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

by C. P. Wilson

  Across the street, film crews do their work. No-one speaks to them, no-one rails at them or deigns to mark their presence: the mourners simply arrange themselves along the pavement, their silent dignity their disapproval.

  Somehow the mass of people grow even quieter. Frankie turns to find the funeral car inching its way around the corner onto the street. As the vehicle turns, Frankie notices his coffin. The fourth-year boy beside her lets out a loud sob at the sight. Frankie pats him gently on the shoulder, her eyes never leaving the hearse.

  Dougie’s body passes them slowly, allowing each of the people who have come to see him off their moment to offer silent thanks to Mr Black, or a prayer, or simply show the world how much the man meant to them with their hushed respect.

  The sounds of cameras draw several contemptuous glares, but do not disturb the peace of the moment.

  When the hearse turns the corner onto Ferry Road, those assembled simply start to follow. Straining to see along to the end of the street, Storrie asks, “Are they going with the hearse?”

  Frankie smiles. “Seems like it,” she replies.

  For almost an hour, the people trail the length of East Fettes Avenue and along Ferry Road towards Warriston Crematorium, following Dougie’s body and each other.

  Pedestrians stand gaping; several join the procession. Cars pull into the side of the road. Unable to pass, they simply switch their engines off, adding to the silence. The journalists cut though parks and playing fields, maintaining the live footage. Pedestrians stream images of the crowd over Facebook live. A police helicopter hovers above and is soon joined by a news team.

  Each of the people walking to Warriston pays no heed to the growing presence around them.

  Having taken a car via Stockbridge to avoid the procession, Storrie, along with Frankie and Lisa, are amongst the first to reach the crematorium after Dougie’s hearse.

  Stepping from his car, Storrie is greeted by an anxious official from the crematorium.

  “Mr Storrie, we can’t accommodate this number of people.” The man’s eyes move frantically across the people already in the grounds and to the continuous stream coming through the gates.

  Storrie smiles warmly at the man. “We have to deal with what is in front of us. Not what we expected, but it’s what we’ve got… and it's right that it's so.”

  Unconvinced, the man practically hops with agitation.

  “We’ll do it outside,” Storrie informs him, gesturing towards the expansive gardens surrounding the crematorium building.

  “I’ll have to speak to my boss,” the man frets.

  Storrie juts his chin towards the building. “Off ye go then,” he chirps as the man scurries back to his office.

  Storrie smiles to himself, wondering what the official’s boss thinks he might say to convince the thousands gathered, and still walking along Ferry Road, that they’ll need to leave.

  “This lot aren’t going anywhere,” he tells Frankie, who nods her agreement.

  “Pity the poor person who has to speak to a crowd this size,” she offers.

  Storrie’s smile only broadens. “I’ll cope,” he says.

  Catching sight of James Beath, he points the boy out to Frankie.

  “I should make him do it,” he grins.

  ∞∞∞

  Arranged in a wide, expansive semi-circle around the Crematorium’s gardens, the crowd loops out, a horseshoe composed of humans, in front of Storrie. The head teacher takes his place behind a lectern and mic that the staff have brought out for him. Several speakers sit placed around the inside of the horseshoe. To William Storrie’s left, his friend’s coffin lies, a plain white wreath atop.

  “Thank you for coming today, Edinburgh.”

  Gentle laughter ripples through the crowd.

  “Dougie Black was many things to each of us,” Storrie begins.

  “To some, he was a mentor. Others of us were blessed with his friendship. For some of you…” Storrie’s eyes slide towards the huddle of press near the gates, “… he was merely a good story. To most of you, he was simply ‘Mr Black’.”

  Storrie allows his words to settle before resuming.

  “Dougie Black was one of the best teachers I’ve ever worked alongside. He always had time for his kids, he never stopped trying to discover new ways of making his lessons come alive and his classroom the invigorating environment I’m sure you all think of when you recall his lessons.

