Lies Lies Lies

by Adele Parks

  ‘Yes,’ confirms Connie. ‘He was certainly giving all the signals, wasn’t he, Lucy?’

  ‘Very attentive,’ Lucy confirms, coolly.

  ‘So, what happened?’ demands Rose.

  ‘You’re assuming something did,’ I reply, stalling.

  ‘You said you didn’t get much sleep!’ Rose puts her hand to her mouth; her shock and excitement are palpable.

  ‘No!’ Connie gasps. ‘Did you stay up talking or—’

  ‘All right, children,’ Luke interrupts, firmly. He throws significant side-eye glances at Millie and Sophie, who are blatantly listening into the conversation and no longer interested in how many sweets are in the jar. Connie looks frustrated but clamps her mouth shut. She knows the boundaries.

  ‘Well, we’ll have to catch up later. I have to go.’ I don’t ask her where she is going. I can guess it is to visit Simon, she does so most Saturdays. When she first started doing so I was irritated with her, angry. I thought it was disloyal. She never asked me if she could visit him, she just took it upon herself and then informed me of the situation. But, as I know Connie never judges or takes sides, it wasn’t a complete surprise to me. Over the years her visits have ignited a raft of emotions: sometimes I’ve felt jealous or excluded. As time went on, I realised I felt a level of relief, gratitude. At least part of me is glad she visits him. I can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t forgive him for nearly killing my daughter, but I hate the thought of him being entirely cut-off from the outside world. Who else would visit him besides Connie? His mother isn’t capable, his sister lives abroad, he’d fallen out with so many people before he went inside. There’s no one on Team Simon. It makes no sense to be jealous that she’s doing something I’m certain I don’t want to do: see my husband. Yes it does feel odd that she’s now closer to him than I am, that she knows more about him than I do. It’s not how it should be.

  But it is how it is.

  Connie leans in to hug me and she whispers in my ear, ‘You go girl! I’ll ring you tonight. I want all the details.’

  I flinch. I don’t want to give her details about Daryll. I pull apart from her. She dashes off. I watch her go but everyone else’s eyes are on me.

  ‘Erm, anyone fancy a coffee?’ I offer by way of changing the subject.

  The school fair is only small but, even so, we split up. The girls beg for fivers and then dash off, desperate to spend them. I think of Simon’s Mum, Elsie. Her expression for such zeal about spending was that the money was ‘burning a hole in the pocket’. I miss Elsie. I still visit her regularly, twice a week, but she’s ‘there’ less and less often. I don’t think she knows who either Millie or I are anymore, even when we are stood in front of her. She never asks after Simon, she doesn’t reference him at all. I don’t think this is through shame or anger, she’s simply lost him. He’s slipped her mind. When Elsie was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I thought it was the cruellest thing that one day she’d forget us all. Now I’m grateful. It would torture her to know her son is in prison. It’s hard enough feeding her, changing her, answering the same questions over and over again. How much harder would that be if the questions were about Simon?

  Rose says she has to go back to the raffle stall to get some change and so that leaves just Lucy, Luke and me. We wander towards the cutesy sky-blue caravan where coffee can be bought. At our school we had a bunch of parents (let’s face it, mostly mothers) serving not-quite-hot instant coffee from a huge urn. Here, there is a choice of ‘beautiful artisan coffees’ prepared and served by (self-professed) ‘skilled baristas’ who insist on running through a menu of coffee that they claim they have ‘curated’. Any other day, I might have felt a rush of competition and made a mental note to get Rose to find out how much this thing cost to hire. Today, I have no energy. Although I ostensibly listen to the curated choice of beverages, I don’t even know what two thirds of the drinks are. I order an Americano. The barista looks disappointed. We all three sip on our coffees and watch others bob from one stall to the next.

  ‘This is nice,’ says Luke. I smile weakly and nod.

  Lucy makes some comment about the coffee being, ‘Surprisingly OK, considering’.

  ‘So, are you going to spill?’ Luke blows on the top of his coffee. Not looking me in the eye is a kindness. ‘Has Connie got it right? Is there something between you and Daryll?’

