The Lies We Hide (ARC)

by S. E. Lynes

  ‘Oh God, I think they get the devil himself to write them, just to confuse folk.’

  ‘The very folk they’re meant to help. Looked like a Bible.’

  A shallow laugh escapes her. ‘The holy book of benefits. Thou shalt not claim money from our lady Mrs Thatcher who art in Downing Street. And you, Mr MacKay, might have to put your things back in your bag, ’cos if they come snooping, they’ll say we’re living as a couple and cut it off altogether.’

  Jim crosses his legs and covers his privates. ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Not that, you soft thing. The money.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Don’t worry so much.’

  In silence, they sip their coffee. Jim puts a Bourbon cream whole into his mouth. She’s glad to see him eat, although he tells her it’s she who needs building up. He’s right. She can’t look at herself naked anymore – reminds her of those poor dogs on the RSPCA adverts. It’s a good thing Jim is still sleeping on the couch – she can’t imagine anyone would want a bag of bones like her.

  He drains his coffee. ‘Let’s get fish and chips tonight, eh?’

  He makes it sound like a joint decision, like they have some sort of kitty, when in reality he is offering to pay because he knows she can’t. Debt ties knots inside her: debt to him, to Pauline and Tommy, to the kids: debts of money, of time, of kindness. She took limited cash to the shop earlier but forgot herself, filling her basket before remembering she couldn’t pay, retracing her steps, cheeks burning, unloading the contents back onto the shelves one by one.

  ‘I’ll do bread and butter,’ she offers, ‘then we won’t need so many portions.’

  ‘OK. Do you like mushy peas?’

  ‘God, no. Can’t be doing with them.’

  ‘No mushy peas then.’

  And now she’s said the wrong thing. ‘I mean, you get some if you want. It’s not like I can’t be in the same room as them or anything.’

  ‘Ach, they make me fart like a lawnmower anyway. I’ll get on, eh? See you in a bit.’

  ‘See you then.’ She’s still worried that she sounded rude, ungrateful.

  ‘Not if I see you first.’

  ‘See you in a bit.’

  ‘That’s what I just said.’ He keeps his face to the edge of the door as it closes. She waits a second. He’s put out, she knows it. Then it opens again and his head pokes out for a kiss. She leans in, then back, wiping dust off her nose, silly with relief.

  ‘Come here,’ he says, pulling her into the bathroom and holding her tight.

  ‘Jim, I’ll get paint on me.’

  ‘So?’

  He shuts the door behind her. They are kissing, their hands running over each other. She pulls back and meets his eyes and sees there that, with the house empty, he knows what this means. She is filled with terror and thrill. But he checks his watch and frowns.

  ‘Shit. It’s quarter to four.’

  ‘It’s not, is it? Our Nicky will be back any second.’

  They’ve had all day to take their chance. But it has been difficult to find each other. She moves towards him and he kisses her again. They hold each other and he rocks her from side to side. Frustration, friendship, consolation – there are so many types of hug.

  A bang sounds, followed by heavy footsteps on the stairs. Not Nicola, but Graham. She jumps away from Jim and grabs for the door handle. As she does so, the door swings open and there is her son, red-eyed and sullen, smelling of cigarettes and something else, something cloying and sweet she can’t identify.

  He looks her up and down, then stares pointedly at Jim.

  ‘Hiya, love.’ She glances down at her black T-shirt – it is covered in white dust. ‘I was just bringing Jim a cuppa, well, a coffee actually, ’cos he gets thirsty, you know, all that sweating and toiling, and hungry too – we’ve had a chocolate biscuit, haven’t we, Jim? There’s some downstairs if you want one – I bought a packet for a treat. Anyway, you know, I thought I should check his handiwork.’ She makes herself stop talking.

  Graham nods, but his face is sour. ‘His h-h-handiwork.’

  ‘Not bad, eh?’ She looks to Jim, whose nervous eyes are pink against his whitened face. The bathroom, too, is pure white, the brown between the tiles and the bath edge gone, replaced by fresh silicon, gooey and gleaming as toothpaste. ‘You’d never have known an avocado suite could look so nice, would you? What’s an avocado anyway, when it’s at home?’