  “Mr Black touched all of your lives in some way. Perhaps he listened when no-one else did. Perhaps he simply made you better than you might have been without having experienced his care.

  “That you are here today, and in such numbers, is the finest tribute to the man. That you’ve chosen to believe in that man you knew, to trust in your own experiences and memories of Mr Black rather than heed the tawdry rumours, makes me unreservedly proud and honoured to have assisted you in your lives, as well as grateful beyond measure.”

  Storrie turns his gaze to Dougie’s coffin.

  “Though he was Mr Black, and all the things that role meant to you, he was so much more to many others. Dougie Black was my best friend throughout my entire life. We went to primary school together. We played football in the streets, chased girls, stole apples, studied for our Highers, went to Uni.”

  Storrie returns his attention to the sea of faces around him.

  “Dougie was a husband and a father. Life made these roles very difficult for Dougie, but he gave his all to his family, just as he did every day for the children he cared for in school.”

  Storrie’s eyes fall on Frankie, who nods her encouragement.

  “I will not tolerate this good man’s name being spoken of in anything other than the most respectful manner. We’ve all seen the video that went up of the attack, as much as some of us might wish we hadn’t.

  “Had we known nothing about Douglas Black, had we never heard his name, those images alone show us a man committing a selfless act of sheer courage and determination, and of whom we should be proud. We did have the great fortune to know Mr Black. That man on the screens is the Dougie Black we all knew and the one we came here today to honour.”

  Storrie leaves the lectern. Walking past the coffin, he rests a hand on its surface for a moment before passing by. Taking his place beside his friend’s coffin, Mr William Storrie stands watch as every person present repeats his gesture, each of them saying their own farewell to Dougie Black, one hand on his casket. Storrie shakes each of their hands, and they leave the gardens one at a time.

  Four hours pass during which Storrie, soon joined by Frankie and the other teachers from their school, thank each of the mourners. The cameras witness every moment, each tear and every whispered goodbye.

  The last to approach Mr Black’s coffin, sheltering from the gentle, steady downpour that has developed under golf brollies, are James Beath and Jenna Hopkins.

  Storrie joins the couple as they lay their hands on the coffin’s lid.

  “It’s a good thing you did here, James,” Storrie says. “Mr Black would be very proud.”

  His focus seemingly on Mr Black, James simply nods.

  After what seems like a very long time, Frankie and Storrie alone remain of the mourners. Frankie’s subconscious prickles, a suggestion, telling her that Storrie needs to be alone with Dougie.

  Dougie gone. Dougie, laid in a box.

  The raw realness of it cuts her deeply once again.

  Frankie Malone nods at Storrie and takes her leave. As she walks through the gardens, she begins the process of cataloguing the emotional scars recent events have left her bearing. Barely closing, the wounds are red and inflamed and tender to the touch.

  Frankie Malone follows the advice of her mentor and begins tidying horrific memories away into boxes of their own.

  Before she departs, Frankie casts her gaze across the gardens. Storrie is leaning on Dougie’s casket. Even at a distance, Frankie can see his lips move as the head teacher delivers his final words to his best fr
iend.

  Frankie wraps her arms around herself. Closing her eyes, she tilts her face up, awarding herself a moment to simply enjoy the sun on her face. As the good, clean energy warms and recharges her battered spirit, Frankie whispers a final goodbye to Dougie Black.

  “See ye around, Dougie.”

  Interlude

  Facebook

  BBC News

  Thousands March to Honour Hero Teacher

  This afternoon an estimated eight thousand people attended the funeral of murdered high school teacher, Douglas Black of Cambuscraig High School in Edinburgh.

  Mr Black, who was killed in front of his Biology class in a frenzied attack by a pupil, died in the bravest of circumstances, as evidenced by a video taken inside his classroom at the time of the attack. The video has now gone viral, thanks in part to the efforts of James Beath, another pupil of Mr Black’s.

  James spoke to our reporter immediately after the funeral.

