I’ll tell you no lies

by Norman Wills

  It gave her mind a focus. She needed to buy things, decoration mostly, tools, and a few other things. But then the Internet is a wonderful place for a virtual trip to the shops.

  You needed no disguise when you went shopping over the web, no chance of some nosey plebeian looking over her shoulder to see what she’d just placed in her shopping basket. Impersonal shopping, a celebrity’s dream come true. You could buy tools, clothes, furniture, weapons, a pair of soiled knickers worn by a thirteen-year-old Philippino slave girl currently living and working in Woking; something for everyone.

  Lucy was busy assembling equipment to build her very own web. This one wasn’t for shopping on though, or for downloading paedophile porn from, this was the kind of web a spider uses to catch a fly, a poor misguided fly.

  Lucy wasn’t ready to return to modelling just yet, it was too soon. Everybody understood; everybody sympathised. Lucy’s face still fit that ideal the modelling world was always striving for. The accident had caused no blemishes to appear, no scratches, no broken nose, no stitches required, no permanent damage, not even a spot that might need concealing beneath extra make-up. As far as the modelling world was aware there was nothing wrong with Lucy that time couldn’t heal.

  Lucy could have returned to the catwalk any time she wanted to. If anything, the accident had made her more marketable, every fashion house worth its salt would love the kudos of coaxing Lucy Kirkpatrick back onto the catwalk. The television cameras and world press would all be there to witness that event; the free advertising alone would be worth hundreds of thousands.

  Lucy Kirkpatrick was quickly becoming the David Beckham of the modelling world; everyone wanted a piece of her, and soon she’d also be able to name her own price. Lucy, however, had decided to take a sabbatical from modelling, and under the circumstances nobody was going to question her wisdom. A good break was what she needed, come back strong.

  But Lucy was busy. To the outside world it seemed that she was busy, desperately trying to get over Jayne, and she had everyone’s sympathy there. She was busy though, reworking the spare bedroom, but she’d get no sympathy for that, not if they understood. But no one else knew. Sympathy wasn’t what drove Lucy on. Sympathy was the last thing she required at that particular point in her life.

  Deliveries came thick and fast. If Lucy was expecting a delivery on a particular day she would stay in her apartment or spend time with John in his studios downstairs. She would just lend a hand mostly, one of the most instantly recognisable photography assistants in the world. John thought it would be therapeutic. It also enabled him to have daily contact with his little sister, without having to knock on her door every five minutes acting like some sort of mother hen. It even allowed Lucy to keep in contact, of sorts, with people in the business. And she was also well placed to keep a lid on the number of deliveries destined for upstairs.

  Often Steph would bring Rosie to visit her Auntie. When this happened Lucy would lock the spare bedroom door and give Rosie her complete attention. Rosie, this mesmeric little child who, in Sally-Anne’s eyes, had also lost someone very special to her, and just like her Auntie Lucy, it was through no fault of her own.

  Revenge for Rosie, wound for wound.

  Yes, Sally-Anne; revenge for Rosie too. We are after all her Godparents; the least we can do is avenge some of the wrong.

  And who better to assist in God’s work than an angel? An angel sent to protect, sent to advise and sent to guard.

  She’s innocent now, but one day she’ll understand. Vengeance must be the way now. Sally-Anne, she needs us now. I need you now.

  I’m here, Lucy, forever and ever.

  Amen!

  24 June 2011.

  Lucy collected her tools together, swept the floor and surveyed what had once been one of the spare bedrooms, in what had once been hers and Jayne’s home. No longer would anybody be using this room as a bedroom though. There was a bed in the room, but nobody would ever sleep in it.

  Twenty-fourth of June, six months to the day after Jayne’s death, had been the date she’d set herself to finish the room. June 24, Jayne’s birthday, she would have been twenty-nine years old on that day. Lucy’s gift to the memory of Jayne was to be this room. Not what most people would call a shrine, but still a place where she could come in memory of Jayne. A place built to honour her passing.

