Tell Me I'm Wrong

by Adam Croft

  Tell Me I'm Wrong

  Adam Croft

  Contents

  Get more of my books FREE!

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Get more of my books FREE!

  The Perfect Lie

  In Her Image

  Her Last Tomorrow

  Only The Truth

  Get more of my books FREE!

  To say thank you for buying this book, I’d like to invite you to my exclusive VIP Club, and give you some of my books and short stories for FREE.

  To join the club, head to adamcroft.net/vip-club and two free books will be sent to you straight away! And the best thing is it won’t cost you a penny — ever.

  * * *

  Click here to join the VIP Club

  Adam Croft

  * * *

  For more information, visit my website: adamcroft.net

  Copyright © 2018 by Adam Croft

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Liar Liar game concept © 2018 by Adam Croft

  Cover photographs © Shutterstock

  Designed by Books Covered

  For Julian

  1

  Riley Markham wiped the snot from under his nose as he watched the football bobble along the rutted ground towards his friends.

  ‘You out tomorrow?’ one of them called to him, kicking the ball back.

  ‘Might be. Have to ask Mum,’ he said, walking away, the football now under his arm.

  Mum would let him. She always let him. He’d often heard her telling Dad that it was better than having him sitting around playing computer games all day. Mum liked her peace and quiet, working from home. And Riley liked playing football with his friends.

  He was getting quite good at it now. He’d been playing football in the garden with Dad since he was two. He was rubbish at first. But he’d been playing every chance he got in the five years since then, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before one of the scouts came calling. Maybe Arsenal or Manchester United. That would make him really famous, but secretly he’d quite like to play for Crystal Palace. He really liked their kit.

  It had been hot today. It was always hot at this time of year. That was why he loved the summer holidays. That and not having to go to school, obviously.

  He tried to remember what Mum said was for dinner tonight. He’d be back in plenty of time so it wouldn’t really matter. Fish fingers, he thought. Something like that. Afterwards they’d watch some telly, then he’d go to bed. Mum and Dad let him stay up until eight now. Then all the boring grown-up programmes started, like Holby City.

  It wasn’t far from the field to his house. Nothing was far in the village. That was the best thing about it. Except when they had to get something that you couldn’t get in the village, which was quite a lot. Then they’d have to drive out, which would take ages because the village was miles from anywhere. But Mum and Dad liked it because it was safe. By that, they meant it was so far away from anything that the bad guys just didn’t bother coming here.

  Riley didn’t like bad guys. No-one liked bad guys. Everyone liked the good guys, like Superman and Scooby Doo. They would never do bad stuff.

  All the kids round here played in the field. It was great. They could play football, hide in the bushes or just ride their bikes around. The houses were all pretty nearby. Riley’s was, anyway. He had to walk back past the stream, over the footbridge and in through the back gate. ‘Keep on the fence side, away from the water,’ Mum would always say. Riley thought this was daft, because the water wasn’t very deep anyway. It probably wouldn’t go past his ankles. Definitely not past his knees. Unless it rained, and then it was deeper. Sometimes people’s gardens would flood. Riley thought that was great, because it all looked like a swamp where monsters might live. But he wasn’t allowed down that way when it flooded, which was rubbish.

  The ground was really dry at the moment, because it had been hot for a few days. Riley could see it starting to crack in some places, and he imagined it cracking more and more, until the whole ground opened up and revealed a huge underground cave. That would be great. He could go down and explore it, or keep it to himself so no-one else knew it was there. It could be his secret den.

  It was almost ten minutes after leaving his friends, and he would be home soon. There was a little bridge over the stream a little further up, then he’d walk through the footpath and up the road to his house.

  He almost didn’t see the person in front of him. He saw the shoes first, then quickly looked up and saw the familiar face.

  ‘Oh, hi.’

  ‘Hello,’ came the response.

  It didn’t quite seem right. They didn’t say anything else. Just looked at him. To get past, Riley would have to walk closer to the water — something his mum never liked him doing — but he didn’t have a choice. This was getting silly. He stepped to the side and went to carry on walking, but the arm around his waist pulled him backwards and upwards, the other hand clamping across his mouth as the person dragged him off into the bushes.

  He wanted to scream, but couldn’t. The person had clamped their big hand right across his nose and mouth and he was struggling to breathe.

