All My Lies Are True

by Dorothy Koomson

Genres: General Fiction; Domestic Thrillers

Synopsis

From the bestselling author of Tell Me Your Secret and The Brighton Mermaid comes the breath-taking sequel to the iconic Sunday Times bestseller The Ice Cream Girls.

Verity is telling lies...
And that's why she's about to be arrested for attempted murder.

Serena has been lying for years. . .
And that may have driven her daughter, Verity, to do something unthinkable...

Poppy's lies have come back to haunt her . . .
So will her quest for the truth hurt everyone she loves?

Everyone lies.
But whose lies are going to end in tragedy?

Includes a bonus conversation with Dorothy Koomson and Maria Gbeleyi recorded in June 2020.

(P)2020 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: July 9, 2020

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

Posted by: Nia Burkinshaw 3 Comments

Last updated: 12 January

Does anyone remember the so-called Ice Cream Girls? They were accused of killing their teacher? They were having an affair with him? Does anyone remember that?! My mum has been asking me for ages if I can find out about them on the internet and ask you all on here.

Most of you would have been too young, like me, but Mum really remembers them and thinks about them all the time. Apparently they treated him really badly and then they killed him at his house. Their names were Serena Gorringe and Poppy Carlisle. They were in London and this was in the eighties. Do you remember this picture of them? The one in the polka-dot bikini is Serena, the one in the blue one-piece is Poppy.

Mum says the trial seemed to go on for ever but only Poppy went to prison. Serena got away with it. They both kind of ghosted everyone until a few years ago when Poppy came out of prison (I was only six!! then). Mum says she thinks she heard that Poppy might have ended up in Brighton because that’s where the other Carlisles had moved to. Mum also says that everyone at the time thought Serena changed her name? I’ve had a look and I think the Gorringes all still live in London but there’s no mention of Serena anywhere.

Mum would be really interested to hear if anyone knows what happened to them?? She was really, really fascinated by the story, because they were like the evil superstars of her time and it kind of just ended when Poppy went to prison. Mum also says she thought when Poppy got out again that she might find Serena and they’d go on a murderous hunt together again, but nothing. (BTW – Mum said that, not me!!)

If you could ask your mums and dads about it on the off-chance that someone might have heard or seen anything, that’d be well cool. DM me, or drop me a line or leave a comment below. Kisses.

#TheIceCreamGirls #PoppyCarlisle #SerenaGorringe #London #Brighton #murder #teacher

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  3 comments

Kat Allen 14 January at 09.45 a.m.

I think I’m probably your mum’s age because I remember them! Every now and again I wonder what happened and where they ended up. Be fascinating to find out.

Lucie Craft 15 January at 11.45 p.m.

Just read up on this story! I’m in between your age and your mum’s but I think I remember this. It is brilliant. Love to find out more.

Elenee G 16 January at 10.38 p.m.

I’m your mum’s age, also. One of them looks so much like a woman whose daughter used to go to my son’s school. The Serena Ice Cream Girl. Her daughter was called something like Variety or Verity, something like that. She had a son, too – I can’t remember his name. Wouldn’t it be a mad coincidence if it was her? I’m sure she was called Serena or something beginning with S. Her surname definitely began with a G because ours does and they were near each other on the register. I’ll ask my son when I speak to him next if he remembers them. Will keep you updated.

Now

‘Well, look and see who is here,’ he says right beside me.

Frowning because I’m not sure how it’s possible for him to be here right now, I turn towards the sound of his voice. I can’t believe it! ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, unable to hide my delight.

Automatically, I look around to check there’s no one to see us together. Then I glance down at my phone in my hand, check its screen is black and it hasn’t accidentally dialled anyone or isn’t live-streaming this chance meeting. Just to be sure, I press the side button and wait for my phone to ask if I’m sure I want to turn it off. Yes, yes, I’m sure, I think. I don’t want you telling on me.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask him again.

‘I’ve come to visit my freaky toys,’ he replies.

We’re standing in the entrance of the Hove Museum. On the first floor of this historic building in the posh part of Hove, there is a toy museum full of the creepiest things I’ve ever seen. Porcelain dolls with chipped and peeling faces sit in glass cabinets with threadbare, faded teddy bears resting beside them, all of them staring out at us humans as though begging to be released. Along a narrow corridor, which is flanked on each side with cases of other old, spooky toys that I’m still convinced come to life when you’re not looking, is a slightly larger area with dilapidated games and odd books that you’re allowed to touch. As if to add to the creep factor, from a speaker that sounds like it’s attached to an ancient wind-up gramophone, a story is read over and over about someone who doesn’t want to go to school. I love this place. Since I was tiny this and Hove Library were the two places I always begged my mum to bring me to visit.

