One More Lie

by Amy Lloyd

  Now people’s heads start to turn and someone tells me to calm down.

  ‘Who is this, anyway?’ I ask.

  ‘Cal,’ Slimy says. ‘He’s all right, leave him alone.’

  I let the T-shirt go but only because I feel, suddenly, light-headed. Before I let myself sit down I grab the laptop off the floor and open it up. I stare at the screen but can’t remember exactly what to do. I can feel my heart racing in my chest, beating so hard I start to think everyone can hear it. I look around to see if anyone is looking but they are all focused on the TV, except the new guy, what was his name?

  ‘Oi,’ I say to him. ‘Fuck you staring at?’

  The new guy smiles and shakes his head.

  The panic creeps up me like ivy grows up walls. It rests on me; it shivers against my skin; I feel it all around me. A cigarette: I think the nicotine will help. I take my pack of baccy out of my pocket and the Rizlas are inside. The thin cigarette paper trembles in my hands. I look up and the new guy seems to look away quickly. Fuck him – just roll the cigarette, I think, pinching the tobacco between my fingers. I take a loose filter out of my pocket and put it in the end but my hands are shaking and I drop it twice. Beside me, I think I hear the new guy laugh gently.

  When it comes to licking the paper my tongue is so dry it refuses to stick. I work up as much saliva in my mouth as I can and manage to get the paper to stick. I look at my work: loose tobacco hanging from the ends, paper not tight enough around the filter so that if I don’t keep it pinched between my thumb and finger it will fall out. Generally a fucking mess, but it’s all I have. I pat my pockets for my lighter but can’t find it.

  ‘Here,’ the new guy says, leaning forward with his own lighter. I try to take it but he flicks it and holds the flame out to me, like I’m his little bitch. I’m breathing so hard through my nose I almost blow it out but just manage to light the cigarette and sit back. The new guy smirks and I know he thinks he’s got me there, he’s made me look gay, but I can feel a cold sweat at my hairline and I’m too weak to do anything about it.

  The cigarette helps; it is something to do while I stare at the laptop and try to remember what I was going to … the screen goes abruptly black and I stare at my own reflection. There’s a second where I think I’ve broken it and then I realise that it’s gone to sleep, so I nudge it awake and start to type, slowly. Sometimes I have dreams where I’m coding, like I used to, but the keys keep moving around and I get it wrong over and over again. It feels like that now. I have to watch my fingers as they move over the letters, then check the screen to make sure it matches up. Am I typing too loudly? Am I hitting the keys too hard? No one seems to be staring this time, not even the new guy.

  Get a grip. Sort yourself out.

  I feel like I’m sinking into the chair.

  ‘You all right?’ the new guy asks, with that smirk again.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ I say.

  ‘You Sean?’ he asks.

  ‘What did you call me?’ I ask.

  ‘Are you sure?’ the new guy says, slowly. He laughs. ‘I told you it was a bit—’

  I want to tell him to fuck off but I can feel myself start to retch. The laptop falls to the filthy carpet as I stand up and I feel everyone turn their heads in unison to stare at me as I run to the bathroom. I push the door closed behind me and bend over the toilet to release a stream of hot vomit that burns on the way up. It’s noisy and I know they will all hear me and know that I’m spinning out but fuck it. The next heaves are dry. I flush to get rid of the smell of my own stomach contents; I shiver at the baseness of living, all that bile and blood and bone inside all of us. I blink away the tears in my eyes and look into the bowl: streaks of dried-on shit, flecks of some half-digested food. I heave again and again but there’s nothing in me.

  When I stand my legs feel like lead. I splash my face in the sink with cold water and look into the mirror: my pupils are wide as saucers, my skin pale as bone. I remember those old stories, of people off their tits on acid, staring into mirrors and seeing their faces melt off until they are staring at their own skulls. I’ve never messed with hallucinogens. There’s too much hiding in the dark corners of my mind, too many monsters under the bed. But now I can imagine how it would feel and I wonder if the new guy has laced the pot with something stronger. Or is this paranoia? I look away from my hollow eyes and let myself sit again, give myself some time to right my brain.

