The Liar's Handbook

by Keren David

  “What a gem!” she gushes. “Lucky Tanya!” It was all so secret that she didn’t even tell Kai where they were going until they were boarding the plane.

  “I would’ve warned you if I’d known,” he tells me when his mum goes skipping off to the loo.

  “What’s your dad going to say about this?” I ask him. Kai’s dad is really old school. He’s been away for months, on a boat in the Arctic, protesting about oil drilling.

  “He’s not going to be impressed that we flew here,” Kai says.

  He’s right. When his dad went to Australia for a conference on sustainability, he didn’t catch a single plane. The trip took him eight months.

  “Ah well, mate,” I say. “See you later. I’m on a mission to stop a wedding.”

  I bash on Mum and Jason’s door as loud as I can.

  At last Mum opens it. “River,” she says, and then she sees my face. “Oh, darling. What’s happened?”

  “What’s happened? Only Kai turning up and telling me he’s here for a wedding!”

  “Oh sweetheart – River –”

  “When were you thinking of telling me?”

  “Soon,” she says. “I mean, you knew we were engaged, you knew it was happening one day –”

  “Not today!”

  “Friday,” she corrects me. “And it’s really small. Just us and Lorna and Kai. Wasn’t it nice of Jason to invite them? So kind.”

  Nice – that word again. Kind.

  “He’s what I need,” Mum says. Yuck. “Be nice for me, darling. One day you’ll understand.”

  One day you’ll understand. Probably the most infuriating words any parent can say to any child. My mum used to be more like a friend than a mum. A best friend. Someone who shared everything with me. I could have a laugh with her, share a room with her on holiday, tell her stuff.

  Jason’s changed all that. OK, I got older too, but it’s mostly Jason.

  But I can’t make a fuss at the wedding. Mum’d be so upset. Instead I get my hopes up that it’s not even legal in the UK. I googled it and it seems that beach weddings abroad are pretty flaky.

  It’s a big, fat, fake wedding for a big, fat, fake fiancé. (Fat is a metaphor here. Jason’s not fat in reality. He’s six foot one and has been flaunting his six pack at the pool all week. Kai’s too intimidated to take off his T-shirt.)

  So that’s how I end up standing on a burning hot beach a few days later watching Mum in a bright pink dress listen to vows made up by Jason. He looks ridiculous in a pale pink shirt and cream trousers.

  “You two! So glam!” Lorna said when they came down to the beach, but Kai and I just rolled our eyes at each other.

  Mum looks so happy. No frown on her face. No shadows under her eyes. I can’t wipe that megawatt smile off her face. I have to be a hero, and put my own feelings aside.

  Jason tried to apologise a few days ago. “Sorry, mate,” he said. “I should have asked your permission. I was just worried that you’d say no.”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “You should have.”

  He didn’t take the hint. “I’d like to think that we had your blessing,” he went on. “I love your mum, so much. And to be part of a family –”

  “Whatever,” I said, and walked off.

  I’m in my long-sleeved T-shirt and my jeans, even though it’s crazy hot and everyone laughed when they saw me. I’m not going to risk skin cancer any more than I need to.

  I want to shout, “Don’t trust him!”

  I want to shout, “He’ll break your heart!”

  I want to shout, “He’ll leave you!”

  But I don’t. Because my mum knows all that and she’s still doing it anyway.

  It’s like she’s forgotten what happened with my dad.

  5: YOU CAN'T TELL LIES TO PEOPLE WHO AREN'T THERE

  My dad’s name is Matthew Jordan. He first met Mum a year before I was born, at a festival in Somerset, also known as the middle of nowhere.

  There’s a photo of him at the festival, with fields and tatty tents in the background. His dusty dreadlocks are a faded orange colour like a fox, and he has blue eyes and a small snubby nose. On his arm is a tattoo of a red rose in a spider’s web.

  It seems he played the guitar and sang folk songs, Mum’s favourites, and he made her laugh. “I saw him and I just knew,” is what she told me.

  They stayed up all night every night talking. They danced together as the sun rose. They believed in the same things – a cleaner, kinder, safer world. They knew that you have to fight for those things. And when Mum went back to her bedsit in Clapton, Matthew Jordan came with her.

