The Lies They Told

by Jay Nadal

  Diane backed off, fearful that her moment of red mist had lit the touchpaper. She stepped away, her hands in front of her pleading for Jack’s forgiveness. Her eyes widened with terror, her body trembling in shock.

  Jack rose to his feet, and slowly made his way towards Diane, who continued to retreat. She glanced beyond Jack to see the beaten and bruised body of her son curled up in a foetal position, motionless.

  The veins in Jack’s blood-red face threatened to rupture underneath the force of his rage. Grabbing Diane by her neck, he curled his hand into a tight fist and pulled it back. Deliberately ignoring the terror in her eyes, not caring if she lived or died, his fist raced towards her.

  She closed her eyes moments before his fist crunched into her face, splitting her lip. She recoiled back, her feet trying to stabilise her as the momentum sent her body crashing backwards to the tiled floor. The dull thud echoed around the room as her head connected with the floor sending shards of pain racing through her body.

  He stood over her, his fists clenched by his sides, his shoulders rounded forward. The breath escaped his lips in tiny little pants of residual fury. He stared at her for what seemed like minutes. Diane cried; her lips had released a torrent of blood which now seeped through her fingers as she held her face. Her legs writhed on the floor, squeals and guttural moans erupted from her throat. He pointed one finger at her crumpled body but didn’t utter another word.

  Jack stepped away and headed back towards the bar, grabbing a bottle of Glenmorangie but didn’t bother with a glass. He looked one last time at the carnage that he’d left behind. Two battered and beaten bodies that lay twisted and broken on the floor. Jack shook his head in disgust and let out a grunt before walking out. He would spend the rest of the evening in his room at the end of the garden, planning what to do next.

  5

  He had walked in this evening with three hundred and seventy-five pounds in cash in his wallet. More money than he normally took, but he felt lucky. Six hours later, he sat and stared at the three solitary pound coins on the table beside him. The sound of murmured conversations filtered into the background. Great clouds of cigarette smoke hung in the air like low-level fog, and shards of light from the ceiling poked through the haze casting a speckled glow across the tables. With no natural daylight or windows, the oppressive air stalled in his lungs.

  His pockmarked face looked sullen and stern as he eyed the amber liquid and the golden glow of the glass-like cubes in the tumbler. He poked them with a cheap and gaudy pink plastic stirring stick to hear them jingle. He watched, entranced, as they bounced back up, remaining submerged like mini icebergs slowly melting from global warming. Wrapping his hands around the glass, he felt the heat that burnt inside him leach into the drink. Whiskey. The elixir of his life. He raised the glass and took a hefty glug, feeling the keen burn on his tongue and throat – the same burn that had made him recoil as a young boy of fourteen when his father had sneaked him into their local pub. Yet now, he longed for this feeling.

  “Come on, Steve, surely you can raise my limit more?” he asked, his tone rough and gravelly.

  Steve had a round face just like his brother, Terry, but being two years younger at forty-six, carried the look better as he stood there with arms folded.

  “You know the rules, Pat. Before anyone gets a credit limit increase, they need to clear their debt first. You already owe us seven big ones. I think you’ve pushed your luck already, don’t you?” Steve replied, leaning into Pat’s ear.

  Pat Skelton knew the score, but he had a master. A master that controlled every inch of Pat’s mind and body. Pat had to visit him a few times a day, otherwise he feared he’d go insane. It hurt to be away for too long. He felt weak, and his body would ache and struggle to act rationally. When he finally satisfied him, everything seemed whole, the world was whimsical and perfect. He was all Pat needed, all Pat could ever want.

  His master showed no mercy. It had only taken a few careless encounters through his betting apps whilst hiding in the men’s toilets at work, and he’d become hooked. His master changed him into somebody that would sicken most people, but he couldn’t help himself. His addiction consumed him, bewitched him, so much that he cared for nothing else. Everything he had once held dear fell by the wayside, his nearest and dearest, his friends, and his career. He would lie, cheat and steal for it. Whilst sacrificing at the altar of his addiction, he became someone else, someone he’d once loved but now feared.

