Little Liar

by Lisa Ballantyne

  ‘Don’t worry? I can’t even pick up my own kids from nursery. I can’t work. Just because someone made an unfounded allegation—’ Nick stopped, hearing his voice cracking.

  ‘Listen, what we can do is request a change of bail conditions.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We can request a change in the bail conditions so that you can be unsupervised with your own children.’

  ‘Will they allow that?’

  ‘We can try. I had meant to call you. I suspected they would extend bail, because they have new evidence passed by Angela’s mother. Probably that has meant them needing more time.’

  ‘Angela’s mother?’

  His parents’ anxious eyes pursued him like bees.

  ‘Listen, I don’t have all the details. Why don’t we talk once I’ve spoken to my contact at the station?’

  Nick hung up. His mother and father loomed.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, opening the door. ‘I just need to go for a run. I’ll be back soon as I can.’

  He ran down the drive and onto Firgrove Hill, their unasked questions chasing him. He ran too hard, too quickly, and by the time he reached the park, he was near hyperventilating. He pitched forward, hands on his knees, until his breathing steadied. The path stank of fox, a sulking musky whiff in the long grasses below the trees.

  He stood up, hands on his hips, half-smiling. He was the fox now: hunted, but by two different kinds of hound – the police and the unseen parents and community who had already tried and judged him.

  Nick took a deep breath and resumed his run, jogging at an easy pace, enjoying the feel in his thighs and his stomach as his muscles propelled him forward. All the stagnation that had been around him this last couple of months released and he started to feel more positive. He had done nothing wrong; he had to be proved innocent in time.

  His feet splashed in the mud, spattering his calves. It was all absurd. The fact that Angela Furness had accused him was almost laughable. He would never admit it to anyone, but there were young girls he had worked with – not as young as Angela but not much older – whom Nick had felt attracted to. Thirteen-year-olds often looked a lot older than they were and sometimes they were confident, mature, flirtatious. But Angela? Even if he had been a paedophile, Nick couldn’t have imagined he would have gone for her – shiny alabaster skin and body like a Rubens cherub. Her angry petted mouth.

  Yet Angela’s truth was held higher than his. She could accuse him and be protected, be given anonymity, while his life was destroyed. There was no physical evidence, yet she was believed. It was as if everything had become distorted. There was no such thing as the truth anymore.

  Sweat streaking down his spine, Nick looked at his watch. He had been out too long – nearly an hour. The children would be back. He cursed lightly under his breath. He had almost outrun his anger but now he was late.

  He sprinted back home. As his feet crunched on the ash drive, he saw Ava standing up in the bay window, held up by his father, slapping her palm against the window at him.

  Nick smiled and went to the front window then pursed his lips and put them against the glass. Ava bent down and put her lips opposite his, leaving a wet, open-mouthed smudge on the windowpane.

  Nick opened the front door, wiping his forehead with the crook of his elbow.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ he heard from the living room. Rusty breathed in Nick’s face and whacked his forehead with his tail as he bent to undo his laces. He smiled despite his troubles, shaking the sweat from his hair as he kicked off his shoes. Endorphins pumped through him and he felt better than he had in weeks. He might be a suspected paedophile, but at least his family and his dog loved him.

  Feet liberated from his dirty trainers, Nick bent and rubbed Rusty’s bristly face. Just then, an explosive sound came from the living room. Still squatting over Rusty, Nick looked up, confused. The dog bolted from his grasp into the living room and began barking. Over the sound of Rusty, there was a long cry that Nick recognised immediately as Luca’s.

  In the front room there was a hole in the centre of the bay window, and Luca was in a foetal position on the floor amid a mosaic of glass. Betty hunched over him, pulling him to his feet before Nick got to him. He was clutching his head, which was bleeding slightly behind his ear. Nick dropped down onto his knees and pushed back Luca’s hair to check the wound. Broken glass on the carpet cut into Nick’s knee but he barely noticed.

