Little Liar

by Lisa Ballantyne

  ‘We’ll see,’ she shrugged, turning from him so that the dark swelling under her eye was exaggerated, the side of her face pulled out of shape.

  ‘There’s a chance the school will report those bruises on Angel’s face, you know. She’s not exactly flying under the radar there – her every step is monitored. They will ask questions. You should prepare yourself for that.’

  ‘I told you, she did it to herself.’ Her mouth drew together, like a pinched seam.

  ‘I’m not saying you weren’t provoked. I believe she did that to you.’ He could feel the anger rumbling inside him, but he kept his voice low, checking his breathing.

  Donna half-laughed, and took another drag, then shook her head. ‘Oh, thank you so much.’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’

  ‘For what?’ Her blue eyes suddenly focussed on him, the fury in them exposing the whites round the irises. ‘You need to know that there’s something seriously wrong with her head.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ Stephen took a step closer, the whiff of her perfume sullied with smoke clawed in his memory. ‘Her teacher attacked her!’

  ‘Before that – she was angry before that – and you know it.’

  ‘I think you’re angry, and perhaps that’s understandable.’

  ‘She’s out of control. I could have lost an eye.’

  ‘You’re her mother. You’re supposed to teach her, protect her—’

  She stubbed out her cigarette on the brick wall of the house and turned to go back inside. ‘Well, if you’re parent of the year see if you can get her to go to that counsellor that the sexual assault team recommended. God knows she needs her head read.’

  Stephen inhaled, a rebuff on his lips, but Donna went inside and closed the door behind her.

  There was no point in pursuing it. He whistled as he made his way to the car, trying to change his mood for Angela.

  In the car, Stephen didn’t say a word until they had pulled out onto Shirley Road.

  ‘So,’ he said, turning to smile at her, ‘I thought we could go get you a new mobile?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Angela, a strange hurt smile on her face.

  ‘And it’s your birthday soon. Thirteen is a big birthday. Thirteen is special. If you see something …’

  As they approached the shopping centre, Stephen turned the steering wheel, letting it slide easily between his fingers. ‘Once we’ve got your phone, we can maybe go to a café and get some ice-cream while we set it up?’

  Angela nodded and her hood fell down onto her shoulders. The bruise on her cheek looked bad – so bad, he almost regretted his words and wondered if they should go home for ice-cream – or if he should ask her to wait in the car while he went to get the phone. Out with her on his own, it would seem to strangers that he had hurt her. It was pointless even considering asking her to stay in the car; she would want to choose her phone, and she would want to eat her ice-cream right away, before it melted.

  Hands at ten and two on the wheel, Stephen took a deep breath and exhaled down his nose. He had prepared what he was about to say.

  ‘Angel, I heard from your mum about what happened the other night. I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but if you do, I’m here and ready to listen.’

  She turned and nodded once, pulling her hood back up over her head.

  Her hands were pressed between her knees and he laid his hand on top of them, then turned off the engine. ‘You know I’m always on your side?’

  She nodded quickly. He tapped her knee and got out of the car.

  Stephen walked backwards away from his car and pressed the lock button. The lights flashed in recognition. Angela was at his side, hands in the pockets of her hoodie, hunched over and scuffing her feet. He had got in trouble once before for suggesting that she be more ladylike, and now kept his mouth shut. At least her hoodie meant that her bruised face was less visible.

  Angela chose a large-screened Android phone that she said was better than the one she had before. Stephen paid in cash. Then she chose chocolate ice-cream with M&Ms and granola sprinkles.

  Back at the flat, he had put flowers in her room: sunflowers and irises. The irises had blue throats matching the colour of her eyes. He had put a chocolate on her pillow next to a new stuffed animal – a koala.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ he said, turning on the light and pointing to his efforts.

  ‘I’m too old for stuffed animals,’ she said, putting her bag down on the bed.

  Stephen smiled. ‘Fair enough. Now you’re going to be here all the time, we can change it. We can make it more grownup – proper teenager’s room.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said. Her face was blotchy and red, as if she was about to cry, but Stephen decided it was just the swelling on her face.

  ‘Do you want me to get some ice to put on your face?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s probably too late, anyway. The worst is out already.’

  Angela sat down on the bed. ‘Yeah, the worst is out,’ she said faintly, looking at the floor.

  ‘I’ll run you a bath then …’

  Stephen didn’t fully close her bedroom door behind him. He listened to hear if she was crying.

  He turned on the taps, and then ducked into the hall cupboard. He bit his lip as he clicked the mouse, opening files he had saved on Nicholas Dean: his police interview but also internet files on his acting career and articles on him for magazines and newspapers, pictures of his wife and children.

  When the bath was ready, he knocked on Angela’s door. She was wearing a polka-dot towelling dressing gown that her mother had bought her a couple of years ago. It was tight on her hips and chest. Her hair was greasy, strands clumped together.

  ‘I put bubbles in it for you, and I have some posh shampoo and things.’

