One More Lie

by Amy Lloyd

  ‘I want you to write down the Ten Commandments and draw a picture of each to illustrate what it means,’ Fiona says. Liam puts his hand up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are we allowed to work in pairs?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course!’ she says. There is a hissing noise when everyone starts saying yesss to their best friends. Sean doesn’t have to go to church so I’m on my own. Fiona looks at me and then adds, ‘Work in groups, if you like! Make sure everyone is included.’

  I look around but the others are purposely trying not to look at me so I pretend I don’t care and I grab a handful of pens and pencils and crayons out of the box and return to my seat.

  I hate church. Mum never made me go to church because she hated it too. Auntie Fay made me get baptised after Mum’s funeral and I had to do it in front of everyone. Sean said only babies get baptised but I wasn’t a baby when I got baptised. The vicar poured water on my head and all my hair stuck to my face. Then afterwards we had sandwiches and cake in the garden and people gave me presents but they were all rubbish things, like a tiny bible and a silver cross necklace and a book token.

  ‘Shall I help you?’ Fiona says to me. She pulls up a chair that’s too small for her. She’s fat but pretty. Fiona is married to the vicar and I didn’t know vicars were allowed wives until I met her. ‘Now, can you tell me one of the commandments?’

  ‘Um,’ I say. I wasn’t listening before and now all my thoughts have frozen up because she’s close to me and I can smell her hair.

  ‘What about the one about taking the Lord’s name in vain? Do you know what that means?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Yes you do; we just talked about it, didn’t we? What do people say sometimes when they’re cross? They say, “Oh, for God’s sake!” Don’t they?’

  I nod.

  ‘So shall we write that one down?’

  I start to write ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ But Fiona stops me. She laughs.

  ‘We need to write “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”’

  Fiona draws a funny picture of someone looking angry and in a speech bubble she’s written ‘GOD!’

  ‘You tell me one now,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t … steal?’ I say.

  ‘Yes!’ she says. She gives me a hug. ‘Well done!’

  I know what to draw because sometimes Sean and I pinch things from the shops and so I draw a hand grabbing a load of sweets. It’s not very good but Fiona acts like it’s brilliant because she is trying to make me feel nice. It works even though I know what she’s doing.

  Fiona has to help me with most of the commandments and even then they don’t make sense. The last one she tells me I can do myself but I can’t remember what’s missing.

  ‘What’s the very worst thing a person can do?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

  ‘Yes you do!’ she says. ‘What is the most awful—’ She stops and her face turns red. ‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘We’ll leave that one. It’s almost time to go into church, anyway.’

  Before we go Fiona hands us all a sheet with the Ten Commandments on there and I read through for the one we missed: ‘You must not kill.’

  When we walk into church everyone is singing a hymn, a boring slow one, and people turn and smile at us all as we take our seats in the back. We all take a blessing and say some prayers and then the vicar reads out the notices and we are finally allowed to go home.

  In the car Auntie Fay makes me tell her about Sunday school and I show her my worksheet. Ryan complains that if I go to Sunday school he should be allowed to go and Auntie Fay tells him he’s too old now that he takes communion. If you get confirmed then you get to have wine and bread at the altar but you have to share the same cup as everyone, even the really old ladies who have lipstick on their teeth, so it’s gross. When I was little I thought the white circles they gave you were Milky Bar Buttons but Ryan says that they are more like sugar paper that isn’t sweet and that when you eat it it just sticks to the roof of your mouth and makes you gag. Getting confirmed sounds awful but I know Auntie Fay will make me when I’m old enough.

  At home Auntie Fay checks on the chicken and puts the potatoes in for Sunday dinner. I don’t want to be alone so I watch her in the kitchen and she tells me to get out from under her feet. Uncle Paul is watching football on TV and he smiles and pats the sofa next to him so I can sit down.

  ‘Why have they stopped?’ I ask him. ‘What colour are we? How long is left? How come he is throwing the ball?’

  ‘All right, love,’ he says after a while. ‘Why don’t you go and help your auntie Fay in the kitchen?’

