The Liar's Promise

by Mark Tilbury

  The whole experience of Purple-five’s death had left King with an even greater dislike of the French and their inadequate means of human disposal. He’d consigned himself to more British methods from that day forth, although when you drilled down into what actually happened at some executions it was a pretty murky subject to say the least.

  King opened the drawer holding Purple-five’s head. Even though frozen, and as well-preserved as could be expected after losing the support of its blood supply and other vital organs, she wasn’t in prime condition. Ice crystals had formed in the blood, giving her a pock-marked complexion to match that of the unfortunate Purple-two. Her remaining eye, wide and staring, looked inwards at her nose, and her lips were pulled back in a deathly rictus grin. Death had not lent beauty to Purple-five, but that didn’t detract from King’s admiration of her. She was of greater substance than all the purples, yellows, oranges and turquoises put together. Or taken apart, depending on which way you looked at it.

  He leaned into the freezer compartment and air-kissed the frozen head, careful not to make contact with the ice. He’d made that dreadful mistake to his cost the first time he’d shown affection to Purple-five on the first anniversary of her death. His lips had become glued to the ice, and it had taken a considerable effort to tear them free. He’d had to claim cold sores for the best part of a month to stave off awkward questions regarding the damage.

  He’d found Purple-five wandering around Paddington Station almost eight years ago. Unlike her successor, the dancing horse, Purple-six, Purple-five seemed like a smart girl. Educated. Decent background. But like most of the other girls occupying the freezers, at odds with a family who had no wish to see their precious pup spend an impoverished life for the sake of creative art. Van Gough’s act of self-mutilation had clearly had a far greater effect than the artist could ever have imagined. A warning to all parents to crush the dreams of children if they ever dared to mention art as a career choice.

  King stepped back from the freezer and gazed at the head, remembering the moment he’d first seen her. She’d been staring at the arrivals and departures boards, long blonde hair reaching down to the waistband of her faded blue jeans.

  ‘I can never understand those things,’ King had said. And then, a well-practised joke. ‘I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, never mind the trains.’

  The girl had smiled. ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Where are you heading?’

  A long pause, followed by a shrug. She ran a hand through her hair and flicked it to one side.

  ‘Would you like a coffee? My treat.’

  ‘I don’t…’

  ‘You’d be doing an old man a favour. I’m about to go to Oxford to visit my sister.’ He stroked his fake beard. ‘If I’m honest, I’m a bit apprehensive. She’s rather prone to being bossy.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She’s older than me. By a day. We’re twins.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘Seventy years and forty days is a long time to be bossed around by a grouchy sister.’

  The girl’s eyes widened. ‘Seventy?’

  King nodded, pleased. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I don’t look it? It’s a family thing. None of us look our age. Aunty Dotty’s ninety, and you’d be hard-pressed to believe she’s even retired.’

  ‘Really?’

  King fought a compulsive urge to take that horrendous word, really, and stamp it in a muddy puddle. ‘Aunt Dotty’s gifted in the art of make-up. And she’s a rather elegant dresser. But even so…’

  ‘She sounds… interesting.’

  ‘She is.’ He eyed the leather satchel in the girl’s left hand. ‘School books?’

  She smiled. ‘I don’t go to school.’

  ‘No?’

  They discussed this last point over coffee and scones in the grubby buffet bar. He learned that Amy May Constable was sixteen, from Woking, and she wanted to go to art school to indulge her calling.

  ‘What a wonderful ambition,’ King said, for once mildly impressed.

  Her parents seemed to have other ideas. ‘They want me to go to university and train to be a pharmacist.’

  ‘A pill-pusher?’ King said, shocked that any parent could have such a lowly ambition for their offspring. In more natural company, this declaration might have sparked a lengthy discussion about the evil nature of the pharmaceutical companies, and their penchant for creating illnesses to ply the human race with useless pills to contain those illnesses. He rarely took painkillers, fearful that his blood would turn to the consistency of his mother’s gravy and no longer support his vital organs.

  Amy shrugged. ‘I don’t want to be a pharmacist. I’m not doing A-levels. I don’t even like science and maths.’

  King had found his soul mate. He couldn’t think of anything worse than crunching numbers and mixing potions, the latter of which was akin to witchcraft.

  ‘Then you must stick to your guns, dear. Stick to your guns and fire a salvo across their foredeck.’

  Amy seemed conversant with guns, but in the dark with foredecks.

  ‘So, what are you going to do?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Have you come to London to fulfil your artistic ambition?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Or just to make a point?’

  Amy tossed her half-eaten scone on the chipped, china plate. ‘Both, I suppose.’

  ‘Perhaps you need a little breathing space. Time to reflect.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Maybe. Another dreadful word. Such non-committal drivel had no place in the beautiful English language. And you could add like to that list, along with dozens of others spawned from illiterate minds.

  ‘How do you fancy accompanying me to my sister’s? I’m only going for three days, and your presence would make the visit a lot more bearable.’

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t—’

  King moved in for the kill. ‘She used to teach art at a local school.’

  ‘Really?’

  God give me strength! ‘Yes.’

