Our Little Lies

1

Grace

Now

This is it. This is where my story ends.

I don’t expect you to condone what I’ve done. All I ask is that when you know the whole truth, you try to understand. After all, are we not all capable of sin in the name of love?

I once heard that love never dies a natural death. A loving heart is killed; stabbed by hurt, poisoned by betrayal, snuffed out with lies.

And a dead heart can only beat with revenge.

I’ll let you in on a little secret. Nobody in this story is as they first appear. Nobody is innocent.

Least of all me.

2

Grace

Now

The harsh reality of the interrogation process has an immediate effect. I choke down the rising bile in my throat and fold my arms tight across my chest. The room contains no windows, holds no hope. If I stretched out, I could just about touch both of the pitted, lead-grey walls. But I don’t. I sit hunched forward, my denim-clad thighs sticking to the black plastic of one of three chairs. Each seat is bolted to the floor through drab, green carpet tiles, stained and worn, like most who trudge over them, I guess – like me now, I suppose.

A female officer glares at me. What does she think I’m capable of? What am I capable of? I’m struck by the coldness in her pale-grey eyes. It reminds me of the ash left in a dying fire.

‘This interview is being recorded. It is presently 8.32pm on Tuesday 19th May 2020. I am Detective Inspector Sally Ambrose, currently at Cheadle Heath Police Station.’ She leans across the table, intertwining long, slender fingers which seem too feminine for a DI. Instinctively, I conceal my bandaged hand between my thighs and pray she doesn’t ask me about it. ‘Grace, you’re aware of the charges against you?’

I turn my head to the wall where a riot of smudged fingerprints seem to point accusingly. ‘I’m not refuting any of it.’

She allows my admission the space to breathe. ‘Do you know where Daniel is?’

I shake my head, tears spilling down my face. ‘I don’t. Please find him. Please make him be all right.’

The detective’s brow creases. ‘Do you have reason to believe he’s come to harm?’

I blanch. She’s trying to catch me out. ‘No. It’s not that. He wouldn’t hurt Daniel. It’s just…’ My gaze drops to my lap.

‘Just what?’ Her voice has turned ice cold.

I need to speak, to have this end right now. I can’t allow him to take the fall, not when this is all my fault. My stomach lurches, a scream from deep inside bubbling to the surface. I need to let it out, to rid myself of the demon within, the monster that allowed this to happen: to purge. To say I’m sorry.

Our eyes lock, woman to woman.

It’s time to confess.

3

Grace

Two Years Ago

‘P lease God, let it be positive.’ Slipping the cap back on the test, I place it face down on the edge of the bath.

Three minutes to go.

I’ve lost count of the number of tests I’ve peed on over the years; Clearblue, First Response, those crappy dipstick ones from Superdrug. Two lines for the jackpot, X marks the spot – it all amounts to the same thing when neither appears, namely that my reproductive system is about as useful as a hand-knitted condom!

Flushing the toilet, I fasten my jeans and tighten my belt to the last notch. I’ve lost more weight in the last six months than I care to think about. Turning sidewards, I inspect myself in the bathroom mirror, wincing at the emaciated, ghost-white figure I’ve become; legs like twigs, jutted-out hips and sharp shoulders – of course, there was a time I’d have considered such a figure desirable, rebuffing suggestions that I was anorexic as jealousy gift-wrapped in concern.

‘I’m afraid one of the long-term effects of an eating disorder is often infertility.’ The gynaecologist’s words had been fired at me like bullets. Only then did I realise I was actually sick – mentally as well as physically. For years I’d starved my body, and now it was wreaking its revenge.

I fought to make it right – eating well and giving myself over to counselling. Justin, my partner of ten years, was just as desperate to start a family as I was, which was a blessing at first, though over the years his heartache only added to my guilt. There’s nothing quite like guilt to quash your appetite.

I glance at the downturned test, hope fluttering in my heart despite knowing the chances are slim. My period’s late, three weeks and four days, though I only plucked up the courage to buy a test this morning. ‘Just do this one thing for me, God, and I promise I’ll never ask for anything again as long as I live.’

As a child, my younger brother, Andrew, and I attended a Pentecostal church with our mother, a born-again Christian who was the mixed-race daughter of a Black South African pastor. My heart still swells with joy when I think back to that time, Mum, Andrew and I singing our hearts out on a Sunday morning, my arms raised high and my heart thumping in time to a twenty-strong worship band, but I’ve long since given up on church. Andrew’s death at the hands of a hit-and-run driver saw to that. Thirteen years young, his life snuffed out in a heartbeat. I was sixteen, on the cusp of adulthood but, like most sixteen-year-olds, blissfully ignorant to the horrors life can afflict. Andrew’s death robbed me not only of my brother but of my innocence, faith, the belief that the world is a good place. When Mum also died a few years later, I didn’t so much disbelieve in God as despise him. Yet, like many a disgruntled believer, I still cling to God when I’m drowning in despair.