  Back in the kitchen Auntie Fay has the radio on and it is playing more church! I think Auntie Fay would live in church if she could. The cabbage goes on and I hold my nose because it smells like fluffs. Outside Ryan is kicking his ball like always.

  ‘How long will it be?’ I ask again.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, girl! Do you ever stop? It’ll be a while yet. Why don’t you go out and play with your friend? Is Sean about today?’

  I shrug.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks, turning away from the stove. ‘Have you had a falling-out?’

  ‘Kind of,’ I say.

  ‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘It’ll all be forgotten soon. Why don’t you go and make up?’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ I say and Auntie Fay tuts and shakes her head.

  ‘You’ll forgive and forget soon,’ she says. ‘I used to fall out with my friends all the time! You learn to turn the other cheek as you get older.’

  ‘Does Jesus forgive sins?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. If people are sorry.’

  ‘Even if they break the Ten Commandments?’

  ‘Yes,’ Auntie Fay says.

  ‘How does He know if you’ve broken them?’

  ‘Because He knows everything.’

  ‘What other superpowers does He have?’

  ‘They aren’t superpowers, darling, they’re miracles.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Superpowers are imaginary. Miracles are real.’

  ‘How does He know if you’re sorry?’

  ‘Well, that’s why we pray,’ she says. She chops carrots and drops them into the boiling water. ‘We pray to tell God our sins and that we are sorry. And to say thank you or to ask Him to look after the people we love.’

  ‘What if—’

  ‘Listen, lovely, I’m very busy here. Why don’t you watch TV with Uncle Paul?’

  I go to my room and draw the curtains. I close the door and I kneel by the bed and pray properly for the first time ever. I open my eyes and wait to see if I feel any different but I don’t. Instead I take out the book we’re reading in school and try to concentrate as hard as I can so I don’t feel so bad any more.

  After lunch I help Auntie Fay wash up and Ryan goes to the fields with his friends. On Sundays they watch boring things like Antiques Roadshow and Last of the Summer Wine but I don’t want to be on my own so I go into the living room with them.

  The bongs at the beginning of the news make me feel like something bad is about to happen. I close my eyes and hope they change the channel but they don’t.

  A picture of Luke comes up on the screen. Auntie Fay starts talking about how awful it is like she always does, so I can’t hear what the man is saying. Then they show a policeman talking outside the station and the cameras flash, clicking like chattering teeth, while some people shout out questions.

  ‘It’s heartbreaking,’ Auntie Fay says again and it sounds like she might cry so Uncle Paul pulls her in. ‘So close to home.’

  A different story comes on and they start talking about politics. I feel dizzy and sick. Mum told me once that the worst bit about doing something wrong was the guilt and that the only way to feel better was to tell the truth.

  ‘Auntie Fay,’ I say. They both look at me.

  ‘Yes, love?’ she says.

  ‘Can we light a candle in church for L
uke?’

  ‘Of course we can, my love. That’s very kind, what a lovely thought.’

  ‘It’s so sad,’ I tell her. ‘He was in my school.’

  11

  Him: Now

  The front door won’t catch when I close it. Instead it bounces back open like it always fucking does and I have to put my fingers in the letterbox and pull it closed like that until I hear it click. Sometimes when it’s doing my head in I just slam it over and over again and watch it bounce back open even though it doesn’t work. The woman in the flat next door who’s always peeking out of her fucking window gives me evils and I smile at her in the way that makes my cheeks hurt just to wind her up.

  The lift stinks of piss so I take the stairs, running, and as they wind down I brace myself on the metal railing and jump the last steps of each flight and when I reach the bottom I have to catch my breath before I light the rollie I made before leaving.

  In my pocket my phone buzzes but I ignore it. I haven’t got anything on me, anyway. I can see the bus at the lights at the end of the road and I drop my fag and sprint to the stop, managing to get there just before he closes the doors. When I show him my ticket he takes it out of my hand and inspects it like it contains the meaning of fucking life. I feel my neck turn red while all the nosy old bitches crane their necks to see what’s going on. The bus driver nods and hands it back. I feel like asking him how many counterfeit tickets he gets in a day to warrant that level of fucking scrutiny. Or just, Nice work, Columbo. But I can tell he’s looking for any reason to kick me off this bus and so I climb up the stairs away from the judgy old fuckers and sit at the front.

