Liarholic Read online

  ‘You can’t expect me to cooperate,’ I say. ‘Please don’t do this.’

  ‘You’re not crazy,’ he says, ignoring me. ‘OCD doesn’t add up to you being locked away for three years.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you care.’

  ‘Answer to that doesn’t matter. Listen, Amy. And listen good. I do the questioning. You’d do well to remember that.’

  I hate him. I hate his deep, seductive voice and I hate his filthy dark eyes.

  I curl into myself near the wooden headboard. I just want him to go away, and to disappear into the shadows again. I don’t want his special attention.

  ‘I heard you got some sad news about your mother’s passing. I don’t want to add to your burden. Things must feel overwhelming right now.’

  I’m not overwhelmed. I feel nothing. If I begin to feel then I simply do my checks and that fixes me. Empty heart, empty emotions.

  ‘I can take you to the funeral.’

  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  I refuse to see her or even think about her, preferring to scrub my heart of a need for her, just as I have stopped needing to live a normal life. I chose emptiness, and an empty heart, and so I won’t mourn. But still, I can’t help a rogue thought creeping in of my mother, in that chair. Her body stiff and cold. Dead.

  ‘Amy, I want us to make a start, right now. If you talk to me, I can fix you. Then you can start living your life. You don’t want to die here, I know you don’t.’

  ‘Please, leave me alone.’

  ‘Things are only gonna get worse for you if you don’t open up to me. You’re gonna talk sooner or later — so quit wasting time. What’s got you hurt so bad?’

  I look at his arrogant face, his scratchy, hard-edged face, and hate him. I breathe in, every bit of air I can, and say with force, ‘Go away.’

  He sighs, then looks at my front door key sat harmless on my desk. He picks it up, twirls it between his fingers. ‘This is your key to the front door, right?’

  ‘Yes . . . put it back.’

  ‘You’ve given me no choice.’

  I twist the bedsheet between my fingers, and feel a drop of sweat trickling down my back.

  Where is he going with this?

  ‘I know how important it is for you to lock the door. How important it is for you to check if it’s locked. Again and again. So I’m taking that liberty away from you.’

  I take a deep breath, till it feels like I’m drowning in air, just to stop myself from cracking up.

  ‘What kind of therapy is this?’

  ‘I’m not the kind of doc to use conventional methods. You could call it intensive therapy. Unless, you’ve changed your mind and you wanna open up?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ I say, tired and broken, with less conviction than I want. ‘I hate you, Shepherd. I really hate you.’ And I mean it.

  ‘Good. Your hate makes me hard. Hate harder.’

  He leaves the room, taking my key with him.

  I feel sad and lonely.

  Shepherd is wrong. I do want to die.

  9

  ME

  I’M FREEZING MY BALLS off in the cold of January, standing outside my nightclub in The Valley, in deep discussion with a fire inspector.

  I co-own a club-promotion business with my best mate. But my main source of income is from buying businesses that already have revenue, scale them, and sell for profit. At twenty years old, I’ve got money to burn. My life’s motto is: Party hard, give it loads, drink loads, then have a tear-up. I’m in a time of discontent, boredom, frustration and no direction.

  Hell, that was true, until recently.

  ‘Mr Lawson, I insist on looking around your warehouse for fire risks or anything else that could be viewed as dangerous.’

  My nightclub, The Wicked Witch, has been transformed into a full-scale twilight zone. Tonight, I’m hosting a big mind-cracking celeb event. I was laughing my way to the bank until this tool showed up.

  ‘It’s safe,’ I lie. ‘It’s all legit. This place is within the legal safety guidelines.’

  I’ve got real trouble with telling the truth. I don’t understand the concept.

  Some local Del Boy sold us a van filled with fire extinguishers, illuminated exit signs and crash barriers. It’s not all bullshit. Me and my business partner have made sure fire regulations were implemented and anything flammable was removed or sprayed with fire-resistant chemicals.

  Although the interior can’t be faulted, this old git still isn’t happy about letting the event take place.

  ‘I know my legal rights,’ I tell him, blagging my way out of this. It’s what I do. ‘In fact I’m within my rights to ask you to leave the building and only return with a court order or warrant — but I’m not gonna do that. You know why? Because I understand you’re just doing your job.’

