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

by C. P. Wilson

  The burger smell, mostly overpowered by the ubiquitous aroma of weed, filtered through Dougie’s senses, drawing his eyes to a little meat hut across the pathway from him. Dougie grinned at the meat stall’s signage.

  Well Hung and Tender

  His thoughts flittered between various memories and images of previous years when he and Mary had ravenously sought out and relished as many acts of a dizzying variety as the Festival had to offer. In their twenties, short on cash and long on time, they’d bought tickets for the cheapest shows which they knew little or nothing of and filled their days and nights dashing between venues at all hours to discover what the next show held.

  Later in life, when they had become parents, the Festival had morphed into a series of carefully-planned moments in which they would pick only those shows they were most interested in, utilising their precious free time wisely. As an older couple, they’d stopped going entirely.

  Memories fell unbidden before Dougie’s minds eye as years passed before his senses. Memories of them laughing together, strolling from venue to venue, her arm hooked through his, dashing to catch a bus up the Mound to make the next curtain time. Huddled together in doorways, sheltering from the rain or wind. Kissing in Princes’ Street gardens in the shadow of the castle. Mary at work, always whirring away at her machine…

  So often a safe haven, a refuge for him. A place where Mary, the real Mary, still existed, a reality where he could still immerse himself in the feel of her true self; today the flickering images of what used to be, of who she was, felt the cruellest of taunts. Dougie experienced the years and the memories they held pressing down on him. As real as the autumn leaves whirling around his feet, the images of his wife his mind presented to him abruptly aged and lost their vibrancy.

  The smells of Karen and her apartment rose from his clothing, sharpening the sense of desolation growing in his soul. Dougie’s isolation, his emotional estrangement from Mary, his guilt at the many secrets he kept from her, warred with his need to have something, anything, that made him feel like the good man he had always considered himself to be.

  Dougie threw his mostly untouched tea into a nearby bin, pulled his coat around him and barged his way through the streets of carefree people, headed home to reality.

  Resenting each and every one of the people he passed for their freedom, he hardened his shoulders, making contact with many as he rushed through the crowd. Dougie’s anger grew with every nudge and push. Bitterness fuelled his pace. Tucking his chin down into his chest, Dougie barrelled through a group of twenty-somethings.

  Hearing a shout from behind, he spun around glad of the coming confrontation.

  At his feet he found a university student. On her backside, her bag of flyers scattered around her, she held her arms out in a what the fuck gesture.

  Dougie’s anger vanished. Looking at her face, she could have been any one of the thousands of kids he’d taught throughout the decades. Just a kid trying to earn some money doing a job everyone hated. Shame flooded the life-long teacher.

  He came down to her, offering both hands.

  “I’m so sorry, miss. Can I help you up?”

  The young woman glared at him for a full second, scanning his expression. Whatever she saw there - regret, fear, guilt, an old man making a fool of himself - whatever it was present on Dougie’s face melted her anger. She smiled sardonically up at him whilst stretching to take his hands.

  “Slow down a bit, man,” she told him.

  Dougie’s face flushed red.

  “I’m really sorry.” He dropped to his knees and began raking at her flyers, arranging those that the wind hadn’t swept along the quarter into a neat pile.

  Rising to his feet, he smiled sheepishly whilst handing her the flyers.

  The kid looked closely at his features.

  “Mr Black?” she asked.

  Dougie closed his eyes. The one fucking thing that could make the moment more embarrassing.

  “Yes…” he replied.

  “I’m Shannon Blackadder. My wee sister Hannah was in your class.”

  Dougie took refuge in his teacher’s mode. “Ah, yes. I remember Hannah, she was a good kid. Went onto uni in…” Dougie searched his memory for a moment.

  “Aberdeen,” Shannon interjected.

  “She doing alright?” he asked.

  Shannon shrugged. “She’s a first year. Never in, never studying, never in class, out partying all the time, sir.”

