The Lies We Hide (ARC)

by S. E. Lynes

  ‘Nothing to do with the six pints of lager, I suppose?’ Tommy crouches in front of Jim and gingerly peels the sock away. At the sight of the wound, there is a collective gasp. Carol wants to hold back the crowd but does not, cannot move. Tommy presses a cotton handkerchief to the gash, then lifts it. A red sliver appears, thin, then oozing, like a strange red blossoming flower. ‘Right, who’s going to give this pillock a lift to casualty?’

  ‘I will,’ she hears herself say. ‘I think there’s only me sober.’

  Six

  Nicola

  2019

  I return Tommy’s old handkerchief to the drawer and think of my mother taking that terrible chance with a man she had only that moment met but who, she told me later, she felt she knew straight away.

  ‘Outside it was that fine rain,’ I hear her say. ‘You know, when you don’t think it’s raining at all but next minute you’re soaked through.’

  I can hear her say it, the exact turn of phrase, as if she were here. I can feel that drizzle, the air cold after the heat of the party. Which is the point, I suppose. I want her. That’s what, that’s all grief is: wanting someone who is no longer there. It isn’t that I have anything important to say. I’d only say Hello, how’s tricks? Shall I put the kettle on? The last time I saw her, I told her about an armed robbery case. I told her about having my kitchen done, showed her the colour samples for my units. Enough to bore anyone to tears, but still, despite the oxygen tube up her nose, her body little more than a bag of bones, her once shiny black hair now thin and bleached with age, still she listened as if every word from my lips were gold.

  If she were here right now, she’d probably tell me about her latest trip with Pauline into Liverpool: how she picked up a bargain, what diet Pauline was on, something outrageous Pauline said to the waiter in the Casa Italia, where they had taken to going for lunch these last ten years or so. Whatever. Normal stuff, quiet stuff, the day-to-day stuff of love. But we can’t talk about anything anymore. And I can’t have back the time I didn’t spend with her when I was establishing my career, having a family, living in London. I’m still busy. An early night home is eight p.m.; a later night sees me waking up on the camp bed in chambers, scuttling out to M&S for new knickers and shirt if I’ve neglected to bring spares. Time I cannot get back. It’s not that I regret it, not quite. Just that, right now, I’d happily shove a knife into my own leg if I thought it would buy me one more minute, one more second with her.

  Seven

  Carol

  1984

  Tommy hoists Jim’s arm around his shoulders and limps with him across the car park to Carol’s rusty old Cortina.

  ‘Tommy,’ she says, scurrying alongside. ‘What about Ted? If I don’t get back in time, like? It’s your wedding. You can’t be—’

  ‘Leave it with us, Carol. Not like we’re blushing brides, is it, me and Pauline? This has happened now. Your Johnny can help us later. We’ll put Ted on the settee as per, OK? Johnny can stay at yours till you get back, eh?’

  ‘Are you sure? Only—’

  ‘Carol. Listen to me. It’s fine. Ted’ll be none the wiser. Why change the habit, eh?’

  ‘But he might wake up.’

  ‘Aye, and pigs might fly. Now open this car door before my arm breaks off.’

  She laughs nervously, unlocks the door. Tommy helps Jim into the passenger seat.

  ‘Hey, Jim,’ he says. ‘D’you want to borrow some undies? You know what them nurses are like.’

  ‘Get back to your wife,’ says Jim.

  ‘Tell you what, you can borrow Pauline’s knickers, can’t you? Not like she’ll be needing them much longer.’

  The men laugh. Tommy bangs on the roof of the car, winks at Carol and runs back to the community centre. She bites her lip and watches him go inside, rubbing the rain out of his hair. Through the brick, the steady bass of the music throbs.

  In the car, condensation fogs the windows. The interior is a state: the vinyl trim is hanging off the doors, yellow tongues of foam loll out, honeycomb where the kids have picked at it. These things don’t bother her normally, but she’s mortified now.

  ‘It’s wetter than you think,’ says Jim.

  ‘It is, yeah.’ She runs her hand across her own hair. It’s stuck together in a sheet. She looks a mess, she knows it. Jim’s shirt is transparent on his shoulders; his blazer lies across his lap.

