Sam Carrington - One Little Lie

Wednesday 31st January 2018

The chairs form an almost perfect circle. I manoeuvre the last two so they have equal distance between them. It’s important I try to maintain the personal space of those who’ll be seated here. Satisfied, I step back to check. Only one chair is different – double the room either side of it – separated from the rest of them. It’s also the only soft-furnished chair, the others being brown plastic.

This is my chair.

I’m their leader. I need to be seen easily by all the members – all eyes will need to be able to find mine. Eye contact is so important. That’s how they can see my empathy. My pain. Share it all with me.

Ten minutes left to wait.

It’s taken a few months of organisation: a lot of online chats, convincing others there was need for in-person interaction rather than virtual, finding an appropriate venue. Hopefully there’ll be a good turnout; at least six. I’ve optimistically put out ten chairs. Not a big group, but that doesn’t matter. Not to begin with. It will grow, once people realise how much they’re gaining. How much help and support it will offer them. And then they’ll travel from further afield to be a part of my group, a part of each other’s lives.

Five minutes.

A fizz of excitement bubbles inside my stomach. Most people wouldn’t understand that. Not with the type of group I’m running.

But this means a lot to me.

This is going to help redeem me.

‘Hello.’ A quiet, hesitant voice drifts in from the outer door of the church hall.

I straighten, my muscles hardening for a few seconds before I recover. I deftly smooth my black pencil-skirt with both hands, and pat my hair – the new curly style is taking some getting used to. I take small, quick steps towards the voice.

‘Welcome, I’m Alice Mann, come on in.’ I’m relieved to hear the words effortlessly flowing from my mouth as I thrust my hand into the palm of my first group member. The robust, ruddy-faced woman gives a shaky smile in return.

‘Wendy,’ she manages, her eyes flitting around the church hall.

I can tell she’s nervous. I must put Wendy at ease quickly, to make sure she stays; doesn’t turn tail at the first opportunity, or only attend this first session and never return.

‘A church,’ Wendy says. ‘Is it appropriate?’

‘Well, the church hall , to be exact,’ I say, as confidently as I can. ‘It’s the only venue I could secure locally.’ I pop my arm around Wendy’s shoulders and guide her to a chair.

I did wonder if this would be the best place, but I’d been limited. And this only cost £25 for two hours. It’s not like we’re in the actual church. But anyway, isn’t God meant to forgive people their sins? And the people coming to my group aren’t the ones who’ve sinned. I keep this thought to myself.

The sound of footsteps catches my attention. A sigh of relief forms but dies in my throat. At least it’s not going to be just the two of us. That would be a disaster. I smile as I greet four more people: three women and one man. I hope he won’t be the only male. It’s important to have a good selection.

After a few minutes of mumblings, squeaking of metal legs on the wooden floor, shuffling of bodies into a comfortable position – the room falls silent.

I can hear my own breath as it escapes my lips.

Six people, including me. All here for the same thing.

‘Welcome to the group.’ My enthusiastic voice fills the high-ceilinged room, and I almost jump – it sounds loud, unfamiliar. ‘I’m really pleased you’ve made it here today.’ I take a moment to look directly at each of the group members in turn. ‘I thought we’d start by going around the circle, each giving a brief introduction, start getting to know each other.’

A few people drop their gaze from mine. They don’t want to be the first to speak, the first to verbalise the reason they’re here. It’s easy, online, you see. To talk in a chat room, remain anonymous, unseen. This is different, and it’ll take a while before they build up trust in each other. In me. It will take time before they can be themselves. I can relate to that. I’m not even at that stage myself, yet.

I’ll start. I am the leader, after all.

‘Okay. I’ll begin.’ I take a large lungful of air, and slowly expel it before speaking again.

‘My name is Alice. And my son is a murderer.’

Connie Summers all but sprinted up the hill towards the building that housed her psychological therapy practice, puffs of breath clouding the cold space in front of her. Eight months ago, she’d struggled to walk it – extra weight gained through long periods of stress-related binge-eating had taken its toll and prevented her from even ascending stairs without gasping for air. But when her new housemate had moved in, so too did a new regime: healthy eating, gym sessions, hikes over the moors. Detective Inspector Lindsay Wade had brought the best out in Connie.

Not everything in Connie’s life was rosy, though. The weight of worry still hunched her shoulders and tugged at her thoughts – still meant she couldn’t fully relax. Even now, as she strode past the familiar Totnes shops, flashbacks permeated her mind in short, sharp bursts. The images – bright, vivid and unwelcome – came to her when she didn’t even realise she was thinking about the events that had shaken her so profoundly last year.

Connie hadn’t fully recovered from the aftermath of her involvement in the Hargreaves’ murder, and she doubted she ever would. It was bad enough that she’d been one of the professionals responsible for the decision to release Ricky Hargreaves from prison, when days later he reoffended by raping a woman, but to then be dragged into Ricky’s murder case a year later when she’d begun to put her prison career behind her – it was like the red-blood icing on a poisoned cake. She’d lost clients, quite literally, due to a cruel twist of fate: the lethal mix of her previous work with offenders and her own father’s criminal links. The innocent faces of the young woman and her little boy – both now dead – were still at the forefront of Connie’s mind. She’d also struggled financially – her failure to drag herself to work every day, coupled with an inability to motivate herself to build her business back up, took its toll. This wasn’t only a direct effect of Hargreaves, but also her family’s own dubious past, its secrets unexpectedly revealing themselves, causing her thoughts to spiral uncontrollably for a while. Lindsay moving in had helped, enabling her to afford the mortgage repayments and the rent on her business premises. But it wasn’t the main reason Connie had suggested the arrangement. A friend was what she really needed.

Despite the memories haunting her walk to work, Connie was looking forwards to starting the week by welcoming a new client. Having completed the journey from the train station through the narrow side streets onto High Street and up the hill towards East Gate Arch, all in a dazed fog, Connie came back to the moment as she reached her building. She shook her head to clear it, took a breath and unlocked the blue front door. After taking a few steps across the reception area, she dashed up the stairs, giving a cursory glance at the newly installed security camera as she went. She unravelled her scarf and slung it, together with her coat, on the stand in the corner of her upstairs consulting room. The gentle clanking of the radiator filled the room – she’d timed it to come on at 8.45 a.m., so it was comfortable by 9 a.m. Connie went back downstairs to make a coffee, to let warmth replace the chill of the room before beginning her day.

Mug cradled in both hands, the heat penetrating her cold fingers, Connie leant back in her chair and listened to her answerphone. The third message made her sit forwards abruptly, spilling her coffee over the desk. What the hell?