Little Liar

by Lisa Ballantyne

  Marina broke free and looked up into his face.

  ‘This could be a good thing. If she gets an abortion, they can do the test and then discount you.’

  Nick shrugged and took her hand as they walked back to the car. ‘For the pregnancy, yes, but Faldane was very clear: I’m still being investigated for the sexual assault. They are linked but separate. Just like the brick through the window.’

  At the car, Nick threw his jacket into the boot. His face had changed again, resolute, distant. Marina sighed, getting juice for Ava from the picnic bag in the boot, a knuckle of guilt under her ribs. Just last night she had wondered if he had wanted to rape Angela, and now here she was pregnant. The night always cast her thoughts in a negative – a reversal of tones, so that light was dark, and vice versa.

  Not long ago she had castigated Nick for not showing emotion, but now he had broken down when he heard his DNA would be compared with the DNA of the foetus. Were the tears fear or guilt, or both?

  Marina buckled her seatbelt as Nick reversed out of the car park. She took her phone out of her bag and flicked back and forth between messages and her Facebook page. Twitter showed three notifications and she opened it up.

  A slick lick of panic closed her throat. It was three posts from the crow. Keeping silent, Marina read each one as Nick turned on the radio and adjusted the air conditioning. This time her boss had not been copied, nor Child International. This time it was personal to Marina.

  @marina_alvarez you are married to a rapist creep. I will violently rape u – see how u like it.

  @marina_alvarez u don’t protect children. Ur gonna get raped till u scream.

  @marina_alvarez I know u like it. Ur gonna get raped over and over.

  Marina let her phone slide into her bag, her fingers trembling. Luca was talking to Nick about the difference between petrol and diesel and her husband was floundering again. She looked out of the side window, then felt Nick’s hand on her thigh.

  She swallowed, turning to him.

  ‘You all right?’ he said, looking at her, one eyebrow raised.

  25

  Stephen

  Stephen was at work, filing a report on a drunk driver but distracted by the interview video of Adam Chance, who might have raped his daughter.

  Might have raped. Might. The word seared. Stephen needed certainty. He felt like fighting – needed to beat someone for this, beat them with his bare hands – yet he stayed completely still, watching the cursor flash on the computer screen. Thoughts swarmed in his mind.

  What are you going to do about it? Donna’s words.

  He still remembered the feeling in his fist when it had smashed into the boy’s skull. It had felt as if the riot was inside his own body. The boy’s skull had cracked so easily. Stephen hung his head, sweat breaking at his hairline.

  He had watched the CID interview with Adam Chance when he had been brought in for questioning and cautioned, after correspondence had been found on Angela’s phone suggesting that she and the boy were engaged in some sort of sexual relationship.

  Chance! That was really his name. Adam was gangly, red-faced and pimply, visibly frightened despite his swagger, even in the poor picture quality that the interview-room camera afforded. He was just fifteen. Throughout the course of the interview he denied intercourse with Angela, repeatedly.

  ‘Yeah, I fought about it, but she’s only year eight an’ she’s too fat, like. I wouldn’t shag her.’

  It seemed to Stephen, and he was sure it had occurred to the officers conducting the interview, that Adam was all bravado. The text of his interview was frank and explicit, but the camera found him picking his spots and biting his nails. When the officers pressed him, his face flushed scarlet and his eyes shone with tears. Although he didn’t like to admit it, Stephen thought that Adam was probably a virgin.

  What have you done?

  Done to her.

  Stephen still believed the actor must be guilty. He felt it in his bones. That man had violated his daughter and deserved to be put away. Stephen knew how the system worked. Adam was just a boy fooling around with a girl below him at school – unless it was proved he was the father, and even then, he might not be prosecuted. Both he and Angela were underage and both could be considered consenting. Angela had not accused Adam of sexually assaulting her.

  Stephen went to the bathroom, washed his face in the sink and looked at his eyes in the mirror, lashes wet and separate. He felt desperate, unable to stay here another moment. Doctors made bad patients and police officers made bad victims.

