Sam Carrington - One Little Lie

I did my best.

Or is that another lie I tell myself every day?

‘Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs,’ I say quietly, making a sign of the cross on my chest as I slowly head back to the bus stop.

I get off the bus at a different stop than usual. I don’t want to go home. I can’t face that right now.

I slip and slide up the road towards the café at the top end of Fore Street. I wish I’d worn trainers instead of these ankle boots. The sole has little traction, and although there are only a few frosty patches on the pavements, I feel vulnerable. What if I fall and break an ankle?

I’m being silly. It’s not like I’m old, with brittle bones. I shouldn’t be worrying about stuff like this. I’m only fifty-five. If it hadn’t been for these past four years, I’d feel a lot younger, I’m sure. This has prematurely aged me.

The familiar sensation of prickling begins at the top of my nose, my eyes water. The cold makes them sting.

Don’t cry. Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t helping anyone. Neither is feeling guilty.

My preferred table in the corner of the café, practically hidden from view, is taken. Now what? I hesitate. It might be better to leave. But no one really knows me here. My face won’t be recognised. I am anonymous. With a confidence I’m unsure of the source of, I position myself at the table by the window.

It’s only when I have ordered my latte that I allow myself to look outside. I can see the psychologist’s building from here – down the hill a bit, on the left, before East Gate Arch. I have another session with Connie Summers on Monday. Our first meeting involved a lot of background information, a setting up of expectations. Talk of objectives and goals.

I told her about Kyle.

I don’t mind talking about him. It makes me feel better to talk about what he did. I told Connie that, and wondered if she thought me odd. I bet she thinks I’m off my rocker. Maybe I am. It’s not normal to feel better when talking about how someone murdered another mother’s son, is it?

But I am beginning to feel better. Talking about it is all I can do at this present time. And now I have two outlets. Two opportunities to make right.

The third way will come. Any day now, I’ll be brave enough. It’s building, this inner strength I’ve found.

Soon, I’ll be strong enough to face her.

Alice Mann was quite still. She didn’t fidget, didn’t flit her eyes about; she wasn’t nervous in her demeanour. She appeared calm, confident – keeping her eyes squarely on Connie’s as she told what seemed to be a well-rehearsed retelling of her story. Her experience of finding out her son had committed a murder. Connie’s decision to accept Alice as a client despite her earlier misgivings was made after carefully deliberating the pros and cons. Now, as she sat opposite Alice, listening to how her son’s actions had such far-reaching implications, Connie felt confident she’d made the correct choice. She could help this woman. She could make a difference to her life.

‘I tried, you know? I tried so hard to encourage him out of his bedroom, to go out with his friends, not just chat to them over the internet. I literally took his door off its hinges once – I wanted to know what he was up to, all those hours with his eyes fixed on that screen, earphones plugged into his ears – it wasn’t healthy. He could get nasty, would shout at me to leave him alone. So, you know, I let him put the door back on eventually. Not like I had much choice, as I couldn’t stand up to him physically. You understand?’ Alice took a breath.

Connie took advantage and jumped in before she set off again. ‘It sounds as though you had a difficult time with Kyle. Had his behaviour been challenging before, or was it new?’

‘Oh,’ Alice sighed, ‘it had been since his dad left, about two years before … you know. Anyway, I noticed that he was beginning to take on a different character, really. Like he was now the boss of the house. He took over where his dad left off. Looked after me, in his own way.’

For the first time during the session, Alice lowered her head, staring at her lap. She traced the flower pattern on her skirt with her index finger. Connie noted a small bald patch at the crown of her head, or maybe it was where her dyed ash-blonde hair had become white-grey at the roots. What did she mean by ‘looked after me, in his own way’? She made a mental note to come back to that in a later session.

‘That must’ve been hard, to manage on your own. Did you seek any help?’

Alice gave a guttural laugh. ‘Help? What kind of help? He wasn’t a child, he was sixteen. No one was interested in helping.’

‘You said before that he was always in his room, that you tried to get him to interact with others, but failed. How then did he come to commit the murder?’ Connie spoke softly, in an attempt to take the hard edge off her question.

‘Well, they said the victim was someone he met online.’ Alice straightened. ‘On some stupid gaming site. He spent hours on it. I could hear his low voice, even through the soundproofing he’d put on the walls. Always chatting – you know, on the headphone mic, into early morning.’

‘What was he talking about?’

‘Not sure. On the few occasions I was allowed to be in his room when he was talking, it was mostly about the game. Tactics, medi-packs – or something like that … Killing. The game was about killing.’ Alice closed her eyes. ‘It was only a game, though. How could I have known he was going to go one further – take it into real life?’

‘Do you think you should have known?’ Connie said.

‘I’m his mother. Yes, I should’ve known. I should’ve seen something bad coming. Done something about it.’

‘What do you think you could’ve done to prevent it?’

‘Talked to him. Given him more of my time; attention.’ She sighed again, gently shaking her head. ‘I don’t know. Something. I could’ve done something . Instead, I went for the easy life, the easy option. When he was in his room, I could relax, I didn’t have to worry about any conflict. If I gave him what he wanted, we could get on with each other.’

‘What he wanted?’

‘Yes. Privacy, to be left alone. Not to be challenged about anything. Not to go on about him getting a job. No nagging. ’

Connie thought back to her own tempestuous teenage years. Her behaviour had got out of hand after her brother Luke was stabbed. She became unruly, disobedient. Promiscuous. Her parents’ numerous warnings and well-meaning interventions – their constant nagging – went ignored. The consequences of that had been far-reaching and had followed Connie into her adult life. A shudder shot along the length of her spine as the memory of That Night flashed in her mind. All she’d wanted after that was to be left alone – shutting herself away in her bedroom with only her shame and rock music for company. She’d not spoken to her mum or dad for days on end.

Hadn’t Alice’s son behaved like a lot of teenagers? How could she have known, really, that he would go on to commit a terrible crime? Unless there were other indicators. Perhaps Alice wasn’t telling the whole story, yet. Connie had the feeling there was a lot more behind Kyle’s behaviour. It was one thing to kill in a game, quite another for that to escalate into killing in real life. Despite what the anti-gamers wanted people to believe, it was not common for violent games to make a violent person. There was usually something already in them, or something predisposing them to violence.

Like growing up with an abusive parent.