Half The Lies You Tell Are True: An unsettling, dark psychological thriller.

by C. P. Wilson

  Frankie: Well done, you. What the hell are they thinking asking you that? Especially today after everything we’ve been through.

  Jan: I suppose they have to, with the way things are these days.

  Frankie: I suppose. Did they ask anything about Harry Jardine?

  Jan: No, but he was gone by the time I got there.

  Frankie: Thanks for letting me know.

  Jan: No bother. How’s Dougie?

  Frankie: Still unconscious. He doesn’t look good.

  Jan: How are you doing?

  Frankie: Much the same as you, I’d guess. I’ll be fine.

  Jan: Okay. I’m gonna get home. Just wanted to warn you so that you knew what to expect when the police interview you.

  Frankie: Yeah, thanks for that. Will text you later and let you know if there’s any change here.

  Jan: Ok, take care, love x

  Frankie: You too x

  All energy leeched from her, Frankie re-enters Dougie’s little room to flop into the large faux-leather chair which Nurse Fletcher has been kind enough to have placed in the room for her use.

  Eyes moving over Dougie’s slack face, Frankie’s mind races with unwanted thoughts and memories which are being slowly tainted by doubts and what-ifs and mental leaps of the illogical variety. A deluge of raw emotion swells and Frankie’s hands cover her mouth a moment after a loud sob breaks free.

  Dougie lies passively breathing his shallow, fragile breaths in and out. The monitors blip and whir. After many minutes pass, Frankie, lulled by the once invasive sounds of the ICU, slips off into the desperate, fitful sanctuary of sleep. In a sleep akin to that of a cried-out infant, part of her awareness frets over what’s to come, another part listens to the comforting sounds of the room. Mostly though, Frankie Malone’s conscious mind melts away gratefully into the darkness.

  ∞∞∞

  Piercing alarms rouse Frankie from her sleepy refuge. Instantly she is on her feet, only to dodge aside as the door opens and two medical staff flash into the room, followed closely by Nurse Fletcher.

  Fletcher immediately places an arm around Frankie, guiding her to the door.

  “Come outside with me, Frankie. They’ll need room to work.”

  Once they cross the threshold, Frankie and Nurse Fletcher step aside to allow two more staff to enter the room. Pressing one hand to the glass of the window, Frankie watches the four people surround Dougie’s bed. One of them, a middle-aged male nurse, begins chest compressions whilst the other three talk.

  “Why are they just standing there?” Frankie screeches.

  Fletcher tightens her arm around the young teacher.

  “The nurse has started CPR. Look, there’s our FY1 Craig, a junior doctor, stepping in to assist.”

  Frantic, Frankie’s eyes follow and dart between each of the people in the room. Dougie’s body sags and rebounds on the bed as the man pushes rhythmically on his chest. The young doctor beside him has removed some sensors, forced a long tube into Dougie’s throat and covered Dougie’s mouth and nose with a mask and bag. He pumps air into Dougie, making his chest rise during a short break in the nurse’s chest compressions.

  The letters ‘DNR’ are barely audible, coming from one of the women talking at the foot of the bed. Fletcher responds instantly to the panicked expression on Frankie’s face at hearing the term.

  “Stay here, I’ll be right back,” Fletcher tells her calmly.

  Frankie moves to the doorway, straining to hear the two women speaking as Fletcher approaches to stand listening beside them. The conversation ping-pongs between the women.

  “There’s a DNR?”

  “It shouldn’t apply in this situation.”

  The older of the two nods. “I agree.”

  She checks the monitors and scans a chart from the foot of the bed.

  Frankie tunes into the rhythm of the CPR and begins counting chest compressions: thirty to two squeezes on the airbag.

  The senior doctor startles Frankie by announcing, “Prep for defibrillation.”

  Frankie watches as the crash team reposition themselves whilst the lady in charge approaches Dougie with the defibrillator paddles.

  Nurse Fletcher emerges from the room, subtly turning Frankie around to face away from the window whilst she speaks with her.

