Lies Lies Lies

by Adele Parks

  Fuck.

  Simon wasn’t interested in weed, and even if he had been, he instinctually knew that this wasn’t his to consume. This wasn’t a treat or a gift. This was his to hide, to hold. To pass on. It was the beginning of a line of favours. A payback for something he’d never even enjoyed. Despite all Simon had done for, and because of, alcohol he remained scared of drugs. He viewed them as wicked, torrid and destructive. He had seen paranoia, violence, total Armageddon flood into the veins, hearts and minds of druggies; he’d seen men turn into liars, thieves and thugs. He knew that drink could do that to a person too. But he’d never seen or heard of anyone murder because of a drink cartel, that was a very real possibility with drugs.

  The difference mattered to him.

  The difference terrified him.

  So, this was just weed, but this was just the beginning. He knew that much for certain. He didn’t know what to do. The room was always over-warm or freezing, he never got used to that. He hid the weed in one of his socks, slipped it under his mattress. He didn’t mention it to Leon. Safest not to. When it was Purposeful Activity time, he went to a meeting. He felt that was the only place he might be anywhere near safe.

  Billy seemed genuinely pleased to see Simon; relieved, hopeful. The Chaplain smiled and waved at him as he walked into the room but didn’t say anything because another prisoner was mid-flow. The prisoner was talking about the fact that alcoholism was self-diagnostic, that you had to take responsibility for the fact that you were an alcoholic before you could hope to take responsibility for getting dry.

  ‘You can take a dozen online tests, see a doctor, but in the end it’s in your gut, you know if you are or you are not. If you’ve stepped over the line.’

  On another occasion Simon might have engaged. It was a sensible enough comment, an interesting thought. Simon craved any sort of intellectual stimulation but not this evening. This evening, all he could think about was the weed stowed under his mattress. He imagined it not as a small mound that was unlikely to draw attention, but as a screaming siren or a neon sign. He thought of it as having heat. Literally smouldering and then setting fire to the bedclothes, burning the whole place down. How long would he be expected to hold on to it for? Who would he have to pass it to? What would he be given next? Because unquestionably there would be a next. If he stayed quiet and did a good job for the Dales, they’d want more from him. If he snitched, or fucked up in any way, they’d hurt him. By mixing himself up with the Dales he’d basically doused himself in petrol and lit a match.

  He was just days away from getting out, but he knew their all-powerful, evil tentacles reached through bars and over walls; they had influence on the outside too. The wrong people would find him, curl their grasp around his neck and his possibilities. They’d get him to deliver things, do things, hide things. He’d be an employee. It wasn’t an optional post, one for which you were offered a contract with an expense account, health insurance and a car. Although, he could imagine he would be given expenses of sorts; a few quid to tide him over. Maybe he’d be given a place to stay, a skinny bed in some other thug’s flat. The health insurance would be such that if he did what they asked, he wouldn’t be beaten to a pulp. Maybe he’d get a car if they needed him to drive anyone or anything. It was a sentence. He’d be on the outside, but it was another sentence. Time he would have to serve. Simon wanted to punch himself. He could not believe he’d walked into this. Just for a drink.

  Oh, a drink. What he wouldn’t do for a drink.

  Daisy wanted a divorce.

  The Dales wanted their pound of flesh.

  He wanted a drink.

  The room had fallen silent, the man banging on about self-diagnosing had shut up. He was now leaning back in his chair staring at the ceiling. Looking for answers or a way out, as they all did, all the time. ‘So, Simon. You’re on the home stretch,’ commented Billy, cheerfully. Simon nodded. ‘And how are you feeling?’

  ‘Scared,’ he replied. ‘Shit scared.’

  47

  Chapter 47, Daisy

  People think rape is a masked stranger, finding you late at night, grabbing you from behind, then dragging you to a side street. Forcing his way into you, up against recycling bins, at knife point. It is.

  Or, it is the unlicensed cab driver who locks the doors and drives you somewhere far away, not to your specified address. To a place where no one can hear you scream. Even if you dared.

