Little White Lies (20 page)

I drive fast along the city streets, trying to get as far away as possible from Joe’s flat and the crazy thugs who attacked us. Finally the welcoming neon sign of a Travelodge comes into view and I pull into the car park.

“What’re you doing?” Christian frowns.

“Checking us into a hotel. Come on.”

He shakes his head. “I’ll stay in the car.”

“Christian, it’s not safe in the car—and you’ll freeze!”

“It’s not safe to go inside,” he argues. “They’ll have CCTV.”

“Here, have your hoodie back.” I unzip the oversized sweatshirt and hand it to him. “That gash needs cleaning, and to do that you need to come inside!”

“Lou—”

“Otherwise your wound will get infected and we’ll have to chop it off,” I say. “Total amputation.”

A smile tugs at his lips.

“It’s up to you. Hospital, crippled, or hotel.” I shrug.

“You’re such a drama queen.”

“Says the guy who’s made up his whole life,” I counter.

“Good point.” He sighs. “All right, let’s go.”

He pulls on the hoodie and slings his arm over my shoulders as I help him inside.

“Is he okay?” the receptionist asks, eyeing Christian warily as we hobble across the carpeted foyer towards her. His hood flops over his face, masking him from the tiny camera winking on the ceiling.

“He’s fine.” I smile. “Just had a few too many ciders.”

On cue, Christian starts singing loudly and off-key. I dig him in the ribs.

“Could we get a twin room, please?”

The room is basic—two beds, a bathroom, TV, and a kettle with two cups—but it’s all we need. I help Christian to the bathroom, where he collapses on the white tiles, clutching his leg and groaning.

I kneel beside him and carefully peel the leg of his trouser back to reveal a deep red gash up his shin. I wince.

“Okay,” I say, trying to remain calm. Think.
Breathe
. “You should let it soak for a bit in the bath”—I turn the taps on—“and I’ll nip out and get some antiseptic wipes and bandages and stuff, and then... then you can tell me what to do with them.” I smile weakly. “I haven’t a clue.”

“You’re doing great.” Christian smiles. “Thank you.”

“You hurt your other leg too?” I say, noticing jagged red lines just above his right ankle.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Christian says, pulling his trouser leg back down. “It’s just... it’s where I had the ankle tag. I was in a bit of a hurry when I hacked it off at Joe’s flat, got a bit careless.”

“Ankle tag?” I stare at him.

“It was one of the conditions of being let out of prison three months before my automatic release date,” he sighs. “I was supposed to stay at home between seven p.m. and seven a.m., or the tag would alert the police.”

I suddenly remember how he’d quickly tugged down his trouser leg when he was going to show me how to flex my ankle like a ballerina—
because he didn’t want me to see the tag.

“That’s why the police rushed round after your gran collapsed,” Christian continues. “They knew I’d missed my curfew. That’s why I hesitated about coming out to help in the first place—I’m so sorry.” He takes my hand and I squeeze his gently.

“But you still did,” I say quietly. “You saved her life.”

He got himself in trouble with the police... he risked being sent back to prison... for Gran. For me.

“When I explained what had happened they were really understanding, said these were exceptional circumstances and that it wouldn’t count against me. But now...” Christian hangs his head. “Now I’ve well and truly broken the rules. I’m officially “at large,” and if the police find me, they’ll send me straight back to prison.” He laughs bitterly. “A few more days and it wouldn’t have even mattered!”

“What do you mean?”

“My curfew period was due to finish on Tuesday.” He sighs. “You can’t imagine how much I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“I thought you were sentenced to nearly three years?” I frown.

“I was, but at the halfway point you’re automatically released. I’d still have to have meetings with my probation officer for another few months, but there’d be no more ankle tag, no more having to stay indoors—I’d finally be free to go out in the evenings, wear shorts without people staring at my tag, actually have a life!”

