The Truth In Lies

By Gemma Cartmell

Oliver has been accused of murdering his parents, only he sees differently. He claims to have witnessed a terrifying Mechanical Bear slaughter his parents, with her deadly claws as knives. No one will listen to him. He must find the truth, before anyone else gets hurt.

Unfortunately there are others just as deadly and terrifying as the Mechanical Bear. And they're ready to attack Oliver to keep their identity hidden...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gemma Cartmell
• Release date: Feb 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386918929

Book preview

‘I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears.’

-  Alice in Wonderland

Part 1 – Lies

Chapter One

It was one of the head doctors at St Rosemary’s Orphanage, Doctor Daniel Clarke, who had decided to take in Oliver Elwood once his six years of intense treatment had finished.

That was two years ago. Oliver, now eighteen, resided on the fourth floor of the Victorian manor, the highest and most isolated area. He was placed here because he wanted to be as far away from the younger children as possible. His room was big, with a double bed to the left and a sofa and chair to the right. At the back was a large window and a desk, like a shrine observing an outstanding view of the garden’s maze and the woods beyond.

On an afternoon like any other, Doctor Clarke went to visit his oldest charge.

Hello, Oliver, Clarke said upon entering. Shall we sit?

Oliver was an abnormally pale boy with dark scruffy hair. He had unusual eyes; almost purple in colour. Today he wore a black roller neck jumper and trousers. Around his neck was a large red locket.  He never took this off.

The two sat opposite each other: Doctor Clarke in the armchair and Oliver on the sofa. Lying next to Oliver was a viola. His black cat, Ice, jumped onto his lap so he could stroke her.

Reticently, Clarke opened his notebook. He removed the lid from the pen and pointed it to the paper. Alright. He smiled at Oliver. How have you been?

Oliver shrugged. Fine, he said.

Good. This week has gone quickly. I suspect you’ve handled the music well. You’ve been playing non-stop since last Monday. What’s the piece you’ll play again?

Tchaikovsky’s nocturne in D minor.

Clarke nodded approvingly. A beautiful piece, he commented. I look forward to hearing it tomorrow. Are you prepared?

Of course Oliver was prepared; all he had been doing since he’d been given the music was practice. He crossed his arms. I guess so, he said. Not that it matters. I do these performances every month and nothing comes from it.

I know it’s difficult to only play in front of the nurses and doctors, Clarke said, but your music puts smiles on our faces. It’s beautiful and you will certainly do well with it.

When? Oliver asked. When will I do well in my playing?

Beneath this question was another, Doctor Clarke knew.

Perhaps you should teach the children to play, he said. That would be good experience for when you eventually venture out into the world.

A snigger exited Oliver’s mouth. I’m not teaching those snotty turds to play music. Never in my life. Have you heard what they say to me? They hate me.

What Clarke understood was that the children were frightened of Oliver. He shook his head lightly. Please don’t use language like that. I know you don’t get along with them and you’ve refused to play in front of them. But teaching is a brilliant way to earn a living. Have a think about it.

Suddenly Oliver’s expression changed. His jaw quivered and Clarke thought he would burst into tears. But then he relaxed and looked down.

You can say what you like, Oliver mumbled. You act like my time here will be over soon and I’ll be out of here with a normal life. But I know you’re lying.

Clarke placed his notepad to one side. I have a lot of faith in you, he said. You’re only to be kept here until you are fully recovered. How are your visions?

Oliver looked down to the cat on his lap, presumably to listen to her. Then he smirked. I take it you’re waiting for me to say, ‘no, I can’t see anything anymore’, right?

I want you to tell me the truth, Clarke said. Do you still talk to your cat? Do you still see the salt mice and the blue beetles and the bats?

I do. Oliver’s words came out sharply. "I still see them. And other... creatures, too. They come randomly. I never know exactly when they’ll appear. He sighed. I’ve told you, it’s not something I choose. I want them gone as much as you do."

Yes, and it is my job to help them leave you.

Pills won’t get them away, Oliver said, irritation growing. "I’ve tried all of them and none of them work. Therapy hasn’t worked either. I’ve told you."

As I’ve said, it will take time-

"How much time?"

Clarke inhaled deeply. You’ve had a very traumatic experience. When it comes to-

Just say it! Oliver snarled. I know you want to.

Oliver, please...

You think I killed my parents.

The room fell silent. The cat leapt lightly from Oliver’s lap and went to sit on the bed.

Oliver sat back and huffed. If you want to help me, he said, we talk about it. We talk about my parents’ murder. About the Mechanical Bear.

The Mechanical Bear, Clarke echoed, resignedly. Yes, that was what you told the police at the time. You called the police, didn’t you?

Yes! Oliver exclaimed. And why would I do that if I were responsible?

I know. But I’m afraid the evidence at hand proved there was no Mechanical Bear on site. There was only you.

Oliver’s fists clenched. My parents were screaming for me. The Mechanical Bear... she’d cornered them. And she ripped them to pieces with her claws.

Oliver, look at me.