  I look at the corners of the room, all that black mould. It looks like it’s breathing, swelling and receding. Out, in.

  If I had the energy I’d go home; if facing the streets and the noise and the eyes of every passing person didn’t seem like the scariest shit on the planet right now. Weak, I stand up and tell myself to have some sugar. That’ll sort me out.

  It takes all the bravery I can muster just to open the door and face the boys but I do it, trying to walk normally. Only the new guy turns around, like he’s been waiting for me. I try to ignore him but something about him is just emanating bad vibes. Vibes. I really am fucking stoned.

  The kitchen is a mess but Slimy can always be relied upon for munchies. I take an entire packet of shortbread back into the room, a can of Pepsi tucked under my arm.

  ‘Pulled a whitey, did you, mate?’ the new guy says.

  Ignore him.

  The laptop is exactly where I dropped it. Not one single lazy fucker bothered to pick it up. I get on to my email and there it is, finally, her.

  Tanks? <3

  That’s all but it’s everything.

  Give me your digits I write. I smile, already imagining the reply: What?

  I delete and write out: Give me your telephone number.

  23

  Her: Now

  When I get back to the home I rush up to my room and wait for Sean to call. The signal is bad and I wander from corner to corner trying to find a good place. I open the window, which sticks and screams in its frame, and crawl out on to the fire escape. My phone has three bars of signal and the sky is orange and purple as the sun sets. I sit back on the metal steps and look out over the roads and the rows of houses and my stomach dances with nerves. I shouldn’t be doing this.

  All kinds of things pass through my mind: that it’s a trap and I’ve fallen for it and will be going back to the unit; that Sean won’t call because he’s realised I’m a bad person; that Sean will call but the phone is bugged and they’ll arrest me.

  The phone does buzz, eventually, and the screen reads Unavailable.

  ‘Hello?’ I answer. There’s a long pause.

  ‘All right, pet?’ Sean says. It’s his voice, changed by years and influenced by the accents of the places he’s lived in, but it’s him. I breathe a long sigh.

  ‘How did you find me?’ I ask.

  ‘Now if I told you that it would ruin it, wouldn’t it?’ he says. I know there’s no point in pressing him. This time, I feel so much relief to hear his voice that I don’t care.

  ‘I missed you,’ I say, quietly. He doesn’t speak for a long time. ‘You left me, last time.’

  He sighs.

  ‘Wasn’t my fault, pet,’ he says eventually.

  ‘Are you still dealing drugs?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ he says, but I know he’s lying. ‘And what about you? What the fuck were you thinking, going back to Luke’s house like that?’

  ‘I was trying to remember,’ I say. ‘Like you told me to.’

  ‘I never told you to go to his fucking house, Petal. Jesus.’

  ‘I didn’t know she was still living there! Everything just got too … too …’ I close my eyes and try to block it out.

  ‘How the fuck did you even stay out of prison on that one?’

  ‘Dr Isherwood helped me,’ I say. I hear him groan.

  ‘And how is your doctor-slash-surrogate-mum? Still sticking with you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, feeling shy. Sometimes I think he hates Dr Isherwood or hates it that I love her. ‘Only …’

  ‘Yeah?’

&
nbsp; ‘She seems weird lately. Different. I don’t know.’

  ‘How so?’ I hear the interest in his voice.

  ‘Like she’s not really listening. And she’s late or she isn’t there at all. Or she is there but she’s thinking about something else. You know?’

  ‘As usual, pet, I have no idea what the fuck you’re on about,’ he says. I laugh. It’s been so long since I laughed that the muscles in my face feel stiff.

  ‘I think she’s sick of me,’ I say. ‘Except …’

  ‘What?’ he asks.

  ‘Well, she still says I can call her any time. She just seems … distracted.’

  ‘She gave you her personal number?’ Sean asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. I blush because I only realise now how kind that is. ‘She even gave me her old phone when I said I needed one. Just until I get my own.’ Saying it out loud I suddenly feel stupid for worrying. Selfish, like always.

  ‘What kind of phone?’ Sean asks.