‘Are you really here to visit the freaky toys?’ I ask him.

‘Yeah, of course! They’re like my best friends. When I was little, I would go on and on at my mother until she brought me here. What about you?’

‘Same. I used to pretend they were actually my toys that were being stored in this attic in a haunted house—’

‘—where time’s stood still,’ he finishes with a laugh. ‘I can’t believe there’s another person on Earth who understands the true beauty of this place.’

‘Me, too! How come we’ve never talked about this?’

‘Yeah, not the sort of thing I tell people, to be honest.’ He glances around, checking again there is no one watching us, no one who would recognise us and tell the wrong person they’ve seen us together. ‘I can honestly say until this moment I’ve never met anyone who has understood it. Until you. And speaking honestly now, I’ve always been a bit dubious about you cos you’re a bit on the dodgy side, but this discovery has shown me that you have real potential, little one, real potential.’

‘I can’t believe the amount of cheek that just came out of your mouth. I’m not sure I’ll be able to forgive it.’

‘Oh, shush. Come on, are you going up? We can do the tour properly. I’ve never been around with someone who appreciates it before.’

‘Me neither.’

Without saying anything, I hold up my phone, double-check he’s turned his off, too. He fishes his out of his back pocket and shows me that, yes, it’s off and no one will be finding out about us that way.

‘Freaky dolls first?’ he asks as we walk single file down the narrow corridor to the clunky old lift.

‘No, ghost mirror first.’

‘Ghost mirror it is.’

The moment the lift doors shut we’re all over each other, kissing as though we haven’t seen each other in years, necking like we’re not going to see each other in just a few hours. We step apart the moment the lift bumps itself onto the first floor, then fix our faces and straighten our clothing as the doors clunk open.

‘I love you, Verity Gillmare,’ he whispers into my hair before I step out into the corridor.

‘And I love you, Logan Carlisle.’

March, 2019

‘Don’t forget the popcorn, Vee!’ my brother, Conrad, called from his place in front of the television. He was getting ready for his friends to come over and I was obliging by grabbing him some supplies while I nipped to the shops. ‘Giant bags of it, OK?’

Our parents had driven up to London to visit my grandma and I was staying over to look after Con. He was sixteen and loved the fact that I slept over to ‘look after’ him. Mainly because he got to stay at home in Brighton when Mum and Dad went away, and because he knew he could do whatever he liked except hurt anyone, get arrested or get anyone pregnant. There were other things on the list, sure, but those were the three biggies.

I slept in my old room which the ’rentals had kindly redecorated so it was a proper grown-up spare room that I loved to chill out in. I was convinced Mum did it so I’d move back in, but Dad had been clear when they’d helped me with my flat deposit – no takey-backsies. In other words, once you’ve left, you stay left. Visits are fine, nice, encouraged – but two nights were all he’d put up with.

I shouted ‘OK’ to my brother then shut the front door behind me, just as a man with dark-blond hair opened the creaky metal gate and stepped onto the black-and-white tiles of the garden path. He was at least ten years older than me and wasn’t dressed like a postie or a delivery driver; he also wasn’t carrying a clipboard or wearing a lanyard. He had a physique and way of holding himself that made his tan-coloured chinos, cream shirt and black jacket look extra expensive and ultra delicious.

‘Hello,’ he began, sounding pleasant enough.

‘Hi,’ I replied cautiously. Just because he didn’t have a clipboard on display didn’t mean he wasn’t someone intending to sweet-talk me into signing up for a home-cooking box that I’d never properly use or giving more to charity when a significant portion of my wages went that way already. ‘Can’t stop, just on my way out.’ I had never sounded so breezy. I high-fived myself in my head for managing to be so detached and cool and busy.

‘No worries,’ he replied. ‘I was looking for Serena Gorringe.’ His eyes raked over me in a quick, efficient fashion. ‘From your age, I’d say you’re not her.’

That stopped me in my tracks. No one used Mum’s maiden name any more. Obviously Grandma was still a Gorringe, as was Aunty Faye, but not Mum.

