Little Liar

by Lisa Ballantyne

  She came into the room, popped the caps on two more beers and put them on the table as he spooned out their risotto. She found the unopened mail set on the counter and sat down at the table to open it: bank statements, and a letter marked ‘Patrick, Wiseman & Faldane’.

  She turned it over. ‘From the lawyer?’

  ‘Really?’

  Marina inserted her thumbnail and ripped open the letter. It was a bill for three thousand pounds. ‘Legal services to date …’ she read, ‘we trust you find this in order and look forward to receiving payment shortly.’

  Their eyes met. ‘And you’ve not even got to court yet.’ Marina put the bill back into the envelope.

  He gave her the best portion and placed it before her. She opened the cutlery drawer. ‘You want a spoon or a fork?’

  ‘Spoon.’

  ‘Me too.’

  They ate in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘You all right?’ he said, looking at her tired eyes.

  ‘Yeah, fine, why?’

  ‘I dunno. You seem …’

  Marina let her fork drop against the porcelain. ‘Theresa called me into her office about the Twitter thing. Didn’t go unnoticed.’

  Nick also put down his spoon, washing the mouthful down with beer. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘What do you think? I said the police were being completely unhelpful – failing or refusing to connect the dots and that we were now victims … from every angle.’ A single tear left her eye and she nudged it away with the heel of her hand when it reached her cheekbone.

  Nick held his breath at the sight, shocked, and then, feeling a curl of responsibility, shame, he reached out, took the hand away from her face and held it.

  ‘Today, Luca asked me if I was going to jail.’

  ‘Who told him that?’

  ‘I think he overheard my parents talking. I tried to explain, but you know Luca …’

  ‘That’s why he’s been wetting the bed.’

  For the past month, even before the brick incident, Luca had wet the bed at least twice a week. He had been dry at night since he was three.

  ‘We don’t know that. It could be a phase.’

  She smiled and withdrew her hand, ‘Yeah, the phase where his dad might go to prison.’

  Nick hung his head. ‘Tell me what Theresa said.’ He needed to change the subject.

  ‘Well, you know what she’s like, all …’ she waved her hand in the air, a gesture when she was trying to find an English word, ‘all double. Duplicitous. She said that she is behind me – that she has my back, but I don’t believe her, and she asked for details and I … told her everything.’

  ‘Was that wise?’

  ‘You know that I’m obliged to declare any potential conflicts of interest. I had no choice. Before I told her that it was just “assault” but now I had to admit that you were being investigated for a sexual offence. I told her about the brick through our window and the Facebook page. It’s on the news … on the web anyway. But I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.’

  She was picking at her food, making little holes in the rice with her spoon, like Luca. Nick ate quickly, big mouthfuls to take away his words.

  She sat back in her seat and her spoon sounded against the plate. ‘I know this is happening to you, but a lot of it is directed at me. My job is at stake here. They’re targeting my Twitter account and throwing a brick through the window with my name on it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, not knowing what else to say. ‘I can’t control any of that.’

  ‘I know that,’ she was angered suddenly, ‘but you can react. You could feel the way I feel, completely … outraged.’

  ‘That is how I feel.’

  ‘So show it! I don’t see that. I don’t see you going mad, losing your mind.’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘No, but I want some kind of normal reaction to being accused of … of …’

  ‘You tell me how you want me to react, all right?’ Anger flared through him. ‘Tell me how you want me to be, and then I’ll be that, okay?’

  Her cheeks flushed. ‘Not only are you being accused of this … this … terrible crime but they are attacking me, attacking your children. If it was me I would be fighting it. I would want to protect us. I would be going crazy.’ Her eyes shone, anger or hurt, he couldn’t tell.

  ‘How can I fight it?’ he raised his voice. ‘Of course I want to protect you, but how can I fight it?’

  ‘You can fight it by being normal, by being upset, by getting angry at this …’ She went on and on, telling him how he should feel and how he should behave. He closed his eyes for a second, wanting to just take her by the throat and squeeze, just to get her to shut up.