  Pat tried once again. “Yeah, but you know me. I’m not going anywhere in a hurry.”

  “It’s not up to me, Pat,” he replied flicking his head towards his big brother who stood overseeing a poker table.

  Pat glanced in Terry’s direction. It was hard to tell which of the two brothers he feared most. They were both tough, aggressive, and could switch personalities in the blink of an eye. Even though Terry had the softer face and smiled, which Steve rarely did, it was a smile that hid a violent streak that needed little provocation.

  “If it wasn’t for Sally, the Met would be paying their respects at your funeral. So do yourself a favour and sort your life out. You won’t be getting any more credit from us. If you come back, you come back with your own cash.”

  Pat knew better than to argue with either of the brothers. He was treading a fine line with them. They needed him as much as he needed them. It was an uncomfortable and perverse parasitic relationship that both sides couldn’t do without. He stared at the three pound coins again knowing he couldn’t even afford another drink. At seven pounds a shot, the drinks were a rip-off, and the hostesses that mingled were just as rough as the cheap whiskey they served.

  Thinking his luck would change tonight, Pat had been on a losing streak for over a month and was desperate to claw back the thousands he’d lost. He had had weeks like this in the past where he had lost hundreds of pounds, but always turned it around. The frustration gnawed at his insides, and the negative voices in his head bore into his brain like a pneumatic drill. His stomach burnt like a glowing fire, a combination of hunger and whiskey sending waves of nausea through him.

  “Get yourself home. You’re done here.”

  Pat levelled his eyes in Steve’s direction, silently pleading for one last chance, meeting nothing but indifference. There were plenty of other punters they could fleece. They tolerated Pat, he had his uses.

  Dejected and lost, Pat stumbled out on to the pavement into the cool night air. The chill raced through him and tickled his lungs. He pulled out another cigarette and lit it. The glow of the flame illuminated his face like a Halloween fright-night mask. The nicotine made him function. He knew he used to be just fine without it, but now if he didn’t get that fix, he was a bag of nerves, all jittery and snappy. Pat sucked the smoke deep into his lungs remembering all the warnings and ghastly images of rotting teeth, blackened lungs, and cancer-ridden throats on the packets, but he didn’t care. He held his breath, thinking how his lungs must hate him, and smiled.

  Poor dying little cells that only want me well; how can I do this to you?

  “Big Issue?”

  Pat turned to see a dishevelled man standing in the street. Taken by surprise, Pat stared at him with open curiosity. Either because it was three a.m. in the morning and the street was deserted, or because the vagrant was so bloody thick that he imagined he’d make money at this time of the morning.

  “Big Issue?” Pat asked.

  The man waved a copy of The Big Issue in Pat’s face. “Yes, mate. It’s my way of trying to make a few quid and get off the streets. It’s only a pound. Surely you can spare a pound?”

  Pat snarled at him. If there was one thing he hated more than anything else, it was the beggars, scroungers and low lifes that called the streets their home. He had spent most of his early career dealing with such people, and many of them were lost causes. A combination of drink and drugs ruled their lives, pretty much in the same way it ruled his.

  Pat shook his head and turned his back on the man.r />
  “Come on, mate. Just a quid.”

  “No,” Pat grumbled, narrowing his eyes.

  “Come on, fella, give me a break. How about a fag then?”

  As a pang of annoyance jolted him.

  He clenched his fists. “I said no. Which part of that answer didn’t you understand?”

  The vagrant pulled back, his hands outstretched as he backed down. He turned to walk away and muttered “tosser” under his breath.

  Pat spun around and charged at the vagrant, pushing him back against a shop window, knocking the wind from his thin frame. He glared at Pat through frightened and weak eyes. His lips twisted open to reveal crooked and stained teeth, with several gaps in between where some had fallen out.