  The first rule of lying is tell the truth, as near as you can. So I tell the inspector we’ve a thousand especially invited guests from the world’s music industry, ranging from celebrities to major record company MDs. Stepping on our toes could lead to massive law suits and huge compensation fines.

  An icy wind rips through my suit and my hands are frozen to the clipboard I hold tight to my body. My blag involves moody celebrity guest lists, band schedules and other fake info. My adrenaline is pumping as I get high on the lies.

  We enter the warehouse, where my lighting technicians are running through their routines. I wonder if the fire guy is prepared to take a bribe, as I tell him all about the strict fire regulations at our events. Our illuminated EXIT signs are clearly visible, as is our variety of fire-extinguishers. I don’t tell him they’re stolen. Cutting costs means more wonga lining my pockets.

  After forty-five minutes of me giving out the biggest load of bullshit anyone’s ever heard — my blagging skills are legendary — the chief says, ‘Everything seems fine to me . . . Just make sure all the fire exits are clear.’

  ‘Will do, Inspector.’ I flash him my best smile. Fake, plastic. My smile reeks of so many lies.

  Lying to Amy that I’m a shrink will probably go down in history as the worst thing I’ve ever done. And that speaks volume. I’ve already got a nasty rap sheet to my name. Nothing compares to this lie, though. I know that. I feel it.

  I watch the inspector leave, make sure he drives off. An hour later, The Wicked Witch is rocking on this Friday night. The air is thick and heavy with aftershave, perfume and vaping.

  When I emanate from the jacks, I see a redhead zone in on me, like a target. She leans into my ear, whispers, ‘I want to show you how much I love coming here.’ Her breath stinks of rancid wine.

  Redhead puts her hand on my thigh, squeezes. I look at her. Smile. Remove her hand.

  ‘Meet me in the upstairs men’s in five. Knock twice.’

  She follows my orders. I wonder how long she’ll wait in the jacks. I wonder how long it’ll take her to realise I’m fucking with her — not in her. My cock doesn’t salute chicks whose sole purpose is to fuck their way into the pot of gold. Besides, if I wanted another girl, I'd already be picking my teeth with her bones.

  I only want one girl.

  Fucking Amy isn’t just fucking. You can’t fuck a girl like Amy then leave. She’s the rare forever girl you read in fairy fucking tales.

  Strolling out into the packed warehouse, I scan the bar and the dance floor. Always buzzing, the club is a steady stream of barely-legal cocktail-drinkers. I slide my eyes to the corner booths. The booth I’ve chosen is occupied with my kind of clients. Ranging from eighteen to twenty-five years old, cash on the hip and mostly chicks, these are definitely my target market. They’re young, full of themselves, and have money to burn. Whenever I join their company, I’m welcomed with open arms. I’m their Prince Charming dealer.

  I’m worshiped by these people. But it’s all based on a lie.

  A year ago, I told them I had access to some of the finest pharmaceutical substances. I’m not a drug dealer. These pills I’m dealing — they’re just v
itamins.

  My clients are too high on other drugs, and too drunk to know the difference. Too fucking self-involved.

  ‘Hey, Shepherd. Sooo great to see you, babe.’ Portia Sinclair gets up and air-kisses both of my cheeks.

  I hate that insincere bullshit and note it down as another reason to dislike Portia. I’ve plenty already. From her plastic look, to her annoying middle-class tones and ‘educated’ bullshit opinions, Portia bores me rigid.

  Portia’s been chasing me for too many years. I know I’m a handsome man. My strong muscular body is built from training hard as a blackbelt in mixed martial arts. My thick dark hair, now cut into a trendy military style, and my dark eyes mask the fact that I’m actually a warped lying bastard. But Portia is a big-deal Instagram influencer, so as usual, it’s time to turn on the charm.

  ‘Alright Portia?’ I give my most sincere, most dazzling smile, the one I’ve practiced for hours to get right. My own natural smile is too filthy, too predatory.

  I sit down, flash my best smile again and pass more kisses around the table. I subtly exchange the fake drugs between handshakes.

