A Suitable Lie

by Michael J Malone

  While I waited for Jim to pick me up in the taxi, Anna paced the living room. She had come over to my house to make sure I was going to be drinking on a full stomach.

  ‘So where’s that brother of yours taking you?’

  ‘Just to the club for a few drinks and then into town for a wee pub crawl.’ I answered, choosing my words carefully.

  ‘Who’s all going?’

  ‘A few of the guys from the club and one or two of the guys from the bank.’

  ‘Guys from the bank are going as well?’

  ‘That’s not a problem, is it?’

  ‘You’re not long promoted to Branch Manager, Andy. You need to be careful what your colleagues think of you.’

  ‘It’s a stag night, Anna. There’s nothing I can do about what they think of me.’

  ‘What do you mean? Why? What’s going to happen?’

  Big mistake, I’d said far too much. ‘Little pranks get played, Anna. It’s just the way it is.’

  ‘And what about that brother of yours? I’ll bet he’s organised strippers and everything.’

  ‘He’d better have strippers, or there’ll be bother.’ I grinned to show I was joking.

  ‘You big bugger,’ Anna said, taking a swipe at my arm. ‘You better behave yourself.’ She stepped towards me and pushed me over on to the chair I had been standing in front of.

  I grabbed her as I fell and we landed in a tussle of arms and legs. Reaching for her ankle I pulled off her shoe and started to tickle. She clenched her teeth against the need to laugh and struggled to free her foot.

  ‘Stop it. Stop it.’ Then a laugh escaped through her teeth. With little effort I pinned her down and, panting like a St Bernard, licked her all over her face.

  ‘Yuck. Stop that, you big lump,’ she laughed. I stopped licking and started kissing, swallowing her laughter. Her tongue sought mine. We both groaned, then giggled when we realised we had moaned in perfect time with each other.

  Mouth to mouth, both of us laughing, made us laugh even more. I fell back on to the floor away from her. She saw her chance and jumped on top of me. Pinned me down.

  ‘Got you,’ she said and leaned forward, her long hair falling down either side of my head, tickling my ears. ‘So much for the big, strong rugby player.’

  ‘I’m putty in your hands.’ I said as she took both my hands and stretched them out above my head.

  She kissed me. ‘Love you, Andy Boyd.’

  I pushed her over as easily as if she weighed no more than one of the cushions on my sofa and once I’d reversed our positions I returned her kiss.

  ‘Can’t believe we’re actually going to be married in two weeks’ time.’

  ‘Anna Boyd,’ Anna said as if trying the name out for the first time. ‘Works for me,’ she smiled.

  Anna pushed me off and returned to the chair. She smoothed her hair. ‘By the way, I meant to say that my transfer came in today.’

  The organization we worked for wasn’t too keen on couples working in the same branch. As Branch Manager I had been copied in on the transfer but worries about what Jim had planned for my stag night had thrown it out of my head.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘How do you feel about going to Kilmarnock?’

  ‘You knew already? Course you did.’ She gave a smile. ‘S’fine,’ she said with a shrug. ‘There’s worse places to work.’

  I had been thinking about Anna’s job recently. Where she might be transferred to. How she might feel about it. She didn’t share my ambition, seeing work as a means to an end. Once in the office she’d put in a shift, but that was it. When she walked out the door of an evening all thoughts of the bank receded.

  So watching her with Pat just the previous day had given me an idea. I had no clue how she would react when I put it to her, though. I chewed on my bottom lip for a moment.

  ‘I remember when I was young and Mum was working, I had to come in from school, make up the coal fire, peel the potatoes and make the tea for us all. I knew we needed the money but I would have loved to have my Mum waiting in a warm house with food on the table. Sounds terrible, I know, in this day and age, but there you go.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound terrible.’ Anna held my hand and her eyes moistened, as if she was ahead of me. ‘It sounds lovely. It sounds just like what every child should have.’

  She paused. Looked deep into my eyes, hers full of love. ‘Pat’s had such a traumatic start to his young life. Wouldn’t it be great if together we could give him that stability?’

  The tone she used for that last sentence held an inflection of yearning, as if this was something she missed out on herself.

