Of a Lie – by J.M. Munn

“They’ve come to collect Max. We’ll be up in ten minutes. You can keep him occupied for a bit longer, can’t you?”

“Yes, but…he’s wondering what the delay is.”

“Does he know?”

“He’s in the classroom with me now.”

“Please, not a hint as to what’s happening. If he runs off on his social worker…”

“I don’t think he’s in the mood for football right now, sir. I’ll make sure he’s occupied though.”

“Fulcrum…thanks for this.”

The headmaster hung up, the disconnect-tone hanging there expectantly as if wondering what he was waiting for. Just ten more minutes; you can lie to him for another ten minutes, can’t you? He returned the handset, slick with sweat.

Fulcrum faced the boy, pushed his glasses up his nose. Max was drawing a tree. These old, high ceilinged classrooms were empty yet rarely still, all creaks and wooden taps to which the scratching of the boy’s pen joined in.

“I recognise that.”

The head of curls glanced up momentarily, then returned to his page. The tree looked similar to the huge fir that grew on the grounds, the one all the kids attempted to climb and failed. He’d captured the essence of the deeply lined bole, its wide girth tapering into branches scratched into conical formation. Black biro on white paper. The boy was talented; quiet, introspective in an odd sort of way, but his thoughts seemed to coalesce whenever a piece of paper was put in front of him. Fulcrum had tried to explain this to his mum on the phone, like some last desperate attempt to sway her decision.

‘Has he shown you anything recently? He was so proud of his last portrait, we mounted it in reception. Just one more year and then we’re looking at art GCSE, possibly further education after that. I’d be happy to take him to some open days. You know, art is incredible for opening up the mind. Truly incredible. I’ve seen some genuine changes in Max. We even have access to art therapists here, you’d be amazed. Max has expressed an interest, I can make contact, if you’d like?’

He recalled the pause on the other end, a breath sucked in between teeth only to be exhaled into disappointment.

‘He burnt his brother on the oven, Mr. Fulcrum. Forced his hand down on the ring and would have done the same to his face had I not gotten in the way. Then he beat me with a wire hanger. Told me that he hoped it hurt. I took us to the hospital, ran there without so much as taking my keys and the doctors made a phone call. The decision was made for us.

‘I know how much he respects you; I’m happy about that, really, I am. That’s why I need you to be the one now. He won’t trust anyone else, he’ll just run off again. It has to be you when they come to take him. With Max gone, we won’t have to live in fear anymore. We can go places, see my family. You’ll help give us a future, Mr. Fulcrum. Our social worker agrees this is for the best.’

“The tree; is that the one from here?”

“Dunno. Outside old block?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s haunted there. Paranormal investigators come every month, take pictures and do stuff. Like in that film.”

Fulcrum swept his hair back behind his ears, took a seat on the other side of the desk.

“That’s a rumour, Max.”

“So, it’s true?”

Yes.

“Of course not. It’s an old school so it’s bound to have some ghost stories.”

The scratching of his pen stopped.

“I’m not sure it was meant to even be a tree. But I was thinking about them stories and how people die and why their ghosts stick around afterwards. Trees stick around too, don’t they? Even the dead ones. They saw all those people when they were alive. Do you think it keeps them here?”

“Is the tree bad, then?”

He shrugged.

“Ghosts and history are two different things, Max. The tree is here, real. Ghosts…well, I don’t really know.”

Max went quiet, considering.

“Am I getting picked up soon?”

“In a little under ten minutes, I think.”

“Who’s coming for me again?”

Fulcrum cleared his throat.

“A taxi. Last minute change of drivers or something like that.”

He despised how easy it was. Fulcrum scrutinised the boy’s round features for a sign, any sign, of suspicion. If he could just clock on and intuit the deception, that he wouldn’t be going home at all tonight, if ever, then maybe he’d run. Run and spare them both the pain.

But that was coward’s thinking. Running away from the problem, like Max’s mother. Like Fulcrum’s own mother had.

Cowards, both.

The thought jarred him.

That’s different, his mind rebelled.

Is it?

His mum’s in pain. Real pain. You see the good. The boy that goes home isn’t the same one that comes into school every day.

