Beautiful Liar

In memory of my lovely, glamorous mummy,

Pamela Ann Hyland

15 December 1941–6 February 2014

We miss your big smile, generous nature and love of life

“You here alone?”

The man didn't look at me as he spoke. He was too busy searching through his wallet. He pulled out three notes to pay for his petrol and slid them under the small hatch. That was the only way we could take payment after eleven at night, because the shop was locked up as a safety precaution.

Our fingers touched briefly as I took his money, and I recoiled at the clammy feel of his skin. I had to resist the urge to wipe my hand on my overall, and instead busied myself at the till, rifling through the drawer to get his change.

I deliberately hadn't answered his question, and I'd hoped he'd let it go. But then I heard his voice, more insistent this time. “I said—you here alone?” He glanced at the name tag on my striped overall. “Nina.”

My heartbeat quickened. There was no one else here, but I didn't
want him to know that. Especially since he was the first customer I'd seen since midnight. It was the early hours of Monday morning, and anyone with sense was home in bed, resting up for the busy London week ahead.

I took a deep breath, and turned back to face him. “Manager's out the back.” I forced myself to meet his gaze. “I'll get him, if you want.”

The security cameras weren't working, so if it came to it, the police would be relying on me to tell them what the man looked like. I searched for a distinguishing feature, but came up with nothing. He was white, middle-aged, and had brown hair and brown eyes. He was also average height and weight—the very definition of nondescript. And the way he'd parked his unmarked white van, I couldn't catch the plates.

The man counted his change with painstaking deliberation, before tucking it into his back pocket. He lifted his eyes to mine and I could tell from the amused look that he knew I was bluffing.

“Shouldn't leave you here alone. Not at this time of night. Young girl like you, it's not safe. You tell your manager that.”

He nodded a goodnight, and then walked away without another word.

I stood watching as he crossed the forecourt and got into his van. It was only once he'd driven off that I realised how tense my body was. I breathed out hard, forcing myself to relax.

I didn't
know what to make of the man. Maybe he was genuinely concerned rather than creepy. Most people thought it was wrong to have a nineteen-year-old female here alone at night, but the late shift paid more than days, and I needed the extra cash.

It was almost 2:00 a.m., so I forced the man from my mind, and began to go through the process of closing up. I put the meagre takings for the night in the safe out the back, and then shrugged on my jacket, grabbed my bag and made for the door. I paused for a moment, my nose pressed against the glass as I peered into the darkness, alert as a gazelle in the Serengeti. I couldn't see anyone lurking in wait, so I flipped the light off. The station plunged into darkness, the forecourt lit only by the fluorescent glow of the sign that loomed near the road. I pulled open the door and stepped outside.

The smell of petrol hit me along with the cold night air. However long I worked there, I never could get used to the odour. It seemed to get everywhere, seeping into my clothes and skin. After a shift, I'd always spend ages in the shower, scrubbing away, but I still couldn't seem to get rid of it.

I had the huge set of keys for the shop in my hand, the correct ones already picked out for a quick getaway. There were two locks, plus a padlock, and I had the whole process down to thirty seconds. At the end, I gave the padlock chain a quick tug to make sure it was all in place, and then I
dropped the keys into my bag and headed off into the night.

As I crossed the darkened forecourt, I stayed on high alert, watching the shadows for movement. It was only once I reached the main road that my heartbeat eased. Most people considered this part of East London to be a no-go area, but I never minded walking home alone at night. Even though Tower Hamlets had notoriously high crime and poverty rates, I'd never had any trouble. I think it's because I managed to give the impression of being pretty tough. Even though I wasn't physically intimidating—only five foot six and naturally slender—in my standard uniform of dark jeans, biker boots and bomber jacket, I didn't look like someone to mess with. Plus with my short dark hair jammed under a beanie hat, I could pass at first glance for a boy.

I set off along East India Dock Road, away from affluent Canary Wharf, and towards less salubrious Plaistow in Newham, where I lived. Usually there were gangs of youths gathered round the kebab shops, but tonight the streets were pretty much deserted. It was late September, there was already frost on the ground, and no one was hanging around outside without good reason.

A couple of girls my age were huddled by the twenty-four-hour convenience store, counting out money for cigarettes. In crotch-skimming dresses, they looked like they were on their way back from clubbing. It was hard not to envy their carefree demeanour. I glanced into the shop as I
passed, nodding at the assistant inside. The place was a rip-off, but late at night it was the only way to get the vodka that my mother craved. They'd got to know me far too well over the years.

A sudden blast of sirens broke the silence. Instinctively I looked round, and watched as two fire engines raced by, followed by an ambulance. Five hundred metres ahead, the vehicles turned right, onto my street.

My first thought was:
Oh, Mum. Not again.

Then I broke into a run.

