Tell Me I'm Wrong

by Adam Croft

  ‘This game’s so good,’ she says, as she takes a box out of the dining room sideboard and puts it on the table. ‘Some friends showed it to us at one of their parties. It’s amazing the things you find out about people. Even people you thought you knew really well.’

  ‘It’s all stuff people never talk about,’ James says. ‘Things that just don’t come up in conversation. It’s really cleverly designed, actually.’

  The board is small — more of a score recorder than anything else — and the rest of the game seems to consist of cards and pieces of paper.

  ‘Okay, so there’s three rounds,’ Lauren says, trying to explain the rules. ‘In round one, we each have a set of questions and a set of truth or lie cards. We take it in turns to read out the question that’s on our cards. Each of the other players has to answer it either truthfully or just make something up, according to whether they’ve picked up a truth or lie card. The person reading the question has to guess whether you’re telling the truth or not. So it could be something like your first pet’s name, or the age you had your first kiss. Or the name of your first boss at work.’

  James picks up a card. ‘So if I pick up my question card. It says “Who was your first celebrity crush, and why?”. Then you all pick up a truth or lie card without showing anyone, and you have to either answer truthfully or make something up, depending on whether you pick up a truth or lie card.’

  Lauren starts giggling and looks at me. ‘Megan and I’ll know whether that one’s true or a lie, though.’

  Then, almost in unison, we both say ‘David Soul!’ and descend into fits of laughter.

  ‘David Soul?’ James asks, not quite getting the joke. I decide it’s best I explain.

  ‘When we were younger, Dad used to watch all his Starsky and Hutch tapes back to back. He loved them. We all had to watch them with him, pretending we were enjoying them. After a little while Lauren and I both admitted to each other we only put up with it because we quite fancied David Soul as Hutch.’

  ‘God, I must have only been about nine,’ Lauren says.

  ‘Maybe not that question, then,’ James says. ‘But you get the idea. The second round is similar, but we all write our answers down and the person reading the question has to match up the answers with the players. You’ll work it out as we go along. The third round is where things get really interesting. You’ll see what I mean when we get there.’

  We play the game, laughing and giggling as we go, especially when James admitted that his greatest extravagance was using his student loan to pay for a cleaner to pop in twice a week for three years while he was at university because he couldn’t stand cleaning his student digs. I even managed to amaze myself at some of the things I was able to slip past my own sister and husband, both of whom believed me when I said I once dyed my hair bright pink for a breast cancer charity. ‘I think I remember that!’ Lauren said, proving once again how much notice she takes of other people.

  As the game continues, I begin to feel even more at ease. It’s made me think that although Lauren might be selfish, shallow and stuck-up, she never means any deliberate harm. A large part of me does feel bad for having been so unwilling to bury the hatchet in the past, but the main thing is we seem to be over that now.

  ‘Okay, round three,’ Lauren says, as she shuffles the cards and deals them out. ‘This time all the answers are spoken, and the person who reads the question judges which is the best or most shocking answer. You’re first, Megs.’

  I pick up the question card in front of me and read what’s on it. My heart skips a beat and my breath catches in my throat.

  What is your biggest secret?

  I take two large mouthfuls of wine and read the question.

  ‘Oooh, that’s a good one!’ Lauren says. ‘I can’t wait to hear these.’

  ‘You’ve got to give us yours too,’ James says, ‘So don’t get too scandal hungry.’

  ‘Just for that, I’ll go first,’ she says, leaning forward and tapping James on the nose. She takes a swig of wine. ‘Right. I used to have a boyfriend called Joel when I was about twenty-one. You remember him, Megs.’ I nod, even though it wasn’t a question. ‘Anyway, that summer Mum and Dad took us all away on holiday. Joel came too. One night we were at the pool bar after a night out and we got chatting to these two guys from Newcastle. After a bit Joel went up to bed because he wasn’t feeling well. Anyway, long story short, I end up getting back to the room about two and a half hours later. Via theirs.’

  I shriek with shock and laughter. ‘You had a threesome with them?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Under Joel’s nose?’

  ‘Hey, he was on the other side of the apartment block!’ she says, laughing.

  James looks like he doesn’t know whether to be surprised, worried or turned on.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I say. ‘Sometimes there are things you don’t want to know about your own sister. Someone pass the brain bleach.’

  ‘Whatever happened to Joel?’ Lauren asks, although she should be the one to know.

  ‘He’s probably still there, sleeping off his hangover!’ I say, laughing. I was so surprised and engrossed by Lauren’s story, I’ve almost forgotten what was written on the card. But looking at it again brings all those feelings flooding back.

  ‘You okay, Megs?’ Lauren asks.

  ‘Yeah, fine. Sorry.’

  ‘Come on then, Chris,’ she says, nudging him playfully. ‘What’s your biggest secret?’

  Chris looks at me. It feels like our eyes are locked together for an eternity, but I doubt if it’s even a second or two.

  ‘I haven’t got one.’

  ‘Everyone’s got secrets,’ James says. ‘Just look at Lauren.’

  Lauren laughs, although James doesn’t seem quite as impressed. ‘Tell us,’ she says. ‘We’re all dying to hear it.’