‘I’ll just knock,’ he said.

‘She’s not in,’ I said, giving him my full attention and stepping into his path so he didn’t have easy access to the front door. ‘Neither’s her husband, my dad,’ I added for good measure. I wanted him to know that Mum was married.

‘Typical me,’ he said, sounding dejected. ‘It took me so long to work up the courage to come here and now she’s not in. Great.’ He flopped his arms up and down in frustration. ‘I’m not sure I’ll get the courage up again.’

‘You sound like you’re going to propose to my mum or something,’ I told him. ‘Like she’s the great love of your life and this is all you’ve lived for.’

He didn’t say anything to that. And his silence ignited a series of sick feelings all along the bottom of my stomach. I looked him over again. He was far too young for Mum but nine years earlier, she’d left us for nearly two weeks. She and Dad pretended like it never happened, but it was long enough for eight-year-old Conrad to notice, so obviously I knew. Was it for him? No, surely not. He was a good ten years younger than her. But what if he was the reason? What if she was involved with him and Dad found out and that was why he made her leave?

None of us ever talked about why Mum left. She was just gone – coming back daily to give us breakfast; then after school she was there to give us dinner and say goodnight. And then, after what seemed like a forever, she was back. And Mum and Dad were mostly fine and then they were overly fine and loved up, and we all acted as if it hadn’t happened. Was he the culprit?

The man in front of me said nothing. And if he wasn’t going to propose or something, wouldn’t he say so? Wouldn’t he be denying it?

‘How do you know my mother?’ I asked him with an edge to my voice. He’d hardly tell me on her doorstep if they had been sleeping together, but it was worth a try.

‘I don’t know her,’ he said.

‘What do you mean? In a “I never really knew her cos you never really know anyone” kind of way, or a “she’s a complete stranger who I have a freaky connection to” kind of way?’

‘Somewhere in between the two, I guess,’ he said.

I glanced at the house, wondering when Conrad would see us standing there and come out to find out what was going on. ‘Too cryptic for me, sorry,’ I said, an even bigger edge to my voice. ‘Can you just speak your speak. Tell me what you want with my mum.’

The stranger seemed to grow very tall in those moments – he stood up in his frame and suddenly he was towering over me, his arms fastened across his chest in a tight hold and his face set so much like dried cement it was as if he’d never speak again. When he did eventually push words out of his pursed mouth, it was to say: ‘I want to ask her to confess to murder.’

‘What?’ I replied. I couldn’t have heard that right. ‘What are you saying to me?’

‘You heard me . . . I want her to confess to murdering a man called Marcus Halnsley so that my sister, Poppy, can finally clear her name.’

Now

‘I can’t do this any more,’ he says quietly. ‘You know I love you, and it feels like I’ve been in love with you since for ever, but I can’t do this secrecy stuff any more.’

We’re lying flat on our backs on my bed staring at the ceiling. We’ve been like this for a while. I’d lain down here like this to hide from him while he dragged my vacuum cleaner around my flat like a recalcitrant donkey, violently fluffed every single cushion, and passive-aggressively wiped or dusted surfaces until they noisily squeaked their cleanliness. When he’d finished tidying up, he’d come in here to say something, changed his mind and lain down next to me, not speaking. We’ve been like this for twenty minutes, I think. And now he’s speaking, he’s saying this, even though it’s impossible what he’s asking.

‘It used to be quite nice before, but now it’s not working for me. We need to stop living like this and tell people about us. Our families, our friends. We’re not doing anything wrong. I want to be able to hold your hand in public, go out wherever we want without worrying who’ll see us. Hell, I want to invite you over for some shockingly bad food at Sunday lunch with my parents. I just want us to be a normal couple.’

I want that, too. Of course I do, but it’s not that simple, is it? ‘Logan—’

‘I was thinking, just hear me out, I was thinking, if you casually invite me to your father’s fiftieth birthday party in a few weeks, we can tell them in a low-key way then.’

‘No, Logan. I can’t do that. It’s my dad’s party. I can’t hijack them like that. I’m sorry, no.’

‘Just admit it, you don’t want to tell anyone, do you? You just want me to stay your dirty little secret for ever.’

