A Suitable Lie

by Michael J Malone

  Her kindness moved me. Nearly choking on another mouthful, all I managed to say was ‘Thanks.’

  I was awakened by the sound of Sheila’s key in the door. It felt as if my head had just rested on the cushion for a moment. The light on the VCR read 17.20. I’d been asleep for hours.

  ‘Hey sleepy.’ Sheila entered the room. ‘Sorry I couldn’t be here sooner. Things got a bit hectic this afternoon.’ Barking sounded from the kitchen.

  ‘Better go and get him first,’ said Sheila with a smile. She returned with the dog winding itself around her legs. He noticed me and came over for a sniff.

  ‘Was anything said about me today?’ I patted his soft fur.

  ‘No, nothing. Roy knows we’re friends. He wouldn’t tell me anything unless it was to your detriment. So things can’t be too bad.’ She smiled, hoping to pass on some reassurance. ‘Hungry?’

  ‘No I’m fine thanks.’ I couldn’t quite relax now that Sheila was home. This was her refuge from the world; she didn’t need me cluttering it up.

  ‘Oh.’ She looked genuinely disappointed. ‘That’s a shame cos I’ve brought home a Chinese for us.’ I noticed a white plastic bag in her right hand.

  ‘Well, if you’ve gone to the bother…’

  Our meal was peppered with the occasional sentence. For the most part we ate in silence. Sheila would offer titbits from the office and I listened, with only the odd grunt to signify that I was taking part in the conversation.

  After one long silence, Sheila asked, ‘How are the boys?’

  ‘Fine.’ I’d been trying not to think about them. Pat would have realised by now that something was not quite right, unless Anna had come up with a reason for my absence. Ryan would mercifully be none the wiser. Normally, it was on my return that Ryan would notice that I’d been gone, judging by his ebullient welcome.

  ‘Sorry.’ Sheila realised that she’d said the wrong thing.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I rushed to reassure her. ‘I’m just … It’s … I miss them.’

  ‘Don’t worry about them, Andy. You’ve got enough on your plate. They won’t know anything about what’s going on. They’ll be fine.’

  ‘I know. A Disney video, some toys, some junk food … who needs a father, eh?’ I closed my eyes, fighting back the emotion. ‘I can’t let them down, Sheila … I can’t.’ I could feel a tear slide down my cheek.

  ‘Andy,’ she said softly. I swallowed. Her kindness was not what I needed right now. I stood up.

  ‘Please, Sheila. I’ll be fine.’

  I felt warm, dry skin envelop my hand. Sheila was holding it with both of hers. Her eyes shone with empathy. I slumped onto the table. My head in my hands, years of sorrow, fear and shame flowed onto the heels of my palms. My shoulders shook. Now that I’d started I didn’t think I could stop. Resting my head on the table top, I crossed my arms across my stomach and rocked. The pain threatened to engulf me. Instead of fighting it, I went into it. I gave myself up to the hurt, accepted my part in the whole sorry mess and realised for the first time that I was not wholly to blame. And then I wept for Anna. For the love we had. For the stranger she had become.

  The love that still flickered deep in my heart.

  As I rocked and wept a part of me looked on, disjointed from the experience. He felt that this was happening to a stranger. He felt Anna’s hand on my shoulder and ordered me to stop. To calm down. I ignored him. As sure as rain washes silt from the land, I knew that I needed this release. I knew that I wouldn’t move on without it. Time then, to put aside years of conditioning, to cast them off like a cloak of concrete and admit my failings. Because I wouldn’t get my life back unless I did.

  None of this, though, made it any easier to meet Sheila’s gaze.

  I rubbed at a cheek with the back of my hand. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t know what got into me there.’

  Sheila raised her eyebrows slowly. ‘I think you do and it doesn’t make you any less of a man for admitting it.’

  I smiled weakly. ‘I can’t remember the last time I did this.’

  Sheila handed me a hankie. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  I nodded, not quite trusting myself to speak yet.

  ‘Take your time.’ Sheila squeezed my shoulder.

  I looked at the meal, managed a laugh. ‘Sorry about the food, looks a bit waterlogged.’

