The Liar’s Chair

by Rebecca Whitney

  The passage towards the vehicle is like a memory of a path. In the five weeks since the accident, plants have reclaimed this space. Fallen branches, moss and leaves bed the ground. At first the bushes are easy to part, but the undergrowth gets thicker the further I go. Plants jag at my clothes. A thorn swipes my cheek, and fingers of branches tangle my hair. Looking down, my hands piece the way through the scrub until thirty metres forward the access opens on to a small clearing. Set at the centre, with the night closing in, is the dust-yellow caravan.

  The oval structure appears flimsy, like a toy held together by Sellotape. Weeds crawl up and across windows towards the roof, and the caravan lists as if the vegetation is pulling it into the ground. On the other side of the vehicle is a barbed-wire fence, and behind that a ploughed field, ringed on three sides by the woods. The fourth edge of the field stretches across to a barn which sits at the foot of gentle hills. Above is a big open sky, dark grey and full. If it breaks, there will be sleet or snow.

  A chill seeps through my jacket. I place my numb feet into footprints set in the mud, which guide me towards the door. The fossilized undersoles detail two sets of feet; one pair at least must have been male, but neither can belong to the owner of the caravan – the last time he was here, the weather had been dry. He never made it home to shelter from the rain that came.

  A porch made from corrugated iron and old packing cases is attached to the side of the vehicle, and through this is the door to the caravan. Three wonky shelves stacked with bags line one side of the shelter: holdalls, handbags and supermarket carriers follow a size order – a system in the chaos – with big ones at the bottom and smaller ones up top. I pull one out and it falls. The rotten fabric bursts and books spill on the ground, pages rippled with damp. Air clogs with cold must. One hardback reveals a library renewal slip, last stamped in 1985. I bend down, put the books back in the bag then step towards the door, expecting the caravan to be locked or the door handle stiff, but it opens with ease on to a dark room. A wall of stench. With my eyes shut I hold my breath for as long as I can, letting the worst of the spores drift past before I refocus and enter with slow steps. The watch ticks inside my gloved palm, as if I’ve brought the man with me and am returning him home.

  Directly ahead is a bed, heaped with blankets and an old hessian sack. There are two windows: one to my side and one over the bed. Below the window to my left is a small fixed table with seating for two. Opposite this is the kitchen. Pinned around the walls are pen-and-ink drawings of birds, rabbits and dogs. The pictures are naive but well accomplished, and many of the images are ringed by swirls and fractals of colour. Some of the pages have been pulled off and lie scrunched on the floor. I pick up a couple of the drawings. They are of trees, and have names written underneath: Olden Head and Greenscale. On all the flat surfaces is a brickwork of cans and bottles, some growing fur, and the space looks smaller than I thought, more claustrophobic for the clutter. There’s a crushed can on the floor, and I pick it up and fit my gloved hand round the tin’s creases where the man touched. Stepping over rubbish, I go to sit on the bed but a used condom is on the blankets – not his, surely, but kids. Interlopers. This bed. This stink. This filth. I doubt they thought it was worth it.

  Outside, a bird screeches, then silence apart from the blood rushing to my ears.

  Fitted cupboards hang open and rubbish spills out – someone has already been through the man’s things. I reach into each cupboard, finding nothing but empty tins and newspapers, some porn magazines, and my gloves collect a tacky fluff. Only one door above the fridge is jammed shut. I yank at the handle until the hinge bursts open, and I stumble backwards, bumping into the table and dislodging a pyramid of cans to the floor. Brushing myself down, I find a crate, turn it over and stand on it for height. Inside the cupboard’s dark mouth my fingers survey the edges, then hit on something cold and hard at the back, something that’s been missed by the other tomb raiders. I slide it out. It’s a box with a key – an old cash-tin – and it rattles as I shake it, though not with the clatter of coins. The lock shifts round in rusty jolts and the lid loosens, then opens with a squeak to reveal a sectioned tray designed to hold different denominations of money, only there’s not a single penny here. Instead each compartment holds the complete skeleton of a small animal. One looks like a mouse, another a baby bird, all resting on tissue paper. The bones are bleached clean, as if they’ve been picked of flesh and left in the sun by someone who knew what they were doing, someone who regarded nature as a treasure. Two small pellets of bones, crushed up into ovals, sit in one compartment – parcels of regurgitated waste from a bird of prey. I clear a place at the table, remove my gloves and sit, carefully picking out the pieces of one of the creatures and placing the bones in the palm of my other hand. The skeleton weighs nothing. Each bone was once attached to muscle, the muscle covered by skin, and this collection of tiny parts would have made a living machine. I put the animal jigsaw back, then lift out the tray and put it to one side. Underneath is a stack of papers and a few empty envelopes with addresses from across the country. Some have hair cuttings and seeds inside. The recipient’s name on the front is Seamus Williams.

