The Liar's Promise

by Mark Tilbury

  After finishing the Game Room, they set about cleaning their living quarters. Wiping down the bunks, folding blankets, sweeping the floor, rolling up sleeping bags. Tanya sprayed bleach into the toilet and cleaned the rim with Flash. After washing themselves, they returned the equipment to the theatre.

  Turquoise-six wasted no time complaining about aching limbs and hunger.

  ‘All right,’ Tanya said. ‘We’ll eat now if everyone’s ready.’

  Food was supplied by an upright freezer stocked full of microwave meals. A fridge contained bottled water. There was no kettle or facility for heating water. The waste was collected once a week, along with dirty laundry; and the bin was emptied at the same time.

  ‘Can’t fucking wait,’ Turquoise-six. ‘What’s on the menu tonight? Let me guess; curry or lasagne?’

  Tanya slammed the door. ‘Just give it a rest, for fuck’s sake. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s the same for all of us. We all have to live in this shithole, eat the same crap every day, and suffer.’

  ‘I’m only saying.’

  ‘Well, don’t. If I have to listen to your whining a minute longer, I’ll put you in the bloody cage myself.’

  Turquoise-six looked about to say something else, then seemed to think better of it.

  They ate in silence, washing down their microwave meals with water. At least the aroma of the spicy food masked the stench of damp and excrement.

  ‘Who do you reckon will get chosen tomorrow?’ Yellow-four said, as they settled down on their bunks.

  ‘Does it matter?’ Orange-seven said. ‘We’re all fucking dead, anyway.’

  Tanya lay on her bed and stared at the mouldy ceiling. Cobwebs decorated the peeling paint with ghostly veils. Her top bunk put her within two feet of the spores. Mostly black, but with occasional red and pink blooms, the mould sometimes invited her to make out random shapes and faces.

  A bare bulb hung on a short length of flex in the middle of the ceiling, making deep sleep impossible unless someone removed the bulb. There was no switch inside the room, and Turquoise-six was terrified of the dark. The electric fan heater barely took the chill off the ten feet square room. The bare stone walls were constantly wet with condensation. A rotting black beam running along the centre of the ceiling looked as if it was about to fall away at any minute and bring the ceiling crashing down with it.

  Tanya had spent so much of her time locked in this stinking room contemplating death. Would it be quick? Would it be final? Was there such a thing as an afterlife? Heaven or hell? Sometimes, lost in fantasy, she imagined being in heaven, tasked with deciding the fate of her captors. She had brief respite from the horrors of her existence by condemning them to burn in hell for all eternity. She would have gladly stoked the fires herself.

  The man who had lured her away from Paddington Station bore no resemblance to the man who now ruled her life. He was clean shaven and slim. His height, well over six feet, lent an awkwardness to his gait. His sharp features reminded Tanya of a bird of prey. How could she have been so stupid? How could she not have noticed the padding around his stomach? The fake beard?

  Blinded by ambition. Hearing what you wanted to hear. Seeing what you wanted to see. Believing what you wanted to believe.

  And wasn’t that the truth? Following a stupid dream to be a dancer. Well, she’d got her wish now, hadn’t she? She danced to the Game Master’s tune every single day of her miserable life. As for his side-kick, his opponent in this pathetic game of life and death, she’d never seen him out of costume. The Game Master always referred to him as Mr. Marlowe. They both dressed in old-style costumes, possibly Elizabethan, but history had never been her strongest subject.

  Many times during her captivity, she’d considered ending her own life. Fashioning a makeshift noose from her tracksuit bottoms and hanging herself from the beam. Or tearing the wires out the back of the microwave and electrocuting herself. The only thing that had stopped her was a determination not to let the Game Master win. Her life meant nothing to him. Less than nothing. And she owed it to herself to fight him with every ounce of strength left in her body.

  Yellow-four, lying on the top bunk next to Tanya’s, rolled onto her side. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Any New Year’s resolutions?’