  “They’ve decided that Mr Black’s DNR is in place, most likely, for naturally occurring conditions and not for an incident like this…” Fletcher realises she’s being too technical and forces a smile.

  “Because he’s been injured rather than fallen ill, the Registrar has decided the DNR doesn’t apply.”

  “Thank God,” Frankie blurts.

  Fletcher assesses Frankie for a moment before deciding that the young teacher is clearly nearing the limit of her mental endurance.

  “Do you want to go somewhere else until this is over?”

  “No,” Frankie replies flatly, turning to look back in through the window just in time to see Dougie’s body jolt in response to the defibrillator.

  The floor lurches beneath her feet and Frankie feels Fletcher take a firm hold on her upper arm.

  “C’mon, Frankie. Just for a wee while,” Fletcher suggests.

  An arm around Frankie Malone, Nurse Fletcher gently guides her out of the ICU towards the nearby coffee shop.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lewis Gilmour watches as fifteen-year-old Samantha McGinnes sweeps out through the door, leaving the conference room. Ponytail swishing with her swagger, the forthright girl marches past the window and down the hall out of sight.

  McCreadie blows out a forceful sigh. “She’s formidable,” she offers.

  Gilmour tilts his head and raises his eyebrows. “Aye, she is that. Smart kid.”

  Seated in a chair against the wall, Mr Storrie wears a knowing smile. “Sam’s in our debating team and has…. some issues with compliance.”

  An image of his own daughter, Poppy, flashes past Gilmour’s mind’s-eye and merges with Samantha McGinnes’ face. An infant still, completely self-assured and entirely convinced of her ability to attack any challenge, Poppy Gilmour is a force of nature. A tornado wearing a cute-suit.

  A notion of the young woman his daughter may become as she grows tugs a smile onto Gilmour’s lips.

  “Aye,” Gilmour agrees. “She’s quite something.”

  Mr Storrie stands, stretching his back out with the movement. A slight nod to each of the room’s occupants, he asks, “Shall we take a little break there?”

  Both detectives indicate their agreement. The social worker, McKay, simply packs her notebook away and leaves.

  “She always like that?” McCreadie asks the head teacher.

  “He shrugs. Not always. She does take her job very seriously.”

  “I suppose that’s fair enough, given what her role involves.” McCreadie’s tone makes plain that she disapproves of the social worker’s stoic demeanour.

  “Yeah, still… Manners are free, eh?” Mr Storrie smiles half-heartedly.

  Scooping up his notes, Gilmour joins the head teacher and his former pupil. “How are you coping, sir?” McCreadie asks Mr Storrie.

  Storrie looks mildly amused. “It’s not often I get asked that,” he smiles at her. “I’m fine, Beth. Well… not fine, but I’m coping.”

  Gilmour leans in. “You’re doing terrifically. Nobody can prepare for these kinds of days, and we do understand that as well as the assault, the process of attending these interviews is demanding also.”

  Storrie makes a palms-open gesture. “I’m very proud of how my kids have conducted themselves today, not just in the interviews, but throughout the entire day. They’ve been good as gold in the meeting room they have been sitting in, waiting to see you. They’ve also been consoling each other; some have cried it out, others helped their peers process what happened in their classroom. It’s been quite impressive.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Gilmour replies. “Again, we can never predict how people will react to an incident like today�
��s, and I’d agree, they’ve coped brilliantly.”

  Storrie opens the door and steps out, only to lean back through the open doorway.

  “Can I get you both a coffee, and anything else?”

  “I’m sure you have enough to do, but thanks,” McCreadie replies.

  Storrie waves a hand dismissively. “I’ll have some coffee and biscuits brought up.”

  Once Storrie has departed, McCreadie turns to face DS Gilmour. Blowing her cheeks out, she notes the jaded expression on her colleague’s face.

  “Been some day, huh?”

  “It has,” Gilmour agrees. “Still got five more kids to see.”

  “You seeing anything yet?” McCreadie asks.

  “Maybe. How about you?”

  McCreadie nods that she has. “Despite how they must be feeling, and the passion some of them spoke with, the kids are surprisingly consistent in their accounts.”

