I’ll tell you no lies Page 17

  During our lives we open these doors when we’re made to, or when we want to, sometimes when we need to. On other occasions the doors just open by themselves, when you least expect it, and you can’t help but see what’s behind them.

  When Rosie was born she was the inspiration to build many doors in John and Steph’s minds, she had been building them since the day they’d found out Steph was pregnant. She had also closed a few, but on the whole both John and Steph were richer for the experience. Both of their corridors had been lengthened and the new doors were made of some of the best quality, richest and most inviting wood they’d ever seen.

  Doors in the minds corridor are generally unlocked; you are free to wonder in and out at will. Sometimes the corridors are very long and there are doors you haven’t opened in many years, but that’s not to say that the opportunity, memory, desire doesn’t still exist. Maybe your legs just aren’t as fit as they were in the past and maybe you’ve even forgotten some doors ever existed.

  When certain doors become hard to enter we start to lock off these doors and enter doors that are easier to go through. A problem occurs, however, when we have to pass the locked off doors every time we want to open a ‘good’ door, we can still see the locks and we know the door has things behind it we’d rather not see.

  One thing is certain in life though, the more doors you have in your corridor the better off you are, and the fewer of those doors with a big ugly padlock on the outside the better.

  Lucy’s corridor was quite a long one considering her age, but she had too many padlocks in her corridor for someone so young, far too many. Sally-Anne was also behind one of the first doors Lucy came to on her particular corridor and Sally-Anne’s door was always open. Well almost always, she could restrict access when it suited her purpose.

  Sally-Anne was also free to wander the corridor in Lucy’s mind, oiling some door hinges and continually pouring water on others, and even on occasion taking a big sledgehammer to some of those padlocks, when it suited her purpose.

  Sally-Anne had also built another door next to the one she herself was behind; this door was padded on the inside and had a straight jacket hanging from a rusty nail. She used this door very rarely but should the occasion merit it the door was ready and waiting and she had one of the biggest, most ugly looking ‘fuck-off’ padlocks you’ve ever seen, ready and waiting for when the occasion merited it. Sally-Anne had made this door one of her first priorities following her introduction to Lucy, in 2004, outside a school in Manchester when Lucy was struggling with the unfortunate Gemma.

  A day filled with much relief for Lucy. It was really was pissing down in Manchester that day. Poor Gemma, she really didn’t know what hit her.

  …

  After Steins suicide Lucy had felt the need to find some happy doors to look behind, and as with most toddlers it was clear that Rosie was a fine carpenter when it came to doors. She worked with only the finest materials and tools. Everybody who knew Rosie was gifted with at least one happy door to look behind when times were a little tough.

  The modelling was good. A models life isn’t all glamour and to reach the top of the trade is like anything, it is very hard work. When you saw what Lucy was earning you’d have to say modelling was very good. If you’d been gifted with the look designers were looking for they were prepared to lay money down for you to walk on. Lucy had the look.

  The bitchiness was still present in her life, just like it had been since the age of thirteen. Much of the recent bitchiness coming from Stein’s Legacy of grooming, his desire to assist Lucy become the model that in reality she was always going to be anyway. Other, lesser models don’t take kindly to ‘special treatment’ in the very competitive world they live in. Just as in every walk of life though there has to be a fair share of mediocrity, it’s the nature of the beast, if you don’t have mediocrity how do you know when someone’s truly good?

  Lucy just couldn’t see beyond the manner in which Stein had died. Most people had seen it as typically Stein, and he was even praised in some circles for ‘not letting himself down’. It was said by many that he’d stayed true to himself and, oh yes, boy did he look good in the chapel of rest when people came to pay their last respects. Wherever Stein was watching from for those three days he would have been tickled pink to hear the comments being made.

  He may well have not let himself down but he’d certainly let Lucy down, and at an age where you can’t appreciate any death staged to look good.

  Rosie was the distraction that allowed Lucy to place a less than stable padlock on that door. But even so the bitterness never fully went away, because to reach that happy door she always had to pass by several padlocked doors on the way. Sally-Anne could always open doors, padlocks or no padlocks. A little gentle persuasion with the sledgehammer works every time, and let’s face it, Lucy’s mind wasn’t built like a bank vault, her weak points were well known.

  With Sally-Anne to guide her though life though Lucy appeared to the outside world like she could take on anything thrown at her and beat it. Most people weren’t looking at her mind; if her mind had been lodged between her breasts then they may well have had a good look. But it still would have been low on a list showing the order of things they noticed about her, having just met her for the first time.

  Twenty-Two

  Keith Waterson wouldn’t forget Christmas Eve 2010 in a hurry; one that brought with it his first six figure bonus. For Keith that was a clear sign that he’d finally made his mark on the City’s financial merry-go-round.

  Keith hadn’t been educated at Eton or Harrow like an awful lot of his colleagues; he didn’t have the necessary qualifications to be part of the old school network, but even so, there was nobody who could accuse him of not being good. He was better than good, after the last twelve months people were calling him ‘golden dick’. Everything he touched seemed to turn to gold and since the majority of his colleagues thought he was a wanker anyway the name just stuck.