  ‘Forget about the food, I wasn’t really hungry anyway.’ She pushed the tinfoil containers to the other side of the table and turned to face me. Her silence urged me to speak.

  I told her everything.

  Every beating, every slur, every act of humiliation.

  As I talked I questioned why I had put up with Anna’s behaviour. Hearing the words out loud made her actions more repugnant and I wondered at my own sanity and how I had not realised before now the damage Anna was causing.

  ‘My wife beats me.’ I looked at Sheila. ‘Do you understand the importance of me saying that?’

  Sheila nodded. ‘Who more than me could understand that, Andy?’

  ‘I … I can’t believe I put up with it. What kind of man puts up with that?’

  ‘One who’s aware of his own strength. One who doesn’t want to stoop to that level. Don’t blame yourself, Andy. Anna is manipulative, scheming and very clever. Lots of people would have been taken in by her.’

  ‘But I convinced myself it was my fault. My fault.’ I punched my chest for emphasis. ‘Anna only beat me because I fucked up, she only beat me when I deserved it…’ I looked at Sheila, she was nodding.

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, it was just the same for me. He … I can’t even bring myself to say his name. He made me feel it was all my fault. He was very clever. Just like Anna.’

  ‘What makes people behave like that?’

  ‘It’s power, Andy. Look at any form of abuse and it’s one person asserting their power over another.’

  ‘But what makes people do that shit?’ And in my imagination I heard my question echo through the mind of every bruised soul in the country.

  ‘Who knows? Perhaps they were victims once themselves; perhaps they are just plain evil.’ Silence. We each absorbed what the other said.

  ‘How did you get out?’ I asked.

  ‘First, I saw sense. Realised that unless I got out one of us would die.’ This last sentence reverberated around my skull. How close had I come to that? How close could I still come? ‘Then I called a women’s refuge, called the police, got him chucked out, went on the Prozac and got on with my life.’

  In just a few words, quietly spoken, Sheila had described a series of actions that must have taken immense courage. If I wanted out, I would have to find the same strength.

  ‘But I can’t walk away. What about my boys? The mum always gets the kids, doesn’t she? I leave Anna and I say goodbye to them forever. The bitch knows how much they mean to me. She’ll do everything in her power to keep them from me. And what about the house? That’s my home. Why should I leave that? I’ve been there for years. First with Pat and then with … What am I going to do?’

  ‘Andy, you can’t let yourself get bogged down. You were doing so well a moment ago. Breathe slowly.’ I breathed slowly. ‘Right, I’m a firm believer in action. Action replaces worry. You have to concentrate on the solution, not the problem. Concentrate on a solution. What can you do to make things better?’

  I could see where Sheila was going with this. Hope sent an extra pulse through my veins.

  ‘What did you do? The police: been there, no help. Phone a refuge. They might not have a place for a man, but maybe they could tell me where to go. Then I could see a lawyer, see what they’ve got to say.’ I stood up and walked around the table. Sheila was right, action was the key. ‘Where’s your phone?’

  ‘Up there on the wall.’ She pointed to a space above the fridge.

  ‘Where’s the number of this refuge?’ I asked. Sheila pulled a small book decorated with flowers, from a drawer. She flicked through some pages and showed me a number. />
  It was answered quickly.

  ‘Em,’ I began nervously, ‘I wondered if you could help me.’

  ‘Yes,’ a female voice answered.

  ‘Well, I’m staying with a friend at the moment and I need to know where I can go for help.’

  ‘Yes?’ Suspicion heightened the woman’s tone.

  ‘You see…’ Swallowing, I forced myself to admit my source of shame to a stranger, ‘My wife has been beating me…’

  ‘Fuck off you sick bastard.’ The woman raged in my ear. ‘Do you think you’re funny? We have women here with real problems. Go on, piss off and don’t bother us again or I’ll report you to the police.’

  Dazed I hung up.

  Sheila grimaced, she’d heard every word. ‘I should have realised.’

  ‘Realised what?

  ‘You’re a man. She sees abused women every single day of her life. You’re the root cause of every catastrophe that woman has ever experienced or heard. No wonder she gave you abuse.’

