One More Lie Read online

  Following instructions I turn left at the end of the road. It’s not dark yet but it’s trying. When I see the concrete steps leading down to the underpass, I stop. Why do they all look the same? The handles of the plastic bag dig into my palm.

  The underpass, open like a screaming mouth. Stop.

  I breathe; I count the seconds. Still my legs don’t move. I try to think of a way out, watching the traffic on the four lanes, try to time it so I can cross, but there’s never a gap long enough. Then I think of turning back, of following the road as far as it goes and crossing when I can, but the fading light reminds me of my curfew, and that the tag on my ankle is always watching. Not enough money for a taxi, no sign of the bus stop on this side.

  I take one step at a time, slowly so that I don’t slip on my shaking legs. The lights inside the tunnel are on and they flicker like it’s winking at me, willing me in, a dare. When I’m at the bottom I look back and feel like I am leaving the world behind me. There’s no one else inside. The walls are covered in overlapping graffiti, some beautiful, most not.

  The slap of my shoes on the concrete, the way the sound bounces back off the walls.

  Luke, the way he laughed at the echo, his laugh echoing back, laughing more.

  I walk more softly, careful not to make a sound. A wind upsets the litter and leaves that line the path. They chatter like teeth. Above me, the world carries on, as if I’m not there.

  It feels as though I will never make it. The end stretches away from me; a painted face leers at me from the wall. I sense something behind me but I don’t turn. I don’t want to know.

  I walk forward, heel toe, heel toe, no echo, no laughter. The sounds of the world above get a little louder; the lights seem to buzz, like they’re angry, like they’ve seen who I am and what I’m doing.

  Luke, laughing. Luke, asking, ‘Where are we going?’

  Heel toe, heel toe. I feel something creeping up on me, I move faster. Then my feet are slapping but I don’t care. The feeling is creeping up on me, the sickness; I am angry and scared of myself, at myself. I am disgusted. I run until I am out of the underpass and I am spat out. I run up the steps and my legs ache but I don’t stop until I’m at the top and I’m out of breath but I’m free. The roar of the traffic replaces the roar in my ears. Suddenly, I know exactly where I am.

  As I approach the home I see the group of smokers. There is no smoking on the premises, so they gather at the gates in the hours before curfew, their tribe blocking the pavement and flicking their butts into the road. They are not supposed to do this but no one seems to stop them. Often they are in their pyjamas and dressing gowns. At first I thought this was a little strange but now I am almost used to anything. When I turn to go in the gates they part and their conversation stops. I look at the floor, at one woman’s slippers, the bottoms of them all grey with dirt they’ve dragged up from the street outside.

  ‘All right?’ one of them asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and keep moving. Behind me I hear a giggle, a whisper. I know it is about me; it always is. It always hurts.

  Inside I go straight to the shared kitchen. Suddenly I’m very hungry. Empty stomach, dizzy-headed. My feet ache from a day of standing. The shoes they bought me for work are that stiff new leather. When I slide them off and peel down my socks I see curled skin where they have rubbed on my heels. I put them both under the table and enjoy the cool of the tiled floor on my hot soles.

  The sink is full of others’ dirty pans, which is not a surprise but is still a disappointment. I eat my KitKat to calm the rumble in my stomach and then I start to wash everything in the sink. There are rules: that we wash up after ourselves, that we leave things as we found them, but no one ever seems to wash up and so everything is always left as it was found: a mess. Crumbs that bring in lines of ants, the rancid smell of the bin that’s always overflowing.

  When I’ve finished I put a clean pan on the hob and tip in the beans I bought from Tesco. I put two slices of white bread in the toaster and I grate some cheese. On the long table behind me I unfold the paper and open it to my story. ‘Tomorrow’s chip paper,’ my auntie Fay always said. Not any more. I am glad I don’t have a phone because it is much worse online, always.

  The toast pops. I open the fridge to get my butter but when I lift it it’s strangely light. Inside I see that the butter has gone, scraped to the sides, and I am so angry that I almost scream but I don’t. This is something I should have guessed would happen. Why wouldn’t it?