  Keith didn’t mind the nickname. He’d known from the start that his life in the city wasn’t going to be one of permanently open doors and shared memories of a particular housemaster. He’d had to work hard to get to where he now was. His local high school hadn’t had housemasters; in some places it barely had a roof to keep the rain out.

  His lowly beginnings hadn’t hindered Keith too much, he’d had a focus when it came to money, and he understood its true value. That was why he was driving a four-year-old Range Rover whilst most of his colleagues changed their cars every twelve months. They would never dream of buying a car unless it only had delivery mileage on the clock and was most probably German or Italian in origin, British built vehicles were a definite no.

  Keith liked to look down on other motorists from his lofty leather seated driving position. He took the tube into the office most days but at the weekend he would pull his trusty workhorse onto London’s roads and cruise around the country’s Capital. During these drives he would meet his friends for a drink, maybe a meal and of course drive to Stamford Bridge, home to his beloved Chelsea Football Club, where he hadn’t missed a home game in nearly two seasons.

  Keith loved going to Chelsea, he enjoyed the football but he saw Stamford Bridge as a place where he could let his cloak of respectability drop for a short while and let his life’s frustrations dissipate. Unfortunately for the visiting fans he would usually let his frustrations show via his fists and his feet or those of his so called friends.

  Keith was part of the new breed of football hooligan, fighting was now being orchestrated by highly respected professionals out to satisfy their own needs for violence and thuggery. He was one of the highest-ranking members of an army where opposing armies would gather all over the country every week to fight battles. Battles that were so called in the name of football.

  If you passed him in the street you’d think that by the way he dressed and held himself that his hobbies were probably brass rubbing and train spotting, probably of the diesel variety.
Just like everything in life though, just because a dog doesn’t appear to have much of a bark it doesn’t necessarily mean it won’t bite your leg off, given half a chance…

  Christmas Eve of 2010 saw Lucy and Jayne packing overnight bags and Christmas presents, ninety percent of which had Rosie’s name on them, into the limited available space of the XK150. The car had become Jayne’s. Lucy didn’t like the car, there was too much of Stein in it, but Lucy had seen Jayne fall in love with it the first time she’d seen it.

  Lucy’s mood was as good as it had been for some time. The sun was shining for the first time in what seemed like months, but even so, the temperature was a long way from anything that could be remotely thought of as warm. As they were waiting for the XK150 heater to warm up before setting off though, they were both eagerly anticipating their first Christmas spent together with Rosie. John and Steph would play a part in proceedings too, but waking up on Christmas morning to watch Rosie unwrap her presents had been the inspiration for the relatively short trip to John and Steph’s, and the reason for them both spending the next few days there, following Rosie’s ever so formal crayoned request.

  For Rosie, now two years old, this would be her first truly exciting Christmas. It would be a Christmas where she could understand a little of the fuss being made, and be the centre of the attentions of all her favourite people in the whole world. And those same people all under the same roof. She was probably looking forward to this almost as much as her two aunties. Not to be outdone, Rosie had even wrapped up her own presents, with the very least amount of assistance possible, and placed them carefully beneath the tree.

  Chelsea hadn’t played since 12th December when they had drawn 1-1 at Tottenham Hotspur. A hard fought local derby but outside the ground the away team had won the battle. A difficult thing to put a score to, hooliganism, but going by opposing fans hospitalised, the Chelsea fans had won four-nil. An excellent result as far as Keith was concerned and one that made time spent organising a battle army for the Arsenal game on the 27th well worthwhile.

  It was the Arsenal ‘away day’ organisation and planning meeting that saw Keith Waterson climbing into his Range Rover to head off towards a pub within throwing distance of Stamford Bridge. The meeting with three of his, so called, Generals would be to discuss battle tactics. Christmas time matches were usually well over subscribed by away fans, and could there be a better way to get rid of those Christmas day frustrations than causing havoc at Arsenal? If you were to ask Keith Waterson the answer would probably be no. The only thing that might beat it for Keith would be an England international. Fans that had battled each other all season coming together to join forces to take on a bunch of foreigners! Even hooligans feel pride in representing their country.

  At thirty-two years of age Keith still lived with his mother. A sad state of affairs for any thirty-two year old man, but then Keith was a man’s man. He liked to have his meals cooked and his clothes washed and ironed by someone who wasn’t looking for commitment.

  Physically and mentally he had little to offer any sensible woman but he had enough money to his name, especially with his latest bonus. Keith had many frustrations in his life. His sexual frustrations were taken out on the prostitutes he visited regularly. Otherwise his frustrations were taken out dictating events on the Chelsea battlefield.

  Today would be a good day, he’d get the boys motivated for the Arsenal game first then he’d spend some of his hard earned bonus buying an hour of Vickie’s time, maybe even two hours if he was feeling up to it.

  Driving down Fulham Road Keith’s good mood made the decision an easy one; he was definitely up for the second hour with Vickie, maybe the whole afternoon. He reached into his jacket for his mobile phone. Scrolling through his directory for Vickie’s number his concentration was momentarily broken. A moment was all it took though.