  Chris takes a deep breath. ‘I… once stole some penny sweets from a local shop. When I was about six.’

  Lauren and James are almost doubled over, but I’m not laughing. I know that’s a lie as much as Chris does.

  ‘That’s not your biggest secret!’ Lauren says. ‘Even the Pope’s got bigger secrets than that!’

  ‘Certainly has, if you believe the newspapers,’ James murmurs.

  ‘I mean your actual biggest secret,’ Lauren says, leaning forward. ‘The one you don’t want anyone to know. It won’t leave this room.’

  ‘I think I’m getting a migraine actually,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t mind going, especially as I’ve still got to drive.’

  ‘Oh come on,’ Lauren says. ‘You don’t get to pussy out that easily. Come on. Your biggest secret. The deep, dark secret you’ve never told anybody. Shoot.’

  Chris’s jaw starts to tighten and he swallows hard. ‘I’m really not feeling great, Megan. Let’s just go. It’s a daft game.’

  I look at my husband. And, for the first time in my life, I’m absolutely certain he’s hiding something from me.

  33

  Chris

  ‘I hope they didn’t think I was being rude,’ I say as we pull away from Lauren and James’s house and back down their street. ‘I just don’t feel well.’

  I’m trying to keep myself calm and hold back from exploding, but it’s growing increasingly difficult. I can’t risk it. I still don’t know if Megan’s forgiven me for reacting physically the other week, and I can’t push my luck.

  All that talk of secrets and lies was too much for me to bear. I know it was only meant to be a playful game, but sometimes things tend to hit a little too close to the bone at the wrong time.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll call Lauren tomorrow and apologise.’

  I try to push my anger back down again. I don’t need my wife to apologise for me. How fucking degrading can she get?

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  I’ve never known anything as awkward as today. It turns out the whole thing was Lauren’s idea. James told me when we were up at the bar ordering the meals that s
he thought it would be a good idea to meet up again and put everything behind them. I pretended to agree, but really I just felt sorry for the bloke’s stupidity.

  He asked how Megan and I were getting on. ‘It must be difficult trying to make time for each other with a baby around,’ he said, before recounting how for a while he felt as though his own kids had got in the way of his marriage. ‘Change everything, don’t they?’ he said. If only he knew.

  I told him everything was fine. I really didn’t need any help from the James Mason School of Marriage Counselling. James with his perfect fucking family life and his five-bedroom house with half an acre of land. What he doesn’t know is that all that stuff doesn’t even begin to paper over the blindingly obvious cracks in his own marriage. Cracks? More like gaping bloody holes.

  He barely looked at his wife all day. She hardly spoke to him, other than teasing him after she’d had a few glasses of wine and wanted to make him look like a dick. If he thinks that’s putting out an impression of the perfect marriage, he’s got a lot to learn.

  It always amazes me how people think material objects can be a viable replacement for what’s really missing in their life. I feel sorry for people like that. If a comfier car or a more prestigious postcode means more to them than what’s really important in life, they must have some skewed priorities. Or maybe it’s a case of true happiness not being something they’re ever able to attain, whereas a new two-grand handbag or round-the-world cruise is easily bought.

  It’s a shame. I never used to get angry. Not about things like that. But in recent months I’ve found myself getting increasingly short-tempered with people, objects and situations. A psychologist would probably put it down to a guilty conscience — and they might be right — but it still worries me. Every time I react to something there’s a voice inside my head asking me what the hell I’m doing. Not immediately, though. Shortly after. At the time, all I see is the red mist descending, the blood pounding in my eardrums, tunnel vision closing in. I feel the rage bubbling up inside my chest, until there’s very little I can do about it.

  Sometimes I think about taking myself away from it all. I wonder what it would be like to up sticks and disappear. I’m sure everyone finds the idea romantic on some level, but every now and again I find it hard to resist. I couldn’t do that to Evie, though. It wouldn’t be fair.

  People always say you should live your own life. Don’t get trapped in bad marriages or let yourself be unhappy — it’s not fair on the kids. If you’re weak enough that you can’t get through the day without hiding the cracks in your armour, I agree. But surely it’s better to have the best of both worlds if you can. Pretend everything’s fine. Keep those feelings hidden. After all, when you have kids you stop living for you. You can’t afford to be selfish anymore.

  The tension makes the back of my head tight. It feels like a cross between a dull headache and someone putting the back of my head in a vice and tightening it ever so slowly.

  ‘I might just go to bed when we get in. Hopefully I’ll feel better in the morning,’ I say.

  ‘Are you still planning on going in to set up your classroom?’

  ‘Yeah. I’d better. Only got one week left, and there’s loads to do.’

  Megan nods. ‘Need any help?’

  ‘Nah, I’ll be alright. Thanks anyway.’

  ‘Might be quicker with two,’ she says.

  ‘Honestly, it won’t. I know where everything needs to go. It’ll be quicker if I do it myself.’

  I look over at her and smile, as if to say That wasn’t meant as a dig. I really need to watch my temper and my tone of voice if I’m going to keep a lid on all this. Because one wrong word or mis-timed comment could bring the whole thing crashing down.