  In reality though this wasn’t a place to remember Jayne and Jayne alone; when she was in this room she remembered so much more.

  She remembered her mother, death by misadventure, Simon’s misadventure.

  Bastard!

  She remembered her father, killed himself by overdosing on his own brand of paracetemol, when she’d been fourteen.

  Selfish bastard!

  She remembered Stein, the nearest thing she’d ever had to a mentor and someone she could talk to, really talk to, death by carbon monoxide poisoning, while he sat in his garage.

  Stupid selfish bastard!

  Keith Waterson, murderer of Jayne. Jayne, the singular most important part of her life. Except maybe for Sally-Anne.

  Dead man waiting to happen!

  Twenty fourth of June 2011; she’d finished in time to enjoy the afternoon picking out a present for Rosie who would be three years old the following day.

  Men, her life had been plagued by men since the age of eleven. Sally-Anne had been right, Georgie Dunston and Terence Sandford had to die; they were, after all is said and done, men. They were poor examples of the so-called ‘stronger’ species, but they were men never the less. Sally-Anne had never been wrong before, Lucy understood that now. Why had she ever doubted her in the past?

  She’d had her fair share of bitchiness directed at her by other women. But bitchiness she could handle. Bitchiness doesn’t kill your mother. Bitchiness doesn’t cause your father and your mentor to commit suicide. Bitchiness doesn’t place your lovers nearly severed head in your lap. No, bitchiness she could handle, it was men who gave her a major problem. All men except John that is, but then John wasn’t like other men.

  Sally-Anne was always there to reinforce her view. She was there to help her fight the cause, and she would turn it into a crusade whenever the time was right. That time was quickly approaching.

  Sally-Anne, please forgive me for ever having doubted your word.

  You know you don’t have to ask me for forgiveness Lucy. To err is human, to forgive is divine. You just carry on being human and I’ll just carry on being divine.

  Having finished the first room it was now time to start work on the second room. An easier task by far the second room, remove the carpet and bring in some equipment, no big deal. Ordering over the Internet, and with weekend deliveries she would see the job finished sometime in July. She’d need to spread out the deliveries though; she didn’t want to raise any suspicions from nosey neighbours.

  She knew exactly what she wanted, and she could wait. Waiting was good for the soul. Most girls were being told to wait over one thing or another, sex, drink and even the latest fashions. What was the point in buying the latest fashions if they weren’t the latest fashions anymore? Being made to wait just strengthens a girl’s resolve. She already had the motive and the means now she just needed the opportunity.

  …

  In August of that year Sally-Anne and Lucy decided that the time was right. Lucy had been ‘in mourning’ for long enough, now was the time to show the people what Lucy Kirkpatrick was capable of. It was after all what the British public had wanted to see since the previous Christmas, Lucy back on the world’s catwalks, Lucy back in the world’s top fashion magazines, Lucy just being Lucy again.

  Lucy would never be Lucy again though, not now, not the old Lucy, not the pre 2011 Lucy. The Lucy that the press, public and even her family would see from now on would look like the old Lucy, even act like the old Lucy, on the big stage. But this Lucy was a whole new Lucy, a reinvented Lucy. Still with four months before she reached her twenty-first birthday this was a Lucy with more secrets than any
sane person should have to handle in a whole lifetime.

  Just as with fortune, there are many varying degrees of sanity. Psychiatrists faced with the pre-accident Lucy and then the post-accident Lucy may well have said that she had been before, and was also now, showing all the signs of sanity expected of an average person under her particular set of circumstances.

  But could there ever be an ‘average’ person with Lucy’s particular set of circumstances? A twenty year-old supermodel with the world at her feet, who had recently lost her lover, her lesbian lover, in a most horrific car accident. Her last memory being her lover’s dead eyes looking blankly up at her from her blood soaked lap.

  None of those same psychiatrists would ever accuse her of having a split personality, an alter ego. She wouldn’t suddenly turn into Sally-Anne and speak in a different accent, or even a different language. As far as Lucy was concerned she was Lucy and Sally-Anne was Sally-Anne, and Sally-Anne was her personal guardian angel.