  I don’t know how much I want to say. Saying nothing at all is not an option. Before, it had been in Daryll’s interests to keep quiet, so I knew I could keep things to myself. I no longer think that is the case. Something has changed with Daryll, last night he spoke of wanting to be a family man, claim his place. Which terrifies me. We are miles apart. It’s bound to get out now. Our tight-knit gang always get to the bottom of things if they try. It’s a wonder that I’ve been able to keep the secret this long. I suppose no one was digging. I wasn’t the focus. We were all busy with our young families, everyone accepted what they were told because no one had the time or energy to double-check. How do I start to unpick what they think they know about me?

  When the Uber drew up outside my house I had known that Daryll would get out too. I live in a street terrace, there’s no path to be walked up, we were immediately at my front door. He took my bag from me and rummaged until he found the keys. I didn’t stop him. He unlocked the door and walked into my home as though it was his. I followed him. He closed the door behind me.

  ‘Shall I fix us both a drink?’ he asked, taking command.

  I shook my head. ‘No.’ Then I added, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Well, I want one. What do you have in?’

  ‘Not much. There’s some white in the fridge.’ I generally have an open bottle in my fridge. I can pace myself, go weeks without touching a drop. Sometimes it’s a couple of weeks old by the time I think about finishing it off, so it is undrinkable and I have to chuck it. Daryll marched through to the kitchen and flung open the fridge door. The light flooded out on to him, as though he was an actor in the spotlight. Tall, broad, handsome. He took out the bottle and examined the label. He didn’t look very impressed. I was not surprised, the wine cost four quid. I felt his judgement. Still, he shrugged and muttered, ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ then briskly began opening and closing cupboards until he found where I keep the glasses. He poured himself an enormous one, and downed half of it in a few gulps. He stood leaning against the kitchen counter. He seemed to own the room. He expanded into it, comfortable, in charge. Other than family and Luke, who is practically family, no man has been inside my kitchen.

  ‘So, our friends seem to think we’d make a lovely couple,’ he said, smiling. ‘Tonight was so obviously a set-up. Nice to think we have their blessing. I know they mean so much to you.’ I didn’t know what to say so I chose to say nothing at all. ‘I think the time is right for me, Daisy. I’m ready to be a family man,’ he stated, his smile stretching further across his face. His teeth are straight, white, but it was not a lovely smile. It struck me as a threat. ‘Millie is a treat. Pretty and talented. Ideal.’

  ‘You can’t just step into her life. You can’t just assume—’ I wanted to be forceful and certain but my voice came out in a whisper.

  ‘Indubitably I can.’ He cut me off. Imperious. He could do what he liked. He always had.

  He glanced around the kitchen, we hadn’t put on any lights. I don’t know why. He hadn’t, so nor had I. I was following his lead, even whilst wanting to grasp control. Somehow, he disabled me. The moonlight and streetlights tumbled through the window, which illuminated the room enough for us to see each other and the outline of the furniture. It was untidy, as usual. I’ve never prioritised housework but suddenly I wished I was more like Rose; you could eat your lunch off her kitchen floor, if you so desired. My place looked neglected, squalid. It looked like a place that people lived in when they’d given up. I swiftly moved towards the lamp on the side table; putting that on always made the place look cosy. I had tricks to cheer up the rooms. When Millie is at
home I always light scented candles, put on the radio and all the sidelamps. I try, and it works. With her, this small house is a home, despite everything. Without her, I admit, the house looks hopeless. Although, I was utterly grateful she wasn’t there at that point. The orange light from the lamp flooded into the room.

  ‘Turn it off,’ he commanded. And I did. I immediately snapped off the switch. ‘Look at this place,’ he muttered. ‘She deserves better than this.’ It’s true she does but… He continued, ‘I could give her better than this. My daughter shouldn’t be living in a two-up two-down.’

  I didn’t dare breathe. What did he mean? He could give her better than this? Might he try to take her from me? Was that possible? No, that would not happen. Mothers had rights, didn’t they? I wouldn’t allow it. But Daryll was above anything as pedestrian as the law. He wouldn’t care what a court said. He did as he pleased. What if he snatched her? Ran away with her? You hear of it. It sounds extreme, but it happens. How furious with me was he? Did he really resent being locked out of her life all these years? Did he have rights? I had to tread carefully. Think this through.