  It’s not like I’m pissing the money on drugs, gambling and whores. I don’t need the extra cash in my wallet. My enterprise gives me all the wealth I need. I do it because I’m bored shitless. I do it because it amuses me how easily people can be deceived. I enjoy spinning lies and watching these socialites pretend they’re having a whale of a time.

  Tonight, I can only tolerate fifteen minutes listening to upper-crust snobs. I make an excuse to leave.

  I go over to the bar, greet my mate and business partner, Fab5. His real name is Fabian Anderson. The guy loathes it. The man’s confident enough to coin his own nickname. He’s from a rich Scottish family, a line of lawyers. But Fab5 rebelled against his controlling upbringing, and went into business with me instead. I owe him my life. This place started my career.

  We’ve had each other’s back since the day we met in a tattoo parlour in Camden Town. I trust Fab5 with my life. He’s the only one who knows what happened to me in Nazareth.

  I look Fab5 over. He’s wearing flared jeans.

  ‘They’re all the rage now, mate? Them trousers?’ I say. ‘Or you got something you need to tell me?’

  ‘They are, yeah. And you’re one to talk. At least I’m on trend.’

  ‘Hell’s wrong with the way I look?’

  ‘You wear the same thing, man. Black shirt, dark jeans and that same damn leather jacket. Sometimes, like tonight, you spoil us and wear a black suit. Must take you ages to decide what to put on.’ He rolls his eyes.

  ‘You not feel like a bit of an idiot wearing them?’

  Fab5 grins. ‘They all wear them in New York. They’re wider.’

  I raise my eyebrows a fraction. ‘Do they, now? Well, you wouldn’t want to be caught in a blast of wind, Miss Monroe.’

  ‘Joke all you like, Shepherd. Babes are gonna love them. Just you watch.’

  ‘Mate, quit trying too hard. Chicks would panty-drop for you in a heartbeat if you ever have the notion to shave yourself or pick up a bar of soap.’

  ‘Girls love a good brushing, Shepherd. Your clean-shaven face would be like having a lesbian experience for the girls.’

  I laugh, and smack his back with the palm of my hand. Fab5 orders us a round of drinks. A few hours and several whiskeys later, I’ve had enough.

  Portia’s been making eyes at me all night. I know what that means. Problem is, her boyfriend is a meathead. Henry Gold. Meathead used to go to my school in Greystone. He’s the guy who had to repeat a year, again and again, until it got uncomfortable for him to be hanging around with the younger kids. And now, he’s noticed Portia’s wandering eye. With my criminal record, I gotta avoid trouble with the law.

  Portia winks at me. I roll my eyes. She’s a blip. But it means I’ve gotta make it clear that anything she wants to happen isn’t gonna happen. I need to avoid the promises her lingering glances give me. I knock back my whiskey, say bye to Fab5, stand up, and strut towards the exit. Until Portia gets up.

  That’s the first warning.

  Then she makes her move. She must be mullered — high on vitamin C — and so obvious. Her friend has to put a hand out to stop her. Portia shoves it away.

  That’s my second warning.

  Portia trails me outside.

  Here we go.

  I turn to her. ‘Told you once — I’m not interested, alright. Do yourself a favour, Portia, ditch that creep and go home.’

  Take one night off from being a cliché.

  She gets too close for comfort. ‘What about your home?’

  The press of her fingers on my abs just above my navel, and the second-longer-than-safe glance she gives, are enough confirmation that she doesn’t get the hint.

  Then Henry Gold appears. With his mates in tow.

  Aware her little tryst is backfiring, Portia doesn’t waste a moment. ‘Shepherd was hitting on me, Henry.’

  ‘I’m tired of this shit,’ I mutter darkly.

  I turn to walk away, when a set of heavy hands grip me from behind, drag me backwards. Henry and his mates pull me down to the end of the street and into a quiet park.

  It doesn’t end well.

  For them.

  Mr Finchley, you’d be so fucking proud.

  By the time my boot closes out the proceedings, Henry and his mates are long gone.

  My face, back, and chest are an electrical grid of aches and pains when I get back to my new home in Greystone via an Uber.

  I look in the bathroom mirror. A splattering of my own blood makes an abstract work of art around my head. It’s a fucked-up kind of beautiful. I make a mental note to tattoo that exact shape on my calf.

