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

by C. P. Wilson

  Storrie looks over at his friend’s face.

  “I suppose that it had become easier to not see Dougie and Mary for a while. He and Mary tried for almost ten years before she fell pregnant with Karen.”

  Enjoying hearing of their history, Frankie smiles broadly.

  “Did you see more of each other again after that?”

  Storrie’s face darkens; his eyes remain on Dougie. “No,” he says flatly. “Quite the opposite.”

  Storrie rises from his seat. Yanking at it by the handles, he shifts the chair nearer to Dougie’s bedside. Reseating himself, Storrie quietly reaches out to take Dougie’s hand.

  “Karen was fine for the first few months, and you’re right, we did see a little more of each other. Our youngest was just a couple of years older and still doing the whole park and play thing, so we met up a lot in those early days, both families out in the sunshine with their kids. Karen in a pram, my little one, John, toddling about alongside.

  “Karen began having little episodes where she went all floppy, or entirely rigid up to an hour at a time. Scared the hell out of Mary and Dougie, but they got used to it, for a few months anyway. She started having seizures not long after that. They had her tested for epilepsy, diabetes… allsorts.”

  Storrie steals a glance at Dougie, tightening his grip on his friend’s hand.

  “As she grew, the seizures increased in intensity and in frequency. Karen failed to reach any of the milestones parents are taught their kids should on time. She had difficulty walking, eating, and talking. She couldn’t even swallow that well for a time.”

  Frankie’s eyes begin to tear. “God, that must have been so difficult for them.”

  Storrie nods.

  “Aye. They stopped going out, spent all of their time caring for Karen. Dougie still worked, financially he had to, but Mary gave up her business.”

  Frankie offers a questioning look.

  “Dress design,” Storrie informs her. “She was good as well.”

  Storrie turns his eyes to Dougie once again.

  “Anyway. They took it all on themselves, shut their lives off from their friends and just hunkered down, I suppose. Again, I think it must have been difficult for them to spend time around us with our relatively easy kids for comparison. Dougie has never been good at accepting or asking for help.”

  Storrie smiles ruefully at his friend.

  “Karen was diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy just after she turned two years old. Mary and Dougie continued to care for her. She did manage to walk, a bit clumsily, usually needed an arm to hold onto, but she did it. She was a determined kid. Karen’s speech never developed to any great level, nor did her IQ. She measures around the same as a five-year-old now. She’s thirty years old.”

  Frankie’s eyes mist, but Storrie keeps his on Dougie as he speaks.

  “Karen can’t recall information easily, or retain it for long. As she neared her twentieth, she stopped recognising Mary as her mother, seeing her simply as someone who lived with her and her dad. Shortly before her twenty-first, Karen attacked Mary and hospitalised her.”

  Frankie’s hands raise to cover her mouth.

  “Mary walked into the room where Karen was watching TV, but Karen didn’t have a notion of who she was at all. Mary tried to hold and comfort her. Karen completely lost control of herself.

  “She punched and kicked at Mary, who did her best to defend herself, but she was into her fifties by then, and despite her condition, Karen still had strength greater than her mother’s. Dougie discovered Karen stood over Mary, striking at her with both fists. Mary had fallen unconscious and lay still as Karen battered at her. Dougie described his daughter as utterly terrified in that moment, not a trace of anger in her, he’d said.”

  Storrie lets out a long sigh. Patting Dougie’s hand lightly, he turns back to face Frankie.

  “Dougie had to calm her down, move her to another room, and sing her to sleep, before she would let go of him; all the while Mary was lying bleeding on the living room carpet.”

  Frankie fists tears from her eyes and cheeks.

  “How did they cope?” she asks.

  Storrie shrugs, his tone matter-of-fact, he replies, “They just did, cos they had to. Until that beating, and then things had to change.

