Sam Carrington - One Little Lie

I am there. Back on that day. I can feel all I felt then, only now it’s even worse. Because I know more now than I did when I was first told of my son’s death. His murder. I know far too much about Kyle Mann. I swallow the rising hatred.

Why does the media insist on displaying the faces of those who have committed such hideous crimes, name them, talk about them, dissect every area of their lives? Why give them the space, the attention? I can’t stand it. It’s the victims who should be the focus. I don’t want to read about how this murdering bastard had a hard life; a difficult upbringing. So what?

I had many of these thoughts back then. I told anyone who was willing to listen. Even those who weren’t. Looking at these articles again now, I’m aware my anger hasn’t subsided. I’ve just done a good job of distracting myself from it.

But now that distraction has gone, thanks to Marcie.

The driveway gravel crunches beneath a car. I jump up, place the cuttings back inside the old biscuit tin and push it under the pile of my jumpers on the shelf in the walk-in wardrobe. Nathan’s home. I haven’t told him I’m on ‘gardening leave’ yet. Not sure whether I should. Maybe I can keep it to myself, for a while at least.

He won’t know that I’m not leaving for work. He always leaves the house before me, and I’m home before him. I can keep up the facade easily. After all, I’m well-practised.

I’m sitting waiting.

The last Wednesday of February seems to have taken an age to come around, and now it’s here, I’m consumed with impatience for my group to arrive. I got here nice and early to ensure I had plenty of time to set up the room. I’ve brought supplies for a tea break too this time. We can all have a relaxed chat while we refuel.

It’s cold today. The air in the large, high-ceilinged church room envelops me in its cool cocoon. I do up the buttons of my cardigan, but it won’t be enough to stop the shivers. Maybe I should bring my electric blower heater next time. Although, looking around me, I can see there are radiators. I’ll ask the caretaker why they aren’t on. Perhaps he doesn’t think a small group like mine deserves to have money spent on it. It must cost a lot to heat this huge space.

Half an hour to go .

I’m regretting arriving here quite so early. This last thirty minutes is dragging. What if no one turns up this time? The first session went well, I thought – and Wendy did say she was looking forwards to it.

Relax. They will come.

I get up, and begin to pace the wooden floor. I need to try to warm up.

My mind goes back to my session with Connie. I’ve gone over it again and again. It hadn’t progressed the way I wanted it to. She’d been clever, picked up on something I didn’t really want to talk about, and directed the session her way. Towards her agenda, not mine. I hadn’t had a chance to ask the questions I’d planned; ones that would’ve been useful for today’s group meeting. The next counselling session could be awkward, she might continue down the abused wife route. I’ll have to think of something to start off the session differently. A big disclosure to knock her sideways, steer it in the opposite direction to what I know she wants.

Actually, maybe I have just the thing …

No time to think about it now – I hear the outer door bang.

‘Thank you, God.’ I look up to the Lord, crossing my chest. At least someone has turned up.

It’s Wendy. She was first here last time too.

My heart dips a little. I hope some others come early as well. I don’t want too much time alone with her – I don’t want her to bring up the episode with my ‘ex-husband’. I’ve got a little story planned, though, just in case. I have to cover all bases, be prepared.

As I’m welcoming her, a few others follow.

Warmth replaces the cold I’d been feeling.

Finally, when everyone has filtered in, I notice that my group has grown by two people. Once we’re all settled in the circle, we do another brief round of introductions, welcoming the new members. And I’m thrilled to find one of them is Bill.

I smile widely, feeling my face glow. Excellent. I’ve been successful in getting him to the group – my comment on the online support group obviously did the trick. It feels good to know I have some powers of persuasion.

‘Any men on the scene, Connie, love?’

Connie slumped against the high back of the dining chair. She’d been waiting for something like this all evening; her mother’s idea of small talk at the dinner table.

‘No, Mum. It’s been a while since I’ve been on the dating scene – no time for all that.’ It was the easiest and quickest way to shut that particular conversation down. She’d had issues trusting men ever since her teenage trauma – ‘That Night’ at the party where things had gone terribly wrong and she was taken advantage of. It was a time in her life Connie didn’t like to dwell on, or revisit.

‘Oh, that’s a shame. You’re not getting any younger – I suppose I’m not going to be a grandma anytime soon then.’

Connie’s face flushed.

‘What about you, dear, anyone special?’ She directed her probing question to Lindsay.

‘About the same, I’m afraid, Bev.’ Lindsay took a large gulp of red wine. ‘My divorce came through a few months ago.’

‘Ahh, I’m sorry. Is that why you’ve got a room in Connie’s house?’

‘That, and it made sense financially and geographically. I was travelling to Coleton every day from Plymouth, it was a long trek. After Connie’s … experience … last year, we decided it would work well for both of us. And it does.’ Lindsay turned to Connie and smiled as she raised her glass in a toast.

Connie noted that her mum had inched forwards in her seat, clearly itching to interject. She certainly didn’t waste any time.

‘So, tell me, Lindsay, what big case are you working on right now? The missing girl I heard about on the news?’

‘You can’t ask that, Mum! Lindsay can’t talk about cases outside of her work.’

‘I’m sure she talks to you about it though, doesn’t she?’ Her mum gave a cringeworthy wink as she passed Lindsay the dish of vegetables. Connie threw an apologetic smile at Lindsay.

‘It’s okay.’ Lindsay slyly jabbed her elbow in Connie’s side and widened her eyes at her before turning back to her mum. ‘If I don’t divulge anything that could compromise any ongoing investigations, I can talk about them. You know, in general.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t tell Connie very much, actually.’ Lindsay pushed the serving dish towards Connie.

Connie took it and dolloped a small spoonful of veg on her plate. Her appetite had waned the minute Lindsay had turned off the main Teignmouth road and crossed the bridge into Shaldon. As soon as Connie had walked through the front door of her mum’s terraced house, her gut had twisted into a painful knot and hadn’t relaxed since. At least the emphasis so far had been on Lindsay and her role as detective inspector. She hoped she didn’t feel uncomfortable with her mum’s questions. Judging by the dig she’d been given in the ribs, she guessed she must be fine with it. She should try to relax a little.

‘See, Connie, Lindsay doesn’t mind.’ She smirked teasingly at Connie and then took a mouthful of food.

‘I am involved in the missing person case, yes,’ Lindsay said.

Connie looked up sharply. ‘Are you? I didn’t realise.’

Lindsay had worked long hours the last couple of days, but hadn’t told Connie why. She should’ve guessed it was on the missing twenty-one-year-old’s case, which had been widely reported since Wednesday evening.