  It took everything I had to mumble, ‘It’s late. I need an early start. You should go.’

  He shook his head, almost sympathetically. ‘That’s not going to happen. Let me tell you how it is, Daisy. I am Millie’s father. A DNA test will confirm that. The only sorry excuse for a father she has, is an alcoholic who is currently rotting in jail because of nearly killing her. I want to be a family man now. All my friends are married off. I’ve somehow been left behind.’ He looked momentarily confused, as though it was something he couldn’t quite comprehend. ‘It’s rather wonderful to discover I have a ready-made family and I’m going to be a father to my daughter now.’

  I shook my head. ‘She’s my daughter.’

  ‘True enough,’ He looked pleased that I’d brought this up. ‘And if you play your cards right, you can be a part of my plan too. You scrub up well, Daisy. You’re the sort of woman who has grown into her looks. And whilst this place doesn’t showcase your talents,’ again he glanced around my home, barely hiding his disdain, ‘I know you could make a good partner. You could run a proper home. We could be a proper family.’ He started to undo his belt. His flies. He swiftly walked towards me.

  ‘I’m married,’ I muttered. Shaking my head.

  ‘That never stopped us before.’

  * * *

  ‘Earth calling Daisy, come in Daisy,’ Luke teased, bringing me back to the playground, hauling me out of the memories of the night before. Luke is waving his hand in front of my face, laughing. ‘Hey, daydreamer.’ Lucy looks less amused, she’s never been a fan of daydreamers. ‘So, come on then, tell your old mate, Luke. Did anything happen between you and dashing Daryll?’ I nod. ‘Oh wow, it will kill Connie that I know this before she does,’ Luke laughs. ‘So, what is going on? Are you going to see him again? Are you two a thing?’

  ‘We’re something, I suppose,’ I say with a shrug. ‘I don’t know what, exactly.’

  Luke flings his arm around me and gives me a squeeze. I flinch. I’m not ready to be congratulated on this news. Or touched. ‘Well good luck to you, Daisy. You deserve to be happy. Don’t ever forget that. It’s early days, right? Hard to define.’ I nod again and scan the playground, searching for Millie.

  ‘There she is,’ says Lucy. Reading my mind. ‘At the ice cream van. Quite safe.’

  37

  Chapter 37, Simon

  Tuesday, 25th June 2019

  Simon had never been in the governor’s office, but he had heard it being spoken of from time to time, with reverence, with fear, and it had acquired a mythical status in his mind. He hadn’t expected the grandeur of Dr Martell’s office, but he had thought it would have some creature comforts. Things Simon hadn’t seen for years, such as framed photographs on a desk, mugs with funny sayings written on them, perhaps some pictures hung on the walls. He found he was excited to see such things, something less sparse, less pedestrian, less mean than he’d got used to. It was sometimes hard to remember that he was once a man who earned his living by making places more beautiful, now he was surrounded by such constant ugliness.

  However, the office was a disappointment. There was nothing grand or even comfy about it. Simon was shown in to a cramped, unprepossessing room, where there wasn’t much space beyond that for the desk and a few chairs. The chair behind the desk was an ergonomic one, which suggested the governor (a man of some bulk and height) suffered from a bad back, and there were two plastic chairs in front of the desk. Simon and his solicitor silently settled into them. The desk was dwarfed by tidy but towering piles of prison, probation and psychiatric reports. There was a polystyrene cup with dregs of coffee, no sign of mugs with pithy little slogans. What would a prison governor’s mug say anyway, Simon wondered? He thought about that for a while and came up with, ‘I don’t need to worry about identity theft. No one wants to be me.’ He laughed at his own joke but didn’t share it, even when his solicitor glanced at him with something like concern.

  The Governor was not at his desk when they were shown to their seats. Obviously, a powerplay that occurred in every office in the world would certainly play out in a prison. A place rife with hierarchy, pecking orders, ranks. They would be made to wait so there was no uncertainty as to who had the control. A guard took up his post by the door. Simon’s solicitor was a different one to the one he’d had at the trial. This woman looked tired, almost bored. She didn’t make any conversation, but instead re-read the notes and files pertaining to Simon’s case. At least Simon hoped it was a re-read, he didn’t want to think his solicitor was winging it and just acquainting herself with the facts for the first time five minutes before the meeting began.

