Lies Lies Lies

by Adele Parks

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ replied Lucy lightly, and he wanted to believe her. ‘Connie told me you needed a safe and permanent address before they’d let you out. Peter and I are model citizens,’ she added dryly.

  ‘I won’t impose for long, I’ll be on my way soon.’

  Lucy raised a beautifully manicured eyebrow, sceptically. Where was he going to go? She didn’t ask that, instead she said, ‘You can stay as long as you need. We have a spare room.’

  ‘Connie has a spare room,’ he pointed out, sulkily.

  ‘Yeah but we have three.’

  ‘I only needed one.’

  Lucy flicked her eyes over him. ‘Hey, I could be offended. Why aren’t you happy to be staying at ours? Ours is way cooler than the Bakers’. Is it the minimalist thing? It’s not to everyone’s taste,’ she joked.

  Simon smiled obligingly. ‘I’m sorry. Of course, I’m grateful.’

  ‘I don’t need you to be grateful.’

  ‘Honestly, it doesn’t matter where I stay.’

  ‘It just made sense, they have three kids, we have one. Luke’s father has just had an operation. They’ve a lot on.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘What does that mean? “Yeah, right”.’

  Simon stared out of the window throughout the conversation. There was so much to see. The streets were already teeming with life. The traffic was heavy, people dashing to work or maybe on day trips. Delivery vans causing bottlenecks which led to horn-honking and rude hand gestures. Shopkeepers were rolling back their shutters and café managers were stood in the doorways of their premises, smoking a cigarette or vaping, assessing the weather, wondering if it would clear up later and they’d get to unstack the metal bistro chairs. The streets were full of pedestrians walking their dogs and hurrying their children, scooters, people on skates, boards, bikes. Everyone was in a hurry. They’d all been dashing about for three years. Simon sighed and replied, ‘It’s just that Connie has been visiting me and she offered first, so that’s what I was expecting, but I know why I can’t stay with her and, obviously, that pisses me off.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  Simon couldn’t be bothered to dissemble, not even to protect Connie. He didn’t have the energy. ‘It’s because Luke had an affair with Daisy. Luke is Millie’s father. Luke is no friend to me. He doesn’t want me staying. He doesn’t want that to come out.’

  ‘What?’ Anyone else might have hit the brakes, hard. Lucy didn’t say another word until she spotted a car parking spot which she neatly pulled into. She turned to him. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, I know, it’s hard to believe. St Luke and Daisy, Mother Teresa’s more devout sister, having an affair, but they did. I know they did.’

  ‘You know nothing, Simon.’

  ‘I knew before I went inside. I’m not Millie’s dad. I’ve accepted it for what it is. What pisses me off is that Luke has got away with his treachery. Connie hasn’t a clue, which is galling.’ Lucy stared at him, astonished. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ve no intention of telling her. I don’t want to hurt her. I’ve had long enough to think about it.’

  ‘And yet this is what you’ve come up with?’ Lucy looked frustrated. ‘Luke is besotted with Connie. He’d never have an affair. And he was your best friend.’

  ‘He never visited me in prison once.’

  ‘You did run over his goddaughter. He’s pissed off with you. But before then, he found you work, he was forever bailing you out of trouble. He was your best friend.’

  ‘But was he, though? You had an affair with Rose’s husband. People do. You should know that more than anyone.’

  ‘That was entirely different.’

  ‘How?’

  Lucy looked as though she wanted to scream at Simon.

  ‘Because Peter and I are nothing like Luke and Daisy. We’re morally fluid.’ Simon looked confused. ‘We’re selfish, OK? I’ve said it. Do you even know your wife at all? Have you forgotten that as a result of our affair she gave me the cold shoulder for over fifteen years? If she could, she would have me branded with a scarlet letter “A”. There is no way that woman had an affair. She’s not the type.’

  ‘Clever cover,’ replied Simon confidently. ‘Playing the part of the one amongst us with the strong moral compass. Such a hypocrite.’

  ‘I’ve known her forever. She’s a lot of things: judgy, passive-aggressive, sometimes boring, but she’s not a hypocrite. Think, Simon. Think!’

