The Liar's Promise

by Mark Tilbury

  A sudden scream rescued Mel from an urge to dig her nails into Tony’s face. Gouge his skin, let him feel some of the pain she was suffering. She rushed to the lounge door and yanked it open. Chloe was kneeling on the floor in front of the TV, head twisted to one side, strands of hair pasted to the side of her face.

  ‘Chloe?’

  Chloe’s breath came in laboured pants. She held her hands straight out in front of her, balled into fists.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Tony asked.

  Mel ignored him. ‘Chloe? Can you hear Mummy?’

  Chloe’s head snapped to one side as if in receipt of a heavy blow. She screamed loud enough to shatter Mel’s heart. Mel squatted down in front of her. There appeared to be a huge bruise beneath Chloe’s left eye. She touched the child’s hand.

  ‘No. No. No. No more!’ Chloe screamed. ‘No more. NO MORE!’ Her head jerked back.

  ‘Come on, sweetheart. Wake up. It’s Mummy.’

  Chloe’s head flopped forward, chin resting on her chest.

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with her?’ Tony shouted. ‘Wake her up.’

  Mel leaned forward. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart. Come on. Mummy’s got you.’ She was just about to take Chloe into her arms when the child’s head jerked up. One of Chloe’s eyes looked at Mel, the other gawped wildly to the left at the TV.

  ‘Oh my God. Chloe?’

  Chloe smiled. She tilted her head back and spat into her mother’s face. ‘Fuck you. Fuck you all.’

  Mel wiped the spit away with the back of her hand.

  Chloe’s head jerked to the right. She screamed again. Mel took a chance and lunged forward. She grabbed her daughter and held her as tight as she could. ‘It’s all right, baby, I’ve got you. Mummy’s got you.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her eyes?’ Tony asked.

  Mel didn’t hear him. She rocked back and forth, comforting Chloe as best she could. She stayed this way until she could no longer feel her legs. After about half an hour, Tony told Mel that Chloe was asleep.

  ‘Put her on the sofa.’

  ‘She might be better off in bed.’

  ‘Just do it, Tony. I want her down here where I can see her.’

  Whilst Tony laid Chloe on the sofa, Mel reclaimed her legs and switched off the TV. She walked back into the kitchen, sat at the table, lit a cigarette.

  Tony joined her a few moments later. ‘What the hell happened with her eyes?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere while she’s like this.’

  ‘This doesn’t let you off the hook, Tony. Our marriage is over.’

  17

  When Chloe woke up an hour after the episode in the front room, her face was unmarked and her eyes had returned to normal. They ate a Christmas dinner of turkey and all the trimmings, followed by mince pies and brandy butter. Mel did her best to pretend to be hungry, set an example to her daughter, but her stomach felt cramped and full after just a few mouthfuls.

  Tony, to his credit, put on a good act, joking with Chloe and working his way through his dinner as if nothing was wrong. But he was good at pretending, wasn’t he? When the time came to leave, Chloe asked him why he had to go back to Nanna Vicky’s house.

  ‘Because Nanna’s not well, darling. She needs Daddy to look after her.’

  ‘Why can’t we all go and look after her?’

  ‘Another time. She needs some peace and quiet at the moment.’

  ‘I won’t be noisy.’

  Tony put his coat on and ruffled Chloe’s hair. ‘I know. But we have to do what Nanna Vicky wants at the moment. Deal?’

  Chloe raised her hand, palm out. ‘Deal.’

  She lifted her up and kissed her forehead. ‘Be a good girl for Mummy.’

  ‘I will.’

  As he put Chloe back on the floor, Mel could see tears glistening in his eyes. She almost changed her mind, but then thought about Stephanie Wallace and Tony at it like a pair of dogs on heat whilst she sat at home pleading with God to make her heart stop hurting.

  They watched Tony’s VW Golf pull out of St Kilda’s Close. Chloe waved and blew kisses until the car vanished from sight. They walked back into the lounge and sat on the sofa.

  ‘You want to watch Finding Dory with me, Mummy?’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘After Mummy’s done the dishes, okay?’

  ‘Shall I help?’

  Normally, Mel would have said no. But today, she wanted to keep Chloe close. ‘That would be fab. I’ll wash and you can dry. How does that sound?’

  Chloe smiled. ‘Okay.’

  After doing the dishes, they watched the film together, Chloe wrapped in Mel’s arms. When it ended, Mel switched off the TV and lifted Chloe onto her lap, facing her. She brushed electric strands of hair out of her face and looked deep into her eyes.

  ‘Are you all right, Mummy?’

  ‘I’m fine, Pumpkin. You?’

  ‘I wish Daddy was here.’

  ‘You’ll see him again soon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When Nana Vicky’s better.’

  ‘When will she be better?’

  ‘Soon. Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Remember when we went to the theatre?’

  Chloe’s sapphire-blue eyes, beautiful enough to elicit compliments from strangers, looked away. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you remember what happened when we went inside?’

  Chloe shook her head.

  ‘Do you remember being upset?’

  ‘You had a nosebleed.’