  Shannon raised her eyebrows, casting him a glance that suggested he’d been on the drink too much himself tonight.

  Dougie merely smiled.

  “Well, tell her I’m asking for her, please.”

  Shannon nodded, stuffing her recovered flyers into her bag.

  “I’m sorry again, y’know...” Dougie made a gesture at some flyers whipping their way along the ground. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

  “I’m fine, but maybe walk a wee bit slower, eh?”

  Dougie returned her smile. “I will. Nice to see you, Shannon.”

  Dougie turned to depart. Finding her hand on his arm, he swung his eyes back around to meet hers questioningly.

  “You are okay, Mr Black?”

  Dougie felt tears well. Willing them to dry, he placed one of his own hands over the one she had placed on his arm.

  “I’m just fine, hen. Thanks for asking.”

  Shannon cocked her head to the side, assessed him for several uncomfortable moments then broke into a grin.

  “Right, well, back to work,” she said, disappearing into the crowd.

  Dougie straightened his coat sleeves and headed home at a slower pace. Home to Mary.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, Harry’s eyes scanned around the pre-teen-filled living room.

  Eleven- and freshly-turned twelve-year-olds chatted and laughed together, holding drinks like they contained anything other than fizzy, wine-like juice. One Direction, played super-loud, vibrated around the room. Some kids, mostly girls, danced along, shouting over the track to each other. With the exception of a few of Jenna’s cousins, who were visiting from Glasgow, he knew most of the kids here. Liked them all too.

  Jenna was huddled with three other girls exclaiming excitedly at the gifts they’d brought for her.

  The ultimate twelve-year-old party, Harry thought to himself.

  One Direction, fake booze and parents hiding up in their bedroom in case word gets out on Facebook and the place gets trashed.

  Catching the sarcasm of his thoughts, Harry rebuked himself and fixed his eyes on Jenna. She had laughed so much today, it made him happy to see his best friend enjoying herself so much. The beginnings of a smile playing on his lips, he allowed an almost dancing rhythm to move his legs. Jenna looked up and spotting his uncoordinated swaying immediately, she laughed and waved him over.

  Harry took a step forward, throwing out a little shuffle step to make her laugh, but she’d turned her attention to something Amber Swain had just told her.

  A voice from behind startled Harry.

  “Check out dad-dancer here.”

  Harry began to turn but felt someone shove him in the back. Caught off-balance, he landed heavily face-first on the wooden floor. His cup skittered away from him, spilling across the floor.

  Jenna was on her feet and by his side in an instant. Kneeling down, she helped Harry pick himself up. Part-way to his feet, Harry found three S1 kids from the high school standing over him. Each of them hid smirks, which they masked further with faux concern when Jenna turned to face them.

  “What happened, Harry?” she asked.

  Now on his feet, Harry’s eyes moved over each of the boy’s faces. The tallest of them, James Beath, scowled a warning at him.

  Harry’s glance shot downwards, then locked on Jenna. Forcing humour into his voice, he said, “Just fell. Must be drunk, eh?” He nodded at the spilled juice.

  “Aye, that’ll be it,” Jenna smile
d. “You be more careful, eh?” she told him before heading to the kitchen.

  Beath stepped towards Harry, close enough that the younger kid could feel his breath in his face. He pushed a hand against Harry’s chest. Beath didn’t intend to push him over again, merely press against him in a display of strength that warned Harry that the older boy could choose to get physical with him anytime he desired.

  Harry stood his ground, but did not press against Beath. He wasn’t frightened of the larger boy, but he was unwilling to spoil Jenna’s party, or end up at the bottom of a pile of kicking teenagers. Beath glared down at him, until catching sight of Jenna returning from the kitchen with paper towels in hand.

  Unaware of the tension, Jenna rushed past the boys and began soaking up Harry’s spillage.

  Beath broke the glare he had fixed on Harry. Shouldering past him, he came to one knee beside Jenna and reached for the paper towels.

  “Let me help with that,” he told her.