  I read the words several times. Seamus. Williams. My Seamus.

  Sifting through the papers, I find several payslips addressed to Seamus dating back to the early 1970s. They are all from Manorhall Construction.

  Even though the logo has changed, it has to be the same company whose letterhead I saw at the office; the business could have lain dormant all these years, until now when its bank accounts have again become useful. I flatten the papers on to the table to stop them shaking in my hands.

  Beneath the payslips, yellowed newspaper articles talk about the aborted development here in the 1970s: WORKER THWARTS NEW DEVELOPMENT; UNIONS TAKE A STAND AGAINST UNSAFE WORKING CONDITIONS. The reports are hard to read in the low light, the print worn as if it’s been handled repeatedly, but there’s a small picture of a man, too pixelated to see his features, though the name credit underneath is for Seamus Williams. So the worker mentioned in the headline must be Seamus. I remember Alex saying that the man in the woods was part of the reason his family couldn’t develop the land years ago, which suggests Manorhall is a Richard family enterprise.

  At the bottom of the pile is an airmail envelope addressed to Seamus at a PO box in the village, and on the back is an address in Ireland. I unfold the thin sheet inside to reveal large handwriting with the dots above the i’s drawn as hearts.

  ‘Dear Pa, I have a cat now. She is called Mouse. She is black and white and I love her. When are you coming home?’

  A photo falls to the floor with the picture facing up: a young girl standing in a garden next to a fence. There are daffodils in the flower beds and the girl smiles into the camera with letter-box lips, like someone has told her to be happy. On the back of the photograph is the name ‘Claire’ and it’s dated 4 March 1976. She looks about ten. The same age I would have been that year, the same age I was when my dad left. We could be long-lost twins, this the sister I always wanted. I wonder if my own father kept the letters I wrote.

  Outside, the light is failing, but as I study the photo a late blanch of setting sun seeps through the dirt on the window and highlights letters etched into the grime on the glass: the letters spell ‘Look’. I think of Seamus sitting here, pulling his finger across the dust to form the word, the writing left for me to see. The breath of a dead man brushes my neck. Behind the letters golden shafts of light fall through gaps in the clouds and travel at speed across the landscape, like giant legs keeping pace with the hurry of the wind.

  From this position in the caravan, the whole field opens out to the horizon. Nothing gets in the way of the hills and sky. It’s all mine to see. I imagine the man – my Seamus – sitting in this seat and watching for nature’s details, the landscape altering at speed but at other times with such intricacy that the changes would be easy to miss unless you were paying attention. How easy it would be t
o replace every branch and insect here with uniformity. I wonder what happened to Seamus, and how radical he had to become to save this land from commerce. This must be what he fought for, and why he stayed. For the first time I understand why anyone would choose to live like this and why they would need nothing else.

  It’s hard to make out in this light, and at first I think I’m imagining it, but a small dot approaches from the direction of the trees and moves across the open field towards the caravan. The shape travels at a gentle speed, at times lolling to one side before righting itself. I can’t make out if it’s a person from this far away, and I panic as to whether it’s better to hide here until they pass or make a run for it. I look round for something to crouch under, but everything is so filthy. As I watch outside, the shape comes closer until at last it morphs into a dog. No owner in sight. I put on my gloves, stuff all the papers in my bag, with the letter and photo zipped into the safe pocket, then I slide the container back into the cupboard.