  “From that point, Karen grew agitated and violent whenever Mary was present. As her primary carer, that obviously caused a lot of logistical problems, as well as the emotional stress it placed on the family. Dougie and Mary discussed their options. Could he stop working and take over the care of Karen? It’d take time to regrow her business, and could Mary earn enough money to support the family? Dougie had been teaching for twenty-odd years by that stage. He had a full pension not far off, so could he afford to let that go?”

  Frankie nods.

  “In the end, they decided that they were past the stage where they could do everything Karen needed alone anymore and accepted that they needed help. They placed Karen in full-time care.” Storrie reclines back into his chair, eyes flitting back to Dougie’s passive face.

  “They tortured themselves over that decision for years, but eventually they accepted that she was much happier in the routine and with specialist care, particularly as her condition degenerated. With the support and security Karen was getting, she did manage to feel more comfortable in her mother’s presence, meaning at least Mary could see her daily, so long as Karen’s key-carer was nearby.”

  "What a horrible situation for them," Frankie comments.

  “Aye,” Storrie nods his agreement. “Then Mary started showing early symptoms of her Alzheimer’s.”

  “Fuck,” Frankie groans, casting her eyes to Dougie.

  Again, Storrie agrees with her assessment.

  “Around three years later, Dougie realised that Mary was forgetting their daughter. On one of their daily visits, they left Karen’s place, arm in arm, and Mary turned to Dougie to comment on what a lovely young woman they’d spent the afternoon with, and wasn’t it a shame that such a nice girl had so many difficulties. Dougie was devastated when it dawned on him that Mary had spent hours with her own daughter and not known her at all.”

  Storrie’s eyes narrow. Standing, he fetches a tissue from the box on the locker and dabs at some drool on Dougie’s chin.

  “For almost six months, Dougie would remind Mary they had a daughter, then she would forget again. During her lucid moments, Mary would suddenly recall Karen and realise that she had lost her from her memory for months at a time. Each time Mary’s mind allowed her to recall her only child, Mary would again be utterly distraught at having unwittingly banished her daughter from her world.

  “This continued for around a year, then Dougie decided that he simply wouldn’t remind Mary about Karen anymore.”

  Frankie gasped.

  “What else could he do? Karen didn’t care for Mary, didn’t seem to need her at all. Mary’s condition had entirely erased her daughter from her memory and she had stopped regaining those memories at all. When Dougie succeeded in making Mary recall that she had a daughter she couldn’t remember, it was plain torture for them both. It was kindness to allow them to forget each other.”

  Storrie returns to his chair. “Dougie dealt with all of this alone. He spoke to me, thank God. I got my friend back amidst all that pain and loss. But otherwise he just got on with it alone, endured.”

  “But why?” Frankie asks.

  “It’s just the way he’s always been. Happy to do anything for anyone who needs help, won’t accept anyone’s help or pity.”

  As has become a habit these last twenty-four hours, Frankie’s eyes settle on Dougie Black’s face and she wonders if she has ever known the man at all. She sits for several minutes in silence, wondering at his stubborn courage and the pain this good man has borne for decades.

  Countless kindnesses she has witnessed him offer so many, the unlimited patience he holds for the kids in school, his manner of getting to the heart of a problem and lifting every person’s
spirits to enable them.

  Many facets of Dougie Black suddenly slide into a new perspective for Frankie. Her heart swells: pride that she has known this purely decent man fills her every cell.

  She stands and takes his left hand in both of hers. “Come back to us,” she tells him. “We need more Dougie Blacks in the world, not fewer.”

  Dougie’s eyes open slowly. Tentatively he allows light into them, moving his eyes around to take in the room.

  As they settle on Frankie’s face, he smiles wearily at her.

  His neck and head still, Dougie shifts his eyes right, finding his oldest friend at his bedside.

  Storrie can see something on Dougie’s face. An exchange or effort of will that perhaps no-one else would notice or interpret in the way Storrie does.

  A tear slips from the corner of Dougie’s right eye. His soul rustles inside him, adjusting his presence and then leaves.

