Writing Contest Winner: “Broken Lies” by Sarah Lewin

Congratulations to our Writing Contest: Missed Connections winner, Sarah Lewin! Here is her winning submission: “Broken Lies”

Chapter One

I ran until my feet ached, uncomfortable in my thick socks and big black shoes. The footwear I wore for work at the library weren’t appropriate running gear. I panted, drops of sweat dripping off my brow, running down my cheeks. Their salty taste made me gag as they reached my tongue. The concrete footpath reflected the heat of the sun. Others on the street paid me no attention. As I reached the train station, I watched in horror as the train I needed to catch pulled away.

            “Damn!” I found a quiet spot near the ticket counter, leaning against the dirty brick wall to check my breath. In the distance I heard a busker. The soulful violin tune caused my stomach to tighten. Only one train a day passed through West Haven, heading to the big city and the airport. My opportunity to connect with the one person who’d be able to lead me to my child just disappeared in the plume of smoke kicked up as the train wheels chugged along the tracks.

            I jumped as a hand touched my arm. “Are you okay Scarlett?” My old English teacher, Mrs Paisley, her grey hair in a bun high on her head, trundling a small suitcase stood just to my right.

            “Yes, thank you, I came here to say goodbye to someone, but I missed the train.” I tried to be as truthful as possible. Even though I’d graduated ten years ago, it didn’t feel right, lying to a teacher.

            “I’ve ordered a taxi if you want to ride back with me,” my teacher said brightly. “I’ve just come back from a few days at the beach with my daughter, we always have such a lovely time.”

            “Mia is lovely,” We’d been friends during primary school and the start of high school, until we’d pursued different hobbies and taken different subjects. Mia chose basketball, history, and archaeology. I picked swimming, English and drama. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m going to walk back.” It wasn’t that far.

            My black shoes kicked the dry dirt and small rocks as I walked back to town the long way. Mulling over the events that led to my actions today.

By pure chance, I’d overheard a conversation in the library two days ago. “I returned to town for my sister’s funeral.” An older gentleman, dressed in a bowler hat, three-piece grey suit, a maroon tie, leant on his walking stick.

“Margo Watson?” Young Noah, our work experience kid asked, as he mis-shelved yet another book. I could see from my position, returning the children’s games parents had returned before story time began, that a book on origami didn’t belong in the cooking section. I tutted, resisting the urge to fix the error.

The whole town knew Margo Watson. Integral in establishing the local art society, the local women’s craft group and the little athletics club. “She taught my mother how to crochet, I think,” Noah added.

“My sister helped a lot of people,” the grandly dressed gentleman agreed. “Still, I didn’t expect so many people to attend her funeral. I’m leaving town in a couple of days, but while I’m here, can you point me in the direction of some local history books? My stepson Brandon jokes that West Haven is boring, and I want to prove him wrong. Brandon Kelly - you’d be too young to know him, he only lived here for a short period.”  

            This gentleman was Brandon Kelly’s stepfather! How could this nice looking, kind elderly man be related to such an obnoxious, rude, bully?

            A few minutes later, once my heart had slowed a little, I made my way over to the local history section with a pile of magazines to place in the nearby stand. “Good afternoon, can I help you with anything?” I asked the man. Standing closer to him I thought he may give off the same sinister vibes of his stepson. His aura a mix of calmness and strength, I didn’t detect any unpleasant aspects to his character. But then, his stepson fooled me – I only uncovered his true personality after it was too late.  

            Gerald Watson turned towards me, his right hand on his cane steadying himself as he did so. “Hello there. I used to live here. I grew up in West Haven, a long time ago.” He smiled a little, the lines on his face giving away his age. “I’m keen to read about some of the local history. I’m only here for a couple of days. I thought it might be interesting to tell my son and grandson about the town where I grew up.”

            My stomach tightened. I clenched my toes deep in my shoes, gripping the magazines so tightly my fingernails dug into the glossy covers. He lived with Brandon and his son – my son! Something stopped me from revealing my identity. “My favourite book about West Haven is this one.” I pulled a hardcover coffee table book with full colour photographs. “It includes stories of some of our famous ancestors – a movie star, a poet, and a couple of athletes. Oh, and you may remember the annual harvest festivals, there are some terrific anecdotes.” I left Gerard to peruse that book and the others and returned to my work – shelving returns.