  Or, it might be the man you spotted across the floor in the night club, the one you quite liked the look of, the one you danced with, flirted with, and gave your number to. Then, you said you wanted to call it a night and go home with your friends. He didn’t want that.

  Or, it might be your boyfriend, your husband, a relative. It might be in a street, in a car, a nightclub, a tent, a stockroom, a park, a train, an office, a hotel. Your bed. You might have been wearing a short skirt, a long one, a work overall, sexy underwear, dungarees, a burqa, pyjamas, nothing at all. It can be a myriad of things. The only consistency is, you didn’t want it. He did.

  I was first raped at one of Connie’s glorious, celebrated, much-anticipated parties. I was wearing a new, prettily patterned, floral dress. I’d had my hair blow-dried and had made more of an effort than usual with my makeup. Do you want to know why? They would want to in a court of law. If this rape had gone to trial, they might very well have asked me why I’d waxed my legs. If I’d waxed elsewhere. Why I’d chosen a scarlet colour to paint my toenails and fingernails. They might have believed I’d picked out the wraparound dress because it was a forgiving, flattering style for my body shape, or a defence lawyer might have argued I’d deliberately chosen something with easy access.

  And the makeup? They’d want to know why I’d made ‘more of an effort than usual’. Something could be read into that. Well, Simon had got a bit drunk at lunchtime and spent the afternoon in bed sleeping it off, so I took more care over my makeup because I had time on my hands.

  Or, maybe I did so because all my friends are prettier than I am and I’ve always felt a need to present myself as best I can.

  Or, because my husband and I were going through a difficult patch, well more than a patch, a stretch. We longed for a baby and there wasn’t one. It was destroying us. I was possibly hoping to reignite something.

  Or, had I simply made an effort with my makeup because it cheered me up.

  All of the above.

  In a court, it might have been argued that I’d taken care with my appearance because I knew Daryll Lainbridge was going to be at the party and I used to fancy him a long, long time ago. He’d overlooked me back in university days but seemed to be starting to notice me now, which was flattering, wasn’t it?

  We’re trained to want to be physically appreciated, aren’t we? Women. We’re told over and over again that how we look matters.

  It’s a sickness.

  Am I on trial here? If so, I might as well admit, I also wore high heels. Silver, open-toed ones. They were new and frivolous, and I enjoyed seeing my scarlet nails peek through.

  That night, when Simon did finally emerge from his drunken slumber, he showered and came downstairs fresh, expectant. Most probably excited about having a drink, but I told myself it was the thought of going to a party with me that made him so eager. Indeed, there was a moment when I almost believed as much. When his gaze pulled the entire length of my body, and he muttered huskily, ‘You look nice. Good.’

  ‘Good enough to eat?’ I asked with a wink. It was one of our old jokes. His mother’s innocent phrase, a compliment that she often threw about. We’d made it rude and suggestive, years back, when we were very young.

  ‘Yeah,’ he smiled. ‘Good enough to eat.’

  We left our house holding hands, we walked up Connie’s pathway with our fingers still interlocked, but then we had to knock on the door and once it was open, Simon headed straight for the kitchen, the drinks. He left me behind. I was disappointed. I helped myself to a G&T too. Then a second one. I wand
ered about, talking to various guests about this and that. Connie had, as usual, made a huge effort. There was a magician doing tricks with balloons and playing cards. There were two waiters carrying trays of posh little nibbles and another one constantly proffering drinks. Even so, I wasn’t having an especially good time. That sometimes happens to me. I find anticipating a party and getting ready for it far more fun than the actual event. It’s probably because I’m fundamentally shy and therefore happier in smaller groups. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t having an awful time. It was just OK, good enough.

  But then Daryll arrived.

  And the night went up a gear.