  Harry watched his friend smile gratefully at Beath, shook his head and pushed past the two other S1 boys who made a show of blocking his path.

  Freeing himself from their covert shoves and shoulders, Harry continued through to the hallway, collected his coat and left the party behind.

  Emerging outside into the warm summer evening, Harry grinned to himself as he noted three very expensive-looking bikes chained up to a lamppost at the bottom of Jenna’s garden. Three very expensive and familiar-looking bikes.

  Casting his eyes around, along the pavement and the gutter, Harry located a suitably chunky shard of green glass. Thick and rounded at one end for gripping, thinner and much sharper at the other for cutting. Retrieving it, he walked calmly to the bikes, pausing by the nearest of the three to come down on one knee. Taking a firm grip on the tyre, Harry Jardine dragged the glass shard along the outer wall. Adrenaline surged through him, excitement crackled every nerve. Several scrapes were needed before the glass opened a gash in the tyre with a too-loud whoosh-hiss. Despite himself, Harry laughed before moving onto the next. Securing his grip on the second wheel, Harry cast a quick sidelong glance towards Jenna’s house before beginning his scrape-cut at the second bike’s tyre. Another satisfying bursting came much sooner second time around.

  “Haw, Jardine!” The shout came from the front door to Jenna’s house. Jordan’s face was ugly rage as he began tearing across the grass towards the bikes. He yelled over his shoulder as he ran, “Steve, James… that wee cunt Jardine is slashing our tyres.”

  Harry made a conscious choice to spend precious seconds shredding through the third bike’s tyre. Feeling the first gush of air brush his fingers, Harry sprang to his feet before the sound reached his ears and tore off an instant before Jordan reached him.

  Harry Jardine ran like he’d never run in his life, a manic laugh sounding from his throat, a siren’s wail trailing him. He was scared, but he was also utterly invigorated. Jordan stopped momentarily to inspect the damage to his bike. James and Steve raced to each of their bikes, but cast only a cursory glance to survey the damage and continued their run past Jordan and their damaged bicycles to pursue Harry.

  “You’re fuckin’ dead, Jardine!”

  The shout from behind gave Harry an extra surge of speed as he sped around a bend, leaving Comely Bank behind. Realising that he was now on the long straight of East Fettes Avenue, Harry felt a swell of panic. Risking a quick look over his shoulder, he found James and Steve much closer to him than he would have thought possible.

  Exhilaration and fear had given him additional speed, but these boys were two years older, stronger and significantly faster than he was.

  Harry scurried through the open gates into Inverleith Park. Hoping to reach the swan’s nesting grounds and duck down beneath the tall reeds before the boys came within sight of him, Harry utilised every milligram of his free-flowing adrenaline, turning the speed on to cross the narrow wooden bridge into the reeds.

  He threw himself to the decking, hoping that he had got out of sight in time.

  Laid on his stomach, Harry forced himself to breathe slowly and quietly as he turned his head this way and that, attempting to detect any sounds of the S1 boys’ approach.

  Grasshoppers chirruped, ducks called, and seagulls, stealing bread and Cheerios from the pond surface, squawked their victory over smaller birds. Harry heard a rustle and turned to find a large swan regarding him suspiciously from her nest. Defensively, she spread her wings, displaying her size to the prone twelve-year-old. Harry’s heart threatened to burst through his ribcage. Somehow he kept his breathing silent. Panic was growing again. Panic that the boys would hear the noise the mother swan would surely raise.

  Softly, with a firm glare fixed on Harry Jardine, the pen settled herself back onto her eggs. Harry let out a long, silent breath and felt his heart slow. Half a second later, the sole of James Beath’s right foot struck him squarely in the right temple.

  Stunned, Harry summoned the will to spring to his feet. All three boys now strode toward him, forming a semi-circle, cutting his egress from the deck.