  “Very much so,” Gilmour replies. “The timing, Harry’s apparent anger, that he didn’t seem to be there for Mr Black but attacked him ferociously, regardless.”

  McCreadie nods along.

  “They also all spoke highly of Harry Jardine. Most agreed that he’s generally a pretty easy-going pupil,” Gilmour continues.

  “Except for James Beath”

  Gilmour nods. “Except for James. He clearly has a strong dislike for Jardine.”

  “Could easily pre-date the assault,” McCreadie offered.

  “Mm hmm. Can’t blame Beath for being upset, even angry, not after the things those kids in Mr Black’s class witnessed. Frankly I’m amazed at how brave they’ve been today.”

  McCreadie’s face breaks into a wide grin. “That Wookie-kid,” she laughs.

  “Christ,” Gilmour laughs. “He’s some boy, eh?”

  “I know, right?” McCreadie raises her arms and growls, Chewbacca-like. Affecting a nasal whinge, a fair approximation of the Wookie-kid, she adds, “He wiz pure mad, man. Like a mad big Wookie n that.”

  Gilmour shakes his head. “Not the most accurate witness statement we’ve taken,” he smiles.

  Gilmour’s phone buzzes on the desk to his right.

  Retrieving it, he checks its screen. “The boss,” he informs McCreadie.

  Thumbing the message open, Gilmour relays it to Beth McCreadie.

  “Stephens has been in with Jardine. Prescott has stepped in; the boss can’t interview him until the morning at the earliest.”

  “Standard for Prescott,” McCreadie states.

  “Aye, he’s a prick, right enough. Stephens is headed to The Royal Infirmary to interview the teacher who assisted Mr Black.”

  “Francesca Malone,” McCreadie informs him.

  “Yeah,” Gilmour confirms, placing his phone into his trouser pocket. “Shall we have this coffee then get the next pupil in?”

  “Yep.” McCreadie checks her notes. “A Jenna Hopkins is next. Fourth year. Four more kids and three staff members after that.”

  Gilmour checks his watch. Quarter past two. “What time does the school close?” he asks.

  “Three forty-five.”

  “I’d like to get this done before then, let these kids get home. They’ve been through enough today,” Gilmour says.

  McCreadie looks doubtful, but nods her agreement.

  Interlude

  Facebook:

  Britain First: Immigrant attacks respected British teacher:

  Link attached: Edinburgh Evening News—Reported serious assault in Cambuscraig High School—Shared 7389 times.

  Unilad: Apparent revenge attack on Teacher. Rumours circulating that the senior teacher had been abusing the pupil who attacked him.

  Link attached: Edinburgh Evening News—Reported serious assault in Cambuscraig High School—Shared 7389 times.

  The Daily Mail: Violence in our schools as a result of SNP policies.

  Reporting Scotland Late Afternoon Bulletin:

  Sixteen-year-old pupil to be questioned by police following knife incident on school grounds.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Thanks for this, Kerry,” Frankie offers, looking up at the nurse from her seated position.

  Kerry Fletcher looks down and tugs at the hem of her top, straightening the scrubs and smoothing the front with both palms.

  “No problem, Frankie. I’ll see you back along in a little while?”

  Frankie nods.

  “Good,” Fletcher confirms. “I’ll make sure there’s still a comfortable chair you can rest in beside Mr Black’s bed.”

  “Thanks, Kerry,” Frankie repeats, closing her hands around her coffee mug, absorbing comfort from its remaining warmth.

  Kerry bobs a nod at her and smiles before heading back to work.

  Frankie spends several minutes eyes half-focused, absent-mindedly moving over those present in the little hospital coffee shop, people-watching. The radio plays Amy Winehouse whose gorgeous voice laments loves lost and kitchen floors, reminding Frankie of the first occasion she heard that particular song and how strongly she identified with it at that moment. Amy’s voice drifts in and out of Frankie’s awareness, adding a layer of detachment to the moment. Medical professionals chat pastries, eggs and full breakfasts, or simply coffee. Relatives visiting patients are mixed in with the doctors and nurses and porters. Most of those people wear expressions matching her own. Some appear stunned, or in denial. Many look vaguely into the middle-distance, sorting whatever they need to in the privacy of their own heads.