  The caravan rocks and squeaks as it releases my weight. I hold my breath and move slowly round to the barbed-wire fence as the dog comes closer, and we face each other in a stand-off across the rusty barrier. The animal’s eyes are balls of dark jelly. Ribs push through its thin skin and jowls loop down from brown teeth in red gums. Long scabs run in parallel lines along the dog’s flank, possibly made by crossing the wire if the animal had been forced to find a way through – if it had been desperate for food because its owner never returned. The dog is cautious but knowing and it lets out a low growl, but offers no other challenge as it paces the length of the fence. I take the scarf from round my neck and wrap it round my hand, then press down on the wire to climb into the field. The scarf is silk, my gloves soft, and a rusty spike goes through almost immediately, planting itself into my palm with a hot wet pain. I snatch my hand away from the fence. Blood blooms through the silk. I unravel the material, pull off my glove and instinctively suck the wound; the blood is warm and bitter, the flow strong, and the cut will need to be dressed properly. I strap my hand up tight, like a tourniquet, and walk away. Behind me the dog’s bark is a rasp. I turn to see it paralleling the fence one last time with legs lean and flapping, before it turns and limps back across the field towards the woods, head bent to the ground.

  Darkness overtakes me as I make my way back along the path of frozen puddles which crunch like broken glass. I take wrong turn after wrong turn, and panic I might end up here all night. How long would I survive in this cold?

  After about an hour I hear voices and spy tents plus a series of walkways in the trees, set up like an adventure playground; the makeshift community of activists have bedded in against the development. A figure holding a lantern turns towards me, but he can’t see me standing in the darkness. I pause to study the man, enjoying the luxury of observing without being seen. He’s an older, shorter-haired version of the dreadlocked image of Tyrone I saw in David’s office, and he’s taller than in his newspaper portrait. Several people have gathered round a fire behind him, one with a guitar, another two are laughing. A grubby child bashes the ground with a stick before wandering over to its mother for a cuddle. It crosses my mind to ask them for directions. If I did, I could sit for a while to warm up; perhaps they’d offer me some tea, one of the women could dress my wound, then maybe I’d sleep out here in a tent, cocooned by the woods. The thought of David and Alex finding out I’d crossed over to the other side makes me smile, and I go to walk towards the group but a twig breaks under my foot. The man raises his lantern and shouts, ‘Who’s there?’ I turn and flee.

  From the camp I trace the direction back to the car park where the sallow glow of the street light filters through the trees. When I finally arrive I have no idea of the time; it could be deep in the night. Several other cars and a few people have gathered on the other side of the car park under the light; dog walkers probably, loading their animals after the last exercise of the day. A bit late, I think, but perhaps they know the area well. I get in my car and switch on the interior light to check my cut. It’s still bleeding but has begun to clot. I sit with my eyes closed and my hands in my lap, focusing on the nub of pain in my palm. The sensation is satisfying, and I press the incision to amplify the sting.

  A rap on my window. I jump and open my eyes, scrabbling for the keys in the ignition, but the car door opens and a man’s head leans inside.

  ‘It’s all right, love,’ he says, holding his palm up to face me, ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

  He squats down on his haunches next to the open door. The stonewashed denim of his jeans stretches across his knees and thighs, and his face is large, hair short, clean and spiky. He places both hands on opposite sides of the door frame for support and shuffles in closer. Cigarettes and beer on his breath, his body odour strong but not unpleasant. A distant trace of aftershave.

  ‘I was wondering,’ he says, ‘if I could help you?’ He looks at my face but hasn’t noticed my cut, so I slide my hands between my legs as he shifts his position, spreading his own legs wider. ‘We got a message that someone new was turning up tonight. So I came over, to see if you need a hand. You know, getting started.’

  Words evolve in my throat and spit from my mouth, staccato and high-pitched.

  ‘No. I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I was only stopping off before going home. I’m perfectly OK.’