  “Listen you piece of shit. I’ve dealt with pond scum like you most of my life. I strongly suggest that you stay out of my way, and if I ever see you around here again, I’ll make sure you and a hospital bed become the best of friends.”

  The vagrant snarled and tried to wriggle free. He swung an arm in Pat’s direction and spat at him. Anger coursed through his veins as Pat curled his hand into a fist and pulled it back before launching at the vagrant. The flurry of blows and knee strikes sent the dishevelled man to the floor. He coughed and spluttered as he held his face.

  “Oh, man, you’re killing me,” he screamed as he rolled on to his side.

  Pat leaned back before placing a well-aimed kick into the vagrant’s stomach, followed by a few more for good measure.

  The vagrant squealed and yelled as he pulled his knees to his chest.

  Pat towered over the broken form and pulled back his lips and grimaced. As he looked at his hands, he felt contaminated, dirty, and soiled. He glanced around to check for witnesses. Nothing. He looked at the front of the various shops and offices. No CCTV. Good.

  Steam from his hot breath floated in the still night air. Sweat beaded on his face. He bent and patted the vagrant down. The man’s pocket jangled. Pat recovered a handful of loose change which on quick inspection looked to be about a tenner.

  “Wanker,” he grunted as he delivered one final kick before walking off.

  The dull thud of his kick barely registered, the dark veil of a silent night keeping vigil.

  6

  Diane stared at her tired face in the bathroom mirror. Heavy bags circled her eyes, and her hair was straw-like and wild, but that was the least of her worries. The monstrosity that was once her lips glared back at her. Her bottom one had swollen to twice its size, and she looked a mess. Her head pounded, and her body ached. She could disguise the worst of it with make-up, and with an ice pack hoped the swelling would go down over the course of the next few hours. It was a practised routine that she had mastered to hide the worst of it from friends and family.

  Jack hadn’t returned to their bedroom last night, but that didn’t surprise her. Whenever he exploded, he would take himself off to his man cave which had all the mod cons that he needed to stay away from the main house. A fully self-contained apartment at the end of the garden with a built-in bar and satellite TV meant that he spent many an hour with associates discussing business.

  Jack’s disappearing act meant that she didn’t have to endure any more from him. After he had stormed off, Diane had nursed Ben. She had managed to get him to his bedroom where she tended to his wounds, whilst she did her best to reassure him through their salty tears. There was only so much she could take, and guilt had chewed away at her all night. How could any parent stand by and see their child attacked? She had blotted out both the mental and physical pain with a bottle of wine and didn’t remember passing out.

  Doubts crept through her mind, colouring her thought process. Perhaps she had been stupid by provoking him further. But she couldn’t stand by and see her son beaten black and blue. Or worse. She glanced down at her hands and the long nails that had raked across his skin. Fighting back had provoked such a ferocious backlash. Hindsight was a lovely thing, and she wondered if she had made it worse.

  Diane headed for Ben’s bedroom and quietly opened the door. She went over and stood by his bed in the semi-darkness and stared at her boy. In her eyes, he remained a boy. Her boy. Her bottom lip trembled, and she winced as a bolt of pain shot through her mouth. Her eyes misted as she knelt and kissed Ben on the forehead. He lay safely tucked up under the duvet. Whilst he was asleep, he couldn’t feel any pain. She wished he could sleep for days until he was over the worst of it.

  She retraced her steps and stopped in his doorway and glanced back over her shoulder. She felt nothing but regret and a deep sense of loss. How had it come to this? Her thoughts turned to yesterday and seeing Dean for the first time in many years. Her heart had practically jumped out through her chest on seeing him as she felt the heat rising in her face. He hadn’t changed in her eyes. He had lost weight, but his hazel eyes still had that charm and charisma. She knew she had upset Dean. He had offered her an escape, but she had chosen Jack. Had she made a mistake? She would never know.

