The Lies You Told

by Harriet Tyce

  I’m shaken. I lie awake for most of the night, regretting my promise to Robin, my brain whirring, trying to work out the best approach. Trying not to remember the feeling of the maggots squirming in my gloved fingers as I picked them up, one by one, from the floor.

  SUNDAY, 12:15 P.M.

  I’m out of the house and running, keys in one hand, phone in the other. I keep checking it every few moments in case anyone calls, but nothing. I look again as I’m turning the corner of my street toward the main road when I trip on the curb. I stumble and fall headfirst to the ground, thumping the edge of my glasses into the top of my right eye socket.

  My phone has flown out of my hand, landing with a thud just out of reach. I push myself up and reach to get hold of it, but my head hurts and I’m dizzy and I nearly stumble again. My head is aching, with a sharp stinging where the glasses have been forced into my face.

  I don’t have time to care. It doesn’t matter—I’ll let it hurt later. Right now, I have to find a cab, get there as fast as I can. I bend down slowly, carefully, picking up my phone. Before I can check it again I see a bus approaching and I run toward it, holding out my hand. It might be ages before a cab comes and I can’t bear to stand still. The bus comes to a halt and I climb on, tapping my card against the reader.

  It’s only half full and I find a seat easily. Once I’m sitting down I turn my phone over. The damage is bad. Worse than I realized. The screen is entirely cracked, little shards of glass falling off the center of the damaged area.

  I want to throw it away from me. I want to start screaming at the top of my voice, tell the bus driver to go faster, get a fucking move on. Despite my efforts to control myself, a sob escapes my compressed lips. I see people turn toward me, and I duck my head down, unwilling to engage with anyone. If I have to speak I know I’ll lose control.

  Too late, a woman in a headscarf has moved over next to me. She puts her hand on my arm, concern in her face.

  “You OK?”

  “Fine,” I say, shoulders hunched against her.

  “You look like you’ve hurt yourself,” she persists.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Please can you leave me alone.”

  “Is there anyone I can call? Do you need some help?”

  “Please, leave me alone,” I say. “I promise you I’m fine. Thank you, but really, I’m OK.”

  She looks at me, her face troubled, but after a moment she moves away from me. She’s being kind, but I wish people would mind their own business. The bus can’t move fast enough.

  There’s something trickling down my face, down my neck, and I put my hand up to wipe it away. The bus judders unsteadily over a pothole and I push against the back of the seat in front to keep myself steady. When the bus comes to

  a halt at the next stop I take my hands away. I’ve left a print behind. A red handprint. A handprint in blood.

  My head throbs again but the adrenaline drives me on. I grit my teeth. I have to get there. That’s all that matters now.

  22

  No good answer has presented itself by the time we get up the following day. Robin seems a little more cheerful after some sleep, no suggestion that she shouldn’t go into school, though I’m braced for complaints of a tummy ache, or worse. She isn’t keen to go into her room but I assure her I’ve got rid of all the maggots, and eventually she consents, getting dressed without incident.

  I’m torn about how best to approach the dead bird. Should I make no further mention of it? I don’t want to freak her out. But I do want her to be on her guard. Before I can work out what to say, she brings it up herself.

  “I texted Dad this morning and told him about the bird,” she says. “He says I need to be brave and stand up to any bullies. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

  The irony of his words is so strong that I could almost laugh, before a wave of fury engulfs me and I have to leave the room rather than show Robin how I feel. Stand up to bullies? I wish to God I had stood up to him and his manipulations, what he did to get rid of me, of Robin too. Andrew is the biggest bully I know, killing off our marriage, banishing us here with his threats.

  I can’t resist. For the first time since we’ve got here, my resolve cracks. I need to tell him how I feel.

  Stand up to bullies? That’s a fucking joke. You fucking bastard.

  So much more I could say. But I don’t. I press send then turn off my phone. I’ve had enough. We travel to school in silence, and I watch Robin walk in through the school gates with a knot in my chest.

  The trip down to chambers is a good distraction. I’m due to show Barbara the evidence that I unearthed at the weekend.

  “This is brilliant,” she says when I lay it out in front of her. “It shreds her credibility.” There’s such glee in her voice that I feel almost alarmed.

  “I thought there might be something to it,” I say, “but do you think it’s going to make that much difference?”

  “Yes, of course it will. It’s the whole case in miniature; shows once and for all what a little liar she is.”

  I turn it over in my mind. I’m conflicted. On the one hand, I’m delighted to have found something that assists the defense. I’ve proved my place on the team. It’ll lead to better work in future—my place in chambers is more assured. But on the other, there’s a crawling feeling of guilt in my gut. What Freya is saying about Jeremy could ruin his life, sure, but she’s ruined her own life too, in the process, all her petty shames and fears exposed like this to hostile eyes.

  I run through it again, cringing at the way it plays out on the pages in front of me.

  It was about a year ago, from the dates on the messages, an exchange between Freya and someone called Susie. It spanned two weeks, give or take, starting with Freya’s breathless account of how she’d met a boy at a party and they’d kissed and exchanged numbers. He was at one of the big south London private schools, their pupils socializing frequently with the pupils from Freya’s school in central London.

