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

by C. P. Wilson

  ∞∞∞

  Upending the Dettol bottle onto a little cotton pad, Dougie wiped at the marks of her fingernails on his cheeks and arms. Feeling the sting of the disinfectant, he accepted it, partly feeling that he deserved the pain, mostly hoping that it was aiding the scratches in healing, becoming less visible. He had school tomorrow and had grown tired of explaining scrapes and abrasions as the result of a cat they didn’t own.

  The sounds of Mary’s sewing machine drifted in through the door which he’d left ajar to listen for her. The mechanical rhythm of her working brought him comfort as it settled into a predictable tempo. For the first time in hours, Dougie felt he could breathe, for a while at least.

  Blowing out a cleansing breath, Dougie caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. His appearance, of little concern to him most of the time, apart from looking presentable for school, caused him to do a little double-take.

  Shirtless, he leaned forward to pull at the cord for the mirror light. His skin had lost colour and now appeared pallid under the unforgiving light of the vanity mirror. The dark circles under his eyes had the effect of deepening already deep-set eyes and betrayed how few hours he routinely slept anymore.

  Assessing himself, Dougie had to accept that he’d lost flesh around his cheeks and on his neck and chest. He’d never had a weight problem: in truth, he’d always been quite lean, especially for his height. The reflection looking back at him didn’t look lean anymore, though, it looked gaunt, worn-out and defeated.

  For almost thirty minutes, Dougie Black stood regarding the face and body of an exhausted old man, searching for the courage and strength he desperately needed to endure. Mary’s sewing machine provided the soundtrack, and the motivation, as Dougie searched himself for reasons to continue and he slowly pieced together his tattered soul.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Harry’s phone vibrated. A green banner across the screen announced another message from Jenna.

  Harry, where are you?

  Harry’s eyes slid back to the TV, his attention returned to jacking his next car in Grand Theft Auto, a black BMW, whose driver he flung to the tarmac, shot through the head and drove off.

  The phone buzzed another twice, Harry didn’t bother checking the screen banners. Unwilling to even know what she wished to speak to him about, Harry batted the phone off his sofa. It hit the floor, falling out of sight. Harry found that he couldn’t care if the screen had broken with the impact or not.

  Two days had passed since Jenna’s party. Since James Beath and his pals had beaten him. Just thinking of the incident made his injuries throb.

  Pausing the game, Harry left the sofa and headed to the bathroom, paracetamol on his mind. Forgetting to avoid it, Harry came face to face with his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. His entire face was a kaleidoscope of black, browns and purples, lacerations and abrasions. “A butcher’s window of a face,” Drew had mocked when he’d come home from the A&E.

  Despite his vowing to avoid his appearance, Harry’s face suddenly fascinated him. Eyes moving over its surface, Harry moved his face left and right to better examine the myriad of injuries which had begun merging together and covered nearly every square centimetre of his face and head. Harry Jardine catalogued his wounds.

  A neat cut over his left eye: Harry half-recalled a fist there several times. A lurid purple was beginning to appear over his right temple, the pattern of the tread from James Beath’s converse criss-crossed the spot.

  Harry’s cheeks, chin and eyes had swollen and darkened, red and black, forming one large injury from dozens of blows he had only partly succeeded in blocking. His eyes no longer displayed any whites, the sclera now showed only blood red around his green irises.

  The nose was a mess. Broken and reset at the hospital, it held more pain and sensitivity than Harry would have thought possible to exist on a person’s body and that person still be able to function. The slightest investigative touch to it touch brought tears to his eyes. Breathing through it wasn’t an option. His throat had become dry and sore from breathing through it alone, but that minor discomfort was preferable to attempting a single breath through his battered nose.

  Harry tasted blood, and all day long, iron tinged mucus slid continuously down into his stomach. He’d vomited black, curdled blood for days.

  Sliding his sleeves up to the elbows, Harry surveyed the fine array of colours and scratches on his forearms and hands. The heaviest of the beating had been centred there, thanks to his frantic attempts to protect his face.

