A Suitable Lie Read Online Free PDF Page A

dreamed of having my own house and family.’ She stopped dancing, grew still and gave herself a hug, looking into the distance as if a bad memory crouched there.
    But then she brightened and fell into my arms again. ‘Andy, thank you. You have just made me the happiest woman in the world.’ She kissed my nose, my forehead, my right ear, my lips. ‘Thank you, honey. I’ll be the best wife you could ever wish for.’
    Just then a voice sounded from the door.
    ‘Do I need a shoe horn to separate you two? ‘Jim’s voice filled the room, ‘… or will a bucket of cold water do the trick?’
    ‘Hey, Jim.’ Anna pushed off me, sat up in the sofa, smiled at my brother and smoothed the creases in her trousers.
    ‘Do you not believe in knocking?’ I said. Even to my ears my tone sounded too stern, but I didn‘t want Jim to think that nothing was going to change. I was getting married and he would have to learn to respect our privacy. But at the same time I felt bad at being so abrupt with him, he’d been coming and going as he pleased for years.
    ‘Right, big guy.’ Jim clapped his hands. ‘Taxi’s waiting.’ He then looked around the room as if waiting to be ambushed by a miniature cowboy. ‘Where’s the wee man?’
    ‘He’s with his Nan and Papa Morrison,’ I answered.
    ‘Yes,’ added Anna. ‘I’ve got the night off. I have my box of chocolates, my nail varnish and a nice romantic movie.’ She pulled her feet under her.
    I leaned down to give her another kiss. ‘Love you,’ I whispered.
    ‘Love you too,’ she replied.
    Jim made a gagging sound.
    ‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘Wish me luck, sweetheart.’
    ‘Anything happens to him, Jim Boyd you’ll have me to contend with.’ Then she looked at me, smiling. ‘Bye honey,’ she folded her arms, stuck her tongue out and then fixed her vision on the TV set. ‘Don’t have too good a time.’
     
    I n the backseat of the cab Jim turned to me, eyebrows raised in question.
    ‘Nan and Papa Morrison?’ he asked. ‘You aiming for a sainthood or something?’
    ‘Leave it, Jim. I have my reasons.’
    During the first days of Pat’s life I walked, talked and defecated on some strange system of remote control. My breakdown was a cause for concern for the Morrisons. They worried that their grandson; the only flesh and blood they had on earth, would be neglected.
    My mother cared for the baby while my mind struggled to free itself from its fog of grief. She fed him, changed him and nursed him to sleep. Far too often for my liking, she would place him in my arms as I sat and stared and asked questions of the sky, of the trees, of the trail of a raindrop as it slid down the window.
    I knew now that this attempt to keep my distance from Pat was borne of fear. Fear that I would love him – and then lose him.
    Three weeks after the funeral a letter was dumped through my letterbox. It was from the Morrison’s solicitor. They were suing me for custody of the baby. They didn’t think that I would be a good parent. The not too subtle subtext was that they blamed me for Patricia’s death.
    Their arrogance galvanized me. How dare they, I raved? Who the hell did they think they were? Patrick was my son.
    That morning, exhausted after an hour-long rant, I sat in my usual position by the window. My mother placed Pat in my arms after his feed. Full of anger at the Morrisons I was even less inclined to take any notice of him, until a burp laced with milk floated up to my nose, and his tiny hand gripped on to one of my fingers. I looked down into his crumpled face and for the first time into his eyes. They looked back at me without fear; without judgement.
    I moved my hand to cradle his head and neck, feeling the heat of his skin and the silk of his bleached-gold hair. Tracing his fontanelle with my thumb I wondered at how vulnerable he was and at the strength with which he gripped my other hand.
    The first physical sign of emotion was the cool wet of a tear as it slid