  There’s another butter in the fridge that isn’t really butter but something made of olives. I’m about to take it when someone comes in, the sound of her flip-flops sucking on the bottoms of her feet as she walks. She’s one of the loud ones, and a smoker, too, from the smell that accompanies her.

  ‘All right …’ She searches for my name, though I don’t think I’ve ever told her.

  ‘Charlotte,’ I say, putting the olive spread back in the fridge.

  She’s sitting at the table, one foot up on the chair, knee under her chin. She reads the paper upside down. I turn away, red-hot, hoping she doesn’t recognise something in me from the grainy picture she’s looking at. I stir the beans, hearing the crinkle of the pages as she turns it to face her.

  ‘Fucking terrible, innit?’ she says, but I pretend not to hear. ‘A million pounds! If you ask me they should’ve thrown away the key. If you can do that when you’re a child …’

  I turn off the hob and tip the beans on to my dry toast. It was a mistake to bring the paper back here. The hot pan sinks into the soapy water with a hiss. We’re not supposed to take food to our rooms but if no one else is following the rules then they may as well not exist.

  ‘I heard’, she says, looking up at me, ‘that she’s working in a petrol station by Colton industrial estate.’

  At this I smile. It is funny the things people make up.

  ‘How do you know that?’ I ask.

  She shrugs. ‘Mate told me.’

  ‘I don’t really know anything about it,’ I say. I turn again to leave.

  ‘Perverts,’ she says. ‘Both of them. Evil. But her especially.’

  I try to stop the plate shaking in my hands as I turn to leave.

  ‘It was all her idea,’ she adds, stabbing at my picture with a finger. ‘She was the ringleader. Manipulative. A sociopath.’

  6

  Her: Then

  ‘Please.’ I’m on my knees like he told me to. ‘Pleeeaaaaaase can I borrow it?’ I put my prayer hands together. ‘You are the best cousin in the world, pleeeeeaaaaaaase can I borrow it for one hour?’

  Ryan laughs. ‘Will you clean my football boots?’

  ‘Anything!’ I am lying. I will not clean his football boots. They smell like old cheese.

  ‘One hour,’ he says, tipping the BMX towards me. ‘But if you scratch it you’re dead.’

  Ryan thinks he can tell me what to do because he is ten and I am only eight.

  ‘Yes! Thank you!’ I stumble trying to get on the bike and he laughs. The handles are soft and squish in my hands. As I pedal away the bike wobbles side to side but I start to pick up speed and it feels good, standing because the seat is too high.

  ‘Don’t tell my mum!’ he shouts behind me but I am already gone and I wouldn’t tell Auntie Fay anyway because she’d only tell me I’m too small for Ryan’s bike.

  Soon I am flying. I steer into the speed bumps, the bike taking off and thumping down after each one. Lawn mowers and barbecue smells and paddling-pool splashes. The bike is a horse and I ride him to the end of the estate, loop around the flats and over the gravel, skidding and sliding around the corners, and ride back to the green where I pull on his reins, Whoa, boy, and settle him on the grass for a break, minding the dog poo, in the shade of a tree.

  There are other kids that I recognise from school. Older kids: year fives and even some year sixes. I shrink when they see me, wishing I could sink into the shade and slip away like a shadow. I pick up the bike and roll it awa
y but I hear them call to me. ‘Hey! Hey! Wait a minute!’ They are smiling when I look at them and so I stop. I rest the bike against the tree and roll a stone under my shoe.

  ‘What’s your name again?’ they ask me. I don’t know why. I tell them but it comes out like a baby in my small voice. They laugh so I laugh.

  ‘Do you go to St Peter’s?’ the biggest boy asks me. His name is Liam Marchant and everyone knows who he is.

  I nod.

  ‘I knew I knew you. Is that your bike?’

  I chew my lip. I think, No. I say, ‘Yes.’

  They all look at the bike and then Liam says, ‘Can I have a go then? I’ll ride it once around the green. I’ll show you how to do tricks,’ he says.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘My auntie Fay made me promise not to let anyone else have a go.’