  ‘That’s right. Mummy had a nosebleed. Do you remember why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the Tall Man?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Tall Man. You said he was coming.’

  Chloe frowned. ‘Maybe I meant Father Christmas.’

  Mel stroked her daughter’s hair. ‘Do you remember talking about Megan?’

  Chloe’s eyelids fluttered and drooped. She didn’t answer.

  Mel stopped stroking her hair. ‘Chloe?’

  ‘Huh?’

  If Tony was here, he might have insisted Chloe say ‘pardon’. But he wasn’t. He was at his mother’s, no doubt sulking, licking his wounds and plotting a way back into her life.

  Or back to his tart.

  Mel’s heart double-locked itself. Fuck him. He could rot in hell for all she cared.

  ‘Mummy?’

  Mel jerked back to reality. ‘I was just wondering if you remembered talking about Megan?’

  Chloe nodded. ‘Megan lives in the graveyard.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Grandma Audrey told me.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I see her sometimes.’

  ‘Who? Grandma Audrey?’

  ‘And Megan.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She’s got black hair like you. And brown eyes. Not like me. I look like Daddy, don’t I?’

  ‘Do you see Megan for real, or just in a dream?’

  Chloe shrugged and fell silent.

  ‘Chloe?’

  ‘What’s with all the questions?’

  Stunned by the sudden change in demeanour, Mel dropped the subject.

  ‘I don’t keep a bloody diary.’

  ‘Okay. That’s enough. Don’t use that language in front of Mummy.’

  Chloe blinked twice in rapid succession. ‘What language?’

  ‘Swearing.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  Mel’s heart was beating so hard she could see it pulsing through the thin fabric of her tee-shirt. They sat together in silence. Mel knew she couldn’t just ignore this behaviour any longer. She would have to find someone who could help to unravel this mess. But who?

  A psychiatrist?

  But this was hardly a mental disorder, was it? It was as if Chloe became momentarily possessed, and then flipped back to an innocent little girl again.

  Chloe leaned he
r head back and smiled. ‘I love you, Mummy.’

  ‘I love you, too.’

  ‘You’re the best Mummy in the world.’

  ‘And you’re the best little girl in the world.’

  ‘The angels helped me to choose you, Mummy.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They said you would be the best Mummy to help me.’

  ‘With what?’

  Chloe shrugged. ‘They didn’t say.’

  ‘Did these angels have wings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like fairy wings?’

  ‘Bigger than fairy wings.’

  ‘How big?’

  ‘Bigger than the whole world. And they were all pretty colours.’

  ‘Not just white, then?’

  ‘Nope. Pink. Purple. Yellow. Like rainbows.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘They had light shining out of them.’

  ‘Double-wow.’

  ‘They know everything.’

  ‘Clever and beautiful, then?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Like you, Pumpkin.’

  ‘No way. I can’t even fly anymore.’

  ‘Did you used to?’

  ‘Yeah. Really fast. Just by shutting my eyes. I could go anywhere I wanted. Even a chocolate factory.’

  ‘How brilliant.’

  ‘Real chocolate.’

  ‘Cadbury’s or Galaxy?’

  Chloe made a face to suggest Mummy was as dumb as mud. ‘I said real chocolate.’

  ‘Like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘Crikey! Are you joking?’

  Chloe shook her head. ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’s just made up stuff. This place is real.’

  ‘How long were you with the angels?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Days? Weeks?’

  ‘There’s no time in heaven.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘How do people know when to do things?’

  ‘They just do.’

  ‘Do the angels tell them?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘God?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you go to heaven after you died?’

  A shadow passed in front of Chloe’s eyes. She shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘When you lived in Woking?’

  ‘I’m tired, Mummy.’

  ‘Do you remember telling me your other parents’ names?’

  Chloe shook her head and put a thumb into her mouth.

  ‘You told me they were called Jenny and Robert.’

  Chloe didn’t acknowledge this. Her eyes drooped.

  Mel let it go. She didn’t want to push her over the edge again. She needed to find someone who could give her advice. Guidance. Someone who had no emotional link to them.

  Chloe’s thumb slipped from her mouth. ‘Daddy’s been bad, hasn’t he?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Chloe shrugged.

  ‘Daddy’s fine.’

  ‘Why isn’t he here?’

  ‘You know why. He’s looking after Nanna Vicky.’

  ‘That’s just an excuse.’ Chloe put her thumb back into her mouth and fell asleep instantly.

  18

  Dressed, and in better shape than when he’d risen from the ashes of his drug-induced slumber, King sat at a large oak dining table sipping his second mug of strong black coffee. His hangover had dulled to a steady throb courtesy of two paracetamol washed down with a glass of fresh orange juice.

  For the second time in his life, he wished he possessed the power to turn back time, revisit his actions, and plot a different course. The first such time had involved the lover he’d killed in London. Big Al. Not because of the murder itself, but because he’d lived on a knife-edge for months worrying that someone might dig up the basement and reveal its dubious contents.

