The Lies We Tell

  ‘Yes,’ he corrects. ‘And I’m afraid it is more common than many of us would like to think. Which is why none of us can afford to ignore the psychological trauma – the upset victims go through – and the need they have for intimate and sustained support. Which is where the charity I represent, Action Against Abuse –' At this he points with a nicotine-stained forefinger to the logo emblazoned across his chest. '– a.k.a. Triple A comes in.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but – ’

  ‘Triple A works with young teenage girls who've been the victims of – ’

  ‘I said, I’m sorry but – ’

  ‘ – sexual assault providing a place of support and refuge – ’

  ‘No!’ Katy cries, finally reconnected to her senses. Shifting her grip, she grasps the side of the front door. Heaving it to, it crushes his hand against the frame. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t pledge money like this, not to just anyone who comes knocking on my door. I just don't, OK?’

  ‘Fuck you, bitch.’ The youth's exclamation is so unexpected she wonders for a moment whether she has heard it right. Yet there is more as the shadow on her doorstep bends down and pushes open the letterbox. ‘But judging by the state of your door I guess I'm not the first and won't be the last to tell you that, you selfish cunt.’

  As the metal flap of the letterbox snaps to the phlegm-shovelling sound of a deep throat clearing is swiftly followed by a sharp spit and then, some seconds later, the clatter of the front gate swinging to. Stunned, Katy sinks back against the wall but as her body makes contact her knees buckle and she slips down onto the floor. Has he gone, she wonders. Her heart is pounding and her breath now comes in short, sharp gasps. Or is he still out there, waiting to burst inside with further abuse?

  Too frightened at first to crack the door open to check, she sits slumped on her haunches, waiting for the fear to subside, for her strength to gather so she can slowly pull herself upright to glimpse through the peephole into the world outside. When she does so at last, looks no different to normal. She bites her lip. Judging by the state of your door, he said. But what did that mean? And then she remembered. The youths from the night before. What else had they done?

  Taking a deep breath, Katy releases the catch. Peeping through the crack to make sure the coast is clear, she frees the chain then steps outside. The porch is empty and the narrow strip of front garden appears to be so, too. More confident, now, she steps onto the front path. The first thing she sees is a gobbet of phlegm that sits slug-like on the paving stone before her glistening in the morning sun. The second is the scattering of broken egg shells and congealed yolk close by. Slowly turning around, she re-focuses on the front door. Reads the letters. Translates the literal meaning of it.

  Fuck You Bitch! is scrawled across the front door in red spray paint.

  Stumbling backwards, Katy steps on something sharp. With a sob she looks down to see broken glass from the porch light which has been smashed. Stepping back onto the wooden door step, she reaches out to balance herself as she examines the pad of her bare foot. Carefully, she extracts a small shard of glass and rubs away the blood which is starting to well.

  Who could have done this, she wonders, dully. The youths from last night, of course. First her car and then this, but why? Reaching out her hand she gives the first letter sprayed onto the door a tentative rub, but it won't even smudge. It will take more than a few minutes with some detergent and warm water, she thinks, tears welling in her eyes. It will need re-painting. Card Room Green. That was the ridiculous name of the paint they'd used when it was re-done just last year. From Farrow & Ball.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  It's the maternity leave lawyer from next door. Dressed in a pair of Sweaty Betty capris and a tight fitting vest, she has looped back her strawberry blond hair into a thick plait. The only evidence of the slumbering occupant of the buggy she is pushing is the chubby foot that dangles from beneath a pink cotton sarong pegged across the front. Late for some coffee morning with the yummy mummies, probably, Katy thinks, noting how the woman has barely slowed her pace.

  'All fine, thanks,' she calls to her neighbour with a plastic grin. 'Just some kids mucking about – you know what they're like.'

  Unsure what else to say the other woman offers up a sympathetic grimace then quickens her pace, her mind already elsewhere. As is Katy's, too, as she tries to distract herself with the practicalities of the next things she’ll need to do. Phone the insurance company about the car. Find someone to repaint the door. Get more paint. Noting her headache has returned, she quickly rubs the tears from her eyes then retreats inside. Upstairs once more, she gulps down two more Nurofen before heading into Michael's office.