  Tanya laughed. ‘To stay alive.’

  ‘Why would you want to stay alive?’ Turquoise-six interrupted. ‘I can’t wait to die.’

  Tanya sighed. ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Fucking well do. I couldn’t bear another year in this shit-tip living with a bunch of losers like you.’

  Tanya didn’t have an answer to that.

  15

  King woke up on Christmas morning with a thumping headache. Too much wine, too much Viagra and too much sex. He rolled onto his back and was joined some moments later by his throbbing head. He reached out for his lover, but the bed was empty. He stared at the space beside him, unable to comprehend his lover’s absence. And then he realised he was in the spare room, lying in the single bed normally reserved for guests and childish fallouts.

  Memory seeped through the fog of last night’s action. The rent boy, Nathan, doing things to his cock which he didn’t believe possible. King had fed himself Viagra like a child feeding itself smarties.

  Sometime around midnight, his partner had joined them on the four-poster bed in the master bedroom for a threesome that had lasted long after Santa had climbed down his final chimney. All good, so far. But something was tearing a great big hole in this happy memory. He tried to sit up, but his head was in no mood to go vertical. Not yet.

  He massaged his forehead. A thought suddenly roared through his head like a stunt rider on a motorbike.

  The rent boy’s dead.

  King groaned.

  Dead and lying naked in the wine cellar.

  For a moment, King thought his mind was playing tricks on him, attempting to spark him back into life with wild claims. Why on earth would he want to kill the rent boy? It wasn’t as if Nathan was being held there under false pretences. He’d been paid handsomely for his services. Unlike the nine homeless men, two hitchhikers and one drunk they’d lured back to the house. In fairness, the drunk hadn’t exactly been lured; he’d been rescued from a thorn bush where he’d been sleeping as soundly as a man in a five-star hotel room.

  As he did not hold these sorry losers in as much esteem as the owners of the heads in the freezers, King had settled for carving a notch on the four-poster bed for each of them. To be fair, he had fond memories of one hitchhiker. Colin. A virgin, too, which was always a bonus. They’d systematically abused Colin with a variety of implements ranging from a broom handle to a cattle prod. Colin had taken five days to go past his expiry date, and King had been rather sorry to see him go when the time had come to turn him into Colin cutlets ready for disposal.

  But the rent boy was different. Nathan had given him the best sex he’d ever had, no offence intended to his lover, and King had been rather keen to engage the young man’s services for the rest of time he’d paid for, possibly beyond. So why in damnation had they killed him?

  King’s cock was still under the influence of Viagra; it peeked out of his boxers and almost castrated itself on the edge of his open fly. He crammed it back inside and cursed his weakness for alcohol.

  Another memory. This one in full colour. His partner securing the rent boy’s wrists to the wooden bedposts with two silk scarves. King cutting the young man’s balls from their sac with a craft knife. Then cutting him across the chest. Just tiny nicks at first, then frenzied slashes, tearing at the skin, peeling it back in large, bloody flaps.

  Nathan had screamed loud enough to tear plaster from the walls as they’d both set about mutilating him like a pair of hungry lions ripping into the carcass of a kill.

  ‘Shit.’

  And shit was about right. They were meant to be starting a new game of One False Move today. It would have to be postponed. There wou
ld be no time to do anything after clearing up the mess. Although Mr. Plod was hardly going to come knocking on the door looking for runaway rent boys, even ones as beautiful as the delectable Nathan, he didn’t particularly like the aftermath of a kill. It was as off-putting as cold congealed sperm on the bedsheet after a burst of red-hot passion.

  ‘Where are you?’ He called to his lover. ‘Can you hear me?’

  No answer. Just the ticking of the hall clock marching up the stairs. Light spilled beneath the floral patterned curtains. For one wild moment, he wondered if he was still asleep. Perhaps the Ghost of Christmas Past would appear any minute now and remind him of things best left forgotten. He touched his head to make sure he wasn’t wearing a hideous nightcap fashioned by Dickens’ pen.

