The Mute and the Liar Read online

That's the first thing I think.

  The walls are a shade of sea-green, and glimmer with paintings of the sea. Two huge arched windows hover side by side and take up the entire space of the opposite wall. Beryl blue curtains float to the floor from the ceiling like waterfalls, and a carpet of tidal waves crashes beneath my feet.

  In front of the wall opposite me is a large, ornate mirror. Through it, I watch as Kit tells me to wait a moment and leaves the room. On her way out, she passes the white loveseat sofa and vanity table. Not knowing what else to do, I hesitantly shuffle to the middle of the room, where there is a welcoming bed veiled in white sheets.

  “I'm so happy Jayce has you as a friend.” Kit returns, carrying a bundle of clothing and towels. “You're so... different from all the others.”

  She begins laying out the clothes in different piles, and passes me a purple nightdress with a fluffy white cloud pattern, or at least I think they are clouds until she hands it to me; they are actually sheep.

  “You know how he is. He has all these people around him all the time, but I just don't think he is actually close with any of them. It's a shame, because he's such a lovely boy. Just mixed in with the wrong crowd.”

  I switch off at this point. She goes on, her mouth moving, but no words reach me. Any person that calls Jayce a 'lovely boy' is clearly not worth listening to.

  She now appears to be talking to me about the clothes and the house, and points to a room across the hall, which I assume is the toilet.

  She leaves, and I begin to get changed. I take my school blazer off and swing it over the white metal chair by the vanity table.

  Just then, a soft meow slips into the air.

  Poking its head around the door is a tiny pure white kitten, probably only a little bigger than my foot.

  I've never really liked animals. They are just... there. They don't seem to have some deep, underlying meaning for being here. And I especially don’t like cats. Not after coming home one day to find a fat grey cat sitting in my sink. It just kind of stared at me for a while with a very questioning gaze, like it had the cheek to wonder what I was doing there, when it was the one who had turned up uninvited in my house.

  But this cat is almost... What's the word for it? ... Cute?

  It pads into the room, looking up at me with sapphire eyes. After the kitten spends a few moments judging me, it seems to think I am worthy of being its servant, and pushes his tiny head against my foot.

  Its paws are covered in mud, and it has a leaf stuck to its bottom. Disgusting creature.

  I am about to kick the dirty thing away, when it rolls on its back. No. I am not going to rub your belly.

  The kitten lets out a baby meow. Hmm.

  Well. How am I supposed to kick it, when it's looking at me like that?

  It has a collar on, with a tag longer than its neck hanging from the end. I bend down and flick it over.

  This kitten's name is Exterminator.

  I look at it again. There is a leaf tangled in its fur. It's been outside.

  Outside. The place I am not allowed to go.

  Instantly, I stamp my foot by its head. It jumps up as though it's been hit with an electric shock, and scampers away.

  A little rift forms in my stomach. Maybe I shouldn't have done that. Maybe... maybe it could have kept me company. Is that a stupid thing to say?

  A few high piano notes flutter through the walls from the room opposite, forming the simple tune of a song. It's a high, tingling sound, where every note is long and melds into the next, broken only by the occasional trembling low note.

  Kit begins singing, a high and gentle sound with softness sparkling in every word.

  That does it. I can’t take this anymore. I drag my feet over to the arched window and crumple into a pathetic, quivering heap on the floor.

  What if I never get out of here?

  No one will help me. I am locked here, in this room that is not a room because it is the sea. The green and blue colours around me tornado into one. The carpet rocks from side to side and drags me in. I am sinking. The very air around me plunges into my lungs like water. I can't breathe. I am lost in the middle of the sea, crashing against me, pulling me in, drowning me. I am alone.

  The only thing keeping me from drowning, the only thing that gives me the will to keep swimming, to keep breathing, is Kit's song. It keeps going, and I jump for air, desperate to hear at least one more note.

  In this endless blue expanse, Kit's song flutters over me, every word a million haunting butterflies.

