When people swear on the Bible, promising to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, that’s bullshit. Everybody lies. Lawyers. Social workers. Counsellors. Doctors. Foster carers. Teenagers. Children. It is what people do: they breathe, they eat, they drink, and they lie.
I once did a survey at Langford Hall, keeping count of how many porkies I heard in a single day and I came up with an average of eighteen per person . . . before lunch. These were only the obvious lies, not the small fictions that people tell to keep others happy. I love your new haircut. What a cute outfit. I didn’t take your yoghurt. Others were lies they told themselves. I’m not so fat. I’m not too old. I know what I’m doing. If I had more time I would . . .
The obvious lies are the easiest to pick. Others are better hidden or so close to the truth that the dividing line is blurred. Some lies are selfish. Some inflate, or conflate, or mitigate, or simply omit. Some are told for good reason. People lie because they think it doesn’t matter. They lie because telling the truth would mean giving up control or the truth is inconvenient, or they don’t want to disappoint; or they desperately want it to be true. I’ve heard them all. I’ve told them all.
Walking between the tiered seats, I follow the passage to the changing rooms. The two skaters I saw on the ice are putting on their street clothes. One of them is in a hurry to leave, angry with herself, slamming the door of her locker and limping out. The other is still unlacing her skates.
‘You were very good,’ I say. ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever seen anyone skate, up close I mean. When you see it on TV, you don’t realise the speed, or hear the sound of the skates on the ice.’
I sit down on the bench opposite her. ‘I’m Evie, by the way.’
‘Alice.’
‘How long have you been skating, Alice?’
‘Since I was five.’
‘Have I left it too late?’
‘Anyone can skate. Most people just do it for fun.’
‘Is it fun for you?’
‘Today, yeah. Ask me tomorrow.’
Alice pulls a heavy fleece over her head, lifting her hair out from the collar.
‘Did you know Jodie Sheehan?’ I ask.
‘Sure. We trained together.’
‘With the same coach?’
Alice nods. ‘Mr Whitaker.’
‘Was Jodie his favourite?’
A cloud of uncertainty passes across her face. ‘He pushed her harder than the rest of us.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she was so good.’
‘I wish I could have seen her skate,’ I say, running my finger over one of the blades. ‘Can we play a game, Alice?’
She glances up nervously. ‘My mum is picking me up.’
‘This won’t take long. It’s a bluffing game called two truths and a lie. I tell you three things about me and you pick which one is a lie.’
‘OK.’
‘My real name isn’t Evie. I’m a twin. And I can fit four boiled eggs in my mouth all at once.’
‘That’s a lie.’ Alice laughs.
‘You mean about the eggs? No, that’s true. I could prove it to you if we had four boiled eggs. Now it’s your turn. You tell me three things about Jodie – two truths and a lie.’
‘Why Jodie?’
‘It makes things harder.’
Alice begins thinking. ‘OK. Jodie wanted to quit skating; she had a secret boyfriend; and she once screamed so loudly at a horror film that the girl next to her peed her pants.’
‘That’s hilarious,’ I say. ‘Were you the girl?’
Alice nods, blushing. ‘How did you know?’
‘I guessed. Why did Jodie want to quit skating?’
Alice looks over her shoulder and back again, whispering, ‘The headaches. She had three concussions in a row.’
‘From falling?’
Alice nods. ‘She was trying to learn to triple axel.’
‘Did Mr Whitaker force her to keep trying?’
‘Jodie didn’t want to disappoint him.’
‘What about her boyfriend?’
‘That was supposed to be a lie,’ says Alice. ‘I couldn’t think of one.’
‘It’s hard to think of a lie when you need one,’ I tell her. ‘Do you know his name?’
‘No.’
‘Why was he a secret?’
‘I think he was older.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I mean, she wouldn’t talk about him, so I thought . . .’ Alice’s phone is beeping. She glances at the screen. ‘I have to go.’
She puts her skates away, forcing them into a crammed locker.
‘Did Jodie have one of those?’ I ask.
Alice nods and leads me around the corner where she points to a locker with blue and white police tape criss-crossed on the diagonals.
‘They searched that one,’ says Alice, ‘but missed the other one.’
‘What other one?’
‘Jodie managed to get two. Natascha quit during the summer and she gave her key to Jodie, who never gave it back.’
Alice takes me along the row and points to an unlabelled metal door.
Her phone beeps again. She’s late. Slipping her arms through the straps of a small backpack, she raises her fingers in a wave. ‘If you really want to learn to skate you should come back when the rink is open to the public.’
‘I will,’ I say, still looking at the locker.
I’m alone in the changing rooms. The muffled sound of classical music permeates from the rink. Leaning my back against the metal door, I pull at the handle, testing the strength of the padlock. Reaching into my hair, I slide a kirby grip free from against my scalp. Bending it back and forth until it breaks, I bite off the plastic tips, exposing the metal ends. Sliding the sharpest point into the barrel of the padlock, I feel it bumping over the internal mechanism, forcing down the sequence of pins.
A kid called Forager taught me how to open locks. We called him Forager because he used to break into the kitchens at Langford Hall and steal packets of biscuits, juice boxes and the chef’s private supply of chocolate. Forager could open almost anything. He began teaching me, but I gave up after mastering padlocks because I kept getting caught and punished.
This one is easy. I hear a tell-tale click and the shackle releases, falling open in my hands. Inside the locker I find ballet shoes, leggings, socks and a fleece-lined jacket with a badge saying, ‘British Junior Figure Skating Team’. I check the jacket pockets and up-end the shoes. On the lowest shelf, pushed to the back, I discover a padded yellow envelope with a torn flap. Inside is Jodie’s passport and a handful of SIM cards, still in their packaging, as well as a cheap mobile phone. Tipping the envelope upside down, I discover a pen-shaped object with writing on one side and a small circular window with two pink vertical lines. I know what this is – a pregnancy test.
A door opens somewhere out of sight and I feel the slight change in the air temperature. I close the locker and lean against it, slipping my hand behind my back and securing the padlock. The envelope is tucked under my right arm, beneath Cyrus’s loose-fitting denim shirt.
‘What are you doing in here?’ asks a woman. She’s one of the coaches I saw on the rink.