I track the seconds hand on my watch until it reaches twelve.

Two minutes to go.

A knock on the bathroom door sends my pulse racing.

‘You want me to open the red or the white? It’s fish, so white, yeah?’

Justin has no idea my period’s even late, let alone that I’m taking a pregnancy test. There was a time he would have at the beginning, but not now. Now I’m not even sure he’d notice if I were three weeks late home from work.

‘Whatever you think.’

‘You all right?’

‘Yeah. Just on the loo.’

‘Should I stick some prawns in too, or just stick with the cod?’

Nausea claws at my throat at the thought of fleshy, raw fish. For God’s sake, leave me alone. I swallow down the irritation. ‘Just cod.’

‘Cheesy mash or normal?’

I lean forward against the sink, hands splayed like starfish and take a slow breath. ‘Just give me a minute, all right. I’m not feeling so good.’

‘Why, what’s the matter?’

Go away!

‘Grace? You got the squits?’

‘Good God, Justin, can you just leave me alone for five minutes!’

The sound of creaking floorboards sinks my stomach. I never mean to push him away, and yet somehow, I manage it every time.

A sudden wave of nausea brings me to my knees. I hang my head over the toilet bowl and dry retch until at last, my stomach contracts and empties itself. The sight of sick only makes me heave more, but there’s nothing left to part with. Wiping the acidic residue from around my mouth, I pull myself up and stumble over to the sink to splash cold water onto my face.

Seconds later, my hand shakes as I hover over the test. A part of me is desperate to toss it straight in the bin without looking, but I know I have to face it head-on, whatever the result. Cautiously, I turn it over.

4

Grace

Two Years Ago

My brain stutters, as if unable to take in what my eyes are seeing. I collapse down onto the toilet seat and squint as I hold the test up to the light. There’s a faint line, I’m sure, though my eyes could easily be playing tricks on me. I’ve fallen victim to it countless times before, convinced myself of a second line when it was little more than a shadow. But this time – I look again – yep, it’s definitely visible.

Hands trembling, I fish the box out of the rubbish bin and scan the instructions. A second line, no matter how faint, is a positive result. I bring the test close to my face, breathing momentarily suspended as the enormity of the situation takes root. I’m pregnant! I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t holding proof right here in my hand – a kiss from Mother Nature, the promise of new life.

I remain in a daze for the longest time, a surreal kind of elation paralysing me. I have a baby growing inside of me. He or she will be – I quickly do the math – seven or eight weeks. My child – God, I can hardly say the words to myself. My. Child.

Cautiously, I place both hands on my stomach and make a silent promise to be the best mother I can be. Justin and I may have our problems, but there’s no doubt we’ll give this child the world. Shit! Justin. He still has no idea.

Thundering down the stairs, I head straight for the kitchen, keeping the test concealed behind my back. I imagine Justin’s face as I break the news to him, the brief look of shock as he registers the positive test followed by the inevitable euphoria. A smile breaks out as the image takes shape. I run through the announcement in my mind. I’m pregnant, Justin. We did it!

‘Justin!’ I burst through the kitchen door and stop dead.

Justin’s finger stabs at the screen on his mobile. His cheeks are flushed red, eyes hardened. ‘Sorry what?’ He stuffs the mobile into his jeans pocket, coughs into his fist and then, perhaps aware of my stunned silence, rearranges his face into something resembling indifference. ‘Bloody hell, Grace, you shit me up then.’

‘What are you doing?’ Instinctively my fingers curl tighter around the test still hidden behind my back.

‘Making fish pie, what does it look like?’ He expels a nervous laugh.

‘You look worried.’ I nod at the phone in his pocket. ‘Who were you on to?’ The accusation is clear, though I have no idea what it is I’m accusing him of.

He snorts, his eyes everywhere but on me. ‘Nothing, just work stuff.’ He leans back against the countertop and visibly swallows the lie. ‘What were you going to say?’

The test now feels like a red-hot poker in my fist. After a few seconds of silence, I hold it up, tears distorting my vision. ‘I’m pregnant.’ I can’t believe this is it, the moment I’ve waited my entire adult life for, the words now spoken in an almost apologetic whisper. This isn’t how it was meant to go.