  Start the car, Carol. Start the ruddy car and drive.

  ‘Right then,’ she says, nails digging into the palms of her hands. What if Ted wakes up? This will be the one time; it would be just like him. He’ll wake up, she won’t be home, he’ll know. It’s madness to take Jim to the hospital. But it’s too late to go back to the wedding.

  ‘You OK?’ Jim asks.

  ‘Fine,’ she manages. ‘What’s with the knife anyway?’ Her voice is too loud; it ricochets around the inside of the car like cowboy bullets on The High Chaparral. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him make a book with his hands.

  ‘Worn by the menfolk,’ he says, pretending to read, ‘the small dagger or skean-dhu is a vital part of traditional Highland dress.’

  She chuckles, a release of nerves, glad that he, like her, is keeping up the jokes now they’ve left the safety of other people.

  ‘So are you supposed to stab yourself with it?’

  ‘That’s all part of it, aye. Actually no, you’re supposed to put it into the sheath. Whoops, eh?’

  Her jitters die down a little. ‘Better get you to the hospital then. Don’t want you bleeding to death. Make a right mess of the upholstery.’

  ‘Well we wouldn’t want that, would we?’

  She dares herself to glance at him. He’s grinning widely at her. She stabs at the ignition with the key. So many teeth. Surely he has more than most people. She wipes her cheeks, hopes her mascara hasn’t run. Finally the key finds the ignition and she pulls the shuddering car forward. Ahead, gateposts stand sentry at the exit to the car park, a big white arrow on the tarmac and the words WAY OUT.

  They have fallen silent. Her eyes hold the road but she can feel he’s turned to look at her; can smell wet wool from his kilt as it dries in the heat of the car. She makes herself speak.

  ‘So where’re you from, then?’

  He tells her that he lives in Perth, that he works on an oil rig. I work the rigs, y’know? is how he says it, and she has to ask him to explain.

  ‘What’s that like?’ she says.

  ‘It’s OK. Plenty of time off and it’s a good enough laugh, y’know? Christmas is shite, though. It’s like an old folk’s home, all these trapped fellas in paper hats blowing blowers, drinking alcohol-free lager. Tragic.’

  It’s raining harder. She tries the wipers on the faster speed, but the frantic swipe of them puts her even more on edge. She changes them back. The car fills with their intermittent frog croak. Up ahead, the slip road looms grey through the spattered windscreen.

  Jim asks her about herself. She keeps to the facts. Two kids. Yes, her husband had a few too many tonight. Yes, it’s lovely to see Tommy and Pauline so happy, tying the knot after all these years. She wonders how much Tommy has told him. He probably knows exactly what her life is. So why ask? Perhaps he’s trying to give her back her privacy, covering her as you might throw a blanket over a naked troubled soul in the street.

  ‘You married, then?’ Heat climbs up her face. Honestly. Her and her stupid gob.

  ‘Divorced,’ he says simply. ‘My marriage died the day she called me up on the rig. “It’s Saturday night, Jim,” she said.’ He imitates a woman’s voice like all men do: stupidly high-pitched, not like a woman at all. ‘“And there’s gonna be some shagging in this house tonight whether you’re here or not.” That’s what she said. Charming, eh?’

  Shock courses through her. A thrill follows. ‘She never said that?’

  ‘She did. Put in an emergency call. I was beside myself.’

  ‘God help us. What was her name?’

  ‘Moira.
She was bad news, but it was a long time ago.’

  They have reached the hospital. She parks and pulls up the handbrake. He’s not mentioned kids, she thinks. He’s not mentioned a girlfriend.

  * * *

  In the waiting room, Carol checks her watch every five minutes. Almost midnight. The wedding will be wrapping up soon. Tommy and Johnny will be bundling Ted into the back of a cab within the next hour or so. Poor Tommy. Poor Pauline. They shouldn’t have to get involved with her and Ted, not on their wedding day. Still, at least Tommy isn’t here, waiting for the nurse.

  ‘Mr MacKay?’