  Tom squatted amid the broken glass and picked up a dirty brick wrapped in plastic secured by elastic bands.

  Luca had been hit on the left of his head and it was bleeding slightly and swelling. Nick picked him up and swayed him gently from side to side. ‘Little man, I need you to stop crying so you can tell me how your head is.’

  Luca didn’t cry easily. Marina had shut the tip of his finger in a car door once, but freed him quickly. He had been just five yet had held the broken tip of his finger in his other hand and said, calmly, ‘It’s quite sore, Mama.’

  Now Luca sobbed in Nick’s arms. Betty rubbed her grandson’s back and picked up Ava, who was also crying out of fright.

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  Luca gulped for breath and Nick sat him on his knee on the couch.

  ‘This came through the window,’ said Tom, holding up the brick. ‘Must have thrown it bloody hard to get through the double glazing. I never saw anyone. We were round at the side waving at you and then we all turned when we heard you come in.’

  Nick turned Luca’s head to the side and felt again the bump that was visible underneath his hair, like a growth behind his ear. ‘We need to take him to A&E – get him checked out.’ Nick rushed his hands over the rest of Luca’s body, making sure there were no other injuries. Luca sniffed and pressed his small hand to his head.

  Ava was still crying and Nick stood and took her from his mother. With both children in his arms, he walked to the broken bay window. Traffic sounds and the cold drizzle of the day reached in through the jagged hole.

  ‘Who did this?’ said Betty. ‘The vandals!’

  Tom unwrapped the brick from its cellophane, which was an A4 polythene pocket containing an envelope. He put on his reading glasses and held the envelope at arm’s length.

  ‘What is it, Dad?’

  ‘It’s addressed to Marina.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Nick, putting the children down on the couch.

  It was too late. Tom opened the envelope and took out a sheet of white paper. Tom’s brows lowered as he looked at the page in front of him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a picture of you and Marina,’ his father said, almost whispering.

  ‘What the hell …’ Nick took the edge of the paper his father was holding.

  It was a black and white photocopy of a picture of him and Marina from a premiere a few years ago. Nick recognised it instantly, but his own face had been carefully cut out, so that Marina was looking up at a hole in the page. Printed underneath were the words: ‘YOU MARRIED A PAEDO. YOUR HUSBAND LIKES LITTLE GIRLS.’

  Nick took the paper from his father and stared at it, trembling. He ran a hand over his face and felt the rough salt on his skin, dried into his pores after his run.

  ‘Why would they do this?’ he whispered, his throat suddenly dry. Facebook was one thing, but now the abuse was literally coming into his home.

  19

  Marina

  Marina opened the door to Sergeant Brookes and Constable Watson.

  Brookes stepped inside and unbuttoned her trench coat. ‘Mm, that smells nice.’

  ‘We’re just making dinner,’ said Marina, hearing her voice as apologetic. She assumed that Brookes was just trying to be friendly, but the comment sounded out of place, as if the officers wanted to join them. It was Saturday and she was exhausted after a long week, and the police were the last people she wanted to see.

  Nick was cooking in the kitchen and now came out, dishtowel over one shoulder, his face
ashen with worry and tiredness.

  Marina felt exposed, standing in the hall with her husband before the police officers. She felt their relationship scrutinised. For years she and Nick had felt as one, in tandem, but now they were off kilter. He was too eager to please her and she was consciously swallowing her qualms. It was too much strain – every day another trauma. She had come home on Friday to find her son in hospital getting X-rays for a potentially fractured skull.

  ‘It was just a courtesy call, really; we’ve just interviewed your parents about the window incident and we wanted to check you were all okay – see if there was anything you wanted to add.’

  Nick nodded and motioned for everyone to come into the kitchen. The table was set at one end, as it had been the night when Brookes and Weston had first taken Nick to the police station. Ava was playing on the floor with Rusty, stroking him with gentle clumsy thumps, talking to herself. Luca, head bandaged, was leaning on a beanbag in the corner, playing Lego. His face was still pale and Marina tousled his hair as she passed.