  The room empties of everything, leaving only mechanical sounds and the sound of Frankie holding back her tears

  Storrie breaks the silence. Reaching to close his best friend’s eyes, he chokes back his own tears enough to blurt the words, “Goodbye Dougie.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  “Not like you to go unshaven, Lewis,” McCreadie observes.

  Gilmour rubs at his chin. "Aye. Was a bit of a long night, woke up late this morning as a result. Kids. Well, one of them,” he explains.

  McCreadie grins. “Well, nice to see that you’re human after all,” she says.

  Gilmour nods at the plasma screen in the corner of the little office/cupboard they occupy. Turning her attention to the screen, McCreadie joins Gilmour in watching their boss lead Harry Jardine into the interview room.

  The kid looks calm. Far too calm for anyone’s comfort.

  DI Stephens invites Harry to take a seat. Stephens takes a chair across the desk from Harry whilst the DC he has present, Kathy MacAlpine, remains standing near the door.

  Normally they’d do the good cop/bad cop stuff, but despite his crime, and Stephens’ frustration at not having been able to interview him sooner, Jardine is just a kid. A man and a woman from social services file into the room and Stephens starts the recording.

  “Good morning, Harry,” he begins. His tone is neutral. Not friendly, not aggressive. He needs the kid to talk. “I hear you asked to speak to me last night.”

  Jardine’s eyes move around the room. He doesn’t acknowledge Stephens. Instead, he peers closely at a stain on the white walls, investigating its shade and shape.

  Stephens stifles his frustration.

  “Harry?” he asks. The boy’s head turns towards Stephens, but his eyes do not focus on the DI.

  “The officers who looked after you last night told me that you were asking to speak to me?” Stephens’ voice softens.

  Even across the TV screen, McCreadie and Gilmour can see the change in the boy.

  His shoulders square, his back straightens. Harry Jardine’s eyes focus and fix on the DI. He shows no fear, no sense that he is intimidated or guilty or angry. He is an animated mannequin of a boy.

  “I didn’t want to hurt Mr Black, but I did. I stabbed him. A lot.”

  Harry Jardine’s expression does not change as he taciturnly coveys his actions. He does not tear up, or tremble, or dip his chin. Jardine may as well be describing a scene from a movie that someone else viewed and described to him.

  “I was there to hurt Jenna and James. I wanted to hurt them and then go hurt Drew.”

  “I like Mr Black…” Harry’s voice wavers on the single syllable of Mr Black’s surname, but recovers its cadence instantly, “and I’m sorry he got hurt.”

  Stephens nods along with each disclosure.

  “Did Mr Black ever hurt you, or act inappropriately toward you or anyone else you know of?”

  Harry’s entire demeanour shifts so suddenly the room seems charged. Standing, he glares across the desk at Stephens.

  “Mr Black… Mr Black is a great teacher and only ever helps people.” Jardine lifts a finger and points it at his chest. “I’m to blame.” The first real emotion creeps into his voice.

  “Me and no one else. My decision. Drew battered me this morning,” Harry gestures at the bruises on his face and neck. “I wanted to hurt him for this, but I couldn’t find him.

  “I wanted to hurt Jenna because of the messages she’s been sending me, and I wanted to hurt James for turning Jenna into someone just like him.” Harry lowers his eyes. “But not Mr Black. He is a good man. I know what I did to him and I wish I’d never gone into his classroom.”

  “Thanks Harry, that’s really helpful.” Stephens gestures towards Harry’s seat, inviting him to take it once more.

  The room remains silent for what seems an eternity. Harry’s body relaxes and the blank expression returns.

  “What happens next?” he asks.

  Stephens’ face is a mask of regret, but he conceals it quickly.

  Standing, he casts his eyes around the social workers and his DC.

  “Mr Black died this morning, Harry.”