  That was how he felt – a victim. She was his only child. He felt everything she felt. If Adam was let go, and then Dean was not charged, Stephen knew that he would have to act. The abortion would confirm that he was right about Dean. He was going to speak to Angela about that today. He didn’t like having to discuss such things with her, but she absolutely had to have an abortion. Even Donna agreed.

  He looked down into his wet palms. It would be such gratification to take justice for Angela with his bare hands. He imagined breaking Dean’s skull, cracking it like a fresh egg.

  But was she lying about Dean? If Angela had been more attractive he might have believed she had made it up – flirting with an actor at school. But a little girl like Angela? It had to be real, because it was so incredible.

  Stephen shook the excess water from his face and then put his hands under the dryer. No matter that he was a father wronged, another violent incident would end his career. He would be left doing night-shift work as a security guard, working for less than minimum wage alongside ex-squaddies with shell shock.

  Back at his desk, Stephen opened up the criminal database. He bit his lip, then began a search for ‘violence against the person’ offences in the south-east, and cross-checked the results with those recently released from prison. The search resulted in a large sample, but when Stephen discounted crimes of violence directed at a female partner, there were only three names remaining, two of which were older career criminals. Stephen stared at the mug shots: dark, emotionless eyes and slack mouths, chins tilted upwards in defiance. He committed the names and faces to memory. He had never come in contact with these men and that was best.

  When finally his shift finished, Stephen stripped out of his uniform. His handcuffs clunked onto the bottom of the metal locker. On the inside door, there was a faded photograph of Angela, aged eight, gap-toothed smile and hair in braids. He smiled at her as he stepped out of his uniform trousers. She had been a stunner at that age, small as a bird with huge eyes. The separation had affected her badly: first the weight gain and then her behaviour.

  Stephen sat down and fed one socked foot into his jeans and then the other.

  A memory came to him, unasked for: Donna standing before him in the bedroom, her eyes watery and her eyeliner smudged. He had been pulling away from her for years, first emotionally and then physically, and now he could barely look at her.

  ‘But why?’ she had whined.

  ‘I just don’t fancy you anymore,’ he had said quietly, smoothing the left side of his hair with one hand. It was brutal, he knew that, but she had asked. ‘I’ve stayed here because of Angela, but I don’t think I can do it any longer. It’s not fair on any of us.’

  He met her eyes, blurring with the impact of his rejection. The skin sagged and pulled on her face, like unrisen dough. Her thin, pale lips with the tiny lines around them.

  ‘Please,’ she had said, ‘I need you.’ She was beyond shame and he felt for her, but still couldn’t bring himself to hold her, to forgive.

  He put his hands on his hips. ‘I’ll rent somewhere. It might take a while. We can just take it slow, but I don’t think we should sleep in the same bed from now on. I’ll move into the box room.’

  The queasy smell of her: salty musky hollows, the stale hot stink of alcohol.

  ‘The box room’s full of stuff,’ she said, voice cracking.

  ‘I’ll clear it out.’

  The nights were the
hardest for him, her head on his shoulder, pinned in their accustomed embrace with her curled towards him, taking her own comfort.

  Way back, when they had been young, before Angela or the mortgage, when his feelings for her had still been tender, she had told him she had been raped. She had told him in bed, and he had not known what to say or do. She didn’t want to report it to the police; she didn’t want him to find the man (although Stephen had secretly tried and could not). Donna didn’t even know his full name.

  He had held her and apologised, for what he was never sure, but the knowledge had always made him overthink sex with her, careful not to accidentally hurt or demean, although sex itself was demeaning – or so it seemed to Stephen.