  ‘Fancy me writing a letter of resignation? Telling the bank to piss off?’ she asked.

  My chest tightened as the implications of this hit me. I was about to get a new wife and she was willing to set aside her own needs for me and my son.

  ‘I think that would be a fantastic idea.’ I clapped my hands.

  She brushed away a tear with her fingertips. ‘You are a lovely, lovely man, Andy Boyd?’

  ‘And I just love you to bits.’ I leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. ‘So that’s it decided, you’re going to be a stay-at-home mum.’

  ‘What about your mum?’ Anna gripped my hand. Her expression had moved into neutral and I couldn’t read anymore if she was pleased or disappointed with the suggestion.

  ‘She could still help out. Let you go shopping or for coffee with your pals.’

  With a squeal she jumped into my arms. ‘Andy Boyd, you are a saint. I hate that bloody job and it would be fab to look after Pat and the house.’ She got to her feet and did a daft wee dance. Squealed again. ‘I’ve always dreamed of having my own house and family.’ She stopped dancing, grew still and gave herself a hug, looking into the distance as if a bad memory crouched there.

  But then she brightened and fell into my arms again. ‘Andy, thank you. You have just made me the happiest woman in the world.’ She kissed my nose, my forehead, my right ear, my lips. ‘Thank you, honey. I’ll be the best wife you could ever wish for.’

  Just then a voice sounded from the door.

  ‘Do I need a shoe horn to separate you two? ‘Jim’s voice filled the room, ‘… or will a bucket of cold water do the trick?’

  ‘Hey, Jim.’ Anna pushed off me, sat up in the sofa, smiled at my brother and smoothed the creases in her trousers.

  ‘Do you not believe in knocking?’ I said. Even to my ears my tone sounded too stern, but I didn‘t want Jim to think that nothing was going to change. I was getting married and he would have to learn to respect our privacy. But at the same time I felt bad at being so abrupt with him, he’d been coming and going as he pleased for years.

  ‘Right, big guy.’ Jim clapped his hands. ‘Taxi’s waiting.’ He then looked around the room as if waiting to be ambushed by a miniature cowboy. ‘Where’s the wee man?’

  ‘He’s with his Nan and Papa Morrison,’ I answered.

  ‘Yes,’ added Anna. ‘I’ve got the night off. I have my box of chocolates, my nail varnish and a nice romantic movie.’ She pulled her feet under her.

  I leaned down to give her another kiss. ‘Love you,’ I whispered.

  ‘Love you too,’ she replied.

  Jim made a gagging sound.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘Wish me luck, sweetheart.’

  ‘Anything happens to him, Jim Boyd you’ll have me to contend with.’ Then she looked at me, smiling. ‘Bye honey,’ she folded her arms, stuck her tongue out and then fixed her vision on the TV set. ‘Don’t have too good a time.’

  In the backseat of the cab Jim turned to me, eyebrows raised in question.

  ‘Nan and Papa Morrison?’ he asked. ‘You aiming for a sainthood or something?’

  ‘Leave it, Jim. I have my reasons.’

  During the first days of Pat’s life I walked, talked and defecated on some strange system of remote control. My breakdown was a cause for concern for the Morrisons. They worried that their grands
on; the only flesh and blood they had on earth, would be neglected.

  My mother cared for the baby while my mind struggled to free itself from its fog of grief. She fed him, changed him and nursed him to sleep. Far too often for my liking, she would place him in my arms as I sat and stared and asked questions of the sky, of the trees, of the trail of a raindrop as it slid down the window.

  I knew now that this attempt to keep my distance from Pat was borne of fear. Fear that I would love him – and then lose him.

  Three weeks after the funeral a letter was dumped through my letterbox. It was from the Morrison’s solicitor. They were suing me for custody of the baby. They didn’t think that I would be a good parent. The not too subtle subtext was that they blamed me for Patricia’s death.

  Their arrogance galvanized me. How dare they, I raved? Who the hell did they think they were? Patrick was my son.