Justin stands open-mouthed, unblinking, his face a train wreck of thoughts. ‘Grace… I…’ He takes the test and, in the same way I did only a few minutes ago, holds it up to the light. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course.’ My voice splinters. ‘You’re happy, aren’t you?’

He nods, unconvincingly I notice. Where’s the amazement? The euphoria? I feel my chin trembling as he hands it back, my stomach twisted into knots. His eyes widen, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

He’s happy, thank God. I let go of the breath in my chest and allow myself to relax, to enjoy the moment. Is it possible I imagined the other stuff, the guilt, the shame? I didn’t, I know, but there’s no way I can analyse all of that now.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asks, now frowning. ‘Why did you do the test alone?’

I shake my head, the reason lost under all the other shit inside my mind. I’ve just announced I’m having a baby, we’re having a baby, after everything we’ve been through; the years of hurt; the treading on eggshells around one another, terrified of saying the wrong thing; the month after month of stomach cramps, knowing, always knowing what will follow and hoping against it anyway, then the inevitable shedding of a month’s worth of dreams, of imagining a life so very different. And now, now we finally have what we’ve always wanted, and all that Justin’s interested in is why I took the test alone? ‘I’m not sure. I suppose I didn’t want to get your hopes up.’

He seems to consider this, or perhaps he isn’t thinking of me at all, his head still caught in whatever he was doing on his phone. What was he doing?

Vomit burns my throat. Hand clasped to my mouth, I run to the loo and remain doubled over the toilet basin for what feels like hours, my heart and head accelerating at double-quick speed. I’m pregnant, and Justin… Justin is hiding something.

‘Grace, you okay up there?’

I wipe my mouth and heave myself up. From the landing, I see Justin is pulling his jacket off the coat rack in the hallway. He zips it right up to his chin before turning towards me. ‘You got morning sickness at night? Trust you.’ He does that strange, nervous laugh again. ‘I have to pop out.’

‘Where are you going? What about dinner?’ I lean against the bannister, not steady enough to take the stairs.

‘It’s in the oven. Help yourself.’

‘Justin? What’s going on? Where you going? What time are you back?’ He must sense the exasperation in my voice, but if he does, he doesn’t react.

‘Soon,’ he says calmly, as if this is completely normal behaviour.

‘You are happy, aren’t you? About the baby?’

He glances back from the front door and I see the fleeting look of panic on his face. ‘Of course. Just something I got to go and do. Back soon.’

Only he doesn’t come back.

I never see Justin again.

5

Grace

Now

‘I can imagine that was… upsetting,’ says Detective Ambrose, studying me with concern.

Upsetting? Is this woman for real? Upsetting is when your pet goldfish dies or when ET phones home. It’s most certainly not when your partner of ten years walks out of the door and never returns.

I grit my teeth, fed up with my feelings being picked apart. I appreciate the need for her to understand how past events led up to this, but I’m certain there’s nobody on earth who’s been convicted or acquitted based on what they felt, so what’s the point?

‘Upsetting, yes.’

‘It would have made you really angry, wouldn’t it?’ she persists, arms folded over a crisp uniform. Clearly, she’s had a chance to shower and change since she read me my rights last night, which is more than can be said for me; my T-shirt is crumpled from hours spent tossing and turning on a rock-hard bed, and I can only imagine how badly I stink.

‘Look, have you found them yet?’ I ask after a beat of silence. ‘Going over the past isn’t going to help anything.’

‘Let me be the judge of that,’ she states, not missing a beat.

I sigh, exasperated. ‘Yes, okay. It broke my heart. But that isn’t why…’ I search for the right words. ‘That isn’t why I did what I did. It wasn’t about revenge.’

‘Grace.’ Detective Ambrose looks at me the way Mum used to when I was a kid caught out in a lie. ‘Be honest. You wanted Justin to suffer?’

‘You don’t have to answer that,’ offers my solicitor after a beat of silence, as though the thought has just occurred to him. He’s slumped in the chair next to me, legs stretched out underneath the table.

I look to Detective Ambrose for confirmation. She shrugs. ‘Your call, Grace.’

I consider the question. Did I want Justin to suffer? ‘I just wanted to find him,’ I offer. ‘To have him come home so we could work through whatever it was that made him leave in the first place.’

‘You reported him missing, didn’t you?’ Ambrose scans an open folder in front of her.

My fingers curl tightly around a plastic cup of tepid tea. I want to tell her that if ‘her lot’ had done their job properly two years ago, none of this would have happened.