  ‘We heard the hospital gave the little one the all-clear?’ said Brookes, taking a seat at the table and removing her notebook.

  Luca looked up from his tablet, sensing that he was being talked about.

  ‘He was very lucky,’ said Marina. ‘They thought he might have a haematoma. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I think most of the velocity was taken up by the window.’

  ‘There was no concussion or internal bleed so that was the main thing. It gave us all quite a scare,’ said Nick.

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Brookes, finger in her notebook.

  She and Weston both declined the tea that Nick offered. ‘Unfortunately there was no forensic evidence on the brick or the paper. We did speak to Angela’s parents about the incident, but to be honest, they are not suspects. News of your arrest was publicly available and sometimes with this kind of offence—’

  ‘I didn’t do anything. I’m innocent! And how did they find us?’ Nick spurted. ‘I feel like a marked man.’

  Marina sat down beside him and put a hand around his waist. He had lost weight and she felt the bone of his lower ribcage jutting into her wrist. He seemed to relax as soon as she put her hands on him, lowering his voice. The children were playing in the alcove by the stairs. ‘We wondered if there’s too much information about Nick online. He’s been in the Farnham local paper a few times, and I did a search online and his company is registered at Company House with our home address. Should we change that? Is that how they found us?’

  Brookes’ cold blue eyes sparkled with something akin to reassurance. ‘It would be a good idea to do that, as a precaution, and you can remove your address and phone number from public phone books that are now available online. And let us know if you see anything at all that is remotely suspicious.’

  Nick straightened his shoulders, frowning.

  ‘But who would do this?’ said Marina.

  ‘I can tell you that the criminal damage and common assault on your son is being treated as a separate case to the sexual assault charges.’

  ‘But surely they are linked?’ said Marina. ‘This was a message – a message for me – and specifically mentions the allegation.’

  ‘We are dealing with both investigations and will you let you know anything that becomes apparent.’

  Nick exhaled, elbows on the table, letting his head fall into his hands.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Weston, standing up.

  Brookes closed her notebook.

  ‘But what I don’t understand,’ Marina’s cheeks pinked in anger as she spoke, ‘is why someone would do this. Should we expect another attack? They really did smash our front window, and they really did hurt my son, something that could have been much, much more serious … Should we be afraid?’

  ‘This was probably meant to shock, and does not necessarily mean that further violence will follow. But if you see anything suspicious, please let us know and we will follow it up.’

  Nick closed the front door and rested his head against the frame. Marina pressed her face into his back and crossed her arms across his chest. He turned to her, kissing her brow bone and then her lips.

  Marina still felt so much love for him, but sex and touching had changed. Sometimes, when she woke at night, his presence was so heavy in the room: the heat of him, the handsome repose of his face. She would find herself wide-awake trying to fit this man she loved with the fears that came unbidden in the dark. She would swing her legs out of bed and retreat to Ava’s bed, or to Luca’s – just to find peace, and sleep. She and Nick still performed their old rites of affection, hands squeezed, backs rubbed, but they were effortful, as if the meaning behind them had changed. Now, even in touch, they spoke different tongues. It felt like the matanza – that day when she was a child and the pig was led out to slaughter – her aunt’s arms red with blood, her father dancing with joy while the pig was tied down and slaughtered. She had grown up a little that day. She had seen things as they were, rather than as she had expected. Now she felt the same way about Nick. Seven years married and now she wondered if she was only just starting to get to know him.

  ‘Daddy, I’m hungry,’ Ava called.

  ‘Just ten more minutes, sweetie,’ Nick called through Marina’s hair, reluctant to release her. He clasped his hands around her hips.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked, leaning back to look up into his face.

  ‘I dunno. I feel like someone’s out to get me, and now I’m scared my family’s going to be hurt as well. I don’t care about me, but …’ he leaned forward and inhaled the smell of her scalp, ‘it would kill me if anything happened to you, or the kids, Mum and Dad.’

