Page 26 of Every Silent Lie

I clench the rail and drag myself up, my weary body protesting. But I don’t go to the bar. I hate myself for it, but I don’t go. Because today, oddly, I would hate myself more if I did.

And with that revelation bouncing around rapidly in my mind, I walk home, feeling the most alone I have since my life was torn apart.

As I turn up the path to the door of my building, I come to a startled stop, my lagging, tired mind trying to compute what I’m looking at. “Mr. Percival?” I say, tilting my head and dipping, seeing his snow boots sticking out from beneath the bottom of a Christmas tree.

That’s wedged in the doorway.

“Yes, dear?” he yells, his voice muffled.

“Are you okay?” What a daft question. He’s clearly not okay—the top half of his body’s inside the building with the top of the tree, his lower half hanging out the door with the bottom of it.

“I seem to have got myself stuck.”

“You don’t say,” I mumble, making my way up the path, something crunching under my heels. I look down, lifting each shoe, finding a blanket of pine needles paving the way. Did he actually drag this tree home from wherever he’s bought it? How? He can hardly hold himself up. I shake my head and assess the situation. This tree is worthy of Trafalgar Square, for Christ’s sake. Bending, looking through the busy branches, I try to figure out who to try and get out first—the tree or Mr. Percival. “Are you lying down?”

“I fell, dear. Or folded.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Only my ego, dear.”

I huff, dropping my bag and scanning up and down. “I’m going to have to push it through.”

“Okay, dear.”

“It might strip some of the branches.”

“Okay, dear. I’m starting to get cramp in my thigh. Would you mind hurrying things along?”

“Jesus Christ.” I push my hand through the foliage and take hold of the trunk, giving it a little wiggle. “Ready?”

He grunts, as do I when I push my weight into the tree, getting a face full of branches. “It’s really stuck,” I puff, leaning into it more, bracing myself for the moment it dislodges. “Okay down there?”

“I can see light.”

“But it’s dark.”

“The hallway lights. Keep pushing!”

“Fucking hell,” I grumble, kicking my heels off to get better stability. A loud crack sounds, and I’m suddenly stumbling forward. “Shit.” I release the tree and grab the doorframe, saving myself, as the tree shoots forward and Mr. Percival’s arms raise, fighting off the attack of branches.

“What a disaster!” He chuckles, rolling from side to side. “I might need a hand, dear.”

Exasperated, I go to him, taking both his old hands and easing him up slowly, watching his worn old face for discomfort, worried he’s broken something. “Are you sure you’ve not hurt yourself?”

“Yes, yes, very sure.”

Only when I’m certain he’s steady on his feet do I release him, and he brushes himself down and shuffles round to take in the damage. “Where’s your walking frame?” I ask.

“In my flat.”

“Well, that’s a bit silly, isn’t it?” I find my heels and hang on to the doorframe as I get them on. “How long have you been here?”

His watch appears from his pocket, and he holds it up close and personal to his face. “Thirty-five minutes.”

“Mr. Percival.” I scold him lightly, dipping to pick up his flat cap. “What are you doing dragging trees five times the size of you around? You should have called someone.”

“Like whom?” He faces me as he slips his watch back into his pocket, accepting his hat and popping it on.