The Lies We Tell

by The Lies We Tell (retail) (epub)

  As Katy turns it over her hand is stilled by a biro scribble across her own face so heavy it has torn the paper. ‘Oh,’ she exclaims, sinking down onto the nearest chair as the photograph slips to the floor. The next thing she is aware of is Joyce who hands her a glass of water before bending down to retrieve the picture. As she straightens up, the other woman scans the defaced image then quickly crumples it into a ball.

  ‘Go on, drink it,’ the woman urges. ‘While I get rid of this – I’m sure your mother has the negative somewhere.’

  ‘So someone broke in, trashed the place, left their mark,’ Katy murmurs, wearily. ‘Kids high on drink, or drugs, or both, I’d guess.’

  ‘Right, yes,’ says Joyce, uncertainly. ‘Only they don’t seem to have broken in.’

  Katy looks up. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It seems they had a key. Though it won’t work now the locks are changed, of course. Anyway, I’ll ask Luda to come and do an extra clean ahead of your mum’s return. I just thought you should see how it is, you know? The police said they’d be in touch.’

  Joyce lets herself out a short while later leaving Katy to scan her mother’s bedroom and bathroom for anything she might take back to the hospital to make her stay more comfortable. There’s little Diane’s neighbour hasn’t already thought of, though. And having been advised by the doctor earlier that Diane should stay in hospital under observation at least another 24 hours, she decides instead to make a start on tidying the mess.

  Doing something, anything, is better than waiting. Thinking. Worrying about what might happen next.

  Katy works methodically, neatly returning contents to drawers, dusting down surfaces, replacing books, stripping then re-making the bed. Both kitchen and bathroom are scrubbed clean and what’s left in the fridge is binned, just in case.

  It’s almost twelve by the time she’s done and as she sits down on the sofa cradling a mug of tea she stares once more at the empty frame that stands on the coffee table before her. The defaced cardboard is now in the bin and if she puts another photo inside perhaps her mum won’t notice. It will need to be a picture of her, though, she thinks, searching the mantelpiece for likely candidates. But which one?

  Her gaze settles briefly on the old Polaroid of herself, blonde-haired and stern-faced in her favourite sundress, taken during the summer of ‘76. Long hot months during which the world had seemed to hold its breath, she recalls. A time when one parched day blurred into the next and even a trip to the playground became a brutal trek that turned once skipping small children into limping shadows. Queuing for water at the standpipes which stood sentry on every street corner. Air that scorched your throat when the breeze blew in from the nearby tinderbox heath.

  Though the print has faded, she can still see the colour of that dress. Aegean blue, though you’d not know it by looking at the picture now. And she can still remember, too, how wearing it made her feel. The heart-burst pride she’d had earlier that same day opening the shoebox and gingerly parting the pink tissue paper to reveal the brand new sandals. The smell of the leather strawberries sewn so carefully onto the strap beside each buckle.

  Still holding the photograph, she closes her eyes. The shoes were green and red, she recalls. Colours that still make her think of freedom. And deceit.

  *

  The picnic was Mum’s idea. An afternoon in the Water Meadows which, that long hot summer of ‘76, were anything but. But what had started out as an idle distraction quickly soured. Tall, slim and self-conscious in his freshly-pressed shorts, her dad strode ahead with the picnic basket and striped golfing umbrella. Stooped and sweating, mum buckled beneath the dull weight of a plastic cool box as she trailed behind.

  Charles chose a spot between a tatty cluster of chestnut trees, beneath which a number of other families had already set up camp, and the abandoned lock keeper’s cottage. Eager to keep his distance from their neighbours, as always, she thinks. Then he stood watching in silence as mum spread the tartan rug then struggled to wedge the umbrella upright. Waiting until she was done before taking a seat on the blanket’s furthest corner and carefully unfolding a copy of The Times. I’ll unpack all the food then, too, shall I? Mum muttered, crossly. But no-one bothered to answer.

  Seated on a nearby tree stump, Andrew was using the rolled up comic in his hand as a telescope. But Katherine paid him little heed as she stood beside him transfixed by something on the ground a few feet away. Close to her feet were the biggest ants she’d ever seen with wings that glistened in the solar glare. The way they moved, how they shone, provoked in her an overwhelming need to step forward and crush all stragglers beneath her sandal as, somewhere behind her, her parents argued while mum slammed the contents of the cool bag onto a tartan picnic blanket.