  “Mr Black died trying to protect us. I just wanted everyone to know how much he meant to every person who knew him, and can’t believe how many people turned out today to see him off.”

  Although we are unable to name the pupil who murdered Mr Black, his name is being circulated widely on social media. The sixteen-year-old is currently being held for psychiatric assessment.

  Mr Black is survived by his daughter, Karen Black.

  Epilogue 1

  “This is our youngest patient at present.” Dr Watts-Tucker gestures toward the cell door. Four junior doctors huddle around, peering through the narrow, reinforced glass slit.

  As the doctor conveys the patient’s details, several of them take notes, most just press in on each other, jostling for a clear view.

  “Sixteen-year-old Harry Jardine was admitted after being charged with the murder of a high school teacher. You may have heard of the case.”

  The juniors laugh at their mentor’s joke. Of course they’ve heard of Harry Jardine. Who hasn’t?

  Satisfied at the ripple of laughter, Watts-Tucker smiles to herself before continuing.

  “Jardine has been mute, and mostly non-responsive, since he was charged. He does co-operate with the medical staff, but has not answered questions nor offered any insights or any more information regarding the murder.”

  The juniors peer in. Harry sits on his bed. Feet over the side, he stares blankly at the wall opposite him. But for the movement of his eyes, he is perfectly still. His eyes scan slowly across the wall, a boy deep in analysis of nothing.

  He is inert. Vacant. Drool runs from the corner of his mouth, making a path along his chin. He does not raise a hand to wipe at it nor does he seem to notice the sensation.

  “Despite having a mother and a step-father who live nearby, Harry has not received a visitor in his month with us. His step-father was questioned regarding an assault on Jardine but was released without charge.”

  Watts-Tucker gently makes her way to the door. The junior doctors part, allowing her to pass.

  “We do not anticipate a change in Jardine’s condition and expect that he will be with us for the foreseeable future. He will not face trial for his crime until assessed fit to do so.”

  Watt-Tucker’s eyes rest momentarily on Harry’s face. Only able to see his profile, it strikes her once again how very young her patient is. Younger even than her own daughter. She shoves away a surge of sympathy, turning to her pupils.

  “Let’s move onto the next room,” she instructs them.

  In his room, Harry does not register their brief presence. In the vacant place, he pays no heed to the world his body resides in. The world where everyone he knows hates him and where Mr Black’s blood ran from him in warm, iron-tinged rivulets.

  Face beatific, Harry Jardine remains in the fresh, clean space his mind has created for him, with no desire to ever leave.

  Epilogue 2

  “William Storrie and Francesca Malone to see Karen Black.” Storrie lifts his finger from the intercom, hovering his hand over the door until it buzzes, granting their entry.

  “You’re sure that you’re happy with this?” he asks Frankie.

  “Yes,” she replies. “I really feel I should.”

  The door buzzes and Storrie follows Frankie through to reception, where a middle-aged woman waits for them.

  “Good to see you again, Mr Storrie,” she greets them both with a smile. Turning to Frankie, she offers a hand to shake.

  “Welcome to Lone Pines,” she says. “I’m Mrs Higgins.” Gesturing at Storrie, she continues, “Mr Storrie informed us that you were close friends with Mr Black and in his absence would like to begin regular visits to Karen?”

  Frankie nods. “Yes. I’d like that, if we can make it work.”

  “You received our briefing document?”

  “I did,” Frankie confirms.

  “And you’re happy to follow the protocol?”

  “I am. Whatever she needs.”

  Mrs Higgins bobs a nod. “Terrific.”

  “Does she know?” Storrie asks.

  Mrs Higgins smiles sadly. “Yes, we told her a few days ago.”

  “Any response?”

  “Yes. She cried, but only for a short while.”

  Storrie gestures his acceptance.