  The room is too small for the three of them, the air grown hot. She realises that both she and Jim are staring at Graham, waiting for judgement. Something in his expression seems to switch, or is it her imagination? He gives a slow, unreadable nod.

  ‘L-looks all r-right.’

  What is happening in that head of his? The thunderous expression on his face when he burst in, and now he’s looking at the ceiling and the walls like some sort of foreman to Jim’s labourer. It would be better, she thinks, if he made a scene, called her a name, accused her of something.

  Jim smiles, and she wonders if he, like her, is hiding his confusion. ‘I’m glad you think so, because you’ll be painting the kitchen, mate.’

  ‘F-fine with me.’ Graham crosses his arms and sets his feet a little further apart. ‘M-m-mate.’ The word is a slow drip.

  Jim hands his mug to Carol. ‘I’ll get this finished then, eh? Then I’ll grab us a fish supper.’

  ‘Smashing. Jim’s going to treat us to fish and chips, Graham.’

  But Graham has left. A moment later, she hears the click of his bedroom door.

  * * *

  That night, Graham appears as they are putting out the fish and chips. He’s wearing his jacket and doesn’t come further than the doorway before muttering something that sounds like bye.

  ‘Graham?’ she calls after him. ‘There’s fish and chips for you here. Love? Where are you going?’

  The front door slams.

  Her eyes meet Jim’s. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. More for us.’

  At the table, Nicola chatters away, oblivious or compensating, it’s hard to tell. She loves school, can’t get enough of it. She shows Carol her exercise book, her work beautifully presented, scribbled with red ten-out-of-tens and A pluses. She’s coming top in everything, she tells Carol.

  ‘And guess what?’ she adds. ‘Miss said I’m going to get a prize for the most merit points this term.’

  Carol feels her face glow with pride. She smiles at her daughter, sees the shine in her eyes, a shine that by some miracle has not dulled.

  ‘Well, aren’t you my too-clever-for-me girl?’ she says, kissing her on the forehead. ‘God knows where you get your brains from, ’cos I know it’s not from me.’

  Nicola grins, turning pink. She and her brother could not be more different. But Graham is her son, her family, her blood. Both kids, both of them, are the reason she left. That Graham isn’t here with them is wrong. That Jim is here instead is wrong. Jim is the most wonderful man she has ever known. She can see that he is her chance as plain as her own hands. But he cannot stay.

  Twenty-Five

  Richard

  1992

  Richard sits back and blows on his steepled hands. Graham has applied for an appointment at 11.30. It is now 11.31. Too apprehensive to read, Richard studies the room: the books on their shelves, the table-cum-altar, the crucifix – arms out, as if ready for an embrace. The cross is small, made of pale new wood. There is nothing fancy about it; it is not gilded or bejewelled or embellished in any way, and yet here it waits: humble and steadfast. As must he.

  ‘I’ve b-been reading.’ Graham is at the door. Without any kind of greeting, he comes to sit down, claps his hands together and holds them in his lap.

  ‘Reading can be a comfort,’ Richard replies. ‘It can help us to realise that we are not alone in our frailty and doubt.’

  ‘A c-comfort.’ Graham appears to be mulling this over.

  ‘One could even say an escape.’

  ‘I’d pref
er a ladder and a d-decent hacksaw, to be honest with you.’ Graham shoots him a wry glance, suppressing obvious delight at his own wit.

  Richard curses himself inwardly. Seconds pass.

  ‘I meant more that reading can take you to another place, you know, in your mind,’ he tries.

  Graham huffs and stretches his neck to reveal the soft pink fin of his Adam’s apple. He shakes his head, as if returning to his physical body, then rubs at his hair and looks back at the floor. It is possible that more serious reflection has caught him off guard. In here, jokes can do that sometimes: leave a sharp, melancholy aftermath.

  ‘You’re doing English A level, aren’t you?’ Richard prompts.

