The Lies We Hide (ARC)

by S. E. Lynes

  ‘Jim,’ I whisper, though there are only two of us here.

  He looks up, sees me. Grins. His hair is almost white now, infused with the merest blush, the colour of certain rosé wines.

  ‘You OK?’ he says.

  I nod. ‘You?’

  He nods, but his mouth crumples. He meets me at the bottom of the stairs and pulls me into his arms. ‘Ach, Nicky.’

  We dissolve into each other’s shoulders. This loss is too big, I think. We will never get over it.

  He takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen. We sit at the table and he pours us a tumbler of whisky each. I marvel at his capacity for drink. He is, let’s face it, a functioning alcoholic in medical terms, but how different he is from my father. I’m not sure if drink unleashes one’s true nature, or if it is simply the case that we all have demons and it’s just that some demons are more sensitive to booze than others. Whatever, Jim’s drunk is this: a little clumsy, a little more affectionate, a little more philosophical.

  ‘What a day,’ he says, swirling the whisky in his glass.

  ‘She would have loved us all being together.’

  ‘Aye.’ He takes a swig. He knows I mostly mean him and Graham. Their relationship is a credit to both of them. And perhaps to Richard Crown.

  Fifty-One

  Richard

  1993

  On Thursday morning, Richard approaches the prison gates with trepidation. Graham comes up for parole in two weeks, a fact that only now registers in all its vital clarity. It’s possible they have only two sessions left, if the decision goes the right way. Graham’s parole, Richard realises, has become, in a sense, a deadline they both share. Graham must reach the end of what he has to say next week; Richard has to find a way to help him do that. After that, it is time for both of them to step into their lives and, finally, live.

  These days, he’s used to the feel of so many keys in his hands. The task of unlocking and locking the doors and gates is oddly soothing. The keys, once heavy, cold, a little intimidating, are now comfortable, practical, warm.

  He thinks about how time has passed, for him and for Graham. For all the lads in here. He thinks about how all the phrases relating to time change its meaning so dramatically. To spend time, he thinks, means to use time in some way for some discernible purpose – leisure, industry, work. People waste time, or believe they have, after an hour or two lost in front of the television, when in here time wasted can mean months, years, a life. Time is money for those in business, for whom every second counts in dollars or pounds. In here, they do time – such a contradictory phrase, holding as it does the idea of asserting oneself in some way over that vast, uncontrollable force, when the reality is that there is no control to be had, or very little, in here. When these boys do time, it’s more a case of passively grinning and bearing it.

  He arrives at the education office with no memory whatsoever of performing his infinite security rituals, only of the thoughts that accompanied them.

  Vivian is at her desk.

  ‘Hello, chucky egg,’ she says. ‘How’re you diddlin’?’

  ‘Good morning, Viv. I was just thinking about time, actually. About how our context changes our relationship with it in the most mundane yet massive way.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Richard, that’s enough with the small talk – can’t we go a bit deeper?’ She chuckles, shakes her head and gives him a wry look. In that moment, it hits him: her laughter doesn’t always signify amusement; it is an integral part of how she manages the world. Why has he not understood this before? Months ago, when Frank was criticising him as Richard listened cringing in the corridor, Viv had laughed. But it was not out of disloyalty, he thinks now; rather discomfort. He sees now that she stifles laughter almost every time she speaks, as if the gravity of her workplace has her teetering on a brink between hilarity and madness. She is, he realises, quite possibly as shy as he is. With a sense of shame, he sees that she is, and always has been, a friend to him, more than he has to her, and he watches with almost overwhelming fondness as she bustles past him and out of the office.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, meaning more.

  ‘Don’t be sorry, love; it’s only me mucking about. At least you think about things. What conclusions did you reach anyway, Professor Hawking?’ She heads into the kitchen, which is no more than a broom cupboard with a small sink and a power point. Richard stops at the doorway, as there isn’t space for two.

  ‘Well,’ he says.

