“That, of course, could be a lie.”
Leo said that in the same infuriating way that he always did. And I fell for it every time!
He would explain where he had been, or what he’d been doing and I would listen intently, like a five year old being told a story. And often it was just a story, but I didn’t know when he was lying. He was always so convincing. He would look me in the eye and speak with great sincerity. It’s so very confusing when that particular story turns out to be true, but the next one is a lie.
I would often say, “Is that true?” and he would give a cheeky smile and say, “It could of course, be a lie”.
To start with it was almost fun, a kind of game, because he would always give me a big hug and that adorable smile. It was a sort of guessing game. Love is so blind.
But soon his stories, though sometimes amusing, became an irritant. He was a police officer in the CID, so couldn’t tell me about his work, but his job was a great excuse to go missing for hours on end. Usually “on surveillance”, he’d say. But a lot of his surveillance seemed to take place in local pubs and clubs, and even on the golf course. If he was caught out, he would be adamant that a lot of villains used the pubs and the golf course, so what was my problem?
And then there were the night shifts. Well of course there were. Criminals worked at night. He was a good provider, I’ll give him that, and we had a lot of laughs. He was witty and comical, much like the guys my father knew in the East End of years gone by. Cheeky chappies. In the end I stopped asking him about his day. The fairy stories were wearing a bit thin.
I sometimes wondered if I really knew him at all. Then one day a couple of policemen came round to see him. It was the first time I had met any of his colleagues. Leo was still in bed. He had been on a late shift the night before. I told them to go up. Leo wouldn’t mind. They brought him down in handcuffs. Seems these coppers were always mucking about.
“Big job on?” I asked the other officers.
“The big job was last night,” one of them said.
For the first time ever, Leo looked sheepish. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Kiss the kids for me.”
I laughed. Another of his games, more play acting.
“I will,” I laughed, as I watched them leave the house and get into the police car.
Leo has been in prison for seven years now. He never was a police officer. He was a career criminal. A con man. I still visit him, but I have moved on with my life.
Last time he asked me if I had met anyone else. “No,” I said, but that could, of course, be a lie.
Leo said that in the same infuriating way that he always did. And I fell for it every time!
He would explain where he had been, or what he’d been doing and I would listen intently, like a five year old being told a story. And often it was just a story, but I didn’t know when he was lying. He was always so convincing. He would look me in the eye and speak with great sincerity. It’s so very confusing when that particular story turns out to be true, but the next one is a lie.
I would often say, “Is that true?” and he would give a cheeky smile and say, “It could of course, be a lie”.
To start with it was almost fun, a kind of game, because he would always give me a big hug and that adorable smile. It was a sort of guessing game. Love is so blind.
But soon his stories, though sometimes amusing, became an irritant. He was a police officer in the CID, so couldn’t tell me about his work, but his job was a great excuse to go missing for hours on end. Usually “on surveillance”, he’d say. But a lot of his surveillance seemed to take place in local pubs and clubs, and even on the golf course. If he was caught out, he would be adamant that a lot of villains used the pubs and the golf course, so what was my problem?
And then there were the night shifts. Well of course there were. Criminals worked at night. He was a good provider, I’ll give him that, and we had a lot of laughs. He was witty and comical, much like the guys my father knew in the East End of years gone by. Cheeky chappies. In the end I stopped asking him about his day. The fairy stories were wearing a bit thin.
I sometimes wondered if I really knew him at all. Then one day a couple of policemen came round to see him. It was the first time I had met any of his colleagues. Leo was still in bed. He had been on a late shift the night before. I told them to go up. Leo wouldn’t mind. They brought him down in handcuffs. Seems these coppers were always mucking about.
“Big job on?” I asked the other officers.
“The big job was last night,” one of them said.
For the first time ever, Leo looked sheepish. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Kiss the kids for me.”
I laughed. Another of his games, more play acting.
“I will,” I laughed, as I watched them leave the house and get into the police car.
Leo has been in prison for seven years now. He never was a police officer. He was a career criminal. A con man. I still visit him, but I have moved on with my life.
Last time he asked me if I had met anyone else. “No,” I said, but that could, of course, be a lie.