Lies Lies Lies

by Adele Parks

  ‘So, how are things? What’s your bedroom like?’ It was as though she was asking about his holiday accommodation.

  ‘Bedroom?’

  ‘Sorry, what is your cell like?’

  ‘It’s about six foot wide by ten foot long.’

  ‘Do you have a window?’

  He’d smirked. ‘Yes, it’s a room with a view, of sorts. A small window covered by a wire mesh, offers the dull view of a wall outside. You can’t open it.’

  ‘No, I hadn’t expected you could.’

  ‘It was once possible to open them, just a couple of inches, apparently, but the cons kept tipping their waste outside onto the walls and so that privilege was taken away.’

  ‘Waste?’

  ‘Excrement.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ He doubted she did. Simon didn’t understand the mentality of someone that would tip piss and crap into a yard where they later had to exercise, especially since doing so led to further deprivation. They were not even allowed the simple relief of fresh air drifting into the cell. He didn’t understand these people and he was one of them, of course Connie couldn’t ‘see’. But he’d admired the way she hadn’t blanched. She’d discussed his life with him, as she might chat to an estate agent about the letting market. Gathering facts. ‘Do you share?’

  He’d nodded. ‘Yes, with a guy called Leon.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Is he…’ She’d stumbled then. Her poise faltering. She could hardly ask if he was nice, friendly, good at putting out the bins, as you might ask someone of a neighbour when moving into a new area.

  ‘He’s fine,’ sighed Simon. ‘We get on fine. He likes the top bunk which suits me. By taking occupancy of the bottom bunk, you sort of get control over the floor space.’

  ‘Oh.’ She’d then glanced around the room, maybe trying to guess what the cellmate looked like. A shrewd woman, she no doubt guessed that whether he was black, white or brown, tattooed, bald or beaded, he looked hard and sad and angry. They all did. ‘What is he in for?’

  Simon had shaken his head. ‘No one ever asks, and he hasn’t volunteered any information. I hope he doesn’t.’ They’d fallen silent. Simon hadn’t wanted the conversation to peter out. He needed Connie to come back. He didn’t want to bore her. He’d searched around in his head for something to say. ‘The TV is in one corner and there’s a metal toilet in the other.’

  She blinked slowly. Inwardly gasped. Men peed together all the time, but she was probably wondering about bowel movements. Was she silently speculating whether he held on until he could get access to a more private cubicle? Were they given access to such a thing and even if Simon exercised such modesty, did Leon? If she felt a bit squeamish she managed to bury it.

  ‘So, there’s a television?’ she said, brightly.

  ‘A tiny one.’

  ‘Oh, well that’s nice.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He hadn’t bothered to tell her about his first cellmate. The one who liked the TV on practically all the time. Droning on and on. He’d watched anything. All the soaps and shows about selling junk found in some granny’s attic. It had been a fresh sort of hell. He certainly didn’t tell her about Rick Dale.

  ‘So, besides Leon, have you made any friends?’ Simon had laughed to himself. It was a laugh that was entirely devoid of humour. He’d have sworn Connie was using the script she’d used on each of her girls when they’d started school.

  ‘You know all that stuff you see on TV, Connie? The stuff about bitches being scared in the shower, the nasty bastards running the show, the screws turning a blind eye?’ Connie had nodded. ‘They are all true,’ he’d confirmed, savagely.

  She’d said nothing for a while. Just sat there. Then she’d reached for his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too,’ he’d murmured.

  The guard coughed and yelled, ‘No touching.’

  31

  Chapter 31, Daisy

  Often, on our walk home from school, Millie and I will stop at a coffee shop for a drink or an ice lolly. It’s one of my favourite times of the day. That’s when she’s most likely to tell me about her trials and triumphs at school. Once we are back in the house she switches on the TV and the chances of a cosy mother-daughter chat are reduced. This afternoon I practically frogmarch her home. I feel sick, terrified. When she says she’s hot and would like to stop, I tell her there are Cornettos in the freezer. ‘But I don’t want a Cornetto. I want a milkshake. I’ve been looking forward to it all day.’

  ‘We can’t always be paying café prices,’ I mutter, by way of an excuse.