  Harry Jardine retreats further into his vacant place. Visibly, his conscious mind leaves his body. Stephens witnesses this. The social workers see it. Eyes assessing the social workers, Kath senses it and shifts wide eyes to Harry. The two detectives watching over the monitor stare incredulously at each other.

  Stephens wants to leave, to be anywhere else but in this room with this kid. He doesn’t want this case. He wants to allow someone else to deal with the fucked-up kid sat before him.

  Stephens swallows hard and says the words anyway.

  “Harry Jardine. You are charged with the murder of Douglas Black…”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Gilmour mutes the TV screen and blows out a long sigh through pursed lips.

  “I know, right?” McCreadie says. “Things are moving quickly now, eh?” she observes.

  Gilmour shrugs, “Yeah. I’d imagine the procurator fiscal will be happy to push this through, based on that,” he nods at the silent figures on the screen.

  Stephens is talking to the two social workers. Harry Jardine is a still-mute.

  A sharp knock on the office door precedes a uniformed officer who sticks her head around to check on the room’s occupants before entering.

  “There’s a kid from Cambuscraig High out front asking for you, sir.”

  Gilmour’s eyebrows raise. “Did you catch a name?”

  “Mattie Gordon,” she replies.

  “He was one of the quieter ones, didn’t have much to add to the general description of the attack,” McCreadie interjects.

  “Aye, I remember him,” Gilmour replies. “Can you take the kid to interview room two please, Jackie?”

  “No problem,” Jackie responds. “He has a parent with him, so no need for social services.”

  Gilmour nods his thanks and he and McCreadie follow the uniformed officer along the corridor. Entering the interview room, they organise themselves, waiting for Jackie to bring the lad along.

  “I talked to him last time, didn’t I? You want this one?” he asks McCreadie.

  “Yeah, you did. I’m happy to do it.”

  Gilmour leans against the wall whilst McCreadie moves towards the door.

  Mrs Gordon enters the room, her son Mattie follows immediately after.

  “Thanks for coming in, Mrs Gordon, Mattie. What can we do for you today?”

  Mrs Gordon smiles wearily at McCreadie. Despite her obvious concern, she speaks bluntly. “Mattie has new information he needs to pass on,” she says. The disapproval in her tone is clear and obviously directed at her son.

  With a slight shove for encouragement, she steps to one side, allowing Mattie access to McCreadie.

  “Nice to see you again, Mattie.” McCreadie indicates that he should sit.

  The teenager remains rooted defiantly to the spot.

  “What have you got for us then, Mattie?” McCreadie asks.

  The kid looks like he�
�d rather be anywhere else in the world at that moment. He looks resentful and annoyed, but underneath shame is evident.

  Lifting his phone, he unlocks the device, swipes at the screen for a few seconds and offers it to McCreadie, who takes it from him without speaking.

  Glancing at the screen, McCredie notes that a video is ready to play. She raises her eyes to look at Mattie. The kid’s eyes dart to the floor.

  “Just play it,” he mumbles.

  His mother nudges him lightly, a warning for his manners, then folds her arms.

  McCredie gestures for Gilmour to join her before playing the video.

  An image of a group of hands clutching red wool cut into strands of varying length appears. The clamour of children chatting and laughing comes over the phone’s little speaker, followed by a man’s voice.

  “So we see the spindle fibres contact, pulling the chromatids apart.”

  The camera pans out to take in the entire structure the pupils are making from their disparate components. Douglas Black’s face comes into the corner of the screen. Relaxed and smiling, he continues to instruct his pupils, guiding their chromosomes this way and that to portray the different stages of Mitosis.

  McCreadie and Gilmour throw each other a quick glance. Mattie Gordon’s eyes remain fixed on a spot on the floor.

  Pupils’ faces, familiar to the detectives from the previous day’s interviews, pass in front of the camera. Mr Black’s classroom is exactly as each of them had described it. Informative, lively and fun.

  The camera pans out further showing the entire room. The pupils move, duck and slip around each other, arranging themselves to Mr Black’s instructions.