  With hands clasped behind her back, Katherine solemnly kicked dust clouds from the parched earth towards the ants. Trying, and failing, to ignore her parents’ voices. Until, uneasy and ignored, she turned towards the canal.

  It took until she was just a couple of feet from the bank for the crunchy sound her sandals’ soles made on the granite shards to dull the human hum. For the sun that beat onto her arms and the back of her neck to make her head feel light and her skin prickle. Staring down at the leather strawberries on her feet, she carefully moved her left foot forwards then lined up her right foot alongside, a short step away from the edge. Leaning her body forward, she looked down.

  Beneath her, about a foot below its normal level, lurked water gently slap-slapping against the canal’s sides. Inky black, glistening, fathomless water which seemed to suck in rather than reflect back the afternoon’s piercing brightness. Even her dress looked drab as she gazed down into the eyes of her solemn-faced, watery self. Mesmerised by explosions of light that came from the oily surface and sparkles like glittering jewels, she started to sway in time to its slight movement. Losing herself in the rhythm of the murky depths, unable to look away.

  Yearning for the elation that would come when the surface once more burst into life.

  Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow. Until it came, as if from nowhere.

  The irresistible urge.

  To jump.

  It took only a single step into nothing to fly. Just for a split second, floating in silence. Until, with a thunderous splash, water closed over the young aviator’s head and its alien coldness bit deep, jolting her body with its electric shock.

  Her ears pounded. Her body floated for a moment as if in space quite capable, if she so chose, of turning a complete somersault or performing a pirouette. She opened her eyes in surprise at the chill now sucking her limbs. The baubles of light from above that exploded into a magical halo. The gelatinous pond weed gently soothing her sunburnt legs. The belief she could breathe underwater was thrilling and with head tilted back and mouth wide open, she began to laugh.

  Then, just as her ears started to pound and her head felt fit to explode, an arm reached around her and a hand gently cupped her chin. Her heart leaped at the thought – the most natural thing in the world – of a water nymph, gently guiding her upwards, back towards the light. But as the waters broke and she saw sunlight as if for the first time, Katherine was aware only of anxious faces and another sudden and overwhelming urge. To cry.

  Someone had found the frayed canal side lifebuoy ring. Her saviour – neither angel nor mermaid but a boy with a sunburnt nose – dragged her towards the slippery, slate-coloured bricks of the canal’s side. Arms reached down and she was hoisted upwards – flying again – then deposited back onto dry land. Her dress was soaked. She’d lost a sandal. Strangers’ faces loomed then someone wrapped a towel around her and gently steered her back towards the picnic blanket.

  How could you not have seen Charles? You should have been watching. Though Mum was cross, the stifled sob she hiccupped every now and then made Katherine want to laugh. Dad reached to pat her dry then, practical as ever, offered her a chocolate biscuit. Don’t you understand how close we came to losing her, Charles? It only takes a
second for a small child to slip and fall.

  Wrapped in a towel, Katherine sat beneath the shade of the umbrella while Mum stood by its side talking to grown-ups. Carefully, she peeled back the foil from the Wagon Wheel she was still holding. The chocolate was melty, her fingers sticky, and the biscuit inside was warm and soft. As she nibbled around the outside, rotating it carefully until the rounded edge had disappeared, she stared at Mum’s toenails. Cherry Red. She’d helped mum paint them just that morning. But now the nail of one of her big toes was broken and the varnish was all chipped. Her father would be pleased, she’d noted. Because earlier he’d said the colour was too bright. Like a kind of tart.

  Charles? Say something, for goodness sake! her mum pressed on now the crowd of rescuers had dispersed. I said, it only takes a second –

  Screwing up her eyes, Katherine battled to cling onto the elation she’d felt just a few minutes earlier. But it was impossible. Like trying to climb back inside a dream. So instead she started to cry again. Long, convulsive sobs that made her body shudder. Please stop shouting, she mumbled, gathering her breath to make her voice louder as she rocks her body to and fro. Because it wasn’t daddy’s fault, not really. Just because he wasn’t watching when I fell.

