The Mute and the Liar (86 page)

“
Put
it
down,
Alicia,
”
Father
repeats.
His
voice
starts
firmly,
but
crackles
when
he
says
my
name.
I
notice
Father
is
trying
to
mould
his
voice
into
one
that
is
commanding
and
in
control,
but
it
actually
sounds
a
little
off-key.
“
Please,
”
he adds,
his
voice
suddenly softer.

I
stare
at
him.
I
stare
into
his
pathetic,
surrendering
eyes.
But
they’re
not
surrendering.
It’s
just
a
trick.
An
act
he’s
been
putting
on
since
the
day
Mum
died.
A
big fat lie.

I
was
right
all
along;
he
never
cared
about
me.
Just
looked
after
me
because
it’s
the
law.
And
he’s
not
pleading
with
me;
he’s
pleading
with
his
life.
And
his
eyes
aren’t
surrendering,
not
really.
They will never give up.
They
will
never
give
up
this
mad
search
for
what
really
happened
to
my
mum.
They
will
never
give
up
hating
me
for
something
I
didn’t
do.

“
Alicia,
it’s
me,
your
dad.
”
His
voice
is
just
above
a
whisper.
“
Alicia,
it’s
me, your
dad. You
wouldn’t
shoot
me.
Alicia.
Please…
”

T
his
isn’t
the
first
time
Father
has
said
those
exact
words. And
it’s
not
the
first
time he’s
been
standing in
this
living room with
someone
pointing
a
gun right
at
him.

“
Amanda,
it’s
me,
your
husband.
Amanda,
it’s
me,
Charlie.
You
wouldn’t
shoot
me.
Amanda,
please…
”

There
were
always
arguments.
Father
was
always
protective
over
us.
He
didn’t
like
me
or
Mum
going
out
without
him
knowing.
He
wanted
to
know
exactly
where
we
were
and
when
we
would
be
coming
home.
Mum
always
told
me
that
I
had
to
stay
inside
because
“
Daddy
doesn’t
want
us
going
outside.
Okay?
Do
you
promise
to
stay
inside?
”
One
time,
when
I
was
a
little
older,
I
asked
her
why.
Her
answer
was
short
and
simple
“
Daddy
doesn’t
like
it.
”
The
only
other
thing
she
said
about
it
was
“
you
know
he
is
a
policeman.
Policemen keep people
safe.
So he just wants to
know
we
are
safe
too.
”

I
think
it
was
just
Mum
that
he
didn’t
want
to
leave
the
house,
because
he
never
said
anything
to
me
after
she
passed
away.
I
started
walking
to
and
from
school
at
an
early
age.
Father
didn’t
really
take
notice
of
what
I
was
doing
or
where
I
was
going
anymore.
He
just
came
home
from
work,
sat
in
the
kitchen
and
did
some
work
or
watched
the
television
and
I
stayed
in
my
room.
I
once
decided
to
run
away
just
to
see
if
he
would
notice.
I
took
a
house
key
with
me
so
I
could
let
myself
back
in.
It
didn’t
mean
anything
at
the
time;
it
was
really
just
a
game.
I
was
only
nine.
I
walked
all
the
way
to
the
Post
Office
and
hung
around
there
and
then
played
in
the
telephone
booth
nearby.
But
then
I
got
bored
and
went
home.
Father
was
still
downstairs
watching the television.

Maybe
he
finally
saw
what
it
did
to
us.
Mum
insisted
he
was
just
trying
to
“
keep
us
safe.
”
But
that’s
not
what
it
was
doing.
Even
I
could
see the
way
she
shook
when
he
raised
his
voice.
Or
the
way
she
couldn’t
pass
a
surface
without
drumming
her
fingers
on
it.
And
the
urgent
,
agitated
way
she
did
anything, from
cleaning
to
walking,
as
if
she
was
constantly being timed.

“
Shut
up!
Just
shut
up!
”

I
can
see
it
now.
I’m
standing
in
the
doorway,
about
to
enter
the
living
room
after
hearing
shouting
downstairs.
And
there
she
is.
My
beautiful
mother,
with
her
always
shaking
hands,
almond
eyes
and
dimples
in
her
cheeks
and
her
wispy,
flyaway,
light
brown
wavy
hair
that
could
never
find
the right
place
to
fall,
instead
sticking
out
haphazardly.

But
she’s
had
enough.
She’s
broken
now.
The
lights
have
gone
off
in
her
eyes.

She’s
standing
in
the
middle
of
the
living
room,
gun
pointed
at
Father,
who is
cowering
pathetically
opposite, hand
outstretched.

It’s
Father’s
gun,
the
gun
he uses
when
on
patrol
at
work,
the
gun
I’m
not
supposed
to
know
about
but
I
do,
because
even
though
I’m
only
eight,
I
have
a
habit
of
asking too
many
questions
.

“
Please. Just
listen
to
me.
Put
the gun down,
Amanda,
”
Father
pleads
with
her. She
shakes
the gun
violently
at
him with
accusing
eyes.

“
You lock us
up
here
like
animals!
”
“
Give me
back
the
gun.
”

“
But
I
am
telling you;
I
will
be free!
”
“
Amanda,
please-
”

“
Shut
up!
Shut
up!
”

I
hear
my
own
voice
call
out
into
what
feels
like
vast
nothingness
that
mutes
my
voice
the
moment
it
leaves
my throat.
“
Mummy.
”

And
then
Mum
screams
the
sentence
that
still
haunts
me
today,
stinging
and buzzing incessantly l
ike
a
wasp
trapped
in
the back of
my skull.
“
Just
stop talking!
”