  Carol startles. A stout nurse is standing in front of them, hands on hips. Her name tag says Elsie Bryers. She sighs with relief, realising only in that moment that it could have been someone she knew.

  Jim is already on his feet. Carol jumps up too, and together they follow the nurse, who is already striding ahead down the shiny corridor.

  ‘Elsie Bryers?’ Jim whispers. ‘Isn’t she from Coronation Street?’

  Carol whispers back, ‘Shush! She might hear you! Anyway that’s Elsie Tanner, you nutter.’

  Suppressing giggles, they follow the nurse into a treatment room. Under the harsh lights, she cuts away Jim’s sock, stitches his shin and straps it up with lint and tape. She is deft, gruff and kind.

  ‘The stitches’ll take about a week to dissolve,’ she says, shaking her head at Carol, including her in some imaginary club of women and their loveable-rogue husbands. She hands her four painkillers in a paper strip and turns back to Jim. ‘Your wife can help you to the car, all right?’ She gives Carol a last smile and heads off down the corridor.

  Carol pulls at her wedding ring. The nurse will have seen it and jumped to conclusions. But what can anyone ever tell from the outside? What does anyone ever know about what goes on in another person’s life? The ring is stuck fast behind her knuckle. Jim is standing up, leaning on her shoulder for support.

  At the hospital door, they stop and look out into the night.

  ‘I’ll get a cab from here,’ says Jim.

  She knows she should say that it’s been nice to meet him, that she’ll see him again. There are any number of things she should say.

  But she doesn’t say any of them.

  ‘I’ve driven you this far,’ is what she says. ‘May as well take you to the hotel now.’

  Eight

  Carol

  The lanterns outside the Holiday Inn put Carol in mind of a deserted street party – everyone home in bed and here they are, still shining. Ted will have been thrown onto the sofa by now. If he has woken up, he’ll know she’s not there. Her chest rises and falls. But there is some small relief in the knowledge that it’s too late to go back now. She didn’t mean to come this far. Only wanted to chat to Jim a bit longer. Jim, who doesn’t make her feel mad or stupid or wrong in everything she says.

  She switches off the engine. There is, strictly speaking, no need to do this. The rain has eased off, the car windows have cleared. Jim’s seat creaks. She feels his hand, warm and rough, under her hair.

  ‘I must look a right state,’ she says, without glancing at him.

  His hand traces round to her cheek. He guides her face towards his, leans towards her and kisses her on the mouth. It is no more than a couple of seconds, but unmistakably it is the kiss a man gives to a woman late at night in a deserted car park. She presses her forehead to his shoulder.

  ‘Come on,’ he says.

  He limps around the back of the car. She holds her handbag on her knees. Three big breaths, Carol. One for the Father, one for the Holy Ghost and one for whatsisname, oh God, she can’t remember. The car door opens. As she unclips her seat belt, a sigh shudders out of her.

  ‘Come on,’ he says again, softly, holding out his hand.

  She throws her feet out of the car and stands up into him. He kisses her again, more firmly, his mouth opening, taking hers with it. The air is chilly now that the night is here and she finds she is shivering, glad of his arms wrapped so tightly around her, like cords on a life jacket.

  Through the empty lobby, they hold hands.

  At his room, he takes the key from his sporran.

  ‘So that’s what that is,’ she says, giggling, trembling.

  ‘It’s my wee purse.’ He shows her through the door first. ‘Let me take your coat. Sit down. Sit on the bed.’

  She makes her way into the dim room, trying not to look at the bed. ‘You’re the one who needs to sit down.’

  Jim switches on a lamp by the portable telly and the tea-making things. He sits down on the end of the bed, pats the space beside him. The lamp throws a dim orange glow. She checks her watch. Quarter to one. She shouldn’t be here.

  ‘I better check that dressing.’ There is no need to do this. She sits on the floor by his feet, takes his shoe in her hand and unpicks the laces. Jim is still and quiet, save for the soft rush of his breath.

  She loosens the complicated shoes. ‘Wouldn’t want to put these on in a hurry.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘It’s all right, I don’t mind.’ She slides the brogues from his feet and rolls his remaining sock down and off. Her teeth chatter. She closes her mouth, but they won’t stop.