  ‘I’ll buy my own drink, I have my birthday money,’ she replies indignantly. Then with more charm, she adds, ‘I’ll buy you a coffee too, Mum.’ I want to relent, she’s hard to resist, and whilst I’d never let her use her birthday money to buy me a drink, it’s a very sweet thought. I look back over my shoulder. ‘Who are you looking for? You keep looking behind you,’ she asks.

  Would he follow us home? No, that’s madness. And yet turning up at our school isn’t exactly sane. ‘No one.’ I reply. ‘Come on, I just want to get home. I have a lot of work to do tonight.’

  Our new home is a two-bedroomed end of terrace house, just ten minutes away from our old one but also lightyears away. In London, wide, affluent streets are cheek and jowl with tight, poorer ones. Rose and Connie feel sorry that I had to downsize but I’m ok with it. Yes, it’s small but our old home with its four bedrooms and long, thin garden just offered Simon more hiding holes for empty bottles and empty promises. It was full of the echoes of arguments and ghosts of secrets and disappointments. Our new home isn’t full of anything yet. We’ve been here almost two years, but I haven’t got around to unpacking all our boxes. The ones full of Simon’s things are untouched, but most of our things that have a sentimental value are gathering dust: books, photo albums and old toys. I figure that if a thing hasn’t been missed by now, we don’t really need it. I do plan to hang more pictures on the walls, throw more cushions about, and I will, it’s just I’m not sure when. When will I have the energy to turn this house into a home? Before we bought this place, it had been a rental property for many years. As a result, the walls are a non-offensive magnolia colour, the carpets are a neutral beige. It’s been well-scrubbed by people who were keen to get their deposits returned. When I bought it, Luke talked enthusiastically about it being a canvas upon which I could stamp my personality. Other than Millie’s bedroom, which is a riot of primary colours and chaos, the rooms are still practical, functional, bland. Maybe that’s my personality.

  The minute we get home, I draw the curtains on the outside world. ‘That’s better,’ I say out loud, with some relief.

  ‘What are you doing, Mummy?’

  ‘You can’t see the TV, the sunlight is reflecting on the screen,’ I explain.

  Millie is amazed. Normally I grumble about the TV being on at teatime and encourage her out into our tiny back garden while I prepare our meal. I’m constantly extolling the virtues of fresh air. It saddens me that not only has Millie been forced to give up ballet but that she hasn’t taken up anything else in its place. She could try drama, art or archery. She won’t. Now, her only after-school activity is Brownies. It’s Brownies tonight. The thought fills me with panic. Usually, I like Tuesdays. The couple of hours to myself are quite useful and, as it is Millie’s only extra-curricular activity, I’m very enthusiastic about it with the hope that my gusto will ignite some passion in her. This evening, I’d rather we didn’t have to go out. In fact, after what Daryll said, today I’d like us to barricade the doors and never venture outside of these four walls again.

  I hand Millie a Cornetto without her having to ask for one, even though eating it at this time is likely to put her off her tea. I don’t ask her to wash her hands. Millie takes the treat, even though earlier she’d said she was hankering after a milkshake. She eyes me suspiciously. Living together, alone, we know each other well and she must be aware that this l
evel of indulgence is out of the ordinary. ‘Like I said, I have a lot of work to do this evening,’ I offer, by way of explanation. It isn’t unheard of for me to buy some uninterrupted time in this way. I smile. I hope I’m convincing. I don’t feel like smiling. I feel like screaming.

  My palms are clammy. I rub them on my skirt. Sweat patches balloon under my arms on my shirt too but I don’t want to go upstairs to change. I don’t want to leave her alone down here. As I chop tomatoes for the salad, I see the knife rattle in my shaking hand. Daryll’s words haunt me. It’s impossible. Unbelievable. What a thing for him to say. How outrageous. How dangerous. I never wanted this conversation to happen. He is the reason I avoided Connie’s parties for many years. There were one or two occasions, before the accident, when I did bump into him at social gatherings, but he always had a date with him, which was useful. If he had another woman hanging on his arm, hanging on his every word, he had no need for me. No interest in me.

