The Lies We Hide (ARC)

by S. E. Lynes

  Another thing my clients will never find out is how deeply and personally I understand how grave the consequences of a guilty verdict are; how easily a beautiful soul can become a murderous mess. We have evolved from capital punishment, yes, but the loss of liberty to be with the people you love, to provide for your family, to experience your children’s childhoods, your friends, your favourite places and even your parents’ last days is for many a far greater torture than mere death. Those who go to prison suffer. Those who are left outside suffer too. My brother was guilty and served his time. My father was guilty but never made it as far as a court. His justice was of the poetic kind, as it turned out. As for myself, I am guilty too, but I use the law to try to make things right day to day. For the rest, my aim is to keep my daughters for as long as possible wrapped up in blissful ignorance.

  As a child, I could have done with a little more ignorance. I didn’t want to hear the things I heard, interpret the evidence I saw. Watching my mother leave for Tommy and Pauline’s wedding that afternoon, I could never have known that the next time I saw her would be in the dead of that same night: eyes wide, words hissed into the dark.

  I need you to keep quiet for me, love. Can you do that? Not a word, all right? Good girl.

  Graham knew more than I did. He was sixteen. I was ten. I never witnessed my father’s physical abuse at first hand. Through the walls of adjacent rooms, there were shouts, bangs, roars. Yelps too – like the sound my friend’s dog would make if you stepped on its paw. The way my father spoke to my mother was, for me, normal, although I do remember that my stomach used to tighten sometimes when he was around. But I hadn’t yet spent enough time in other people’s houses to realise that other fathers spoke to other mothers differently. I could not have clarified the tone of his voice as that of withering disdain, nor perceive how anxious he made her, how her every word and move around him was tentative. My unease was loose, vague. Only later did I realise that she, Carol, spent our entire childhood living in dread, that she did that for us, every day, from some received notion that she should put up with it, and because she thought she had no choice.

  Tommy and Pauline’s wedding reception was held at the community centre on the housing estate where we lived. I knew the hall well, because as kids Graham and I spent every summer there at the volunteer-run play scheme while my mother worked on the till at Safeway. The centre was by turns a function room, theatre, dance studio, sports club, pub, church, youth club and disco. The storeroom was a cornucopia of equipment for every possible activity: badminton nets, boxes of Golden Wonder crisps, footballs in huge net bags, scenery from last year’s Christmas play …

  I have no trouble imagining the place kitted out for a wedding. The DJ has set up on the stage at the back – huge black speakers, those eighties red, amber and green disco lights, dog-eared boxes of vinyl. He talks between records, takes requests, wears his thin leather tie a little askew. Long trestle tables, fetched from the storeroom earlier in the day, most probably by my parents’ friends and relatives, have been pushed together in rows. Paint splashes and chipped veneer are disguised with white paper cloths. The blue velvet chairs I would sit on later at weekly teenage discos fill now with chatting, smoking, drinking guests. Down by the long bar on the left, men lean in, heads fogged with smoke, hands tight around pints of brown and yellow.

  And there’s Ted, his back to Carol, a five-pound note folded between the middle and forefingers of his raised hand.

  My mother is sitting as far from the action as she can, at the back, where the hall is a little darker. She is wearing long sleeves, as she always does. She will have refreshed her foundation in the mirror of the ladies, will have waited until no one else was looking to do this. All around her there is motion and noise. Joy. Some of the guests barely stop to put down their bags and coats before heading straight for the dance floor, laughing together, arms pumping, mock-disco moves.

  They know how to have a good time.

  Five

  Carol

  1984

  Carol is watching Ted. He’s back-slapping, pointing, downing a chaser before picking up their drinks. Now he’s heading over, has her locked in his sights. When he gets to the table, he puts the cola she never asked for in front of her. He sits heavily, sups half his pint in one go. The urge to tell him to slow down still comes to her, but, knowing better now, she keeps her mouth shut. He pulls out his cigarette packet and shakes it.

  ‘Fuck,’ he mutters, his expression bitter. Without looking at her, digging in his pocket, he adds, ‘Have you got fags?’

  She scrambles in her bag, offers him her pack of B&H. ‘Here y’are.’

