Читать книгу Lies Between Us: a tense psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming - Ronnie Turner - Страница 19

Chapter 10

Miller

Thursday 4 June, 1987

Mother holds the phone to her ear, nails tap-tap-tapping on the plastic. She preens her hair with the other hand, subconsciously flicking and twirling her dry and brittle locks. This is a habit that has withstood the derailment of everything else. The red varnish on her nails is chipped and cracked. Brown roots sit at the top of her head, a nasty contrast to the yellowy shade of blonde from copious amounts of Sun-In. Her face, once plastered with layer upon layer of make-up, is empty, the pores and blemishes she tried so hard to disguise there for all to see. A woman who was once confident in a beauty only she saw has sunk into a pool of disarray.

Father is much the same. I hear them in the bedroom next to mine. At night they take two deep breaths to steady themselves; in the morning they take four, bracing themselves for another day, needing strength to seep into their bodies. And for the rest of the time, a silence sits between them. Deep and unrelenting.

In the evening they watch television, flicking glances over to me. I know they are thinking about her. About their sweet angel, Mary, and wondering if perhaps it was not a game. I can see the question in their eyes. Did he have something to do with it? No, he couldn’t have. No child of theirs could do something as wretched as that. No. He is a naughty boy but never, no, never. They look at me, wondering, denying their wild thoughts, their eyes unblinking, a mixture of confusion and disbelief blurring together. When they do this, a smile I find hard to contain flips onto my lips. They look away instantly, banishing those wild thoughts to the backs of their minds. And even though there is no love or even warmth between them now, their hands nevertheless seek each other’s out.

The only enjoyment Mother sucks from life is to gossip with her friend Maggie. The silly, idle chatter they share reminds her of who she used to be. She performs with gusto, the blather blowing her up like a balloon. For a few hours she feels better, fuller, then, when she puts down the phone and looks at me, the air escapes her and she shuffles away. Poor, sad Mother.

I watch her now, tapping away with those nails. I grit my teeth and instead focus on the words falling one after the other out of her mouth.

‘I know, Mags. I know. Well, why don’t we take a cake round for her? Show her she has support. I know, she probably won’t eat it. Well, she can take it with her to the hospital, can’t she? Her husband’s had a stroke, I’m sure he can still eat cake. Sugar might do him some good. I know, Mags.’ She juts her lip out, brows knitting together, false sadness dancing across her features. ‘I know. So sad. Yes, let’s. She needs to know we’re here for her.’ Sympathy, if real in the first place, has a use-before date that prevents it lasting more than a few weeks. When the time is up, the avalanche of ‘I think she needs to move on now’ or ‘This has been going on for weeks’ pours in.

Mother puts a hand on her hip and begins tapping the cabinet instead.

I try, Blue-Eyes, I try so very hard. It is almost a game now, you know, holding down my anger, seeing how strong my reserve is. Sometimes, though, the sound of those nails is just too much to ignore.

She gasps as I pull her hand to my mouth and rip four fake nails off with my teeth. They taste chalky and sour in my mouth. She screams, shying away, eyes expanding into shocked saucers. I pull the last one away, feeling the varnish break up in my mouth as I so often imagine. She yanks her hand to her chest, cradling it, skin slick with saliva as I spit the nails into my cupped hand. I can hear rumbling in her throat, a combination of a groan and a whine. The phone skitters to the floor and I hear Maggie shriek, ‘June, June? What is it? June!’ I drop the mess onto the cabinet, stretch my arms around her weak little shoulders and kiss her cheek. ‘I’msorryI’msorryI’mreallysorryMum.’ Like a little naughty boy, I stare at my feet and force tears into my eyes, sniffing, wiping the snot from my nose because I know it will make her cringe.

She wriggles out from my arms and pats my head as if she is patting the back of a slug. Her nose wrinkles. ‘That’s… that’s OK. Now off you go.’

She picks up the phone and continues her conversation with Maggie, finger poking the mess of spit and fake nail on the cabinet. She won’t tell Maggie, not that I would be worried if she did. Her pride gets in her way: she could never admit to the oddity that is her son, to having a child as naughty and strange as me. I walk to the door, her gaze needling the back of my head as I go.

On the street, people cluster together in the sun, tongues wagging, hands waving, faces greasy with sunblock. It makes the wrinkles seem deeper on the old and the spots redder on the young. The middle-aged men, carrying paunches that bend their backs to the floor, stand and talk with their hips thrust out and their faces taut with arrogance. The women, stick-thin from attempts at keeping their husbands’ attention, mill about like hens, clucking and swapping titbits of information, glancing at the men as the men glance at the girls across the street.

The elderly sit in their deckchairs, sipping tea despite the blistering heat, gazing sadly at the young, wishing they could still leap and jump and run with their friends. Wishing their skin was as smooth and their hair was as thick. They sip and they sip, drowning their sorrows in tea. The young flitter about, playing hopscotch and riding their bicycles, alive with freedom, the perils of adulthood something far removed from their small universe.