  I roll another cigarette and tuck it behind my ear. I put my feet up in front of me and I feel like I did when I was a kid. Dizzy and exhilarated with the novelty of being on the top deck of the bus. I always thought it was what being on a rollercoaster would feel like, until we went to a shitty theme park on a school trip and I realised it wasn’t even close. On the school coach they made me sit at the front next to Mrs Crockett and every time I turned around on the seat to see what was going on behind us she made a noise like Tsk! Tsk! Sit back down! Like I was a fucking dog. Nearly three hours there and three hours back. It rained the whole day and Mrs Crockett told my dad I took up all of her time and that they’d have to think carefully about taking me next time if I didn’t improve my behaviour. All bollocks but he didn’t give a shit. I still have the key ring I nicked from the shop at the end but the paint chipped off and you can’t read what it says any more.

  I press the bell and make my way down. As I get off I say, ‘Cheers,’ but the driver blanks me and closes the doors. I flip him off as he pulls away. I light my cigarette and pull up my hood and walk. It’s ten minutes to Slimy’s flat and I don’t want to run into anyone on the way so I keep my head down and walk quickly.

  A woman rounds the corner in front of me and when she sees me she tucks her handbag under her arm and quickens her pace. I flick my cigarette into the gutter and slow down so she knows I don’t want her handbag but every turn I need to take she takes and I can feel the heat climbing my neck and my face, that sense of shame I always seem to have just for fucking existing around people like this.

  She turns down the lane behind the precinct and I turn as well. I try to keep my eyes on the ground but I can see she flicks her head over her shoulder every few seconds to check on me. Then she starts to walk so fast she’s taking a small skip every few seconds and it’s so fucking embarrassing I have to swing round and look at my phone until I can hear the click of her heels disappear into the distance. I kick an empty fag packet into a puddle and wait and when I’m sure she’s gone I start walking again.

  When I finally get to Slimy’s flat the street lamps are starting to come on and the smell of cooking from other people’s kitchens makes me realise how hungry I am. When Jiffo answers the door the smell of skunk hits me hard and there’s a cheer from the boys in the flat: something happening on Fifa.

  ‘What’s happening bro?’ Jiffo says, slapping my back as he closes the door behind me. It’s as cold inside as out. The curtains are drawn and the air is thick with smoke. I sit in the chair nearest the radiator and hold my hand to the metal: cold.

  ‘It’s fucking arctic in here, Slimes,’ I say, tucking my hands into my hoodie.

  ‘Radiator’s broken,’ he says without taking his eyes off the screen. ‘Landlord …’ he trails off. As he plays he tilts the controller back and forth, like a kid, his elbows up and out while he screws up his face in concentration. Slimy is so useless I almost want to kick his head in just to beat some sense into him, but he’s a good guy and he’ll sort you out if you need it, no questions.

  ‘Have you tried bleeding it?’ I ask. The clicking from the controllers increases and Wez cheers while Slimy groans. My question hangs in the cold air. Slimy puts down the controller and picks up a spliff.

  ‘Have you tried bleeding it, bro?’ I ask him.

  ‘Have I what?’ he says. The smoke hangs above him.

  ‘The radiator,’ I say but he’s already stopped paying attention. He takes another puff and holds it out to me but I shake my head. Slimy, who licks his lips before every inhalation, always leaves the roach soggy and soft. I feel a wave of revulsion even thinking about it. Instead the spliff finds its way to Wez, whose nose wrinkles as he places it between his lips.

  ‘Can I use your laptop for a second, Slimes?’ I ask.