  Jardine’s eyelids and cheeks twitched as he considered and then decided to pull his shirt off. His chest and abdomen, mostly protected by his huddling into the foetal position, were starkly contrasted by the liberal bruising, cuts and scrapes peppered all over his sides and what he could see of his back. One rib on the right was cracked. A purple-black lump disclosed its position.

  As painful as these injuries were, none of them compared to the shattering headaches he had suffered since. Unable to tolerate bright lights, Harry had turned the brightness down on every TV and screen he used. Standing up hurt, lying down hurt. Every injury seemed deliberately placed where it would prevent any position or movement from being pain-free for even a single instant.

  Suddenly sickened, he pulled his shirt back on with great care and fetched a handful of paracetamol and ibuprofen from the cabinet. Filling his hands with water from the tap, Harry swallowed all four capsules and left the room without looking at himself again.

  Returning to the living room, Harry pointedly ignored his still-buzzing phone. He hadn’t spoken once to Jenna since the party. He couldn’t. Her first text had been an angry accusation, and a list of questions about why he had attacked James Beath and his friends. Why he had ruined their bikes.

  The next day she had seemed worried for him, rather than her new friends. Asking where he was, how he was. Someone must have told her that James and his mates had beaten him. Why hadn’t he called her back?

  Harry had simply stopped reading her messages after that.

  Harry felt utterly betrayed by his best friend.

  She should’ve come to see him by now. She shouldn’t have listened to other people she hardly knew. She should’ve asked him.

  Where had she been when he was at the hospital? Why wasn’t she here now, when he needed her so badly?

  Lost in wearing, gruelling pain, doubt, misery, confusion, and feeling wholly abandoned, Harry let out a long sigh. A waxy film slid down over the world and he just stopped caring. Just like that, he shut himself off from giving a single damn about any of them. Most of all, he ceased to care about himself.

  Harry Jardine returned to his game and forgot that anything outside the room existed.

  ∞∞∞

  The front door clunk-clicked and Harry’s eyes darted to the arm of the couch to check the time on his phone. Recalling that it lay on the floor somewhere, he paused his game and cocked his head to filter the noise coming from the hallway beyond the living room door. A sniff, a resigned sigh, a coat being removed and hung. Scorn showed on his face and Harry recommenced his game.

  Mum. Must be about four o’clock.

  Maggie Jardine shoved quickly through the door, her brow knitting in disgust as the eyes beneath it took in the room.

  “Furfucksake, Harry!” She strode into the room, gathering up his discarded shoes and crisp wrappers. Stacking several bowls he’d used throughout the day, she looked up at him from under her auburn hair, with anger and pleading competing for dominance on her face.

  “It’s nearly six,” she whined. “He’ll be home in a minute.”

  Harry’s scornful demeanour vanished, replaced by a shadow of the panic he saw growing in his mother’s expression.

  With no further words exchanged, mother and son, in unison, tidied and cleaned, smartening up the living room.

  "Give me those, Mum," Harry said, taking the plates and garbage from her. “You take my clothes up to my room, I’ll get rid
of these and hoover the living room.”

  With a nod, Maggie agreed. Turning to leave, she heard her son call after her.

  “Mum, tuck those clothes in behind my bed. I’ve a load behind there I hide until I can wash them without him seeing.”

  Maggie turned, her face incredulous. “Really?” she asked, voice dripping sarcasm.

  “Sorry, Mum, but we can discuss what an arse I am now and wait for Drew to get in, or you can just go add to the pile and let me deal with it later.” Harry held his arms wide, in a your move gesture.

  Maggie snorted her disdain, but turned and headed upstairs.

  Harry shook his head and strode through to the kitchen. Deciding that a quick wipe over the bowls would do under the circumstances, Harry scooped the remnants of his various snacks into the bin and ran a handful of kitchen towel around each of the bowls before stacking them in their place in the kitchen cupboard.