* * *

It took me about ninety seconds to cover the distance. I was breathing hard when I rounded the corner into Hayfield Court, the council estate where we lived. Three soulless tower blocks stretched twenty storeys high around a concrete square. One lone tree stood in the centre, permanently stunted by a lack of sun. I'd just turned thirteen when we moved there—the year my dad died. I'd sobbed my heart out the first time I saw the place. It had seemed such a far cry from the pretty suburban street where we'd lived. But with Dad gone, there'd been no money to pay the mortgage, and a council flat was our only option.

I instinctively looked up to the fifteenth floor of our tower block. Sure enough, there were firemen on the walkway outside my family's flat. I could guess what had
happened. This wasn't the first time Mum had fallen into a drunken stupor halfway through a cigarette.

The paramedics were already loading someone into an ambulance, which meant the lift must have been working for once. As I drew closer, I saw that it was Mum on the stretcher. An oxygen mask covered her mouth and nose, for the smoke inhalation, but otherwise she looked unharmed.

She gazed up at me, her large violet eyes sorrowful, her pale blonde curls framing her delicate face. Even after all those years of pounding the bottle, she was still a beautiful woman, the epitome of feminine. I look nothing like her, and take after my father instead—inheriting his square jaw, chocolate-brown hair and eyes and olive complexion.

“Where the hell's April?”

The paramedic looked over in surprise at my harsh voice, but I didn't care. Any sympathy I'd felt for my mum had vanished a long time ago. She'd brought this on herself—had ruined all our lives with her weakness. Sure, it couldn't have been easy to lose her husband, and be left to raise two young daughters alone. But drowning her sorrows hadn't helped matters. She was hell-bent on self-destruction. My sister was another matter . . .

April was only fourteen years old, and she didn't deserve to be caught up in this.

“Where is she?” I said again.

My mother didn't attempt to speak, but her eyes shifted
right to a police car. I followed her gaze, and I felt a rush of relief as I saw April standing there in tartan pyjamas, with a brown blanket thrown around her thin shoulders. She was crying loudly, while a young policewoman tried to comfort her.

April must have felt my eyes on her, because she looked up then. Without any thought to her bare feet, she broke free of the policewoman, and ran across the rough concrete to where I stood, hurling herself into my arms.

“Oh God, Nina. I'm so glad you're back.” She sobbed the words against my chest as I held her tight. “I knew she was bad tonight. I should've stayed awake, but . . .”

But she was fourteen, and needed her sleep. It wasn't fair to expect her to take care of a drunk thirty-nine-year-old woman who should have known better.

I held my sister close, stroking her fair hair. She was the lucky one, who had inherited our mother's looks—although thankfully none of her selfish personality. Outsiders often thought I must resent being the loser in the gene pool lottery, but in truth I was pleased not to have anything in common with our mother.

“Don't you dare start blaming yourself.” It wasn't the first time I'd had to say this. “None of this is your fault.”

April pulled away, looking up at me with wide, tearful eyes. “They're going to take me away, aren't they? After this . . .”

She began to cry again.

I could understand her distress. Our social worker had warned us last time that if there was one more incident, April would be placed in a foster home. It was tempting to tell her that she wouldn't be going into care, but I wasn't about to lie to her. Too many broken promises, and you lost your ability to trust. I'd learnt that the hard way. It wasn't fair to take that from April.

I felt a flash of guilt about having gone to work. If only I'd stuck to the day shifts. But we'd needed the extra money, and I'd decided that took priority.

“I'm so sorry, love.” A voice interrupted my self-flagellation. It was our neighbour, Doreen Cooper, a thin, harried mum of five. She'd promised to keep an eye on my mother while I was out. “I thought she'd gone to bed at midnight. But then the smoke alarm went off . . .”

That was about right. Everyone feeling guilty, apart from the person who should have been—our selfish mother.

I closed my eyes, and wished this whole nightmare would go away.

I was allowed to ride in the ambulance with my sister. But when we got to the hospital, the police insisted that I stay outside while the doctor examined her—presumably because they were worried she might not tell the truth about what had happened if I was there. While I didn't like leaving her alone, I knew there was no point arguing, so I took a seat in the waiting area of the Emergency Room, and settled in for the long haul. I'd been there for about an hour when I heard a familiar voice say: “Well, this is quite a mess, isn't it?”

I looked up to see a short, stout woman in her early fifties, with wild, grey-streaked hair. It was our social worker, Maggie Walker, looking even more dishevelled than usual in an unflattering paisley dress and long navy cardigan.

“I wondered when you'd turn up.” My voice was hostile. Nothing against Maggie—she'd been fair to us over the years—but
her presence here wasn't going to be good for the Baxter family.

Maggie flopped into the chair next to me. “I thought she was doing better.”

“She was,” I said. “Sober four months and counting.”

“What set her off this time?”

I rolled my eyes. “What do you think? She got dumped again.” Since Dad had died, there'd been a revolving door of losers through our lives. Mum moaned about them and fought with them constantly, and then fell to pieces when they left.
You don't understan
d, she would tell us.
I need a man. It helps me forget how much I miss your father. I can't stand being alone
.