I imagine for a moment what it would be like if we step out of these shadows of secrecy into the bright, bright world of other people’s scrutiny. Their faces, their reactions . . . ‘Logan, just think of the fallout, how hurt everyone will be. I – we – really can’t do that to them.’

‘So you plan on us staying secret for ever?’

‘Not for ever, just until . . . I don’t know, I just need more time.’

‘It’s been a year!’

‘It hasn’t. Nowhere near. We’ve known each other a year but we haven’t been together a year.’

‘It’s never going to be more than this, is it?’ he says sadly. ‘It’s never going to be more than this undercover crap.’ He’s looking at me; I can feel his eyes on me, but I can’t face him.

‘That’s not true,’ I reply.

‘I want more, Verity. I love you, and I want an end to this secrecy.’

‘And if I don’t want that just yet?’

‘Well, that’s it, then, isn’t it?’ he says with quiet finality. ‘It’s over.’

I turn to him then, and he is still staring at me.

‘I don’t want it to be over,’ I declare. In my head it is a declaration, and the words sound brave and bold and decisive. But uttered into the air between us they sound scared and flimsy and pathetic.

This is how we end. I know it. Because I can’t give him what he so desperately wants, this is how we end.

I’m not sure who moves first, who does it first, but we’re suddenly kissing, crushing our lips together, attempting to make it not true. We’re undressing each other, we’re trying to hold on to each other tight enough to make it permanent, close enough to not let anything come in between. By the end we’re both crying, both clinging, both trying to keep ourselves together. And afterwards, immediately afterwards, he is off the bed, angrily snatching up his clothes, furiously pulling them on. This is how we end but he let himself forget and indulge, and he is raging because of it.

‘Are you going to tell?’ I ask as I watch him get dressed. ‘About us? Are you going to tell people?’

‘So you can hate me for ever? Yeah, right. Properly screwed myself over there, didn’t I?’

I sit up, desperate to stop him leaving like this. ‘Look, let’s just take a break. Give each other some space. Once my dad’s party is out of the way, let’s sit down and talk about it properly. In the meantime, let’s give ourselves the chance to see that our lives don’t work without the other one in it.’

He pauses in getting dressed and stands very still while he listens.

‘All we need is a bit of space. Spend time apart, meet up to talk things through. Just not crowd each other. And then we’ll try to sort it out.’

‘You really want to do that?’

I nod vigorously. ‘And in that time, too, we can think about how we tell everyone, if that’s what we decide to do.’

‘You’ll really think about telling people?’

‘Yes, I really will.’

I watch his shoulders fall; see him physically relax as the anger drains away. He returns to the bed, a happy, hopeful smile on his face. I tip my face up to receive his kiss. I close my eyes as he presses his lips on my nose, my forehead, my cheeks.

‘And can you think again about your dad’s party? It really would be the perfect time to tell them.’

‘Log—’

‘Just think about it. Please? Please?’

‘All right. I’ll think about it.’ Yes, I’ll think about it. I’ll also have to think about making sure the party doesn’t happen, either; just in case Logan decides to turn up anyway.

Now

Mum pulls back the light-blue curtain and steps out of her dressing room. I click the button on the side of my phone to make the screen black and hide the message I’d been halfway through typing and, just to be sure, I turn the phone face down on my lap.

Mum notices and her eyes linger a fraction too long on my phone, curious, as she’s always been, about what I’m up to, but she doesn’t say anything. Mum has always kept her eye on me, tried to find out what I’m doing without actually spying or snooping. Everything my mother has ever done has technically been upfront – she’ll try to snatch a look at my phone rather than pick it up, she’ll ask me who I was emailing or talking to rather than read behind my back or lurk around eavesdropping. She wants to know, but doesn’t want to do what’s necessary to find out.

She’s odd like that. When I was younger it used to drive me crazy, not knowing when she’d finally cross the line – as far as I know, she never did – but knowing she wanted to. She was always watching me, noticing little things – I could almost see her mentally filing something away for later, asking in roundabout ways about snatched parts of my conversations that were almost always innocent. My brother, Con, didn’t get it anywhere near as bad, but to be fair to her she did it to him, too. Does it to him, too, probably. Cos he, poor kid, still lives at home. Urgh, that wasn’t very nice, was it, Verity? When did I start getting so snarky about my mother?

Face down in my lap, my phone has the answer: bleep, bleep. Since him, of course. Since he told me the truth about her.

