Little Liar

by Lisa Ballantyne

  The woman that appeared before him was young, skin as tight as an apple. Her mouth was open and her eyes were closed.

  He wasn’t aroused as quickly as he normally was. Nick slowed down and opened another video, this one more violent. The woman was struck and made more noise. Mouth dry, Nick found his mind invaded by Marina, the dark pools of her eyes so like his daughter’s, judging him.

  He closed his browser and deleted his history.

  He was suddenly trembling, swollen with shame.

  He opened up his own photos and chose an old one, Marina in a bikini on the beach in Valencia, her birthplace, sand clinging to her bottom and her waist narrowing as she reached up to a bright blue sky, her stomach tight and brown. Once it had been enough for him – just this photo. He had been tantalised by the bows at each side of her hip, and how one was just coming undone. That had been the first time he went home with her: met her family. They had gone to Valencia at the end of the trip, for some time alone together. Sangria. Violent warm waves and hot sand. Seafood at night.

  Again, it wasn’t working. When he looked at Marina he saw her eyes, and everything that he knew lay behind them: her worries, her hopes, her fears, her disgust in him. He loved her more than he loved himself but he could no longer abstract her body from who she was. Once, she had been the object of his desire: in the bar where he worked, her round backside in her pale blue jeans, her wide white smile, her accent, the taste of her – spice and oranges. Now he knew her body so well he would be able to pick out one of her fingers, one of her toes, almost one hair from her head. Intimacy. He was intimate with that woman and he could no longer objectify her, no matter how hard he tried.

  He buttoned up his trousers and closed the laptop. When he saw her in real life he wanted her, and loved every inch of her, but the idea of her, the idea was tarnished by the familiarity – her frown when he disappointed her, the loose skin below her ribcage after carrying the children, the dimples on her hips, the corns on her baby toes.

  Nick put on his jacket and Rusty stretched in expectation of a walk, front paws out and rear in the air. He shook himself and then waited by the door for the lead to be attached. Nick checked his watch. There was time to take Rusty around the block. He just wanted to clear his head, and then do the Skype audition before picking up the children.

  Outside the air was warm and hopeful: spring starting to smell like summer. Nick just wanted to take Rusty to the avenue of trees near the reservoir but the little dog had in mind their usual route, and tugged him towards the park on Morley. Rusty stopped and sniffed at lampposts and bushes, while Nick checked his phone. He wanted to be back in time to warm up for the interview.

  As Rusty urinated, Nick imagined standing on a lonely stage, the warm spotlight finding him. He tried to remember what it was like to lose himself in a character, to open himself up to something outside himself. It was hard, because he was still so preoccupied by himself. He wondered if he would ever be able to act again, if Marina did not forgive him.

  He thought about Angela. They were more similar than he had considered. Both of them had been hurt. Neither had justice; both of them were victims.

  Marina’s face in the drive flashed before his eyes, telling him he disgusted her. He had not laid a finger on Angela Furness but had he been completely innocent? He had put his baby daughter to bed and then sought out images of girls being raped.

  Rape.

  He remembered looking up the word in the dictionary as a child, not understanding, yet feeling the titillation of it.

  Such a gentle word, with that tender p.

  As a young teenager he had found, and been transfixed by, an image of a statue, Bernini’s Rape of Proserpina. Just a picture of white marble and yet Nick had been fascinated. His eyes had lingered on the hands of the muscular man, Pluto, fingers digging deep into the woman’s upper thigh, as she tried to escape his lust. The anguish on her face contrasted with the steel force of the man’s musculature, calves, abdomen. The deep impression of Pluto’s fingers in her flesh foretold the rape to come.

  As they approached the park, Nick was aware of a black car driving past him on the quiet school road, windows darkened. He had rarely walked Rusty at this time, and the park was unusually empty. After school or on weekends, there were games of rounders or five-a-side football, parents cheering from the sidelines. In the mornings there were joggers, and other dog walkers, but this afternoon no one else was around.