  Amy looked at the satchel sitting on the chair next to her. ‘Do you think she’d take a look at my drawings?’

  ‘She’d be thrilled.’

  It took another ten minutes of persuasion, but Amy May Constable relented when King assured her that his ‘sister’ had connections with the Oxford Art Academy. It was doubtful whether such a place existed, but it sounded good enough to hook the fish and reel it in.

  Amy hadn’t reacted well to her transformation from wannabe art student to Purple-five. The girl had spirit, as his mother was apt to say before cancer had robbed her of the ability to speak. In fact, Purple-five had fought the restraints like a hellcat on heat once the drugs had worn off.

  It had taken weeks to tame her. Break her in like a wild horse with a mixture of electric shocks and beatings. But rather than deter him, Purple-five had excited him. Proposed a challenge. And given a decent account of herself over the years.

  King stared at the distorted icy features in the freezer. It was a terrible shame she’d lost an eye at the end, but the nature of the game left little room for caution. Purple-five had been hit in the eye with a plum stone after three days in the stocks. Another two days at the whipping post had killed any last lingering remnants of her feisty spirit.

  Amy May Constable’s transition from promising art student to human game piece for One False Move had been vast enough to render her unrecognisable. King had burned her drawings, which were of a reasonable quality considering her lack of tutoring. She had a genuine flair for shading and perspective, not to mention screaming and cursing. A girl of many talents, you might say.

  He slid the drawer back in and closed the freezer door. ‘Happy anniversary, Purple-five.’

  It would be Turquoise-two’s second’s anniversary in ten days’ time. King doubted whether he would bother to honour it this year. An unremarkable girl who’d barely given six months service before death had relieved her of he
r duties.

  He grabbed a bottle of Château D’Yquem from the wall-to-wall wine rack opposite the freezers and headed upstairs for a celebratory drink with his latest lover. A toast to all who had gone before, particularly Purple-five, God rest her soul.

  He was almost joyous enough to burst into a rendition of ‘Good King Wenceslas’ and hang a stocking over the fireplace for Father Christmas to fill.

  8

  Mel had stayed with her father for half an hour at the hospital, holding his lifeless hand, trying to convince herself that at least he was at peace now, free of the pain which had ravaged his dying body for the last few weeks. She’d kissed him gently on the top of his head and driven home in a strange surreal state.

  She hung her coat up and walked into the lounge. Tony was sitting on the sofa, a pile of papers on the seat next to him. He looked up, pen hovering above a red text book. ‘Is he all right?’

  Mel shook her head. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Oh, shit. I’m so sorry, Mel.’

  His words seemed hollow. ‘It’s not as if it wasn’t expected, is it?’

  ‘No, but all the same…’

  ‘Where’s Chloe?’

  ‘At the kitchen table.’

  ‘I’ll go and tell her.’

  Tony busied himself tidying his paperwork. ‘Would you like me to do it?’

  ‘No.’

  Chloe was sitting at the table, a large drawing pad taking up most of the surface, coloured pencils scattered about her.

  ‘Hiya, Pumpkin.’

  Chloe didn’t look up. She wrapped an arm around the pad as if guarding a massive secret.

  ‘What are you drawing?’

  Chloe picked up a blue pencil and scribbled furiously.

  ‘Can Mummy see?’

  Chloe shook her head, hair whipping the sides of her face.

  ‘Could youput the pencil down a minute and listen to Mummy?’

  Chloe responded by dragging the pencil across the pad hard enough to make the tip break. She tossed it to one side and picked up a red one, licked the tip, and then added something else to the drawing. Her face was a mask of concentration, tongue poking out, clamped between her teeth.

  ‘Granddad’s passed away,’ Mel said, the last dregs of patience draining out of her.

  Chloe didn’t look up. ‘I know. Grandma Audrey told me.’

  Mel’s heart fell into her stomach. ‘When?’

  ‘When he left his body.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s all right. He’s been a good boy and gone to heaven.’

  Mel swallowed hard. ‘Did she tell you that?’

  ‘She has got a name.’

  Mel held onto the edge of the table. ‘Did Grandma Audrey say that?’

  Chloe nodded. Her hair fell like a screen around the drawing.

  Tony walked into the kitchen. Mel glanced at him. She wanted to grab him, shake him, demand he make all this go away. She wanted to tell Chloe to put down her pencils and stop scaring the crap out of her.

  She leaned closer to Chloe. ‘Is Grandma Audrey here now?’

  Chloe shook her head. ‘She’s got better things to do with her bloody time than hang round this dump all day.’

  ‘Chloe!’ Tony shouted. ‘You pack that language in right now.’

  Chloe laughed. ‘Right.’

  Mel thought the laugh was worse than the defiance.

  Chloe looked at Tony, eyes dark with mischief. ‘You said, “fuck” when Mummy made you stay at home to look after me.’

  Tony’s eyes confirmed to Mel the validity of the claim. ‘But I was upstairs and you were down here.’

  Chloe returned her attention to the drawing. ‘I know.’

  Tony poured a glass of water.

  ‘How did you hear Daddy if you were downstairs?’ Mel asked, not really wanting to know the answer, but compelled to ask.