  Of course, Lucy knew Sally-Anne existed. Sally-Anne made no secret of her existence, not to Lucy anyway, she’d known for eight years. But she’d never tell John or Steph or Rosie or anybody she knew, let alone a psychiatrist. So how could they ever accuse her of having an alter ego, a part of her that comes to the fore to handle the stress at times of greatest need?

  As far as Lucy was concerned she had a guardian angel that went by the name of Sally-Anne. And Sally-Anne may well have advised her to get back onto the catwalk, and to appear to be moving on with her life, everything back to normal.

  But it was Lucy up there strutting her stuff.

  It was Lucy taking the standing ovation when she made her first appearance on the stage since Jayne’s death.

  It was Lucy whose image the TV cameras were there to catch.

  It was Lucy who’d make the national evening news.

  It had been to Lucy that the nation had sent their love out last Christmas.

  It was for Lucy that the nation was happy now.

  Sally-Anne was always there though, in the background, advising, thinking of the next move, and waiting.

  Twenty-Five

  The waiting didn’t last too long…

  12 October 2011

  The opportunity just seemed to present itself out of nowhere. Lucy had donned her now much needed disguise, which she tended to wear when she needed to get out, and get some fresh air in her lungs. A black wig, a woolly hat, oversized scruffy jeans, an oversized parka and the very minimum of make-up.

  It’s just so much easier to disguise yourself with the British weather. It’s hard not to draw attention to yourself when you look like a supermodel wearing a disguise of T-shirt and shorts. October in Britain, you could fool your own mother.

  Five minutes into her walk, barely four hundred metres from where she lived, she walked past a decorator’s van, a van that was currently being loaded by Steve Summer. Job done, finished, and only the middle of the afternoon.

  Steve Summer, Painter and Decorator, six feet two inches tall, sixteen stones of muscle. A man truly worthy of the male gender, the same man who had given her a look as he was coming out of the house carrying a bundle of dust sheets. A look that said haven’t I seen you before somewhere, and if I haven’t then give me a chance, you don’t know what you’re missing.

  Lucy, walk to the end of the street, cross the road and get the mobile number from the side of that van. Painter and decorator, he must be a one-man band, and we just decided we need to decorate a bedroom.

  Did we?

  Yes we did. Come on quickly, get the number then back home and call his mobile. Tell him we saw this number on the side of his van, we’re not too far away and we’d like him to come and look at a job. He should come right away if he’s got any sense. He isn’t going to start a new job at half past three in the afternoon. Come on, Lucy; opportunity knocks at our door.

  Revenge?

  Revenge!

  When Lucy got back home she called the mobile number and arranged for him to call round at four o’clock. Sally-Anne had been spot-on, he was just finishing off a job in the area and while he was so close he’d call in and have a look. He was a one-man band, happy for any job opportunity that came his way.

  When Steve eventually rang the intercom Lucy didn’t hesitate in buzzing him in, and told him to just keep climbing the stairs. When he made the top floor the door was just being opened by Lucy, now back in her regular attire, without the black wig, unmistakably Lucy Kirkpatrick.

  When Steve saw her stood there a big grin stretched across his face.

  “Hello, I’m Steve Summer. We spoke earlier, about some decorating.” Steve’s Welsh accent giving away the fact that he’d spent the first twelve years of his life just outside of Cardiff. “And I already know who you are.”

  “Hello, Steve. Thanks for dropping by; I hope it’s not too inconvenient. Come in, I’ll show you what I want,” said Lucy, “it’s in the bedroom.”

  ‘If only’, thought Steve, but the whole country knew where Lucy Kirkpatrick’s sexual preferences lay.