  As he tells her his thoughts, Viv busies herself at the sink, rinsing mugs and teaspoons, wiping down the draining board. He finds her way of listening, always whilst doing something else, oddly comforting, and it occurs to him that his mother was always busy whenever he told her anything, and that too always gave him the freedom to talk.

  Viv has finished washing up and is putting the kettle on to boil. She puts her hands on her hips and fixes him with a stare. ‘I tell you what, love. You need to get out more.’

  Richard feels himself blush, but he does laugh.

  ‘You for coffee?’ She points at him, raises her eyebrows and giggles.

  Richard is still laughing. ‘Me fuckoffee, yes please, thanks.’

  ‘You’re trying to tell me you’ve heard that one before?’

  * * *

  Richard arrives late at the chapel, fearing that Graham won’t turn up, or worse, that he already has, only to find an empty room. If this is so, they will only have one session to conclude their time together, and at the moment, that doesn’t feel like enough. But when he turns the last corner, Graham is ahead of him, heading towards the door, shambling in his usual way in the baggy prison sweatpants and a T-shirt.

  ‘You beat me to it today, Graham.’

  He turns and grins. He is unshaven, the ghost of a beard blackening his jaw. This shading makes his face appear even thinner, and Richard feels a stab of concern. But Graham’s eyes are clear; a glance at his forearms – they are unmarked.

  ‘Good to see you,’ Richard says as they take their seats. ‘Are you growing a beard?’

  Graham rubs his chin. ‘I’m hoping for the full grizzly like yours.’ He stands up, adjusts his chair, sits down again.

  Richard waits for him to stop fidgeting and focuses on what he should say.

  ‘Graham,’ he says once Graham is sitting still. ‘Listen to me. I want you to listen.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘We’ve talked a lot these last months, and I think you’ve managed to lift some of the weight we talked about. But we’ve got a little way to go yet, and I guess, now that your parole is upon us, time is of the essence.’

  Graham grins. ‘Oh man, the way you speak.’ He pinches his nose and shakes his head.

  But Richard has no time for this. He must find a way to pin Graham down. Perhaps he should tell him something more about himself; Graham seems to respond better when it is a conversation rather than a confession. He tries again. ‘I wanted to tell you today that I’ve been flailing around a bit lately too, not knowing what I was doing, that kind of thing. Since my mother died, I’ve been kind of stuck. I haven’t done anything with her house, haven’t decided whether to sell it or decorate it and live in it. And through my conversations with you, I think I’ve realised that what I was blaming on grief is in fact down to fear. I’m afraid, Graham. I’m afraid of going out there and living. So you see, we both need to fight our fear and find a way to embrace the future. What do you think? Do you think we’re similar?’

  ‘Especially now I’ve got the beard.’ Graham grins idiotically. ‘We’re like twins.’

  ‘Yes.’ Richard humours him. ‘But what I meant is in the sense of not really making the decision to live, to embrace life rather than hiding from it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think you need to start thinking about your parole.’

  ‘Think about my parole? What for?’

  ‘Are you going to stay out, Graham? That’s what I mean. Or are you going to be coming straight back i
n like Craig and some, well, many of the others? What I’m saying is, are you going to use the revolving door or the permanent exit? Can you be the one who gets out and stays out?’

  Graham exhales loudly and folds his arms. ‘It’s hard out there, Richard. You don’t know what it’s like.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ Richard raises his eyebrows in challenge.

  Graham looks away and then back. To Richard’s relief, there is a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. ‘OK, OK, you do know what it’s like outside. It’s me that doesn’t, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes. And I know that sharing the moments that have scarred us brings intimacy. And intimacy can be as frightening as freedom.’

  Graham looks up, meets his eye, holds it, and Richard feels the intensity of them both, together, in the now, the right now.

  ‘You became tired last week,’ he says, ‘but you’re here today. You always come back, and I think this is because you know that there’s more to do and that you can only do it here. With me. And very soon you won’t be able to come here, do you understand what I’m saying?’

  Graham nods.

