One Little Lie. Sam Carrington
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Название: One Little Lie
Автор: Sam Carrington
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Развлечения
isbn: 9780008328689
isbn:
As they approached the psychology office, Connie’s muscles finally relaxed. She rubbed at the back of her neck, at the knot of muscle – she hadn’t realised she’d been hunching her shoulders. Verity ushered Connie in, then locked the door. The large whiteboard inside the entrance named everyone in the office: showed whether they were in or out, and if out, which block or room they’d gone to and an approximate time they were due back to the office.
Jen was ticked in. Connie took a slow intake of breath, holding it as she pushed through the inner door.
‘Hey, mate! So pleased you decided to come and help us out.’ Jen jumped up from her seat upon Connie’s arrival, and arms outstretched, strode towards her, enveloping her in a hug that expelled her held breath.
‘Good to see you, Jen.’ Connie gently pulled back and gazed around the room. Very little had changed. A couple of people she didn’t recognise were sitting at the desks, but that appeared to be the only difference.
‘Yes, as you can see, things are just the same, bar a few new faces. I’ll introduce you in a sec, but let’s get the kettle on first.’
She was in there now. In the prison, in the office. She could hardly revoke her offer of helping with the reports. But a creeping uneasiness spread through her, like her blood was travelling around her body delivering tiny parcels of adrenaline.
Preparing her.
Fight or flight.
And Connie wasn’t at all sure she had enough fight in her.
Things are moving along nicely now. I couldn’t imagine being at this point before: feeling more positive than I have in years. I even feel a bit lighter. I noticed my reflection in the shop windows as I walked past this morning, and I’m standing taller too – not stooped as I had been. This is good. I want to mark this progression somehow.
I should share it.
As founder and leader of the group, it’s my duty to give positive news to my members. Tell them about the steps forwards I’ve made. Of course, I’ll have to be slightly economical with the truth – mould it to make it fit. But it will give them hope. Inspiration. Let them know we can all come through these terrible times, bit by bit. Moment by moment.
I’ll finish washing the breakfast dishes, then I’ll get on the laptop and go to the online support group page. Our next in-person meeting isn’t for another eight days – the last Wednesday of the month. Maybe by then I’ll have even more good news to share. More to celebrate.
My heart sinks a little as I gaze out of the kitchen window. Is it right to feel this way? Excited about a few minor steps in the right direction? There’s still so much to do; such a long way to travel to get to the end. If there is an end. Oh, please God, let there be an ending to this. I make the sign of the cross on my chest. Before all of this happened, I’d go to church to pray; being in God’s house made me feel as though I had a direct link with Him. After the murder, though, I was afraid. They’d know. I couldn’t face being judged by the congregation. And, after all, my support group is giving me what the church once did, and God is everywhere – I don’t have to be in a holy place to pray, to be listened to. So now, at times like this, I look to Heaven for help, wherever I am. Surely I deserve some help, some divine intervention.
I’m doing God’s work here.
Once the dishes are neatly stacked on the drainer, I settle in the lounge, at the rectangular pine table on the far side, the one I eat my meals at – alone. I’ve angled the table so I can see the TV. It’s my company these days. I also keep my laptop on this table.
The house is silent. I rarely get disturbed. I’m rarely needed.
I fire up the laptop and go to the only icon on the menu I regularly use.
Group support.
There are no members live. My shoulders slump, my back arching in disappointment. My initial excitement gives way to a darkness. Gloom.
Never mind, I can still leave a comment – I’ll begin a new thread so it’s the first thing people notice when they log in. I see Bill has been active over the past few hours. Poor man. His daughter, Isabella, has gone off the rails and he has no clue how to handle it. His wife, he says, is useless. Isabella’s already been cautioned for drug possession, and now it seems she’s disappearing every night and they don’t know where she’s going. The group have asked Bill why he doesn’t stop her – prevent her from leaving the house. Lock her in her room. But I know these ‘easy’ steps are, in fact, incredibly difficult. Near to impossible sometimes. She will find a way, because it’s not like she’s a child – she’s in her early twenties. It’s even more challenging with a boy, when you’re a single parent – my strength was no match for his.
Before I compose my own, I write a supportive message on Bill’s thread, encouraging him to attend the group meeting at the end of the month. I think he needs more help than we can offer him online. He needs to be with us, see us, speak to us in person. Share everything. It’ll lighten the load. Plus, we need another man in the group.
I have another session with Connie Summers two days before the group meeting. She’d wanted me to see her weekly, but I’m struggling to get the money, so I explained I could only do fortnightly. I didn’t tell her it was due to lack of funds. I’m hoping to steer the next session where I want it to go. If I can gain some more insight, and helpful suggestions from her, I’ll be able to share those with my members on Wednesday. It makes me sound more authoritative when I can spout jargon and give good advice.
I can’t help smiling.
I am giving back to the community; I’m helping parents to cope with their unruly offspring. I’m offering a service.
That makes me a good person.
Doesn’t it?
The sound of men in the exercise yard behind the psychology portacabin filtered into Connie’s consciousness. She was sitting at the desk closest to the window, but her back was to it. Wooden fencing panels separated the area from view, so even if she’d been facing the window she wouldn’t have seen the prisoners. From the lower floor of the portacabin they were only visible if you were standing. Still, a sharp tingling sensation ran the length of her back. She’d never been bothered by her proximity to them before – in fact, she’d often stood and watched to see who was interacting with who, trying to pick up on the body language of the men she’d had in her group at that time, or those she was compiling reports for. It was good to get a different perspective, watch them when they were unaware of it, so their actions and behaviour were СКАЧАТЬ