  He caught sight of himself in the mahogany dresser mirror. His eyes looked haggard and red, his face as pale as the sheet clutched in his right hand. Bloody mirrors. They rarely took account of light and angles and nights of frenzied passion.

  He tried to console himself with the fact that on a good night, in the right light, he’d get away with claiming fifty, perhaps younger if the recipient of this white lie was visually impaired. Thankfully, he’d inherited none of his father’s bullish features, and one or two of his mother’s better ones. Although not a looker, his mother had possessed a pleasant face and a mannered tongue. He was grateful for her simple acts of kindness during the trauma of his childhood. He would always honour her memory, and cherish her love of Shakespeare, which had taught him so much about the human condition, and educated him in a way school never could.

  There were times, particularly when playing One False Move, when he felt possessed by Shakespeare’s spirit. Dressed and made up to look like his idol, he was sometimes driven to higher plains of existence and compelled to speak in a tongue which was sometimes both alien and, if honest, a little scary. He sometimes wondered if Shakespeare lived on through him. He was more than aware of the expression suffering delusions of grandeur, but this rather derogatory term was mostly born of jealous minds and lowly beings who never got beyond the realms of soap operas and Jeremy Kyle.

  To say he lived for the theatre, even if it was currently bogged down with housing a cheap and nasty production of Jack and the Beanstalk, would draw no argument from him. The Shakespeare productions were an absolute joy. The Oxfordshire audience seemed both knowledgeable and appreciative. In the New Year, rehearsals were due to start for the summer production of Macbeth. It was hard to have a favourite among Shakespeare’s many masterpieces, but Macbeth was certainly a peak in his humble opinion.

  The New Year promised to be an exciting one. Fresh games of One False Move, the new production of Macbeth, and a holiday in the Maldives at the onset of winter. But the untimely death of the rent boy had put a black mark on the calendar. The boy would have a pimp. And pimps didn’t like it when one of their prized assets went missing. He knew nothing about whore-handlers, having never met one, but you didn’t need a degree in depravity to figure out they didn’t take kindly to the murder and mutilation of one of their charges.

  ‘Damn and blast it. Why did we have to kill him?’

  With no answer forthcoming, he stared at his manhood, almost tempted to rip the bloody thing from its berth. Why couldn’t he exercise restraint? It was one thing to challenge the limits of sexuality with a stray homeless person; quite another to risk liberty with a prostitute from Boys R Us.

  Fearing a police visit, King attempted to get off the bed and begin the process of mind rehabilitation. One step at a time. Find his dressing gown. Go downstairs and swallow as many painkillers as possible without damaging his liver. Find out where his absent turtle dove had flown to.

  King hoped he was in the bathroom chopping Nathan into bite-sized chunks ready for disposal.

  16

  After a lengthy phone call, a lot of heart-searching, and a mutual agreement that it would be in the best interests of Chloe, Mel allowed Tony to come home for Christmas Day. With Chloe sitting in front of the TV watching her new Disney DVD, Finding Dory, Mel and Tony sat at the kitchen table peeling sprouts and drinking coffee.

  Tony scored a cross on the top of a sprout. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for? I thought you’d done nothing wrong?’

  Tony studied the steam curling from the top of his coffee cup.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I want you to promise me you won’t get mad.’

  Mel lit a cigarette. ‘I’m not promising you anything.’

  ‘I want you to think about Chloe, okay?’

  Mel didn’t answer. She was beginning to see Tony for what he really was: a spineless liar. ‘You’d better just spit it out, Tony.’

  Tony took a deep breath. He didn’t make eye contact. ‘It was years ago. I swear. Just a one-off. I was messed up and confused.’

  ‘Stephanie Wallace, right?’

  Tony nodded.