  ‘I’m not asking you to find God or anything like that. I would never do that. But you need to think about how you might go forward once you get out, and I believe you can’t quite do that at the moment. You’re almost ready, but you’re not … you’re not ready.’

  ‘You mean I need to tell you what I did?’

  Richard sighs. There is truth in what Graham says, but the right spirit is missing. If Graham is to unburden himself, he has to do it freely. ‘The weight you talked about, remember, when we talked about flying? That weight, whatever is left of it, needs to go. You don’t need to tell me specifically but if you can talk about it, it might help lift it.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ Graham clasps his hands in his lap and bows his head. ‘I can’t go anywhere with all that, can I?’

  ‘If you leave here still carrying … all that … my fear is that it will prove too heavy and you’ll be back inside within months.’

  Graham looks at him but says nothing. After a moment, he nods and pushes his hands between his knees.

  Richard tries a more specific tack. ‘Graham, your dad died a long time ago. You’ve spent years of your life in here; you have a child. How much longer are you going to blame your father, or anyone else for that matter? Blame yourself? How can blame help you? How will it help you when you get out?’

  Graham’s skin flushes red and he bows his head. Tears, Richard suspects, for the first time in five months, are being blinked back furiously beneath that thick black fleece of hair. But all he can see are Graham’s hands, knotted between his knees.

  ‘Graham,’ he whispers. ‘It’s time. If you can brave it today, we can chat about nothing at all next week. We can simply say goodbye and good luck, can’t we?’

  Graham lifts his head. His eyes shine. ‘He was such a good laugh, like. My dad. I never told you that. He was hilarious when he wanted to be. Used to do Max Wall impressions in the lounge in his long johns and stuff like that. He used to make jokes. It was the way he said them, you know, quick-fire, he had us all in hysterics. It’s just that when he was nice, he was wicked, you know?’

  ‘No one’s a hundred per cent evil.’

  ‘He wasn’t evil. I’ve spent a lifetime blaming him for everything, but it was me who put myself here. That’s what you want me to say, isn’t it?’

  ‘I only want you to say what you feel. I like talking to you, Graham. You have so much to give. And … you’ve had a real impact on me.’

  ‘Get lost.’

  ‘You have!’ Richard pauses. ‘You said in one of our sessions, very bravely, that you were addicted to drugs. Do you blame drugs?’

  ‘No. But yeah, I was an addict. Barry had this gear.’ Graham begins to scratch at his forearms.

  ‘You were dealing,’ Richard prompts.

  Graham seems not to hear. ‘Barry was training us. Taking the money, dropping off the orders. It wasn’t rocket science, like. We went round to this lad’s. Cornflake, he was called – he had ginger hair – to collect the dough. And he wasn’t in, Cornflake, I mean. I can remember her, Leanne, his missus. I can remember Barry pushing the door in on her and slamming her with it, into the wall, like. The kids were running about inside the flat and this Leanne was shouting from behind the door, “Get in Mummy and Daddy’s room!” Like that. It was horrible. It made me feel sick, but I was a bit out of it. Anyway, Barry went inside, banging on the wall all the way down the hall shouting, “Cornflake! Cornflake! You ginger get.” I’m telling you this, like, but I don’t know whether I remember it or whether I’ve thought of it so many times I’ve kind of practised it in my mind, d’you know what I mean?’

  Richard tries to slow his breath as he inhales, to keep it quiet, but it rattles on the way out, as if his windpipe were full of stones.

  ‘So Barry made her, Leanne, he made her leave the bedroom door open so she wouldn’t try anything. Her and the kids were on the bed. She had these massive slippers on – they were huge white fluffy things.’

  ‘When was this?’

  Graham looks up, meets his eye. ‘It was the seventeenth of December 1987.’

  Chilled by the precision, about where it might lead, Richard presses his mouth closed.

  ‘It was about ten in the evening, apparently. According to the autopsy.’

  ‘OK.’ Richard puts his hand over his mouth and nods. He has a grim feeling in his belly, anxiety lodged like a rock.