  They locked you in the birdcage

  Because they knew you would stay inside

  Your enemy is not your captor

  Your only enemy is your pride

  They locked you in the birdcage

  To make you sing them to sleep

  But you're too afraid of falling

  To even try to leave

  They locked you in the birdcage

  And made you call it home

  But they didn't break off your wings

  You broke them on your own

  You won't fly away,

  because you were going to fall all along

  So you made wishes on your feathers

  and sang them the birdcage song.

  Chapter Ten

  1st March 2011

  9:30 AM

  “Pinch, punch, first day of the month!” I feel warmth against my arm and a slight stinging, and then something hits me. With great effort, I manage to force open my eyes, and the ceiling slips into focus. It is an unfamiliar ceiling. It is not my ceiling.

  At first I struggle to grasp where I am, why I was sleeping in this unfamiliar bed, or who this strange woman is that is standing next to it. Buzzing, colliding thoughts ricochet around my head until clear ones surface.

  Oh yes. I remember now.

  I am trapped in this house in the middle of the countryside with two criminals and an opera singer.

  Because that happens to normal people, right?

  “Good morning! Do you want to do some painting with us? We're going to be painting a wall next door with anything we like. It will be fun! Obviously, have breakfast first though. We all had it earlier, but I didn't want to wake you.”

  Kit goes on to explain she has set out several boxes of cereal, some fruit and some toast on the table in the kitchen. She spins out of the room.

  I look over to the vanity table and see the various toiletries laid out, including a toothbrush and a hairbrush. I walk over, and tug the hairbrush through my tangled curls, which really only makes my hair look worse. I can't be bothered to change into some of Kit's clothes right now, and head downstairs in Kit's nightdress. It's far too short, so I keep having to tug it down. I feel so exposed. I might as well just be wearing a belt.

  I find my way downstairs, reach the kitchen and make myself a bowl of cereal. It feels wrong though. I shouldn't be in this house. I shouldn't be doing something so ordinary, when my life is in danger. I feel like I'm doing everything wrong, like I'm walking backwards.

  Worried. That's how I should feel. I should be shaking. I should be scared. My stomach should be weighed down with so many terrified butterflies that it should be threatening to cave in. But strangely, I'm completely calm. There is something comforting about this house. It has that unnerving sense of unfamiliarity, but at the same time it has the warm, reassuring atmosphere every house should have.

  Of course there are moments when the real reason I am here flashes across my mind, or the stinging thought of my father. But there are also a few moments where I forget. In fact, remembering doesn't hurt that much. What hurts more is the thought that I actually forgot.

  I thought about all of my possibilities last night. I searched the whole house, but nothing gave me any hope. Kit appears to be a social recluse. There is next to no technology in this house, save for several large televisions dotted here and there. Apart from that, this house is completely disconnected from the outside world. There are no phones, no computers. It
seems Jayce deliberately chose this house to ensure I couldn't contact anyone. He threw away Nick's mobile phone before we got back into the car yesterday. So that means that the only person with a phone is Jayce himself.

  I've considered telling Kit. The thing is, she seems too immersed in Jayce's world to even begin to believe me. She would think I was crazy if I told her that her precious 'Jaycie' was a psychotic murderer.

  No. It's best if I avoid doing or saying anything that will give me unwanted attention.

  My only real choice is just to go along with this until all suspicion around me withers away. If Jayce starts to trust me, or even to trust his own intelligence, then he is far more likely to slip up. I know I am somewhere on the outskirts of Bath, so if I could just somehow get out of this house without being seen, I could head into the centre and get help from there.

  Until then, it's crucial that I act the part of 'Jayce's friend.' He has to believe that I won't try to run away.

  That plan will have to do for now.

  Having finished my cereal, I pick up my bowl, walk to the sink and begin to wash it.

  Footsteps shuffle into the room.

  “We're starting to paint in a few minutes. Make sure you-” It's Jayce.

