Toad As My Witness
by Simon West-Bulford

“Don’t you lie to me, Peter Tayforth.”

The syllables swam around his head like drunken eels, and it was all he could do just to get to his knees, let alone answer.

“The truth now,” his mother said, “a man of thirty-six years old ought to know better...if you’ve been drinking, I swear I’ll –”

“Sorry,” he managed as he struggled upright against the cold bricks of their house. And he could swear before a judge that if there was such a thing as a jelly demon, it had just pointed a cursing finger at the bones in his legs. Perhaps even his eyes too, because the only thing he could see clearly as he shuffled sideways to find the door, gasping, was a huge white toad.

“Four in the morning, a crash that probably woke the whole town, and who should I find sleeping on my doorstep?” said the toad. “My own son!”

White and black see-sawed before Pete’s eyes as he tried to steady himself. The soft creak of snow under his boot echoed through his head and the deep dark of night swallowed his mind as he stared up at it. Then he was on the ground again, and a new color leeched the white from his eyes as he gazed at the snow, fascinated by the rhythmic circles of blood that crept outward.

“Peter!” the toad cried. And his mother’s hand found the back of his head, lifting it gently upward away from the ice. “Stay awake, I’ll call an ambulance.”

It was an easy string of mistakes for them to make. Pete Tayforth had taken a well-needed week away from a stressful job, a failing marriage and the warnings of a stuttering heart, to visit his mother and take a break. But Pete wasn’t accustomed to country living, so how could he have known it was a fox making that eerie wailing sound in the back yard in the early hours of the morning? And how could he have known that a dangerous patch of black ice waited for him on the doorstep when he went to investigate? And why wouldn’t his mother have assumed that his recent trials had driven him to stay out late to dilute his troubles with more than a few beers?

But simple mistakes don’t always have simple consequences and Peter David Tayforth had never been the same since the night he had the accident. There were endless hours of conversation with that white toad during his hospitalization, and although the doctors had asked him if he noticed any unusual side-effects after the neurosurgery, he had told them, no, everything was fine, and could he return to work? A white lie. But white lies don’t hurt.

It wasn’t until his first board meeting a month later that he regretted it.

“Tayforth,” said the chairman through his hippo mouth, “are you seriously trying to tell me, and every senior executive in this room, that all these helpdesk calls are the fault of our customers? Our... valued... customers?”

“Sir, I understand that we like to think that the customer is always –”

“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence if you want to keep your job. We’ve seen the reports, so don’t lie to us, Mr. Tayforth.”

Don’t lie...

Pete glanced around the room. Beards, suits, tapping fingers, balding heads and clicking pens all jumbling around in the darkening mosh-pit of his mind. The tired muscle in his chest pressed against the bars of its prison and Pete knew that it was more than indigestion causing the sudden pain. And if he couldn’t control the rising anger at their so-called professionalism and their short-sightedness within the next minute, he’d be on his back in an ambulance again.

“Pompous tossers!” said the toad that had appeared at the centre of the table. “Even if they could get their own heads out of their arses they’d probably stick it up the person’s next to them.”

Droplets of salty stress slithered down Pete’s cheek to meet his tongue as he licked his lips. “Absolutely, Mr. Garner. You’re correct about the reports. I apologize for –”

“Don’t you lie, Peter Tayforth,” the toad croaked. “Just tell’em like it is.”

Pete stared at the toad who flicked his black tongue toward the chairman. “Tell’im! Tell the truth!”

“Are you still with us, Tayforth?” the chairman barked.

Guarded sniggers rippled around the table as legs crossed and uncrossed nervously. Pete’s heart threw itself repeatedly against his ribs like a panicked animal and as the pain peaked, he pointed a shaky finger at the chairman.

“The truth is, Mr. Garner, is that you’ve never even spoken to our customers, so what the hell would you know? The data’s right, and they’re wrong. That’s the truth.”

Pens, jaws and even the temperature dropped. “And you’re fat too!” said Pete.

“Perfect,” said the toad, “he had that coming.”

“Yeah!” The beast in Pete’s chest calmed as he fell back into his seat, staring. The chairman stared back, open-mouthed.

After another full minute of silence, the chairman took a short breath, then spoke. “Where did that come from, Tayforth?’

“Tell’im,’ said the toad.

Pete blinked. “What?”

“I’m giving you a chance to explain yourself,” said the chairman calmly.

“The toad, sir. It came from the toad.”

The chairman shook his befuddled head as though the white amphibian had just snagged a fly from the tip of his nose. “Toad?” More sniggers. “Quiet!”

“Yes, Mr. Garner, a big white toad. It’s there on the table, right in front of me.”

Again Pete’s heart pumped out its fear in big meaty thumps. The chairman observed Pete for a moment. “Tell me, Tayforth, would you employ someone who had such a tenuous grip on reality that they could not tell you a word of truth?”

And then the animal returned, hurling itself around like a lunatic inside his chest. Pete grabbed his wet shirt as he slipped down below the table. “But it’s... true, Mr. Garner. There’s a... toad...”

“Somebody get an ambulance!” came a cry from above him, and a second later as his heart eventually gave up the battle, Pete’s toad hopped down beside him as the darkness fell.

“There,” it said, “Doesn’t it feel good to tell the truth?”