  She nodded and walked ahead of him down the hall, towards the steam and the warm, synthetic strawberry smell of the bubble bath. At the door, he stopped and took her by the shoulders, turning her around to face him. She was looking down at her white chubby feet. Stephen smiled. Her eyelashes were so long. Even with her bruised face and her greasy hair, she was so beautiful to him.

  ‘Listen to me. Are you okay about this? Staying with me all the time? I know it’s not easy with your mum and I apart.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘We’ll make your room here even better than your one at home.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I think it’ll be better for you and your mum, too. Gives you both some space, and then you can spend quality time together. You can go shopping and things …’

  ‘Mum only goes shopping to Tesco.’

  Stephen smiled, trying not to laugh. It was true. ‘Well, I’m sure that’ll change. You can do fun things together, mother and daughter …’

  ‘She hates me.’

  ‘She doesn’t hate you.’

  Angela looked up into his eyes. ‘She does. She said she did. She said I was a monster.’

  ‘You mother drinks too much. I’m sure she says a lot of things she doesn’t mean. It’s another reason why I’m happy you’re here with me … Safe.’

  ‘She wasn’t drinking when she said that.’

  ‘Well,’ Stephen took a deep breath, not sure how to counsel Angela. He tried his best not to criticise Donna but he found it hard to conceal his contempt for her. ‘It’s clear you both need some time apart. I needed to be away from her, too. You’re here now, and I’m going to look after you properly. I love you, more than anything else in the world.’

  Angela lowered her eyes, long black lashes brushing her pale cheeks. Stephen wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tight.

  ‘All right, Angel, you jump in and I’ll get started on dinner.’

  ‘Love you too,’ Angela whispered, into his chest.

  *

  Downstairs, Stephen triple-locked the main door then began to prepare dinner. He had bought two different ready meals: a curry for him and a bolognaise for A
ngela. In the fridge was a chocolate fudge cake that he had bought specially for her. He would heat it after dinner, so that the sauce was warm.

  He pierced the film of the packaging and then stood watching the meal turn in the microwave as he thought about Nicholas Dean laying hands on his little girl.

  The smell of hot plastic and garlic reminded him of human sweat. The smell of a man changed when he was frightened, Stephen had observed early in his training, when he had been involved in interrogations.

  He wanted to hurt that actor, Nicholas Dean, for what he had done to Angela. It would be deserved. Donna even expected it. She had said as much: What are you going to do?

  It was more than his job was worth, and what if Angela was lying? There would be no saving him this time if he was caught taking the law into his own hands. He would have to trust justice.

  The microwave pinged and Stephen set Angela’s dinner aside before beginning his own. He bought these meals often, yet still he checked the label to remind him of the different stages of cooking.

  Donna was so stupid; so deeply fearful. She had asked his advice about the drawings and the photographs of Angela with Dean. Stephen had told her to take it straight to the police. Sometimes he wondered what he had ever seen in Donna – how he could ever have married her. After just one meeting, his mother had told him that Donna was not worthy of him.

  An image, unbidden, appeared in his mind. He was accustomed to it, and he watched it impassively as the screen of the microwave hummed before him: Donna with a strong hand around her throat being raped in a freezer.

  She had told him the story early in their relationship and he had never been able to think about her for long without that image being placed, like a piece of coloured Perspex, over the way he saw her. It explained Donna, the way she was now: like the pit of a peach, all scars and deep grooves.

  ‘How you getting on, Angel?’ Stephen called out.

  ‘I’m out.’

  He put cutlery on the waiting plates, then carefully peeled back the burning hot plastic film.

  ‘Three minutes, on the table,’ he called to Angela.

  Stephen set up two trays with the plates, cutlery and napkins, so that they could eat in the living room with the television.

  A few minutes to spare, he slipped back into the cupboard under the stairs to watch the CCTV footage from the day. He watched it at the fastest speed, yet it seemed that he never had enough hours to catch up with what he had missed. Most of the footage was blank, just his doorstep and the railing, but occasionally a neighbour would pass, the post woman, an elderly lady, the European guy renting the flat below that Stephen had always been suspicious about.

  Better safe than sorry, his mother had always said.

  *

  When he had caught up on the CCTV, and Angela was still not downstairs, Stephen opened his laptop and clicked on the file named ‘Dean’. He had taken copies of the artwork and photographs that Donna had just passed to the police. He selected the photo booth shot of Angela and Dean together, and opened it out to full-screen.

  The man looked like a choirboy, younger than his years but lecherous at the same time. Stephen had already found out where he lived, but so long as justice prevailed, he would do nothing apart from watch. He swallowed, and closed the file down and then the computer.

  He would keep his mouth shut and watch, but if the police delayed or failed to charge Dean, then Stephen would act.

  21

  Nick

  It was late afternoon. Nick was alone in the house with his own children. It didn’t feel as much of a relief as he had anticipated.

  Faldane had managed to get the bail conditions changed but everything else was still in limbo. Nick watched the television feeling bleak, bitter.

  Ava and Luca had not long returned from day care and Ava was napping on the couch in the kitchen alcove, while Luca was sitting on one of his sister’s brightly coloured miniature chairs, turning the pages of a book about dinosaurs. He still had a large lump, which made his little head seem strangely cuboid.

