The Back Road

21

A Single Step : the blog of Leo Harris

A game of charades

Definition of ‘charade’: An absurd pretence intended to create a pleasant or respectable appearance

Definition of ‘absurd’: wildly unreasonable, illogical, foolish or inappropriate

How much are you pretending to be something or somebody that you’re not? Are you acting out your own charade, and have you thought about how foolish and inappropriate your actions are?

Within our working lives, and perhaps even amongst friends, we see deceptions played out before our eyes: people who pretend to be happy when they are aching with sadness, or to like each other when they feel nothing but contempt. Perhaps these are actions of self-preservation, driven by a will to hide our pain from a wider audience.

Within a relationship, though, pretence is indeed both unreasonable and illogical. Admit to being the person you really are. Never play that deadly game of charades.

“The more definitely his own a man’s character is, the better it fits him.” Cicero

A hand shot out and the screen went blank. That stupid bitch Leo. What did she know about charades?

It was easy to delete her words, but less easy to erase the feeling of rage they had provoked. Well, some relationships had to have secrets. Some things were too difficult to explain, or for other people to understand. So sometimes you had to act the part - pretend to be somebody you’re not. Didn’t she understand that?

Look what happened when the truth was told; when people showed who they really were. They got hurt. Honesty was rarely the answer. There was safety in lies.

Perhaps it would have been better if Abbie had never known the truth. She would never have guessed.

I only got to touch her once. I stroked her hair and tried to kiss her. I held her hands, and told her what I wanted. I told her we could be close – she only had to keep our secret, and I would let her go. But she screamed and cried, as if I were a monster. She rejected me like I was nothing. Nothing! After everything I’d done to be close to her. I knew how to stop her, though. I knew what would frighten her enough to make her quiet.

Then she got away.

And then the accident.

I thought Abbie was dead, but it wasn’t my fault. She shouldn’t have rejected me. She shouldn’t have run.

It was no good thinking of what might have been. There were things to be done. The evidence that Abbie had been here, in this house, must be disposed of. The shoes and the phone - what could be done with them?

Some pretty pale blue ballet pumps were pulled from the bottom of a supermarket bag where they lay hidden below a pile of newspapers that were waiting to be recycled. Stuffed inside one was a shocking pink mobile phone. The SIM card had been disposed of in a plant pot full of earth in the back garden. Nobody would look there. But the rest needed a bit more thought.

Tomorrow was rubbish collection day. That’s where they could go. But not in our bin. Lots of people put their bins out the night before, so a late night walk on the other side of the village should solve the problem. Perhaps it would be a good idea to smash the phone to pieces first.

That was one problem solved. The other was a much greater one.

The driver looked straight at me, at where I was hiding in the woods. It’s a face I’ll never forget, bleached white by the headlights, black eyes darting frantically from side to side to check if anybody was watching. And there I was. Perhaps for now we’re keeping each other’s secret, but for how long?

Abbie can tell nobody.

But the driver knows who I am, and can’t be allowed to expose me.

There were plans to be made, and there was one person who was going to help. She wouldn’t like it, but she wasn’t going to be given any choice.