  ‘Your auntie Fay?’ he says. They all laugh again so I try to laugh too but my stomach is jitterbugging.

  ‘Oh, I know who she is now!’ one boy says.

  ‘Go on, let me have a go. I know your auntie Fay. She thinks I’m all right,’ Liam says.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘I have to go.’ I hold the bike handle but he is holding the seat.

  ‘How come you live with your aunt?’ a boy at the back says. They’re still laughing.

  ‘I don’t,’ I say. I don’t know why I say this.

  ‘Yes you do. Why are you lying?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I have to go home because I promised I would come home soon.’

  ‘Is it really your bike?’ one of the other boys asks.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘She’s lying.’

  ‘Did you nick it?’ another says.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. Then, ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh my God, she’s such a liar,’ Liam says.

  When I try to pull the bike away from him he just holds it tighter.

  ‘Tell us it isn’t your bike and where you got it and we’ll let you go,’ he says.

  ‘It’s my cousin’s bike,’ I say, my cheeks hot like fresh sunburn.

  ‘Why do you live with your aunt?’

  ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Is it true your dad killed your mum?’ the first boy asks. A girl slaps his arm but she giggles too. My eyes fill with tears, warm like bathwater.

  ‘You said I could go,’ I say.

  ‘My dad told me about it,’ Liam says. ‘That your house burned down and your dad did it because he was mental.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I shout. I pull the bike again but he pulls back harder.

  ‘And that’s why you’re so weird and you lie all the time. You probably nicked this bike.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I say.

  ‘We should call the police.’

  ‘I have to go home,’ I say and my voice is shaking as much as my legs.

  ‘Let her go,’ the girl says. She sounds bored. The boy releases the bike and I start to wheel it away because I am shaking so much I can’t get on yet.

  ‘How come you don’t have any friends?’ Liam says and the sound of them all sniggering makes my brain roar and I turn around and I’m shouting before I can stop myself.

  ‘Well, my auntie Fay says your dad’s on the fiddle and someone should report him to the council.’

  ‘What did she say?’ Liam says. He sounds shocked. I don’t know what ‘on the fiddle’ means but I knew it was bad because of the way Auntie Fay’s voice curled when she said it. And now they are all walking towards me and I have to force myself to climb on the bike to get away. ‘Oi,’ he shouts. ‘Come back and say that to my face!’

  I’m pushing on the pedals and the bike is as wobbly as me but when they start running I pedal faster and faster. I wish I hadn’t said it. They chase me but the bike is quicker and I look back from the end of the street and see they are far behind but then a gold car is suddenly right in front of me and I have to brake, the tyres scraping the tarmac, the man in the car using his horn to scream.

  I blink at him through the window and see him shouting but I can barely hear it. His whole face is angry even though I’m the one he nearly ran over and I feel my mouth hanging open but no words come out of it. Then I hear the boys laughing at me from back down the road.

  As I ride away the tears tickle my neck and dry in the breeze and I don’t want to go back home, I want to go nowhere, to not exist. I ride further than I’m allowed to go, past the rec club and to the playing fields. I ignore the park and the swings and the people and I ride over the soft grass even though it will make the wheels dirty and Ryan will make me clean them later. I ride to the end of the playing field, where the grass slopes down into the hedges at the backs of the houses. I leave the bike on the slope and climb down. There is a space in the hedges where you can hide, where the fences that fell down are on the ground and you can sit. You can hear the people in the park but they can’t see you.

  I look for the break in the hedges and I go through. But there’s someone there, someone else who’s crying. I know it’s a boy because his orange hair is shaved close to his head. He hugs his knees and his head rests on his arms and every now and again he sniffs or huffs. He has on a denim jacket that’s too big for him by miles.

  ‘Hello?’ I say. It makes him jump and when his head comes up I can see there are no tears on his face.

