Everything Is Lies

by Helen Callaghan

  The obvious answer was that there was still a phone in the house, it was just that I wasn’t allowed to use it.

  I understood that if The Magus didn’t work it was going to be someone’s fault, and with the cleaning staff gone the next logical step, I considered with something like terror, was that he would start weeding out and replacing us.

  When he was low, or drunk, or both, he had started to refer to this obliquely, watching us with his dark eyes, searching for a reaction.

  Now the threat of eviction was being raised, I found it impossible to imagine a life outside of these walls, a life away from Aaron and the others. The university, I presumed, had already kicked me out as I hadn’t returned. The postcard I’d written to my parents a fortnight ago had garnered no reply.

  The men sat on the seats near the fire, and I handed their tea to them. Outside the snow had worsened.

  ‘Might get snowed in, eh?’ Peter was expansive. I waited and waited, as though expecting a beat in music. ‘Just us and the candy bag, Knockout Tits.’ He shook the satchel.

  And there it was. I offered him a wan smile which I carefully judged. I didn’t want to look amused and encourage his sallies.

  Though, really, I thought with a dull pang, you’d think he’d have got the idea by now. The fact that he still keeps it up is a sign that he knows you’re not interested – it’s just that it doesn’t matter that you’re not interested.

  A spark of flickering anger lit within my breast, and I tried to smother it before I said or did something rash.

  ‘So where’s Aaron?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I don’t know. Upstairs, I think.’

  He leaned back in the chair, scratched his thigh through his jeans. ‘Go on and fetch him, darling. That’s a good girl.’

  * * *

  Aaron was in bed. I knocked on the door and was greeted with a hoarse ‘Enter!’

  He was alone for once, scribbling frantically into his black notebook, the sheets around his waist and his fine torso rosy with sleep and warmth.

  ‘Hello, Aaron,’ I said, my heart in my mouth as I surveyed him, as it was a thousand times a day. ‘Peter’s here.’

  ‘Is he? Good, good.’ Aaron didn’t look up or stop writing. His voice was fast, almost high. On the nightstand next to him, a pair of rolled-up five-pound notes lay in a residue of white dust. ‘Can’t stop this now. Can you pay him?’

  I was astounded. ‘Aaron, I don’t have any money …’

  ‘No, you pay him with my money, you dozy cow. The key’s in my trousers.’ He glanced up at me. ‘Sorry, Nina, very important I carry on with this.’ He gestured carelessly at his jeans where they hung from the back of a rococo chair. ‘The little gold key on the ring. Take two grand out of the safe and give it to him. And make sure you lock it afterwards.’

  ‘OK. Sure, Aaron.’

  ‘And if he asks for more tell him to go fuck himself, right? Use those exact words.’

  ‘OK.’ I nodded, but Aaron had turned back to his notebook.

  * * *

  All in all, I could not have been more thrilled by this trust, but I was also apprehensive. Only Lucy and Penelope were ever allowed in Aaron’s study – this was the first time I had even seen inside it.

  Feeling like Bluebeard’s wife, after a moment of nerves I unlatched the door and walked in. It was a big room under the eaves and frigidly chill as there was no fire burning yet. The irregular oak ceiling beams sloped down to three low leaded windows. Peering out of one, I could see the blizzard had calmed, but snow was still falling, and below the hedges were heavily frosted with white, the grass a featureless pale plain. I could see my silhouette on it, as I stood against the window, as though I was a shadow puppet in a play.

  But I had a purpose, and it wouldn’t do to look as if I was dawdling in Aaron’s private place, as much as I wanted to leaf through the untidy piles of papers stacked on his desk – many of them bills with bright red numbers printed at the bottom, together with the words ‘FINAL NOTICE’ – or linger over the collection of framed photos of the band and gold discs on the walls.

  I knelt on the deep rug by his little grey antique safe and turned the key in the lock.

  Within were bundles of banknotes, roughly fastened with rubber bands, though not very many. As I started to count the money out, losing track every so often and, with a few soft expletives, starting again, putting the notes in piles, I saw that I was making serious inroads into the money that was left.

