Liarholic

by Kingsley Ash

  More soup. Two portions, frozen.

  I run down the stairs and go into my room. I stand for a moment on the other side of the door. The bag in my hand is heavy.

  I check the room, but my heart isn’t in it. Screwed as I am, I can’t ever get away from the fact I love Shepherd. Deny it plenty of times to myself. Never admit out loud to Shepherd. Not even in those moments when we’re inseparable, and it’s like a drug to be touched by calloused fingers. And it’s the only time I feel anything real and that means nothing in the screwed up history that is my life.

  And I hate Shepherd from the deepest part of my soul for making me love him — or whatever he’s done — and I hate myself for falling in love with a man that things can never be simple with.

  He sees me. Someone who spends so much time fiddling with the front door that I forget to eat. Someone who panics over the harmless of all noises. He sees the cracks in my perfect reflection.

  He sees the cracks, and I know through them, he will eventually break me for a second time.

  31

  ME

  INSIDE SWAN LAKE, Fab5 strips off his coat, then his jumper. The heating is high in Crow Ward. I’ve opened up this side of the clinic to take in new older patients. This place is losing me money.

  It’s all for her.

  Without undoing the buttons, he tugs his shirt over his head, inside out. Now his head and hands are bagged in red plaid flannel. He fights the shirt off his head. Over his jeans and belt, you can see the elastic waistband of his Angry Birds underpants.

  ‘Dude,’ Fab5 says. He’s still struggling inside his shirt. ‘Too many bloody clothes. Why’s it got to be so hot in here?’

  ‘What’d you expect? An ice bath?’

  The young bottle-blonde receptionist I got hired sits behind her desk. She stares with her face tight around her nose.

  I try and tug Fab5’s T-shirt down. His head is trapped in his shirt. ‘Dude, can you help me? There’s a button somewhere I can’t frigging find.’

  The desk girl has the telephone receiver halfway to her ear. Fab5 turns to the her. ‘Can you keep my stuff safe behind your desk, babe?’

  She gawks at him like he’s scum of the earth.

  In slowly drawn out words, he asks her, ‘Are. You. Okay? Do you need help?’ He tosses his clothes on her desk.

  ‘What in the hell?’ I say to him. ‘She doesn’t have brain damage.’

  I take Fab5 on a tour of Swan Lake. I show him the recreational room, the rose garden and the library.

  When Fab5’s back from the toilets, he says, ‘There’s no lock on the toilets. I was sat on the loo, mate, and some old cleaner barged in on me.’

  ‘Did she want sex?’ I laugh.

  ‘Not interested, mate. The only girl I want is that sourpuss of a receptionist. Think I’m in love.’

  ‘You always say that.’

  Makes me think about last night and all the things said, and unsaid. Makes something twist in my soul knowing Amy thought I could fuck another girl. Haven’t I shown her that she’s the only one I want? Doesn’t she get it? Doesn’t that mermaid ink on my back mean something? That she’s MINE. That I belong to her. That I love her in the only sick way I know how.

  I take him back into the front foyer of Crow Ward. Fab5 picks up his clothes from the desk. He rummages through them. ‘Oh come on. My shirt’s missing.’ He looks at me. ‘I was gonna give this place four stars, but you might wanna recheck your security.’

  The desk girl just chews on her gum, blows out a bubble.

  ‘Wanna go out for drink, sometime, sweetheart?’ Fab5 says to her.

  Her bubble pops into her mouth. ‘When Hell freezes over, sweetheart.’

  ‘No worries, love,’ he says, ‘was planning on becoming celibate for a bit, anyway.’

  I laugh, and say to him, ‘No way can you do that. You've got more chance of being deepthroated by a nun.’

  He leaves and I go to Diana’s room. Her eyes are half-open, the blankets tucked underneath her armpits. She’s imprisoned in the bed.

  The TV plays low. A news reporter drones on and on. I glance out the window. There’s nothing to see. The window reflects back the pale light of the bedside lamp. The reflection of my face is an isolated oval in the black pane.