  Whilst I’m preparing tea, my eyes are constantly pulled towards Millie who is sat scrunched up in a small ball in the corner of the sofa. She is entirely absorbed in the drama on the screen, she has no idea about the drama unfurling in her life. Another one. My chest is booming with anxiety. What will this do to her? The hair around her face has worked free from her ponytail and the way the light catches it makes it appear as though she’s wearing a halo. She’s so fair. Not red like me. Or dark like Simon. Daryll looks like a Viking: tall, broad, blonde, powerful. Millie’s school summer dress is a green and white check, it isn’t a particularly flattering colour, but she manages to look good in it. Her skin is golden. For someone so blonde, she tans remarkably easy. The summer just gifts me with a rash of freckles, Simon burns in the sun if he’s not wearing factor thirty or above. I shake my head. What am I thinking? No. It’s impossible.

  But it isn’t. Not really.

  ‘Mummy, you’re bleeding. You’ve cut yourself.’

  ‘What?’

  I don’t understand what Millie is saying but her eyes are wide with terror. ‘You’re bleeding!’ she cries.

  I look down at my hand. I’ve sliced my left index finger, badly. The top is practically hanging off. I feel a wave of nausea rush through my body. Now I’m aware of the injury I feel a hit of intense pain that somehow I was shutting out before. I bite back the swear words that I want to launch and reach for a tea towel. ‘Millie, quickly get me a plaster from the tin. A big one.’ I hold my hand up in the air, away from my clothes and my sight and stumble back into a kitchen chair. The room is swimming. I’m aware of Millie’s panic and the smell of blood. My own blood. Millie hands me an Elastoplast. Using my mouth and one hand I manage to plaster up my wound.

  ‘Should you get stitches?’ she asks with concern.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ I tell her, even though the blood is already oozing through the plaster. A brown stain. Another one. I wrap the kitchen towel around my throbbing finger. ‘It will stop bleeding in a minute or two,’ I state, optimistically. My reassurances are cut short when the landline rings. Both Millie and I jump a little, as it’s an unfamiliar sound; if anyone wants to get hold of me they call my mobile. ‘No doubt that’s your granny,’ I predict.

  ‘Hello Mum, Look, it’s not a good time,’ I say as I pick up. My poor mother is sometimes at the wrong end of this easy rudeness.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ I freeze. I recognise his voice instantly.

  I cover the handset and hiss-whisper, ‘Millie go and put on your Brownie uniform.’

  ‘But I haven’t had tea yet,’ she groans.

  ‘Take a banana.’

  ‘Is that Granny? Can I say hello?’

  ‘Just go.’ I flap her away with the tea towel that was wrapped around my finger. She reluctantly follows my instructions, slouching out of the room, muttering something about starving to death and her right to call Childline and report me. I’m aware that if I hadn’t cut myself, and we were now sitting down to the chicken and salad I had been preparing, she would be picking at her food, insisting she wasn’t especially hungry. She’s not particularly contrary or difficult, she’s just a child. As soon as she’s out of the room, I demand, ‘How did you get this number, Daryll?’

  ‘Off the internet. You’re not ex-directory so it’s very easy. I knew you’d be kicking yourself for not giving it to me,’ he says confidently. My knuckles are white, I’m grasping the handset so hard. Somehow, him having my home number is even worse than him having my mobile. My home feels invaded. I walk to the back door and check it’s locked.

  ‘What do you want?’ I ask sharply.

  ‘Wow, Curly, I don’t remember you being this biting. What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve just cut my finger,’ I tell him although this isn’t even a small percentage of the problem. ‘It’s bleeding quite badly. Like I said, this is not a good time.’ There never will be one.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Curly.’

  ‘And please will you stop calling me that ridiculous nickname.’

  ‘Pet name,’ he says.

  ‘Please.’ I sound desperate. I am desperate. I don’t like begging him.

  ‘OK, then. If you don’t like it anymore.’

  ‘I’ve never liked it.’

  ‘That’s just not true, Daisy.’ He lays heavy emphasis on my name. ‘Better?’

  Am I supposed to be grateful? Weirdly, I sort of am. The fact that he’s done this one small thing for me, stopped using that crazy nickname, feels a like a little victory. A step in the right direction. Even though I had to beg for it. I take a deep breath, I don’t want him to know he’s rattled me.

