Chapter 19 Witness X
Witness X
Be a Good Liar
You can’t learn how to become a good liar; it’s something you’re either talented at or not.
When I was a kid, I used to tell outrageous lies. It came naturally to me, as Dad recognized, even when I was young. He sent me to the front door whenever someone knocked because it would always be for him, and he never wanted to see them.
The worst ones were the men who turned up in suits or black puffer jackets asking to see him.
Dad always told me to think of something to tell them—anything—but under no circumstances to ever let them into the house.
Something about how, if I did, I’d get him into a lot of trouble and they’d take away our furniture, including the TV.
He was terrible with money and spent it as soon as he had it.
January was a month in which I learned to stay out of his way and keep quiet.
I knew it had something to do with “tax” but never understood what it was, just that he never had enough money for it at the beginning of the year, which predictably resulted in him drinking more heavily and things being thrown about the house.
More often than not, that would include me.
I’d give the men at the door a different story each time: you’ve just missed him, he’s popped out to see a friend, he’s at work.
But then my stories got wilder and more unbelievable.
“He’s had to go to hospital because he was up all night sick, and then the ambulance came and took him away.
So, my auntie came up from Sheffield to look after me, but she brought her dog and he ran out of the back, so she’s had to go and get him, so it’s just me here at the moment… ”
I don’t even have an auntie.
I enjoyed the mechanics of lies and deconstructing their different flavors and textures. I knew the difference between a “harmless” lie and a “serious” lie. The lies I told to other people were always to protect us, like the men at the door.
The lies Dad told me to tell were presented as secrets, a shiny, wrapped-up, exciting version of a story. They had a different kind of taste, a darker color. But I still told them.
The lies he told me, about what we were doing, were the worst of all. He said it was normal as a child—his child—and I believed him.
I became so skilled at lying, even I wasn’t sure what was real any more. And, what I noticed was, the bigger the lie, the more people appeared to believe it. As if nobody would possibly make up something like that, so it must be true.
But—and this part is crucial—you must always anchor your lies in truth. You need an exceptional memory to remember what you say to people, and that is much harder if you make everything up. If the lies are woven carefully enough with the truth, it’s virtually impossible for anyone to separate them.
The problem with such intricate, complex lies is that if the person being lied to ever finds out, the hurt they feel is immeasurable. The consequences irreparable.
I remember the day when all Dad’s lies fell away. The moment I discovered the truth for myself. That Dad hadn’t just taught me to lie to others, he had been lying to me all along. Nothing was the same after that.
For so long, I believed that I was special. I loved him and he loved me.
I was fifteen years old. Kallie Dawson invited me around to her house during the summer.
She had moved over here from Australia—something to do with her dad’s job.
Dad told me there was no way I could go, but at fifteen I was starting to think for myself a bit more.
I told Kallie I could come for tea but not stay over.
Her parents were the nicest people I’d ever met. They kept asking if I wanted more food and they bought us sweet treats for after. Neither of them drank alcohol when I was there.
Her brothers were eighteen, seventeen, and twelve.
I watched as they shared silly little in-jokes, teasing the oldest one about how he looked like Hugh Hefner, walking around the garden in his dressing gown wearing sunglasses.
Kallie’s mum made a comment about the age gap—how she couldn’t believe Hugh was allowed to get away with dating women who were young enough to be his daughter.
“Some of them are teenagers!” she told her son, who had regretted coming outside in his robe by that point. “It’s disgusting.”
“Poor girls,” Kallie’s dad said, shaking his head.
The house felt safe. Kallie was safe. And I realized that I was not. That my dad and his view of the world—of girls, of me—was not “normal.” That Kallie’s dad did not feel the same.
That was the moment I woke up.
Some things need to lie dormant until you are strong enough to face them.
Things were going to change.
But I knew I wasn’t ready, that I needed to be careful and plan. And so, for a while, I existed in two worlds: my cruel reality and a fictional, safer world in my head.
I kept this fantasy going until I was strong enough to escape it. It was then that I promised myself I was going to get everything I wanted.
Perfect husband, perfect house, perfect career. Perfect everything.
The life Leila Reynolds has.
Smug, fake bitch.