One Little Lie. Sam Carrington

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СКАЧАТЬ knees are wobbling. I’m glad I chose a long skirt – only I know they’re shaking as I reach to press the doorbell. I know it’s working because I can hear the tacky tune it plays within the house. I wait for movement, looking through the patterned glass of the door. I lick my lips; the roughness catches my tongue. I can’t swallow either, all moisture has left my mouth and throat.

      Maybe no one is in.

      I’m not going to be able to ring again. My heart is already dancing along at a rate that can’t be good for me. This is my second attempt. At least I managed the bell this time. Last week I only got as far as the gateway. This is progress.

      I turn, and, disappointed in my weakness, walk away from the house.

      I see a flutter of a curtain as I pass by the house next door. A nosy neighbour, no doubt. I wonder if they saw me last week, too.

      Oh well. Doesn’t matter if they did. I’m not doing anything wrong. In fact, what I’m trying to do is make things right. It’s all I want. I’m doing well so far, I reckon. I’ve set up the support group, I’ve even begun therapy myself. I’ve made huge leaps.

      None of it was my fault. I didn’t make him do it.

      I repeat this mantra a lot. I cannot be held responsible for his actions.

      But I am accountable for my own. And while I didn’t make him do it, I didn’t stop him either. That’s what they said in the newspapers. What people gossiped about at the post office, in the local shops. I saw it, heard it.

      It’s always the mother who gets blamed. Something she did, or didn’t do, when the child was growing up; some sort of neglect during that delicate stage of development. Lack of attention, lack of love, lack of stimulation. The list is endless. Who even decides this stuff? Who has the right to question the parenting skills of others? Probably some stuck-up university toff. What do they know about parenting?

      I did my best.

      Or is that another lie I tell myself every day?

      ‘Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs,’ I say quietly, making a sign of the cross on my chest as I slowly head back to the bus stop.

      I get off the bus at a different stop than usual. I don’t want to go home. I can’t face that right now.

      I slip and slide up the road towards the café at the top end of Fore Street. I wish I’d worn trainers instead of these ankle boots. The sole has little traction, and although there are only a few frosty patches on the pavements, I feel vulnerable. What if I fall and break an ankle?

      I’m being silly. It’s not like I’m old, with brittle bones. I shouldn’t be worrying about stuff like this. I’m only fifty-five. If it hadn’t been for these past four years, I’d feel a lot younger, I’m sure. This has prematurely aged me.

      The familiar sensation of prickling begins at the top of my nose, my eyes water. The cold makes them sting.

      Don’t cry. Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t helping anyone. Neither is feeling guilty.

      My preferred table in the corner of the café, practically hidden from view, is taken. Now what? I hesitate. It might be better to leave. But no one really knows me here. My face won’t be recognised. I am anonymous. With a confidence I’m unsure of the source of, I position myself at the table by the window.

      It’s only when I have ordered my latte that I allow myself to look outside. I can see the psychologist’s building from here – down the hill a bit, on the left, before East Gate Arch. I have another session with Connie Summers on Monday. Our first meeting involved a lot of background information, a setting up of expectations. Talk of objectives and goals.

      I told her about Kyle.

      I don’t mind talking about him. It makes me feel better to talk about what he did. I told Connie that, and wondered if she thought me odd. I bet she thinks I’m off my rocker. Maybe I am. It’s not normal to feel better when talking about how someone murdered another mother’s son, is it?

      But I am beginning to feel better. Talking about it is all I can do at this present time. And now I have two outlets. Two opportunities to make right.

      The third way will come. Any day now, I’ll be brave enough. It’s building, this inner strength I’ve found.

      Soon, I’ll be strong enough to face her.

       CHAPTER FIVE

       Connie

      Alice Mann was quite still. She didn’t fidget, didn’t flit her eyes about; she wasn’t nervous in her demeanour. She appeared calm, confident – keeping her eyes squarely on Connie’s as she told what seemed to be a well-rehearsed retelling of her story. Her experience of finding out her son had committed a murder. Connie’s decision to accept Alice as a client despite her earlier misgivings was made after carefully deliberating the pros and cons. Now, as she sat opposite Alice, listening to how her son’s actions had such far-reaching implications, Connie felt confident she’d made the correct choice. She could help this woman. She could make a difference to her life.

      ‘I tried, you know? I tried so hard to encourage him out of his bedroom, to go out with his friends, not just chat to them over the internet. I literally took his door off its hinges once – I wanted to know what he was up to, all those hours with his eyes fixed on that screen, earphones plugged into his ears – it wasn’t healthy. He could get nasty, would shout at me to leave him alone. So, you know, I let him put the door back on eventually. Not like I had much choice, as I couldn’t stand up to him physically. You understand?’ Alice took a breath.

      Connie took advantage and jumped in before she set off again. ‘It sounds as though you had a difficult time with Kyle. Had his behaviour been challenging before, or was it new?’

      ‘Oh,’ Alice sighed, ‘it had been since his dad left, about two years before … you know. Anyway, I noticed that he was beginning to take on a different character, really. Like he was now the boss of the house. He took over where his dad left off. Looked after me, in his own way.’

      For the first time during the session, Alice lowered her head, staring at her lap. She traced the flower pattern on her skirt with her index finger. Connie noted a small bald patch at the crown of her head, or maybe it was where her dyed ash-blonde hair had become white-grey at the roots. What did she mean by ‘looked after me, in his own way’? She made a mental note to come back to that in a later session.

      ‘That must’ve been hard, to manage on your own. Did you seek any help?’

      Alice gave a guttural laugh. ‘Help? What kind of help? He wasn’t a child, he was sixteen. No one was interested in helping.’

      ‘You said before that he was always in his room, that you tried to get him to interact with others, but failed. How then did he come to commit the murder?’ Connie spoke softly, in an attempt to take the hard edge off her question.

      ‘Well, they said the victim was someone he met online.’ Alice straightened. ‘On some stupid gaming site. СКАЧАТЬ