            An hour later, after locking the library doors I headed to my favourite café – The Black Pot. “Self-preservation,” I looked into my mug, still half full of coffee and chocolate. Archie, my old friend, local barista and part time artist, looked at me with sympathy. “I mean, I wanted to tell him I’m Leo’s mother, but I’m clearly not a great judge of character – present company excepted,” I added quickly as Archie pretended to throw a tea towel at me. “I didn’t think Brandon was a psychopath. Just because I think this kindly little old man, is well, a kindly gentleman, it doesn’t mean he’s not hiding some evil side.”

            Archie rubbed the coffee machine with the tea towel, until the metal gleamed. “Yes, but he is Margo Watson’s brother. That’s like celebrity status around here – and the Watsons are all philanthropists. You did say – stepson. Means Brandon isn’t related by blood to the Watsons.” My best bud had a way of calming me down. His sensible approach to life meant he’d owned and managed The Black Pot for years, while I’d managed to half finish three degrees, and only won the job of assistant librarian because no one else applied for the role.

            “True,” I drank the rest of the delicious drink. Archie always made it just right. He had a knack for brewing perfect drinks, which is why customers flocked to the café, even now, late in the afternoon, on their way home from work.

            Archie handed a takeaway cup to Oliver, one of our school mates who now taught at the primary school we’d attended together. I nodded at him as he left in a hurry, his two young ones fighting over a bag of donuts. “Do you even know it’s the same Brandon Kelly?” He asked quietly. On my left, blonde Carrie, one of the local gossips, leant over the counter advising Pippa, who helped out after school, how to choose the perfect macaroon.

            I eyed him sceptically. “Really? There’s more than one?” I’d met Brandon at university, the first time. I thought I’d wanted to be a doctor, but I knew within a semester that it wasn’t for me. “I suppose, though I’m not convinced. Maybe I should do some investigating.”

            Archie rolled his eyes, “Not again. Don’t you ever get sick of sleuthing? My offer of dinner won’t last forever.”

            My best friend, or annoying side kick, with his wavy blonde hair, deep blue eyes and freckled skin. The girls at school called him spunky, and he still had the charm that drew customers into his café. I had a shock of deep red hair, as my name suggested, and green eyes. My mother a fan of epic love stories, while I preferred dark mysteries and gothic dramas.

            “We’ve been out of school ten years this year, we’ve eaten dinner together hundreds of times, you may need to rethink your words,” I grinned. The Café door swung open, and a group of older women came in, all wearing orange silk scarves. “I’ll leave you to it. Watch out for the book club women after they drink all the coffee and eat all your macaroons.”

            Home was only a five-minute walk away. Not the house I grew up in. Once Mum and Dad divorced, I moved out as soon as I could to university – choosing medicine, which wasn’t for me. I quickly lost interest in my second option – an arts degree. My third, and last failed attempt involved online learning in the field of creative writing. When I returned to West Haven, I found a cute one-bedroom cottage to rent. The weatherboard panels could do with a coat of paint. So could the internal walls, but all things considered I was lucky. Long term rentals were rare in town, especially this close to work, and at a reasonable price.

            The landlord didn’t want pets to leave hair all over the house, so I settled for putting seeds out for the local birds. One willy wagtail in particular loved sitting on the railing of the front verandah, greeting me as I returned home each day. “What a day Willy,” I told him, as I slipped out of my black shoes, without untying the laces. “What do you think? Should I go and find Mr Watson, bear my heart out to him, that his stepson is a mean bully who stole my baby?”

            Willy tilted his head, just a little, as if considering my question. He pecked at the nearly empty saucer, collecting the little seeds that remained after a day of visiting sparrows and pigeon doves. Some days I thought it’d all been a bad dream. Leo was a few days old when Brandon stole him out of the hospital while I slept. “I know it happened, and my boy would be nearly five now.” I whispered, the intensity of my emotions threatening to return. Willy looked around, before flying off into the nearest tree, a large eucalypt.