Clarke placed a hand on Oliver’s arm. Oliver looked at him with frightened eyes. The eyes of a boy in great mourning.

I know you want to talk about the tragedy, Clarke said. "But you can’t. Not now. This is hurting you too much. You need to let me help. These creatures are going to leave you. You need to let me fight them and we can show the Mechanical Bear true justice. He... she needs to leave you, in order for you to be cured. Am I right?"

Oliver shook his head. You don’t believe me. I talk to you every fucking week, and you still don’t believe me!

Oliver, don’t speak to me like that, Clarke said quietly, releasing Oliver’s arm.

There was silence again.

I have practice to do, Oliver said finally.

Alright, said Clarke hesitantly. If you need me, I’ll be in my office. I’m sorry if I upset you. You’ll come down and finish the dishes later please. Have a good afternoon.

Then he left, leaving Oliver with the cat.

He thinks you killed them, Ice said, jumping back onto the sofa. "He doesn’t believe the Mechanical Bear did anything. He doesn’t even believe she exists."

Chapter Two

The dishes were tough to clean. They were covered in brown sticky stuff. Oliver scrubbed and scrubbed with all his might, wishing he’d never took this job offer. If he could, he would have picked a nicer job, like gardening. But they didn’t let him outdoors.

The kitchen door opened.

Hey, Olly! Three boys all around thirteen peeked in. Did you kill your parents? They laughed. Did you see their guts?

Oliver tried blocking out their whiny voices, but it always got to him. The anger he had learnt to control on the outside welled up inside of him.

Was their blood everywhere? they persisted. Did you get blood on you? Did it smell?

Maybe he killed our parents too, a short boy said. Mine died like his. Maybe he’s a serial killer.

The plate Oliver had been in the middle of washing swung in the kids’ direction, smashing against the wall. That silenced them, but only for a moment.

"I heard you spent six years in the big funny farm, the taller boy said, crossing his arms. His name was Jamie. He wore a black and grey striped top, and his hair was dirty brown like his eyes. What was it like? Did they stick syringes in you, put you in a straitjacket? Huh? Do you need to go back there? Mummy and Daddy killer!"

Oliver stormed towards them and slammed his fist into Jamie’s cheek. Grabbing Jamie’s top, he punched him again on the other side.

Stop it! the third boy said.

I did not kill my parents! Oliver screamed.

Blood oozed from Jamie’s nose and from a cut on his cheek. He was sobbing. Two men in white arrived and pulled Oliver away from the three boys by the arms. Jamie was weeping hard, his hands over his face.

#

The ringing of Oliver’s telephone made him jump. Since he’d been escorted to his room following the altercation with Jamie, he’d been sat in silence, brooding. Now he went over to the desk. The phone shouldn’t be ringing; it was merely a decorative piece. It wasn’t connected to anything.

The phone kept ringing until he could no longer take it. He picked up the receiver.

What do you want? he said.

A high pitched cackle answered him. Oliver knew that cackle.

"What do you want?" he repeated.

The Mechanical Bear is waiting for you. She wants to say she’s sorry.

Chapter Three

Oliver hadn’t slept a wink. He’d lain listening to the crunching and munching under his bed. The salt mice were feasting on breadcrumbs they’d stolen from outside.

When the sun rose, Oliver got dressed and went down for breakfast, keeping his distance from the children. At nine o’clock, he took his viola into the main lounge of the orphanage. It was a big room with chairs placed facing a grand piano in the corner. Oliver made his way to his music stand, where Tchaikovsky’s nocturne in D minor was already laid out for him.

Clarke and a few other doctors were in the front row. Oliver’s viola teacher sat at the piano, waiting for everyone’s attention. Then she nodded her head to begin.

Oliver played along with her. He’d been told to read the music instead of play it by ear, and so he did. He swiped the strings over, loving the tune he played. For a second, he was actually proud of himself. But then someone walked into the room and his stomach lurched.

No... not now.

They were dressed as a clown, the bright colours blinding in contrast to the surrounding greys and blacks. Oliver knew this clown; the silent clown. Its face looked sad, its eyes the shape of raindrops slipping down a window. The lips were blue and formed an upside-down U shape. The hair was bright orange, the clothes pink and red. It was sickening to look at.

Oliver’s melody changed. He startled at the loud whining sound of his instrument, yet did his best to keep playing. But the notes were different. Some members of the audience frowned. But only Doctor Clarke looked truly worried.

Oliver’s teeth clenched. Every note he played was high and low in the strangest order. The melody hadn’t just changed, there no longer was one at all.

With a swish, the piece ended. The audience clapped politely. Oliver didn’t stick around to talk, but left the room as calmly as he could. The clown watched his every step, but did not follow Oliver back to his bedroom.

Ice was lying on the bed, having been asleep. She perked up at once.

I was listening, she said. I promise.

So was the silent clown, Oliver said. He slumped on the bed and scrubbed his hands over his eyes. Why can’t they all just go away?

Even me? Ice said.

You’re the only one I can trust, Oliver said.

In that case, don’t you think it’s time? Ice said coaxingly.

Oliver