Would I Lie to You?

by Aliya Ali-Afzal

  Sixty-One

  I jumped into a taxi, still afraid that Harry might appear. He had spoken to me with such contempt. But he was drunk, surely? He would never have said those things to me otherwise. And he was right to be angry. I had held his hand, kissed him, let him touch my breast. I had thrust myself against him. If I hadn’t thought about Tom at that moment, would I have gone up to his room, and got naked and let him fuck me? That’s the way things had been heading.

  However much I liked Harry, I couldn’t believe how close I had come to being unfaithful. I had gone against all my beliefs, against everything my parents had taught me, and everything I had taught my children. What had I become? I had been prepared to cheat on Tom, to commit adultery. I had kissed another man, and I had betrayed Tom again. My breaths were shaky, like sobs without tears.

  None of this would have happened if I hadn’t spent that money. Every lie I’d told had led me here, to a point where I couldn’t recognise myself. I had told so many lies that I had become a lie myself. I didn’t know who I really was anymore. I had to stop all this and get back to Tom.

  In the cab I scrambled for my phone and switched it on. I needed my marriage back and this was not the way to do it. I wanted to hear Tom’s voice. I would listen to his apology, give him mine for calling him a shit and hanging up the phone. We couldn’t lose each other.

  As soon as the phone came on, I saw a stream of missed calls from home and from Tom’s mobile. The phone pinged several times as multiple texts flashed up on the screen, one after the other, all from Tom.

  Can you call me please? We need to talk.

  Then, Where are you? I’ve called your hotel but no answer. Please call as soon as you get this message.

  Finally, the latest text, sent twenty minutes ago:

  Darling, please call me whenever you get this message. Don’t worry about the time in London. I love you.

  I fumbled with the phone and he answered on the first ring.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s Baba, Faiza.’

  I didn’t want to hear any more. I held my breath, wanting the world to stop.

  ‘He’s alive. He’s in intensive care at St George’s. It’s his heart. He’s getting the best care, but it’s probably best if you come home.’

  Sixty-Two

  I prayed for Baba throughout the flight back, unable to sleep at all and took a taxi straight from Heathrow to the hospital. It was early in the morning and Tom was waiting for me outside the ward.

  He folded me in his arms, stroking my back and spoke against my hair. ‘He’s stable, a little better and out of ICU. We’re just waiting for the consultant.’

  I wiped my tears but more kept coming. He kissed the top of my head.

  ‘I can’t lose my Baba, Tom.’

  I saw Ami first, slumped down in a plastic chair by Baba’s bed, a doctor standing nearby.

  My father’s eyes were closed, his face hidden under an oxygen mask. A monitor screeched and beeped next to him, with tubes and leads sprouting out from all over his body. The gown had slipped off one of his shoulders.

  I stopped, not wanting to go forwards, not wanting to believe this was real. Ami’s eyes were closed and her lips moved silently as she prayed, counting off the beads on her turquoise tasbeeh with quivering hands. Her face crumpled when she saw me and I bent down and put my arms around her.

  Then, I forced myself to turn around and face Baba. I went up to the bed and took his hand, taking care not to touch the cannula. Tom put his arm around me, and I leaned into him.

  The doctor, a cardiologist, led us into the corridor.

  ‘He needs to have heart bypass surgery but because of your father’s age, you need to weigh up the risks. It’s open-heart surgery. Without it, though, he’s at risk of a fatal heart attack. We call this the “widow-maker” blockage.’

  My eyes darted to Ami, then back at the doctor, frowning at the phrase.

  ‘I thought bypass surgery could be done via keyhole these days?’ said Tom.

  ‘Yes, but I’m afraid we can’t guarantee that on the NHS, and then there is a waiting list too. We’ll do our best and keep an eye on him in the meantime.’

  Sixty-Three

  Once Baba was home, I took him to a private surgeon who specialised in keyhole surgery and could do the operation within the week, but Baba did not want to pay.

  ‘We have the best health service in the world, despite its problems. I’ll just do it on the NHS.’