‘Blame-shifting,’ Mum would say if she were here. ‘Take responsibility for your own actions, Grace, darling.’

My mind wanders back to that day. Six hours after I heard the door slam shut, I reported Justin missing. In truth, I knew he wasn’t coming back within a few hours. I can’t explain how I knew this; a sixth sense perhaps, a woman’s intuition? Despite my decisiveness in reporting it, the police took three days to come and take a statement. Within minutes of hearing the circumstances of why Justin left, they’d written him off as another deadbeat dad shirking his responsibility, helped no doubt by his record of petty theft and breach of the peace from years before. They weren’t interested that he’d since turned his life around, or that I, his partner of ten years, was adamant he’d never walk away from his unborn child without an exceptional reason. Of course, now I know he did have an exceptional reason. Knowing what I do now, would I have wanted him to make a different decision? It’s a question I still don’t know the answer to.

Back then, oblivious to why Justin had abandoned us, I pleaded with the police to investigate, inundating them with emails, phone calls and even turning up at the station. As my stomach began to swell, so did my frustration. How could they justify doing nothing? I was sure that if they would just find him and haul him back home, I could do the rest.

Though now, of course, I know it wasn’t that simple.

‘I reported him missing two years ago but nothing was ever done about it.’ I glare at Detective Ambrose, the implication clear. ‘I never knew what had happened to him, or where he’d gone. Not until two and a half weeks ago.’

6

Grace

18 Days Earlier

Daniel bangs sticky palms against the reinforced glass of the arcade’s grabber machine.

‘Oh look, it’s got him!’ The claw grips Tigger’s arm with all the strength of an arthritic pensioner before swiftly dumping him onto Eeyore’s head.

‘Gen!’ he shrieks, as the claw parks itself back into its bay. I reckon I’ve already put enough money in this damn thing to buy him the entire cast of Winnie the Pooh and have each one personally signed by A. A. Milne! ‘Let’s try the two-pence machines instead, buddy.’

Placing Daniel onto the threadbare carpet, I watch as he happily totters off. He’s only been walking for a matter of weeks, and as he waddles back and forth, I feel a fleeting sense of sadness. He’s growing up far too quickly. It seems like only yesterday that he was a chubby baby with rolls of fat and a gummy smile. Where has the time gone? It’s almost two years now since I found out I was pregnant, exactly 103 weeks since Justin walked out of the door and never came back.

Feeling the onset of tears, I quickly banish from my mind the memories of that time. It’s a strategy I’ve adopted in order to protect myself. It buries every negative emotion before it can take a hold of me. I know that if I allow myself to feel, to dwell on the past, I’ll crumble under the weight of grief. I have to remain strong, for Daniel, for myself. There’s no point in clinging to ghosts.

My head throbs in synchronicity with the pulsating neon lights as I feed a handful of copper into the steely mouth of a slot. I silently pray it isn’t bulimic.

I came to Blackpool with high hopes, a longing to share a little of my own childhood with Daniel, to connect him with Mum and Andrew, if only by experience. In reality, it’s nothing short of a shithole. Was it always this way? The stench of unwashed bodies and fried food fogging the air, while fat middle-aged men feed fat fruit machines, and tracksuit-clad teens high on testosterone and Christ-knows-what pummel leather punch balls. Where’s the magic, the simple pleasures? The tang of sugary sweets and the adrenaline-fuelled chatter; the jingle of coins in paper cups? Perhaps Blackpool hasn’t changed at all, only me.

Daniel points at a Peppa Pig car ride which looks well in need of an MOT.

‘One go,’ I say, already rummaging around in my bag for yet another fifty-pence piece. He has me wrapped around his little finger, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

A minute later and Daniel is spinning the steering wheel with all the care of Miss Daisy while I snap pictures of him on my mobile. ‘Big smile for Mummy!’

‘Gen,’ he shouts as the ride slows to a stop.

‘No, I think it’s time…’

‘Geeeeeeen!’

Having neither the energy nor the mental strength for a showdown, I slot in another coin and we proceed to cover the distance of Land’s End to John o’ Groats while Peppa squeals about muddy puddles.

Finally shoehorning Daniel out of the arcade on the promise of ice cream, I strap him into his stroller and zip his Cosy Toes right up to his chin, a northerly spring breeze making the air feel almost icy.

We set off walking along the famous Golden Mile, where the sweet smell of hot sugar doughnuts awakens happy memories of summer school trips. Blackpool, Southport