  Eyes scanning around for anything he’d missed, Harry gave a subconscious nod to himself and returned to the living room where he tidied away his games console and fetched the hoover. The carpet looked fine, but Drew would definitely find something he had missed, so Harry wasn’t taking the chance.

  As Harry wound the cord around the hooks on the hoover, Maggie walked past him at pace. “You’re an arse at times, Harry Jardine,” she commented without stopping.

  “Thanks, Mum,” Harry sighed, shoving the hoover into a nearby cupboard. A few moments later the rattle of pots and pans from the kitchen was joined by the clunk of the front door.

  Grabbing a paperback he only ever read when Drew was home, Harry seated himself, straight-backed, in the closest armchair as the living room door opened inwards.

  Drew’s intense eyes locked onto Harry as soon as he entered the room. Harry didn’t look up to meet his step-father’s stare, but he could feel it bore into him.

  “Had a busy day have we, Rocky?” Drew sneered.

  Harry lowered the book to look over at his step-father.

  “Oh Hiya, Dad. Didn’t hear you come in.”

  Harry smiled inwardly at the skill he had developed to smile sweetly and deliver the title ‘Dad’ making it sound like ‘dick’ in tone.

  Drew snorted his disdain. Assessing his step-son, he eyed several of Harry’s wounds. “Did you even fight back?” he asked. “Did you even get one hit in?”

  Drew glared at Harry. It was one of those moments where no answer Harry could give would please Drew. If he told Drew he had hit back, he would mock his efforts. If he said he hadn’t, Drew would ridicule him. Harry simply shrugged.

  Drew’s eyebrows lifted in mock sympathy. “Doing some reading, are we?” he asked.

  Resisting the urge to ask, “What the fuck does it look like?” Harry quietly nodded. Drew smiled malevolently at him before striding over to clout Harry hard on the side of his head. The headache he had been nursing all day swiftly exploded, treating him to an excruciating light show.

  Harry managed to look up at his step-father questioningly.

  “Yer book’s upside down, smart-arse,” he growled before striding through to the kitchen.

  Rubbing at his head to soften the pain, Harry found blood leaking from a reopened cut as Drew’s voice began booming from the kitchen. Unable to distinguish words, Drew’s tone was accusing. No doubt laying into Harry’s mother for pandering to the boy.

  Exhausted beyond measure and with no desire to defend she who never defended him, Harry did the only thing he could to help the situation. Trudging upstairs to his room, he shoved an ear bud deep into each ear canal and lay on his bed, allowing Frank Turner’s latest album to soothe his soul. Over the next hour, he talked himself out of messaging Jenna, the only person in the world who would begin to understand his situation.

  Harry Jardine had already hardened his heart, deciding that whilst Jenna was friends with the boys who had beaten him, he wouldn’t contact her, no matter how badly he needed the comfort.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Thanks, Mr Black,” Nicola Allan chirped as she exited his classroom.

  Dougie lifted his head from his task, catching sight of her face as she swept through the door. Dougie smiled to himself. So few kids thanked teachers for a lesson anymore. Nicola Allan always did. No matter how long a teacher had been in the classroom or how many years they’d taught the courses to so many different kids, having a pupil enjoy a class of yours enough to thank you for it was always a major boost.

  Tidying some jotters from his desk into his bag, Dougie whistled to himself as he moved around his classroom, packing up for the weekend.

  “Somebody’s happy.”

  Dougie lifted his eyes to discover his classroom-neighbour Frankie Malone entering his room. Throwing him a wide smile, she sat herself on the edge of one of the desks.

  “Looking forward to the department night out?” she asked.

  Dougie shrugged. “I suppose so. What time does it start again?”

  “Seven-thirty.” Frankie jabbed a thumb over her shoulder towards the doorway. “A few of us are going to the pub now, wanna come along?”

  Dougie shook his head.

  “Thanks for asking, but I’m gonna get home for a bit first then catch up.”

  Frankie stood. "Well, suit yourself. See you later then.”