  Daryll had been nudging his way into our social crowd for some months by that point. I didn’t like it. I was quite protective of our close-knit gang and wary of newcomers because they could upset the balance. I worried that the group wouldn’t expand to absorb someone new, but instead operate a one-in-one-out policy. What if Simon or I were ousted? I know, I know, I have self-esteem issues, but Simon was being a pain around that time. His drinking was annoying people. Anyway, Daryll was determined. He seemed to have an ‘Access All Areas’ badge when it came to infiltrating our group, just because we’d all studied together at university. He turned up at parties and dinners, trips to the cinema or bowling.

  I didn’t fancy Daryll by that point. Yes, I’d lusted after him at university, but those days were well behind me. I had Simon. I loved Simon, despite everything we were going through. If anything, being around Daryll was a bit awkward because he clearly believed I still had the hots for him. He seemed to interpret everything I said to him a little oddly and not as I intended. For example, if I made a flip comment about men being – oh I don’t know – untidy, or something innocuous like that, he’d catch my eye and insist, ‘We’re not all slovenly, you know, Daisy. I really wish you wouldn’t tar us all with the same brush.’ I did wonder why he was bothering to recommend himself to me. Was it simply that he couldn’t stand the thought I’d once wanted him and no longer did? Was that the challenge? I don’t know. All I do know is, at the time, even the most innocent of remarks made by me were interpreted by him as flirty, or regretful, or wistful. It was complicated, and it shouldn’t have been. I resented him for muddying things. I found I was always trying a bit too hard to make things normal between us, which never works. So, when I say the night went up a gear, I don’t mean I was thrilled to see him. I mean there was an extra layer to manage. Just something.

  Surprisingly, he didn’t have a girlfriend with him, which was a pity because he was a bit bored and therefore headed straight towards me. A girlfriend would have meant he was unlikely to notice me; he’d have been distracted.

  ‘I’ve been watching you dance,’ he informed me.

  ‘Oh,’ I replied. Stumped. I’d been thrashing about the dancefloor with Rose, we’d been acting up, miming to the words of the songs, and not just YMCA. The crazy abandonment was something I only ever really managed with my sister. His comment made me feel self-conscious, uncomfortable with the thought of being watched.

  ‘You’re pretty good,’ he added.

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

  ‘Shall we dance?’ He looked at me, over his glass, right in the eyes. I knew the look. It didn’t often get beamed my way but I’m not a nun, I have dated in my lifetime. The look was more than friendly. It had suggestion, intent. It didn’t have the desired effect on me though, as it seemed so practiced, glib, almost too charming. It made me want to laugh more than melt. Anyway, I’m a married woman.

  ‘You know what, I need some water. I’ve danced for the last half an hour, I’m all hot and sweaty,’ I stated bluntly hoping to repel him a bit, douse him.

  ‘Tell as it is, Daisy.’

  ‘What? Does my talking about sweat offend you?’

  ‘Far from it. It excites me.’

  It was such a full-on bizarre thing to say, I gasped. I didn’t know how to respond so I just chose to pretend I hadn’t heard him. ‘Where’s the obligatory beauty tonight?’ I asked instead. I was just trying to turn the conversation away from me but later – when I went over and over what was said – I wondered whether I sounded flirty, interested. I jokingly made a thing of searching about, looking for the stunning woman that usually hung on his arm, an accessory.

  He suddenly looked sad or, to be exact, he looked a badly acted, close-approximation of sadness. ‘I think I’m destined to be a bachelor for ever,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I just don’t get women.’

  I wanted to show him I wasn’t taken in. ‘Oh, come on, Daryll. You’ve had too many women to claim that.’

  ‘I probably just haven’t met the right one then. Or if I have, I let her slip through my fingers.’ He held my gaze as he said this. It was odd, embarrassing. Because if I’d been talking to anyone else I’d have thought that line was laden with something intangible: a hint of regret, nostalgia. But it wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. He was a player. Why was he even bothering to play with me? I wondered if he was drunk. His behaviour was so strangely full-on. ‘Can I talk to you, Daisy?’