  ‘Go for it,’ he says, selecting a team for the next match. I lean forward and take off the empty mug that’s resting on top of it. The laptop is one of those big, shiny red gaming laptops. Mad expensive. No one asks where he gets these things but we know he’s too fucking useless to steal anything. His parents kicked him out when he was fifteen but they give him cash whenever he needs it; they’ll buy him an Xbox, big TV, nice laptop, trainers.

  But for all the nice shit he owns his flat is filthy: every surface is littered with empty cans dusted with ash, roaches and fag ends rattling in the bottom. There’s black mould creeping along the walls and the sink is full of crusty dishes. My best guess is Slimy’s parents kicked him out for living like a pig. I know I wouldn’t want him stinking up my flat.

  My heart starts to beat faster when I open the laptop and begin to type. This is why I’ve come. This is all I’ve been able to think about since I saw it on the news. Finally, she’s back out.

  When I was released again nine months ago I managed to slip back into society without much of a fuss. I’ve never interested them like she has. Why would I? I was exactly the way they imagined I’d be. No surprises there. It’s always been about her: they look at her and they ask, Why? What went wrong? Those big wet eyes and the plaited blonde hair. Either I was the one who led her down the wrong path or she’s the devil himself, hiding behind the face of a fucking angel. But now she’s back out suddenly I see them talking about me again, too.

  Back in the unit they made us watch a video for a science lesson. We watched all the experiments on videos that flickered and rolled from years and years of use. Everyone in them had that mad seventies hair and we laughed at the shitty music. This one video they showed us was a reaction when you mix bicarbonate of soda and vinegar. Two things from the kitchen that you wouldn’t think twice about. But when you mix them together they react so strongly you can launch a rocket. I watched it and I thought of her, thought of how the two of us together became something else, something unpredictable.

  Even now, just the sight of her on the screen makes my heart thump harder. I read the article on BBC news. The screen is dirty and I wipe it with my sleeve but it doesn’t help much. I look at that picture of her in the police van, that smile which only used to come out for me. What had made her smile then? I’d already been sentenced by the time she went to court. Maybe they’d told her she didn’t have to worry, that everyone knew it was all my fucking fault. That was what Dr Isherwood testified and it was the story they’d gone with. My own defence had relied on the classics: bro
ken home, lack of supervision, behavioural problems. When they spoke about her they asked whether she could find redemption, if she could go on to lead a good life and do good things. When they spoke about me they asked, Well, what did you expect? They said I’d been dealt a bad hand, that it was just a sad ending to a sad childhood.

  A hand on my shoulder. I jump and try to close the laptop.

  ‘Bro, why are you looking at this shit?’ Slimy says. ‘Sick. Pair of fucking paedos.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Jiffo asks. All the boys are suddenly looking over and I burn with hate as I wait for Slimy to pass back the laptop.

  Slimy reads the article out loud. ‘They’re back out now.’

  ‘Fucking council houses, never have to work again, plastic surgery,’ someone says. I grip my hands to stop myself grasping for the laptop.

  ‘Made for life,’ Jiffo says. Everyone groans but they nod their fucking heads.

  ‘The boy lived on my cousin’s estate, two roads down from my cousin,’ Slimy says.

  Everyone has an opinion and everyone has a fucking story. They all have a cousin, a friend, a cellmate who knew one of us, who lived near us or went to school with us or beat us up in prison. I try not to rise to it. When Jiffo passes me the joint I take it even though I can see the soggy roach and feel a curl in my stomach as I put it to my lips.

  ‘If I knew where he lived I’d fuck him up,’ Slimy says proudly. The smoke hits my chest like a punch and I have to suppress a cough. I take another toke.

  ‘Well, my cousin said people kept vandalising his house and shit. And they found kiddie porn on his computer, or something. That’s why he went back inside last time. Shouldn’t have let him out again.’

  ‘I would kick the shit out of him,’ Slimy says again, handing me the laptop and reaching for the joint. ‘Sick perverts.’

  ‘Wipe your fucking mouth before you take the spliff, you dirty fucking bastard,’ I say suddenly. Slimy takes a step backwards in shock. Everyone else is laughing, trying not to look at the hurt on Slimy’s face.