  It’s not a room Katy uses much, or likes. L-shaped with a large airing cupboard built into the corner adjoining the bathroom, two of its walls are filled with floor to ceiling shelves which groan with books and files creating a hemmed in, claustrophobic feel. Any remaining wall space is crammed with Michael’s photographs. Most date back to before he and Katy met; all feature the faces of strangers. Except one, on the window sill – a framed picture of a dour-looking woman with scraped-back hair and a pale face. Her in-law in waiting, Jean.

  How different they are, Katy ponders for a moment, both in nature and in temperament. For Michael's easy going approach to life was one of the first things that had attracted her to him. Along with his innate ability to empathise with others and a seemingly total lack of awareness of his looks. More like his father, then, though she would never know for sure. Because Michael's dad died during the first year of his A-level studies, throwing his academic career into disarray and prompting a restless few years spent running with the party crowd in various Mediterranean resorts, Goa and Thailand. It's why Jean Ross eventually agreed to help put him through art school. Anything to have him back home.

  Unable to find the insurance documents in any of the desk drawers, Katy turns on the computer. Gazing out of the window as the screen flickers into life, she watches a tall woman with short cropped hair hanging out washing in the garden directly behind theirs. At her feet, a small child wearing just a nappy sits playing with a cardboard box of pegs. Will this be her in a few years time, she wonders: a stay at home mum with a fractious toddler, the career that was starting to blossom on hold? Or will she be another yummy mummy, smug and secure in the knowledge her job remains open for her to return to? Comforted by the conviction that this is really what she wants?

  Noticing how her hands have once more naturally migrated down to lightly rest on her belly, Katy quickly moves them back onto the desk's top, placing them palms-down. The polished surface, which is solid and smooth, feels dependable and reassuring. As her attention drifts back to the illuminated screen before her she remembers the call she missed earlier, picks up the phone, presses the short code then raises the handset to her ear.

  ‘Phone tennis! Don’t you just love it?’ a woman purrs. Not her boss. Someone else. ‘So sorry to hear you’re not well. Heavy night last night with mommy dearest, was it? Poor you. So, Kat. I just had this crazy idea. As you’re having a bit of a duvet day, I thought to myself: why don’t we do it? You know, get together? Meet up. Right here, right now. Well, some time later today, at least. What do you think? Are you feeling up to it?’

  As the mobile slips from Katy’s grasp, she scans the room – half-expecting to catch an unexpected observer, watching. Hurrying into the sitting room, she peers outside.

  If she looks to the right she can see the street which looks the same as usual. Cars are parked nose to tail each side and, as usual for outside rush hour, the regular pulse of traffic is moving freely. To her left, a blue-rinsed retiree two houses down is watering her front garden. The elderly man who lives in the house opposite is trimming his privet hedge.

  Everything seems normal. But if this is just an ordinary day how can Jude possibly know her home number? The same way she found out my number at work, Katy concludes, miserably. Though surely no-one at work, not even Dawn, w
ould be stupid enough to give out personal contact details without permission. That voice, she thinks. A sugary purr with a West Country lilt. A shared joke, the origin of which she struggles to recall which she once laughingly described it as 'a little bit Caramel Bunny'. The charm of which was only ever short-lived. For it was the voice Jude always used when she was after something. Like sunbathing in Coulters Copse.

  Katy stares blankly at the screen, idly picking the cuticle around her thumb. Barely noticing the welling blood as her attention is drawn to the winking icon before her confirming receipt of new mail. Hours seems to pass until she can resist no more. Because even before she clicks on the Inbox and opens the message, she fears she’s been out-manoeuvred. Knows it, too, as soon as she sees the message is from a Hotmail account in the name of JDavies. Spelled with an i-e-s, of course.

  'Your place or mine?' reads the subject line.

  Leaning back in the chair, Katy rubs the knotted scar tissue on her hand. There is, it seems, nowhere to hide. No place left to run. Whatever Jude wants she will get. Just like she has always done, as the old anger buried deep inside her gut starts to stir.

