The Lies We Hide (ARC)

by S. E. Lynes

  ‘I feel different. Free somehow – I can’t explain it. But we’re not here to talk about me, so stop trying to distract me. Are you ready for next week?’

  Graham glances at the floor. ‘S’pose.’ He looks up, smiles. ‘No, yeah. Yeah, I am.’

  ‘Who’s coming to meet you, do you know?’

  ‘Spoke to my mum; she’s coming with Jim in the car, like.’ He mentions Jim casually and seems cheerful. Richard is glad they’re coming. He feels connected to them, through Graham. He trusts them to look after him, this precious, precarious man.

  ‘I’ll probably see them on my way in,’ he says. ‘I always see the crowd waiting outside on a Thursday morning.’

  ‘You should say hello, like. My mum’d be made up. She knows about you. I’ve told her about you, like.’

  He can see that Graham is serious and perhaps more – that he is asking him to do this.

  ‘I will,’ he promises.

  ‘She’s got dark hair, going grey, sort of shoulder-length and really straight. She’s skinny. Well, she’s got a bit of a pot now, but she’s thin on her arms and legs, and she’s small height-wise. Erm, she often wears nail varnish for special occasions and she’ll deffo be wearing lippy. I mean, I’ve not seen her without lippy for years, ’cos I s’pose, coming here, she was always in her best togs, like – always done up nice. And Jim is massive. He’s a mountain. I can’t really describe him any more than that. He’s quite Scottish-looking, if you know what I mean. Not totally ginger but kind of a weird colour, like tomato ketchup and mayo mixed together. Oh, and they’ve got a Mondeo now, I think. She said it was a greeny colour, like a seaweed colour, she said. Look out for it.’

  ‘I will. And how do you feel about Jim coming along?’

  ‘It’s cool. I mean, fair play to him. He’s a good bloke. That’s all in the past anyway, with the drugs.’ He smiles. ‘I think Tracy and Jade are staying with our Katy.’

  ‘Who’s Katy?’

  ‘What do you mean, who’s Katy? Didn’t I tell you they had a kid?’

  ‘Your mum and Jim had a child?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He puts his thumbnail to his mouth and worries the edge with his bottom teeth. ‘She’s like a cousin for Jade, except she’s her auntie. It’s like that country and western song, “I’m My Own Grandpa” – do you know it?’

  Richard shakes his head and laughs. ‘And how do you feel about Katy?’

  ‘What do you mean, how do I feel? I can’t wait to get to know her properly. I can’t wait to spend time with Jade and get to know her an’ all. I’m going to do everything I can to make it up to her. When I’m clean, I’m actually quite a nice person, you know.’

  ‘Well, you know what my answer to that is.’

  ‘S-stay c-clean, then, yeah?’ Despite the good-natured replies, Graham seems suddenly jittery. The pressure of freedom must be disconcerting, terrifying, even. Seeing him so tense, Richard realises that he himself has passed this moment. That tension is behind him. Something mysterious has happened here, something that has tied him irreversibly to Graham Watson, that has to do with love and forgiveness and the transformative nature of acceptance. He has passed through something. He can feel it. He wonders if Graham has yet to make that final step.

  ‘What about Tracy?’ he asks.

  ‘Tracy – well, we’ll see how it goes, like.’ Graham grins again, briefly, but continues to chew at his thumb.

  A silence falls. Richard knows he’ll miss Graham more than he can ever put into words.

  ‘So,’ he says. ‘What about Graham in all this? Do you forgive yourself?’

  Graham sighs. After a moment, he says, ‘I suppose the trouble is, the old seagull never killed anybody.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that. I can’t ever fly away from what I did, can I?’

  ‘But you know God forgives you?’

  ‘Whatever that means.’

  ‘I think it means you could try to accept that, if you can. And I forgive you. Think of that, if it’s easier. And forgive yourself. There are people outside this place who need you to be the person you really are.’

  ‘Jade.’ Graham looks out of the window. ‘I’ll get there. I have to, for her – she’s kept me going in here, I can tell you. It’s just fighting the guilt, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. But like I said before, guilt is not helpful.’