  Lucy started up the engine and continued with their journey. They sat in silence until after half an hour Simon realised she was not following the route back to Notting Hill.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked.

  ‘Home.’

  53

  Chapter 53, Simon

  Lucy pulled up outside Daisy’s small two-up, two-down, unprepossessing house. ‘Where are we?’ Simon asked.

  ‘This is where Daisy and Millie live.’

  ‘What are we doing here?’

  ‘Well, that’s up to you.’

  Simon looked at the front door and wondered if it would ever open to him if he knocked. He’d like to see Millie. No, he longed to see her. He understood that the biology meant she wasn’t his, but she was. With his heart and soul, he’d thought of her every day. He’d thought of both of them. That’s why Daisy asking for a divorce was such a blow.

  ‘Your license conditions don’t ban you from visiting them, do they?’ Lucy challenged.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up later in the day. You have to check in with your probation officer at 4 p.m. right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ He felt like a school boy.

  ‘Or do you want to get a tube?’ Simon coloured. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. Lucy reached for her handbag and opened her purse. She handed him twenty pounds. ‘Here, you can pay me back when you get a job.’ He didn’t want to take the money, but the alternative was Lucy driving all the way back across London to pick him up. He didn’t have any choice. He took the note. ‘Good luck.’

  He watched her drive off. He wished he still smoked. This would be the moment to have a fag. Or a drink. A drink would really help right about now. He looked at the twenty quid and then pushed it into his back pocket. Sighed. He stood outside and stared up at the windows. The curtains were still drawn. Was it too early to knock? It was half past nine on a Saturday morning. When he’d last lived at home, Millie would have been up for three hours by now, but there was no sign of life throbbing from the little house. He couldn’t hear the TV blaring out cartoons, or breakfast pots being clanked together, he couldn’t smell bacon sizzling under the grill. He put his ear to the door. He couldn’t hear them chatter, or the radio playing songs. The place was still. Dead.

  He reasoned that they must be out or maybe still sleeping. He thought that option was the most likely because Daisy would never leave the house without opening the curtains. Had things changed so much? Could it be that Daisy no longer cared about things like what the neighbours thought? Or was it that Millie was no longer an excitable child, but a pre-teen who liked to lie-in? Did that happen at nine years old? He didn’t know, and he was abashed that he didn’t know. He wanted to know. He wondered what it looked like inside their house, their life. He’d missed so much, and suddenly it became unbearable to think he’d miss so much as a moment more. He decided to go around the back, perhaps the curtains would be open there and he could sneak a peek. As he walked down the side alley, around to the back of the house, he thought to himself that they ought to have a gate on this thin path. One that locked. Now he’d been in prison, he knew what the world was, who inhabited it. Daisy and Millie clearly weren’t overly focused on security and in a way that was lovely, still he’d suggest a gate. A lock.

  The back door was wide open, swinging on its hinges. The rain was falling into the kitchen. He knew at once that something was wrong because he still couldn’t hear anything other than silence. This was not a door that had been flung
open to allow the smell of burning toast to escape. It was a wet, cool morning; this door wasn’t open to let in a refreshing breeze. He rushed inside. Two, three big strides and he was through the empty kitchen and in to the sitting room. What was he looking at? He didn’t understand. Furniture was upended, a suitcase was open, and clothes were strewn all over the room, ornaments were broken, smashed to pieces and there was blood. Blood on the wall. On the door and floor. His own blood slowed. His body was seized with a dry, tight dread.

  ‘Daisy! Millie!’

  54

  Chapter 54, Daisy

  When we first heard our names being called we tightened our grips on one another. We thought it was Daryll returning for more. Millie was shaking, and tears were streaming down her face although she wasn’t making any sound. Her silent weeping was distressing, eerie.

  ‘Daisy, Millie!’

  ‘It’s Daddy,’ she says turning to me, her face suddenly full of glee. For a moment, I don’t understand her. My head is sore and fuzzy from where he pounded me, threw me, slammed me against the wall. ‘Daddy, Daddy!’ She’s jumping to her feet, calling to Simon. She starts to push at the chest of drawers that we’ve dragged across the doorway. ‘Help me, Mum, it’s Daddy,’ she insists.