  ‘I asked Mrs Khan’s son, who’s a cardiologist, and he said you should have keyhole too, and make sure it’s a senior consultant. They can’t guarantee that on the NHS. We’ll tell them we’re OAPs and ask for a discount,’ said Ami.

  ‘Yes, Baba, and the waiting list is too long if you don’t go private.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple; even if I did want to have the surgery privately, which I don’t, I haven’t got that kind of money,’ said Baba.

  My eyes filled with tears and I looked down at my hands.

  ‘Baba, you have enough money for the surgery, OK? My bonds matured weeks ago but I haven’t had time to put the money back in your account. I’ll do it tomorrow.’

  This surgery could be the difference between life and death for Baba. Despite that, there had been no request for the money and no reproach that I had taken it. I would put the money back, so he could have the operation.

  As I drove home, I was suddenly uneasy. I had no idea if the money was all still in our account. I knew that my salary had not covered everything and I just hoped Tom hadn’t spent any of it yet.

  I tried to log on to the online banking site, but I’d never used it before, and I couldn’t remember my login. After a few attempts, I was locked out. There was no way to check the balance that night.

  I was the first person at the bank counter the next morning. I put my debit card in the machine and asked to see the balance. The cashier wrote it down on a piece of paper and slipped it to me under the partition. There was nothing left in the account.

  I swallowed hard and forced myself to speak.

  ‘But there was over fifteen thousand pounds in here!’

  ‘I’m sorry, this is the current balance.’ The cashier was looking at me warily, unsure what I would do next.

  ‘I want the statements, please, for the last three months.’

  I grabbed them as he held them out to me. There was a transfer of fifteen thousand into another account four weeks ago.

  ‘That’s your savings account. Nothing to worry about then. There’s a direct debit set up to transfer three thousand into the current account on the thirtieth of every month.’

  ‘So, the money’s still there? I can use it?’

  I transferred the money back to my parents’ account. Now, all our accounts were empty.

  Sixty-Four

  Mr Zhang, the consultant, nodded towards Baba through the glass partition.

  ‘It was very wise to proceed as we did. If we’d waited, it might have been too late.’

  Once he’d left, I leaned against the wall. My ankles were the only things holding me up and they trembled. My handbag dropped to the floor with a thud.

  ‘If we’d waited it might have been too late.’

  Not a single soul knew the danger I’d put Baba in by taking his money. I was lucky that the money was all still in our account. If we had already spent it, I would not have been able to give it back. Baba would have stayed on the waiting list, which was twelve weeks long. He wouldn’t have made it.

  I bought a cup of tea and a croissant for Ami from the hospital café before I went to work. Naila was coming that afternoon, to check in on Ami. I folded her scarf into a square and placed the makeshift cushion in the small of her back on the plastic chair.

  ‘I texted Farrah and she’s flying in on Thursday,’ I said.

  I had told Farrah that we had to stop blaming our parents for messing up our lives, and take responsibility ourselves. She knew
Baba had almost died and something had clicked. She was coming home. Her ex, Shahed, had been coming to see Baba in hospital and I’d texted her that he had asked about her. Shahed still loves you… I’d written.

  Before I left the hospital, I rubbed Baba’s leg under the regulation white sheet. I’m so sorry.

  I bent down to kiss Ami’s soft, crinkled cheek.

  ‘Khuda Hafiz Ami.’

  ‘You’re such a good girl.’ Ami kissed my hand as I was leaving. ‘You and Tom have saved us. You know he takes us to Tooting every week, and he put the blind up in the kitchen when it fell? He’s bringing me lunch later. You know, Faiza, he’s not my son-in-law, he’s my son.’

  I ran through the labyrinth of corridors thinking about Tom taking Ami and Baba shopping, carrying in their bags, and probably making them a cup of tea. He’d never even told me. Tom hadn’t changed. He was still the kind, solid, caring man he had always been – I had been the one who had messed up. While Tom had been looking after the children and my parents, I had been kissing Harry.