  ‘Of course I’m angry,’ he said, feeling heat flush his face from hurt at her words.

  ‘You act like you don’t care.’ Marina began to cry. The tears were like a smashed glass, recalibrating. Nick reached out and took her hands and pressed his forehead against hers.

  His chest heaved. They stayed like that for a moment, breathing in and exhaling each other’s breath, as they did after making love. ‘I was trying to keep it inside. I’m trying to stay strong – for you, for the kids. It’s not that I don’t care.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘I just don’t know how much more I can take. I’m trying to be supportive,’ she gulped air, ‘but this is not just all about you. This is affecting us all.’

  It was true. Guilt knuckled under his ribcage.

  ‘C’mon.’ He thumbed a tear from her cheekbone and attempted a smile. ‘I know my risotto sucks and is not even worthy of sharing fridge space with your paella, but at least it has one of your five a day.’

  She cocked her head to one side and laughed a single syllable, then sighed, picking up her fork.

  ‘We’re going to be okay,’ he said to her, as much to reassure himself as her.

  She nodded, a brave smile on her lips, as if trying to convince him she believed him.

  When they were both finished he kissed her oily lips before she had a chance to lick them.

  22

  Angela

  ‘I don’t want to see her,’ said Angela.

  It was late morning and she was lying on her stomach on her bed, sketching the back of her left hand. Her art teacher at Croydon Academy had told her that hands were the most difficult part of the human anatomy to draw, and that was why Leonardo de Vinci sketched them so many times. Angela’s hand on the page was slimmer and longer than her real hand, and she had added the diamond ring to the ring finger, even though the ring was still safely in her music box. There wasn’t room for her music box under her bed at her father’s flat, so she had tucked it to the back of the bedside cabinet.

  ‘You have to. You wouldn’t see her on your birthday and I think she really misses you. She said she’d wait for you outside the cinema. I’ll drop you just outside, and I can come back and collect you, or your mum said she would bring you back. See how things go.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’ Angela picked up her pencil and continued to sketch. Her mother had sent her a birthday card that was so big it didn’t fit through her father’s letterbox. Inside had been a fifty-pound note. She hadn’t seen her mother since she left home. Every time she thought of Donna, she imagined the stab wound under her eye and the black and blue swelling, and self-hatred welled up in her like pus.

  ‘Well, you told her you would go last night. She might be on her way already. C’mon, let’s go. Get it over with and then I’ll get us something nice for tea.’

  ‘What will you get?’ Angela closed her sketchpad and swung her legs over the bed.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘KFC.’

  ‘Your wish is my command.’

  As they pulled into the retail park, Angela could see Donna standing outside the cinema, dressed all in black – jeans and a short duffel coat. The sight of her mother after so long brought a sharp pain to the back of her throat. She missed her,
but was also frightened, of her mother and of herself. She was scared that she would behave like a monster again, or be called a monster.

  Her father pulled into the kerb and Angela got out. It was freezing outside and the wind rushed at her from all sides in the vast space of the retail park. Angela tucked her hands into her pockets and watched the grey paving stones as she walked towards Donna.

  ‘Hello.’

  Angela shrugged, the wind buffeting her, and then slowly met her eye. There was now only a tiny red mark on her mother’s cheekbone and her face looked normal, healed.

  ‘You won’t believe it, but I missed you,’ said Donna, hugging Angela with one arm and turning her towards the cinema. ‘C’mon, let’s get out of the cold.’

  Inside was warm and smelled of sweet popcorn. The movie they were going to see was not on for another half hour.

  ‘Do you want something to eat then? Get a hot dog or some ice-cream just now and we can get popcorn to go in?’

  Angela nodded and they joined the queue together. Her mother was different – she never offered to buy Angela sweets. It had been a long time since they had gone to the cinema together, and on previous occasions, Donna had said that food and drink was too expensive. Angela had the feeling that Donna was trying to make it up to her after their fight. She chose a hot dog and they found a seat near the fast-food stall. It had been quiet before, but now more children were coming in, laughing and running back and forth.