  Frankie blinks several times, long, deliberate blinks. Attempts to clear her thoughts.

  A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth and she reaches into her bag, retrieving a pen, red of course, and a notepad.

  Frankie takes a long drink on her coffee and loops her hair over an ear with her finger before writing a single word in block capitals at the top of a fresh page in her notepad.

  W.H.A.L.E

  Works Hard and Loves Elephants

  Wonderful Humpbacks Are Leaving Earth

  Wishful Hippos Always Lie Easily

  Frankie grins to herself as she continues the mental exercise, putting the day’s events into wee boxes that will allow her to regain her composure and push on. As she works and sorts, her mind drifts to other times.

  ∞∞∞

  Six weeks had passed since the disaster that had been Frankie’s first lesson with her S2 class. In the weeks that followed many things had changed, but none more so than the very young probationer, Frankie Malone.

  Without informing Frankie of his intent, Dougie had spoken to the department head, Lisa Ferguson, convincing her to allow him to replace Mr Armstrong, a third-year teacher, as Frankie’s mentor for the year. Since doing so, Dougie had effectively thrown out all of the theoretical tasks her former mentor had placed in Frankie’s diary and began a process of forcing Frankie to plan her classroom management to a degree that seemed both excessive and wasteful of her time. Doubtful of Dougie’s approach, and more than a little miffed that he had replaced her mentor without discussing it with her first, Frankie made the choice to ignore her expectations and her own pride and just let Dougie take charge of her development for a while. After all, she had thought herself well-prepared and clued-up on behaviour management before 2P1 had shit all over her carefully-made lesson plan.

  For a fortnight following the failed lesson, Dougie had sat in with her each time 2P1 were with her. Seated at the rear of the room, Dougie was an unexpectedly anonymous presence. He did not take notes, he did not interfere with discipline, and he made no suggestions on strategy or technique. Dougie Black merely observed.

  After the first week of his visits, Frankie grew annoyed with his lack of communication and the complete absence of any input from Dougie. Approaching him in the staffroom, she had asked, “Any feedback yet, Mr Black?”

  Eyeing her over the top of his coffee cup, Dougie Black simply shook his head. Feeling foolish and dismissed, with her frustration stoked to nearing anger, Frankie had fought the urge to push or make de
mands of the man and walked away.

  Throughout the second week of his observing her with 2P1, Frankie truly began to resent Dougie Black’s presence in her room. She had handled several minor incidents well and was generally managing the kids more effectively, but was still failing to de-escalate more serious situations and was utterly inadequate at engaging the kids in the lessons. Some of them made half-hearted attempts at copying down some written work. Occasionally they would show a little interest in an experiment. Mostly they sat staring at their phone screens, ignoring her.

  Dougie remained a silent observer throughout. So much so that the kids, somewhat subdued by his presence on the first week, had now accepted that he wasn’t going to intervene and had begun being more overtly defiant and insolent towards their inexperienced teacher. To Frankie, the class felt as though they were slipping back to the level of behaviour that they’d indulged in during their first lesson with her. They were at a precipice, teetering over an edge she would be unable to rescue the class from should they fall. By the end of the day on the second Friday, Frankie was livid with her supposed new mentor and had decided to confront him.

  Frankie approached Dougie Black’s classroom door, took a deep breath to fortify herself, and then entered without knocking. Dougie was seated, his head down, his eyes moving across a page. A red pen in his hand flowed across and back over the page.

  His failure to look up and acknowledge her as she entered his room did little to dampen Frankie’s anger.

  “Dougie, I need a word.”

  Mr Black responded by raising a finger in a just a minute gesture.

  The urge to yell warred with Frankie’s desire to remain professional. Professionalism won out.

  Frankie tried extremely hard to not tap her foot or tut during the excruciating minutes Dougie made her wait whilst he completed his marking of his student’s work. Tried hard and failed.