  He appears to have been heading inside the room, but is now frozen in the doorway. He has reapplied gel to his hair, so it stands on all ends like a giant hedgehog. 'Save the trees!' is printed across his white t-shirt, and I'm surprised he hasn't fallen over from his incredibly oversized, baggy jeans.

  He is staring at me. Well, not really me. He's staring at my legs. He doesn't have the decency to look away.

  Feeling my cheeks burn, I tug down my nightdress, although it has almost no effect. It just bounces back.

  “Wear something decent,” he finishes.

  He coughs and shakes his head, his hair flickering over his eyes, and he drags his feet out of the room.

  Great. And now it's become awkward.

  That's just made our 'friendship' even more difficult.

  *****

  10:12 AM

  I wince as Kit tugs another strand of my hair. She has been fiddling with my hair for about an hour now. I have no idea what she is doing to it. She seems to be plaiting random strands and pulling the rest into a bun. I'm a bit worried...

  “You're very quiet. I'm not saying it as a bad thing. I really like it. It's just strange. You know Jaycie never stops talking usually. It's great that he has a friend like you.”

  She pulls another strand, and wraps a red ribbon around it, probably to match my outfit. I am wearing a red baggy t-shirt splattered with paint which almost reaches my knees and a pencil skirt so short it looks like I am only wearing the t-shirt. It seems Kit harbours a strong animosity towards trousers. And skirts with a decent length.

  “He seems so happy now. I'm overjoyed; I couldn't bear to see him miserable, back when I used to teach him piano. That seems so long ago now.”

  What is she talking about? Kit taught him piano? And why was Jayce 'miserable?'

  Apparently the confusion shows on my face.

  “Oh, you didn't know?” I shake my head. “He used to live here in Bath. Our mothers were close friends. I had just come back from studying music at Manchester University and my mother told me he wanted some piano lessons, so he was coming here three times a week. It was good just to get him out of his house as well, you know, what with everything that was happening. I'm sure you know all about that. We shouldn't be gossiping. It's no good resurrecting ghosts, right?”

  I get the feeling that although she says she 'shouldn’t be gossiping' she’s exactly the scandal-loving busybody who lives for it.

  So that explains how they know each other. But I don’t understand what she meant when she was talking about ‘everything that was happening.’ I thought Jayce was a delinquent, or one of those teens that just left school at sixteen with no ambitions, only to find which drink got them drunk the fastest. Maybe he’s way more complicated than that.

  “I wanted to look after him. But you know how he is. How he pushes everyone away. He didn't want me to help him.” She finishes tying another ribbon and looks at me, breaking into a smile. “It looks lovely! What do you think?”

  I turn to look in the mirror of the vanity table.

  It's a French plait with many other plaits running into it, and I seem to have red ribbons coming out of everywhere, making me strongly resemble a poodle.

  Although it looks strange, and I'd never be seen dead with it usually, I have to say, she's right. In a strange way, it does look nice. She has left a few soft ringlets to frame my face, which seems to soften the usually sharp edges

  of my face. And the plaits are beautiful. They twist and tumble into each other, sort of like how people's lives do. She smiles her comforting smile at me, and, without realising, I find myself smiling back.

  She passes me a large denim jacket with the sleeves rolled up midway. She helps me put it on, and for a moment we watch our reflections in the mirror.

  “You look beautiful,” she tells me softly, looking at me through the mirror.

  I let my lips form the words, but no sound comes out.

  Thank you.

  *****

  10:34 AM

  “Okay, so paint anything you want. An image, a portrait, anything. This will be the room I will compose music and write in, so I want to look at this wall and feel inspired.”

  Her voice echoes around the empty room, chilled with the acoustics an empty room brings. The only other object in here is a large, thick piece of nylon covering the carpet around the white wall we are standing in front of.

  Nick dunks a paintbrush into one of the tins of paint and flicks it hard so it splatters all of us as well as the wall.