  A beat later, puppet fingers dance across the keyboard as she clicks on the blank message then drafts her reply. ‘Sure, let’s meet,’ she types. ‘How about down by the river? Three o’clock by the bench outside the playground, opposite St Paul’s boat club.’ A busy stretch of the riverside footpath and neutral ground, Katy reasons. Better there than to invite Jude to the house. Wearied by the long-dreaded exchange, she reviews the message and then, before allowing herself a chance to give in to second thoughts, quickly presses Send.

  Within a few minutes another blank e-mail lands in the in box. Again, the message is in the subject line. ‘It’s a date,’ it reads. ‘TTFN’.

  Cradling her head in her hands Katy lets her full weight rest on the desktop as, with eyes screwed tight shut, she tries to ignore the tightening of her throat. Her chest aches like it does after a long run. Her mouth is dust-dry. What’s that relaxation technique the doctors at the County taught her? My left hand is feeling heavy, she thinks. My arms and legs are heavy and warm … But though she tries to remember the words are quickly crowded out.

  Soft yet insistent, soaring then swooping, the echo of Jude's voice circles the inside of Katy's head like a bird of prey.

  Chapter 7

  Guildford – September 1988

  ‘Everyone, give a warm welcome to Judith Davies who starts with us today fresh from secondary school in Portsmouth.’ As Miss Willis beamed at the upturned faces of 4W the girls, as one, turned to stare. Most nodded or smiled, a few said hello. Then some smart Alice at the back intoned in a sing-song voice: ‘Hey Jude’.

  Biting her tongue, she smiled. ‘Hi,’ is all she can think of to say, but it was all that was required.

  Miss Willis adjusted her glasses then, with an encouraging nod, indicated the empty seat which she should take next to a sulky-looking girl called Katherine Parker. The desk had been left vacant by a Gillian Scott-Warden, Miss Willis explained. Her father, some army bigwig, had recently been posted abroad and taken his family with him. As Jude put down her bag, her new neighbour offered her a watery smile then looked away. And so it was until mid-morning break when, with a clatter, the class rose to its feet.

  It was raining outside and the girls had a half hour of free time which they could either spend in the classroom, the main hall or the library. Most rose and left the room but a handful, including Katherine, chose to stay. A tall girl with a shining helmet of bobbed hair and a beak-like nose sauntered over to where Jude was sitting then hovered by her side.

  ‘So where were you before, then?’ she barked. The voice was flat. Nasal.

  Seated at her desk, Jude continued to flick through the latest edition of NME which she had lifted earlier from Dave’s bag. Only when her interrogator showed no sign of leaving did she eventually reply. ‘Just outside Portsmouth,’ she said, without looking up.

  ‘The Royal Naval School?’ The girl responds, knowledgeably. ‘I’ve a friend there, her name is – ’

  ‘No. The County.’

  ‘The County?’ The girl hesitated, clearly confused. ‘Is that a new one?’

  Jude looked up defensively, willing herself to remain calm. Aloof. ‘Actually, I think it was built in the Sixties,’ she said simply. ‘I doubt you’d know it.’

  ‘Ah, a comprehensive,’ lisped a second girl. Dumpy and plain, her oily hair was tied back into a single wide plait, and when she opened her mouth Jude saw from the metalwork inside she was wearing a serious orthodontic brace. Noticing the direction of Jude’s gaze, the girl quickly covered her mouth with her hand then rubbed her nose.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jude.

  ‘That figures,’ commented the girl with the beak.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Jude’s voice was a delicate balance between sarcasm and politeness as she rose to her feet and looked down on the girl. ‘But did you say something, Gonzo?’

  ‘Um. No. Not really,’ the girl muttered, taking a step back.

  Jude turned to stare inquiringly at the girl with the lisp. ‘Anything else I can help you with, Metal Mickey?’ she asked, lightly. The girl’s cheeks blushed scarlet as she struggled to find her voice, and failed. ‘Now, where was I?’ Jude sighed as if to herself, resuming her seat and finding her place on the page. Feet shuffle as the girls move away but she did not look up, leaving it a full minute before raising her eyes to find the room empty apart from Katherine who was now sitting at a desk near the door reading a book. Looking up, the girl glanced in Jude’s direction.