  That morning, exhausted after an hour-long rant, I sat in my usual position by the window. My mother placed Pat in my arms after his feed. Full of anger at the Morrisons I was even less inclined to take any notice of him, until a burp laced with milk floated up to my nose, and his tiny hand gripped on to one of my fingers. I looked down into his crumpled face and for the first time into his eyes. They looked back at me without fear; without judgement.

  I moved my hand to cradle his head and neck, feeling the heat of his skin and the silk of his bleached-gold hair. Tracing his fontanelle with my thumb I wondered at how vulnerable he was and at the strength with which he gripped my other hand.

  The first physical sign of emotion was the cool wet of a tear as it slid down my right cheek. Then there was no stopping them. I cried for what seemed hours, my shoulders shaking and my head falling forward towards Pat’s. Still he continued his stare, as if trying to make sense of the being holding him, while his face melted under the force of my tears.

  Even now, I can still remember that first kiss, the first time I placed my lips on the soft warmth of his forehead. That moment when I began the unfaltering process of falling in love with my son.

  Perhaps the Morrisons should have received my thanks for bringing me to my senses, but the thought that they would try and take Pat incensed me. Let’s see how they feel at the thought of never seeing him. Let’s see how they suffer. And for four years, I made sure they did just that. Though somehow their names entered Pat’s conversation.

  ‘So why did you decide to let Pat go with the Morrisons?’ asked Jim

  ‘Anna talked me into it.’ I answered. ‘She made me understand how it must have been for them. Besides, I’ve known for a wee while that Mum has been taking him over to see them…’

  ‘How…?’

  ‘I’m no daft and four-year-olds are not very discreet.’ I looked over at my brother, pleased and not at all surprised that he didn’t try to deny it. He was wearing one of his many suits – three piece, with a shirt and silk tie that matched perfectly – and I was reminded of where we were going. This was a good sign. The fact my brother had dressed with his usual attention calmed me. The planned pranks wouldn’t be too messy then.

  ‘So, what’s on the cards?’ I asked, not expecting a truthful answer.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ he grinned. ‘A few jars at the rugby club and then the minibus is coming to take a few of us across to Edinburgh.’

  ‘Edinburgh?’ I was worried by the weasel thought that entered my head: Anna might be annoyed. Then I dismissed it. If she was, too bad. Just because she had refused to have a hen party, didn’t mean I should stint on my own evening of fun.

  ‘I’ll send her a text in the morning. From the hotel, just before we hit the bar again.’

  At the door to the club, Jim paid the driver and we walked in. From the entrance I could see around twenty guys in suits at the bar, the deep hum of their voices audible above the jukebox.

  Malcolm Kay, one of my oldest friends and a colleague from the bank, was the first to turn round. Judging by the flush on his cheeks the pint glass in his hand wasn’t his first.

  ‘There he is, guys,’ he announced.

  ‘Strip him,’ the roar rushed at my ears. I turned towards the door I’d just entered as if to leave and Jim gripped my arm.

  ‘Best just to give in, Andy.’ He smiled and nodded slowly.

  ‘Aye. Right enough.’

  I pulled at my tie. There was absolutely no point in fighting them, the end result would just be the same; me with no clothes on. In seconds I was naked, apart from my feet. No one would go near my socks.

  ‘Hey, steady on, guys.’ The sixty-year-old club secretary was the lone voice of sanity. ‘What about the barmaid? Poor Senga’ll have to stare at that thing all night.’

  ‘Hold on, Dave Heaney,’ said the aforementioned Senga as she placed a perfect pint on the bar. She ran stubby fingers through her cropped brown hair, stuck out her breasts, placed her hands on her expansive hips and leered. ‘Is this an expression of complaint you see on this here dish? No? Well shut up and let an old girl have her fun. It’s no very often I get to see any of these well-stacked young men in the skuddy.’

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur of booze and banter. I eventually came to the next morning, wearing nothing but my boxers, lying on top of a bed in a strange hotel room.

  4

  The shower in my hotel room was like some form of magic. Hot water just a few degrees from being able to melt flesh battered my head and neck like aqueous rivets. Just what the doctor ordered to banish the last of my hangover. I turned my back to the wall and let the water massage my shoulders. Excellent. On and on the water poured, cleansing, soothing. I almost felt ready to phone Anna. I opened my eyes. Anna. Shit, what will she say?