So, what now? Who’s going to be there for him?

Something has to give, he fought back.

You think he wants to be like this?

What other options are there?

“I’m bored, sir. Let’s play word association.”

Fulcrum came to, checked his watch.

“Alright, then. Go for it.”

“Tree.”

“Um…Wood.”

“Doorway.”

“Doorway?”

“From trees – wood. From wood – doorways.”

“Fair enough. Leaf.”

“Leaf it out, sir.”

Fulcrum chortled.

“Terrible. Your turn.”

“Branch.”

“Family.”

Fulcrum regretted the word as soon as it had left his mouth.

“Eh?”

“Family. As in, ‘family tree’.”

“Oh. Broken.”

“Like, broken branch?”

“Dunno. Yeah, why not?”

“Ok. Pieces.”

“Jigsaw.”

“Together.”

“Missing.”

Missing. Fulcrum’s thoughts cascaded back through the years. He was sixteen. And the clothes were all missing, weren’t they? You searched the whole house, desperate to be proven wrong. But, really, you’d been expecting this for a while.

Dad in the doorway; ‘There’s nothing wrong, Fulcrum. She’ll be back soon.’

Not soon enough. The branch was broken; pieces; jigsaw; together; missing.

Why are you doing this to me now?

“You lose, sir. You took too long.”

It snapped him back to the present like an elastic band. He stammered his next words.

“You threw me. I guess I could have used ‘ghost’.”

“Doesn’t count if ghosts aren’t real.”

Some are.

“Well, you have me there. You beat an English teacher. Try not to brag too hard.”

“Don’t need to. They all know I’m better than you anyway.”

They laughed together. It felt cruel.

At what point did the schoolboy turn into the abuser described by his mum? And which was the true face? Some questions had no answers. The school certainly couldn’t come up with any, nor could Max’s mum. Sometimes, two lies could make a truth. And the truth was, he was in this position now whether he liked it or not.

So, what are you going to do about it?

A knock at the door. The breath caught in Fulcrum’s lungs, snatching the words from his oesophagus. What could he have said in that moment, anyway? What words wouldn’t just twist the knife of betrayal deeper, hollow and flaccid?

The social worker and the headmaster entered the room, Fulcrum’s boss grinning stiffly, like he’d read somewhere that smiling put people at ease. Max was frozen, eyes locked on his social worker in dawning recognition as she stood silent beside him. The only one in the room who seemed relaxed.  

Words were spoken. The truth, he assumed, but he couldn’t hear it, not then. It probably went something along the lines of, ‘you’re going into care tonight. Yes, it’s for the foreseeable future. No, you won’t see your friends or family for a very long time. Come along now, there’s a good lad.’

Max finally turned to look at him. Expression blank but for a hardness to his eyes. He spoke a single word.

“Why?”

Fulcrum tried to come up with a good answer. Found his mind unresponsive, jaw locked. Hands balled into fists at his sides. His father. The stairs. The…

‘Fulcrum, your mum left us. I had no…’

‘You lied to me. You told me that there was nothing to worry about. So I checked her wardrobe, I checked everywhere, the cloakroom, the bathroom; it’s all…gone.’

‘I didn’t know you’d…I need to explain some things to you. About your mum, where she’s gone. I…’

‘Did you lie to her too?

‘She left us, Fulcrum.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

“I don’t believe you.”

A response to words he couldn’t even remember uttering.

Max stood, tucked his chair under the desk. Without so much as a glance backwards, he left with the social worker.

The headmaster watched them go. As the door closed, he exhaled loudly, the smile dropping from his face.

“It’s not your fault, Fulcrum. You did good here. It’s all in his best interest. You understand that, don’t you? He’ll see it one day, too.”

Now. It was his last opportunity. To change a future. To make a stand.

“Thanks, sir.”

And that was all he could muster. Gratitude. Impotent, pathetic gratitude.

They shook hands. Then he was gone, leaving Fulcrum alone in the classroom.

He looked to the picture, discarded on the desk. Max’s tree of ghosts. Maybe they would see each other again.

After all, no one truly left, did they?

J.M. Munn

Image by congerdesign from Pixabay