  They were both alone in the world. When she was sixteen, Mum had fled her children’s home in New Zealand to backpack her way round the world. Ten years later, she pitched up in England. Her motto is “Never look back”.

  If it hadn’t been for Dad and then me, she might still be travelling now.

  My dad didn’t want to talk about his family at all. He hardly ever mentioned his past. “You’re all I need, Tanya,” he’d say. “You are my everything.”

  He got cash-in-hand jobs on building sites, and he joined in with Mum’s world. He met her activist friends and worked with them, doing everything they could to save the Earth from pollution and greenhouse gases and global warming. He wrote leaflets and handed them out and went on protests. Other stuff as well. Direct action. Matthew helped plan the invasion of the BBC newsroom, which was the first time Mum got arrested. He threw a party for her and her friend Ruth when they got out of prison after the protest at the nuclear power station.

  “You’re my hero!” he told her. “We’re going to save this planet together!”

  That was good Matthew. Nice Matthew. Kind Matthew. But there was another side to him. Sad Matthew. Moody Matthew. Depressed Matthew. When he felt dark like that he would leave. Sometimes for a day, sometimes for a week. Mum didn’t like it, but she got used to it. He’d always come back. He’d apologise and say he wasn’t good enough for her, and he’d cry and she’d cry and they’d make up.

  Except one time, he didn’t come back. Not for one week, two weeks, six weeks. Not ever.

  Mum hadn’t even told him she was pregnant.

  6: FOOTBALL IS A BREEDING GROUND FOR LIES

  So we’ve been back from Costa Rica for three weeks and today is the first day of the football season. Jason’s insisting that he comes with me to watch us play the Finchley Barbarians.

  You’d think he’d have taken the hint by now that I have no interest at all in him as my step-dad. I’ve dropped enough clues. But no, he’s super keen and refuses to let me put him off, in a way that I find frankly creepy.

  I’ve tried some lies. I told him that parents aren’t allowed at our matches, after a game last season when Hakim’s dad hit the linesman after he ruled Hakim’s goal offside.

  “It’s probably different now you’re in the Under 16s,” Jason said.

  I told him that I’d be on the bench for most of the match as we have too many star strikers.

  “That’s OK,” he said. “We can watch together.”

  I told him the pitch would be a mud bath, there were no toilets and it was going to rain. Actually, none of that was lies.

  “That’s OK,” he said again. He was so annoying. “I’ve got wellies, an umbrella and the bladder of a camel.”

  I never knew that camels were famous for their bladder control, but in the car Jason tells me that he once ran a marathon in the Sahara (an obvious lie), and he learned how camels only pee once a week. When they do pee, their pee is thick as syrup. Then he said that some people believe that camel pee can cure you of cancer if you drink it. And that camels can go for days without drinking anything and then drink almost 200 litres of water all in one go. And that camels can kick all four of their legs in four different directions at once.

  Huh. And they call me a liar.

  “Let’s hope the other team haven’t signed a camel over the summer,” Jason says, as we park by the playing
fields the Barbarians use as their home pitch.

  “It’d be against Sunday League regulations,” I say, to shut him up. “Can we park the car further away?”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mum might have forgotten that we don’t approve of cars, but I haven’t.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” Jason says. “But didn’t you notice that it’s electric? Zero emission? Voted Best New Green Car in the World last year?”

  Him and his fake electric car. It’s got a petrol cap on the side.

  “Just move it round the corner, OK?” I say.

  By the time Jason makes it out to the pitch I’ve told the whole team and Marcus-the-Manager that some smarmy guy has been bothering me, asking questions and inviting me back to his place. When Jason arrives, asking cheerily if there’s anything he can do to help, I hiss, “That’s him! Call the police!”

  But Marcus says, “Don’t be daft, River, we’ve all seen your mum’s wedding pictures on Facebook. Come off it.” He shakes Jason’s hand and says, “Congratulations, mate. You’ve pulled a cracker with that Tanya. Good luck with young River, eh? You’ll need it.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Jason says. He smiles his stupid smile and pumps Marcus’s hand up and down. “Who are we playing today then?”