  Eyes screwed up, he holds up his own cigarettes, pushes the packet close to her face. ‘I don’t mean now. I’ve got one now, but it’s my last one, i’n’t it?’

  She nods, takes one of her own and lights first his then hers.

  After a bit, and without a word, he shambles back to the bar, disappears into the group of men.

  While some people dance, at other tables groups of women exchange stories and laughter. If any of them do look her way, she doesn’t see them. That Scottish chap likes to dance, though. He’s the life and soul, by the looks of things. Under the table, she taps her foot to the beat, sings the odd line under her breath, wonders if this will be a night to remember.

  After a while, Ted brings her another cola and takes two of her ciggies. One she lights for him, the other goes behind his ear. Common. Common as muck. There’s a buffet, which she doesn’t eat much of, and Ted doesn’t eat at all. At the speeches, Tommy scans the room, seems to look at every one of them.

  ‘I might have found my Pauline late in life,’ he says. ‘But I tell you all something. She was worth every bloody day of the wait.’

  Pauline catches Carol’s eye and winks, making her well up. Pauline has been a bloody rock all these years. Not that Carol has said a word to her. She’s never had to. When she lifts her glass for the toast – The bride and groom! – her throat thickens. If she can’t be happy, then perhaps Pauline can. She deserves it.

  The disco starts up again. The upended traffic lights flash; sixties hits replace seventies disco: the Beatles, the Kinks, the Rolling Stones. Ted, who she didn’t see coming over, stumbles into the table and just about gets his bum onto the seat next to her.

  ‘You’re not dancing,’ he says, without looking at her. It strikes her as a strange thing to say; she hasn’t danced for the last ten years.

  ‘I’m not. I’m sitting down.’

  ‘Are you being funny?’

  Her chest flares with heat. ‘No. I’m just saying, that’s all.’

  His eyes are half closed. Two fingers swear at her for a cigarette. She lights one and passes it to him. He sups his pint, mumbles something she doesn’t catch. His ciggie drops onto the table. She picks it up and puts it out before it sets light to the paper cloth. He appears not to notice any of this. After a moment, he opens his mouth as if to say something but falls against her, his forehead hot and clammy on her neck. Hands to her chest, he pushes back, eyes straining to focus, then keels backwards into his chair. His head lolls. Another beat and he slides to the floor.

  Christ, she thinks, eyes darting all about her to see if anyone’s looking. If they were, they’ve turned away now. She crouches beneath the table and tries to pull him up by his arms. He’s half propped against the chair leg, his chin crushed into his neck, his legs spread wide apart. It’s no good; she’s not strong enough to move him. Tommy would usually help, always helps on a Friday. But Pauline and Tommy are staying at the Holiday Inn before they drive up to the Lake District for their honeymoon. They can’t come back with her tonight. She’s not thought it through. Maybe Johnny will help, if he doesn’t get lucky. If not, she’ll have to somehow get Ted into the car and go and wake Graham.

  She leaves him sprawled asleep on the abrasive blue carpet.

  ‘… nine, ten,’ she whispers, sitting back in her chair. ‘Out for the count.’
<
br />   Something close to relief allows her shoulders to lower an inch. He won’t wake up now, not till tomorrow. He is at least reliable in this one thing.

  She remembers her lipstick. She finds it in her bag, together with her compact. She flips the mirror open and carefully paints her lips red. She smiles, checks her teeth, rubs her lips together. There in the reflection is a girl she remembers, though they lost touch many years ago now. Lighting another fag, she wonders whether she could get half a lager and lime now that Ted’s passed out; maybe a Bacardi for her Coke. Only she’d have to get Ted’s wallet from his trouser pocket.

  So no.

  Pretending, even to herself, that she needs something else from her bag, she bends down to the floor to check again on Ted. His mouth is open, his lips wet and slack. She clenches her teeth against rising disgust and swallows hard. At least the crotch of his trousers is dry, for now. Beyond Ted’s body, she sees a movement. On the other side of the table, planted on the floor, are two enormous black shoes, a cross between brogues and ballet pumps. Out of them rise two ankles in cream woollen socks.

