Liar Liar

by Donna Alam

  My gaze falls to the purple monstrosity in my hand as though unsure what it’s doing there.

  ‘I hit him with your dildo.’ I’m too wired to cringe, but for the record, this is a sentence I never want to hear again, let alone say. ‘I think I knocked him out.’

  ‘Ha! You said dildo. I knew I could get you to say it.’

  ‘I was in an Uber!’ I almost screech. ‘I wasn’t about to publicly discuss the gigantic phallus my best friend decided to send me. But this is neither the time nor the place to be discussing inappropriate gifts. Focus!’ I guess I also shouldn’t be still staring at it, though it’s hard not to. The veins are almost mesmerising.

  ‘Oh my God, you’re serious?’ she cries. ‘I thought you were joking. You need to call the police now! I’ll stay on the line.’

  ‘How can you stay on the line while I make another call?’

  ‘Make the call from your landline,’ she urges.

  ‘Who has a landline these days?’ I ask, looking around for someplace to set down the Pussy Pounder, eventually deciding on the console table where it stands like a pornographic game of ring toss.

  ‘You don’t have a landline? What about for power outages? Emergencies?’

  ‘I can’t afford emergencies. Besides, can you even be a millennial if you own a landline?’

  ‘Jesus, Rose. Quit arguing. There’s a homicidal maniac at your door!’

  ‘For the record, that is not reassuring.’

  ‘Can you use the conference call thing?’

  I snort in response. Technology and I have never been a thing. We’re not even casual acquaintances.

  ‘Or just hang up, call them, then call me back so I know you’re okay!’

  Hmm. I’m not sure about that.

  Hello, I was grabbed by a stranger at my front door.

  Ma’am, where is the attacker now?

  On the ground. I knocked him out with a massive dildo.

  I’m pretty sure that would not get a car dispatched.

  ‘Shush.’ I press my ear to the door. ‘I think I hear something.’

  ‘You think you hear something? Should I record those as your last words? Of course you hear something,’ she replies a little hysterically. ‘You hear the bad man. I swear to God, if I go into labour right now, I’m blaming you!’

  ‘Hush!’ I repeat as I bring my ear to the surface of the door. ‘He’s groaning.’ I realise my fear has reduced to a slight tremor in my hand, curiosity overtaking dread somehow.

  ‘It’s just a ploy,’ Amber warns.

  ‘He just whispered please. I’m almost sure of it.’

  ‘Yeah, please let me in so I can murder you. Or please come and hit me with your dildo some more. Either way, that is not good.’

  ‘He sounds like he’s in pain.’

  ‘That makes two of us!’ she almost screeches.

  ‘Cut it out.’ I pull the phone momentarily away from my ear. ‘I’m trying to listen. He’s groaning again.’

  ‘He might be a pervert.’ My gaze drops to my outfit, the sides of my coat no longer tied, and I consider she might be right. ‘He could be jacking off. It might be the old dude from the club.’

  ‘He was too tall to be the old dude. Besides, it’s too cold out for al fresco finger fumbling. Those groans do not sound like a fun masturbation session. I’m going to have a look.’

  ‘Are you insane?’

  ‘Just a quick peek,’ I say oh, so reasonably, certain he can’t have moved from the bottom of the stairs. Almost certain, in any case.

  ‘You are crazy! Haven’t you ever watched a horror movie? He could totally be pretending, waiting to lure you outside.’

  ‘Wait, I have pepper spray,’ I announce, dropping to the floor and slipping my hand into my purse to rummage around for the small can I always carry. It’s in here somewhere, I know it.

  ‘No, don’t do it! Don’t be the dumb as dog shit girl who always gets killed first,’ she wails.

  I stand and scan the hallway for a weapon in lieu of the missing spray, my gaze falling to the monstrous dildo again.

  I guess it worked the first time . . .

  ‘The noises are too far away to be happening right on the other side of the door. I’m just gonna crack it open a little.’

  ‘You know there’s no such thing as just a little dead, right?’

  ‘I promise I’ll be careful.’ As I say this, I’ve already tucked the dildo under my arm to gingerly slide back the bolt. My fingers are on the handle, just itching to turn it. ‘Just a peek. I promise.’