  Rusty strode confidently at his side, his short legs and tiny paws reaching out with assertion. Nick smiled down as the little dog stopped at an interesting smell and then tugged back on the lead, doubling back and sniffing some more, before a careful, strategic pee, leaving his mark, establishing dominance. Dogs didn’t question their own nature – they had no cause.

  Just then, there was the sound of car tyres skidding on tarmac as the black car braked near the entrance to the park. Nick turned at the screech.

  It happened so fast. He experienced it in frames, like a strip of film.

  Two men got out of the car and walked towards him. One had a fistful of gold rings and the other slid a long baton from inside his jacket. Both men were taller than he was and although not heavy, seemed hard with muscle.

  Nick swallowed as the men focussed on him, looking over his shoulder in case their target was behind him. They didn’t speak and Nick had never seen them before in his life, but suddenly he knew that they were here to hurt him.

  They were only a few feet away when he turned to run. He let go of Rusty’s lead and ran further into the park, faster than he ever thought he could, energy hot in his muscles. The pathways were overshadowed by tall green trees that absorbed all the sound of the day: traffic, conversations. There was only his breath and the rhythm of his feet on the path.

  Suddenly, Nick felt a hard crack at the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades. The force took him down and he fell on his hands and knees. Before he could get to his feet, the two men began kicking him so hard that he was slowly beaten into the undergrowth at the very edge of the park. His breath left him and he couldn’t get to his feet. The pain in his ribs brought tears to his eyes. His stomach began to convulse as the muscles in his abdomen tried to withstand the blows.

  The man with the rings leaned down and took Nick by the sweater, lifting him so close that Nick could smell the man’s bitter breath and see the spit stretch between his lips, the tiny blood vessels in his small eyes.

  ‘You’re not going to touch another kid again, you disgusting prick.’

  ‘I … I didn’t …’

  ‘I took money for this, but for filth like you I’d do it for free.’

  The man’s fist smashed into Nick’s face. Again and again, so that he was blinded. His nose cracked and then there was another blow to his jaw that must have knocked him out for a few seconds or minutes, but when he came round again it was still happening. Blood in his mouth. The panting of the men as they beat him.

  Then nothing … and Nick rolled to his side, blinded, ringing in his ears, the smell of damp moss, earth. Pain all over his body but mainly in his jaw and neck.

  He tried to swallow but his tongue was thick in his mouth, metallic with the taste of blood. He couldn’t open his eyes. They had swollen shut, but he knew he had to crawl and try to get help.

  Because he couldn’t see, his hearing was sharp. He thought he heard Rusty barking. His phone was in his back pocket and he reached out, trying to feel for it.

  A blow landed on his forearm first and then his upper arm. Nick heard the crack and had never felt such pain – searing through him. He cradled his hand, gritting his teeth.

  ‘Get his ankle,’ Nick heard, then tried to move, to protect himself, but couldn’t.

  He screamed then. It seemed to come from deep within him, below his lungs, somewhere in his bowels.

  He choked, not knowing if hands were around his throat or if his own blood was choking him.

  The pain radiated through him. He saw
Marina’s face just before he blacked out. She wasn’t smiling. She was in the driveway with Ava and Luca cradled under each arm, protecting her children from him. He remembered the smell of her tights and the unpacked bag on the bedspread.

  How would she know where he was?

  Would she even look for him?

  33

  Angela

  Everything had gone back to normal. She was living with her mum and her dad was coming to pick her up this afternoon. She wasn’t pregnant anymore. Alone in her bedroom, Angela took the diamond ring on the chain from her jewellery box and put it around her neck, as she had done that night when she took the pills.

  From downstairs, Angela heard her mother calling.

  The weight of the necklace felt good on her neck.

  Treasured.

  Precious.

  Special.

  Just for a moment, Angela felt as valued as she had when he had given her the ring. The ring meant she was beloved. She leaned back on her bed, pressing the ring into her chest.