  Simon is banging on the door. Throwing his entire weight at it by the sounds of it. I jump up and help Millie push the furniture out of the way. The door falls open and she flings herself into his arms.

  ‘It’s OK, it’s OK. I’m here now,’ he says. It’s another lie. We’re not OK.

  * * *

  I’m surprised that Simon doesn’t immediately insist we call the police. Instead he carries Millie downstairs, holds her tight whilst he rights an armchair, which is an awkward manoeuvre, but it seems he’s not prepared to put her down until he can make it cosy. When he eases her onto the chair, he looks about and finds a throw, which he tucks around her legs, like he sometimes used to when she was ill with some childhood bug or other. Then he starts to make pancakes. I follow behind, silently. I don’t know what to do. Should I call the police now? So much evidence, such clear brutality, this wouldn’t be a case of he said/she said. This would be clear-cut, surely. But I don’t have a phone. Last night, Daryll ran my phone under a tap and then smashed it against the wall for good measure. This was after he had demanded I show him the flight booking to Hamburg, after he’d discovered that the tickets were one-way. He held my head under the water too, then smashed me against the wall too. I dived for the landline, but he yanked it out of the wall and then cut the lead. He threw the phone at me. It’s a repro 1970s one, so big, chunky. I tried to dodge it and was successful insomuch as it hit my shoulder. I think my face had been the target. ‘Do you have a phone?’ I ask Simon.

  ‘Sorry, no. I didn’t have one on me when I was arrested so…’ he breaks off and glances at Millie.

  I nod, I understand. He has nothing other than the clothes he’s stood up in.

  If I want to call the police, I need to go to a neighbour and ask to use their phone, but I don’t know my neighbours. I couldn’t pick them out in a lineup. Next door is a rental property and there’s been a series of young couples living there since we moved here. I’m not sure I’ve even said hello to the present occupants. I can sometimes hear them listening to Radio 1, or even singing in the shower. If they were in last night, I assume they heard everything. Heard everything, did nothing. Or if they were out, and maybe it’s better to think they were – a more generous view on humanity – if they were out, then they don’t know anything and I’m not sure I’m ready to face their sympathy, their shock. Not yet. I need a coffee first. I don’t right any of the furniture though, because it’s a crime scene. We sit amongst the chaos and destruction. Millie keeps glancing at the wall. Oh god, Eric. ‘Don’t look,’ I instruct.

  ‘Look at me, keep your eyes on the pancakes,’ murmurs Simon. She does as she’s asked. As Simon makes her pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse, I hunt about for an old shoe box and scoop up the tiny kitten, place him carefully inside, put the lid on. I then wash my hands because his blood is on them. I’m guess I’m lucky it’s just his blood. What if Daryll had hurt Millie? In silence, we eat the pancakes, drink orange juice and coffee, and although I didn’t think I’d manage a bite, I find I am hungry and that eating helps. Somehow the pretence of normality eases things. Millie wolfs hers down and the moment she finishes I notice that her eyelids begin to droop. Neither of us have slept all night. After Daryll finished with me and left in the early hours, I crawled upstairs and persuaded Millie to unlock the bathroom door. We then ran to my bedroom and barricaded that door, just in case he returned, in case it was a trick to get to her. We’ve sat bolt upright, too terrified, too sickened to consider sleep. I still feel the same, I can’t imagine sleeping ever again, but Millie is a child and it’s a blessing that her body is shutting down, taking charge of her mind. She’s in shock and needs to sleep. Simon carries her upstairs and lays her in her own bed.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ she begs.

  ‘Never,’ he lies. He sits on the bed and strokes her hair until sleep overwhelms her. I stand in the doorway, hurting, hating.

  When she is sleeping soundly, we slip out of her room and head downstairs.