  Stephen closed his locker and felt in his pocket for his car keys. Outside the day was cool but bright. He headed towards Croydon Academy. He had changed his shifts so that he could collect Angela from school each day. He drove at exactly two miles under the speed limit, always indicating when he pulled out and never running an amber traffic light. He passed his old house on the Portland Road, where he had lived with Angela and her mother, and then at the school pulled into a waiting bay and turned up the heating in case Angela was cold.

  Just then, Adam Chance wandered out of the school, followed by a pack of boys, all skinny, school bags slung low on their shoulders. Stephen let his foot rest heavily on the accelerator and the car revved audibly. Adam turned but did not seem to see Stephen slouched behind the wheel of his car.

  Angela was still nowhere to be seen. She was often late, coming out last with her school shirt untucked, trailing her bag an inch off the ground.

  Unable to stop himself, Stephen turned the car around and followed Adam out of the school car park. The boy turned up a side street off the Portland Road. He had bad posture, stooping over his phone before returning it to his pocket, then scuffing his feet as he walked towards home.

  Adam stopped and looked over his shoulder, as if sensing he was being watched, but he did not see Stephen sitting back in his seat, sun visor down.

  Adam pushed open the wire mesh gate, smiling and prodding at the phone in his hand. The curtains were drawn in the front window. The small front garden was overgrown, full of dandelions and daisies, and littered with odd items: plastic toys, a bathroom sink.

  He watched through half-closed eyes until Adam opened his front door and stepped inside, then turned the car around and went back to the school. Adam was nothing more than a boy and Stephen was convinced he was a virgin. Dean was another matter.

  In the distance, Stephen saw Angela walking down the school steps. She looked so small from a distance.

  He tightened his fists so that the knuckles pinked, the tendons white. He was prepared to get justice for her, even if he couldn’t do it himself. If the law failed, he would see that Dean got what he deserved.

  On the way home, she was sullen, staring out of the window. He smiled, trying to coax her into talking. He felt better now he had thought of a way of cracking the actor’s skull, without having to skin his own knuckles.

  ‘Are you tired, Angel?’

  ‘Bit.’

  ‘Was today okay?’

  ‘Suppose.’

  Normally it was easier to discuss things in the car, watching the road, without the glare of eye contact, but today she felt especially closed to him. His words seemed to bounce off her, as if repelled.

  ‘Listen, I wanted to talk to you, sweetheart.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not a nice subject, but it’s important.’

  She didn’t look at him, but he sensed she was waiting for more.

  ‘I’ve made an appointment for the doctor for you – to see about an … abortion as soon as possible, you know?’ She was silent.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about, yes?’

  ‘Will it hurt?’

  ‘I think if we go soon, it won’t hurt so much. You can just take some medicine and then it will just come out. I think that’s how it works. I’m sure the doctor will tell us all about it.’

  Angela said nothing. She sunk down further in her seat.

  ‘Darling?’

  ‘But it’s a baby, right?’

  ‘Sweetheart, no it’s not.’ He turned to her, but she looked out of the window. ‘It’s just a bunch of cells.’

  Angela shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘You’re my baby – you can’t have a baby yourself. Can you? You’re too young. Even you know that.’

  She was silent again, although he thought he saw her nod. She stared out of the side window at the terraces and the trees and the heavy grey sky.

  ‘I made an appointment for tomorrow morning. I’m off work and I can go with you, but if you prefer your mum we can call her tonight.’

  He turned into the drive and Angela got out and slammed the door shut. She knew he hated that.

  ‘Hey,’ he called, locking the car and following her to the front door. ‘There’s no need for that.’

  She ignored him, opened the door to his apartment with her own key and walked straight to her bedroom.

  The alarm system beeped and Stephen disarmed it, and then bent to take off his shoes. He followed Angela to her room. She was sitting on her bed, backpack still on her shoulders, biting into a chocolate bar.

  Stephen took a deep breath.

  ‘Look, I know you don’t want to talk about it. It’s not something a girl your age should have to deal with, but it’s here whether we like it or not, and I’m afraid we have to make that decision and sort it out.’

  ‘Why do you want to kill it?’