  Dougie heard her shoes tap along the corridor and then the door to Lisa Ferguson’s room being opened.

  Smiling sadly to himself, Dougie considered for a moment whether he could indeed just go along to the pub straight from school with the rest of them.

  Mary was out this evening anyway. She’d had a good few days and was feeling able enough to attend an exercise class in Leith with a friend.

  Dougie stroked at his chin thoughtfully, then grabbed his jacket, deciding that his time would be better spent at home fixing a meal for Mary that could be left in the fridge and heated up by her alone with little fuss when she got home.

  As he reached for his door handle, a group of sixth-year pupils barrelled through the opening door, startling him.

  Billy Dick, first of the three to enter, and with the other side of the door handle in hand, noticed Mr Black as they swept into the room.

  “Oh, sorry, sir,” he offered.

  Dougie stepped back to allow the senior pupils to enter. Ellie Reid and Brogan Pratt followed Billy into the classroom.

  “That’s quite alright, Billy. What can I do for you three on a Friday afternoon?”

  A sheepish look crossed all three of their faces. Ellie spoke first.

  “It’s just with the exam on Monday. We’re needing a bit more work, sir.”

  Dougie pursed his lips. "We’ve been revising all week on this, guys. You’re as ready as you’re going to be.” Dougie raised his index finger. “Aside from a few more hours doing the exercises on Sunday that we discussed for each of you,” he warned them.

  Billy took a step forward to stand level with Ellie. He leaned in toward Dougie, conspiratorial expression on his face. His voice low, he almost whispered to his teacher.

  “Aye, we know, but we’re pure shiteing it, sir.”

  Six eyes widened and fixed on Dougie. The teens resembled a row of pugs begging a treat.

  Dougie laughed. "Right, c’mon then. We’ll do a few practice questions, but just for an hour, then I need to get going, alright?"

  All three teens nodded their heads in unison.

  Ellie grinned. "Big night out on the razzle, sir?” she asked, her eyes dancing in amusement at the thought of her late-middle-aged teacher out on the town.

  Dougie rolled his eyes then held his hand out and curled his fingers in a gimme gesture.

  Ellie’s face soured.

  “You know the rules,” Dougie said.

  Brogan finally found his voice. “Aye, nae bother, sir,” he said stepping forward to place a battered-looking iPhone into Dougie’s waiting palm. Ellie and Billy, both of their phones as battered and shattered as Brogan’s, placed them in Dougie’s hand. No phones in cla
ss, ever. But especially during study-support.

  Dougie had repeatedly impressed the need for them to be engaged fully in their tasks, especially when it was a lesson outside school hours. That wasn’t possible with a smartphone in their pocket or on their desk.

  With a nod, he slid the phones into his desk drawer before turning to the teens. They had begun unpacking their notepads and equipment. Dougie smiled in satisfaction at their eagerness.

  “Let’s get started,” he said, hiding a smile. “And watch the language, Billy.”

  The three teens grinned to themselves as their teacher joined them.

  ∞∞∞

  “Thanks Marion, that’s really good of you.” Hunched in the doorway of Shakespeare’s Bar, Dougie shielded his phone from the wind and stuck a finger in his other ear that he might hear Mary’s friend speak more clearly.

  “We’re great, Dougie. Mary’s had a smashing night. You away and enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”

  Dougie nodded to no one. “Marion, thanks for this.”

  “Och don’t be daft, you should ask more often. You need a life too, Douglas Black,” she admonished him.

  Guilt flooded his every cell.

  “Away and get on with your night.” Marion rung off.

  Caught in indecision, Dougie cut a look down along Lothian Road. Considering leaving, just ending the night and heading home, he stepped out one foot onto the pathway without intending to.

  Frankie appeared at his side. A hand on his forearm, she guided him back inside. "It’s freezing out here, Dougie. C'mon in."

  Frankie handed him the pint he’d left sitting at their table. Rather than heading back to join the others, she guided him over to a quiet corner of the pub.