  Something registered in my brain. A colour. The water pooling at my feet was stained pink. My eyes were then drawn to my groin.

  ‘Bastards,’ I yelled. While I was comatose someone had shaved my balls and painted them bright red. I prayed no one had taken a photo for the wall of shame behind the bar at the rugby club. It was then I heard the sniggers. Jumping from the shower I ran into the bedroom. Twenty barrel-chested men were in various stages of apoplectic laughter. When they spotted the dye running down the inside of my thighs like some bizarre menses, their guffaws reached new heights.

  ‘Who … how … what the?’ I could barely speak and they more they laughed, the angrier I got. The angrier I got, the more they laughed. Weak with impotent rage all I could do was stamp my feet and storm back into the bathroom. Well, as much of a storm as a naked man with fluorescent-pink balls could manage.

  Back under the shower I examined my scrotum for razor cuts and then soaped off the last of the dye. Bastards. I managed a chuckle.

  By the time I got out of the shower, my bedroom was empty. Drying and dressing quickly, I phoned Patricia’s mother.

  ‘You all right, Andy? The idiots haven’t damaged you in anyway, have they?’ She asked. We’d barely spoken since Pat died and unexpressed emotions lingered in the space between words. Assuring her I was fine, I asked to speak to Pat.

  ‘Daddy, I’m a good boy,’ his sweet soprano filled my ear.

  ‘Hey, buddy. Daddy misses you.’

  ‘Ganny got me a toy, Daddy.’ You’re not missing me too much then, my doting smile bounced off the mirror opposite me.

  ‘Remember you’re Daddy’s best boy, ok?’

  ‘Okay,’ he replied.

  ‘Right, I’ll have to go. You be a good boy, son.’

  ‘You be a good dad, Dad.’

  I had less success with Anna. The answer machine came on straight away and I spoke to the recording, told it I was fine. In Edinburgh, but still in one piece.

  The weekend quickly assumed the pattern of many previous trips, minus the usual rugby match. There was Guinness, Guinness and more Guinness. Throw in plenty of food, some women to chat up and you had your ideal stag weekend.

  Thankfully the visit had been arranged with only two nights stay and soon we were on the train on the way back across to the
west of the country. The sorry sight of once-healthy, strapping men, reduced by too much alcohol and not enough sleep, assaulted our fellow passengers. Vomit, beer, bad breath and BO vied for their nasal attentions. I doubted that anyone had used up any valuable drinking time to attend to such a chore as personal hygiene.

  ‘What a weekend.’ I said to Jim. We were propping each other up, shoulders and heads touching.

  ‘You’re welcome, brother.’ Jim sipped at a hair-of-the-dog, last can of beer.

  ‘You’re still a bastard.’ I sat up. Looked at him for the first time that morning. Properly looked. The right side of his face was a mess. Swollen and black and blue. ‘What the hell happened to your eye?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he tapped the side of his eye with care. ‘You should see the other guys.’

  Plural? ‘Guys?’

  ‘My brother the lightweight was in his scratcher, snoring. A few of us found one of those titty bars. The bouncers thought I was paying too much attention.’ He shrugged. ‘Nobody talks to me like that, mate.’

  ‘Oh for fucksake, Jim.’ I could see it all play out. It wasn’t like it was a rarity. Jim gets challenged. Jim takes offence. Jim goes in swinging. ‘Its guys like you that give testosterone a bad name.’

  ‘You’re just worried about the wedding photos.’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘Yeah you are.’

  I had another, closer look. ‘To be fair, worse could happen in a rugby match.’

  Mum and Anna would be worried. They wouldn’t want the best man sporting a shiner in perpetuity in our photo album.

  ‘Wanker,’ I said and returned to my earlier position. My head was too sore to argue with him.

  I could sense his answering grin. Then we slipped into silence, listening to the small group of guys on the benches across from us who were still going strong. Malcolm was right in the middle of it due to his unfeasible capacity for alcohol and an endless stream of jokes.

  ‘Andy?’ Jim spoke quietly. ‘I know you’re fond of the guy and all that, but…’