M. Arlidge - Liar Liar

He had never felt this bad in his life. The pain was unremitting, surging through his body from his battered torso to his pulsing head. Sleep was impossible, the super-strength painkillers had no effect and he looked a total mess. He had lost a tooth, had deep, purple bruises on his face, neck and chest and was as white as a sheet. He’d had to cancel his appointments for the entire week – inventing a plausible excuse – and now lay on his bed, moaning quietly and cursing his fate.

He had considered getting a cab to A&E, then thought better of it. He had contemplated phoning a friend, even his sister at one point, but in the end had decided against that too. He couldn’t face the welter of questions. Max Paine knew his family disapproved of his lifestyle. An attack such as the one he had endured last night would give his parents the perfect excuse to stage another of their crude ‘interventions’, in a vain and self-serving attempt to save Max from himself. He didn’t want to be saved – though he could have done with their help last night.

There was one point during the attack on him when he really thought she was going to kill him. He realized now that even as he was taking the blows, he wasn’t unduly alarmed – initially at least. The tables had turned and he was expecting a beating as his due. It wasn’t the first time that had happened and he rather feared it wouldn’t be the last. But this time it had been different. She had been so unrelenting, so fired up by her violence, that a part of him had already started to resign himself to death. He had always had a premonition that he would end his days like this, in some after-hours encounter gone badly wrong. He had just never pictured it as being at the hands of a woman.

He wasn’t ashamed that he lost out in the fight – she was a fit, strong and aggressive character who was clearly no stranger to violence – but he was unnerved by it. He had always traded on misanthropy, flaunting his disgust at the vulgar parade of a pointless existence in front of his disapproving parents, teachers, girlfriends and more. And, of course, the more they chided him, the more he hammed it up, venting his anger on them, lacerating them for their petty-minded and bourgeois attitudes. But now, faced with a sudden and violent end, he realized that he actually valued life. Parts of it at least.

As he lay in his sick bed, drifting between watching the TV and trying to sleep, his mind had turned slowly on her . She had booked in under a false name: Eleanor Noel. Subsequent attempts to google that name, looking for local connections, had come up with a complete blank. Perhaps she was married? Or in an important job? Or perhaps there was another less savoury reason why she concealed her identity?

Round and round he went, remembering her voice, her face, the way she held herself, the clothes she wore. He was searching for clues, anything however small that might give him a steer as to who this weird angel of violence was. Occasionally he laughed at the absurdity of it – beaten black and blue by a female client – but he knew that this was a defence mechanism, trying to rob the situation of its seriousness and the fear it engendered. What would he do if he ever came face to face with her again? He had no idea, but he desperately wanted to know more, wanted to put a name to the face that dominated and bullied him the night before. He wanted her to know what she’d done and call her to account for it.

As he half slumbered, the voices from the TV intruded on his thoughts. There had been more fires last night and people were wringing their hands about it as usual. Same old same old. Yet this time something was different about the reports. Something about them was… familiar. Yes, the voice, that was it. It was her voice.

Max’s eyes shot open and he sat up in bed. Immediately he was assaulted by a wave of unbearable agony, but he managed to stay upright. He blinked hard, trying to focus on the TV. The news channel was replaying an earlier press briefing, which had been staged outside one of the fire-damaged houses. And, in the midst of it, there she was. For a moment, he sat transfixed, barely taking in what she was saying, his eyes glued to her face. She looked very different with her hair down, with her professional face on, but there was no question it was her. And as she spoke, his gaze drifted towards the caption on the screen beneath her. He nearly choked when he saw it, but in some ways it made perfect sense. He had long ago learnt not to be surprised by the secrets people hold deep and hers was a good one.

The woman who paid for his services, then violently assaulted him, was a police officer.

Encouraged by his parents, Ethan Harris leant forward and took the plastic spoon in his mouth. He had been officially released from the burns unit two hours previously and was now tucked away in a private room, where he would remain until a car came to pick him up. He had come off the drip now since dehydration was no longer a concern, but he needed to build his strength up again – he needed to eat – and milky Weetabix was all he could face. His throat had been irritated and inflamed by the hot smoke, so taking anything more solid was out of the question.

The seventeen-year-old had tried to feed himself but his hand shook too much to guide the spoon properly. This was partly a result of his medical condition – he had suffered from cerebral palsy since birth – but partly due to the shock of his experience. The boy could barely keep still, the rhythm of his trauma seeming to resonate through his shaking body. He had come very close to death last night, and even though in the end he’d had a very lucky escape, the legacy of his experience would linger for years to come.

Helen knew how he must be feeling. She had stared death in the face, had found herself in situations that took her beyond ordinary fear to a much darker place. So she let the boy take his time, helped and guided by his parents. At least he had his mother and father to support him, Helen thought. Others, such as Luke Simms and Callum Roberts, were not so lucky.

After a few mouthfuls, Ethan decided that he’d had enough. His parents took the bowl from him and placed it on the side table, then turned to face Helen. They weren’t exactly hostile, but they didn’t seem keen to encourage questions either, which Helen understood. In their shoes, she’d have felt exactly the same.

‘I know you need to take it very easy, so I’ll keep this brief. If at any time you want me to stop just say so, ok?’

Ethan nodded, so she continued.

‘According to your parents, you usually turn the light out at around ten thirty p.m. on a school night. Is that what happened last night?’

‘Yes,’ Ethan croaked, immediately wincing as he did so. The smoke damage to his larynx and throat was not severe, but it was painful. He had a small burn on his left palm and some abrasions on his face – but overall he’d been remarkably fortunate, given the intensity of the blaze.

‘What happened after that? Did you read at all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Until what time?’

‘Eleven p.m.’ he replied.

‘And then you went to sleep?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you hear or see anything after that which alarmed or surprised you? Anything out of the ordinary?’

Ethan shook his head.

‘You don’t remember the doorbell ringing? Or a phone call or anything between your turning the light out and discovering the fire?’

‘No.’

Helen took this in.

‘How had Agnieszka been with you that evening? Was she ok in herself? Normal?’

‘She was good. Fine.’

‘She hadn’t been having any problems recently?’ Helen said, now addressing herself to Jacqueline and Michael Harris. ‘Any boyfriend problems? Money worries?’