  Ignoring her wailed noooo, I press my toes at the bottom of the door and crack it an inch. The bogeyman isn’t waiting on the other side, I’m pleased to report back to Amber, whose complaints are still audible as I open it another couple of inches.

  There at the bottom of the stairs lies a crumpled heap I assume to be both male and human. He twists a little in his position, his arms suddenly thrown wide as though inviting a hug.

  Nope! Not today, bogeyman.

  And maybe I am an idiot as I step gingerly down a couple of treads, finding myself jumping as his head falls back, hitting a wooden stair with a dull thud.

  ‘I think he’s unconscious.’

  ‘This is where he jumps up and shouts BOO!’

  ‘Ouch!’ I pull the phone away from my ear with a wince.

  ‘Please, just call the police.’

  I meant to reassure her and say I would. Instead, a different declaration leaves my mouth.

  ‘He’s cute.’

  Though cute is an understatement as a gust of wind whips down the street, lifting his hair and turning it copper in the glow of a nearby streetlight.

  A dead ringer for Adonis minus the whole toga deal. But his looks aren’t important. The fact that he’s hurt is.

  ‘You know who else was cute?’ Amber hisses back. ‘Ted Bundy.’

  ‘He looks nothing like Ted Bundy.’

  ‘And by that, I know you mean he looks nothing like Zac Efron starring as Ted Bundy. But that’s not the point. The point is, he could be a killer!’

  ‘He has killer cheekbones,’ I find myself mumbling, not quite able to bring myself to move closer to him. As for other Zac Efron comparisons, he’s probably around the same age, less High School Musical Zac and more buff Baywatch Zac, but without the bad hair. Dark jeans coat his long legs, and a white T-shirt hugs his broad chest. An expensive-looking leather jacket and rugged, scuffed boots complete the look. He doesn’t look like an addict or someone down on his luck. In fact, as he turns his head, he looks more like a victim of some kind of attack—not the whacked by a dildo kind of attack, but the real thing.

  ‘Was he robbed?’ I find myself musing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said he’s hurt.’ Unconscious, bruised, and battered by more than a couple of pounds of latex would be my guess.

  ‘Please, please, please just go back to your apartment,’ Amber begs.

  ‘I can’t just leave him here.’

  ‘So call an ambulance. From inside! Why aren’t you running for the hills?’

  I can’t. I’m not the type who could leave an injured dog at the side of the road, let alone a person. And for the record, I’m not dumb enough to be enchanted by his high cheekbones or his powerful physique. I’m not the kind of girl who’d risk life or limb just because the man is a little pretty.

  Or even a lot pretty, as the case may be.

  I draw closer because he’s stopped groaning, which anyone with half a brain knows isn’t good. Add to that the shallow movements of his chest and the trickle of blood running from his hairline, and I find I’m whispering into my phone.

  ‘Oh, God. He’s bleeding.’ I swallow convulsively, trying very hard not to be sick. ‘There’s blood on his T-shirt.’ I step over his outspread arm onto the stair below, gripping the fake penis in my fist. You know, just in case.

  ‘Or maybe it’s fake blood, and he’s going to shove you in a big hole with a bottle of lotion!’
<
br />   ‘Amber, the man is hurt. He’s in no state to attack me.’ And now that I’m on the sidewalk in front of him, I can say this categorically.

  ‘It’s usually the monsters who don’t look like monsters who are the ones you need to worry about. Just, please, call the authorities. Let them deal with this.’

  ‘I can’t just leave him here! Abandon the man bleeding on my doorstep.’

  ‘Abandon the man who, five minutes ago, you were sure was out to attack you?’

  ‘He was trying to get my attention, to get my help.’

  ‘And by calling an ambulance, you will be helping him.’

  ‘Yes, okay,’ I agree as the stranger moans once more. ‘I’ll do that. Let me call you back.’

  Without waiting for her response, I end the call.

  2

  Rose

  ‘Rose?’