  ‘Grandma Audrey told me.’

  ‘She’s lying,’ Tony said.

  Chloe licked the tip of her pencil and stared at Tony. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Tony took a deep breath and sighed. ‘Don’t be so—’

  ‘Grandma Audrey also told me you like a teacher at your school.’

  ‘I like a lot of people,’ Tony said.

  ‘Not the way you like Stephanie Wallace. Right, Daddy?’

  ‘Who the hell is she?’ Mel asked.

  Tony drained his glass of water as if trying to cool the blush on his cheeks. ‘No one. She’s talking rubbish.’

  ‘Grandma Audrey said you never could face up to your responsibilities.’

  Mel banged the table. ‘Stop it! Stop it right now!’

  Chloe jumped and almost toppled off the chair. Tony stomped into the lounge, wiping his mouth, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

  A tear slipped from the corner of Chloe’s eye. ‘Why are you shouting at me?’

  Mel stepped away from the table, searching for signs of Grandma Audrey in her daughter.

  ‘Are you mad at me, Mummy?’

  Mel shook her head and brushed a strand of hair out of Chloe’s face. ‘No.’

  ‘I’m going to miss Granddad.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘He was nice.’

  ‘Yes, he was. But at least he’s not sick anymore.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can Mummy see what you’ve been drawing?’

  Chloe folded her arms across the paper. ‘When it’s finished.’

  ‘Do you want to give Mummy a clue?’

  ‘No. Shut the door behind you.’

  Mel thought Chloe was kidding at first. When it became clear she wasn’t, she asked why.

  ‘To give us both some privacy.’

  Mel almost bit her tongue in half trying not to respond, but she was in no mood to rock a sinking ship. She walked into the lounge, closed the door, and found Tony tidying papers and rummaging through his briefcase.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  Tony didn’t look at her. ‘If it’s about what Chloe said, there’s nothing to say.’

  ‘Is that right? So how does she know about this woman at school?’

  ‘She doesn’t.’

  ‘How would she even know her name?’

  ‘Maybe she’s heard me mention her on the phone or something.’

  ‘So, there is a Stephanie Wallace?’

  ‘She used to teach English.’

  Mel walked to the window. Folded her arms. Shook her head slowly. ‘I see.’

  Tony sighed. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  After a lengthy pause, Tony fastened his briefcase and sat down on the sofa. ‘I think you’re reading too much into all this… nonsense.’

  ‘Nonsense?’

  ‘That’s the definition of something that doesn’t make sense, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t fucking well patronise me.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m just trying to be—’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to try honesty for once.’

  ‘I am being honest.’

  ‘And I’m being unreasonable?’

  ‘That’s not what I said.’

  ‘Are you screwing someone else, Tony?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because in case it’s slipped your notice, my father has just died, my daughter is scaring the crap out of me, and you’re not fucking well helping.’

  Tony looked at her as if swearing trumped having an affair with some tart at work. ‘Chloe’s only in the kitchen.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse.’

  Tony’s lips moved, as if chewing over his next words before he set them loose. ‘Just remember I love you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first bloke to love his wife and screw around.’

  ‘I’m not screwing around.’

  Mel took a deep breath. ‘You’re bound to say that, aren’t you?’

  Chloe rescued him from having to rep
ly. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘For what, Pumpkin?’ Mel said, momentarily thrown off track.

  ‘To show you my picture, silly.’

  Mel forced a weak smile, comforted by the fact her daughter was now talking as a four-year-old child should. ‘Okay.’

  They walked into the kitchen together, hostilities on hold. Chloe stood to one side of the table shuffling from one foot to the other like she needed to pee. ‘Do you like it?’

  At first, Mel’s mind refused to accept what she was seeing. Blank out the dreadful implications of the picture. Chloe had drawn a near-perfect picture of their house, right down to the porch lantern and the coconut welcome mat outside the front door. There was even a superb illustration of their VW Golf parked in the bay. Orange and yellow flames belched from the front room window. So convincing their authenticity, the paper actually looked as if it was on fire.

  ‘Do you like it, Mummy?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Why have you drawn the house on fire, Chloe?’ Tony asked.

  Chloe shrugged.

  As if the fire wasn’t enough to render Mel mute, her mind incapable of rational thought, the giant ladybird flying away from the house with Chloe riding on its back was.

  Chloe asked again, ‘Don’t you like it, Mummy?’

  Mel wanted to tear the picture into a thousand pieces and throw it out the back door. ‘I… don’t… know… what… to… say.’

  ‘It’s great,’ Tony said, from a faraway land. ‘It’s just not very nice drawing the house on fire like that.’

  ‘What would you prefer I draw?’ Chloe shouted. ‘Matchstick men?’

  Mel stepped back, shocked by this sudden burst of anger. ‘No, it’s…’

  ‘Not to your taste?’

  ‘Don’t talk to Mummy like that,’ Tony said.

  ‘Like what? It’s only a picture.’

  ‘That’s not the point, young lady.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Mel said. ‘It’s a great picture. Come on, let’s go get some pizza.’

  Chloe grinned. ‘Yay! Can I have any topping?’