M. Arlidge - Liar Liar

Most importantly, she knew why Naomie had called 999 twelve minutes before anybody else after the Harris fire started. It wasn’t fear or excitement that motivated her to call too early that night. It was love.

Blog post by firstpersonsingular.

Saturday, 12 December, 10.30

She was a funny-looking angel. But she was beautiful to me.

Her sad face was framed by that crazy, afro hair and the shadow of a black eye haunted the left side of her face. Her face was so close to me, I could feel her breath and at first I was confused. Who was this person? What did they want with me? I thought I was seeing things – she had a kind of aura that framed her head, her voice was smooth and comforting – but later I knew I had seen right. She was an angel. More than that, she was my angel.

It’s funny how things work out. How you can swallow abuse, neglect and more, but can be undone by a simple act of kindness. Others might have walked past me but not her. She raised me up that day and made me what I am. Together we are more than the sum of our parts.

But things have changed now. We can’t be what we were. So it’s time to remember the good times as we prepare to finish the job. People will castigate us for what we’ve done, but all we’ve done is show them in their true colours and, boy, have they done that. I didn’t know whether to laugh or puke when my parents were giving their interviews after the fire. Saying how much they loved me, how relieved they were I was ok. That rhyme kept going round my head: ‘Liar, Liar…’. I was their ‘accident’ – my dad actually said it to my face once. How can someone be accidental??? But it’s not him I blame really.

They wished I didn’t exist. Farmed me out to nannies, who did the minimum required, then ignored me. I was an embarrassment to everyone, a guilty secret. They would either beat me or sedate me into submission and if that didn’t work they’d scream at me. I used to like those moments – the flecks of spit landing on my face as they ranted and raved – at least then I existed in their world.

Well, I exist now. And before I’m done I will have made them both famous. This is my last post, Mum and Dad. My last offering to you. My last offering to you all. My name is Ethan Harris and I am the firestarter.

Helen took the stairs three at a time, as DCs Lucas and Edwards struggled to keep pace behind. Sanderson was busy organizing a perimeter cordon, in case Ethan Harris tried to escape, but Helen was determined to deny him the opportunity. After the fire, the Harris family had moved into a rented apartment in Upper Shirley, supported by a new carer, Anastasia Teplova. It was amazing how soon normal life re-established itself in the Harris family. Both parents were already back at work, leaving the care of their son to paid help.

Helen quickly reached their apartment on the third floor. She had wasted too much time chasing shadows on this case, when the solution had been under her nose all along. There had definitely been something ‘off’ about the way the Harris family behaved together and Helen now realized it was because they were acting – pretending to be a loving family. Ethan had been acting for many months now, cloaking his plans and later his nocturnal activities from his parents and carers. The one thing he wasn’t able to conceal was the burn mark on his left hand. When she’d glimpsed it at the hospital, Helen thought it had been sustained in the fire, but now the cross-shaped pattern was plain to see. Firstpersonsingular had referenced burning himself in his blog – was this the pact that he and Naomie had sealed, testing their commitment to each other through fire?

As DC Edwards joined her, Helen didn’t hesitate, ordering him to break down the door. She had considered using the concierge or even knocking on the door herself, but she couldn’t sanction even the tiniest delay. Edwards took a run up then launched himself at the door. The latch tore from the woodwork with a satisfying scream and the door swung open. Helen was through it in a flash, to be confronted by a very surprised-looking Bulgarian, who was playing Fruit Crush on her phone, rather than attending to her duties.

Anastasia Teplova stammered some protestations in broken English, but shut up when confronted by Helen’s warrant card. The young woman was barely older than her charge and clearly had a very basic command of English. Just how uninterested were these parents in their son?

‘Where is Ethan?’

Anastasia just stood there, still speechless with shock, so Helen gestured to Edwards and Lucas to start searching. Then she approached the home help, putting her warrant card away.

‘You’re not in any trouble, but I need to talk to Ethan. Is he here?’

There was another long pause, before she finally said:

‘He’s in his room.’

With that she gestured to a small, ancillary bedroom towards the back of the apartment. Helen ran towards it now and, throwing open the door, stepped inside.

To find an empty room.

Nothing on the walls yet. Nothing on the bedside table. Just an old laptop, closed and powered down, sitting next to a dirty coffee mug on the table. Ethan clearly had been here but, as the open window by the fire escape revealed, he was long gone now.

‘Can I ask what it’s regarding?’

She was a new receptionist – not one he’d seen on his fleeting visits before – but every bit as snotty as her predecessors.

‘It’s regarding her son. That’s me, by the way.’

Ethan Harris enjoyed watching the expression change on her face. His mother ran a prestigious architects’ firm in Ocean Village and generally hired beautiful but flinty young women to guard the gate. They were practised at dealing with salesmen, tardy couriers and freeloaders. Had this new one mistaken him for the latter? As she first took in his face, his limp arm, his stooped posture, her look had belied a curious mixture of distaste and awkwardness. But when she realized who he was, her strangulated expression wrenched itself round to an unconvincing smile. Just one more reason to hate her.

‘One moment, please,’ she purred, ringing up to the penthouse office. Ethan watched her intently, picking at the scar on his left hand all the while – it had become a nervous tic of late. Moments later, she handed him the phone. Didn’t that say it all? Any other parent would have just told her to send him up.

‘What’s going on, Ethan? Is everything all right?’

‘Everything’s fine. I’m just bored and thought I would pay you a visit. I can visit my own mother, can’t I?’

There was a brief pause before she responded:

‘Ok, but I’ve got a meeting at twelve, so it’ll have to be quick.’

‘It won’t take long,’ Ethan replied, before handing the receiver back to the earwigging receptionist. His hand quivered more than usual, making the handover clumsy and awkward. Funny how even now he felt embarrassed by these small things.

The receptionist buzzed him through and he walked towards the lifts. Here he paused and as the phone on the front desk rang once more, he took advantage of this timely distraction, diving past the lifts and through the fire stairs that led to the basement. He had no intention of seeing his mother.

Indeed, if he had his way, he would never see her again.

For a moment Luke Simms was unable to speak, the blood draining from his face. Charlie hadn’t expected such a strong reaction to her question and now put her arm on to Luke’s, worried the young boy was about to faint.

‘If you don’t feel up to this, I can wait, but it would be useful to know at -’