  Outside, it had started to drizzle. By the time I got to the car park the wind had blown my hair into a tangle and left my face numb. The rain got heavier as I drove home. I turned on the radio, but no amount of political discussion or debate could drown out the clamour in my head.

  Now that Baba’s money was gone and my salary was not yet in the account, the bank would send Tom a notification when the mortgage payment bounced later. It was due any day. My hands were clammy on the steering wheel. He would have to be told. About the emergency fund, the Post Office account, the money from Ami and Baba to cover my tracks. I slammed on the brakes as the lights turned red.

  The wipers grated on the windscreen: tell him, tell him, tell him. If I told him one thing, though, I would have to tell him everything. The driver behind me pressed his horn and I lurched away.

  At the roundabout, I didn’t take the exit for home. I couldn’t bring myself to. I kept driving around in circles, missing the exit a few times before making up my mind and driving off to the station instead. I couldn’t face Tom.

  Sixty-Five

  The station car park was empty. The rain was hammering down. I had to catch the train to work, but it was too early. The sound of the rain began to lull my thoughts. No one knew where I was and, in my makeshift cocoon, away from everyone, I felt safer than I had in months. I could have been anywhere in the world.

  Fat raindrops exploded then disappeared on the windscreen: a million tiny waterbombs. I leaned my head against the side window. Rain ran down the windscreen in vertical tracks like an endless stream of tears. It reminded me of my trips to the car wash with Baba when I was a child. I imagined Baba finding out that I had lied to them to get the money. Then finding out about everything else.

  I had failed Baba. I had failed them all. Everyone who loved me and trusted me, who thought I was someone to be relied on. Tom, my parents, my children… I had destroyed everything good. I closed my eyes and listened to the rain falling endlessly. I had nothing left to give them.

  I started to shiver. I was still on New York time, and had spent my nights praying for Baba’s recovery and my days at the hospital with Ami, looking at Baba’s heart monitor. My body ached but, at the same time, felt numb. I closed my eyes. I wanted to stay in the car forever, or just disappear. I thought about Sofia, Ahmed, Alex. No, I couldn’t give up. I sat up and wiped my face. I still had a chance to put things right for my children.

  I was meeting Harry and Sergio at the GlobalCorp offices at ten, three hours from now. This was the pitch when they would decide whether to offer me the permanent role. If the GlobalCorp CEO wanted me to manage his portfolio, it meant at least another two years for me at HH.

  I took out my notebook and a pen, trying to remember the outline of my presentation, but the more I tried to retrieve the information, the more it slipped away. Perhaps I could concentrate better at the office.

  Sixty-Six

  At the station I walked towards the far end of the platform; it was quicker to get out at Waterloo from there. My head was down, braced against the wind slapping my face. I tried to remember the details of the GlobalCorp portfolio again, but all I could think about was Tom’s face when he saw the bank balance.

  The board started flashing: all trains into Waterloo were delayed. I might not even have time to print my report. I wouldn’t win the pitch, or get the job. I heard my voice echo in my head, over and over again: you’ve destroyed everything.

  I pushed my hands, balled up tightly, into my pockets, and stopped for a minute, trying to still my racing heartbeat. My eyes travelled to the tracks in front of me. There was a green salt-and-vinegar crisp packet lying between the steel tracks, Ahmed’s favourite. As I kept looking, more things started to come into focus, as if my eyes were adjusting to the dark. I saw a train ticket, a clump of beige elastic bands, a biro, a palm-sized square of blue plastic. A tiny yellow and red tube caught my eye. It was the lip balm Sofia used. I remembered reading that the train tracks were live, just touching them would electrocute you.

  The trains were delayed further. I wouldn’t make it in time to prepare for the meeting. My mind emptied, as if my thoughts had been tipped out, and I felt everything seep out of me.