  At the sound of my name, I’m jerked from my microsleep. ‘A-yesh. I mean, yes, that’s me.’ Grimacing at the metallic taste in my mouth, I rub my lips together, rolling my aching shoulders and stiff neck. Was I drooling? I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth just in case and straighten from my cramped position.

  And there’s a nurse standing in front of me . . . why?

  ‘You can go in now. He’s in the end cubicle.’

  And then it comes back to me; the man on my doorstep. I’d pulled his wallet from his inside pocket as I’d looked for his phone, hoping to find family or a loved one to call. As it was, there was no phone and only a French driving license and a few US dollars in his wallet. And a couple of condoms.

  But at least it gave me his name.

  Remy Durrand.

  He’d groaned, his eyes flickering open as he’d grasped my hand. He was still clutching it when the ambulance arrived, and I was mistaken for his girlfriend. I’d decided to just go with it after thinking I’d hate to wake alone. Maybe I’d also need to explain the bump on the side of his head. He was still unconscious when we’d arrived at the hospital where he was whisked off while strapped to a gurney. I was asked a million questions, most of which I couldn’t answer, then shown the family waiting room.

  Over the next few hours, the nursing staff had kindly supplied me with updates.

  Don’t worry, he’ll be fine, and he’s coming around.

  Then, it won’t be long now, along with he’s just undergoing a neurological evaluation. He has a nasty concussion.

  And just before I fell asleep in the chair at seven in the morning, I’d received the last update.

  He’s about to have his wound cleaned. Would you like to come hold his hand while it’s sutured?

  That’d be a big fat no, actually.

  I’d lived in a lot of places, at least ten towns across four states before I turned twelve, but I was born in Kentucky, and my mom used to say Kentucky women have both sugar and fire in their veins. But I guess even women from the Bluegrass State have their weak spots, and mine is the sight of blood. Or maybe it’s a case of a cat being born in a stable not making it a horse. Either way, if I can see Remy now, the gory business must be over, and I can breathe through my nose again without fear of passing out.

  As I haul my tired body from the chair, the nurse’s kind smile suddenly falters. My gaze follows hers to where my coat has fallen open as I’ve dozed.

  ‘Thank you.’ I leisurely pull the sides closed, knotting the belt tight as I stride past her into the nearby hallway. She can judge me for drooling but not for an honest night’s work. Even if me and my slutty outfit could be mistaken for a hooker.

  ‘Ah, here she is.’

  The curtain is open at the end cubicle, and I find myself freezing, not at the sound of the doctor’s voice, but because of the man facing me in the bed opposite. His hair is matted and stained russet in parts, his complexion sallow against the stark white of the pillows propping him up from behind. A Steri-Strip bisects one eyebrow, making him look thoroughly dissolute, but even that doesn’t detract from how good looking he is. I mean, I’d known he was attractive. Handsome, even. Didn’t I say as much to Amber over the phone? But it turns out that good looking doesn’t even cover it. The strong line of his jaw is a perfect complement to those sharp cheekbones, the whole effect made more mortal than Greek god by a rasp of stubble. His eyes are the kind of green that speaks of tropical islands that are lush and inviting, but possess an intensity that’s almost mesmerising.

  ‘He’s looking much better now, don’t you think?’

  ‘He’s looking good,’ I find myself replying in a completely unnecessary tone, as I enter the cubicle, immediately drawn to the side of the bed. I can’t say whether it’s out of concern or curiosity, or even something else.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any cause for ordering imaging,’ the doctor muses, his index finger tracing across the screen of a tablet he holds in his hand. ‘No need for X-rays or a CT.’

  ‘Good.’ Those sound expensive.

  Wow. He has such big shoulders under that thin hospital gown.

  ‘And even though it looked as though he’d lost a prodigious amount of blood, his head wound was superficial.’

  ‘Good, that’s good,’ I agree just as pensively, my eyes flicking down to where his long-fingered hands lie over the edges of the blue hospital blanket.

  You know what they say about big hands.

  ‘I’m Dr Scott, by the way. One of the emergency physicians here. We were quite concerned when Remy arrived, but his testing has so far been satisfactory. In fact, I was hoping you could help us with his cognitive assessment. . .’

  Hands that size would make even my ass feel small.

