White Lies by Jo Gatford Page B

my head once each side. One, two. No. No.
    She doesn’t smile. Her machines are furious. Red and green lights illuminate the pitted and sunken flesh of her cheeks in stuttering flashes. “You still have to pay,” she says, without saying anything out loud.
    I can hear the nurses coming to turn off the noise, to return the technology to a placid hum, to tuck her up and chase me away. “How much?” I ask, just as silently.
    “Two.”
    “Two what?”
    “Sons, Peter. Two of your finest boys.”
    “But I don’t have any children.”
    I can hear her laughter above the bleeping. For a second the corner of her mouth twitches upwards. “Oh Peter.”
    “What if I say no?” I ask her. The darkness cloys at my skin, seeping between my pyjamas and my nakedness like a coating of cement, turning me to stone with every second her eyes fix on mine.
    “You won’t,” she says.

Chapter Nine
    The first time I told him I thought it would be the only time. Angie and Sabine came with me and we lined up like dominoes outside Dad’s bedroom, waiting for the catalyst, for a giant finger to flick us over. We stood in height order, tallest to smallest - a space missing for Alex who would have stood at the end of the line, ahead of me, his bony shoulder blades poking out like bird beaks, the three moles on the back of his neck forming a triangle, his hair protruding at odd angles around his double crown. But if he were still here then we wouldn’t have any reason to deliver any news.
    We hadn’t rehearsed this ridiculous line-up. We’d simply come to a gentle, otherworldly, swaying stop at Dad’s door. We stood there for at least three minutes in silence while I picked at the inside seam of my jeans pocket and Angie cleared her throat of phlegm that wasn’t there and Sabine shrank into herself like a retreating snail. The woman in the room next to Dad’s hummed along to David Bowie on the radio, muttering crossword clues and shaking out her newspaper.
    A nurse walked past and nodded to Angela. As if it was some sort of prearranged signal, Angela took a loud intake of breath and put a hand on my back. “Right,” she said. “Let’s… ” But she never finished the suggestion.
    Sabine let out a sigh like a landslide. There was a lump in my throat that was not from tears or nausea but almost as if my body had decided it would rather not breathe than do what it was about to do. Angela had stalled. Her fingers contracted around the back of my jumper. It had to be me. I had to lead the way. I felt my entire weight fall into my shoes and pushed open the door to my father’s room.
    Inside was the kind of quiet that made skin prickle, the kind that creates an inexplicable urge to cough. We filed in like naughty schoolchildren and stood in front of him, blocking his view of the television.
    “Hi Dad,” I said.
    He looked up, not bothering to smile, then returned his attention to the TV where a celebrity chef was making hollandaise against a timer. I wonder if Dad guessed - if he mentally ticked off the various possibilities and worked out the reason why Alex wasn’t there.
    “Hi Dad,” I said again.
    “Hmm?” he said.
    I stood between Sabine and Angela. They squeezed my hands simultaneously. I tongued my ulcers and tried to remember the series of sentences I had prepared for the occasion, stock stuff from soaps and films and dramas, like: “There’s been an accident,” or “Something terrible has happened.” Or maybe: “I know he was your favourite son but at least you still have me, Dad.”
    “You alright?” he asked, leaning around to keep his eyes on the telly, reaching unconsciously for his tobacco packet and flicking out a Rizla.
    Angela squeezed harder. My knuckles jarred against each other. “No,” I said, “no, we’re not alright.”
    “Oh?” Dad said, mildly amused. “What have I done now? What are you all doing here?” He eyed Sabine, in particular, suspiciously.
    “Peter,” Angela began, but I crushed