  I walked to the opposite platform, the one someone had jumped from back in May, and examined the debris on the other tracks. I could see nothing, not a speck. As I was searching for clues between the rocks, my view was suddenly obliterated by a flash of blue and red, juddering past me. It was so close that I felt the vibrations in my jaw as a train raced past. I didn’t have time to step back and the force made my eyes sting and pushed my hair back, as if someone was jerking it from behind.

  The train was gone in a second and the platform was silent and still again. It was almost as if it had not been there. This must be why people chose this platform and this train for their suicides. Everything would be over in a second. No wait for pills to dissolve in your stomach and seep into your blood stream. No messiness or inaccuracy of cutting arteries. The pain of that would be terrible. No well-meaning stranger jumping into the freezing Thames to rescue you, if you had gathered your courage to jump from London Bridge. I could see why the train would be the best option. The metal track would hurt as you fell; it would be hard and cold. But you would only fall a millisecond before the train would hit… and then it would be over.

  ‘Please stand away from the edge of platform six. The next train is not scheduled to stop at this station.’

  The warning boomed out from the loudspeakers. The next fast train was due in a minute. I saw a guard out of the corner of my eye. They were paranoid about anyone being on this platform now. I walked back to platform five before he came and asked me to move.

  My train finally had an arrival time: due in ten minutes. I heard the fast train thunder past behind me without stopping. The guard had disappeared, so I walked back to platform six.

  I thought about the people who had stood in this same spot. The distance behind the safety of the yellow line painted away from the edge of the platform and the tracks was around two feet. That was all that it took. To stop everything. Peace.

  An image of Tom and me, divorced and alone, flashed in my mind. I had left the children unprotected. My father could have died because of my lies. I had let everyone down. I was no good to anyone and now I had lost my chance to put things right by getting the permanent job. A thought burst through like an answer: There was still my life insurance; Tom would get it. I could return what I had stolen.

  The fast train appeared at the bend. All sounds faded away and I watched the front as it approached; it was hard, heavy, solid. My chest fluttered, then pounded. I stood on the yellow line. I had to run forwards. The train got closer. I had to do it now. But my feet wouldn’t move. The train thundered past. I dropped my head. I couldn’t even do this for my family… Another train was due in two minutes. My heart was still racing.

  Then my phone started to ring, urgent and grating
in my coat pocket. It was Sofia. She never called. I was immediately worried. My children! I started to shake and stepped back from the yellow line.

  ‘Mum, tell Dad I can have Coco Pops on Fridays! He’s saying I have to have porridge.’

  It was Alex.

  ‘Alex? Why are you calling from Sofia’s phone?’

  ‘I’m hiding from Dad and Sofia’s in the shower but I know her pin! Can you tell Dad I can have Coco Pops?’

  I sank down on a bench. The sounds of the station were seeping back: the morning chatter of schoolchildren, loudspeaker announcements about the arrival of trains and the need to be vigilant if you saw anything suspicious on the train. I felt as if I were regaining consciousness after fainting. How could I have thought that my mangled body, squashed to mulch on a train track, would in any way make things better for my children? I started to shake, my teeth chattering.

  ‘OK,’ I managed to say.

  ‘Wait, you can tell Dad now!’

  I hung up. I looked at the steps going up to the exit. I needed Tom. I started to go up, then stopped. Someone swore at me as they bumped into me. I walked back down to platform five. I’d catch the train to Vauxhall instead and meet Sam. I needed someone to hold me and keep me safe. I knew that she would call Tom, though.

  The Waterloo train was pulling in. I rushed towards it, swallowed up in the crowd. There was no need to tell anyone. There was nothing to tell anyway. It had just been a second of madness. All that stress. I felt ice cold despite the muggy heat of the carriage. The image of the train and the tracks kept flashing in front of my eyes. Fear crawled up my chest, into my jaw and along the nerve endings of my face. My lips were numb.

  The people around me would never guess what I had thought, even for a split second, just a few minutes ago. I bit my lip. How could I have contemplated leaving my children, and in that way? Suicide was a sin, I knew that. There would have been no peace for me. God would not have forgiven me. No one would.