  ‘Yeah.’ Graham looks out of the window, to the small grey strip of sky. In profile, the set of his chin and eyebrows reveals a yearning so private that Richard has to avert his eyes.

  ‘Is it one of the texts? That you’re reading?’

  ‘Nah.’ Graham sighs, returns. ‘It’s this b-book called Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Do you know it?’

  Of all the books he could have chosen, Richard cannot believe he has picked this particular one. It is so … spiritual.

  ‘Yes.’ His scalp tingles with anticipation.

  Graham rubs his face. Continues the washing gesture by pushing his hands to the back of his neck. ‘My s-s-sister made me promise to talk to someone. I didn’t see the point, but then I read this b-book …’

  Richard holds his breath, but nothing more comes.

  ‘OK,’ he says after a moment. ‘So why the chaplain?’

  Graham ignores him. ‘And m-maybe it’s because I’m twenty-four years old and I’m fucking sick of playing hangman in English lessons with a b-bunch of d-dickheads, do you know what I mean?’ He gives a hollow laugh. ‘Maybe I thought coming here would be more interesting.’ His mouth distorts, exaggerating the last word, undercutting it with something – rage, perhaps. Sarcasm. He is so afraid, so very afraid of saying anything straightforward, as if revealing one small thing about his true self will strip him to the bone, leave him humiliated and defenceless. Aggression is a carapace worn by so many in here, and often, the harder the shell, the softer what lies beneath.

  ‘Are you enjoying the book?’ Richard asks.

  Graham brightens. ‘I did, y-yeah. I finished it. It s-s-seems really simple on the surface – but it’s not.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Thought you said you’d read it.’ Graham looks back at the floor – a wary child playing hide-and-seek, too scared to stay in the dark, too proud to come into the light.

  ‘I have read it,’ Richard says carefully. ‘But it was a very long time ago – fifteen years, there or thereabouts. I meant, what do you think it’s about?’

  Graham doesn’t look up.

  Richard tries something else. ‘My friend Alexis gave me a copy when I was eighteen, as a gift. She was my girlfriend, actually, until things … until I ended it.’ He is divulging his personal life. How ironic, that outside these walls, talking about himself has been so impossible, and here, where he is meant only to listen, he is bringing up one of the most painful moments of his life. He shouldn’t do this. There are boundaries. But there is also a difficult and fragile relationship here, one in which trust must be won at a higher cost than the others, and consolidated. ‘I let her down, badly,’ he continues. ‘But she forgave me.’ He tries to read Graham’s reaction, but his face is inscrutable. ‘We made … the usual vows. Pledges of love, you know, which I … broke … inevitably.’ He stops. Alexis could not save him. It took Andrew to make him see that there was nothing to be saved from.

  Graham pushes out his bottom lip and appears to be considering what Richard has told him. Richard wonders what effect, if any, his words have had; what, if anything, Graham has understood.

  Graham puts his hands on his knees, like a storyteller. ‘It’s about this seagull who wants to fly a b-bit higher than the others, that’s all.’ He is still looking at the floor. ‘Not because he’s a snob or anythin’ like that; he just wants to, you know, see what’s up there.’ Finally, he looks up.

  ‘That’s right, I remember now.’ Richard’s suspicions are confirmed. In offering up a piece of himself, freely, he has managed to strip off at least one thin layer of shell from this troubled, reticent man.

  ‘My pad-mate, Dave, he reckons reading’s for poofs.’ Graham coughs, raises a hand. ‘Sorry. No offence to poofs and that.’

  Richard dismisses the apology with a wave. It is Dave’s prejudice, not Graham’s, although the fact that Graham should say this now is perhaps an indication that he has understood what Richard has not quite told him.

  ‘It must be difficult to concentrate in here,’ Richard says quickly. ‘I know how noisy this place can be.’

  ‘You’re not wrong. The nights are terrible.’ Graham shakes his head. ‘Sometimes the screaming and that is so loud you think someone m-must be getting m-murdered or something. And if you’re j-just trying to have a little read, you get so much stick, it’s like, oh, who d’you think you are, f-f-f …’ He glances up, corrects himself. ‘Think you’re effing Jeffrey Archer? D’you know what I mean?’

