The Liar's Handbook

by Keren David

  And Ollie takes off his gloves, scoops up the ball, holds it to his chest and trudges off the field. I watch to see if the Barbarians tell him it’s not his fault, put their arms around him, slap him on the back.

  They don’t. They really are Barbarians.

  I take off, running towards him. I hold out my hand. “Bad luck,” I say. “You had the sun in your eyes. That always makes it difficult.”

  He shakes my hand. His feels plump and clammy.

  “Ollie,” one of the dads says. “I’m giving you a lift. Your dad texted me – he had to go.”

  “Where do you live?” I ask, straight up.

  Ollie gives me a startled look. “Finchley,” he says. “Right by North Finchley station.”

  “Ah,” I say. “Good to know.”

  20: LIES CAN TRAP YOU. LIES CAN MAKE YOU DO STUPID STUFF

  We get in the car and Jason says, “Well done,” and then he asks if Ollie seemed OK.

  “Yes,” I say and then, “No. I don’t know. His team weren’t being very supportive.”

  “It’s hell being a goalie,” Jason says. “I did it for a year. Escaped to defence in the end. Are you OK?”

  I open my mouth and then close it again. I’m not OK and I have a heap of questions for him. How did he know who my dad was? What’s the file on his computer all about?

  “Yes,” I say, and then, “No. I mean yes. I mean no.”

  “OK,” he says. “Let’s not talk now. Later. I’ve got a lot to tell you, but only if you’re in the right frame of mind. When you’re ready.”

  He switches on the radio. We listen to classical music for a while – it’s oddly calming – and then the news comes on. There’s been a protest at the Department of Transport. People throwing smoke bombs and getting arrested and being kettled, whatever that is.

  And I remember Kai asking me to come with him to something that was much more important than football, but he couldn’t tell me what it was.

  “Jason?” I say.

  He turns the radio down.

  “Did they say there was fighting? Trouble? At that protest?”

  “They did.”

  “It’s just … Kai might be there.”

  “Kai?”

  “He was listening to Sean at the barbeque, and talking like he wanted to do something. Direct action, he said.”

  “And you think he might have been caught up in this protest?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “His mum’s away and he told Bob he was staying with me. But he’s not.”

  “We should go down there,” Jason says. “Find him.”

  “Please,” I say.

  Jason looks at me. “Are you OK? Have you got any clothes to change into?”

  “No,” I say. “I mean yes. I’ve only got my kit, but I’m OK. What does kettled mean?”

  “They surround the protesters. Pen them in to keep them in one place. They don’t let them out.”

  “What if the protesters need the loo?”

  He shakes his head. “Tough luck.”

  “What if they’re hungry?” I ask, but I know the answer.

  “Kai strikes me as a sensible lad,” says Jason.

  “Yeah, but he’s been getting more and more angry about stuff,” I tell Jason. “About how no one listens. Politicians and big business and everyone. And he’s cross with his mum for not being active any more, not being a protester. He really likes stories of the old days when they were all getting arrested and camping out in trees and everything. Kai –” I swallow – “he likes life to be dramatic. He likes action. He wants to be a big hero – like his dad.”

  “But would he do anything properly stupid?” Jason asks. Then he thumps the steering wheel. “Sean’s an idiot. I should’ve talked to Kai about him.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I was trying to find out what he was up to,” Jason says. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate it if I interfered in your friendships.”

  “Oh. No. True.”

  “Are you worried he’d do anything really dangerous, River?” Jason asks.

  I remember Kai’s face when Sean was talking. About hitting people where it hurt. About making them listen. About fighting to the bitter end.

  “You were talking to Sean,” I say. You had a drink with him.”

  “I know, but he was wary of me –”

  “What do you mean?”

  “OK, River.” Jason sighs. “Here’s the truth. As you know, I’m a journalist. I’ve been investigating people like Sean, people who wind other people up, get other people into trouble.”

  “You what?”