  Next thing I know, Marcus has recruited Jason as assistant manager. Without even asking me! And now he’s briefing him about the strengths and weaknesses of our team and the dangers posed by the Barbarians.

  “I’ve heard they’ve got a couple of new players,” Marcus says. “There’s a boy with ginger hair, plays left wing, makes Usain Bolt look sluggish. And their new goalie is built like a tank. Here they come now. See him?”

  He’s not wrong. The boy is massive. He must be over six foot tall. His chest is as wide as the fridge that Jason’s installed in our old spare room, so he can have a beer when he’s pretending to work. I’d like a fridge like that, if fridges weren’t so bad for the environment. Anyway, the gigantic goalie’s arms are as long as a gorilla’s (but not as hairy) and his legs are as solid as an elephant’s (but only two of them, not four). I’m thinking how it’s a good job the Under 16s play with a full-size goal, because this boy would spill out of anything smaller.

  Half our team want to call him the Hulk. The other half prefer Hagrid. As captain I’m about to cast the deciding vote, when Jason interrupts.

  “Don’t give him a name that makes him sound powerful,” he says. “Call him Butter Fingers, or Ball Dropper, or Meat Hands, or …”

  “Meat Hands!” Kai yells at the Barbarians goalie.

  “Butter Fingers!”

  “Ball Dripper!”

  “Ball Dropper,” I mutter, cross.

  Jason winks at me. I ignore him. Has he no dignity?

  The whistle blows and the match starts. I’m desperate to perform well. I run like the wind up and down the pitch. I pass, back and forward. I send a flurry of good clean balls into the box, but my team mates fail to follow through. The Barbarians make it one–nil (that’s the fast ginger guy on the left wing), and then two–nil (him again). Fifteen minutes to half time.

  This time I dribble the ball up field myself, rather than risk passing again. I dodge past one defender, two defenders, a quick one–two, past defender number three, pull my boot back, ready to strike and – WHAM! – I go splat into the massive goalie, who’s rushing to clear the ball.

  “PENALTY!” I yell before I fall onto the pitch, holding my head.

  “I GOT THE BALL!” Hagrid the Hulk shouts, as his nose spurts blood everywhere.

  The referee blows his whistle, shouts for First Aid and awards a goal kick.

  “PENALTY!” I scream.

  It’s so unfair. As the home side, the Barbarians have to provide the ref and at least one linesman. Jason’s running the other line. Of course the ref is going to be biased towards their side, just as Max’s dad is when we play at our home ground.

  “First Aid!” the ref shouts. “Let’s get these boys sorted out.”

  So I have to be substituted and so does Hagrid the goalie. Our sub, Sonny, is super happy to see me come off. The Hulk has to strip off his goalie top to give to the boy coming on, and when he takes it off you can see that a lot of that impressive bulk is just plain old flab, covered with goose-pimples in the cold wind.

  The top swamps the boy who puts it on. He turns a bit green as he pulls it over his head, as it’s sweaty and specked with Hulkish blood.

  “Do I have to wear it?” he moans, and the Hulk crosses his arms and looks embarrassed because there’s no way he can fit into the other boy’s top. His nose is still flowing as he struggles into his hoodie.

  You’d never have thought a snubby little nose like that could bleed so much.

  My nose is almost the same shape, and when it bleeds it’s like turning on a tap. My nose just isn’t built for pinching, and nor is Hagrid the Hulk’s. His dad’s trying to get a grip on it, but he’s just getting in a mess.

  “Don’t worry, Ollie old chap,” I hear him say. “You were doing great out there. And it was clear you got the ball. It was no penalty.”

  On the pitch, Sonny scores an easy chip over the new goalie’s head.

  I hardly notice, because I’m glaring at Hagrid’s dad. How’s his son meant to learn the rules of football with that sort of advice?

  And then I see it.

  On his right arm. Just above the hand that grips his son’s nose. A tattoo of a red rose inside a spider’s web.

  I’ve seen that tattoo before, and not because it’s a common design.

  My dad had that tattoo on his arm too.

