This can’t be it. It can’t be. They’ve only just started!

  ‘Graham.’ It is all Richard can do to stop himself from shouting. ‘Don’t feel you have to go. If I’ve said something wrong, I apologise.’

  No answer. Richard feels his jaw clench. He wants to ask if Graham will be here next week. More than that, he wants to tell him off, tell him to stop all this obfuscation. But he does neither. Instead, he watches him fill then empty the stark rectangle of the doorway and finds himself, moments later, shockingly alone. With no idea what to do next and fearing he might let out a great roar of frustration, he locks his hands together and bows his head.

  Oh God, why won’t he speak? Why, when he comes here out of choice? Is silence the only way he can assert himself in a place where all control has been lost? Does he feel unworthy of absolution, if that’s what he’s even looking for? Help me to understand him. Help me to make him understand that he is worthy, and that it’s never too late. Help me to help him, Amen.

  * * *

  On his way out, Richard stops by the office to say goodnight. Frank and Viv are chatting, so he simply waves and says, ‘See you,’ before heading away down the stone steps.

  ‘Night, Richard love,’ Viv calls after him.

  He is about to take the second flight when he notices that his trainer lace has come undone. He sits down on the step to tie it.

  ‘Tell you what, he’s hard work, isn’t he? Old Bible-basher?’

  Richard’s ears prick. It’s Frank’s voice, travelling from the office to the stairwell. The prison is suspended in a rare moment of silence. Frank’s penetrating timbre makes its way down to where Richard sits perfectly still, a shoelace pinched between each thumb and forefinger. ‘Christ, it’s like pulling bloody teeth. I tell you what, I wouldn’t want to get stuck at a party with him. Jesus. Talk about torture.’

  Richard finishes tying his lace but cannot bring himself to stand. Torture. There it is, another man’s verdict on his character.

  ‘Oh, don’t be like that,’ Viv replies, though not without giggling. ‘He can’t help being shy.’

  ‘I know, but I’m just saying, that’s all. I mean, the other day I asked him if he lived nearby, and d’you know what he said?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘“No.”’ Frank laughs. ‘Literally – no. Not even “no, I don’t”. ’Cos that’d be too bloody chatty obviously.’

  ‘Don’t be horrible,’ says Viv, but she chuckles. Chuckles. At his expense.

  Richard pulls himself to his feet. Holding on to the handrail, he runs down the rest of the steps, two, three at a time, stumbles into the courtyard and towards the gates. Fumbles for his keys and scrabbles through them, plucking out the key for the first gate. It doesn’t fit. The locking mechanism must be bent. He’ll have to go back to the office. This is not a possibility. He tries the key again, realises it’s the wrong one. Forcing himself to slow down, he picks through the bunch and finds the right key. It fits. The lock bangs. The ga
te squeals. He locks it before continuing to the next gate, and the next and the next. The guard ushers him out of the black door, onto the cobbles, into the air, where he puts his hands to his knees and recovers his breath.

  Viv was laughing at him. He’d thought she was kinder than that, thought they were becoming friends. But he can’t blame her. The criticism is not new – his quietness, his failure to make something as simple as words fall from his mouth following him like a bad smell. Andrew was patient but his teasing would have turned to criticism eventually. Andrew, who did not fly home with him in the end. Richard, who promised he’d go back.

  Andrew is still in San Cristóbal de las Casas. They haven’t spoken for weeks now. Richard wonders if he’s still making his students fall for him with talk of grey skies, English pubs and tea.

  He should go back up to the office right now. He should face Viv and Frank and ask them how, how does someone avoid being ‘torture’? What do people find to talk about at parties? Perhaps Frank could tell him how he does it, what subjects he covers, how he maintains that jocular lightness people like him seem to manage. It all seems like such hard work. Counselling is easier. There’s legitimacy to the asking of questions, a demand for real exchange, for a kind of endorsed intimacy. You don’t have to be funny or clever; you just have to listen. In the chapel, even with Graham, Richard can be of use. At a party, he doesn’t know which questions to ask, nor which answers to give.