  ‘It’s just that if you need an introduction, you know, I’d be happy to show you the way.’ He sweeps one hand in an antique gesture towards the cluster of parked cars, and smiles, keeping his eyes on me, his etiquette belying the threat of his body which blocks my exit. On his forehead, a collection of busy lines hold moisture in their grooves. I try to smile. No other expression will come. Manners override my impulse to run. The man offers me his hand through the open car door – rough skin, scrubbed nails, palm facing upwards – as if he’s asking for a waltz. ‘It’s often like this,’ he says. ‘You know, if it’s your first time. Don’t worry, we won’t hurt you.’

  He shifts his weight on to his other leg and I catch his eye. We size each other up, then I look across the car park. It’s difficult to pick out details, but the vehicle at the centre of focus has its internal light on, and it contains forms, limbs, something awkward.

  Saliva sticks in my throat. My breath is short and sharp.

  ‘You have got to be joking!’ I say. I reach for the handle of the car door and swing it towards me. It thuds on the man’s back.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he says, standing, rubbing his back with one hand while still attempting to hold the door open with the other, ‘no need to freak out.’ He lets go of the door and brushes down his trousers, turns and walks back to the opposite side of the car park. ‘Stuck-up bitch.’ He doesn’t shout but it’s loud enough for me to hear.

  I slam the door and start the car, looping the vehicle round to the narrow exit. My headlights blanch over the group of people and their faces light up like a clutch of neon balloons. The man walks towards them at speed with both his hands held out in front of him, gesturing a semaphore of ‘no go’.

  Out on the open road, I sling through the gears, only then remembering the cut on my hand. I press down on the steering wheel, stabbing at the pain like scissors.

  12

  STYROFOAM COFFEE CUPS

  Bessie’s been sick on the bed. Will’s flat is equipped with an ancient washing machine into which he stuffs the duvet cover and sheet, but the quilt itself is too big.

  ‘Have to take a trip to the launderette,’ he says, bagging the grey material into a bin liner.

  I gather my things and search for my car keys. My bag is empty compared to how full it’s been this past week, stuffed with Seamus’s letters and the newspaper articles I found at his caravan. It’s been a challenge keeping everything hidden from David, and I’ve had to seek out new and obscure hiding places, the best one being the box in the garage where my dad’s old clothes used to be, which now holds the spare tyre from my car. I’ve realized that David would n
ever look in there; old things are dirty, they are infected with a past that existed before I met him and in which he has no interest.

  On one occasion when I knew I wasn’t going to be disturbed, I shut the garage door and used a torch to flick through Seamus’s documents. Even though the newspaper articles were difficult to read, it was possible to glean that Seamus spent some time in hospital after an on-site accident on the old Richard development, and there was a battle for compensation, although it’s not clear if he received any money. Perhaps Alex’s family didn’t pay Seamus off, and Seamus decided to get the unions involved, which in a roundabout way led to him staying on the land he’d grown to love. I put these articles back in the box and took out the drawings of the trees – Olden Head and Greenscale. Up close the penmanship revealed intricate details of bark and leaves.

  Last night when Will was asleep I stashed all the papers at the bottom of a trunk of his gran’s old keepsakes – he never looks in there, he says it makes him sad. If ever Will does find them they’ll mean nothing to him.

  I keep the little girl’s – Claire’s – photo in my back pocket, the watch zipped in my bag until I get home, and all that’s left in my handbag apart from my keys, phone and medication is a small brown envelope. The packet has a rudimentary graph printed on the front. It’s the type of envelope in which I used to receive my wages when I worked part-time as a teenager. This time though it’s been put there by David. Inside are two five-pound notes and some change. He’s called the money ‘housekeeping’ and he wants me to fill out the totals on the front, then transfer the expenses to our notebook at home. So far I’ve spent a little over £40 of this week’s money, some on petrol but mostly in the pub last night – I’ll need to find dummy receipts to cover the deficit.

  ‘Give us a lift will you?’ Will’s eyes follow my hand movements. ‘My van’s up the creek.’