  ‘Dad?’ said Luca, peering over the top of his book.

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Are you going to get put in jail?’

  Nick sat up two inches and his half-closed eyes flashed open. ‘No. What makes you say that?’

  Luca put the book down on his lap. ‘I heard Granny and Grandpa talking and then last week the police came here.’

  ‘That was because a bad person threw a brick through our window and hurt your head.’

  Luca nodded twice and raised his book a little, the workings of his mind reflected in his large brown eyes.

  ‘Yes, but Grandma told Grandpa she was worried you were going to jail.’

  ‘Did she?’ Nick felt heat spreading from his neck upwards.

  ‘Yes, and she told Grandpa to offer you money because good lawyers cost a lot.’

  Nick sighed and put his hands on his head. ‘C’mere.’

  Luca closed his book, put it down at his side and went to his father. Nick pulled him onto his knee, ran a hand through his hair and kissed his cheek.

  ‘You’re a good boy, you know that?’

  Luca nodded, his face gravely serious.

  ‘I’m going to tell you something, but I don’t want you to say anything to Ava – this is just for big boys, okay?’

  Eyes even larger, Luca nodded again.

  ‘Do you know what it feels like when someone says you did something wrong, but you know you didn’t do it and that they’re telling lies about you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that’s what happened to Daddy, but don’t worry, the police are very good and they’re investigating and I’m sure that the truth will come out.’

  Luca’s face was suddenly pale with worry. His lower lip, wet with spit, quivered.

  ‘Has anyone ever told lies about you?’

  ‘Yes, when I was in primary one, Bernard said I had put milk in the sandpit but it was really him.’

  ‘And what did the teacher do?’

  ‘I told her I had already drank my milk and put it in the bin and she believed me.’

  ‘Right. So that’s like the police. They’re looking in the bin for my milk carton and when they find it, they’ll know I didn’t put it in the sand.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But what?’ Nick smiled and kissed Luca’s warm hair, breathing in the smell of him. His son had a different smell from his daughter – saltier.

  ‘You must have done something else. They must think you did something really bad. Only then can you go to jail.’

  Nick breathed down his nose. He had forgotten whom he was dealing with – Luca was as incisive and persistent as Marina.

  ‘Someone said I … hurt them, but I never touched them.’

  ‘Did they say that because they don’t like you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think about the person. I never knew they thought about me.’

  ‘Daddy?’ said Luca, half-smiling and frowning, a confusing expression only his son and wife shared.

  ‘What?’ Nick put a hand on his son’s warm hair.

  ‘Your face is all red.’

  ‘Is it?’ Nick swept Luca off his knee. ‘It’s just hot in here.’ He stood up and switched the television off.

  ‘Go wake your sister. We’ll take Rusty out before Mum comes home.’

  Luca tucked his hardback book under his arm and left the room, back straight, head so much bigger than his small thin body.

  Nick sank back into the couch and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

  Marina was working late. Nick had the children bathed and in bed before she got home – order restored. He was in the middle of cooking an asparagus risotto when he heard her key turn in the lock.

  The rice was fattening and he was about to add the parmigiano when she came in and put her laptop onto the table. She went to him and he turned his lips up to meet hers, finding instead her cheek.

  ‘Something sme
lls good,’ she said. Her tone was still distant. He wanted to get back to that place they had been at, before the police walked into their home. They were brittle now. She denied it, but he could feel it. He would never have believed it – their relationship had been the strong foundation in his life – but now it felt as if they could break at any moment. It was the mundane that was saving them right now: the kids’ schedules, the laundry, bills to be paid, the fucking risotto. The real them, the people that met in between, felt shaken.

  He turned, hoping to coax a smile from her, but then saw her face. She looked worn, dark circles under her eyes.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Better now I’m home. How long’s dinner? I want a shower.’

  ‘However long you need it to be.’

  She took a beer from the fridge and smiled at him before leaving the kitchen. Nick turned his focus back to the frying pan, a knot of anxiety in his stomach. They had always been so open with each other, but now he didn’t know what she was thinking. They were still having sex, but it felt different, as if she were detaching from him, studying him. When he touched her now, he thought about it before it happened.

  He finished the risotto and pushed it to the back of the stove. It was easy to reheat. He took a beer and drank it waiting on her, looking out of the window at the late January night. There were no more leaves on the trees. It was already dark and he had to squint near the glass to see outside; standing back there was only his reflection. There was no one he wanted to look at less than himself. Nick took a deep swill of beer. The malt and bubbles on his tongue reminded him of happy times but did not cheer him.

  His parents were right. He was going to jail. At the very least he was looking at an expensive jury trial – just another piece of entertainment-industry flotsam accused of horrific acts of sexual abuse. Even if he didn’t end up in jail, in solitary confinement to protect him from the other inmates who wanted to rape him, he would never work again. He would end up driving his father’s lorries. He took another swig, watching his dark reflection in the window.

  He gulped his beer imagining prison: violent assaults and disinterest from the guards. Anyone who had a daughter would think he was fair game. But that wasn’t his worst fear. His worst fear was Marina doubting him, and he felt it now.