‘What do you think?’ Mum asks. She runs the palms of her hands down the front of the royal-blue dress, trying to smooth out the soft, silky creases that are created by the way the garment flows down over her body to her ankles.

‘It’s nice . . .’ I say in what I hope is a diplomatic voice. She’s looked better. The dress is nice and it clings to her curves in all the right places, it shimmers in the light and it looks expensive and stylish, but . . .

‘But . . .?’ she says. ‘There is a “but”, isn’t there?’

How do I answer that without getting into trouble? ‘Thing is, Mum . . .’ I begin.

‘Oh, don’t worry, I know you hate it. I can tell by the look on your face. This was the best one.’ She flops her arms up and down. ‘I just want to look nice for once.’

‘You always look nice,’ I reply automatically.

‘Wow, my daughter, you almost sounded like you meant that. Not!’ she laughs as she returns to the dressing room, not giving me a chance to argue.

‘Is that it with the dresses now?’ I call hopefully.

The shop, cosseted right in the heart of The Lanes, is deserted on this Sunday lunchtime. The assistant stands at the other end of the shop, leaning against the counter, examining her rather impressive rainbow-painted nails. She should really be chewing gum and checking her mobile to complete her ‘disinterested, bored and was meant for better things’ look.

‘No, there’s one more,’ Mum replies.

I get up and edge nearer to the changing room. ‘Why are you doing this, Mum?’ I ask. ‘You know Dad’s going to hate it.’ That isn’t just me trying to kill the party, Dad will hate it.

‘He won’t,’ is her muffled reply. I’m guessing she’s taking some clothes off or putting clothes on.

‘Have you actually met Dad?’ I say to her.

‘I’ve known him longer than you,’ she states, her voice much more clear now that she obviously has the dress on.

‘Well, Con and I might have a theory that would explain how that’s not actually true because I’ve known him all of my life – you know, twenty-four years – which is actually one hundred per cent of my existence; while you’ve known him what, twenty-nine years? And that works out to be about . . . umm . . . sixty per cent of your life? One hundred outweighs sixty.’

Mum’s reply is a big sigh. ‘OK, you win. You’ve known him longer, but he will still want this. I promise you.’

Because it’s what you want, I want to say to her. Dad will say he wants it because you want it. And what you want, you get, no matter what, right?

My body floods with red-hot shame. That was awful. Truly awful. I look around in case the shop assistant has approached and heard what I said inside my head, or anyone else with telepathic powers has wandered into the shop and is now disgusted at the awful thing I just thought about my mother.

Thankfully, the shop is still empty, the music pulsating from the speaker by the door thrumming out a constant, half-hearted beat. I hang my head. This can’t go on, I tell myself sternly. You’re going to have to tell her that you know. You’re going to have to talk about it. Because if you keep thinking things like that . . . they’re eventually going to come out of your mouth. Then it’ll be too—

Mum suddenly whips back the curtain, making me jump, step back and nearly trip over my feet. For a moment, from the look on her face it’s clear she knows. She knows what I was thinking, she knows what I’ve been doing, and she knows that I’m probably the worst daughter a woman could possibly have.

‘Are you all right?’ she asks, watching me struggle to right myself.

‘Erm, yeah, yeah,’ I say. ‘I mean, of . . .’ My voice drains away when I properly see her. ‘Wow, Mum,’ I state. ‘That dress looks amazing on you.’

She looks down at herself. ‘Do you really think so?’

‘Absolutely.’

She puts her arms around her waist, hiding the main part of the dress. It’s elegant, a demur scooped neck, fitted bodice that eases down into a full skirt.

‘I’m not sure,’ she says.

I step aside to let her have full access to the looking glass behind me. She takes a tiny step forward so she is framed by the full-length, brass-edged mirror.

She does look incredibly beautiful in this dress. In this yellow dress.

She stares and stares at herself, and with every passing second I can see the anxiety, the fear, the spectre of yesteryear growing in her eyes.

I don’t know why she picked it up. It’s not like she’s ever worn anything yellow over the years. We didn’t have yellow clothes growing up, and we certainly never had anything yellow in the house. It’s the sort of thing you only notice when you know.

She takes a step back as the horror starts to stain her face and sharpen her breathing. Maybe she thought she was ready. Maybe she thought she could handle it. Maybe this is something she’s done many, many times over the years, only to realise when she’s actually got it on that she can’t be wearing a yellow dress.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask her.