  And that’s why I’m putting it all behind me. That’s why there will be no more. Because the further back in the past it is, the less likely it is to come out. Every day that passes will be another day further from the truth. That’s why I can’t wait to get home and go to bed. That’s why I want another night to pass without notice, for the sun to rise on another day. Another day further from the truth that I cannot risk getting out.

  34

  Megan

  It’s two-thirty in the morning and I’ve not even closed my eyes yet. I can’t. Chris fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. In a strange way, that made it worse.

  If he’d laid awake for an hour or so, or had shown some sort of sign that he was struggling with his conscience, that would be something. We could talk. I could get him to open up. But he came upstairs, took off his clothes, got into bed and went to sleep. Just like that. As if nothing was the matter. As if that look I saw in his eyes when Lauren asked him about his darkest secret wasn’t even there.

  But there was no mistaking it. You don’t know someone for almost your entire life and not spot something like that. It wasn’t even subtle. It was a huge flashing beacon to me. Others might not have noticed it if they didn’t know him well enough, but I certainly did. It was as if he changed into a completely different person the second the question was asked. He seemed to feel the need to get out of there as quickly as possible and avoid the subject completely.

  And that’s when I knew. That’s when I knew for certain that Chris killed those two boys. I could almost see the memories playing out in his eyes, a glassy reflection of those warm afternoons down by the stream when the lives of Riley Markham and Kai Bolton came to sudden and devastating ends.

  The worst thing is, I don’t think I saw regret. I don’t think I saw sorrow or remorse. What I saw looked more like someone who was worried at being found out. That’s what they say about psychopaths, isn’t it? Or is it sociopaths? I won’t pretend to know the difference. Is that how Chris has managed to pull the wool over my eyes for so long, how he’s managed to live a lie and hide this dark secret from me?

  They’re meant to make good actors, psychopaths. They can switch their emotions on and off whenever they like. In fact, I think I remember reading somewhere that a true psychopath doesn’t actually feel emotions. They just watch other people and gradually learn which emotions they’re meant to feel at which times. Then they put it on, like a mask designed to show other people they’re normal.

  At least that would explain things, I guess. It would explain why, when I’ve known Chris since we were at school, I had no idea he could ever be capable of anything like this. He’d never say boo to a goose. He didn’t even engage in disagreements or arguments for the first few years we were together. He’d just shut down and agree with me or keep quiet completely. Now I wonder if those were the years in which he was learning how he was meant to react, finding out what he was supposed to do to look like a normal person. A normal person with feelings and emotions.

  I think back over the years to situations and occasions I’d completely forgotten about. Conversations we’ve had. Places we’ve been. Those odd times where Chris’s behaviour seemed perhaps a little odd, but not for Chris. He was just a shy sort of person who didn’t do small talk. It’s no biggie; lots of people don’t like busy parties or having to force conversations with people they don’t know. It doesn’t make them a psychopath. Besides which, if he was the perfect actor, why wasn’t he able to falsify that confidence?

  His dad’s death pops into my mind again. The complete lack of any emotion. The stoic, blank face at the funeral. It would have been easy to have copied others’ emotions. Everyone was crying. To me, he stood out like a sore thumb as the only one of the near family to be holding it together. It was as if he wasn’t feeling anything at all.

  Is that why he was able to kill Riley Markham and Kai Bolton? Because he was incapable of feeling any sort of guilt or remorse? How else would someone be able to murder two perfectly innocent children?

  That means my theory about his motive is wrong, though. If he’s a psychopath he couldn’t possibly be driven by his devastation at not having a son, could he? That would involve a deep level of emotion. I’m not a psychiatrist, bu
t somehow the two don’t quite sit right with me.

  Maybe he’s not a psychopath. Perhaps it’s something different. Either way, I have to address this uncomfortable truth. I do not know my husband. My husband is a different man to who I thought he was. My husband is a child killer.

  I sit up in bed and look over at him. He sleeps peacefully, his mouth hanging slightly open, his shallow breath making the duvet rise a little before dropping again. Is this what a killer looks like? What are they supposed to look like?

  A husband should be able to tell his wife anything. We’ve always tried to talk openly, even if that’s been almost impossible with Chris. But do I really want to know the truth? I have to. The truth needs to be told, even if only for Riley and Kai’s parents and families. What they’re going through must be unbearable.

  But I need to be careful. If he’s capable of that, he’s capable of anything. Right now, I’m at risk and so is Evie.

  I look at the baby monitor and see her sleeping soundly in her cot. I get out of bed, grab my glass of water as if I’m going to fill it up, and walk downstairs to the kitchen.

  When I’m there, I grab my mobile phone from the worktop where it’s been charging, and I unlock it. I dial 101, the police non-emergency number.

  My thumb hovers over the Call button.

  I take a deep breath, then tap it.

  35

  Megan

  It seems to take an age for the call to connect. I hear nothing for what feels like minutes but can only have been a second or two, and then the phone rings and connects.

  I hear a message thanking me for calling 101, telling me they’re connecting me to our county’s police force and to press the hash key if I require a different force. I’m willing it to move faster, to connect to an actual person.