  Donna called again from below. ‘Coming.’

  Angela tucked the necklace inside her shirt, closed her jewellery box and pushed it back under the bed.

  Downstairs, Donna was excited, holding a package that had arrived in the mail and she had already burst open. ‘I ordered this for your birthday, and it’s only just arrived. I can’t believe it took this long, but maybe that was meant to be. Here you are, back home with me now.’

  ‘What is it?’ Angela smiled in anticipation.

  ‘Do you want me to wrap it first?’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘Go through, sit down.’

  Smiling, Angela went into the living room and sat expectantly on the couch.

  ‘I didn’t want to just give you money. I wanted to get you something you could keep.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Close your eyes and hold out your hands.’

  Angela did as she was asked, waiting, one hand tucked under the other until a small weight landed in her palm.

  It was a little black box. She shook it and it rattled.

  Carefully, she opened it.

  There was a little gold coin on a chain inside.

  ‘It’s a St Christopher. Solid gold. It’s meant to protect you. Keep you safe.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ said Angela, about to close the box, but Donna leaned over and took the necklace from its case, holding it up so that it turned in the light.

  ‘Try it on. I got the slightly longer chain, so that it might last you until you’re older. You’re supposed to keep it on all the time.’

  ‘I’ll put it on later.’

  ‘It’s hard to do the catch. Let me help you.’

  Donna was already standing up and holding the necklace open. Reluctantly, Angela held up her hair so that her mother could fix it in place. It was better now, with her mum, but there was still a feeling of strain between them, as if they were both trying not to have a fight.

  ‘You’re wearing a necklace already. Take that off first in case they get tangled.’

  ‘No,’ said Angela, and suddenly pulled away with force. The necklace that Donna had been holding open around her neck broke and the St Christopher fell to the floor.

  ‘Angela!’ That voice her mother had always used when disappointed. ‘Look what you’ve done.’

  ‘You were forcing it around my neck.’

  One hand over her chest, pressing on the ring, Angela watched her mother as she picked up the St Christopher and then inspected the chain.

  ‘It’ll mend, I suppose.’

  Donna was trying very hard not to cause an argument. Angela turned away from her mother, and leaned against the wall.

  ‘What is that necklace, anyway? You never wear jewellery.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’ Angela had her back to her mother, but she felt her eyes on her, burning through her clothes and into her skin.

  ‘Come here.’

  Angela put her hands on her head, elbows in front of her face, warding her off.

  Donna took hold of her shoulders and spun her round, jarring her shoulder blades off the wall.

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘What are you hiding?’

  Angela tried to twist away and pushed her elbows further together, but Donna reached inside the neckline of her shirt and pulled out the ring.

  ‘Leave it. It’s mine,’ Angela shouted, twisting away again so that the chain broke. The ring was heavy and fell inside her shirt and Angela patted herself down, expecting to find it, but Donna was already on her knees.

  ‘What the hell is that? It’s …’

  Too late.

  Angela watched her mother’s face, studying the ring. Recognition took hold, flooding her features, eyes, eyebrows and lips.

  Donna held the diamond ring in her left hand. Now, in comparison, Angela saw how much larger her own diamond ring was beside her mother’s engagement ring. Why did she still wear that little ring her father had given her, anyway?

  ‘He’s been at you, hasn’t he? It’s him, isn’t it? All this time …’ Donna’s eyes were wild.

  Angela’s hair was over her face; she looked at her mother through strands.

  Donna brushed the hair from Angela’s eyes and held her face.

  It was too much for Angela, so close to her mother’s eyes, inhaling the breath that left her mouth. The truth stuck in her throat and stung her eyes. Close like this, Donna would see the truth inside her.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I? It’s him?’ Donna shook Angela, fingers digging into her arm.

  ‘No,’ she screamed back, tears exploding out of her. It was different from the aspirin; different from the fire, different from the time she stabbed Donna in the cheek. Now the tears seemed to be coming from deep inside her. ‘No. No. No.’