  “People like Sean encourage direct protest, but they don’t take part. They know all about a plan, but they never get into trouble. Some of them are just like that. But others, they’re agents provocateurs.”

  “I don’t do French,” I say. “What does that mean?”

  “It means someone who encourages other people to commit a crime, so that they get arrested and punished,” Jason says. “A lot of the time, they’re government agents. Governments in Russia, America, Britain, France, Canada have all used them against union members, protestors, anyone who poses a threat to the state.”

  “Does the government use them in Britain?” I ask. I’m finding it hard to make sense of what Jason’s telling me. It sounds like a mad conspiracy theory.

  “They have done at different times in history,” Jason says. “But I think the police use them too. That’s what I’ve been investigating.”

  I open my mouth to ask more. But then my phone beeps and I see that Kai’s snapchatted me. A photo of Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament. And a frantic message.

  RIVER HELP ME NOW. I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS.

  21: SOMETIMES THE TRUTH FEELS LIKE A FILM. LIKE A STORY

  “Where are you? What’s up?”

  Kai’s on the phone and he’s kind of not talking, kind of crying, kind of hysterical.

  “I’ve got, I’ve got, I’ve got,” he sobs into the phone and then Jason takes it from me.

  “Kai, calm down,” he says. “It’s OK. We’re going to sort this out.”

  “I’ve got a gun,” Kai says and something in me freezes so cold, so tight that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to speak again. “They want me to ... They said ... They, they …”

  “Where are you?” Jason asks.

  “They want me to shoot,” Kai sobs. “At a tourist bus. On a tourist bus. They want me to.”

  He’s not making sense.

  “Who?” I scream. “Who wants you to?”

  “We’re coming,” Jason says. “Don’t get on any buses. Find a police officer. Tell them an extremist group is controlling you.”

  “I can’t,” Kai says. “They’re watching. They’ll shoot me.”

  “Kai, they won’t. They can’t.”

  “This guy. He was a sniper. In the army. He’ll shoot me. He will.”

  “Kai, he’s lying!” I shout, but Jason mouths “No!” at me.

  “Where are you, Kai?” he says again. “We’re coming. We’re nearly there.”

  I look out the window and see that we’re driving towards the Houses of Parliament. We’re on the road by the Thames. And then I see him. All wrapped up in his hoodie. He’s fidgeting and shaking and looking a lot like a little kid who wants to go to the loo and can’t quite hold it in. He’s looking around, twisting his head to see behind him, waiting and shaking and –

  “Go!” Jason yells. He drives past a No Entry sign, makes a sharp turn and stops right by Kai.

  Kai takes one startled look at my face and dives into the back.

  Jason backs out. I’m aware of people screaming and yelling, of Kai’s jagged breath, the noise of him throwing up all over the back seat, the stink of vomit, and then Jason slows down, stops, looks up at a police officer standing by the car.

  “You went through a No Entry sign,” she says.

  “My boy was taken ill,” says Jason.

  The police officer loo
ks at the pool of vomit in the back of the car. She wrinkles her nose.

  Kai barfs again. Carrots and peas in a toxic orange colour.

  “On your way,” the police officer says.

  We drive and drive, and at last I realise we’re not heading for home. This isn’t east London. This is somewhere greener and prettier, somewhere with big cars and driveways and front doors painted murky greens and blues.

  Jason pulls over to the kerb and gets out a key. “Come on,” he says to Kai. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  22: SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO LIE. TO PROTECT THE INNOCENT

  The flat Jason leads us into is all white walls and grey furniture, polished wood floors and a shiny bathroom. I recognise it from the estate agent’s details I saw in Jason’s office.

  He gives Kai a towel and says, “You’ll feel better after a shower. I’ll hunt out some clothes.”

  “What about the gun?” I say.

  Kai unzips his hoodie.

  Jason holds out his hand. “Give it here.”

  Kai hesitates.

  “It’s OK,” Jason tells him. “I know about guns. And no one was following us. I looped us all over the place.”

  “Where even is this?” I ask.