            I waited for the tell-tale salty tears to reach my lips. My cheeks remained dry. I’d cried so many tears for the first twelve months. My stomach would cramp, my hands would shake, I’d survived on coffee and chocolate for such a long time. Disappeared without a trace. The kindly policeman told me. Probably for the best. Agreed a well-meaning doctor who diagnosed me with post-natal depression. She didn’t quite say that Leo would be better off with his father, but it had been clearly implied.

            I’d met Brandon at university. He lived off campus in a rental. By the time the doctors released me from hospital, more than a week passed since he stole Leo from the crib in plain view of the nurses. I went looking for him and my baby but found no trace of either of them. Left with limited options I returned to the town I knew. I wished I knew then that he’d spent some time here. Did I hope for sympathy from my parents? “Fat chance!” I said aloud as I crossed the threshold. Both busy with their own lives, they agreed that I was telling stories in order to attract attention.

            While I stopped talking about Leo, I spoke to him, everyday when I woke up, and every night as I fell asleep. It kept me sane. That, Archie’s café, and my job at the library. Did I really want to jeopardise it all?

            In a heartbeat, Leo, if I thought I’d get to see you, to love you, to look after you. Is your grandfather a nice man? Would he carry a message to you, or better still, would he tell me where you live? The only photo I had of my baby sat on my bedside table in a heart shaped frame.

            I walked back into the living area, checked the water level in the kettle and made a coffee. I set my laptop up on the kitchen table and punched the name Brandon Kelly into the search bar. “I know,” I said aloud to myself, “I promised myself I wouldn’t, and I haven’t, but I want to know…if there’s even a chance…I have to know.”

            As I stretched my legs a couple of hours later, I heard footsteps on the verandah. “Only me!” I recognised Archie’s voice instantly. “I figured you’d forget to eat, so I grabbed some burgers and chips.” He placed two cardboard boxes on the table. “No need for plates,” he added as I fussed around the kitchen. “Sit down, grab a sugar and salt laden fast-food item and tell me what you discovered.

            The cardboard box from the local fish and chip and everything else takeaway revealed a surprisingly tasty looking burger and crispy potato chips. “Thanks for this, and how do you know I’d be researching anything?” I tried to look serious, but my friend was a spunk, I couldn’t deny that. He stared at me over his burger. I returned the look, munching on mine. Turned out I was starving. I savoured the taste of lettuce, cheese, tomato, egg, and beetroot – real beetroot – alongside the beef patty. Once I’d eaten pretty much all the burger and over half my chips, I answered Archie’s question. “Yes, okay, you’re right. It’s the same Brandon Kelly. I’d not searched for Leo, for so long, because, well, you know…Anyway, so there’s that.” I heard the tremor in my voice. “Coffee?” I said with as much brightness as I could muster.

            “Go on then, and if you still have some chocolate biscuits a couple of those would be nice. I didn’t eat any of the profits today – part of my new year’s resolution.” I watched as Archie collected the food wrappers, tipping them into the plastic grey bin by my back door as I made our cuppas – he certainly didn’t need to limit his food intake. His speedy metabolism and long hours at work meant he’d not an ounce of fat on his body.

            A beep on my phone told me I had mail. I didn’t bother reading it, I often received email offers from authors, to read and review their latest books. I’d check later. “Do you want to play a card game, or one of the board games?” Archie indicated the coffee table with the long drawers. He’d been my saviour during my darkest days, sitting up with me for hours playing scrabble, uno, monopoly, rummy, and when we got sick of those, he helped me with jigsaws.

            I placed the deep blue mugs on the table, and a plate of mint chocolate biscuits. “Best of three?” I suggested grabbing a deck of cards.

            Five hands later I admitted defeat with a yawn. “I’ll win next time.” I threatened good-naturedly, knowing it wasn’t likely. I waved goodbye at the door, as Archie walked the few houses to where he lived. In his childhood home, with his Aunt Maude.

            As I turned out the light, my mobile beeped again, reminding me of my unread email. I opened my inbox on my laptop – it was easier to see that way, dropping onto a chair as I read the words on the screen.

            Don’t try to find us. If you persist – you’ll regret it.

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