  They met the next weekend, which was when the relationship (such as it was) seemed to sour, culminating in Freya’s comments to her friend Susie that he had tried it on with her. This led to a flurry of messages and overuse of the acronyms OMG and OMFG, and many expressions of support, then Susie went suddenly quiet. A long string of messages from Freya went unanswered, until Susie abruptly came back to her, a week later. She said that she’d spoken to boys at the other school, that Freya’s allegation of pushing it “too far” was entirely false, that, in fact, Susie knew that Freya had tried to seduce the boy, been rebuffed, and was now making up this story to cover her own shame and embarrassment at the rejection. Freya needed to be more careful about what she said. You can’t go round throwing accusations and lies out about people.

  Freya had written one message in reply—bleak.

  He choked me and he wanted anal and I said no. He made me give him head. I was crying. He didn’t stop.

  Unfortunately for her, Susie wasn’t going down the sisterhood route. We all know you don’t say no to anyone. Stop telling lies. He didn’t want it because you’re such a slag and now you’re talking shit to get back at him. Don’t DM me again.

  “I can’t believe the police didn’t pick up on this earlier,” I say to Barbara. “Surely it goes to the heart of her credibility, if she’s done it before. Did she take this one to the police?”

  “Not that we know of. And, in general, they’re overworked, underresourced, understaffed. That’s why so many rape trials are falling by the wayside—a girl makes an allegation, the defense finally get to go through her phone and, boom!

  In whatever way, she shows she isn’t purer than the driven snow. The jury won’t convict.”

  “You seem very philosophical about it,” I say.

  “It’s a boon for defense lawyers,” Barbara says. “And you know how we feel about it—it’s better that ten guilty men go free than one innocent man is wrongly convicted. Also, look at it rationally. Jeremy has his whole future ahead of h
im. He doesn’t deserve to have his career blighted by something as trivial as this.”

  “Do you think he did it?” I say, the words bursting out before I can stop them.

  Barbara looks at me with scorn, and shame crawls over me at the gaucheness of the question. The worst question of all to ask a defense barrister. I know better than that. But I’ve been too long out of the game, lost my nerve. After a long moment, Barbara laughs.

  “Surely I don’t need to remind you that what I think is completely irrelevant? The only question with which we need concern ourselves is whether the prosecution is able to prove it.”

  I laugh too, apologize. Of course that’s the only relevant question. But that clarity of thought is escaping me, a slight feeling of guilt growing that I’m complicit in something shameful, a nebulous sense of wrongdoing that’s hard to shake off.

  I shouldn’t be having any feelings at all about the complainant. I should just be doing my job. But Freya isn’t so much older than Robin—the idea that in a few short years Robin will be negotiating these choppy waters is terrifying, and that Robin could herself be met with such lack of empathy is sadder still.

  Jeremy’s career might be at risk, his reputation.

  But what about Freya’s?

  23

  The last days of the week follow the same pattern. Robin drags her feet going into school, I harden myself not to take her straight home again. On Thursday morning I see Julia on the other side of the road, and I quicken my step to get out of there before there’s any further confrontation. On Thursday afternoon, I see Jessica in the distance. She seems to wave at me. I turn my head, trying to blink away the image of the dead robin that’s swum before them.

  But as we walk away from school, I hear someone calling my name, and I look around. It’s Jessica, Portia at her side.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi.” I look at her blankly, waiting for her to speak. I’m about to walk away when she finally starts talking, the words falling out in a rush.

  “Apparently you said you were an old girl—you said you went to this school?”

  “Yes, I did say that.”

  “Is it true?”

  I look at her with total scorn. “Do you really think I’d lie about it? It’s not exactly something I’m proud of. I wasn’t happy here.”

  “It’s just. Well. We don’t remember you. We’ve talked about it, and we don’t remember you at all. So…”

  I look at her, shaking my head. I can’t actually believe that she’s questioning me like this.

  Robin pulls at my hand. “Show her the board. The one with your name on it.”

  “What board?” Jessica says. There’s contempt in her voice, or something close to it, and the fact that she dares to speak to my daughter like that sends me raging.

  “OK, yes. That’s a good idea, Robin. A very good idea. My name is on the board inside. The list of school captains and vice captains. I’m up on that bloody board and I’m going to show you right now.”

  I start marching straight back toward school, not bothering to look around to see if they’re following, though the sound of rapid footsteps behind me suggests they are. I push through the front door of the school building and stand at reception.

  “I’d like to look at the board above the doors to the hall, please.”

  The receptionist looks at me blankly. Jessica is now beside me, Robin and Portia a little behind.

  “I’m sorry, what do you…”

  “I want to go through to the entrance of the hall and show this lady my name on the list of former school captains. She doesn’t seem to believe that I am an old girl.”

  I turn and go straight on through, Jessica hot on my heels. I find the boards and locate my name immediately.

  “Look. There I am. Look. Sadie Roper, Vice Captain. Straight up there.”

  “That’s not your name, though. Isn’t your name Sadie Spence?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, have you never heard of the concept of a married name? Spence is my husband’s name. Roper is my maiden name. The name I use.”