  “This is a fabulous place you’ve got here, Miss Kirkpatrick.” Said Steve looking around, a little embarrassed by Lucy’s presence. He had seen the inside of a lot of people’s homes in his thirty-one years, but this was a bit special. As a decorator he was feeling a little out of his depth, but then he thought this was maybe his chance to impress somebody with lots of cash rich friends, not the tight wads he usually worked for. A recommendation from Lucy Kirkpatrick in the circles she moves in could make his life so much easier. Her model friends must need decorators, and who knows? They surely couldn’t all be Lesbians, could they?

  “Please call me Lucy. You make me sound like some dowdy school mistress.”

  An image of Lucy, barely dressed in a skimpy school uniform, and brandishing a whip flashed into his mind at that point.

  Where did that thought come from I wonder? Thought Steve, grinning to himself; a chance really would be a fine thing. Come on Steve concentrate on the job.

  “So where did you say you want me to look?” said Steve, trying not to let his mind wander too far into that particular cul-de-sac.

  “Oh yes, decorating, the bedrooms. My mind was beginning to wander for a minute there. There are two I want you to look at,” said Lucy, “the master bedroom and the playroom.”

  “Okay”, said Steve, thinking that she must have only recently moved in and never likely to need a playroom was looking to re-decorate.

  “The playroom seems as good a place to start as any.” Said Lucy, “Follow me.”

  Like lambs to the slaughter.

  Live in my thrall.

  Steve couldn’t help but watch Lucy‘s arse as he followed her, mesmerised by the thought of what a man like him could do to a body like hers, given half a chance.

  Lucy opened the door to the spare bedroom and walked in. Steve eagerly followed her in. When he was able to tear his eyes away from Lucy’s arse, just for the minute, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing in front of him.

  “Bloody hell, when you said playroom I thought you meant a playroom, you know, toys and games and things.” Steve said. “For children.”

  Lucy laughed out loud, “I don’t have any children Steve, not yet anyway.”

  “But…” It was out before he could stop himself. Both he and Lucy had known what hidden meaning that particular ‘but’ carried with it. Meanings like:

  But aren’t you a Lesbian?

  But you can’t have children without there being a man involved.

  But the newspaper stories said…

  “You shouldn’t always believe everything you read in the newspapers Steve.” said Lucy to a dumbstruck Steve.

  “And anyway”, continued Lucy, “this is a playroom, an adult playroom, it is lots of fun.”

  “What’s the matter, Steve?” she said, “Cat got your tongue?”

  “No”, said Steve, “no, it’s just that I’ve decorated lots of playrooms before now, but none of them have
been like this. This really is a first for me.”

  “Come on, Steve,” said Lucy turning to face him and moving a little closer. “Are you trying to tell me that a big strong man with a beautiful body like yours has never wanted to feel the thrill of being dominated by a woman before?”

  Steve looked Lucy in the eyes for the first time since he’d walked through her door, not sure of what was happening to him, but happy to play along. “No, I’m not saying that.” He replied “But look at this place, it wasn’t exactly what I was expecting, that’s all I’m saying. Who lived here before you?”

  “Nobody, this is all my own work.”

  “So you really like all this stuff do you?” Said Steve quizzically, “You’re absolutely right; you really shouldn’t believe all you read in the papers.” The bed was what interested him the most. He was interested in the chains, the whips and what could only be described as the tools of the torture trade, circa 1400AD, hanging on the walls. It was just that the bed was much more likely to deliver what he wanted. And what a bed it was, four-poster wrought iron bed frame complete with four spikes on the uprights and enough chains festooned off it to tie a whole rugby team up.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong, Steve; I do love women, the newspapers got that right,” Lucy said, “but I’m not exclusive, if the right man comes along I can still enjoy myself, I’ll just never fall in love with him.”

  Steve stood looking round in awed amazement at the room.

  “So have you ever thought what it might be like, tied to a bed, no control whatsoever?” asked Lucy.

  “It’s got to be every man’s dream hasn’t it?” replied Steve, “Giving yourself up to a beautiful woman like that.”

  “Not every man’s dream, Steve. You’d be surprised how many men are scared of giving control to a woman. Would you be, Steve? Scared? Scared of losing all control?”