  The other cons all had a view on what the on-licence release meeting entailed. Some had told him it was a formality, that he was certain to be let out because the problem of overcrowding was more insistent than the problem of him driving dangerously. Others said that it was part of the system’s sick tormenting process and that he didn’t have a chance. That on-licence release was dangled like a carrot but rarely given. Simon didn’t know what to believe. It felt much like when he’d first been arrested and landed in a strange unfamiliar world where things were done to him, said to him, happened to him but he had no control. The governor came into the room. He shook Simon’s solicitor’s hand but not Simon’s. It stung, that small discourtesy. It did what it was designed to do: reduced him, put him in his place.

  The governor sat down heavily and picked up the top file. His eyes skimmed across the report and recommendations. When he’d finished reading, his eyes flicked up at Simon. Simon thought he saw compassion.

  ‘Well this looks straightforward. Have you made your client aware of the conditions?’ The question was put to the solicitor.

  ‘As an offender with a determinate sentence, you can be put on-licence which means you can serve the remainder of your sentence in the community. This licence is supervised by the Probation Service and includes conditions that you must meet.’

  ‘Such as?’

  The solicitor looked surprised that Simon had interrupted her. She slid a piece of paper across the desk towards him. He read that he had a requirement to, ‘be of good behaviour and not to behave in a way which undermines the purpose of the supervision period.’ It was a vague, all-encompassing condition. It made him think of the times when, as a boy, his mother used to tell him to ‘be good’ which was less directional than ‘play nicely’ or ‘be quiet’ or ‘stop teasing your sister.’ He had never liked the instruction to ‘be good’ because he discovered that he rarely knew what was considered bad until he’d eaten the last biscuit or left his bike in the street, and then he was rounded upon. He considered asking for a tighter definition, but he feared he’d come off as cocky and that in itself might be a breach of the condition. The second condition was easier to understand: he was required not to commit any further offence. He would also need to keep in tou
ch with his supervisor.

  The solicitor turned to the governor. Simon wondered whether they needed him here at all. That was the thing about being a convicted criminal: people didn’t think you had anything to offer or say, or if you did they didn’t want to hear it.

  ‘I’d recommend that Mr Barnes meets his supervisor twice a week, initially. Licence conditions are not designed to be punitive. As you are aware they are designed for risk management and public protection purposes. Mr Barnes, a first-time offender, who pleaded guilty to the charges, has shown remorse and displayed exemplary behaviour during his incarceration, therefore he does not represent any risk to the public.’

  The governor nodded. ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘We need to confirm an address of permanent residence and that address needs to be approved in advance.’ The solicitor turned to Simon this time, and Simon suddenly felt shy, inadequate. He’d wanted to take back control of his life but the first thing they’d asked him he didn’t have an answer to. The governor and solicitor waited expectantly.

  ‘You are married, Simon?’ the governor asked. Simon nodded. ‘So will you be returning to the family home?’

  ‘She moved.’ Simon coughed. ‘My wife moved. We, she, couldn’t afford the mortgage.’

  ‘Will you be residing with your wife?’ Simon shrugged. The governor looked disappointed. ‘Well you’ll need an address before we can progress. A hostel. Something.’

  ‘I’ll get one,’ Simon assured him. Although he wasn’t sure how.

  The solicitor was clearly on a deadline and wanted to push on. ‘You’re required not to undertake work unless it is approved by the supervisor and to notify the supervisor in advance of any proposal to undertake work, even voluntary.’ Simon thought this was confusing. Surely, they shouldn’t be putting barriers in the way of ex-cons getting work. But again, he stayed silent. ‘You are encouraged to disclose your on-licence status to any potential employer. In some cases it will be a legal requirement.’ Simon wondered what sort of work he could hope to find. ‘There is a requirement not to travel outside the British Islands, except with prior permission of the supervisor. Do you understand?’