  “It’s my flat. Well, not for long. It’s all ready to sell.”

  I look around. Two million quid! “Why would you leave here to live with us?” I ask.

  Jason shrugs. “No idea. Why would I? I must be an idiot. Go and clean yourself up, Kai. You can put that robe on when you’re done.”

  I sit on the sofa and drink lemonade and think about how Jason must love Mum a lot to leave this place and come and live in a maisonette in the grottier end of Finsbury Park.

  All this time Jason’s sitting at the shiny kitchen counter, looking at the gun. “It’s a replica,” he says after a bit. “A fake. Although poor Kai didn’t know that.”

  “So why would they give Kai a fake gun?”

  “So he could cause a diversion. So they could do something else … All the action was at the Department of Transport, but they sent Kai down to the Houses of Parliament, to get the police running over there. Hmmm.”

  “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  “I’m thinking maybe Sean isn’t an agent provocateur at all. Maybe he’s for real.”

  Then Jason gets out his phone and has a long, involved conversation with the police. By the time Kai’s out of the shower and we’re all eating pizza in front of the TV, there’s a news report about a security alert at the Houses of Parliament. Three people have been arrested on terrorism charges.

  “They’ll be here soon,” Jason says. “The police. It’s OK, Kai. Just tell them you were there for the protest and they forced you to take the gun. That’s true, isn’t it?”

  Kai looks at him and, after a long moment, he shakes his head.

  “I wanted to be a hero,” he says, and he can’t meet our eyes. “I wanted to have an exciting life, things to tell people. Like Dad. Like Sean. Like River.”

  “My stories are all bollocks,” I tell Kai and I think he’s going to burst into tears or vomit again.

  “I wanted to impress my dad,” Kai says. “So he wouldn’t be angry with me for flying to Costa Rica. You’re lucky, River. You don’t even know your dad ...”

  “Sometimes you have to leave bits out of your story,” Jason interrupts. “Think how your mum would feel if you were in big trouble. Be a hero for her. You need to say they forced you to take the gun.”

  Kai nods. “OK, Jason,” he says in small voice. “They said they’d shoot me if I didn’t do what they said. But I wanted to … I wanted to do something big. Something that would change things –”

  “I knew Sean was up to something,” Jason says, “but I didn’t think he’d sink so low as to recruit a kid.”

  “It wasn’t Sean,” Kai says. “It was people on the internet. I never even met them before.”

  “But why, Kai?” Jason asks. “Why do something so extreme?”

  Kai runs his fingers through his hair, and I answer for him.

  “He wanted to be a real eco-warrior.”

  Jason’s about to say something when the entry phone buzzes. It’s the police – a man and a woman – and they talk to us and they talk to Jason and they talk to Kai. They’re in normal, ordinary clothes. They look us in the eye and they thank us for our help. They say they’ll want to talk to Kai again, with his mum present, but that he’s not to worry. It’s unlikely that he’ll face any charges. After all, he hasn’t actually done anything. Not quite.

  “Three armed extremists, arrested thanks to you,” the woman says.

  “That makes you a hero if you ask me,” says the man.

  I really want to ask them a whole heap of questions.

  Question 1. “Do you know a man called Steve at Scotland Yard?”

  Question 2. “Do you know why he pretended to be called Matthew Jordan?”

  Question 3. “Was he working for the police when he did that?”

  Question 4. “What was Steve / Matthew trying to do?”

  But, most of all –

  Question 5. “Was he for real? Or was he an agent provocateur?”

  23: YOU KNOW IT'S TRUE WHEN IT MAKES SENSE

  It’s been dark for hours by the time we get home, and the police are at Kai’s house talking to his mum about Sean, about the internet, about everything, so he gets to stay over at ours. I’m pleased to have him here, and I’m pleased I don’t have to stay up late thinking about that moment when Steve drove away from me in his flash car. My dad – my real dad.

  I don’t want to think about that moment when I smashed the ball past Ollie either. My half-brother – my brother.