  ‘An iPhone,’ I say. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well,’ Sean says. Then he stops. ‘Nah, don’t worry about it.’

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘Nah, it doesn’t matter, honestly.’

  ‘What?’ I say again, dying to know what he’s thinking, even if it’s dull, even if he doesn’t want to tell me. Especially if he doesn’t want to tell me.

  ‘It’s just that if you have her old iPhone and you have her personal number, she’s obviously not that fussed about her privacy. That’s all. It just shows that she must really care about you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. It feels nice to hear him say it.

  ‘Because you can find out pretty much anything about someone with those two things. You know?’

  ‘You can?’ I ask.

  ‘Or maybe she’s keeping tabs on you?’ He laughs.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I get a knot in my stomach.

  ‘I’m only joking, Petal. I bet someone like your Isherwood doesn’t even think about things like location services and the Cloud. She probably doesn’t even use Find My iPhone.’

  ‘So … do you think she’s keeping tabs on me?’ It’s starting to get cold outside. The metal steps of the fire escape dig into my thighs.

  ‘It’s like I said, she probably doesn’t even think about any of that shit. Go to Settings. What name does it say on the top?’

  I take the phone away from my ear and swipe to look at the settings like he said.

  ‘My name,’ I say. ‘Well, my new name.’

  ‘Charlotte Donaldson?’ Sean says.

  ‘How did you know?’ I ask, feeling another chill, deeper than the one from the cold air.

  ‘I have my ways,’ he says. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, you don’t seem like a Charlotte.’

  ‘And what’s your new name?’ I ask.

  ‘Neil,’ he says.

  ‘No it isn’t,’ I say, laughing.

  ‘Nigel,’ he says. ‘No, it’s really Marvin. Marvin Parvin. I’m trying to keep a low profile with my normal-as-fuck name.’

  ‘Shut up!’ I laugh again.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says. I can still hear him smiling. ‘Is your email address showing?’

  I look again. ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s Dr Isherwood’s.’

  ‘Scroll down,’ Sean says. ‘Is there a list of other devices?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, trying not to sound excited. I read them aloud: ‘Evelyn’s iPad, Evelyn’s iPhone X, Evelyn’s iMac …’

  ‘Click one,’ he says. ‘Then press Show in Find My iPhone.’

  I press on the iPhone X and wait. A compass appears, then a map, then a little dot that throbs like a heart. I look at the street names and zoom in.

  ‘She’s shopping,’ I say. I smile. ‘How does this … Can she see me?’

  ‘She probably doesn’t know it’s switched on,’ Sean says. ‘But if you wanted to be sure she’s not tracking you, you could just turn off your location services.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I want her to know where I am?’ I ask, confused. It doesn’t seem like it would matter.

  ‘You might want to go off grid, I guess,’ Sean says. ‘Are you going to tell her you can see her?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘How come she doesn’t know about it already?’

  ‘Some people just don’t realise the traces of themselves they leave behind on every fucking thing they use,’ Sean says. ‘She thinks she wiped it clean: no photos, no bank details, no passwords. But sometimes the things we touch stay inextricably linked to each other.’ He pauses. ‘You should know that by now, Petal.’

  I listen to him light a cigarette, the crunch of a lighter and the force of his breath as he exhales. Maybe I won’t tell Dr Isherwood about the phone. I like that we are linked; I like that she feels close to me.

  ‘What if I did want to turn off my location?’ I ask. Sean laughs.

  ‘Easy,’ he says. He tells me how and I turn it off. ‘Now you’re off-grid,’ he says.

  ‘Well … not really,’ I say.

  ‘Oh. Right. Like they’d let you back out without putting you on tag after the last time.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, that’s easy to get around,’ Sean says. ‘If you know the right people.’

  ‘What kind of people?’ I ask.

  ‘Shady people.’ Sean laughs. ‘Know anyone who might be a little bit … bad?’

  Jack, I think. I don’t say anything. I listen to Sean as he talks about getting the tag fitted loosely on my next appointment, how easy they are to slide on and off, if you get the right parole officer. I tell him mine isn’t done with my parole officer but with a man who comes to my house each week. I tell him the name of the company and Sean laughs again.