  ‘I’d watch out for Deb – sorry, Gonzo – if I were you,’ Katherine smiled. ‘She might look a bit geeky but she’s a real cow. A lot of the girls hang out with her because they don’t want to cross her. Ruth, on the other hand, just runs with the crowd.’

  Jude’s hackles softened, but only slightly. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘It is, yes.’ Katherine snapped shut her book. ‘And I should know,’ the girl added. But rather than get up to leave, she twisted her body round to face her. ‘It’s a fix, isn’t it,’ she continues, nodding towards the open pages on the desk in front of Jude. The latest weekly chart showed Phil Collins was still number one with A Groovy Kind of Love. ‘I mean, who buys this stuff, anyway?’

  ‘I guess it depends on whether you judge decent music by whether or not it makes it into the pop charts,’ Jude shot back, instantly regretting the sharpness in her voice when she saw Katherine’s wounded expression. They are roughly the same height, she noticed for the first time, and share similar colouring, too, though her own hair is a couple of shades lighter. Her own weight, Jude quickly calculates, is probably six pounds lighter.

  ‘Actually, I like Elvis Costello and REM,’ Katherine replies. ‘The Red Hot Chili Peppers, too. I was just trying to make conversation but if that’s how you feel, well – ’

  ‘No. Wait,’ Jude cut in, suddenly feeling foolish. This girl was only being friendly. Besides, if Deb and Ruth were typical of her new classmates she needed an ally.

  Katherine waited for Jude to continue but their conversation was cut short by the sound of a bell and the return of their classmates. It wasn’t until lunchtime that they had an opportunity to pick up where they left off in the dining hall.

  Standing alone clutching her tray, Jude watched as Katherine carefully positioned herself beside her in the lunch queue. ‘Not sitting with your friends, then?’ she said, gesturing towards the dozen or so girls from their class sitting at the table nearest the door. They were talking vigorously amongst themselves as they ate, glancing in her direction every now and then.

  ‘Apparently not,’ Katherine replied, shuffling forwards the food counter. ‘Watching Deb Malton stuffing her face is not exactly good for the appetite.’

  Taking a plate from the pile, Jude held it out towards the dinner lady, a plump woman with a ball of long, grey hair secured by a hairnet beneath a small white hat. The woman’s cheeks,
pink and flaccid, were the perfect complement to the unappetising slabs of cold meat pie she was dishing up. Outside the clouds had cleared and the rooftops glistened damply in the early autumn sun.

  ‘Where do you live?’ asked Katherine as they headed towards an empty table by the window a few minutes later.

  ‘In town,’ Jude answered vaguely, bracing herself for the follow-up but none came. Surprised, she pressed on. ‘We’ve only been here since July. Mum fancied a change so decided we should move. She used to live here a while ago.’

  ‘And what about your dad?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Did he come too?’

  ‘He’s dead.’ As always, Jude relished the familiar and perverse pleasure that lay in the embarrassed silence that always follows this revelation.

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’ Katherine looked genuinely contrite, and once more Jude felt an unexpected stab of guilt.

  ‘Don’t be, I never knew him,’ she replied, softening her tone. ‘There was a car crash – it happened just after I was born.’ She cleared her throat as she feels her eyes start to prick. Better to change the subject, and fast. ‘And I suppose you live with Mummy and Daddy in a rose-clad cottage in some quaint village surrounded by rolling hills? Got your own pony, have you?’

  ‘Actually, no.’ It’s Katherine’s turn to sound snippy this time and Jude noted that she had clearly touched a nerve. ‘We do live in the country, but I hate horses – not that it’s any of your business. I don’t see why I should have to apologise for my home or family to anyone.’ Her eyes looked watery. ‘Besides,‘ she added, looking away. ‘Money can’t buy happiness.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ Jude spoke carefully, testing the ground. ‘But it can help.’

  ‘Does it? Really?,’ declared Kat, turning back to face Jude with narrowed eyes. ‘Well that may be what you think, but I know different. My dad may put on the stiff upper lip, but I know for a fact he’s as miserable as hell with Mum and for all her vain attempts to pretend nothing’s wrong, Mum’s got a broken heart.’ She bit her lip, evidently regretting her sudden outburst.