  Twenty-Three

  Carol

  1985

  Carol is halfway down her third cuppa of the morning when Graham puts on his jacket, picks up his toast and leaves the kitchen.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she calls after him.

  ‘Out,’ he calls back, from the hallway.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Friend’s.’

  She knows it will be one of the hooligans from that school. One came round for tea once, nasty piece of work – skinhead, tracksuit, not that you should judge a book by its cover. ‘What friend? Whereabouts?’

  ‘Oh my God, just a f-friend, Mum. Lay off, w-will you?’

  ‘I’m not laying on, love, I’m just asking where you’re going, that’s all. Do you know what time you’ll be back?’

  No answer. The front door slams.

  Jim is upstairs painting the bathroom; she’s glad he didn’t witness the way her son spoke to her just now. Humiliated, that’s how she feels. She wonders whether to follow Graham out into the street, try again to have a reasonable conversation.

  It is Sunday. Jim’s only been here two days. Dumbfounded, she stares at the kitchen doorway before shaking herself back to reality. A cigarette, smoked on the back step while she searches the estate for signs of Ted, always Ted, doesn’t help calm her nerves. In the end, leaving Nicola to tidy the breakfast things, she goes upstairs to find Jim, who’s rolling white paint onto the bathroom walls after spending most of yesterday stripping the paper and filling the cracks. He has a strip of cloth tied across one hand because he keeps knocking it and making the knuckles bleed, poor sod.

  ‘He needs space, that’s all,’ he says when she tells him about Graham’s behaviour. ‘Needs to be a lad about town for a wee bit, sow his oats. He’ll work it out, don’t worry.’

  She sighs. ‘Of all the things I thought my son would become, a stranger wasn’t one of them. Not after … not after everything.’

  ‘He’s not a stranger. He’s just young. He’s had a lot to deal with.’

  ‘I know. That’s what worries me. How’s he dealing with it?’

  * * *

  That afternoon, Pauline and Tommy come over for a couple of hours and Jim takes a break from painting. The house fills with chatter, even laughter – it’s amazing how quickly it happens. As they sit together, Carol can’t help watching the street. But there is no one sinister, no one watching from the shadows.

  ‘Seen anything of Ted since … you know?’ she asks Pauline when there’s just the two of them in the kitchen.

  Pauline shakes her head, busies herself getting two tins of lager from the fridge for the men. ‘You need to put him out of your mind, love. You’ll drive yourself mad if you’re not careful. He’s made his bed, hasn’t he?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Just that. It’s not up to you to look after him now. What he does is his responsibility.’ She presses her lips tight and goes back to the table. Ted is in a bad way, then. Worse. Carol knows it by what Pauline’s not saying, by the fact that she didn’t look at her, the way she cut the conversation short. There is a hardness to her that is new.

  At the table, the men do most of the talking: Thatcher, the miners, the usual daft jokes. No one mentions Ted, nor the fact that Jim is here where Ted might once have been. If anyone were to pass by and look in the window of this house, she thinks, they’d see two couples sharing a drink on a Sunday afternoon. They wouldn’t see a woman whose eyes sting from lack of sleep and wide stares, a woman unable to stop fretting about her boy and wondering how he has floated so far away from her and how on earth she can get him to come back. So much is hidden away, under the surface of things, in some dark place where silence lives. So much never makes it into the light, never finds its shape in words.

  She knows it’s not right to think it, but it feels wrong being together like this, without Ted. She knows Ted will kill her if she goes back; he’s proved it, yes, he has, he has, but he looked so wretched, making his false promises, asking after the kids, begging her to come home. He looked destroyed. Has she destroyed him; is that what’s she’s done? Where is he now? God knows where with God knows who doing God knows what. Killing himself slowly, alone and miserable. It was always Pauline and Tommy, her and Ted. In the old days, he didn’t always get so drunk. Even later on, while he was still only a few drinks in, he was all right. He was good company, a laugh. Impossible to put it all together in her mind and hold on to it. His hand round her neck, his spit in her face. I’ll kill you, Carol.