  “What are we waiting for? Let's begin!!”

  Immediately everyone shuffles in front of a space in front of the wall, and paint flies everywhere. A radio sits in the far end of the room, and plays a series of alternative rock songs, which Jayce proves (very loudly) that he knows all the lyrics to.

  Kit begins painting an abstract flower pattern, connecting all the stems of the flowers together all around the wall, curtaining it. Her expression is the vision of concentration. She barely even blinks. From the detail in the petals, the soft melding of gold and red and the shading around the centre of the flowers, it is clear Kit is talented. She holds her thin paintbrush gracefully, barely holding it at all, and waltzes it across the wall.

  Nick carries on splattering paint everywhere, creating a rainbow of pinpoints. Curiosity kills Exterminator the cat, who lurks in for a closer look, and ends up spending the next hour cleaning himself from Nick's rampage.

  There's not much I can do. I don't even know where to begin. I am a detective, not an artist. I see the logic in the world, not the colours of it.

  With a great effort and a lot of tongue-biting, I manage to draw the face of a cat, probably something a seven-year-old could draw with their eyes closed. Still, I am happy with it. And I can pretend I was trying to be really clever and trying to draw Exterminator.

  I have to say, Jayce is talented. An orange hippopotamus soon marches onto the left-hand side of the wall, and he proudly admires it.

  “I really wanted a hippopotamus for Christmas when I was six. I couldn't say 'Hippopotamus' though, so I called it a 'Hippomus Pottomus.' But anyway, they thought it wouldn't fit in the house, so they got me a video about a dancing hippo instead.”

  From the corner of my eyes, I see Nick shake his head.

  “You've never celebrated Christmas. Your mother wouldn't let you,” he murmurs quietly, but Jayce doesn't hear him.

  Jayce walks over to me instead, pinches my arm and then whacks it. “Pinch, punch, first day of the month!”

  Will people stop hitting me? I get it already. It's the first day of the month. I strongly doubt God created this day so we could all give each other bruises.

  “It's great that you're wearing one of your eco t-shirts. I though
t you had given up on all that global warming stuff,” Nick teases him.

  “No way! Us Eco Warriors have to unite and fight the evil forces of pollution!”

  He makes recycling sound like a Star Wars adventure. He didn't really strike me as a person who cares about global warming and 'fighting the evil forces of pollution.' But when he says that so confidently with that determined look, you'd think he has been rigorously planting trees since he was a foetus. He grins at me and splashes his paintbrush over my nose, creating a smear of orange.

  Woah. That was uncalled for. That has taken it too far.

  He is going to rue the day he thought he could defeat me with orange paint.

  With one swift moment, I lift the tin of purple paint beside me and throw it over him.

  Forget 'save the trees!' His t-shirt should have said 'save me.'

  However, instead of ruing the day he met me, he shatters into laughter, and proceeds to chase me around room brandishing his tin of orange paint.

  *****

  9:07 PM

  The Godfather is playing on the television screen. Nick brought the DVD with him. Apparently it is on a constant loop in their house and they could not possibly go one day without watching it. He's sitting watching it, eyes wide and gaping, as though he is seeing it for the first time. Kit sits beside him on the sofa, although it doesn't seem to have the same emotional, 'life-changing' effect on her.

  I wonder where Jayce is. He said he wanted to paint something more, and he hasn't made an appearance since then. In that time the rest of us have changed into different clothes and eaten dinner (luckily it was pasta again.)

  I leave the room and head to my bedroom. As I reach the top floor, I notice that the door to the room we were painting earlier is wide open. What is Jayce doing? What could he possibly have felt the need the paint at this time?

  Curiosity overwhelms me, and I creep into the room. I suppress a gasp.

  Immersed in his work, he is leaning over the portrait of a beautiful girl, which he is painting right in the middle of the wall. Well, the portrait is beautiful, but I can't say the same for the person he is painting.