  ‘But all I want is help.’

  My newfound energy had been consumed by the woman’s anger. Crushed, I limped over to the chair and sat down.

  ‘Don’t fall at the first obstacle, Andy. What else can we do?’

  ‘Don’t know. The police don’t want to know. The refuge doesn’t want to know…’

  ‘You can try a lawyer in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll probably need one for work anyway.’

  ‘And what about work?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘What solution can you come up with there?’ Sheila spoke more forcefully now.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Come on, Andy. Don’t let the bastards beat you. Who’s the root of the problem?’

  ‘Malcolm.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘No one knows where he is.’

  ‘That’s because no one has made any real effort to find him. Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well I suggest you get round there in the morning and wring the wee shit’s neck until you get a confession.’

  13

  Malcolm lived with his mother in an ex-local authority house in the Castlehill part of the town. When his father died a few years before, Malcolm took advantage of the generous discounts on offer for council tenants and bought it for his mother. His father would never have agreed to it while he was alive. Anything that could be attributed to Maggie Thatcher’s government would not be a good thing, according to his way of thinking. No matter how many figures Malcolm showed him, he would not change his stance.

  I’d met Malcolm’s father only once. He was a small, bald man with a ready smile and a cauliflower ear, who would call a spade a bastardin’ shovel. You were never in doubt as to what was in his mind for it played from his lips before the thought was fully formed. He liked to test anyone who came into the house, see how they reacted to his direct and forceful words. If you looked him in the eye and answered back, you were a good man. If you couldn’t meet his gaze and flustered a reply, he would never trust you.

  ‘You another one o’ these poofy cunts that work in the bank?’ he had challenged me that first time.

  Malcolm had warned me what he was like, besides which, I was used to having frank and often brutal exchanges with the guys at the rugby club.

  ‘Nice to meet you too, you ol’ bastard,’ I replied, softening my answer with a grin. He wheezed with laughter and patted me on the back.

  ‘Thank fuck,’ he grinned. ‘Our Malcolm’s got a pal that’s a real man for a change. Have a seat, son. Can I get you a beer?’

  Sitting in a plush armchair, feet barely touching the ground was Malcolm’s mother. She tutted disapprovingly at our exchange.

  ‘George,’ while addressing her husband, she winked at me. ‘Don’t be talking like that in front of your son’s guests. This man’s a banker…’

  ‘That’s a hard word to say with your fingers in yur mouth, int’t?’

  ‘George.’

  ‘Only teasing, Joan. The fella doesnae mind. Do ye, son?’

  ‘Not at all, George. What happened to my can?’ While playing to George, I grimaced at Joan in apology and hoped she would understand this wasn’t my normal behaviour.

  George laughed, ‘A man after my own heart. Can you no’ teach that son of mine to be a wee bit more like you. Him with his vodka and all that nonsense.’ He walked into the kitchen, but we could still hear him talking. ‘Never trust a man that doesn’t like his beer.’

  I only swapped insults with George a few more times, each of them on the phone. It was more likely that Joan would answer.

  Since I’d married, my outings with Malcolm had lessened until we barely met up at all. I reasoned, therefore, that if I spoke to Joan to ask for Malcolm’s whereabouts, she’d be less suspicious if I spoke to her in person. A voice down the phone would not win her trust.

  Standing at her door, my hand poised to announce my presence, the wind snatched a child’s cry and whisked it past my ear. It sounded like Ryan. With a twist of pain, I knocked at the door, wondering what he was doing right at that moment.

  Malcolm’s mother answered the door with a huge smile.

  ‘Andy. How are you, son? Come in.’ Her effusive welcome surprised me. I didn’t think that she would remember me that well. ‘God, I haven’t seen you for ages. Malcolm’s not in, by the way, but you’re welcome all the same.’ This last phrase let me know that whatever Malcolm was up to, his mother knew nothing about it.

  ‘Right, let me put the kettle on and you can tell me everything that’s been happening to you. I was sorry to hear about Patricia, she was a lovely girl. Only met her the once but I could see she was lovely. Lovely looking too. Beautiful hair. I can remember beautiful hair. Sit down, son. Sit down.’ She pointed to an armchair then ambled to the kitchen.