Do you know the arrogance makes me sick? It turns my stomach and makes me want to heave. The teenagers flick their hair and flaunt their bodies like salesmen showing off their wares on the market. They see themselves as gods and angels in a world of mortals. The way they walk, the way they stand and talk and believe they are entitled to everything. I dig my hands into my pockets and walk along the street to the centre of town. A school, a few shops and a town hall. A small place to grow up, a place where everyone knows everyone. A place where they all look at me and quickly look away. Being different is bad. They think I am a strange boy. A boy who will be a strange man. They don’t like the look of me with my black hair and my black eyes. But I don’t care because the feeling is mutual.

I only love you, I will only ever love you. With your blue eyes and unassuming personality, you are not arrogant or insolent like everyone else. You exude something special, something precious. You make others flock to you, want to be your friend. Want to please you and comfort you and make you laugh. But you don’t see it. You are too good for that.

*

We sit in rows, waiting for Mr Philips to take us through our history lesson. A new teacher is going to take his place tomorrow. A girl Mother says is as ‘cute as a button’. I haven’t seen her yet, only heard how everyone adores her and yet she has only just moved into town. Mr Philips saunters in, balding head slick with sweat, and greets us all in his droning voice. As he begins his tirade on the Roman Empire, the boys and girls slump in their seats. They try to look interested because Mr Philips talks to their parents over coffee in the café but I can see how they really feel. Micro expressions flit across their faces. Tiny truths unveiling the boredom or irritation or even awe that sits there. One girl, smaller than the rest, ugly, looks at the tall, beautiful girl to her left with something akin to love. Her feet dance under the table and I wonder if she wants to step on the tall girl’s feet and spin round the room. The boy in front of me turns every few seconds to snatch a glimpse of a girl. Lust. Love. Hatred. Envy. Emotions are as transparent as glass. I see them all. And soon I will see you. Soon, you will crash into my life with more colour and sincerity than I have ever seen before.

Saturday 6 June, 1987

She stumbles into the classroom. Books fly out of her arms and land with a heavy thump on the floor. A strand of hair catches inside of her mouth. She swats it away and bends to pick up the books, blushing red. She gives a nervous smile to the pupils sniggering behind their hands. I can feel the embarrassment peeling off her in waves. It hits me in the chest and all of a sudden I want to scream at the girls and boys to stop it, stop it! Stop sniggering. I want to hurt them more than I have ever wanted to hurt anyone for making her feel this way. For making her feel small and silly. She is like you, Blue-Eyes. She is like Mary. She is special. A Good One.

She straightens her shirt and pushes her hair off her shoulders, standing a little taller, meeting the eyes of every pupil in the room; I sense Mr Philips has advised her to do this. A trick he uses when he wants our undivided attention.

‘Hello, class. My name is Sarah Hardman. I’ll be taking over from Mr Philips. Some of you might have seen me about – I’ve just moved into town.’ A pause. ‘I believe you’ve been learning about the Roman Empire and so we’ll carry on with that today.’ She folds her hands in front of her stomach; it is usually a gesture of self-satisfaction but with this woman I think it is a means of trying to make herself feel more confident. She smiles half-heartedly, snatches up a piece of chalk and fumbles with it for a moment before scratching across the blackboard. A girl behind me whispers to her friend, ‘Think I might just start liking school now! We’re not going to learn a thing.’ The friend sniggers.

They think she is an imbecile but I can see she is not. She is nervous and embarrassed. She is also clever, engaging and sweet. It shows in the way she moves, the way she holds herself. And sure enough, when she gets into the flow of teaching, the boys and girls around me stop pulling faces and pointing and instead lean forward, eyes glued to her, faces taut with concentration. She has pulled them from their silly habits. She has got their attention.

Before the lesson is over, they are looking at her as if she is hope at the bottom of Pandora’s Box; a light in their dark, boring lives. They stare up at her with big eyes, round with awe and amazement. And if she walks past them and smiles or praises them, they grin to themselves and look about the room, making sure others have noticed. It has only been one lesson and already they worship her. She is beautiful with her brown hair and hazel eyes but it is something sitting deeper than the surface. She emanates a quality that is irresistible. A sweetness and unassuming sincerity that makes her stand out from everyone else. The boys fancy her, the girls envy her. It is almost like a spell she has put them under. One she doesn’t know she has the power to cast. It is one of the reasons I love you so much, Blue-Eyes: you don’t realise how special you are.

She looks at me and I feel a flush of heat envelop my face. I count the seconds, one, two, before she looks away. And I know I want that look again. I crave it. I crave her attention and touch. I want it more than I have wanted anything ever before. I need it. It is a gasping, burning pull deep inside my gut. I won’t be able to walk home unless I know I will come back tomorrow and have it again. I know how it seems, Blue-Eyes, I know I sound like all the other boys and girls, but it is different. It is stronger.

Much stronger.

I am the last to leave when she finishes her lesson. I walk past her, inhaling her vanilla scent, revelling in the proximity between us. She has her back to me, bending over a book on her desk. I mumble a goodbye.

‘Bye, sweetheart.’

As I go, I reach out and touch her skirt. My fingers graze the fabric and make it sway. She doesn’t notice and I leave. But my fingers are alive with the essence of her. Later, I run them down my face and I think I can feel her on my skin. I sleep with my hand tucked under my cheek, lips sucking on my fingers like a baby.