A Suitable Lie

by Michael J Malone

  Not even as much as a stick.

  The red bucket.

  ‘Okay, Hunter.’ I took a step closer. ‘If you’re convinced Ryan’s yours, why don’t we take a test. A DNA test and sort it once and for all?’

  He stepped to the right. Ryan briefly struggled against his grip, looked up at the man who had been kind to him so far. Confusion brought a trembling lip and then tears.

  ‘I want my daddy,’ he cried.

  ‘You’re upsetting him, Ken,’ I said and moved closer again.

  ‘There, there, wee buddy,’ said Hunter. ‘It will soon be over. Don’t worry.’

  I heard a shout from behind me and the rapid approach of several pairs of running feet.

  ‘Put down the weapon,’ I heard a male voice shout.

  I turned. It was Detective Bairden with Jim and a pair of uniformed policemen. They were about twenty metres away.

  ‘Yeah, that’s going to happen,’ Hunter laughed. Then shouted, ‘All of you keep back or the boy gets it.’ From his fixed and determined expression I knew he was serious. I had to do something before the police reached us. The space between Ryan’s flesh and that knife was getting shorter and shorter.

  While Hunter was distracted by the police, I lunged forward, picked up the bucket of jellyfish and threw it in his face.

  He screamed. And in his drive to put his hands to his face, dropped the knife and released Ryan.

  I dived for my son, pulled him into my arms, and scrambled out of Hunter’s reach.

  Ryan burrowed into my shoulder. He was sobbing, his little body thrumming with fear.

  ‘What have you done to my face?’ screamed Hunter and fell to his knees. ‘Somebody wash it off me. Wash it off me.’

  Detective Bairden reached me, patted Ryan on the back and smiled over at Hunter. ‘That looks quite painful,’ he said. ‘Or is he just a big wean?’

  Now that Ryan was safe and the bogeyman was reduced to a quivering wreck the atmosphere changed. Apart from Hunter and Ryan everyone else was relaxed. It was all I could do not to break into a giggling fit.

  Jim reached my side and held his hands out for Ryan.

  ‘If you fancy having a kick at his nuts, I don’t think any of these officers will stop you,’ he grinned, relief pinking his face.

  ‘I think the burning feeling on his face will be sufficient for now,’ I answered.

  We all clustered round the squealing Hunter and watched him as, on his knees, he feverishly splashed himself with water.

  ‘I need medical help,’ he shouted. Stopped splashing to look at all of us in turn. ‘Somebody help me.’

  Jim pretended to reach for his zip. ‘I heard that urine was a good treatment for jellyfish stings. Do you want it straight from the pipe, Hunter?’

  32

  My mother was a rock during the few days leading up to the funeral service. From her spirit and energy no one could tell that she was about to stand by her son’s side as he buried his second wife. She did everything: got in touch with the funeral director, arranged the flowers, spoke with the priest.

  Jim’s confession and Ryan’s abduction meant that my feelings of grief for Anna’s death had been pushed to the far side of my thoughts, but now that everyone was safe, they forced themselves onto centre stage.

  The boys clung to me like limpets that following week. I even had to leave the door open whenever I went to the toilet, such was there distress when they couldn’t find me in the very moment they sought me.

  Ryan asked for his mother several times over the next few days, then learned not to as each request was met with downcast faces. Bedtime was the worst. Ryan always preferred his mother’s touch just before he went to sleep.

  On the day of the service I debated whether Ryan should go, but my mother argued that he should be allowed to say goodbye to his mother. I couldn’t disagree with her. If he became distracted and noisy, then she would take him outside.

  One should never discount a child’s sensitivity. Ryan behaved beautifully. He held my right hand through the service, while Pat held the other. He looked at the faces long with grief around him and was hushed by the emotion evident in everyone’s stance.

  Death touches us all, particularly when it leeches life from one as young as Anna: particularly when it brings violence along by the hand. The church was full. People who worked with her, people who knew her only briefly, people who’d never set eyes upon her until they’d picked up a newspaper, they were all there to express their sadness.

  The priest’s eulogy was short and for this I was grateful. I couldn’t have listened to someone speaking about Anna, filling in the holes of their knowledge of her with generalisations.

  At the graveside people offered their hand in condolence. Each one I accepted with royal patience when I would have rather screamed at them: leave me alone. There’s me, my boys and my grief. Leave us be. I wanted to look over Anna’s short, sad life and pick at it like a fisherman would examine his nets. Perhaps in the picking there would be a mending and I could make some sense of it all.

  More hands, more lips pressed against my cold cheek.

  Leave me be.

  I said nothing. I permitted a smile to curve the ends of my bloodless lips and continued to acknowledge the mourners. I could feel a tear like a salt pendant hanging in the corner of my eye, waiting for the moment when I would let it sail.

  Two men stood away to the right, heads bowed. I didn’t recognise them. The thought occurred to me that they might be from Anna’s family. I sent them a message of hate; they were the start of all of this. People around the two men moved off and I could see that they were both wearing council uniforms.

  They were simply waiting to shovel the earth over the coffin. This was just another day to them and I envied them their sense of distance.