  Noises from the kitchen suggested ceremony and organisation. A ritual of welcome that was performed in almost every house I’d ever visited. A kettle was filled, a teapot emptied and biscuits rung onto a plate. China issued a perfect note and hot water rushed into a pot in a melody that brought an answering flush of saliva into my mouth.

  ‘I don’t get that many visitors now that George is dead.’ Joan walked into the room holding a tray. She placed it on a low table. Her back almost squeaked as she sat down. ‘I’m getting old, Andy.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I answered. ‘You look as young as the day I first met you.’

  ‘Aye, and I was an old crone then.’ She laughed.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about George,’

  ‘Aye, son. It wasn’t nice.’ The smile wavered while she remembered. ‘Prostate cancer. He had trouble with his waterworks for years. Refused to go and see a doctor. Said nobody was sticking a finger up his arse. Silly bugger. A wee cup of tea, son?’ She poured into a small, china cup. I picked it up carefully. It looked like a child’s toy in my hand. Satisfyingly hot, it moistened my mouth.

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely. You can’t beat a good cup of tea,’ I said.

  Joan beamed. ‘Aye, George always said I made a cracking cuppa.’

  Silence.

  ‘You’re no’ lookin’ so good, son.’ She studied my face. ‘I don’t like to say anything …’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said and recognised the sharpness of my tone. Offered a small smile of apology.

  ‘Have a biscuit, Andy. They’ll only go to waste.’ She read my smile, backed off and changed the subject.

  ‘Thanks.’ From the multitude on offer, I chose a Kit-Kat. She must have emptied her biscuit tin. There were enough biscuits to keep a child’s playgroup fed for a day.

  ‘So…’ She sipped at her cup and set it down on its saucer. ‘You’ve not visited this old lady just to sample her tea. What’s our Malcolm been up to?’

  ‘I don’t know if he’s been up to anything,’ I said through a mouthful of chocolate. ‘I just need a wee word with him.’

  ‘You cannae fool me, Andy son. A mother knows wh
en something’s up. First Malcolm comes in here in a sweat. Tells me nothing. Packs a bag. Says he going down to London for a couple of weeks and asks me to phone in sick for him.’ The lines on her face seemed to deepen as she spoke. ‘Andy, tell me. I’ve been worrying myself silly the last few days. What’s he up to? Is it drugs? You young ones are all into drugs these days. What is it? Marijuana?’ She pronounced the name of the drug as if she’d only ever come across it in print – ‘maridge-a-wana’.

  ‘Joan, don’t worry yourself. As far as I know Malcolm’s not into drugs, other than the socially acceptable ones.’ I thought about what I should tell her. ‘I can’t really tell you what it is. I’m sorry, that’ll have to come from Malcolm himself. Do you know how I can get in touch with him?’

  ‘Sorry, Andy, I don’t. He phones every night, just to tell me he’s okay. But he won’t tell me where he is. London was all he said. Could be Timbuktu for all I know.’

  Joan then steered the conversation onto, for her, less contentious ground. I had to give her every detail of Ryan’s birth, tell her how Pat was doing at school and describe Anna.

  ‘Want a fresh pot, son?’ she asked.

  ‘No thanks.’ I saw my opportunity, with this break in the conversation. ‘Honestly, I’ll be running to the loo all day now. Thanks, Joan. That was lovely, but I really have to go.’

  ‘Okay, Andy. Thanks for listening to an old woman and her problems. I’m sorry that boy of mine wasn’t here to talk to you. But I’ll tell him you were looking for him when he phones tonight.’

  Disguising my disappointment behind a smiling mask, I went to the front door. I’d hoped to leave with something more concrete than a phone message. My name was not going to be on the branch information board at the bank for much longer unless I spoke to Malcolm. All the bank had was me, and in his absence I feared that would be enough. And if I lost my job, I could surely say goodbye to the boys. Any slim chance I had of winning custody would be blown away like tissue in the teeth of a gale.