  ‘Happy birthday.’

  Angela looked at the table.

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve not been with you on your birthday.’

  ‘Didn’t you want something?’ Angela asked, keen to change the subject, hot dog near her lips.

  ‘I’m all right. It’s so expensive, it puts me off.’

  Angela smiled, grateful for the familiarity of the remark.

  ‘I have money from Dad. I could buy you something.’

  ‘Thanks, love. I’m all right.’

  There was a long pause, and Angela looked down at her hot dog, sensing the words unspoken between them.

  ‘So, it is okay at your dad’s?’ Donna said finally.

  Angela was relieved, not wanting to talk about what had happened the last time they saw each other.

  ‘Yeah, it’s good. He says I can redecorate my room.’

  Her mother’s face pinched and Angela remembered the argument about painting a mural on her bedroom wall. She bit deeply into her hot dog.

  ‘You’re further from school. Harder to see your friends, but I suppose with all that’s happened … that’s not such a bad thing.’

  Angela swallowed, her mouth full. ‘Yeah, I’m still kept in at playtimes and lunch.’

  ‘That’ll stop soon.’

  Angela brushed a hand over her stomach, then focussed again on her hot dog, but her mother noticed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s just a bit sore.’

  ‘Really? What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Is it your period?’

  Angela tried not to roll her eyes but couldn’t help it. ‘Stop it.’

  Donna pressed her lips together and her cheeks creased. It made her face look old. Angela rustled the paper of her hot dog. She could tell that her mother was about to say something she found uncomfortable, and worried again that she was going to mention the fountain pen.

  ‘Did your dad speak to you about talking to the counsellor?’

  Angela shook her head and picked up her hot dog, but felt a sudden wave of fatigue. She wished she had asked for ice-cream instead.

  ‘They called me again and I told them you were living with your dad. I want you to think about it. I can get some time off work to take you.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it, I told you that.’ Angela felt her cheeks flushing with anger. She looked at the table and her now-cold food.

  ‘I would sit outside. I wouldn’t need to hear anything. You could speak to her by yourself. But, I dunno … I think it’s important to talk about what happened to you.’

  ‘Noooo,’ Angela said again, this time pushing her hot dog away with such force that it slid off the table.

  Donna sighed and bent to pick it up, placing it back on the table. Her face was grey with disappointment and Angela felt another flash of sheer hatred for herself that was almost painful. Donna opened her mouth to speak and Angela raised her shoulders in anticipation of the criticism. It didn’t come. Instead, her mother pressed her lips together and stood up.

  ‘Let’s just go and watch the film, eh? Try and have a nice time.’

  As they passed the popcorn, Donna said, ‘Do you want some then? Even though you didn’t eat much of your hot dog.’

  ‘No, my stomach’s still sore,’ Angela said again, this time nudging her belly with her wrist.

  ‘Have you been eating rubbish?’

  ‘No,’ Angela whined.

  ‘Your dad doesn’t think twice about giving you that stuff, but it’s not good for you. I can tell you’ve put on weight.’

  ‘You’ve put on weight, you fat cow,’ Angela said, scowling, yet still following her mother as she handed over their tickets and made her way towards Screen Eight.

  ‘Come on,’ said Donna, coaxing, but Angela stopped and put her hand flat onto the wall.

  ‘Let’s just go in, shall we? We don’t need to talk to each other. Just sit and enjoy the film.’

  Angela bent over suddenly, back of her hand to her lips.

  ‘What is it?’ Donna’s hand on her back, rubbing.

  ‘I think I’m gonna …’ Angela retched, but only a thin stream of brown water came out. She hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast and that was only a bowl of Rice Krispies, as she had been nervous about seeing Donna again.