  He ran his fingers through his hair and swore to God, the empty dining room, the spirit of his mother and anyone else who might be compassionate to his suffering, he would never drink to excess again. He would keep his fantasies on a leash unless there was no chance of his actions coming back to haunt him.

  To make matters worse, if they could get any worse, they would have to postpone the new game of One False Move. It was almost midday already, and he was in no fit state to get into costume, let alone pit his wits against his opponent. The only bright spot, on this darkest of days, was that his lover had already dismembered the unfortunate Nathan with a chainsaw in the guest bathroom, and separated him into manageable chunks by the time King had made it downstairs.

  Now, they would have to waste precious time going out in the early hours of Boxing Day morning to distribute the parts in bins throughout Oxford. By the time that mundane task was complete, the following day would have to be spent catching up on lost sleep. It was as if fate had conspired to ruin the new game before it had even started.

  His lover strode into the dining room, looking in far better shape than King. Five years his junior, Charles Honeywell had a remarkable capacity for recovery.

  ‘All finished?’ King asked.

  Honeywell adjusted his spectacles. ‘He’s bagged. I’ve scrubbed the bathroom.’

  ‘Why the negative tone?’

  ‘The sheets are ruined. And blood’s seeped through onto the mattress.’

  ‘Is that all? I was beginning to imagine he’d reconstructed himself and was in the guestroom making demands for croissants and coffee.’

  ‘I think it’s fair to say he’s well and truly lost his appetite.’

  ‘We’ll take him to Oxford tonight.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Try to cheer up, Charles. You look as if you’ve just lost your virginity and discovered a dose of syphilis. If you’re worried about the boy, then don’t be. Even if someone saw him getting into my car, it doesn’t prove a thing, does it?’

  ‘No; of course—’

  ‘So, relax.’

  Honeywell made a mug of coffee and perched on a chair opposite his lover. He squinted at King through a veil of steam. ‘Do you believe in life after death?’

  ‘Every time I look in the mirror.’

  Honeywell didn’t seem to be in any mood to share the joke. ‘I’m serious. Do you think we can survive death?’

  ‘What’s brought this on? Do you think Nathan will come scooting up the plughole when you’re in the bath and demand his pound of flesh?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘If he does, you must tell him it’s scattered in the bins around Oxford.’

  ‘Please take me seriously for a minute.’

  King sobered. ‘What is it?’

  Honeywell cleared his throat. ‘I think something is amiss.’

  ‘There’s a lot “amiss” in this world.’

  ‘There’s a girl. She’s… oh, I don’t know. It all seems rather stupid when I say it out loud.’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘The daughter of a teacher at school.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s showing signs of having lived before.’

  In spite of his headache and frazzled nerves, King grinned. ‘Don’t tell me. She was Queen Victoria.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Anne Boleyn?’

  ‘No one like that.’

  ‘Why are you even bothering my intellect with such rubbish? No one has lived before. Reincarnation is a fanciful whim dreamt up by those with fluffy clouds for brains.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree, Peter. But…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The child talks of being executed.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Beheaded.’

  ‘By whom?’

  Honeywell put his mug down and shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘I’ll ask you again: why are you telling me this tripe?’

  ‘Because the child claims to have been executed by guillotine.’

/>   ‘Is she French?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then who in heaven’s name executed her by guillotine? An overzealous teacher?’

  ‘It’s no laughing matter. She’s also talking about a tall man.’

  ‘That narrows it down to half the population.’

  Honeywell marched on. ‘The girl became hysterical when her mother took her to the theatre.’

  ‘Theatre?’

  ‘Here at Feelham. To watch Jack and the Beanstalk. Said she got hysterical the minute they walked through the door.’

  ‘She has my deepest sympathy. I don’t understand why we even bother with that nonsense each year.’

  ‘I think the child was one of ours.’

  ‘A game piece?’

  Honeywell bobbed his head.

  ‘Why on earth would you think that?’

  ‘She remembers dying. She had all these marks around her neck. Then she said, and I quote, “Put me in the fucking cage and be done with it.” What kid says that to her mother?’

  ‘One that is being ill-treated by the sound of it.’

  ‘The theatre? The cage? The guillotine? All just coincidences, Peter?’

  King was thoughtful for a moment. As far as he was concerned, human beings were nothing more than physical entities. They were born, they led mostly miserable lives, they died. ‘All that supernatural stuff is hogwash. I’m surprised an educated man would even contemplate such drivel.’

  ‘I have an open mind.’

  ‘Open minds are gateways for corruption. I suggest you close it at once. We’ve a body to dispose of that poses a much more imminent threat to our liberty than a silly child who’s had an attack of the heebie-jeebies.’

  ‘I still don’t like it.’

  ‘How old is this child?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Good God, barely able to talk.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And the mother’s a teacher at the school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of a sound nature?’

  ‘She’s a good teacher. Bright. Committed.’

  ‘Just goes to show a mask of sanity can camouflage a devious mind.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s trying to deceive anyone. And there’s more.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The child has drawn stuff.’

  King sighed. ‘That’s why they invented crayons.’

  ‘These pictures are extremely detailed. There’s no way on earth a four-year-old child could have drawn them.’