  The Scotsman.

  She sits up, too quickly, cracks the back of her head on the edge of the table. ‘Ow!’

  ‘Ah, Christ.’ The Scotsman claps his hand over his mouth, but she can see he’s trying not to laugh. He’s a few years older than her, she thinks, now that she can see him better. Maybe late thirties. His eyes crinkle at the edges. ‘Are you OK?’ His accent is so Scottish it sounds like he’s putting it on.

  ‘You’re all right, love, I’m fine.’ She rubs her head. I’ve taken much worse cracks than that.

  ‘I’m Jim MacKay,’ he says after a moment. ‘Tommy’s cousin? Listen, are you sure you’re OK? Can I get you some ice?’

  She scrutinises his face to see if he’s serious. Not about the ice; about the name. ‘Jim MacKay?’ she says. ‘Jimmy Mac? Are you having me on?’

  ‘Not at all.’ He grins and bows, places one hand to his chest. ‘Not so ridiculous, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s just … I don’t know … I just didn’t realise anyone was actually called that.’

  He grins. ‘Jim’s all the rage where I come from. Plenty of Jims, plenty of MacKays.’

  ‘And do you all wear kilts all the time?’

  ‘Aye. And we have haggis for breakfast. So’s we have the strength for the pipes, you know?’ He winks at her. ‘Actually, the kilt’s only for weddings and such. Parties, like, you know? Anyway, I was just coming over to ask you to dance – you cannae be sitting here on your own all night.’ His hands are on his hips now, his spiky hair the colour of wet sand. He’s just asked her to dance. Of course, he’s not local.

  From under the table, Ted’s arm sticks out. She lifts it with her toe and pushes it out of sight, takes another drag on her cigarette and stares back through the smoke at Jim MacKay.

  He glances towards the dance floor, back at her. ‘So, do you want to dance then? Carol, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve got a gammy leg.’

  ‘Aye, of course you have. We’ve all got gammy legs. Come on, you can dance with your good one.’

  He tips his head to one side and holds out a hand. She presses the tip of her shoe into Ted’s ribs. He’s as still as a slug. Once he’s out like this, he never wakes. But still …

  She’ll never get away with a dance. The lipstick alone is a risk; a drink would be reckless, a dance suicide. It’s barely a year since she spoke in passing to a chap in the chippy. He’d only asked her for the time, but she paid for it with two cracked ribs when she got home. No. It’s not worth it. She’d show this Jim chap her husband under the table, to explain, but for the shame of it.

  ‘I can’t.’ She gives a little shrug, hoping he’ll understand that when she says she can’t, she really can’t.

  But he doesn’t understand.

  ‘Just one.’ He holds up a finger. ‘A wee one. A tiny one.’

  Ted is very still. As if dead. If only is the thought she catches and puts out. One record. To dance, in public, after so long … If she makes sure she stays over the far side, she could say she’s been to the toilet or something if Ted does, for any reason, wake up.

  Jim is waiting for her. Seeing her hesitate has been enough for him. Perhaps he has understood after all. Perhaps he knows. She drives her cigarette into the ashtray.

  ‘Just the one, then.’ She stands up, but almost collapses. ‘Oops,’ she says, and laughs it off. ‘I’ve been sitting for so long my legs have gone to sleep.’ She leans her hands on the table a moment while her shakes die down. ‘I’ll be hopeless, by the way. I haven’t danced for ten years.’

  ‘Ach, you’ll be fine. It’s like riding a bike.’

  He walks ahead of her down the length of the tables. His back is thick, his waist about three times the width of her own. They meet at the end and he leads her into the group with the lightest touch on her elbow.

  ‘Return of the Mac!’ Tommy punches the air, laughs at his own joke and almost falls over.

  ‘Good for you, love,’ Pauline murmurs into her ear. She means well, but the words are terrifying. Before Carol can bolt, though, the group has closed her in its embrace.