  ‘Mm-hm.’

  Graham is talking. He is talking of his own free will. For the second time this session, Richard holds his breath.

  ‘S-sometimes, y-you’re just knackered. And t-t-tense, like, you know? Nervous, jittery. I mean, Dave’s all right and everything, but I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, d’you know what I mean? He’s got tats all the way up his neck with stuff from the Bible and he can be scary as hell when he wants to be.’ He frowns. ‘C-Corinthians, does that ring a bell?’

  Richard smiles. ‘“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” It’s one of my favourite passages.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Graham’s face lights up momentarily before clouding over again. ‘But that’s not what he’s got on his neck.’

  ‘“Love never fails”?’

  He smiles. ‘That’s it. You’re a brainy get, you, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not particularly. I was lucky enough to get a good education, that’s all.’

  ‘S’pose.’ Graham puts his teeth to his thumb and tears a strip of skin, which he spits across the room. ‘Anyway, Dave’s all right. Hard as fuck, but all right. Listen, I’ll stop swearing. It’s out of order with you being religious and everything. I k-keep forgetting, sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  Graham stands up. ‘No offence and that, R-Rich, but I’ve had enough.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  His eyebrows shoot up, lending his face an expression of near enthusiasm. ‘But thanks, yeah?’

  * * *

  In the office, Viv is sorting through papers. She gives Richard a wide smile that takes with it the corners of her eyes, her whole face. But he can’t shake the sound of her treacherous laughter reaching him on the stairs.

  ‘How you diddlin’?’ she asks.

  ‘OK, thanks. Slow progress. I try to get them to talk about their lives, how they came to do what they did. I suppose the aim is to lead them towards forgiveness so that they can move on. There’s one in particular who’s been very resistant but I think I’m finally getting somewhere now. Starting to get somewhere anyway.’

  ‘Aye, well. Some of them’ve got plenty of time.’ She chuckles, bangs a stack of documents on the desk.

  ‘One of them mentioned a particular book today, which I think might be the key to the lock.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ She goes over to the filing cabinet and, after flipping through the tabs, slots the papers inside. Her hair is swept up onto the top of her head and is held there with a pencil.

  ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure I’ve still got a copy
in the loft somewhere.’ The fact that she isn’t really listening spurs him on, as if he were talking to himself. ‘I think if I could just read it again, I might be able to get him to open up a bit more, you know?’

  Viv is silent, engrossed in a new task. She must have tuned out. There is a greasy black lump, no bigger than a ladybird, stuck to the desk. He worries it with his thumbnail, thinks it might be old Blu Tack. When he looks back at Viv, she is standing before him, hands on hips.

  ‘Sounds like you need a trip to that loft.’ She raises her eyebrows at him. She was listening all along.

  ‘D’you know, I’ve been meaning to go up there for months and I just haven’t got round to it.’ He hesitates. ‘There’s a lot of things I’ve been meaning to do, to be honest. I’ve been a bit stuck lately. It’s strange, it almost feels like … No, it’s silly, forget it.’

  ‘Come on, out with it. You can’t get me all excited then leave me danglin’ like that.’ She restrains her customary laughter to a brisk nasal exhalation; it is Richard who laughs.

  ‘No, I just … It feels like this chap … Graham, his name is … it feels like he’s sending me up to my own loft, if that makes sense. Not just for the book, but for this other thing – it’s a film, a film of my parents’ wedding. I’ve been meaning to see if it could be converted to VHS, you know? I promised my mother I would. But typically, I never got around to it. And now that I have to go to the loft, I will. I’ll do it because it’s not for me but for Graham. But at the same time, it is for me, it will be, do you see what I mean? Forget I said it. It’s a silly thought.’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s as daft as all that. I mean, these poor buggers might have a funny way of doing it, but they do give something back, you know, if you let them.’

  Twenty-Six

  Carol

  1985