  ‘You screwed her?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘Oh, well, thank heavens for that. There was me thinking you’d been unfaithful. You bastard. You absolute shit!’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Why did you do it? My body not good enough for you?’

  ‘Of course it is. I’m sorry. What else can I say? I’m trying to be honest. I didn’t have to tell you.’

  ‘You didn’t fucking well need to. It was already written in your eyes for everyone to see.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Stop saying that! You’re not sorry. If you had one shred of decency, you wouldn’t have gone anywhere near that bitch in the first place.’

  ‘I know.’

  Mel stared at her half empty mug of coffee, tempted to hurl it at his head. ‘Are you still fucking her?’

  Tony shook his head. ‘It was ages ago.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t remember exactly.’

  ‘Last year? The year before? I want the truth. One more lie, and we’re finished.’

  ‘It’s hard to say.’

  ‘You tell me now, or else you’re out the door and you won’t come back.’

  ‘About six years ago.’

  Mel’s heart fell to the floor.

  ‘It was just the once. I swear. It meant nothing. It was just a stupid fling. A heat of the moment thing. It was—’

  ‘That’s not long after we lost Megan.’

  Tony looked away.

  ‘We lost our baby, and you went to another woman?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. I was just as heartbroken as you. But you shut me out. I—’

  Mel ground out her cigarette and lit another one. ‘I didn’t shut you out. We were both grieving. You threw yourself into work and then threw yourself at another woman.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Mel sucked on the cigarette as if drawing strength from it. ‘Was she good?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Better in the sack than me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Better body than mine?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bigger tits?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You bastard.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You apologise one more time and I will swing for you. So help me, I will.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Are you still fucking her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Look at me.’

  ‘I’m not fucking anyone. She’s not even at the school anymore.’

  ‘Hallelujah. Where’s she gone? Soho?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I don’t care.’

  Mel wanted to grab Tony by the throat and throttle him. Their marriage was over. Kaput. She hated him as much as she hated her mother. She opened the back door and threw her cigarette into the garden. It landed on the path in a spray of tiny red sparks. ‘I want a divorce.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Mel. You’re angry. I get it. But—’

  ‘You don’t get
it at all. Not one bit. But you will. One day when you’re sitting all alone with nothing but a headful of what-might-have-beens, you’ll get it.’

  ‘Please don’t do this.’

  ‘What did you expect me to do? Throw my arms around you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Be grateful for your honesty?’

  ‘I just wanted to put the record straight.’

  ‘Are you for real? The record’s broken, Tony. Beyond repair.’ She slammed the back door. ‘You can stay for dinner. I don’t want Chloe upset. Not today. But as soon as we’ve finished dinner, you make an excuse and leave. We’ll work something out regarding access in the New Year.’

  ‘One meaningless screw, and you want to throw everything away?’

  ‘And what happens next time poor little Tony gets himself all mixed up?’

  ‘Nothing. I swear.’

  ‘But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? You can swear until you’re blue in the face, but I’ll never believe a word you say ever again.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You broke your vows, Tony. And with it, you’ve broken my fucking heart. So, you remember that when you go crawling back to your mother to explain why it’s over. You tell her what you’ve done.’

  Tony stood up. ‘I’m going.’

  ‘Really? Do you want to explain to Chloe why you’re leaving?’

  ‘Of course I bloody well don’t.’

  ‘Then stay and eat your dinner.’

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘Because you owe it to your daughter. Then, get the fuck out of my life.’

  ‘Please don’t do this.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing, Tony. This is all down to you.’

  They lapsed into an uneasy silence. Mel’s head was in danger of spiralling out of control. Now she understood why Tony had thrown himself into work after Megan’s death. The reason for all those late nights. The widening gap between them. Taking his electric razor to work. Expensive aftershave. Little telltale signs that went unnoticed because of the tsunami of grief swelling inside her. If he thought she believed it was just a one-off, a throwaway screw, then he was more stupid than he looked.