  He felt himself get winded, the air rushing out of him as he landed flat on his back on the hard ground, the prickly bush digging into his arms and head. He could feel the sensation of blood trickling down from his head — something he’d not felt since he cracked his head open falling off the swings a couple of years ago.

  The arm that had been around his waist was now pressing down on his throat, crushing his windpipe and pushing all the life out of his young body.

  A high-pitched whistling sound started in his ears and his vision started to go watery. Before long, black edges started to appear, and he was no longer able to fight.

  Everything went black.

  2

  Megan

  I close the front door and immediately feel a surge of panic and dread. Now I’m on my own until Chris comes home. Our parents have been great in helping to take some of the load off me, looking after Evie while I try to catch up on some much-needed sleep, but Chris’s mum can’t keep her all day and inevitably it’s just the two of us alone ag
ain.

  I don’t believe babies as young as Evie should be babysat by other people, but there really is no other option. I was told new mothers tended to struggle a bit after the birth of a baby, but I didn’t think it would be this bad.

  We’ve never been able to bond properly. I went in with all the best intentions, but those very quickly went out the window. Evie wouldn’t take to breastfeeding, no matter what I did. I wouldn’t risk my child’s health by using formula, so I’ve had to express and store it in bottles. It means she’s getting all the nutrition she needs, but it definitely hasn’t helped us bond.

  They say the bond between a new mother and her baby is immediate and irreplaceable. I thought maybe my bond with Evie was just starting a bit later than usual, but six months on I still feel burdened as opposed to flowing with love.

  I haven’t told Chris any of this — not word for word — but he knows. It’s affected our relationship too. He’s been more distant, spending more and more time away from home. The school holidays usually meant we’d get to spend plenty of time together. We were delighted when we found out we were expecting. I had visions of us going out on walks and generally just spending more time together as a family.

  As it turns out, none of that happened. He very quickly started going out on more fishing days and generally finding excuses not to be at home. He said he needed his space. He isn’t getting any sleep or relaxation at home, but then again neither am I. That’s what parenting’s all about.

  He’s always liked his fishing, and I assumed it would be something he’d either try to maintain or would probably, inevitably, have to cut back on once Evie was born. Instead, it went the other way. He goes to a spot about two miles out of the village, where the stream opens up into the main river. He used to go at the weekends, getting up at the crack of dawn and coming back mid-morning to get his planning and marking done for the week. Now he’s coming back later and later, often early in the evening.

  It’s amazing how all your plans and ideals can go out of the window so quickly. I had all these visions of a wonderful family unit, the three of us on days out together, smiling and laughing. How wrong I was.

  I look at the clock on the mantelpiece. Four thirty. It’ll probably be a good hour or so before Chris is even home.

  I’ve got to admit it — he’s good with Evie. The only problem is that he’s never here. I know he’s struggling too. He’s finding it hard to come to terms not only with being a new parent, but dealing with what I’m going through. In the early days I was desperate to bond with Evie, yearning to create some sort of deep connection with her. Chris didn’t even get a look in. Now I wonder whether it’s my fault he’s been so distant.

  Evie’s in her bouncer on the kitchen floor as I shovel handfuls of washing into the washing machine. That’s one thing no-one tells you about having children. Despite the fact you’ve only added one tiny half-person to the family, somehow your washing loads quadruple in size.

  The machine’s ancient, and after each wash I need to drag it back across the room to where it’s meant to be. The noise is horrendous too, so I take Evie out of the bouncer and jab the button on the front of the washing machine to get it started, before quickly closing the door and taking her through to the living room.

  After a few moments, she’s started fussing. I pick her up and hold her against me, trying to soothe her, as I go to grab a bottle of expressed milk from the fridge. As soon as I enter the kitchen she’s wailing, the noise of the washing machine rattling around both of our heads. I close the door behind me again and go into the downstairs bathroom, running the hot tap and filling the sink with warm water, to bring the temperature of the milk bottle up.

  ‘It’s alright,’ I say to her in the calmest voice I can muster. ‘It’s alright. It’s just warming up. Won’t be a minute.’

  She coughs and splutters as she cries, and I have visions of having to change yet another top. More for the washing machine.

  After a couple of minutes, the temperature of the milk is lukewarm and I bring the bottle through to the living room.