  *

  Why did I say that? Katy now wonders, reaching for the empty frame. But as always, the answer hovers just beyond her reach. She glances down. The Polaroid she is still holding is the only loose picture amongst her mum’s prized collection. Too small, she knows, but it will have to do.

  As she releases the catch on the frame’s back, a slip of newspaper browned by age slips onto her lap. The cutting is dated the summer she sat her O-levels, the last time she saw Jude. But her attention is drawn by a handwritten message written across the Polaroid’s reverse. ‘To err is only human,’ reads the writing. Her father’s hand. ‘Forgive and be mine.’ Katy’s face burns with the shame. But before she can process the reason why, a sudden sound from the hallway behind her makes her body stiffen. A low, metallic grating noise like someone is trying to open the front door though as she turns towards it she sees the door remains firmly closed.

  Quickly, she slips the picture and cutting into the frame. But as she replaces it on the mantelpiece, she hears something else. A hand pushing against the letterbox. From where she stands, she can see a copy of the local paper fills the basket on the door’s inside which Diane uses to collect the post. No-one peering through the flap would be able to see a thing other than the morning’s headlines. Even so, she curses herself for not being more careful. Why the hell didn’t she secure the chain?

  Slowly rising to her feet, Katy slips across the room and steps out into the hall. Though the grinding noise has stopped, she still senses someone is standing outside the front door, just a step or two away. Softly, she inches forward, determined to secure the door. Until at last she is close enough and makes a swift decision to reach up to slip the bolt which is quieter than the chain. Then she brings her face in line with the fish-eye peephole to peer outside.

  The landing, usually in semi-darkness, is fully lit thanks to a movement sensor. Even so, she is a beat too late to see more than the rear view of the departing figure. A dark-haired woman in a black sleeveless dress clutching a red leather shoulder bag. Though she can’t see the visitor’s face, something about the way she holds herself, the swing of her hips, is familiar. What the hell would Jude be doing here?

  Rubbing the sweat from her face with a sticky palm, Katy hears the familiar echo as the lift descends from the floors above. And in that instant she knows what she must do. Because she’s got to be sure. And if it is indeed Jude, she must determine why. She grabs her bag which she left on the hall table and the keys to her mum’s car which sit in the glass bowl by its side.

  With her face pressed to the door, Katy’s ears strain for the sounds of the lift doors opening then closing. Then as soon as it is done she releases the catch and peers out into the empty landing. Quickly pulling the door to behind her, Katy hurries towards the stairwell which runs parallel to the lift shaft. The lift is a slow one, and if she is quick she might still get a glimpse of the visitor in the building’s foyer. So she runs as fast as she can down the stairs, gripping the handrail for fear of falling. Damn this heat, she curses. For her body feels leaden, her ankles swollen.

  Halfway down, the sound of a raised voice, a woman’s, makes Katy briefly pause. It comes from the third floor landing only a few feet from where she now stands. Jude, for Katy is now in no doubt that it is she, is arguing with a man about some furniture he is eager to squeeze into the lift. Seizing the advantage, Katy starts to run again, taking two stairs at a time for fear Jude might abandon the lift in favour of the stairwell. Bursting out into the ground floor foyer, the first thing Katy sees is a department store delivery van parked by the main entrance. The second is her mum’s car which is in one of the first residents’ parking bays by its side.

  Waving the fob of the car keys clasped in her hand, she unlocks the car as she hurries out into the car park then quickly slips inside. Crouched in the driving seat a moment later, peering over the steering wheel, she watches Jude emerge, pause for a moment as she squints into the afternoon glare, then turn to her right. Reassured that she has not been seen, Katy straightens up in her seat as Jude heads towards a silver hatchback parked in the far corner. Only then does it dawn on her that she has a decision to make, and fast.

  Jude doesn’t know she’s here. She hasn’t seen her. Nor does she know she’s in her mother’s car. How easily she could follow her, Katy thinks. Find out where she is going. Get an idea, perhaps, of what she might do next. The prospect is terrifying. What if Jude sees her? But somehow Katy feels she no longer has a choice. Things have gone too far. Diane is hurt. Her flat’s been burgled and now Jude has come to her door. Tried to open it, even – though God only knows how she might have come by a key.