  I learnt how to harvest ink and forge a tattoo gun in prison. I don’t ink for a hobby. It’s a need, a compulsion I get. Inking frees my mind like nothing else. On occasion, I tattoo other people. I’m not offering them a service. They’re the ones offering skin like a blank canvas.

  I take a long hard look at myself. I’m in bad shape. Split lip, broken nose, my wrist looks . . . odd, held at an angle that doesn’t look quite natural and there’s already the signs of harsh bruising colouring my chest. I click my hand back into place, grit my teeth against the pain.

  I’m alive. I can still blow shit up. That’s something.

  I don’t sleep. Nothing new. I can barely sleep in this goddamn town. When I did, it was interrupted by the slightest noise and I’d be alert, but fuck, I can live without sleep. Lived without it during nights in the cellar of the children’s home. Lived without it in prison when sleep became the enemy.

  Sleep is something I’ll do when I’m dead. Heard that once somewhere. Nazareth, maybe. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

  Eyes feel like they’ve been clamped open with a metal device. It’s still dark at 4:00 AM. The only good thing about being awake at this godly hour.

  Darkness is something I’ve lived with most of my fucking life. Locked up in the cellar and then a cell, with just a tiny window of light. There’s something about total darkness that feels like being in space, and it’s like a damn cocoon or something.

  I stretch out my legs on the couch in my large room, sat only in boxers, my ribs hurting a little from where the first few kicks and punches landed. I can still feel the pain in the spot on my neck that hurts like a motherfucker.

  With the air from the open window cold on my bare arms, I lean over to my table for my smokes.

  I’ve got the picture of Violet propped up against the lamp. I study her face.

  Do I look like her? Yeah, I do.

  I recognise the crooked smile playing on her lips and the shape of her nose and chin. She’s dark like me, that much I can see. And she’s young, too young. I can see that too, a kid really. She stands in a doorway offering up the bundle in her arms, as shy as a baby. At least that’s how I read it.

  Her shoes are ridiculous. Heavy lace-ups. It highlights the frailty of her ankles. They co
uld make me cry, those thin little ankles. If I was capable of crying.

  Deep down, I’ve always believed my mother was dead. And that I’d known her. In order to feel her loss, I must’ve known her presence. And I do feel her loss. I always have.

  Which is why I’ve been searching for her all my life, because I loved her and because I’d lost her.

  I searched but you never answered.

  I take a smoke from the packet and lie back with it unlit between my lips. I remember right back to the start of it all, where my memories first began.

  The children’s home.

  By the age of four, I knew the lie of every loose floorboard and squeaking hinge. By the age of five, I knew which corridors were patrolled. By the age of seven, I was an expert on the enemy.

  I light my cigarette and inhale as a memory weighs in.

  It’s the smell that lingers in my memory still. The dirty tobacco smell of Finchley’s fingers when he put his hand across my mouth to stop me crying, after he beat me with his belt. Those fingers stinking and yellow from those roll-ups that he made with such care. Then the taste when he put his fingers actually in my mouth, making me gag.

  He’d grab me by the collar of my pyjamas and pull me to my feet, shake me like he was a dog and I was a rat. He’d preach at me for what felt like forever. His whisky breath blasted in my face. I’d screw my eyes shut, then I’d start to cry and he’d shout at me for that too.

  I wanted to hit him but I didn’t have the guts. I was a toddler. He was a grown man. He could’ve killed me with his bare hands. That’s what I thought was the truth.

  Barley a teenager, I began to distrust pretty much all the adults in my life.

  They were all two-bit liars.

  I knew as a kid when I was forced to go church, that I was full of original sin. I started to believe I deserved it.

  I glance at my bruised and cut-up hands. Last night felt different. There was no release with my fists. Instead of flying high like I usually do, I went crashing.

  But what else is there?

  My brain drifts over to sunshine brain hair, and little emerald cities.

  My need to touch Amy swamps me such that it eclipses everything else as I lie on my cruddy sofa, soaked in sweat and blood and god only knows what else a hundred times over so that it smells as rank as everything else in my fucking world. I fight back the gut-wrenching trembling that threatens to kill who and what I am.