  Ryan and Pat were standing just off to my left with Mum and Jim. Cold had begun its journey through the veins in my feet, the muscle and tendon of my legs, the flesh in my groin, but I would not let it journey any closer to my heart. If life had robbed these boys of a mother each, I would not let it take their father. I believed then and I believe now that it is not what happens to you that determines your happiness, but how you react to what happens to you. I had a choice and right there and then, I chose joy.

  It was difficult to find, but standing there on that graveside I found joy in Anna’s existence. The night before she died I’d caught a glimpse under the hard carapace. I’d been granted a reminder of what the real Anna Boyd was like. The real Anna who had been buried under the thick shield of her defences. The Anna that the boys would celebrate with a happy and fulfilled existence.

  I thought about what Hunter said as he held a knife to Ryan’s neck. Anna had goaded him into killing her. Anna would certainly have known what Ken Hunter was capable of. He was one of the first people she met when she first came to the town. She had at one stage worked with his wife, Sheila. She was a master of manipulation. Had she hand-picked him for the role? Had she orchestrated the whole thing? She would have known that Hunter was insanely jealous. Did she deliberately provoke him? Until he grabbed a knife, granting her wish for release.

  I had tucked away Hunter’s accusation that he was Ryan’s father. That was surely just part of Anna’s efforts at manipulation. Kids are always born early, aren’t they? Two weeks was nothing. No. Ryan was mine and I wouldn’t allow any other possibility.

  I considered her last act as a mother. The phone call. It was nobody, she’d said. Repeated it. But by offering the boys to me she knew they would be safe. Safe from any damage that Hunter could inflict on them. They would also be safe from the psychological damage of hearing her screams.

  I shook my head as if trying to rid my head of these terrible imaginings. Was all of this just me looking for some sense in the chaos?

  The funeral crowd was beginning to disperse. People returning to their homes, to heat themselves with the gratitude that it wasn’t their wife, their partner or their child who had just been d
escribed as ashes and dust.

  I spotted Sheila with a number of my bank colleagues. As she was getting into a car she turned to look for me. The distance faded and I could see the affection in her eyes as she caught sight of me. My heart flipped. There was something between us. Those beautiful eyes did not read only of sympathy, there was a world of caring there too. I hoped she would have patience enough to wait for me, my boys would have my full attention until I was sure they could cope with their mother’s loss.

  Jim walked towards me, Ryan perched on his right arm, Pat walking at his side, holding on to his left hand.

  ‘Right, Dad, let’s go and get these boys something to eat.’ In his own fashion he was reminding me that I had two very good reasons to live. It was completely unnecessary but I loved him for it.

  We looked a strange sight in our sombre clothes, Jim, Mum, the boys and I as we trooped into McDonalds. In this moment I craved the normality of it, the reminder that no matter how sharp my grief was now, it would fade. It also gave me the chance to see the boys smile, perhaps hear them laugh with the pleasure of receiving a new toy.

  We ordered and I carried a tray of questionable calories over to a table. Everyone sat down and, as if this was any other day, they tucked into the burgers, chicken and fries. As the boys played a pantomime out on the table with their new plastic characters, the last words I heard Anna say sounded in my ear.

  ‘Boys…’

  They turned to me, the distraction having worked for the moment. Their eyes were bright, their attentions successfully shifted from the sadness around them. The bogeyman was locked up and would never bother them again.

  ‘Did I tell you that your mother loved you both very much?’

  Acknowledgements

  My huge thanks to:

  My very first readers on this book all those years ago: Stuart, Nan, Jackie, Sheila, Alison and Angela – see what you guys started!

  Maggie Craig and Douglas Skelton for helping me all these years later to see that there was something worth pursuing with this story.

  Sam, my sounding board.

  All of my colleagues in the crime scene and fellow scribes. The shared moans and giggles are what keeps me sane (along with the coffee).

  The unflagging Karen Sullivan for believing in this book and being able to see through that first draft to the real story beneath – and for helping me chip away at it until we found it.

  And, above all, YOU the bloggers, reviewers, booksellers, librarians and readers – without you guys this is just a block of paper and a bunch of squiggles.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Michael Malone is a prize-winning poet and author who was born and brought up in the heart of Burns’ country, just a stone’s throw from the great man’s cottage in Ayr. Well, a stone thrown by a catapult. He has published over 200 poems in literary magazines throughout the UK, including New Writing Scotland, Poetry Scotland and Markings. His career as a poet has also included a (very) brief stint as the Poet-in-Residence for an adult gift shop. Blood Tears, his bestselling debut novel won the Pitlochry Prize (judge: Alex Gray) from the Scottish Association of Writers. Other published work includes: Carnegie’s Call (a non-fiction work about successful modern-day Scots); A Taste for Malice; The Guillotine Choice; Beyond the Rage; and Bad Samaritan. His poetry includes: In The Raw, Running Threads and Lip Synch. Michael is a regular reviewer for the hugely popular crime fiction website www.crimesquad.com. This novel marks a major departure for Michael Malone.

  You can follow him on Twitter @michaelJmalone1 and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/themichaeljmalonepage/, or visit his website: mjmink.wordpress.com

  Copyright

  Orenda Books

  16 Carson Road

  West Dulwich

  London se21 8hu

  www.orendabooks.co.uk

  First published in the UK in 2016 by Orenda Books

  Copyright © Michael J. Malone 2016

  Michael J. Malone has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-910633-50-2

  Typeset in Garamond by MacGuru Ltd