  Before I was able to reply and point out that I thought that’s what we were doing, he grabbed my hand and led me out of the busy kitchen and into the family room. There were far fewer people in there. Those that were, were stood in chattering clusters, no one was sat on either sofa but Daryll flopped into one and pulled me down next to him. I landed close by him. Thigh to thigh. I edged away, placing a little distance between us. It would have seemed strangely rude, unfriendly, if I’d stood up and left him. And honestly? It wasn’t the worst thing in the world to spend the evening talking to him. On balance I thought it was a bit better than having to force my way into established conversations with crowds of strangers. He started to tell me about his latest break up.

  ‘I had thought she was the One,’ he confided. But before I could feel sorry for him, he called her a bitch. This yo-yoing appraisal of an ex is not new. Many people do the same, but it’s never appealed to me. How can you love someone one moment and then hate them the next? It seems immature and unconvincing. I accepted a glass of wine from the tray of a nearby waiter and let Daryll’s words drift over me. He didn’t really seem to require much input from me, anyway. It was obvious he just needed to vent. He talked about the horrors of online dating. It surprised me that dating sites were his modus operandi. I don’t know why but I’d assumed he was still working his way through acquaintances and friends of friends in the old-fashioned way. He was handsome, clever, he had a good job. I could see people wanting to set him up with their single women friends. I suppose it highlighted to me how out of touch I was. When Simon and I had met, no one found love online. Barely anyone found their washing machine that way. Daryll seemed to have very exacting standards when it came to dating. He complained that the women he met were all ‘gold-diggers’, ‘cold’ or ‘calculating’. He argued that they were all ‘boring’, ‘teasers’ or ‘liars’. I started to feel uneasy as he was emanating so much fury and frustration. Then he mentioned that his latest lover had been married.

  ‘Married?’ I know I didn’t hide my shock at all well.

  ‘I didn’t know in the beginning,’ he hurried to assure me. Then admitted, ‘By the time I discovered the truth I was halfway in love with her.’

  I shifted uncomfortably. I’d heard this story a dozen times with the genders reversed but I wasn’t quite sure what to say to a man who was in love with a married woman. ‘Well, you must have known that could never have worked in the long run.’

  ‘Why not?’ He looked confused. ‘People leave their partners you know, Daisy. People do have affairs,’ he said with a smile that I thought was a little bit patronising.

  ‘Yeah, they do, but how could you ever trust anyone like that?’

  We’d been talking for at least an hour by then. I wanted to go and find Simon, or Rose or Connie or Luke. Daryll’s account of the dating world was depressing me but also it had the effect of making me feel grateful for my
own relationship. Simon and I were struggling, we had our problems, but we were loyal to one another. Daryll was clearly thinking along similar lines because he added, ‘Simon is so lucky. I hope he knows how lucky he is.’

  ‘We both are,’ I pointed out.

  ‘What you have is just perfect,’ he added, longingly.

  ‘Well, nothing is perfect,’ I commented, partially to cheer him up, partially because it’s true. I looked around the room for an escape route out of the conversation. I’d heard enough. Been polite. It would have seemed tactless to say I wanted to find Simon after Daryll had just lain himself open, telling me how hard it is to find a soulmate. ‘Will you excuse me? I need the loo.’

  It was in the bathroom that he did it.

  I walked to the top of the house. The previous year, Connie and Luke had converted their attic into a big bedroom with an en suite. There was a queue for the downstairs cloakroom and for the loo in the family bathroom. I knew few people would be aware of the spare at the top, and besides the house was hot, noisy, Daryll’s conversation had been draining. I just wanted a few moments alone to collect myself, so I climbed the stairs. Took myself away from the crowds.

  I peed, then washed my hands, checked my make-up. Not surprisingly, my mascara had started to smudge around my eyes. How come other women never seemed to melt? I splashed some water under my eyes and rubbed at my skin. I’d do. Then I unlocked the bathroom door, planning to return to the party, find Simon, maybe persuade him to dance with me.

  Daryll was waiting for me. He was big, his bulk blocked the doorway. He walked into the bathroom. Kicked the door shut behind him and locked it. ‘Daryll, what are you—’