  By the time I had £1,765 in front of me on the carpet, I had cleared a space in the safe, making a small stack of letters visible at the bottom.

  I would have reluctantly ignored them, like the papers on his desk, except that as I picked up another of the bundles of cash, underneath it, in a large neat hand, was written ‘Ms Nina Mackenzie, Morningstar, Hetherton, KENT’.

  I froze, astounded.

  I carefully lifted out the letter, forgetting the money. Examining the stamp, I saw it had been posted two weeks ago. On the back, near the top, was written, ‘Ms R. Balcombe, Flat 2, 137 Mill Road, Cambridge’.

  This letter was from Rosie.

  Why was it here? Why hadn’t it been given to me?

  It was unopened, and squeezing it between finger and thumb, I sensed a fattish wodge of paper – Rosie had written at length.

  My first impulse was to tear it open. In fact, my finger was already sliding towards the gap at the corner of the seal …

  But what if this was a test?

  I held it, trembling, at arm’s length. I’d been trusted with access to Aaron’s office. I’d been trusted with the safe keys. I knew that whatever was written within this letter, it was going to be critical of Aaron and the others.

  He must have known that I would see the letter. It was unthinkable that he could have just forgotten and sent me in to find my purloined post. Even now, he could be in his room, waiting to see what I would do. He’d looked very preoccupied, but …

  It must be a test.

  Suddenly there was a burst of muffled shouting, a furious female storm. It seemed to be coming from the direction of Aaron’s room, though I could make out no words, nor understand the hoarse burr of his reply.

  Penelope. And she was raising her voice, which she never did – screaming, in fact.

  My heart clenched. This could mean nothing good.

  Abruptly it stopped. There was a whirlwind of flying footsteps heading towards the office door. Reluctantly, I slid the letter back, just as the door flew open and she burst in.

  She stood in the doorway, glaring, and her long white-blonde hair seemed to snake about her in rage. Her face was pale and pinched.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’

  Alarmed by her obvious passion, I shrugged helplessly. ‘Aaron asked me to—’

  ‘What are you doing in the safe?’

  ‘Aaron asked me to pay Peter. He gave me the keys—’

  ‘Get out! Get out, do you hear me? Never go in there!’

  Penelope flew forward, grabbed my wrist and hauled me up. As her hand connected I felt not just Penelope’s anger, but also, in a kind of trembling undercurrent, her fear.

  ‘Let go of me right now!’ I snapped, yanking my arm out of Penelope’s grasp. ‘Aaron told me—’

  Penelope slapped me across the face.

  The shock was worse than the pain. I raised my hand to my cheek, stunned. Nobody had hit me since I was a little girl. Nobody. Even in his very worst excesses, Daddy had smashed my possessions in front of me, but he had never laid a finger on me.

  ‘Get out!’ shrieked Penelope, spittle landing on her lips. ‘Out!’

  * * *

  I stumbled out, running for Aaron in the master bedroom, sobbing. I ran past Wolf and Peter, who called for me to slow down, stop. I banged furiously on the studded wood and iron door, calling his name, to no response.

  I tripped down the spiral staircase, nearly falling. I could hear the voices of the others in the converted dining room, raised in so
me kind of excited debate, but when I walked in, everyone fell silent.

  They were standing in a semi-circle, ranged against me. Penelope stood on the end, still shaking with adrenaline, her arms crossed over her chest.

  ‘Money is missing from the safe.’ Aaron’s face was a closed book.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You stole the keys.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I don’t … You gave me the keys, Aaron, you said to pay Peter …’

  Nothing changed in his expression as I said this. The others crowded more closely together, their disgust with me palpable.

  Everything was becoming unreal.

  ‘Where is it?’ barked Penelope. ‘Where did you hide it?’

  ‘Hide what …?’

  ‘Search her,’ said Aaron, almost wearily.

  ‘What?’

  Penelope lunged at me, tearing at my clothes, while Peter sniggered in the background. My dress was ripped at the shoulder as Lucy came forward, too, and grabbed me.