  Evie feeds well. She always does just after she’s been with George and Maggie. Part of me wonders whether they time it so that I’ll have to do a feed after she’s dropped back here. An attempt to help me bond with her. The thought is quite sweet, but it really isn’t working. I hope to God it does, though. I hope to God it does. Because if it doesn’t, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  3

  Chris

  My walk home is taken up by thoughts. Always the thoughts. That’s why I go fishing in the first place. Although I’m left alone with my mind, I’m far calmer. I tend to feel more peaceful.

  There’s never much to catch down there, but that’s not the point. Sprats and tiddlers, mostly. Further downstream there’s a lot more, but there’s also a lot more people. Around the part I fish, there’s no-one. No walkers, either. They tend to be around the village end, where it’s more of a stream. I like the solitude. It’s my escape. I’ve got my own little spot, where I’m quite happy to just sit and watch the sun move across the sky, occasionally feeling the slightest pull on my rod as I catch something.

  I throw the fish straight back, provided they survive being reeled in. There wouldn’t be much point in keeping these, anyway. It’d be quicker and cheaper to just go out and buy a tin of anchovies.

  It’s the peace and quiet I like. A place where I’m not prey to the pressures of work or the stress of being at home. It shouldn’t be that way, I know, but at the moment it is, and a man’s got to have his hiding place.

  I think I’m calmer for it. There have been times over the past few months when I really wanted to just shout at Megan. I don’t know if it’s some form of post-natal depression or if she’s just being too self-centred. All I know is she’s not dealing with things very well. I try to do my bit, but it’s not always that easy. If Megan’s at home with Evie, I try to be there. Especially if she’s not coping.

  Her parents have been great. They know we both need our space. They’ve been taking Evie a couple of days a week so we can have our own time and to relax a little. It’ll be for the best in the long run. Then, once Evie’s sleeping better and eating solids we’ll be able to get back to how we were. It just takes a little adjustment time.

  I get the impression Megan resents me for coming here. I always have to bite my tongue and not mention the fact that it’s usually me who gets up in the middle of the night when Evie’s crying. And I’m the one who’s up early. I’m the one who gives her her baths. But Megan doesn’t see it that way. She just sees me popping out for a few hours and acts as if that’s all I do. C’est la vie.

  Things will work themselves out. They always do. Megan and I have been together long enough to know that. We’ve been together since school, so if we don’t know each other now we never will. We’ll muddle through. I said as much to Megan a couple of days ago. She gave me that face she always gives me. The face that says expressing an opinion would make a nice change. The face that says she’d like me to be more determined and forceful. But that’s just not me.

  None of us can be something we’re not. We’d just come across as false. And yeah, my way of dealing with things is to distance myself from them and wait until things blow over. But that’s because it usually works. I don’t do arguments. Never have, never will. I think I get that from my parents. They’re both incredibly placid. Dad was. Mum and George, my step-dad get on like a house on fire. I personally can’t stand the man, but even to this day I’ve never heard them have an argument or even a disagreement. I don’t think I’ve actually heard my mum express an opinion on anything. She just is, and that’s what I love about her. I can rely on her to be there, and not to judge.

  Megan’s parents aren’t quite the same. Her mum, in particular, is much more open with her opinions. She’ll happily tell people she’d do things differently, even if they haven’t asked for her input or advice. And that’s not to mention her magical knack for always say
ing the wrong thing at the wrong time and managing to become the most insensitive person in the world.

  Her dad tends to take more of a backseat. I imagine it’s a case of having to. I guess we’re both quite similar in many ways, which is why we’ve tended to get on. I get on with her mum too, but it’s usually a case of putting up with her as opposed to actively liking her.

  I look at my watch. Half four. Mum will have dropped Evie back at the house by now. Megan’s going to need a hand and I’m keen to do my bit; I just need my own space and time while I can get it. I can feel myself getting more and more short-tempered all the time, and that’s not going to be good for anyone, least of all Megan and Evie.

  I tend to pack light when I come out fishing. If you go further downstream, there are guys with whole trucks full of stuff. Some of them look like they’re drilling for oil. I’m a purist, though. A cheap rod, some bait and a fold-up chair does me nicely. Besides which, it’s a lot to carry when you’re walking. One of the added benefits is it doesn’t take me long to set up or pack away, either. More time to myself. More time to escape.