  7: LIARS NEED GOOD FRIENDS

  I don’t tell Kai there and then because I’m too gob-smacked. Also he’s still on the pitch, playing.

  Plus, after half time I’m subbed back on again (Kai comes off), and so is the Hulk. I take great joy in smashing the winning goal past him with a stunning kick from the centre line.

  OK, not quite from the centre line. But pretty far out. And OK, the equaliser, not the actual winning goal, but it feels like a victory. The final result is 4–4.

  I watch Hagrid the Hulk and his dad leave. My head’s in a whirl.

  That man has my dad’s tattoo. The tattoo is on all three of the photos of him that my mum has. She says he didn’t like having his picture taken.

  His nose is small and snubby just like my dad’s.

  He has reddish hair, just like my dad.

  But this man’s hair is short and neat, he drives a gas-guzzling BMW, he’s wearing chinos and I’d heard him at half time discussing Arsenal’s chances for the season. Mum says my dad had no interest in football – I’d asked her a few times which team he supported.

  But maybe he got interested in the last few years. And maybe he’s now the sort of guy who drives cars that use up the Earth’s resources and pollute the air. And anyone could get a nerdy haircut and take to wearing stupid clothes.

  Is it him?

  Have I found my dad?

  No, I can’t have.

  His son, the Hulk, must be pretty much the same age as me. So maybe I’ve found my dad’s brother. They could have got the tattoos done together. Maybe they were part of some secret society or a criminal gang and the tattoo was their sign.

  Maybe Dad was on the run when he met Mum, and that’s why he disappeared.

  And maybe his brother is a master criminal, and I need to tread very carefully from now on.

  On the way home, Jason wants to do a post-match analysis, but I insist on sitting in the back of the car so I can message Kai in private.

  “All right in the back?” Jason interrupts. “Shall we stop and get fish and chips for lunch?”

  “No,” I say. “We’re vegan. I thought you were too.”

  The back of his neck goes red. “Oh, err, yes, I am. Just a bit new to it, that’s all.”

  “I’ve never eaten any animal products,” I tell him.

  “Good for you.”

  “Mum wouldn’t
like it if you took fish and chips home.”

  “No. Thanks for the warning, eh?”

  Warning?

  I’ve totally messed up. I should’ve said yes to the fish and chips and then Mum would realise that Jason’s concern for the environment, for the planet, for animals and everything else about him is totally, completely, absolutely fake.

  “Whatever,” I say, and I go back to messaging Kai.

  We need to track my dad down. Warn him.

  Warn him about what?

  Warn him that I’ve found his evil brother who’s the head of a criminal gang.

  Eh?

  What are you doing later? I’ll explain.

  BBQ. You’re coming.

  No way. You’re roasting hunks of animal flesh on an open fire? Caveman or what?

  You are coming. Mum asked your mum and Jason. And you, obvs. She’s got veggie sausages and everything.

  OK, see you later.

  CU.

  No one does that text speak thing any more. Only parents.

  Soz.

  8: PEOPLE LIE TO BE LIKED

  The smell of burning flesh at the barbeque is distracting, but I manage to fill Kai in. Mind you, I enjoy the look on Jason’s face as he pretends to enjoy his charred veggie sausage.

  Several of Mum’s friends are here, all eating veggie sausages. They’re talking about the old days when they were all part of an activist group. Mum and Lorna. Kai’s dad, Kevin. Sean and Luisa and Anders. And my dad – Matthew. Everyone’s here except Kai’s dad and mine. At least Kai has an idea where his dad is. At least he knows his dad hasn’t given up on fighting for a better world.

  Mum does her fighting with words now. She writes leaflets and reports for a charity, Planet Positive. Most of the rest of them do some stuff – they’re vegan, they recycle, they vote Green – but now they have boring, ordinary jobs like teacher and gardener and dental nurse. Kai’s step-dad is called Bob and he’s a builder. That’s true.

  Jason’s asking them about the old days.

  “We were serious about stuff back then,” Kai’s mum says. “We were willing to risk it all. Remember that sit-in, Tanya? At the site of the Sheringham bypass?”