  She made her way downstairs into the kitchen before flicking on the kettle to make herself some coffee. She searched through the rooms on the ground floor for any sign of Jack. Her suspicions were confirmed when she realised the house was empty. A stiff black coffee was what she needed as she ran her hands through her untidy hair, her fingers catching on the knots. She shook her head at the state of her life. She looked around her; she had everything she ever wanted. A beautiful house, luxury cars, money in the bank, and life appeared good. They took several holidays a year to Spain. She would relax in the sun, whilst Jack headed to Puerto Banus to discuss business with associates who couldn’t step foot in Britain without being arrested at the airport.

  And yet sadness accompanied her like a dark cloud wherever she went. Diane felt as if a part of her were missing, the part that would make life complete. She knew deep down that would never happen with Jack, and no amount of money or the finer things in life could give her that. Give her the safety and connection she craved. But what choices did she have?

  She poured boiling water into her mug and enjoyed the aroma of the coffee wafting up to meet her. She poured a second cup for Jack.

  “Why are you doing this?” she muttered to herself. Despite the events of last night, she was still being dutiful and respectful by making him coffee as she did every morning. “Where is your self-respect?”

  The crisp June morning bathed her in early warmth as she made her way down the path that ran down the centre of the garden to the brick-built building at the end. The garden was laid to lawn with the boundary framed with ornate plants and trees, and beyond them an eight-foot wall that kept out prying eyes. Several socialising areas had been created and dotted around the garden where they could sit and entertain.

  As she approached the front door, the lights were off, and she assumed that Jack was sleeping off a hangover. She knocked on the glass panel, and when there was no reply, she knocked again. Jack would always lock the door from the inside, just in case he had unwelcome visitors. But she tried the door handle, nevertheless, fully expecting it to be locked. To her surprise it turned, and she grimaced in confusion.

  Opening the door a few inches, she called out Jack’s name through the opening. Silence. The inky darkness inside offered little indication as to his location.

  “Jack, are you in there?” she called, raising her voice. When there was no answer she stepped into the hallway of the building. To her right a doorway led to the kitchen, and to her left was the bathroom and the en suite. She called out Jack’s name again. When there was no answer she moved further into the property towards the main entertaining area at the back. The curtains were drawn. In the darkness, she could see Jack leaning back in the sofa. The room had a stale stuffiness, a mixture of sweat, alcohol and a sharpness that she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

  She placed his coffee on the table and then went over to the window to open the curtains and window to let some fresh air in. Diane turned and froze on the spot, her body paralyse
d in fear and shock. At first no sounds escaped, but as the reality crept up on her, a high-pitched scream tore from her throat as her eyes bulged in sheer terror.

  7

  The shrill sound of Karen Heath’s phone jolted her awake, followed by an even larger jolt of annoyance. She hated being woken up on her day off more than anything. Though she had lost count of the amount of times it had happened, she had never quite got used to it.

  Last night, she’d been chilling at home, winding down as the precursor to her day off. It was just her, a bottle of Merlot, and Manky, her cat. Just the way she liked it. She lived in a small apartment in Epping, Essex. It was a two-bedroom apartment at one end of the high street, the end closest to the Tube station on the Central Line.

  Despite being so far out of town, she preferred the remoteness. Epping still carried some of the charm of an old market town, and to this day still had a thriving market that took place every Monday. The town retained elements of rurality, being surrounded by Epping Forest and working farmland. Epping had many old buildings, some of which were Grade I and II listed. Historically, it had been one of the last stops for stagecoaches when they left London en route to Norwich or Cambridge.

  And that’s what she loved, the history.

  It was nice for her to get away from the congestion of London, and the claustrophobic atmosphere that surrounded her. She was far enough away to ensure that she never bumped into those that she arrested or came across in her line of work. Hopping on to the Tube every morning like all the other commuters gave her a sense of normality. In her job she saw the worst aspects of life, and the vilest traits that humans could display. But sitting on the Tube surrounded by those who worked in banking, insurance, retail and the service industries, helped to ground her.