  To Harry’s back was a high fence, separating the nesting area from the pond. Steve and Jordan’s faces were purple fury. James Beath grinned at him wolfishly. The bastard was loving every moment. To his right the big pen gathered her wings tightly around her nest and threw Harry an accusatory-cum-fuck you look.

  Harry turned and ran straight at the fence, hoping that he might scurry over it despite the height.

  Before he had covered three paces, Jordan brought him down with a heavy rugby tackle around his knees. Harry’s nose crunched into the decking beneath and neon light slashed his vision.

  Someone rolled him over and whooped in delight at his broken nose. Feet began raining down onto his abdomen, his chest and his head.

  Harry covered himself with his arms. Finding that he had too many places to defend, he curled in on himself and covered his head, shifting their attacks to his legs and back.

  Harry felt something pop and dislodge in his spine. Plasma-pain shot up from his knee as one of them stomped it into the deck. One of the boys sat on his waist and began bulleting fists into the gaps between his arms. Cheek, eye, ear, the nose again. Systematically the blows found the gaps he left between thin arms and pain would blossom once again.

  Words filtered through.

  “Our fuckin’ bikes.”

  “You fat bastard.”

  “C’mon dickhead.”

  Someone pulled his shoes off, and somewhere he heard two splashes. The well-timed fists between his arm guards ceased and were replaced by a foot slamming again and again down onto his barely-protected head. The stomper had rhythm and timing a drummer would have been proud to possess.

  Finally, blissfully, his world turned red and then black and Harry Jardine slipped gratefully into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Mary, please!”

  Backing away from his wife, Dougie held his hands up in the most conciliatory gesture he could whilst blocking her blows. Unaware, uncaring, or simply too lost in her fear or confusion to recognise his retreat, Mary pursued him across the living room, landing several more solid slaps to his face as he backpedalled. Each blow was punctuated by her words.

  “Just. Stop. Treating. Me. Like. A. Child.”

  Dougie covered his head with his hands and arms. Settling into a defensive shape, he absorbed the bows. Tears fell as he hid behind his arms, the odd glimpse of Mary flailing at him through gaps in his arms. Despite the tears flowing freely down his face now, Dougie accepted the blows passively, hoping that Mary would run out of steam before she hurt either him or herself.

  At one time he would have been wondering how his offer to pull the zip up on the back of her dress had managed to catalyse such an intense reaction. At one time Dougie would’ve attempted to reason with his wife, or restrain her. He had even tried yelling at her. None of these tactics had succeeded in doing anything but enflaming the moment and in frightening his wi
fe.

  These days, Mary’s volatility had become just another of her regular symptoms to accept and tolerate, and so Dougie made himself small, curled in on his own self and let her beat him.

  Three of Mary’s most recent slaps lost some of their power. The next few were half-hearted at best. Emerging from his cover, Dougie found his wife standing over him. Her hands now lay gently, inert at her sides. Her eyes, rimmed in red, were narrowed and looking down, locked on him. Mary wore a puzzled expression, but only for a moment. Dougie watched realisation darken her face, and rose quickly to his feet that he might comfort her. As her expression morphed, he witnessed something shift behind her eyes. An almost imperceptible little adjustment that showed him she, the real Mary, was suddenly there with him and, painfully, fully aware of what she had been doing.

  Mary’s hands moved up to cover her mouth, her face crumpled and bitter tears ran in rivulets along her cheeks.

  Silently, Dougie took his wife in his arms. Mary pulled away, shoving at him to leave her be. Shaking her head in disbelief, she began apologising to Dougie, condemning herself as she frantically backed away from his attempts at an embrace.

  Her protests and shoves lacked any of the strength of her earlier attack. Gradually she submitted, allowing her husband to approach and to hold her. They found themselves on their knees, Mary her arms around her husband’s chest clinging to his strength.

  Mary’s hands and Dougie’s face and arms already bore scratches and the beginnings of bruises. Holding her head to him, Dougie pressed his cheek against the crown of her head. They exchanged no more words; they merely wept and forgave each other.