  I’m not sure why I’m staying since Diana is out of it. Guilt again, yeah, most likely, but there’s more to it than that. I want to tell her about the girl I love, just like a son would with his mother.

  I lean forward in my chair. It creaks beneath me. ‘Diana?’ I wait. ‘Diana, you awake?’

  She mutters something, turns her head a little. ‘Shepherd?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s me.’

  Her eyes come open more. She licks her lips. ‘Is that you, honey?’

  ‘It's me, Diana. Shepherd.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Not long.’

  Christ only knows how long Diana will remember who I am. I act quick. ‘Diana, did Violet tell you who my father was?’

  I’ve tried to bury this behind me. But I can’t lay it to rest. It rubs my guts raw, until it burns and itches. I need to know who my father is. He forced my mum to jack in her baby and then hang herself. I want to curse my dad to the seventh circle of Hell. He left me to rot in the children’s home.

  ‘I wish to God I knew, honey. She didn’t tell. She wouldn’t. She said he protected her. He wouldn’t let any of the others touch her. He was hers. It was a mystery then as it is a mystery now.’ She looks at me, shaken. ‘What others, Shepherd?’

  ‘I don’t know, Diana.’ I have a gut feeling I never want to know the answer. ‘Did you suspect anyone?’

  Diana frowns. ‘She told me one morning she’d decided to take a chance and go see the father for help. She was poor and she very much wanted to keep you. That very day I saw her with Christian Earhart. I always thought it strange . . . ’

  Diana closes her eyes. ‘It hurts . . . ’

  I let her rest, quit this line of questioning.

  I sit back, feel the wood press against my aching muscles. ‘Diana, I’ve met a girl.’

  ‘That’s lovely, honey. What is she like?’

  ‘She’s beautiful. Sings like an angel. Should stay away, but, there’s just something about her. Something special.’

  ‘When can I meet her, honey?’

  ‘Soon, Diana. Soon.’

  ‘It hurts . . . ’

  ‘I know. Go to sleep.’

  ‘Peter? Is that you?’

  What little light we had is gone. ‘Yeah. It’s me, Peter.’

  She closes her eyes all the way. ‘Don’t leave me, Peter. Stay with me. It’s scary here at night.’

  Music swells on the newscast. I turn to the window and look at the coming darkness. I return to childhood nights huddled against my teddy bear, frightened and alone, the rest of the world a scary place.

  I close my eyes, block out the screams, the ghosts of Nazareth, and try to convince myself, really convince myself, that just for these moments, and in this place, I’m as alright as I can be.

  That Amy’s father has nothing to do with my mother.

  32

  YOU

  I find Daisy outside the door marked FIRE EXIT.

  ’Fifty-four steps,’ Daisy says. She speaks in huffed breaths, her bare feet slap-slap-slapping on each one of the black iron steps. Then she presses her palm flat against the brick wall, propels herself into a spin and goes right back down again.

  ‘Are you okay, Daisy. Has something happened? Is Max okay?’

  ‘I’m fine and Max is at school. He loves Greystone Primary.’

  She isn’t fine. Her body is thin. Her bones are sharp and visible under her skin.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ I say.

  She doesn’t even have to think about it. ‘Enough to do this one hundred and eight times. One hundred and nine . . .’ Her eyes are puffy, her nose is red.

  I sit on the top stair, squeezed against the wall so I’
m not in her way. Sweat drips from the tips of her elbows, and her hair is matted around her face.

  ‘Why don’t you stop and we can have lunch together?’

  ‘Not until I reach two hundred. Every step burns a calorie.’

  Starving. Exercising. Drugs. I’d like her to sit beside me and tell me why she does this to herself. I’m not sure I could bear to hear the answer. Because I know, even without asking, that love and family and hurt will be at the heart of her problem.

  ‘Can I get a hug, Daisy? I haven’t had a very good week.’

  She places her head on my shoulder, one arm over my body. Her hand drifts to her head, and she wraps a finger around a strand of hair. Tugs at it. I loosen her grip, keep hold of her hand.

  ‘Just think about nice things,’ I whisper to her. ‘Think about the coming snow.’