  Graham smiles and raises his eyebrows. There is something final about his expression. This lad, who has helped Richard in so many ways he will never know. Who has been on his mind throughout, who was on his mind this week, when he finally called Alexis’s home number, heard her mother answer in the warmest possible tones, thanked her when she gave him Alexis’s address. She is living in Morecambe now, has two children and is working as a GP. She will be thrilled to hear from him, will be desperate to see him again. Richard will write to her. He will. Friendship is part of his future. Love is part of his future. And love will be part of Graham’s future too.

  Graham is still silent. There seems to be nothing left to say.

  Richard leans forward a little. ‘Do you mind if I say one prayer before you go?’

  Graham shrugs. ‘Go for it.’

  Richard clasps his hands together in his lap and closes his eyes.

  ‘O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell and lead all souls to heaven, especially those most in need of your mercy. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ says Graham, colouring. ‘That was shorter than I thought it was going to be.’ He looks relieved. ‘I suppose that’s it then.’

  The conversation is faltering as it draws to a close. Richard realises he was expecting far too much. He wanted to cement everything they’d achieved in the last six months. He wanted to send Graham out unburdened. But Graham is not St Paul; he will not head out of here bathed in light, nor will he embrace God’s love as Richard wishes he would. The most Richard can hope for is that he is cleaner and lighter for their time together, and that outside these walls, this will be enough.

  Graham is chewing his fingers. ‘I mean, the thing is, sometimes I think it’d be easier to stay. Everything’s taken care of in here, do you know what I mean?’

  Richard’s heart sinks. They have only minutes left together. He has to find something, a last word of comfort.

  ‘I remember once,’ he says after a moment. ‘I was going on a long drive. It was winter. My mother gave me a candle and a box of matches to take with me. She’d heard on the radio that in an emergency, a candle could be the difference between life and death. You know, for the warmth. A small candle can give enough heat to keep you alive.’ He can’t tell what Graham is thinking; his face is impassive. ‘I’m not explaining this very well. I guess that’s what I want to give you now – a candle, for your journey, to keep you safe.’

  ‘Aw, you’re a good bloke,’ Graham says.

  ‘I once thought about becoming a priest,’ Richard adds after a moment. ‘A long time ago. There were things about myself, about the world, that I couldn’t face.’

  ‘Why didn’t you then?’

  ‘Well, I decided that it was better to live in the world, to be a part of it, no matter how difficult that might be. When my mum died, I lost my ability to be in the world, but now I’m ready again. I’m ready to step out. And so are you, Graham – so are you.’

  Graham rubs his hands together as if he’s about to start clearing a garage of junk. Richard half expects him to push up his sleeves.

  ‘You’ve just got to get out there and get on with it,’ he says. ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘The last time I saw my mum, she wished me a nice trip,’ Richard says.

  ‘Now I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Just that that was the last thing she ever said to me, but I didn’t know it at the time so I guess I didn’t lend it too much importance. But we once talked, you and me, about the things we say to each other and about what’s important, do you remember? And you said it’s all import
ant. All those little things. I’ve thought about that a lot and now I think that what my mother said that last time was very important. “Have a nice trip.” It was normal. It was normality.’

  ‘It was love,’ Graham says. ‘Just as much as anyone saying they love you.’

  ‘It was the candle,’ Richard replies, blinking fast. ‘The warmth that helps us survive.’

  Graham stands up abruptly, making his chair scrape, and rubs his hands on the sides of his sweatshirt. ‘Listen, mate, anyway, I just wanted to say ta, like, for everything you’ve d-done for us.’ He hands Richard a white envelope. His face is pink and he cannot hold Richard’s eye. ‘You can open this once I’ve gone, ’cos I’m too embarrassed for you to read it now, all right? It’s well mushy.’

  ‘All right.’ Richard shakes Graham’s hand and meets his eye once, twice. For the moment, he is too choked to speak.

  ‘See you later then, yeah?’ Graham’s voice cracks. He takes a step back.

  ‘Good luck.’ Richard gets the words out before they shatter. ‘Goodbye, Graham. Be free.’