Just yesterday I’d have been furious to hear he’d be let off so soon, but now... now the whole world’s upside down. So much has changed so quickly, I feel light-headed.

Suddenly Christian sighs heavily. “You should go.”

“What?”

“The police are looking for me—you’re harboring a fugitive, Lou. You’re breaking the law just being here with me. Plus you’ve seen what the vigilantes are like. I can’t risk you being here if they find me again—you could get hurt. You should go. Now.”

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“You have to.”

“I
can’t
!” I insist.

“Why not?” he asks. “Seriously, Lou,
why
are you helping me? Why would you put yourself in danger—for me? You hardly know me.”

I falter. I couldn’t leave him earlier because I thought he was guilty and I couldn’t let him escape, and I wanted to make him pay. And I can’t leave him now because he’s innocent and he’s injured and it’s my fault the vigilantes found him, and he could be in danger....

But I can’t tell him either of those things.

“Because I... I care about you,” I tell him, and suddenly realize it’s true. I do care about him, and I don’t have to feel guilty about it anymore. All the feelings I’ve been trying to ignore, to convince myself I don’t have, suddenly rush to the surface now that I know he’s innocent.

“I care about you,” I say again, leaning closer and stroking his hair from his face, looking unashamedly into those clear blue eyes. “We’re in this together now.”

“I care about you too.” He catches my hand. “That’s why I can’t let you—”

“I’m not going to leave you when you’re in danger,” I tell him firmly. “Not when it’s my fault you’re in this state.”

He smiles. “How d’you figure that?”

“You name it,” I say, looking at his angry wound. “I took too long getting down the rope, and I—I called...”

“Lou, I don’t think calling your gran caused any of this, do you?” Christian smiles. “None of this is your fault,” he says softly, kissing my hand.

“It is.” I press my eyes closed, guilt and shame stinging my eyes. “You’re hurt because of me.”

They found him because of me.

“No.” Christian cups my face. “I’m hurt because of Joe.”

I open my eyes.

“He was the only one who knew I was at the flat,” he says sadly. “He must’ve turned me in.”

I look away.

“Not that I blame him.” He sighs.

“What?”

“He’s my best friend, Lou—he wouldn’t have betrayed me without good reason. Did you see all the locks on his door? They’re new.”

I remember how nervous Joe was when I knocked on his door, the fear in his eyes.

“They must’ve been threatening him, those thugs, hassling him for my location.” Christian shakes his head sadly. “It wouldn’t be the first time. I was meant to go home when I left prison—live with my mum and dad. It was all arranged. But when the vigilantes found out, they threatened my parents, threw a brick through their window one night, made it clear I wouldn’t be safe if I came back to this neck of the woods—and nor would the people I love.” Tears fill his eyes. “I’ve been fooling myself, thinking that someday it would all blow over, that things could go back to normal—that I’d get my life back, see my parents... but I can never go back. It’s worse than prison. At least there they could still visit, keep in touch. But now...” He sighs heavily. “Joe’s right. It’s like I’ve died, like I’m one of your ghosts—I don’t even exist. Leo Niles no longer exists, and I have to lie about
everything
—can you imagine how
exhausting
that is?”

If only he knew.
I shiver.

“Sorry, Lou—have my jumper back.” Christian pulls off his hoodie, and as he tosses it to me the scissors fall out of the pocket—and so does Gran’s phone.

I freeze.

“What’s this?” Christian frowns, picking it up. “I threw your mobile out of the car back in Sheffield.”

“It’s Gran’s!” I say quickly. “I honestly forgot I had it, and the battery’s dead anyway—’

“The sound I heard in the bathroom,” he says slowly. “It wasn’t your watch, was it?”

I falter, every hair on my body standing on end.

“You called the police.” He nods as if it all makes sense now. “
They
could’ve tipped off the vigilantes.”

“I’m so sorry!” I cry. “I saw the news headlines when you were in the shower—I thought you were a criminal,” I tell him desperately. “Joe had locked the door and I couldn’t get out and—and I’m so sorry!”