  ‘And besides cutting myself, I’m very—’ I pause and search for the right word. ‘I’m very disconcerted by what you said at the school gate.’

  ‘You are disconcerted.’ Daryll laughs. ‘And how do you think I feel? I didn’t even know you were a mother until that party when Simon told me. He didn’t mention how old she was though. I don’t know why but I just assumed she was just a toddler. I thought it had to be relatively new news, right? The fact that you were a mother. Because we’re old friends, aren’t we? I’d have heard. People lose touch with one another, a couple of years slip by, we’re all busy. I get that. It never crossed my mind that you could have been a mother for six years and failed to ever mention it to me. That starts to look like you are keeping her a secret.’ He sounds irritated, infuriated. I don’t know what to say to refute his assumptions because he’s spot on. My throat is dry, I can’t swallow, I can’t breathe. I doubt I could speak even if I wanted to. ‘When I came back to the UK for interviews for this job, I looked up Connie. We went for a coffee. A catch-up chat. Then Connie mentioned you were all going to Brighton to celebrate Millie’s birthday. Her ninth birthday. I did the maths, Daisy. I worked it out.’

  ‘She’s not yours,’ I mutter.

  ‘Certainly she’s mine. You and Simon tried for a decade. That’s common knowledge and then suddenly, hey presto. I’m not a fool, Daisy. Don’t make the mistake of thinking of me as one.’

  My mind is working a hundred to the dozen. I’m wondering how to get away from Daryll. Far away. Hanging up the phone won’t be enough. He’ll call me back and if I don’t answer, he’ll turn up at school. We have to do something more permanent. We have to run away. Where? Where can we go? To the north of England? Manchester or Leeds, maybe? Those are big cities, he wouldn’t find us there. But he would, he would. Because he found us here, in London, in amongst eight million inhabitants. That’s Connie’s fault. If I moved I wouldn’t be able to tell Connie where I’d gone because she’d tell him. If I warned her not to, she’d want to know why. I could make something up. But what? The secret would get out eventually. It seems secrets always do. I’d have to cut her off. And that means Rose as well, my sister. And my parents. We’d be alone. He’d still track us down. The UK is tiny, really. He’d find us through a school database or something on the internet. He would find us. Would he have any rights? This thought is horrifying. Could
he insist on a DNA test? We must leave immediately, before he can assert any rights. We need to go far away. A foreign country. Canada or Australia. It would be the only way. We need to pack a bag. We must go now. Could we leave everyone? Our friends and family? Is that viable? Sensible? Possible? What would that do to Millie? She’s been through so much.

  I can hear myself panting. I have to slow down. But I can’t. I hope he can’t hear my shallow breath. I don’t want him to know I’m frightened. My head is spinning. I feel faint. The blood from my finger is still flowing. It’s on my blouse now. I probably do need a stitch. I should go to the hospital. But there’s no time.

  ‘Hey Daisy.’ His voice is full of kindness. It punctures my panic. ‘I understand you don’t even visit Simon.’ I want to kill Connie. Why does she always think my business is everyone else’s entertainment? ‘The little girl hasn’t got a dad. I just want to step into my natural place. I just want to get to know her. Would that be such a bad thing?’

  I think I’m going to pass out. ‘I have to go. I need to get Millie to Brownies.’ I bite my tongue the moment the words are out. I shouldn’t tell him anything about our life. He can’t be part of it.

  He can’t be part of us.

  32

  Chapter 32, Simon

  Friday, 14th June 2019

  ‘So drinking? Why do you do it?’ Leon asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a simple enough question. Why do you drink?’

  ‘Oh man.’ Simon couldn’t answer him. He lay on his back, staring up at the sagging bunk above him. It was a summer night, it wouldn’t get dark for ages. Neither of them had got to the gym today, they weren’t tired. They had a lot of energy and Simon had got used to Leon wanting to talk on nights when they couldn’t sleep. He saw that it was civilized, normal, but it was still difficult. Leon probed. In another life, with a different set of chances, Leon might have made a good investigative journalist or a detective.