She shakes her head, trying to release the past’s hold on her, I guess. At the same time she says, ‘Yeah, yes. I’m fine. I’m fine.’ She steps back again, still fixed on her reflection. ‘I, erm, would you be a love and see if there are any other colours of this, please, love?’ she says without looking at me.

‘Yeah, sure. Any particular colour?’

‘I don’t mind. I don’t mind. Any.’

‘Cool,’ I say, and pocket my phone.

‘But not pink,’ she adds, just as I’m about to move away.

‘Not pink,’ I repeat. ‘Got it.’

Like a lot of things with my mother, you only really understand why she does the things she does and avoids the things she does when you know the other thing about her.

You only really understand my mother when you know that she was once an Ice Cream Girl and on trial for murder.

March, 2019

This guy ordered double espresso in a teeny-tiny cup. He actually drank it, too. He didn’t do what I usually did, which was order a drink and then let it sit there while it slowly went cold and end up remonstrating with myself for the waste of money.

The café I’d persuaded him to come to was small and wannabe intimate. Unfortunately, there was something so dispassionate about its design – its wooden benches had just the right amount of cracks and whorls and uneven areas; the industrial, metal-topped stools and chairs were on the wrong side of comfortable; their crockery was faux vintage and, to be painfully cool, they mixed up the patterns and designs so your order was often served in a mishmash of styles – that it ended up coming across as clinical and cynical. The staff, who could probably have made the place welcoming despite its austere feel, could not look more disengaged with the whole process of serving coffee and dry, stale-tasting pastries.

‘Can you start at the beginning?’ I asked. I picked at a flake of almond that sat like a burnt fingernail on top of the miniature croissant I had paid £3.50 for. If Con were here, he’d have been calculating how much each bite cost and sniggering at my craziness in paying that much. I don’t know why I bothered to buy it when my whole body was clenched so tight that swallowing saliva was difficult, let alone food. ‘I mean, what you said is a whole universe of info to process and that was just two lines. So could you start at the beginning and tell me why you think my mother was involved in a murder and who this Poppy person is, besides your sister, and how she connects to my mum and, yeah . . . can you start at the beginning?’

He sighed heavily. ‘What’s your name, Serena’s daughter?’ he asked instead of starting at the beginning. His words were shot through with a snide, sinister venom that was like a snake’s bite and it chased a smattering of goosebumps across my forearms and down the centre of my spine.

‘Verity,’ I replied. ‘What’s your name, Poppy’s brother?’ I didn’t have the same poison in my voice, but there was enough of a tinge of it that would tell him how he sounded, and how unnecessary it was. It wasn’t like I’d called him a liar. In fact, I’d done the opposite by bringing him here and buying him expensive coffee and pastry.

He heard and understood what he’d done because his whole demeanour softened a fraction. ‘Logan, my name is Logan Carlisle. Poppy is my sister. My big sister. And over thirty years ago, she went to prison for a crime that your mother committed. And I need your mother to confess to that so my sister can finally get on with her life as an innocent woman.’

I accidentally snapped the almond flake I had been playing with in half. ‘You’re very good at the big, dramatic statements, Mr Carlisle,’ I said. ‘I’m surprised there isn’t a big, dramatic “duh-duh-duhhhhhhh” every time you open your mouth.’ That wasn’t fair, but it was true. Because come on. Murder? My mother?

‘How much do you know about your mother’s history?’ he asked.

‘She met my dad, she got pregnant, they got married. Had another child. Yes, they’ve tried to pass off my conception as a honeymoon thing, but come on, no one is that naïve.’

‘Before that. Before she met your father.’

‘Was there a before she met my father?’ I wasn’t being as facetious as I sounded – Mum and Dad acted as though nothing existed before they got together. And I never questioned that. Other people might internet search their parents, but I wasn’t someone who needed to know that. I mean, I’d already partially worked out that Mum might have left nine years ago because of an affair. If that was the case, I didn’t want to know because that would mean I’d have to judge her, and judge her pretty hard.

‘Awww, I see you’ve had all the luxuries and privileges of ignorance. I couldn’t ever get away from the fact that my sister was in prison and wasn’t there when I grew up. She’s still on licence so she can’t even commit the pettiest of crimes because she’ll be sent back to prison and forced to serve the rest of her life sentence. And I h