The Mute and the Liar (82 page)

Jeffrey
leans
in
closer.
But
I
can’t.

I
stand
up,
suddenly
and
sharply,
a
jarring
movement
that
stuns
Jeffrey.
He
looks
at
me
shocked, eyes narrowed.
His
cheeks
go
red
and
he
looks
down with
a
crumpled
up, almost
grimacing expression.

“
I
have
to
go,
”
I
mumble,
my
voice just
above
a
whisper.

I
t
smells
of
burning
when
I
get
home.
Our
house
is
a
Victorian
terraced
house
and
we
have
old
fireplaces
in
most
of
the
rooms.
They
take
ages
to
clean
and
get
working,
so
they’ve
been
out
of
use
ages
before
we
moved
in
thirteen
years
ago.
Only
the
large
marble
fireplace
in
our
living
room
still
works
and
Father
puts
it
on
every
now
and
again
when
he’s
in
the
mood
to
aimlessly
sit
and
watch
the
fire.
The
smell
of
burning
coal
hits
me
as
soon
as
I
walk
through
the
front
door.
Sure
enough,
the
fireplace
is
alight
with
just
a
couple
of
small,
dimmed
flames
that
illuminate
the
coal
and
black,
dead
soot
underneath.
It
seems
Father
lit
the
fireplace
a
quite
a
few
hours
ago
and
now
only these subdued flames
are left
.

That’s
when
I
notice
the
remains
of
burned
paper
smouldering
a
few
centimetres
from the
flames.

I
move
the
grate
and
pick
up
the
largest
piece.
The
sides
have
been
singed
off
and
only
black
lines
remain
around
the
curling
edges.
Assuming
it’s
just
an
empty
piece
of
paper,
I
throw
it
back.
As
it
falls,
it
flips
over
–
there’s
handwriting
on
the
other side.

This
is
familiar
handwriting.
I
know
this
handwriting.
This
small,
almost unreadable,
scribble-like
handwriting.

It’s
not
Father’s.
His
is
long
and
looping
and
it
deliberately
sweeps dramatically
to
one
side.

And
it
wouldn’t
be
from
one
of
his
colleagues
–
how
would
I
be
able
to
recognise
it?
I
can
just
about
make
out
a
few
words
from
the
central
area
of
the
piece
of
paper
that
managed
to
escape
the fire.

“
I
didn’t
want
to
start
caring.
It
just
happened…
”
That’s
it.
That’s
all
I
can
make out, the rest
is
cut
off
by
the
black
edging.

There’s
another
piece
of
paper
right
next
to
the
one
I
found.
It’s
very
thin and long
a
nd
the
edges
have
completely
curled
up.
I
pick
it
up.
“
I
know
it’s pathetic
writing
letters
but
I
can’t
go
to
your
house …
”

Clearly
there
were
a
lot
of
these,
and
Father
was
burning
them
today.
But
why
would he
need
to
do
that?
Just
to
get
rid
of
them?
Or
hide
them?

I’m
about
to
put
the
piece
of
paper
I’m
holding
in
my
pocket
when
I
realise
there’s
something
written
on
the
back.

I
gasp.

“
Alicia,
it’s
him.
”

Jayce.

His
voice
rings
out
from
the
piece
of
paper.
He
repeats
my
name,
again
and
again,
softly,
sweetly,
the way he sometimes did.

The
pounding
of
his
voice
in
my
head
stops
as
soon
as
the
living
room
door
unexpectedly
swings
open.
I
startle,
looking
up
to
see
where
the
sound
came
from.
I
had
been
crouching
down
over
the
fireplace
before, and now I
cautiously
straighten
up.
My
fists
clench.
I
feel
the
world
slipping
into
a
blinding,
unforgiving
scarlet.
It's
Father,
but
I
don’t
want
to
see
him.
Just the thought of
him
being in the same
room
as
me
makes
my
skin crawl.

I
guess
I
must
have
a
pretty
angry
expression,
because
Father
guesses
straight
away:
“
so you saw
them.
”

I
nod
my
head
once,
slowly
and
warily,
never
moving
my
eyes
away
from
his.

“
Alicia,
it’s
not
what-
”
“
No.
”

His
jaw drops,
aghast.

“
You…
”
he
murmurs, out
of
shock.
“
You
spoke.
”
“
Why
didn’t
you give
me
these
letters?
”

“
My God…
You… You
actually
spoke…
”

“
Clearly
I’m
not
speaking
because
you
can’t
seem
to
hear
me.
I
asked
you
why didn’t
you give me
these
letters?

“
If
you
wanted
them,
you
should
have
been
more
observant.
You
only
needed
to
look
on
the
floor.
He’s
been
posting
them
through
the
letterbox
every
day.
It’s
been
driving me
mad. My
God…
I
just…
I
can’t
believe
you’re
actually
speaking…
I
can’t…
This…
This
is
all
I
wanted.
Alicia,
this
is
all
I
wanted, this
is-
”