  Focusing back on Frankie, Mrs Higgins cocks her head to the side, assessing her, before speaking. “Karen relies utterly on her routine. She rarely tolerates any deviation from her daily ritual. We’ve prepared her for your visit, told her you were a friend of her father’s. She recognised your name.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes. Mr Black must have spoken of you often for her to have retained your name.”

  Frankie feels a tug at her insides.

  “I won’t let her down,” she promises Mrs Higgins solemnly.

  Higgins does not reply. Ascending the stairs, she beckons for Frankie and Storrie to follow her.

  When they reach Karen’s door, she taps lightly with the knuckle of her index finger before entering.

  Making way for Frankie and Storrie, Mrs Higgins takes position, standing unobtrusively against a wall in the room. With a nod, she urges them to approach Karen, who is seated in a high-backed armchair.

  Storrie hangs back, inviting Frankie to take the lead.

  Frankie swallows tightly before speaking.

  “Karen?”

  A hand on one arm of the chair for assistance, the young woman stands. Turning to face her visitors, she looks up at Frankie from under a tumbled fringe of curls. Her features so greatly resemble her father’s that Frankie has to suppress a gasp.

  Dougie’s eyes looking at her from this young woman’s face. Scanning her, the familiar eyes set a new face are curious.

  Who are you her expression asks.

  Frankie’s face breaks into a large, smile.

  Stepping forward slowly, she reaches for Karen, taking one of the young woman’s hands in both of her own.

  She is a woman approaching a timid creature, mindful of startling her into flight.

  “Nice to meet, you, Karen. I’m a friend of your dad’s.”

  Karen continues to puzzle at her.

  “My name is Frankie,” she says softly.

  Karen Black’s smile grows, illuminating the room. Her eyes sparkle in recognition of the name she has indeed grown to know.

  Karen steps forward, taking Frankie into a childlike embrace. Guileless, she nuzzles into Frankie’s neck, wrapping her arms around Frankie’s waist. The comfort that she takes from doing so is plain. The innocence of the gesture is utterly endearing.

  Frankie Malone overcomes her mild shock at the response and closes her arms around Dougie Black’s daughter.

  Mouth pressed against Karen’s head, Frankie Malone smells a trace of Dougie in his daughter’s scent. She speaks into her hair.

  “I think we’re going to be good friends.”

  Epilogue 3

  “You look fresher today,” McCreadie says.

  Gilmour eyes her from the passenger se
at. “You taking the piss?” he asks.

  Pulling the car to park up alongside the pavement, McCreadie laughs. “A wee bit, but you do look like you actually got a sleep last night.”

  Gilmour nods. “Aye, the wee one’s been a little more settled.”

  Jutting his chin toward the house McCreadie has parked in front of, Gilmour’s smile vanishes. “Let’s get on with it, will we?”

  Leaving the car, they approach the house. Gilmour reaches out to ring the bell, but stops his finger a millimetre short of pressing the button. “You want this one?”

  “No,” McCreadie replies. “All yours, sir.”

  “Dick,” Gilmour replies tartly. Suppressing a grin, he jabs at the bell.

  Very quickly, they hear footsteps descending a flight of stairs. The detectives take a step back from the doorway as it begins to open. Nothing so disconcerting as finding two coppers looming as a person opens their door.

  Mrs Beath’s brow furrows as she opens the door.

  “Can I help you?”

  Both detectives hold out their ID, allowing Mrs Beath to inspect their credentials. She doesn’t seem nervous, more surprised, and greets them warmly. With an arm out, she invites them in.

  “Ah, okay. We thought that you might want to follow up with the kids about Mr Black. Please come in, Detectives. James is upstairs with his girlfriend. If you want to take a seat in the living room, I’ll go fetch them.”

  Mrs Beath gestures at a door to their right before ascending the stairs.

  Gilmour and McCreadie wander through to the living room, McCreadie’s eyes moving over a row of photos of the family lined neatly along the mantel.

  From the images it’s easy to see that James is an only child.

  “Handy that Jenna is here too,” Gilmour’s voice interrupts her inspection of the photos.