  55

  Chapter 55, Simon

  Simon wanted to scream. He’d caused this. It was the Dales, there was no doubt in his mind. They had sent someone to his house, beaten his wife, terrified his child, apparently killed their pet, all to teach him a lesson just so he knew that he couldn’t brook their plans. If they wanted him to take the blame for supplying cocaine, that’s what was supposed to happen. He didn’t understand why he meant so much to them, but he must do, it was the only explanation. They obviously wanted him on the inside not on the outside. They were showing him that Leon taking the fall was not acceptable to them. Daisy must know all this, they must have ‘explained’ it to her, otherwise she would have called the police by now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, the moment they were alone together. He started to weep. Pain, regret, shame sliding out of him as tears. The bruise on Daisy’s face was purple and tender. Her lip and cheek were cut, her eye blackened. It made him sick to look at her. And Millie, what had she seen? What had she heard? The way she clung to him stole his breath. It was heart-rending and yet such a privilege at the same time. He couldn’t believe it, she’d ran into his arms, no hesitation, the same little girl. Obviously taller and somehow more angular, different physically but the same little girl. When he looked at her he could see the baby she had once been, overlaid with all the other versions of her. He remembered laying her in her crib, he remembered walking her around the furniture, he remembered her practicing at the barre. He’d thought he might have lost sight of those earlier Millies, that he wouldn’t recognise her, that she wouldn’t recognise him, but memory was sturdier than he had dared to hope. When he’d carried her downstairs, he’d remembered she always liked to sit hitched on his right hip. She was far too big to be carried under normal circumstances and yet today it had not been a struggle, it did not feel awkward. She fitted. He recalled how she would coil her arm around his neck, planting it there like a vine, or a root. He’d remembered the smell of her. Not her shampoo, not the washing detergent on her clothes, her. Her skin, her breath. His baby. None of that had changed. She stared at him with such hope and confidence, she believed he could save her and protect her. He’d made her pancakes, he’d tucked her in, he’d kissed her forehead.

  But he’d caused this. He’d put them in terrible danger.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he sobbed, again.

  ‘This one isn’t on you,’ replied Daisy with a sigh.

  He sat down heavily on the sofa and allowed his head to drop into his hands. ‘You have to believe me when I say this is exactly what I was trying to protect you from. I never wanted this sort of violence or brutality to be in your world.’ Daisy remained standing, facing him. She shook her head. He couldn’t read her expression. She looked des
pairing, disgusted. Disbelieving? ‘You’ve never been able to protect me from anything,’ she muttered, misery and grief emitting from every pore.

  ‘But I tried.’

  ‘When? When have you ever tried? You were always too drunk to take care of me and then you were in prison. How could you protect me from there?’ She sounded bitter and angry, of course she did. He deserved that. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to hold her, as he’d held Millie, but he knew that wasn’t right. He couldn’t think clearly, he could smell the blood on the wall, on the floor. The room was too hot, they should open a window. It was all too much. Too heavy a burden. He couldn’t carry it any longer. He had to set it down.

  ‘I tried when I said I was driving,’ he blurted.

  Daisy looked at him, narrowed her eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘I tried to protect you. I took the blame then, but I wasn’t driving. You were.’

  56

  Chapter 56, Daisy

  I have heard many of Simon’s lies over the years. Lies about whether he stopped off for a drink after work, lies about how many he’d had, lies about whether he’s spent our savings in pubs and bars. But this doesn’t feel like a lie.

  I have had dreams. So many and so vivid, especially since Millie’s birthday, and with increasing frequency since I visited Simon in prison. I’ve been telling myself that my sleep is unsettled because of what Daryll is doing to me. My subconscious is dealing with the fact I’m under constant threat; of course I’m not sleeping well. I wake up and remind myself, it’s not real. I tell myself that repeatedly. But it feels real. And I want to throw up. I want to bite my arms and pound my head. If I hurt her. If Simon was punished unfairly. After these dreams I get up and I do everything I usually do. I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I pick up the toothbrush and somehow I do not jab the handle into my eyes but, if the dream was a memory, I would want to do that. I walk down the stairs. I do not throw myself down them as I should if the dream was real. I do not hurl plate after plate at the wall to hear them smash satisfyingly. Because I was not driving. He was.