  ‘Oh dear God.’ Her mother took her by the elbow and led her towards the toilets, steering Angela into the disabled cubicle.

  Angela lifted up the toilet lid and retched again, but this time nothing came out; the pain in her stomach was becoming worse. She crouched over, arm over her belly.

  Suddenly she felt herself spun around.

  Donna took her by the shoulders and held her right up to her face, wide eyes and pale, dry lips. ‘Listen to me. You didn’t take something again, did you? Did you take anything at your Dad’s – pills?’

  ‘No, I promise. My stomach’s just sore.’

  Donna lifted up Angela’s sweatshirt and T-shirt, placed a hand on her bare stomach. ‘Where does it hurt – left, right, or in the centre?’

  ‘Here,’ Angela whimpered, forefingers pressed to her side.

  ‘It could be your appendix. Does it hurt that much? Shall we go to hospital?’

  Angela nodded, then blew her nose on the tissue paper in the cubicle.

  A few minutes later they were in a taxi, once again on their way to Croydon University Hospital. The car swung out onto Purley Way and Angela fell gently against her mother. She had not meant to, it was just gravity, but now she chose to stay there, head resting on her mother’s shoulder.

  Donna seemed to tense, but patted Angela’s knee. ‘Not long now.’

  Angela waited on a plastic chair while her mother checked them in at the reception desk. The waiting room was quiet: a man holding his hand in a tea towel, a couple who seemed bored, a young man with a baby in a pushchair. The man who had hurt his hand was taken first, then a young man in blue came forward, holding a clipboard.

  ‘Angela Furness?’

  Angela and her mother followed him into a white room with a desk and a chair and a bed covered in tissue paper.

  ‘Hello, I’m Ahmed the triage nurse. You say you’ve been sick and have a sore stomach?’

  Angela nodded.

  ‘She was only barely sick, but she’s been complaining of sharp pains in the middle to the right of her tummy.’ Donna leaned over and raised Angela’s sweatshirt. Angela pulled it back down and hugged her stomach. ‘I was worried it’s her appendix.
’

  ‘Okay, let’s take your temperature then, Angela.’ He raised a machine that looked like a small gun. ‘I’m just going to pop this into your ear. Sit still for me. It won’t hurt.’

  Angela sat very still. It tickled when the nurse brushed away her hair from her neck.

  ‘All right.’ Nurse Patel sat back in his chair. ‘Your temperature is very slightly raised. I would have expected it to be higher if you had appendicitis, but if you wait a few minutes, I’ll get a doctor to see you.’

  Back in the waiting room, Donna sat forward in her seat, straight-backed. The tension in her body made Angela think that her mother was still angry with her. She was staring straight ahead, at the corridor leading to the examination rooms. If her mother had relaxed and sat back in her seat, their shoulders would have touched. Angela imagined that her mother didn’t want to touch her or see her.

  ‘You promise me you didn’t take any pills.’ Donna turned suddenly and faced Angela. ‘If you did, we have to tell the doctor right now.’

  ‘No.’ Angela was sitting deep into the plastic chair, her shoulders rounded and her stomach sticking out. ‘No.’ She returned her mother’s gaze, unblinking, mouth open.

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Donna straightened again. Angela watched her mother’s foot tap impatiently on the floor. ‘You don’t want to live with me, that’s fine,’ Donna said, very quietly, but loud enough that Angela could hear her, ‘but you absolutely must not try to hurt yourself again.’

  Her mother spoke looking straight down the corridor, so that it seemed as if she was talking to herself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Angela mumbled.

  ‘What?’ Donna turned to her. Her nose and eyes were very sharp, and made her look like a bird.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said again, chin to her chest.

  There was another long pause with her mother looking at her and Angela felt suddenly ashamed. She expected that Donna would ask her what for? She wanted to cover her face, but stayed where she was, avoiding her eyes and staring at her black Converse shoes.

  ‘Angela Furness?’ A young doctor with red hair pulled back into a knot stood at the edge of the waiting room.