  ‘Look at you. Look at the state of you. You’re shaking. Look what you’ve been through. You can’t keep this to yourself any longer. I’m your mother and I have to protect you – that’s what I’m supposed to do. But I can’t do that unless you tell me the truth.’

  ‘No!’ Angela cried, folding into Donna, against her will it seemed, but she no longer knew what her will was. It was a relief to find Donna’s soft shoulder, the softness of her flesh, the smell of her, all of her childhood built around that smell.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m right. Just tell me that I’m right?’

  Her mother’s soft hands on her cheeks, smoothing away the tears and wet hair.

  ‘Yes,’ Angela whispered, her tears stopping suddenly. ‘Yes.’ The breath was lost inside her. She opened her eyes. Her mother was holding the diamond ring in front of her.

  ‘This is your grandmother’s engagement ring. He kept it to himself. He had it valued and insured and I only saw it once throughout our whole marriage, but I remember it. I remember how it holds the light. When did he give it to you?’

  ‘A year or so ago.’

  Donna nodded, her face grey but resigned. ‘You were in your last year at primary? It was before all this, before fights and head teachers, it was way back then …’

  Breath paused in Angela’s throat but she nodded.

  ‘And that was when it started, when he started …’

  ‘I don’t remember when it started.’ Her voice was faint, her eyes staring into the distance. ‘I remember when he used to look after me it was always different, but when he moved out it got worse. He said I was special.’

  ‘Before you even knew Mr Dean, he gave this ring to you.’

  She nodded again. ‘He said he loved me and the ring proved it.’

  ‘And the baby. It was his?’

  Her mother’s face had changed. It was at once placid and murderous. Angela had never seen her hold so much anger and calm at once. It frightened her.

  Angela blinked: that was the only acknowledgement she gave.

  ‘I remember now. I let you down. That morning after you took the pills. You tried to tell me, but I jumped in about calling you
r dad. You tried to tell me and all I did was say I’d call the one who hurt you.’

  Donna looked down at the St Christopher still clenched in her palm.

  ‘Give me your hand.’

  Angela held out her hand; Donna pressed the medallion into it, and curled the fingers over.

  ‘And that thing with Mr Dean? Did he ever touch you?’

  Angela shook her head, tears salt in her throat. She wasn’t sure she would be able to speak. ‘I wanted to tell you but I was scared, and I couldn’t take it back. I had to say it was someone, because I couldn’t say his name. And me and Jasmine liked Mr Dean … he was better than all the boys in school.’ Angela nudged the heel of her hand to her cheek, catching a tear.

  ‘I said I was going to protect you, and I meant it.’

  Angela met her mother’s eyes. She felt a hot, quick fear, like a flame on paper, hungry, unstoppable.

  34

  Stephen

  It was just after two.

  Stephen had called a few times to see if they were ready and received no reply. He wasn’t worried. Donna always let her phone lose charge, although Angela had also not replied to his messages. He hummed as he walked up to the door. His old neighbour, Dennis, was in the garden.

  ‘All right, Stephen?’

  ‘Just picking up Angel.’

  ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  Stephen smiled and rang the doorbell, squinting through the frosted glass for the shapes of Angela and Donna inside. He felt good today, although he was one thousand pounds poorer. The loss of funds was a fair trade for justice. He had been told that Dean had been successfully hit. It had been clean. No one had been caught – in fact, Hunter had said that Dean had been left in the undergrowth and may not be found for a while, perhaps days. It could only have been more satisfying if Stephen had done it himself.

  ‘Alright?’ he called over to Dennis. ‘Back to work you are. No rest for the wicked.’

  ‘I’m just doing a little today. Some weeding. Clear space and then I know what I have to do; the canvas is clear.’

  ‘You’re doing a fine job.’

  Stephen faced the door, impatient now, not wanting to continue conversation with Dennis any longer.