  ‘. . . by translating for us.’

  ‘Hmm. Yes. I understand.’

  ‘Great. We won’t need to involve a translator, in that case.’

  ‘Okay—wait, what?’ My head whips to Dr Scott, who is, apparently, serious.

  ‘Well, my French is non-existent. You’d need only to ask him some questions on my behalf,’ he reports.

  He only speaks French? I find myself looking at him again.

  He’s French. Ooh-la-la!

  ‘One of our nursing staff helped out until a few minutes ago,’ the doctor continues. ‘Her knowledge of the language proved very helpful, but she’s been called to another ward. Ordinarily, I’d call in a translation service, but as you’re listed as his significant other . . .’ His words trail away as, like a bad comedy sketch, my head then whips from doctor to patient, the latter managing a wan-looking smile.

  ‘I’m what?’

  ‘You’re noted as Remy’s girlfriend. Is that not right?’

  Did he say I was his girlfriend? Or did the hospital staff assume, the same as the paramedics? Oh my God, if he has a brain injury, they might have told him I’m his girlfriend, and he might think it’s the truth! And if he does have a brain injury, it could be my fault—caused by being whacked upside the head with a monstrous sex toy.

  I open my mouth to come clean when the man in the bed reaches for my hand, and a swirl of ink peeks from the sleeve of his hospital gown. He has tattoos? My eyes trace up his arm as I wonder what else he’s hiding under there. As I glance up at him once again, he shoots me the kind of smile that makes blood hum in my veins.

  But it’s one thing to have waited around, to let the staff assume, even if my intentions were good. It’s another to continue this charade. Except, he’s alone, and he’s hurt, and I find I can’t abandon him. Especially as I might be partly responsible for him being here.

  Concussion by sex toy, and not a headboard in sight.

  ‘His girlfriend,’ I murmur, almost to myself. And I’m pretty sure he just tried to nod. Though now he’s grimacing.

  So, was that a smile yes, or a grimace no?

  If I come clean now, I’ll look like an idiot. Or worse still, maybe I could be charged with impostor-ing. Maybe even assault.

  ‘If you’d prefer, I can contact the interpreter service?’ the doctor prompts.

  ‘No, that’s okay,’ I find
myself answering. Or maybe that should be absolument?

  And then the magnitude of my mistake dawns on me; of what I’ve just done.

  Not only am I not this hottie’s significant other, but I also don’t speak French.

  3

  Rose

  Merde! Merde on a stick!

  I seem to have no issues remembering French curse words.

  Fils de pute! Son of a bitch!

  My mind rapidly runs through the snippets of French I remember from a week spent in a backpacker’s hostel in Paris, my stupid brain only offering up profanity.

  Encule toi, Salaud! Fuck you, bastard!

  But what else? There must be other words—phrases? Sensible things to say?

  Café au lait, une croissant, un grande vin. Coffee, croissant, and wine; what else does a girl need for a week in Paris?

  Casse-toi! Piss off! Now, this I remember came in useful one Saturday night, but it’s not helpful right now.

  ‘If we could start by asking Remy if he knows what day it is today?’

  ‘What? Oh, it’s—’ My mind preoccupied, it seems my mouth seeks automatically to answer him.

  ‘We may know what day it is,’ the doctor replies tolerantly, ‘but we need to know if Remy knows.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Of course.’

  My mind begins to race as I draw closer to the side of the bed. His black leather wallet has been placed on the hospital nightstand, a tired-looking masculine watch lying open across it. I begin to wonder how he’ll pay his hospital bill, given the lack of bank cards. A translating service would only add to the cost, and I don’t want the bill delivered to my mailbox, no matter how pretty he is. The ridiculous thoughts rotate through my head in an attempt to drown out my internal freak-out. Why have I put myself in this position? And now it’s too late to say there’s been some mistake.

  Well, here goes nothing.

  ‘Quelle . . . quelle . . .’ Quelle is the French word for “day”, again? My palms begin to feel sticky, and my heart races. I can’t remember being so nervous since a spelling bee in sixth grade. I feel like I’m on stage again. But then in a blinding flash, the phrase comes to me—another blast from my middle school past.