  The afternoon cools, darkens. She walks Tommy and Pauline to the door. Tommy goes out to start the car, leaving Pauline to say goodbye.

  Pauline takes both her hands. ‘Look at me, Carol Watson.’

  ‘It’s Morrison now. They gave me a new name, remember?’

  ‘Stop mucking about, you know what I mean. No more silly buggers, all right? I’m not going to find you being strangled on my front lawn again, am I?’ She is smiling, but even through the black make-up, her eyes are serious.

  Carol can’t hold her gaze. She glances down, at their hands locked together. On Pauline’s wrist there are blackish-blue marks. Finger marks.

  ‘What’s that on your wrist?’ she asks, her chest filling immediately with white heat.

  As if electrocuted, Pauline pulls her hands away. Her sleeves fall back over her wrists. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Right, I’d better run. See you next week.’ She bends forward, kisses Carol on the cheek. A moment later, she is waving from the car, Tommy beep-beep-beeping his way out of the close.

  Carol waves after them. Her legs feel wobbly, but something inside her takes shape, solidifies, calcifies. Whatever last shred of doubt she had leaves her.

  ‘That’s it,’ she whispers, to the memory of a man she vows never to see again. ‘That is it.’

  * * *

  Graham arrives home five minutes later. The moment he steps in, the atmosphere tightens. He looks exhausted, red-eyed, his complexion spotty and pale, paler than this morning. He lets Nicola hug him but does not come near Jim or Carol. And of course, he doesn’t speak. He is in that place, the silent place, where everything he needs to say won’t come out of him. He is in the dark.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ she asks him, to be met with his back as he puts two slices of bread on the grill. Several silent minutes later comes the thin scrape of margarine on white toast, the slam of the kitchen door and the dull batter of trainers on the wooden stairs.

  ‘Let it go,’ says Jim, who is reading the paper at the kitchen table, and looking at him sh
e wonders if this is her choice now: Jim or Graham. She cannot, it seems to her then, have both, even if Jim is sleeping on the sofa, even if he is simply Tommy’s cousin, come to help. Anything physical they began that first night has stopped completely. It has had to. He hasn’t pushed her. She hasn’t invited anything. It isn’t that she hasn’t wanted to – quite the opposite, when she thinks of the comfort of his arms around her – but it has felt impossible, complicated, wrong. Now, even the fact of Jim being in the house is beginning to feel wrong too. It is over a year since she left Ted.

  Today it feels like less than a week.

  Twenty-Four

  Carol

  Monday morning comes. Nicola goes to school. Graham leaves mid-morning, muttering something about signing on. And like that, she and Jim are alone for the first time, and around them the air shifts as if it doesn’t know where to go. Perhaps he feels it too, since he disappears with his paintbrush into the bathroom, as if to hide. With nothing urgent to do and no one to talk to, Carol busies herself cleaning and sorting, a trip to the launderette, to the Spar. Jim doesn’t break for lunch, surviving on the coffee and biscuits she takes up to him at intervals, snatching them from her with a dusty white hand. In the afternoon, she forces herself to get on with benefit forms until, bored, frustrated and in need of company, she takes Jim yet another hot drink.

  ‘Refreshments,’ she says, pushing open the door with her foot. ‘Are you allowed to stop for a second? I’ve not seen you all day.’

  Through the crack of the door he smiles and takes a mug from her. His face is comically white, like a clown’s. ‘Want to get the last coat on the woodwork before the kids get home,’ he says as the door opens wider. He must sense her loneliness, though, because then he asks, ‘How did you get on with the forms?’