  Still backing away, Graham points at Richard. ‘Pray for us, yeah? It seems to work when you do it.’ He makes two thumbs-up signs, turns, and like that, he is gone.

  The doorway is empty. Surrounded by the shouts and bangs from elsewhere, the chapel is quiet and still. Richard turns the envelope over in his hand, his throat thick. Richy-Rich, it says on the front, and this makes him smile. He puts it in his pocket but almost immediately brings it out again. Half of him wants to save it until he finds the perfect moment, but the other half knows that waiting for the perfect moment is a dangerous, dangerous game.

  He walks over to the window and opens the envelope. On the small white sheet of paper, words are arranged in what looks like a poem. The handwriting is painstakingly neat. There is evidence of pencil lines that have been rubbed out after the ink has dried. All of this moves him, and steeling himself, he reads.

  I had a friend in front of me,

  If I would only dare

  To talk, to find the hardest words,

  While he was waiting there.

  * * *

  He listened while I got it out

  And now I’m going home.

  I will not see him anymore

  So I’m leaving him this poem.

  * * *

  It’s you, the friend, old Richy-Rich!

  You’ll always be my mate!

  You helped me fly like the seagull.

  Like you said, it’s never too late.

  Told you it was embarrassing. Cheers, mate, seriously. Take care, all right? See you sometime.

  Gray

  Richard puts the letter in his pocket and wipes his eyes, hoping that the chapel will remain empty while he composes himself. What was it Viv said? These poor buggers might have a funny way of doing it, but they do give something back, you know, if you let them.

  Outside, in the courtyard, the small patch of yellow sunlight makes its way around the yard. The men stand huddled in it for warmth. They will follow this light, as the day grows old and dies, down to the far corner. They will reappear tomorrow, back where they started, pulling at cigarettes and following the imperceptible progress of the sun. In another wing, men paint and strip walls, walls they will paint and strip again tomorrow, and the next day, over and over again. In the classrooms, men of thirty will disrupt English lessons with bravado and buffoonery, stuck in a teen age that never ends. And here in the chapel, troubled souls will pour out their stories while Richard listens. That they will leave him a little lighter is all he can hope for, though of course he hopes for much more.

  Beyond the yard, the metal gates, the curling barbed wire looping overhead. The tall towers and the saw teeth of the gatehouse cast their long shadows. Walls and wire, locks upon locks. And men, hunched and smoking, following the yellow patch of light.

  Fifty-Four

  Carol

  1993

  Carol stands on tiptoes. The door hasn’t opened yet, but she can’t help looking for Graham, as if he might be out here already, through a security mistake or something. The air has warmed up since six, but it’s still chilly, still early. There’s quite a crowd. Some of them look rough, not like any families she knows, not anymore.

  Oh, and there he is! From the far side of the cobbles, there’s Graham walking towards her.

  No, it’s not Graham, of course it’s not – how could it be? He’s slim like Graham, though; too thin for his bones, with the same black hair, clean-shaven. His cheekbones jut – even from here you can see the slicing shadow of them. Definitely not Graham – wrong walk, not cocky enough – but he looks like he’s heading towards her. She can smell Jim’s cigar but turns to check he’s there anyway, and he is, in the driver’s seat, one ear to the radio, one leg out of the car. This thin fellow coming towards her looks like he needs a good bowl of soup; he must be nine stone wet through. He’s holding out his hand now – to her.

  ‘Carol MacKay?’ he says. ‘Hello. I’m Richard Crown. The chaplain at the prison.’

  The chaplain. So this is the chap that Graham mentioned.

  ‘Hello, love,’ she says, shaking his hand. He’s almost bowing now, what lovely manners. ‘I’m very grateful to you, love. For all you’ve done for our Graham. He said you’ve really helped him, like.’

  ‘I did nothing. He did all the work.’ Oh, and he speaks so nicely. His nails are lovely – clean and cut neat.

  ‘Well, thank you anyway.’