  Katy frowns. Surely mum wouldn’t have been so stupid as to give one to her new friend, ‘Estelle’? For Jude can’t have had anything to do with the mugging, given that at the time it happened she was with her in Michael’s flat. Although her being there at that time was perfect timing, wasn’t it? And not only had Katy provided Jude with an alibi, Jude being there when the hospital rang meant she was ideally positioned to offer Katy a lift to the hospital. All of which is ridiculous, of course. But then again, she decides, securing her seat belt as the engine turns over; as the old anger that her one-time friend has always stoked inside her is re-kindled. Because with Jude, you never know.

  It takes just twenty minutes to reach Jude’s destination. Mandela Way. A treeless avenue in an unfashionable no man’s land not quite close enough to Sheen to merit its own micro-brand of any big name supermarkets. No Underground station is within easy walking distance, either, making the rents more affordable, Katy guesses. Which is why the area appears to have become the neighbourhood of choice for students attending colleges across south west London. Migrant workers, too. And anyone else on a tight budget. It is a part of the city’s south western reaches which Katy has never visited – not even used as a shortcut – despite how close it is to the locus of her mum’s world. Though she has heard of it, of course. First heard of it, in fact, when she was at school – from Andrew.

  We’re called Sheen, he’d said, confiding over breakfast one morning during the first term of his Lower Sixth that he his new best mate, Rizla, had formed a rock band and its name. After the place Bolan died when his girlfriend wrapped him and the Mini she was driving round the trunk of a sycamore tree. No such hazards in this street, though, Katy now wryly observes, pulling into a space four cars down from where Jude has just parked. Sliding down in her seat, she watches the other woman cross to the far side of the road then walk past three houses before stopping outside number twenty two.

  Jude’s is a tall four storey, double-fronted Victorian building which, like most in the street, has long ago been sub-divided into an assortment of flats. But this one, unlike its
neighbours, appears to be hosting some kind of party. For from the open windows of the top two floors pumps the leaden bass of dance music. A gaggle of young men and women in their late teens and early twenties drink from beer cans and a communal bottle of vodka as they sun themselves in the building’s overgrown front garden. Students, Katy concludes, as she watches Jude hesitate, awkwardly, for a moment to extract her keys from her bag before marching past them without a word.

  Rather than the main front door, Jude heads instead to the far side of the building where Katy can just make out a handrail suggesting a set of steps leading down – to a basement flat, perhaps. And as her quarry disappears from view, the main front door opens and a dozen or so more party-goers spill out onto the main steps. The front of the building seems a living, breathing thing as a handful of people, beers still in hand, begin to dance.

  Her pulse now charging with fear of discovery, Katy waits for a few minutes then slowly climbs out of the car. Uncertain as yet quite what she intends to do, she makes her way towards the house in front of which three young women now sit cross-legged on the pavement passing a bottle of tequila between them. Someone has turned up the music and she can now hear the sound of more people talking and laughing from the rear of the building – the back garden, perhaps.

  ‘Looking for someone?’ A tall youth dressed only in flip flops and a pair of denim cut-offs whose dark skin gleams electric blue in the midday sun has appeared by her side. He is holding a joint. As she struggles to find the right answer, he nods. ‘The uptight lady from downstairs, right? Not that I mean anything by that – about you, I mean. Because you look … OK,’ he drawls, punctuating an appreciative glance towards her swelling belly with a broad grin. ‘She’ll be out back,’ he adds with a wave of his hand. ‘Just go on round.’

  Katy slips through the crowd towards the side return by the building’s far wall. Unnoticed by any of the student gathering, she is grateful for the casual clothes she’s wearing and their dishevelled state from cleaning her mum’s flat. There is a narrow alley that leads to the building’s rear. The passageway is empty and, eager to buy time to think, she slips into its shade. What is she doing, she wonders, grimly. Will there be enough people in the back garden for her to mingle, unnoticed? But before she can decide she is distracted by the sound of voices, one of which is Jude’s, and they are coming from somewhere close by.