  ‘Where’s the money, Nina?’ asked Lucy, sorrowful rather than angry.

  ‘I … This is crazy! I haven’t taken any money … Aaron, you gave me the keys!’

  His face didn’t change; if anything, it hardened.

  ‘Nina, you’re going to admit to this one way or another. Where’s the money?’

  I could no longer even plead my case; I was too confused to answer. He knew I had stolen nothing. Penelope – all of them – knew I had stolen nothing. They would never even have had time to count the money, never mind notice any was missing. What was—

  ‘Put her in the barn.’ Aaron made a dismissive gesture.

  Hands were upon me – Lucy, Penelope, Tess and Tristan, yes Tristan, had grabbed me, and Wolf was opening the front door. The first blast of the cold night hit me, the darkness and its banks of snow, and I burst into tears as they dragged me to the barn, threw me in and locked the door.

  ‘Let me out of here!’ I screamed. ‘Let me out!’

  Barefoot, in my ripped dress, I lay on the cold concrete, weeping.

  Now that I was alone, I couldn’t shake the sense that if they all thought I’d stolen money, then that must have been what happened.

  Why else would I be here? Nothing about this made any sense, and by default, when things didn’t make sense I assumed the problem was me.

  I rolled into a sitting position and got up. I was in complete darkness and freezing cold, but I knew there was a light switch somewhere.

  I stumbled carefully towards the walls, feeling them with my hands, every so often my palm slapping against dusty cobwebs or sharp steel edges.

  I found the door. There was a tiny gap between it and the jamb, and by pressing my eye to it I could make out a sliver of the house and the golden light coming from the windows.

  My fingers suddenly discovered the old-fashioned plastic switch. I clicked it on and the shed was flooded with light, revealing the stacked tools lying against the wooden walls all around me.

  The floor was chilly beneath my feet, sending shooting pains through them, up my legs. I wiped at my eyes, tried to calm down. Eventually the others would relent, I told myself, and work out they had made an error somehow.

  Meanwhile I had to put something between my feet and the freezing floor.

  I scanned the walls. There were rakes, machetes and shears hanging from them, and big pieces of equipment covered in tarpaulin – ah, the lawnmower. It was a four-wheeled one, the kind you drove rather than pushed. I grabbed the tarp, wrapping it around myself, and sat on the seat.

  The tarpaulin was chilly and thin – meant to repel water and dust, not keep abandoned girls from the cold – and the seat was uncomfortable. But my feet didn’t hurt so much any more. In fact, they felt, like my fingers, increasingly numb. I welcomed my shivers. They were all that was keeping me warm.

  My breath emerged as little white puffs into the still air.

  Not long now. They were bound to come soon.

  ‘Oi! You in there?’

  I started and nearly fell off the seat. I recognized that voice. It was Peter.

  ‘You going to let me in so you can work off your debt?’

  An icy panic filled me, worse by far than the cold. I got up quickly and crept over to the door. There was a latch on the inside, and as quietly as I could I fastened it.

  There was the sound of the padlock outside being undone, rattling in the hasp.

  Where had he got the key?

  The door was tried; once, twice, and then Peter shoved it with all his strength.

  Within, the latch jangled hard in its hook. I looked around. Saws, axes and hammers littered the walls. I picked up a sickle and held it before me, watching the wood of the door shake and shudder, like my shivers earlier.

  Then it stopped.

  ‘Come on, Nina, open the door. It’s time to talk this through.’

  Naive I may have been, but I was not fooled. I knew what he was here for, and if I opened the latch I understood that he would rape me.

  For a fleeting moment, it all flashed through my head. It was as though I was standing outside of myself and another Nina was speaking in my ear, very slowly and clearly. She told me that the others wanted me to have sex with Peter. They didn’t have the money to pay him for everything – Aaron’s coke and Wolf’s endless weed – and giving him the money out of the safe would have left us destitute. Tristan’s money had dried up. Aaron may not have realized this when he gave me the key, but Penelope certainly would have. I’m sure she’d had no trouble explaining to Aaron exactly what she was afraid of as she screamed at him in the master bedroom – the conversation I hadn’t been able to hear.