  Keith Waterson’s car, veering from its previous straight line, because of his inattention, was like a missile aimed directly at the bus stop. The people innocently standing at the bus stop, waiting for the number twelve, a bus that should have been there five minutes earlier, were supremely fortunate though. Keith noticed them just in time. He was able to wrench his steering wheel and miss wiping them all out by a fraction of a second.

  Fortune favoured seven very lucky people that day, the oncoming car wasn’t so lucky though. If you’d been watching events unfold from a position of safety you would have been surprised at how like a guided missile a car can move when it’s travelling at speed. In that short instant in time Rosie’s Christmas was ruined, her presents would stay under the tree unopened, forgotten about. It wasn’t going to be the best Christmas Lucy had ever had either.

  A 1959 Jaguar XK150 fixed head coupe wouldn’t score high on any modern day safety test. Safety wasn’t as big an issue in the motor trade of 1959 as it is today. If you’re unfortunate to be involved in a car-to-car accident though, a Range Rovers isn’t a bad car to be driving. Let’s face it the Royal family and police forces all over Britain have been using them for years, and for good reason.

  When it comes to potential for damage however, a Range Rover is a real beast. With their height, weight and power they’re a modern day battering ram, the perfect vehicle for all budding ram-raiders to cut their teeth on. Keith Waterson liked his car, it suited his image.

  Heritage doesn’t in any form equate to safety. The XK150 was a mess. The brunt of the force had been taken on the driver’s side; with no air bags to deploy, unlike in the Range Rover. The only things available to cushion Jayne’s head had been glass, steel, the polished wooden dashboard and eventually Lucy’s lap.

  The people crowding around the car following the accident were reminiscent of the paparazzi in the Paris tunnel where Princess Diana’s life was ended; stunned silence was the general reaction. When they found their voices again they would have to say that Lucy was the most fortunate of the two people in the car. They didn’t recognise who Lucy was at that stage. Recognition would come later when they saw her photographs in the national newspapers and on TV. They could be forgiven for not recognising her though. She wasn’t exactly looking her best with Jayne’s head sat in her lap.

  Jayne’s pain was short, sharp and quickly over. Lucy’s pain wasn’t ever going to pass quickly. Looking down at Jayne’s face in her lap, her flowing red hair tinged with blood and her eyes wide open looking directly into her own, Lucy already knew her lover was dead. Lucy was no paramedic but she did know that having your head very nearly disconnected from the rest of what was once a beautifully slender neck would usually have that effect on a person, no matter how much you wished it was otherwise.

  The full realisation kicked in quickly and this was shortly followed with Lucy screaming her way into the oblivion of a safety zone. The same place that people often go to when faced with a shocking trauma such as Lucy had just witnessed.

  Fortunately, for most people they will never witness anything bad enough to require their whole system to cart itself off to the padded cell and lock the door from the inside; to simply power down and switch itself into stand-by mode. But then as with everything in life there are many varying degrees of fortune.

  Let’s face it, if you were to ask anyone alive today who was born into a pre Second World War Hitler ruled Germany what life was like for them growing up, most people would probably say it could have been a lot worse, a hell of a lot worse. Ask the ones who were born to Jewish parents and you’ll get a different answer. They’ll be capable of telling you about trauma and fortune, but you may not relish hearing the story they have to tell.

  Man’s inhumanity towards its fellow man continues and will always continue, probably until man has caused its own extinction. Some of the world’s most powerful leaders seem intent to ensure its continuance. But then the problem with the world’s leaders, these people we place on a pedestal and put all our trust in, is that they are just like you and me. They’re no super heroes; they’re only human, just as fallible as the rest of us. A
nd who knows what paths the voices in their heads, their ‘guardian angels’, are advising them to take, all in the name of world peace?

  One of these days it’s going to happen, trust me. One brain, two minds, one big red button, BOOM! Chain reaction time. Perpetual motion at its most destructive.

  And by the way, Superman doesn’t really exist. When the bombs start flying there won’t be anybody from the planet Krypton to save our sorry little asses. Flash Gordon, ‘saviour of the universe’, he won’t be there either. Super heroes are the figments of some very talented imaginations. World leaders of dubious character who have access to the big red buttons of the world are unfortunately very real.

  How good is the ‘intelligence’ used regarding the whereabouts of the world’s so-called ‘weapons of mass destruction’? Not very good, it’s been proven, but our leaders ask us to trust their intelligence. And for the most part we do. They ask us to trust every word they tell us, and accept it as fact. And for the most part we do. But do we really ever get the choice not to? Do we really have any intelligence at all?

  All that Sally-Anne asks of Lucy is her trust. Sound familiar?

  When evil sets out to find a mate it searches out potential for harm and vulnerability. When people are at their most vulnerable they want to be able to place their trust somewhere, anywhere. At that point they are potentially at their most dangerous and at the same time in the most danger.

  Twenty-Three

  Lucy missed Christmas day that year. When you’re in an intensive care ward, heavily sedated and in total ignorance, days tend to pass by quietly. Not only did she miss Christmas day, she missed the rest of that year and most of January 2011.