“
You’re
sorry?” He shakes his head incredulously. “I’m the one who should apologize!”

“What?” I stare at him.

“Of
course
you called the police—Jeez, Lou, you must’ve been terrified! You were trapped, you had no idea I was innocent, and I’d lied to you about
everything!
If only I’d been honest—but I couldn’t! The police
made
me lie—to everyone! I didn’t do anything wrong that day, but they’ve
made
me dishonest. How can I have a real relationship with anyone if it’s based on lies?”

Guilt twists inside me and I look away as I reach to turn off the taps, avoiding his gaze. I’ve not exactly been truthful myself.

He sighs. “I’m
so
sorry, Lou. For not telling you about all this, for pretending to be someone I’m not.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he argues, taking both my hands and looking me in the eye. “You don’t know the real me at all.”

I shift uncomfortably. He doesn’t know the real me either.

“Okay, here goes.” He takes a deep breath. “I was born in London, only child of Sarah and Albert Niles, and though we never had much money, I was drowned with affection. I had a pet hamster, innovatively named Hamster, when I was three, and cried for a month when it died when I was eight—”

I blink. A five-year-old hamster?

“—not realizing Mum had already replaced it three times so I didn’t get upset.”

I smile.

“My grandad lived round the corner and taught me the dirtiest jokes I know. My best mate, Joe, taught me magic tricks to impress girls, and my dad made me watch Villa play in the vain hope I’d fulfill his lifelong dream of becoming a footballer, but Mum ruined all that when she bought me my first sketchpad when I was seven. From that moment I wanted to be an artist. I even sketched people’s portraits at weekends and school holidays—I was going to go to art school.” His smile fades. “But then I met a pretty girl in an art gallery, made a rash decision, let her down, and everything changed.” He sighs. “My whole life. And here we are.”

I nod slowly.

“It’s such a relief to finally tell you the truth, Lou,” Christian says earnestly. “I promise I’ll never lie to you again. You can trust me,” he vows. “Go on, ask me anything. You must have a million questions.”

Try a billion
.
My mind’s whirling with them—questions about his past, about what happened that night, but somehow one question burns above all the others.

“Why did you break your curfew last night?” I whisper. “Why did you leave your house when you knew you’d get into trouble?”

Christian looks at my hand, his thumb tracing tiny circles around my knuckles.

“You needed me.” He shrugs, then smiles. “Of course I came.”

I bite my lip.

“I already let down one friend when they needed me most.” He swallows hard. “I’ll never make that mistake again. And today you were there when I needed you.” He squeezes my hand. “I knew it was fate meeting you, Lou. Some things are just meant to be.”

His eyes are so full of warmth, they burn into mine till I can’t bear it. I pull him into a hug, anything to avoid his trusting gaze, and he wraps his arms tightly around me.

A perfect fit.

Some things are just meant to be.
...

But Christian was meant to be mean and tough—a criminal. He was meant to deserve everything that was coming to him. He wasn’t meant to be kind, or funny, or charming, or attractive....

His fingers tangle in my hair like the thoughts in my head and my pulse races as I press against him, screwing my eyes shut against the world, the past, my lies. He was never meant to be sweet or sexy or
innocent
.

A sharp pain spears my heart.

Till today, it never occurred to me—never once crossed my mind—that Christian could be innocent. I’ve been so scared, so angry, so
determined
that he should suffer. Convinced from the moment that we met that every word he said was a lie, that his kindness, his sweetness, his generosity was all just a really good act.

But I was so wrong. He’s the real deal. Tears prickle my eyes as I break away.

“I’ll—I’ll go and get those wipes,” I mutter, clearing my throat as I scramble to my feet.

“Okay.” He smiles. “You’d better get some more hair dye too—if I have any hair left by the time I finally rinse this one out.”

“Right.” I nod. “What color?”