  ‘Easy,’ he says. ‘Those companies don’t give a fuck, seriously.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. It feels like it always did with Sean, like I’m right on the edge of trouble. My stomach skips, like a bad caffeine rush. ‘I don’t care about the tag. It doesn’t matter if people know where I am.’

  ‘It might not matter right now, Petal. But what if you needed to be alone every now and again? Everybody should be allowed their secrets.’

  24

  Her: Then

  Sean is so funny when he comes to dinner at Auntie Fay’s house. She keeps telling him off for talking with his mouth full and waving his knife and fork around while he talks but you can tell she finds it kind of funny too. Uncle Paul keeps staring down at his plate trying not to smile when Sean tells them about school and all the reasons he gets into trouble. Ryan is over his friend’s house for a sleepover and I know it’s because he hates Sean and didn’t want to be around him. After dinner Sean asks to see my room and starts running up the stairs before anyone has even said yes.

  ‘It’s like having a bleeding tank in the house,’ Auntie Fay says, wincing at the banging he makes as he runs on the landing.

  ‘Auntie Fay says you’re like a tank,’ I tell him, upstairs.

  ‘Why?’ he asks but he isn’t upset, he’s laughing.

  ‘Because you’re so loud.’

  ‘You’re a delicate petal and I’m a tank!’ he shouts.

  ‘Why don’t you two go out to play?’ Auntie Fay shouts from the bottom of the stairs. ‘It’s still light.’

  My room is boring and there’s no TV in there because Auntie Fay says eight-year-olds like me shouldn’t have a TV in their room. So Sean runs back down the stairs and I follow him.

  ‘Make sure you’re back when the street lights come on,’ Auntie Fay says. She’s holding a hand to her head and being dramatic because Sean is jumping up and down for no reason.

  ‘We will,’ I say, already being dragged out of the front door by Sean.

  There are still plenty of other people outside, playing in their front gardens and walking dogs and watering the flowers.

  ‘Your auntie Fay isn’t that bad,’ Sean says.

  ‘It’s only because you’re there
,’ I say. ‘They are really bad sometimes.’

  ‘They seem all right,’ Sean says and it annoys me because Auntie Fay is really strict and he would hate to live in their house because it’s so quiet and they never, ever watch videos or have biscuits or buy cherry pop.

  I follow behind him and he doesn’t seem to realise I’m not speaking to him. Sean stops in front of the Messy House and points. I look at the windows, thick with dirt so you can barely see inside but you can just make out that there are stacks of newspapers and books and clothes that are piled so high they block all the windows completely.

  ‘What if you lived there, with Mr Sampson?’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ I say. Thinking about living there makes me shiver.

  The front garden is full of old furniture and washing machines and children’s toys even though Mr Sampson doesn’t have any children or even a wife.

  ‘I’ll tell your auntie Fay you don’t like living with her and you want to live with Mr Sampson instead!’ he says.

  ‘Stop!’ I say. Some of the windows are broken and smashed and I worry that Mr Sampson is listening.

  ‘I bet he’d love that,’ Sean says. ‘Fucking paedo.’ He spits into the rubbish in the front garden and it’s rude even if he’s really just spitting into a load of rubbish.

  ‘Look at this,’ he says and runs down the side of the house.

  ‘Sean! Stop!’

  Down the side of Mr Sampson’s house is a lane that no one ever goes down; at school they call it Dead Man’s Lane because, once, someone was murdered there. It’s dark even in daytime and Mr Sampson has put broken glass in the cement on the top of his wall so no one can climb over into his garden.

  ‘Sean!’ I say again.

  ‘Don’t be such a baby! Come on, little Petal, I want to show you something!’

  I’ve never gone down Dead Man’s Lane before and it’s hard to take even a single step into the gloom but I can see Sean disappear around the corner at the other end and so I run as fast as I can to catch up with him.

  ‘Boo!’ he says, jumping out at me when I get back into the sun at the other end.

  ‘Not funny!’ I say, getting my breath.