  And Aaron needed to keep Peter sweet, by any means necessary.

  I stood there, absolutely paralysed, then shook my head. No, it couldn’t be true. It was too monstrous. Aaron would never do such a thing.

  Would he?

  ‘Fuck it,’ I heard Peter mutter after endless seconds of silence. ‘Fucking freeze to death, then, you silly bitch.’

  I retreated back to the lawnmower.

  Time passed.

  I grew more and more tired, but I’d stopped shivering, passing instead into a series of strange falling dreams that I kept waking from with a start. At one point, I was sure I’d found Aaron’s money, a strange purple bag full of gold doubloons, and when I kicked it over as I fell off the seat of the lawnmower, they spilled out over the concrete. It was good that I’d found them. But when I tried to blink awake to gather them up, I realized that I’d dreamed them, and there was only the sickle, still clasped loosely in my numb hand.

  I felt warm now, almost hot. Perhaps it was a fever. I kicked the tarp away and lay down.

  The floor wasn’t cold any more. This struck me, distantly, as being quite strange, and something within me kept saying: You’re freezing to death. But I was too tired to move.

  Soon I was fast asleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I was back in Morningstar and people were shouting.

  I was lying on my back still, but this time it was on a blanket, and I was in front of the fire in the long gallery. Somebody was stroking my forehead, with an almost gloating pressure. I wished they would stop, but I felt too numb to move. And the fire was too hot, though I felt very cold.

  ‘She’s waking up.’ It was Wolf. It was him touching me, his hand stank of tobacco.

  ‘See? I told you she’d be fine.’ Lucy’s voice sounded a little trembly but sharp.

  I spent the night wrapped up in a goose-down duvet, shivering in front of the fire, my thoughts foggy and wandering – I was so, so cold. Various smiling people brought me hot drinks and brandy (not the Bisquit Dubouché – that had long ago been finished off), plumped my pillows where I curled on the chaise-longue they had carried into the gallery for this purpose.

  The fire roared, the flames flickering constantly wherever I turned, visible even in the periphery of my vision. Visible even
as I dozed.

  There was no further mention of the money I was supposed to have stolen.

  There was no sign of Aaron.

  * * *

  Even now, years after the fact, I’m not sure what was going on in Aaron’s head. I’m so angry at him still. It would be easy to say that it was all his plan from the minute I knocked on the bedroom door – a set-up – but to be honest, I don’t believe that. Not out of any misplaced loyalty, dear heart – I am long beyond that – but Aaron’s genius was never in plans, but opportunism. He knew how to carpe diem. Out of the materials to hand, he reconstructed the world in his image and according to his desires, and we were all plastic, pliable, more than ready to jump to his command.

  He may have been an appalling musician, lyricist and human being, but by God, he had that Creative Spark.

  Later Wolf would tell me the real story of that evening, or real as he saw it – Penelope had crashed into Aaron’s room that night, perhaps after glimpsing me vanishing into the study, heartbroken and furious that yet again another woman was being handed her privileges. He’d promised her – promised her – that Lucy would be the last time.

  Most likely the germ of the idea had taken root in Aaron’s mind while she was shrieking at him and he hadn’t wanted to admit to Penelope that he’d given the keys to me.

  He must have realized, on the spur of the moment, that this was a great way not to give Peter two grand. It could always be explained away afterwards as a misunderstanding, a mistake.

  I’d play ball, he was probably sure of that. I always had before.

  They’d had to break down the barn door with one of the jeeps to get me out.

  I had a sense from all the others that this episode had brought them closer to me, had sealed up some hitherto unknown breach.

  Whereas to me, the dangerous fracture the cold had made in my devotion now yawned wide and split me in two. On one side there was the Nina who adored Aaron, who yearned for revelation, who wanted to be lifted out of her ordinary life by love and spiritual adventure. And on the other there was the Nina from before, Nina who had studied hard and wanted to read English, perhaps be a poet. A lost, buried me, who came suddenly to the surface, gasping for air and stunned at her newfound liberty.