  Richard chafes his hands together and looks towards the prison for a moment before turning back to her. ‘I just wanted to say hello. And good luck. Give Graham my best, won’t you? I’ll miss him; really I will. But he’ll be in my prayers.’ He digs in his pocket, pulls out a funny little candle. ‘If … if you could give him this?’

  ‘Will do.’ She takes the candle from him. She thinks it’s called a tea light. There were bags of them for sale in that new furniture place when she went with Jim, but why this Richard chap wants Graham to have one is anyone’s guess.

  Jim has got up out of the car. He’s shaking Richard’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Richard. Thanks for everything, like.’

  ‘I’d better get inside,’ Richard says.

  ‘Right you are, love.’ Carol says as he shakes her hand a second time. ‘You look after yourself, all right?’

  He smiles and waves, already turning to go. She wishes he’d put on some weight and wonders if he has anyone to look after him; whether she should invite him to come for Sunday lunch sometime. But he’s walking away, up to the prison, getting smaller and smaller. A moment later, he disappears through the little door in the big black gate.

  Behind her now, Jim puts his arm round her shoulder. ‘You’re cold.’

  She is shaking, but it isn’t the cold. She glances up at him, shielding her eyes with her hand. ‘Eh. You don’t think he’s converted him, do you?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so.’

  She’s about to reply, but there is movement at the prison door. From the blackened sandstone castle, men begin to spill out. She strains her eyes, steps forward. Her heart hammers. But Graham isn’t there. Doubt stalks her. She’s maybe got it all muddled, got the wrong day.

  But at last, there he is. Definitely this time. She didn’t recognise him before. But it is him, it’s her son, coming towards her. She’d know that walk anywhere. His hair is thick and black – thank goodness, he’s grown out that horrid crew cut. Oh, but he could be his father. He’s the image of him, the bloody image, and the sight makes her gasp. But he’s not Ted. And nor will he ever be. Ted would never have done what Graham has done for her, for the family.

  She is running. The soles of her shoes clack on the cobbles. But she runs. She runs to him.

  Graham’s features come into focus. He’s grinning. He’s right in front of her. His brown eyes, his cheeky face. He drops his bag and holds out his arms. ‘F-fancy seeing you here.’

  She is hugging him. She is holding he
r son in her arms. His ribs press against hers, his head falls onto her shoulder. He smells of that awful prison soap, but he smells clean. All this time waiting for this moment, wondering how it would go, worrying about it, and now it’s here and this is all there is: she just has to hold on to him.

  He gives her shoulder a squeeze. She lets go, holds on to his fingers.

  ‘All right?’ he says.

  ‘Let’s get you into the car,’ she says. ‘Into the warm.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  He puts his arm around her. Together they walk the last few yards to the car, her feet in step with his, her heart full of fragile hope.

  Fifty-Five

  Nicola

  2019

  It is after five a.m. Jim’s done in, headed for bed, but I am still wide awake, eyes on stalks. I pick up my phone and text Graham.

  U said you had stuff to tell me. Can’t you tell me now?

  I put the kettle on. May as well pull an all-nighter, though not for a case this time. As I stir in the milk, my phone buzzes.

  I’ll come over now then.

  OK. Text when you get here. Jim in bed don’t want to wake him.

  Nothing to do but wait for my brother and whatever it is he has to tell me. Restlessness has me stalking through the rooms like a ghost. It’s too early in the morning to call Seb and the girls. Perhaps it was wrong of me to come alone. I felt that at six, the twins were too young for a funeral – at least, that’s the reason I gave myself. Right now, I wonder if I simply wanted to keep death away from them for as long as possible. Motivations are mysterious things; what we do and why.

  In the bathroom, I unscrew my mother’s peach bath foam and inhale its familiar synthetic smell. Back in my own room, the weak pre-dawn light filters through curtains my mother made from thin floral fabric from Widnes market. She made the quilt cover too, from the same fabric. Must have got it cheap. On the landing window ledge, there is a glossy porcelain Victorian lady holding a parasol over one shoulder. My colleagues would scoff at such an ornament. They would see tat. But I see her. My mother. This house is full of her, the loving attentions of her life, the touchstones of my life, of my brother’s life.