  We hold each other in silence on the fire exit staircase. Two lost souls. I wish more than anything that I could save Daisy. But it’s impossible. She’s sick and I’m too sick to fix her — a big part of me wants to work harder at myself, so I can.

  I look out to Devil’s Thirst, and feel the chill in the air.

  33

  YOU

  I WILL ONLY CHECK ONCE.

  I’ve been making a conscious effort on limiting my checks, all week.

  A few steps from the front door, I hear a shout behind me and I turn, startled. It’s Shepherd, coming up the stone path. He has a cobalt-blue blanket tossed over his shoulder and a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

  ‘Wait, Amy. I’ve got plans for you and me tonight.’

  Time stands still. I wonder how I’m going to get away with checking the door with him there.

  ‘So — you coming or what?’ he says.

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yeah, now.’

  ‘I’m going to — er — ’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to do tonight, other than checking that damn door and watching shit on TV. Come on. Nothing bad’s gonna happen.’

  I want to get into bed as quickly as possible. I still have a fever. This flu I’ve caught is getting worse.

  Shepherd lets me check the door whilst he stands there. Watching, his eyes like an owl.

  ‘How long does it take to check it once?’ he says.

  If he keeps talking to me, we’ll be here all night. ‘Let me do this, then I’ll come with you.’

  When I just about finish the check, the door opens and Annabeth comes out.

  ‘Oh, hope I’m not interrupting . . . your therapy.’ She winks at me.

  ‘Yeah, you are. Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’ Shepherd says to Annabeth.

  I feel like I’m dipping under Devil’s Thirst, unsure of what will happen next.

  We all stand there for a moment, looking at each other.

  ‘No you’re right, I can’t stand here all day,’ Annabeth says at last. ‘Dr Richardson is waiting for me.’ She walks down the side path and vanishes from the awkward scene.

  The door is unchecked. I need to start the whole thing again.

  ‘The door is locked,’ Shepherd says. ‘We can’t stand here all night, damn it. Let’s go.’

  ‘I can’t just leave it.’

  ‘Yeah, you can. Come on.’

  ‘Why are you in such a huge hurry all of a sudden?’

  ‘I’m not in a hurry.’

  ‘Why don’t you just go, and let me get on with it, then?’

  ‘I’m not gonna feed your OCD.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘You won’t what?’

  ‘Amy, if I let you do your checking rituals, even by waiting for you to do them, you’re not ever gonna fix the fault.’

  ‘You’re such a psychologist.’

  He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. ‘Yeah . . . sure, as you keep pointing out. But I’ve got something planned for you. And I’m done waiting.’

  He drags me down the path. I look over my shoulder, back at the door. The need to go back and start checking is very strong. I stop walking.

  ‘Come on, Amy, don’t stop,’ he says.

  ‘I think I left the iron on,’ I lie.

  ‘Nice try.’ When I still don’t move, he says, ‘Your room is still secure from when you left it this morning. Isn’t it?’

  Before I have time to consider this, he takes hold of my hand. After that, I can move.

  Shepherd guides me into the woods, holding my hand at first and then where the terrain gets rough, hooks my fingers into the back of his belt. I follow awkwardly, unable to see anything but the vague shapes of trees.

  We come out of the trees into a glade. It’s green and redolent with life, the grass rippling in the night breeze. Overhead, the stars shine like tiny distant wishes.

  Shepherd stops, seemingly at random, and unfurls the blanket amid the night sounds of birds and insects. After he settles himself on it, I stand on the grass, watching the sky, waiting for his cruel intentions.

  He takes a swig from his whiskey bottle. ‘Come lie down. You can see the stars better from here.’

  I lie down on the blanket, and he puts his arm around my shoulders and draws me against his side. He’s hot, like a fire banked against the cold. Occasionally, he raises himself enough to drink from his bottle, but otherwise lies back and watches the stars.

  ‘What are we calling this?’ I say. ‘Romantic night out?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Puts me in the mood for romance.’

  The silence between us is a breeding ground for worry. But he doesn’t do anything, say anything, he doesn’t interrogate or push. He just stays quiet. Sometimes, he strokes his knuckles against my arm or plays with a strand of my hair, all the while staring up at the alien constellations above us.

