Why Men Lie by Linden MacIntyre Read Free Book Online Page A

quickly when it rang.
    The phone call was not the one she’d hoped for, but from the former husband whose name remained a hyphenated adjunct to her own (because he was the first and because she liked the Gaelic form of Gillis). John was calling for no apparent reason, which was, for her, another cause for some alarm. He didn’t even mention that it was New Year’s Eve. No “Happy New Year,” none of the traditional formalities.
    John had an aversion to telephones not unlike her own, and even when he was in the darkest depths of the suffering she and Sextus had inflicted on him many years before, he had never called her or anyone else she knew to share his misery. So what was this about?
    “I’m surprised you’re home,” he said. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
    “No, no,” she said. “I was just sitting here. How are you, John?”
    “Ach, I’m okay.”
    And then he was silent.
    Her first assumption was that he was drinking again, but he sounded completely sober. She thought she could eliminate loneliness and boredom: she knew he suffered both, but she also knew how well he could suppress them. Which left the probability of illness.
    “You’re sure you’re all right? You know Sextus is in town?”
    “I heard he was going up. And did you see him, then?”
    “Yes,” she said. “We all had Christmas dinner.”
    “You did?” He laughed. “That’s just great.” He sounded as if he meant it. “I hear he has a new girlfriend.”
    “Yes, she was here too. I was worried about giving her a drink.”
    “Oh?”
    “She looked like she was underage.”
    “Hah,” he said.
    “So what about yourself, John?”
    “Ah well,” he said. “Look. I was just wondering. Are you going to be around in the new year?”
    “Of course,” she said. “Are you planning a trip?”
    “Ah no,” he said. “No plans. But a fella never knows. I’ve been doing some thinking.”
    “It’s good to hear from you at any time,” she said.
    “All right, then.”
    Another long pause.
    “I hope 1999 is good to you, John. You deserve it.”
    “Ah well, I’m not so sure. But thanks. I hope you have a good one too.”
    And he was gone, as enigmatic as ever.
    She thought of calling him back, digging deeper. But it was almostmidnight in Cape Breton, almost 1999, so she let the impulse fade. And she was wondering about JC. She knew he planned to visit, but he had said he’d call first. According to the Hogmanay traditions he’d learned about while based in London years before, his arrival would be shortly after midnight. He’d bring gifts. He was a dark-haired man, a harbinger of good luck in the year ahead.
    She’d just been getting out of the shower when John called. After that, she had dressed in something casually flattering—slim grey sweats and a black cotton turtleneck—and settled down for what she expected would be a short wait for JC’s call or, more likely, his inebriated arrival.
    It was 12:43 when the phone rang again.
    “Is this Dr. Gillis?”
    The caller’s formality persuaded her to answer yes. He then identified himself as Sergeant something with the Metro Toronto Police Service.
    “I’m calling about James Charles Campbell,” he said, as if he was reading the name from a document.
    Her mind instantly processed the unfamiliar James Charles. “JC,” she said. “Yes. What about him?”
    “There’s been an accident,” said the policeman. “Mr. Campbell gave your name. Or rather, he had your business card in his wallet. Are you by chance his … doctor?”
    “Not that kind of doctor. I’m a friend,” she said. “What happened?”
    “We aren’t exactly sure. We’re looking into it. It seems he fell, or got knocked down. On his street. Walden Avenue.”
    “Where is he?”
    “Toronto General. He’s under observation.”
    When she got to the hospital, she found him asleep. She sat at his bedside for an hour, watching as he slept. There was a bandage on his head. A tube running from