  ‘Fuck!’ he says. The sound of the word is like a slap. Ryan once told Auntie Fay I said the F word but I didn’t and I didn’t even know what it was then. I found out at school and I said it aloud in the bathroom, watched my face in the mirror as I said it, and it made me feel ashamed even though I was alone.

  ‘You shouldn’t say the F word,’ I tell the boy now.

  He laughs.

  ‘I thought you were crying,’ I say.

  He shakes his head. Then he holds up a lighter and he flicks it twice, sparks jumping.

  ‘You’re not allowed to play with fire, either,’ I say, shaking my head.

  ‘I’ll show you something cool,’ he says. When he says it he smiles and it lights up his eyes with trouble. ‘Watch this,’ he says. He takes a deodorant and shakes it, then he sprays it all over the leg of his jeans. He grins and flicks the lighter, holding the flame against his leg. The flame grows and suddenly it covers his whole leg. I stumble backwards, the heat of it on my eyelashes. Then he pats his leg and it’s gone, like nothing happened. He’s laughing. I lean forward and look at his jeans but they aren’t burned at all.

  ‘How did you do that?’ I ask.

  ‘Do you want a go?’ he asks. I shake my head. ‘I’m Sean,’ he says, flicking the lighter again but not letting it flame.

  ‘How old are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Nine,’ he says.

  ‘How come you have a lighter if you’re only nine?’

  He shrugs. ‘Found it. Do you go to St Peter’s?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘But I’m in year three.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘You don’t look like a year three,’ he says. ‘Are you really eight?’

  I nod. He shrugs again.

  ‘Oh, wait,’ he says. ‘Your mum’s dead, isn’t she?’

  I feel my lip wobble and I hate it so I turn to leave even though this is my place.

  ‘Wait,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t have a mum either but she isn’t dead.’

  At the top of the slope I grab the bike and decide I may as well go back home. Sean is saying something but I ignore him and walk with my head down so no one can see me cry.

  ‘Hey,’ someone ahead says. I look up. I see Liam and the group of year fives and sixes from earlier and it’s too late to hide because they are coming towards me really fast like they might smash right through me. I drop the bike and I scream but it’s the park and loads of kids are screaming so no one notices me. I cross my arms over my face and screw up my eyes tight and wish I could disappear.

  ‘Say it to my face,’ Liam says. ‘Look at her, she’s mental.’

 
They’re laughing and I’m crying. I keep my face hidden so they can’t see me. Then from behind me I hear someone yelling, like a roar, and Liam and his friends start to scream so I look up. They’re running away and Sean is chasing them; the whole front of his jacket is on fire and he’s waving his arms around. The older boys keep running but they’re shouting back that we’re mental and Sean says, ‘I am mental! I’m mental!’ And it makes me laugh and he drops on the floor and rolls around until the fire has gone out and the mums are looking from the benches and they all have open mouths and it makes me laugh more and more until the laughing feels almost like crying and I realise that they are the same, laughing and crying, the same. Like a release. Like I’m a bottle of pop that’s been shaken and shaken and now I’m fizzing over and I can’t stop; it will last forever.

  7

  Her: Now

  I spend a sleepless night thinking about Sean, wondering if the woman in the kitchen was right, if it had all been my fault, right from the start. I try to make sense of everything and put it in order, to remember who had started it and who had been the one to bring it all to an end.

  But my memories are all twisted and tangled and by the time the sun comes up I have a headache from trying to keep my eyes closed and I feel something strange, new. It’s like I miss him. Sean. Miss the way my stomach cramped from laughing and that feeling like I was free-falling, the terror and the fun of it.

  I pull my chair to the window and look out. A pigeon limps on the fire escape; a plastic bag trembles in a tree; the rooftops of the houses are grey and moss grows in their drainpipes. I am lonely. I’m so lonely I want to die.

  Before the others can get up I take my towel to the shared bathroom and I wash. The water is tepid but when I turn up the heat the pipes groan like an old giant turning in his sleep and then the water is boiling, so hot I leap forward and the dingy shower curtain clings to my skin. I can barely reach back under the stream to turn the temperature down but when I do the cold feels like medicine.