  Marina looked up into his face, his brown eyes flashing with worry. ‘I care about you.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you but if you look at Facebook there’s a whole local campaign going on – Croydon Against Paedophiles – or some bullshit, and it seems like I’m the only one being talked about so far.’

  Marina took her hands off his waist and went to her laptop, which was sitting on the kitchen table. Ava crawled over, put a hand up her trouser leg and began to tickle her calf. It was a game they played but Marina did not react. Nick leaned over her shoulder to help her find the page.

  ‘Did you tell the police?’

  ‘I told them, but apparently as there are no specific threats against me it doesn’t constitute a criminal offence.’

  ‘But who is it? Who made this page?’

  ‘They said they’d look into it.’

  ‘Maybe the same person who threw the brick through the window.’ Marina felt heat rising in her face.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Ava cried again, tiring of trying to distract her mother and lying prostrate on the floor.

  ‘Ten minutes, bonita, ah?’ Nick called, resuming his position by the stove. ‘Chicken’ll be ready before you know it.’

  Marina frowned deeply and logged out of Facebook. She noticed that she had two email messages and opened them.

  Corvus Corone is now following you.

  Corvus Corone mentioned you in a Tweet.

  Marina opened Twitter to find she had three notifications. She used Twitter seldom, just when she was bored on the train, or when she had an exciting project at work. She opened up her page, which was headlined:

  Marina Alvarez, Mother of two, Maker of awesome paella, Director Child International. All tweets my own.

  The icon for Corvus was a black crow, its beak wide open. That made sense – Corvus Corone was Latin, meaning carrion crow. Her throat closed.

  There was no identifying information on ‘crow’s’ account, but there was a pin indicating that the owner was located in Iceland, and had joined Twitter only one week ago. Crow was only following Marina, and had no other followers. There was only one tweet, and she sank into her seat as she read it, a chill on her skin.

  @marina_alvarez ur husband is a paedo, yet u work @childinternationallondon @theresa_long How c
an u protect any child? #EndChildAbuse.

  ‘Nick,’ she said, quietly, still staring at the screen.

  At first he didn’t hear her over the sound of the extractor. She reached over and grabbed the back of his T-shirt. He turned to her and she waved him over.

  ‘Gimme a minute?’ he said, shaking a tray of frozen chips before closing the oven and appearing at her shoulder. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Mierda.’ Elbows on the table, both of them staring at the screen, she pressed her knuckles against her lips. ‘Who the hell is this and look …’ she pointed at Theresa’s name on the tweet.

  ‘They’ve copied in my boss.’

  20

  Stephen

  Stephen put the last of Angela’s bags into the boot of the car and closed it. She shuffled out of the house with the hood of her grey sweatshirt up over her head and her chin down. Donna stood at the door with one hand tucked under her elbow and another pointing a lit cigarette at the sky.

  Angela didn’t say goodbye to her mother. She got into her father’s car and closed the door.

  ‘That’s us then,’ he said, walking up to Donna, tapping his car key against the palm of his hand, a weal of words in his mouth, but he held his tongue.

  Donna’s cheeks hollowed as she sucked on the cigarette. The exhaled smoke blew in his direction, but he conceded that it was the wind and not a deliberate attempt to slight him. The ugly cut and blue swelling underneath her eye made her face seem bitter and harsh.

  ‘You win, eh?’ she said, avoiding his eye, yet smiling.

  ‘I didn’t want it like this.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you have her now, don’t you?’

  Stephen rocked on his heels, tapping his car key against his palm. ‘I’ll try and get some information from CID about when we should hear. New evidence will hopefully mean a charge.’

  Donna nodded and put the cigarette to her mouth.

  ‘I appreciate you asking my advice about that,’ he said, meaning it. ‘It was the right thing to do.’

  After arrangements had been made for Angela, Donna had told him about the photographs she had found of Angela with the teacher, presumably out alone together. Stephen had told her to go straight to the police, who had taken the photographs and also Angela’s mobile phone into evidence.