  Jim is already organising everyone into doing something called an eightsome reel to ‘Baby Love’. He grabs Carol’s crossed hands, whirls her round so fast she fears she might fall over but for his strong and steady grip. It’s a mess, a riot. It’s funny, funnier than anything she can remember. After the song has finished, men rest their hands on their knees, panting. Carol wipes her eyes and shakes her head at the other women. For a moment, she feels like one of them, if only for as long as it takes her to catch the thought, to remember that she is not. She cranes her neck to check her table, but there is no sign of Ted, no commotion.

  ‘Thanks, Jim,’ she says as the next song – ‘Lola’ by the Kinks – starts up.

  But Jim grabs her hand. ‘One more, come on.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Her chest tightens. The saliva dries up in her mouth. She looks back towards her table, sees only her drink, Ted’s empty pint glass.

  Jim pulls her towards him and puts his hand on her waist. ‘Who is he? I’ll beat him up for you.’

  How little he knows. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can. It’s OK’

  It isn’t OK. She lets Jim push her away and pull her back – a gentle slow jive. She glances back to her table. Nothing. She checks the bar. Ted isn’t there.

  Jim bends to speak into her ear. ‘Your hair’s so shiny and dark.’ His breath tickles. ‘It’s like Chinese hair.’

  ‘Is it now?’

  ‘Is there any Chinese in you, like?’

  She stands on tiptoe and replies into his ear. ‘No, and there never has been.’

  He throws back his head and laughs. A thrill passes through her. She has made a man laugh, a man like him. His hand on her hip has warmed its own place. She doesn’t want him to move it away. But he does, to send her spinning, holding on to the ends of her fingers. She closes her eyes, refusing to see the table, hoping this will be enough to push what lies beneath it out of her mind. It isn’t of course. Oh, if Ted could only die, slip into oblivion there, now, on the sticky floor. It would be painless. And she would be free.

  The first few notes of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ clear the floor by half to reveal Tommy and Pauline necking in the middle of the dance floor. Some of the guests are cheering them on. Carol steps back, unsure where to rest her gaze. Jim is looking straight at her. His eyes are blue. She thinks of Wedgwood pottery and a satin dress she loved as a teenager.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘That was really—’

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ He reaches for her, but she dodges his hand and waves awkwardly.

  ‘I can’t. Really. I’m sorry.’ She turns away.

  Her half-empty Coke is still on the table, watery with melted ice. Against her foot, Ted’s ribs open out and close, open and close. Thoughts of smothering him come to her. She pushes them aside, but they insist:
herself, ducking under this table. Her hands on his neck. Quiet, no fuss. She could go to the ladies and come back and say, Has anyone seen Ted?

  On the dance floor, Jim holds out his arms to her, cocks his head to one side.

  ‘Come on,’ he mouths.

  Hand to her chest, she mimes a puff of tiredness. She has never felt less tired in her life. She sits down, but still she watches. Jim disappears in the crowd. A second later, he’s jumping up and down and waving his hand above his head. She realises he’s holding a small dagger. Curious, she stands up and moves closer, close enough to see, through heads, shoulders and arms, Jim making lassos in the air with the knife. What on earth is he doing? As if he’s heard her, he looks her way and grins. She shakes her head at him and returns his smile.

  The crowd thins. Jim is wiping the sweat from his face with both shirtsleeves. To more shrieks of delight, he does a comedy stagger, feigning a heart attack.

  Against her foot, Ted twitches, then stills.

  ‘OK, folks.’ The DJ’s voice is muffled through the microphone. ‘Time for some old-school rock ’n’ roll.’

  Someone thumps into her back. She almost falls. It’s Tommy – he’s running towards the dance floor.

  ‘Jimmy!’ he yells, pointing wildly. ‘Jim, mate. You’re bleeding.’

  Shouts. The music dips. Chatter fills its place. The main lights flicker on, throwing whiteness into the hall. Carol follows the line of Tommy’s finger down to where everyone is looking, to Jim, to his sock, to a great red stain spreading in the cream wool.

  Jim is bleeding.

  His eyes find hers.

  ‘I’ve sheathed the bloody skean-dhu in my leg,’ he says, as if she’s the only one who’ll understand what he means. But she has no idea what he’s on about. ‘The wee dagger,’ he adds, only to her. ‘I’ve sheathed the dagger in my leg. Bloody thing was so sharp I didna notice.’