  ‘Should I make you a hot drink?’ she asks, her stomach rolling over.

  ‘I’m fine. Unless you want one? You’re shaking; are you cold?’

  ‘No. No, I’m fine.’

  Ted will be on the sofa, dead to the world. Or not. Her brother in the armchair. Or calming Ted down, telling him … telling him what?

  ‘I better go,’ she says, kneeling up, gathering herself to stand.

  ‘Look at me.’

  She can only look at the floor. ‘Jim, I’m a car crash.’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘You must know something. Tommy must’ve said.’

  ‘Come here.’ His voice is thick, different. He tips her head, runs his thumbs from her nose out to her ears, pushes back her hair. She kisses the insides of his wrists, aware of herself as if from above. She lays her hands on his knees, pushes her splayed fingers up his thighs. Under the kilt, movement. She draws back and laughs, her hand clapped to her mouth.

  ‘You think that’s funny, do you?’ He takes her hand from her mouth and holds it in his. ‘That’s the haggis.’

  ‘Give over.’

  They giggle, relieved to know they are both still themselves, that they can go back to these selves at any time if they need to.

  Jim reaches forward and pulls her onto the bed, onto him. He kisses her with an open, unhesitating mouth. There is no hiding in a kiss like that, and after years without, it almost sends her running from the room. She rolls off him, aware of her heart beating. He props himself up on one elbow to look at her. She watches him watching her, wonders what he sees. Between his thumb and forefinger he holds a button of her blouse. He slides it open and her breath catches. He meets her gaze and opens another button.

  ‘Jim.’ She makes to raise herself up.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  She watches him pull the blouse down to her waist and away, watches to see if he’ll flinch at the sight of her, but his face is unchanged and tender. He kisses her left shoulder with no more than an eyelash’s pressure, returns his lips to her skin, over and over, sending little electrical currents through her as he makes his way to the bruise on her arm, which time has paled to grey. On her thigh, she knows he’ll find the thunder cloud, yellow at the edges like a halo of sunshine trying to break through. He spots it when he pulls her skirt from her hips, and then, yes, she sees something – in the tightening of his mouth, the quick flare of his nostrils.

  ‘Jim, stop.’ She sits up.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  She shakes her head, willing herself not to cry. ‘It’s not.’ She shifts to the end of the bed, pulls on her skirt. ‘I’m sorry.’ She picks up her blouse and puts it back on.

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for.’ Jim grips both her hands in his, pulls
her towards him and kisses her again. He doesn’t let go, as if content to stay like that, kissing like young things in a park. He runs his lips down her neck.

  ‘Jim, I can’t. Did Tommy tell you?’

  He nods. ‘And I have eyes,’ he says. ‘You don’t deserve that. No one deserves it. I’m not much, Carol, but I’m a good man, y’know? I would never hurt you, never. You’re so … you’re just so fucking lovely.’

  ‘I was.’ Tears run down her face. ‘You’re lovely too. You really are. But I have to go.’

  For the first time since leaving the wedding, she is afraid; whatever madness has protected her until now, whatever spell, began to fade when she watched this lovely man see and pretend not to see the marks of her life. She was able until that point to forget it all, that other life, her life, that it was real, that it had happened, happened, would happen again. But now she is not able. She must get home now, while she still has a chance.

  At the car, Jim lays his rough hand on her cheek and smiles at her with such softness in his eyes that she has to look away.

  ‘Tommy’s got my number,’ he says. ‘You know, if things … if things change or you need … Well, just give us a call, eh? Let me know how you’re getting on. Please.’

  Nine

  Carol

  It is half past one. She watches her home for signs of life. After a few minutes she gets out of the car and walks towards the house. She’d been expecting Ted to come running out, she realises. To come running out, open the car door and drag her inside by her hair. To drag her inside and knock seven bells out of her until he exhausts himself and passes out. Silently she slides her key into the lock and edges open the door. The house stinks of stale alcohol but is, at least, still. Ted is asleep under a blanket on the sofa. She eases the front door closed, creeps as far as the living room door and sees … not Ted, but Johnny.