  Kai’s gone when I wake up in the morning. I go downstairs and find Mum and Jason drinking coffee in the kitchen. I look around our cramped kitchen, the cupboard doors Mum painted turquoise and pink, the cork tiles peeling off the floor and think about Jason’s sleek, modern, shiny kitchen.

  He’s chosen here. He’s chosen us. And I’ve been really horrible to him.

  “Kai’s gone,” Mum says. “Lorna’s taken him home. She’s in bits about what’s happened. What was Kai thinking?”

  “He thought he was acting for a good cause,” Jason says.

  “So did I, once upon a time,” Mum says. “And the cause is good. But it’s no excuse for violence. Those people that Kai met up with, they had explosives! Promise me never ever to do anything so stupid, River.”

  I promised her this about fifty times last night, so I ignore her.

  “River, we owe you an explanation,” Jason says. He knows better than to fight Sean’s corner with Mum fierce like that. “And an apology. We know – I know – a lot more about your dad than we’ve told you. I just hadn’t found him. But you did, and now I’ve put the final pieces together.”

  So Jason tells me. How he’d been investigating a story about undercover police agents who wormed their way into environmental groups. How they adopted the identities of dead children and talked people into taking direct action. So the protesters were arrested, put away where they couldn’t cause any more trouble, and the police just drifted back to their real lives.

  “You could have told me,” I say. “After all, he is my dad.”

  Mum comes and sits next to me and takes my hand.

  “Jason, do you mind if I talk to River by myself?” she says. “There are things I need to say.”

  “Sure,” Jason says. “I’ve got work to do. The Guardian’s going to run with the story.”

  Mum waits until he’s upstairs. Then she says, “You need to understand how I felt when Jason told me the truth. Imagine, River. The man I loved, the father of my child, never really existed. He lied to me, tricked me. He told me he loved me, he slept with me, and all the time he was telling me lie after lie after lie.”

  I swallow, hard. She must hate him so much now. What if she hates me too?

  “I felt like I’d been –” She hesitates. “– Assaulted
. It was a lot to make sense of, to process. I was upset, angry, confused. And Jason helped me sort it all out in my head. He listened. He put me in touch with other women in a similar position.”

  “Other women?” I can’t believe it. “He did this to other women?”

  Mum shakes her head. I watch her earrings bob up and down against her curls, like little silver boats on a black sea.

  “Not him,” she says. “But he wasn’t the only police officer working undercover. There were a few of them.”

  “Do you hate him?” My voice isn’t much more than a whisper.

  She tries to smile at me, but neither of us can quite meet the other’s eye.

  “It’s so hard, River,” she says, and she twists the bangles on her wrist. “I can’t hate Matthew Jordan. But I do hate Steve Greig.”

  That’s his name. Steve Greig. His real name.

  “Do you wish you’d never met him?”

  “I could never wish that,” she says. “Because that would mean I’d never have had you. And you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “I am? Not Jason?”

  “You are.” Mum takes my hand in hers. “Jason is wonderful, and I know I can trust him. And there’s nothing he wants more than to be a part of our family. Will you let him, River?”

  I nod. “He’s not so bad,” I say and I squeeze Mum’s hand.

  24: I'M TELLING THE TRUTH, BUT I'M ALSO TELLING STORIES

  My dad’s real name is Steven Michael Greig. He was director of digital strategy for the Metropolitan Police. He lived in Chelmsford, just outside London, with his second wife and their twin daughters.

  That was until Jason’s story appeared in the Guardian, and then everywhere else. Then Steve Greig was suspended from his job, and my mum and two other women announced that they were suing the police for damages.

  Mum’s been in all the papers. She’s been on television. She’s fierce and proud, angry and strong, telling the story of how she was treated, making the point again and again that the state – represented by Steve Greig – lied and lied to her, invaded her home, her life and her body, and fathered her child. The Jordans have been interviewed too. Everyone knows the truth. Everyone knows what he did.