  “There’s no need to swear,” Jessica says, but she lacks conviction. She’s looking uncomfortable.

  “There’s every need to swear,” I say. “I’ve had enough of this. You’ve all behaved appallingly for weeks. It’s not on. Anyway, where are your bloody names? I don’t remember you at all either.”

  She gestures up at the shield to the right. I look up and read down the list from the years below me. Four years after me I see the name Jessica Morton, Vice Captain. I turn and look at her.

  “You were four years below me, then,” I say. “I don’t see Julia, though.”

  “Have you never heard of the concept of a married name?” she sneers back at me, though without conviction, before pointing above her own name. I squint and see the name Julia Brumfitt, three years below me.

  “Is that this Julia, then?” I say. Jessica nods. “You were both much younger. No wonder you don’t recognize me. I don’t remember anything about either of you.”

  She’s still looking uncomfortable. I examine her face closely, looking to see if I can place her after all this time. But I can’t. Not even the name rings a bell.

  Finally, she speaks. “I owe you an apology.” She doesn’t sound sorry. She sounds cross. “I shouldn’t have accused you of lying.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. I have no recollection of either of you whatsoever,” I say. “I’m surprised, I have to be honest. It wasn’t exactly the coolest thing to be school captain—didn’t they only hand it out to the people they were sorry for, the ones with no friends? Or people whose behavior they were trying to influence?”

  Jessica is shaking her head. “Oh no, not at all. It was definitely a badge of honor. Only the most popular girls were chosen. By the time I was doing it, certainly.”

  I look at her with skepticism. “Maybe they changed their policy. It was certainly the case for me,” I say. “And look, nothing has changed. Anyway, that’s quite enough reminiscing for one day. Do ensure that the message makes it through to the rest of your little gang, please. Since it seems to be important to you all. God only knows why.”

  I walk off without saying anything else, Robin at my side. In tacit agreement we keep going without talking until we’re safely on the bus, at which point we both burst out laughing. The discomfiture of Jessica keeps me going for the rest of the day. I even forget about the dead bird.

  Later that evening I text Zora. Do you remember Julia Brumfitt or Jessica Morton from school? Three or four years below us? Then I go to sleep, still smiling at the look on Jessica’s face.

  24

  Finally, it’s three o’clock on Friday. I’ve worked from home today, a list of demands from Barbara at my elbow. She’s getting edgy as the date of the trial approaches, despite the advances that I’ve made in reinforcing the defense case. I look through the list, tick off what I’ve managed to achieve so far, looking at the other four files with a sigh.

  I’ve found more nuggets of information. Other times when Freya has thrown accusations at her interlocutors, once suggesting one has got off with a boy she fancied and another time asserting that a girl called Priya has stolen her makeup bag from her locker. Each time, there’s a strong pushback, and counteraccusations of Freya being a drama queen—someone who makes up stories to get attention.

  My qualms have faded. The more I see this pattern of behavior, the more I’m beginning to doubt the complainant’s credibility. Which is the point of the exercise, after all. I set up a document on my computer, saving it under the title Lies Freya Told. Three entries so far, but with another six months’ worth of messages to plow through, I’m pretty sure we’re going to get more material to add, all fuel for Barbara’s cross-examination of the girl. I’m going to have to work over the weekend.

  Zora texts just as I finish working.

  I don’t remember Jessica. Wasn’t there some drama around that Julia? Something to do with bullying? I’ll ask
around, see if anyone remembers xx

  Despite my intention not to bother, not to make any effort at all, I shower before going to collect Robin. Then I dress and apply makeup with more care than usual. I’m fed up with feeling shit whenever I go near the school gates. They’ve only seen me in my old black suit, dull work stuff—it’s time to break out some less formal clothes. I put on a slick of red lipstick, wipe it off, put it back on again, and slam out of the house without looking in the mirror.

  I see Nicole as she leaves the tube. The woman looks around once, twice, before coming up to me.

  “Hi,” she says. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You look… different.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Good, I mean. You look good. Younger. Sorry, I didn’t mean…” Her face flushes. I don’t reply for a moment, leaving her hanging. Then I relent, a little. At least Nicole is making an effort.

  “Thanks,” I say, a small concession. Still not making it easy for her.

  “Um, I was wondering. I know I said I’d call about us meeting up with the kids. Sorry I haven’t, it’s…” Her words trail off.

  “Complicated?” I say brightly.

  “Yes. Complicated.” A long pause before words start rushing out, tumbling over each other. “Look, I know how Julia must seem. But she’s all right, really. She was so good to me when my husband left. She doesn’t realize how she comes across, she’s so focused on Daisy. I mean, her husband left her, too.

  It’s really difficult for her. It can make her seem quite… hard. But once you get to know her—”

  “She’s made it quite clear she doesn’t want to get to know me,” I interrupt.

  “She’ll get there,” Nicole says. “Just give her time. Especially now she knows you’re an old girl. Honestly, she’s really lovely underneath. I owe her so much.” Her voice breaks. She looks close to tears, pink around her eyes.