  ‘So, yeah, so Barry, right.’ Graham looks away and down. ‘He was asking for the money, hassling Leanne. She said she didn’t know anything about it. The kids were crying, she was crying. It was horrible, horrible. I was looking in the kitchen but I sort of lost track of what I was supposed to be doing and I started eating chocolate from the fridge. It was a big bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. I put too much in my mouth and it went all thick, you know? I felt like I was choking, so I went to the sink to get a glass of water. I mean, when I think about that, I realise I was off my head. Not the screaming abdabs or anything, just not properly there, doing low-key weird stuff like eating someone else’s choccy. And I could hear Barry getting lairy, nasty, like. Next thing, he’d smashed something. I went into the hall to see what was going on, and he had this pottery dog thing, an ornament, like. It had no head because he’d smashed it off and its neck was all smooth, but it had like a point sticking up – the edge, you know?’

  ‘Mm-hm.’ Richard can think only of this sharp porcelain edge, can see it in his mind’s eye: raised, blade-like.

  ‘Anyway, it was chaos. Leanne was shouting, the kids were crying. She was holding them in the bed; she’d got them under the duvet with her, you know, maybe to protect them or something, and then Cornflake arrives – her fella, like, you know. He had ginger hair, did I say that?’ Graham puts his face in his hands. ‘Fuck, this is hard.’

  ‘You’re doing great,’ Richard says gently.

  Graham drops his hands to his lap and laces his fingers together. ‘So this guy, I mean, I knew him from round about, he was a hard case, like, he starts shouting “What’s going on?” and that. And Barry kind of pushes past him and does one.’

  ‘Barry ran away?’

  ‘Yeah. He didn’t think Flakey’d be there. He used to collect when he thought the fellas weren’t in. The women were easier to scare, like, get the money off and that. So then I was left with this ginger get and he goes for us. Next thing I’m on the floor and I’m trying to push him off and I’m thinking about how I need another glass of water and how I need to get out of there. I get on top of him, anyway. And I … I just knew I had to get out, like.’ He stops.

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘Well, I get him off us and I’m flying out of there and … It all happened at once. I get round the hall, I get as far as the door, and he starts shouting at her, at Leanne, like, calling her a bitch, a stupid bitch for letting us in, and I heard something. I mean,
I’ll say now that I heard a slap, a punch, whatever, but God knows what I heard. Anyway, that was it.’ He rubs his face and sighs. ‘I went back.’

  Richard’s heart tightens. His brain races – to Graham, to this red-haired man, to the glinting porcelain edge. ‘And then?’

  ‘The china dog thing was there on the floor and I grabbed it and I jumped him and he fell. I put the point to his neck and I could feel where it was snagging against his skin and I felt like I was tripping a bit, you know? I mean, I wasn’t, but I think I was in state of panic or something. I threw the pottery thing down, anyway, I don’t know why, and just sort of had my hands round his neck, like, telling him never to call his girlfriend … that word, telling him he was a disgrace and that, hitting a woman. He was making this sound, coughing, and I was pushing, and it was like he was a doll and he was all pink, like plastic. And then I think I must have realised I was choking him.’ He sits back in his chair and crosses his legs. ‘So I left.’

  Richard shakes his head, confused. ‘So you didn’t kill him, this Cornflake chap?’

  ‘No. I ran after Barry. He was in his flat. I went tearing in there, all fired up, like, and I was like, what the hell? I was furious with him. Doing his rounds, intimidating girls when their boyfriends weren’t home, and he’d almost made me kill someone, like.’

  Richard holds his breath.

  ‘Barry must’ve been scared I was gonna do something to him. I must’ve looked mad or something ’cos he took us into his kitchen and he was all chatty, like, and then he opened a drawer, all smiles, and just … he just goes for us with this big knife, you know, like a carving knife? I dodged it. I told him to calm down, but he was all pumped up. We both were. I mean, I knew he’d killed some lad on the estate – that was the rumour anyway, so I was pretty scared. So, we … we fought. And I … I …’ He puts his hand over his face; his mouth contorts.