  When he doesn’t move or speak for a long time, I relax a little, enjoying the prickly grass through the blanket, the rich damp of the night air. In the distance an owl calls and another answers. I inhale deeply, smell some distant flowers.

  ‘You like it?’ he says.

  ‘Yes. Very much so.’

  It’s a grudging answer, because I like it too much. It’s achingly beautiful, maybe more so because he’s being nice. Which probably only means that later he will do something worse than usual.

  But mostly, it’s because I’m praying to a god I don’t believe in. To karma that I’ve messed over a thousand times in my life through the bad things I’ve done. Or to whatever deity may listen to a worthless crazy girl that I can walk away from Shepherd and never go back to him. That I can survive, keep my heart safe. Because I’m unsure if I can live in a world without that slight quirk of lips that is a crooked smile, those black eyes I can drown in, a world without calloused hands and a scarred body. A world that Shepherd doesn’t exist in.

  And then it returns, like it always does. That slow, creeping guilt crawling back into every dark corner of my life.

  You don’t deserve this.

  Elizabeth is half dead, buried alive in a coffin.

  Your fault. Your guilt. Your sin. Your secret.

  ‘Are we alone out here?’ I say.

  ‘As alone as we can be. Why?’

  ‘Just wondered. Why are you doing this?’

  He rises on his elbow, looks into my face, and I know he can see it. Because I’m feeling it too much. My eyes sparkle, my skin buzzes. Under the stars, I glow with happiness. I’m not that Walking Dead Amy I’ve been for so long.

  Somehow, somewhere across the hurt and sorrow, Shepherd’s made me less afraid of the dark.

  ‘You don't like romantic starlit nights?’ he says.

  ‘Not this. Everything else. Why come back to a town that did nothing for you? Neglected you. Why do you want to save me so much?’

  I glimpse something in his dark marble eyes that looks a lot like respect. ‘I’m returning the favour.’

  I’m at a complete loss. ‘What favour?’

  I feel Shepherd get close in this moment, unnecessarily close. He brushes his cheek against mine for the smallest of seconds. Lets his nose drag a
cross it to my lips as he pulls away. I look into his eyes as I fight to regain the ability to breathe. My heart is all scar tissue but it can still hurt, still feel, and with just one look, Shepherd rips it to shreds once again.

  ‘You got a good heart, Amy. Too good. It kills me how you want to help other people and not yourself. The world hasn’t done shit for you, has put you in my crushing hands, and you want to save others like Daisy.’

  ‘Daisy . . . She’s lost and in a lot of pain.’

  ‘What will you give me to let them stay?’

  ‘Anything.’ It’s as quick as my answer to protect Max from the big, toothy monsters.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Whatever I have that's worth anything, I’ll give that to save them.’

  He’s the Devil here, and he’s making a kind of deal with me.

  ‘You really want to help them, huh?’

  I can’t look the Devil in the eye. I’ll lose.

  ‘Yes.’ I say.

  He kisses the little shell of my ear. I shiver.

  ‘As long as you keep getting better,’ he says. ‘You're the only one who stands between them and me. You keep your promise and I keep mine.’

  His words are a black mirror reflecting what kind of monster he is. That he has the power to tear me to pieces, and I’ll crumble like a butterfly losing its wings.

  I sit up, pulling away from the warmth of his solid arm against my neck. I manage to look into the Devil’s eyes, and ensure I hide my true emotions when I say, ‘I don't want to be the one who stands between you and anything.’

  I hate that this love I keep for him is immortal. I’m twisted into his soul like a Cat’s Cradle.

  Emotion sweeps me like a tornado and I reach up to wipe my eyes. But he catches my wrist in his hand and stops me. The tears run out of the corners instead.

  ‘Let them fall, Amy. Those tears mean I’m doing something right. It means you’re finally feeling something.’

  34

  ME

  I thumb out a text to Amy.

  Mine, 8pm, S

  I’m still waiting for the urge for Amy to burn out or dwindle. But when I see her in the distance, while I stand hidden in the alcove, it’s more powerful than before.