  ‘I don’t want to kill it. I just think that you are a young girl.’

  ‘I’m thirteen.’

  Stephen smiled. ‘I know. My teenager. But thirteen is still too young to have a baby and the longer we leave it, the harder it will be. Let’s get it done tomorrow and then you can leave this all behind you.’

  ‘You don’t care about me.’ Her large eyes, still so reminiscent of the baby she had once been, glassed with tears.

  ‘That’s not true. You know I love you more than anyone else in the world.’

  Angela hung her head, staring intently at the milk chocolate bar in her hands.

  Stephen ran his hands through his hair.

  ‘You had Adam arrested. They told him he might go to jail for raping me, but he didn’t.’

  All the air left Stephen’s body. ‘I didn’t have him arrested. The hospital called the police and then the CID had your phone and found your chats with him. It had nothing to do with me, I swear.’

  ‘You told the CID to take him in.’ Her mouth was full of chocolate, her tongue and teeth black.

  ‘I didn’t.’

  She turned away from him, jaws working, face pale and contorted, as if in pain.

  ‘Did you have sex with him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full.’

  ‘You just asked me a fucking question.’

  He raised his finger. ‘Don’t talk to me like that.’

  She spoke to Donna like that, but had never been disrespectful towards him.

  ‘Noooooo!’ she screamed. Suddenly she rushed past him. He was quick to react and grabbed the hood of her hoodie, but she slipped out of it and he was left with the top in his hands as he heard the front door slam. By the time he got to the front door she was running down the street. It seemed like years since he had seen her run. He chased her, in his socks, not even taking the time to put his shoes on at the door, but she was gone. He thought she might have run into one of the back yards but he couldn’t see her anywhere.

  ‘Angela!’ he called, not caring that he sounded like a lunatic. ‘Angela!’

  He had lost her. The shock and humiliation jarred him. He would have to phone Donna and admit it. He decided to wait until dark. Kids always come home when they’re hungry.

  26

  Angela

  She knew where he lived.

  Even before the
stories in the press she had known where he lived. She and Jasmine had looked him up online and a magazine article had mentioned Firgrove Hill in Farnham and then they had found his exact address in the online phone directory. They had looked at satellite images of his house with its grey-red roof and imagined that they saw him in the driveway.

  Now, walking down Firgrove Hill, Angela wished that Jasmine could see her. All the houses looked beautiful with white, criss-cross windows like when you drew a house as a little kid. It was like a fairy-tale and he was the prince. She changed to walk on the opposite pavement where the house numbers were odds and not evens – she knew he was number fifty-nine. The hedges were wet and she could smell leaves and countryside as she walked to his house. It was different from Croydon. She put a hand on her belly, thinking about the baby growing inside her. She smiled. It would be blond with brown eyes, just like him. She let her arms fall to her sides.

  The numbers five and nine were white against the wrought-iron gate and also on the door at the top of the drive. The house had bright red bricks and white window frames and there was a little hedge dividing it from the house it was attached to next door. An awning over the second-floor bedroom windows had also been painted white. Angela waited at the gate for a moment, staring at the house. She felt excited to be here. It was just after five o’clock. The little garden was lovely, a tree and daffodils and a plastic slide for the little kids. Angela knew he had two children – a boy and a girl. He would be a good dad. His life was perfect. It was the kind of life you were supposed to have when you grew up.

  Carefully, Angela opened the gate and walked up the drive. The gravel crunched under her feet. The sky was high, blue and cold and she felt small beneath it.

  She liked being in his drive. It was smart, all in order, as her dad would have said. There was a silver car in the drive and Angela noticed that there were two children’s car seats in the back.

  She stepped onto the red-tiled doorstep, a flutter of nerves, but then stood on her tiptoes to press the doorbell.

  As soon as the bell sounded there was barking. Angela didn’t like dogs and she frowned, but did not turn away. She straightened the waistband of her jogging bottoms.