A Perfect Lie

Hey guys! It's been ages since I wrote a fanfic, and after going over my previous ones I think this one is way better in terms of writing quality and storyline. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1

The day Alfred arrived on the Kirkland farm, the weather was bitterly cold; though autumn was only beginning to clutch at the sea bound country, the weather up in the highlands of the North Yorkshire Moors had taken a turn for the worse. Alfred squinted through his glasses up at the farm, noting that the almost horizontal drizzle had covered the lenses and made everything around him blurry. It was just as well, he thought, since the place already seemed so dismal that he didn't want to look at it in more detail than was truly necessary.

He'd taken a taxi from Gatwick airport the day before- the wonderful city of London, though doused in rain and mist, had excited him to his very core, and in his naïve, sleep-deprived mind, he had assumed that Yorkshire couldn't be so far away from this exciting hub of activity.

He was wrong, of course.

After spending the night at a B&B which surely had worse service than a diner in Montana , he was awoken by a phone call from Mr. Kirkland asking him in a gruff voice whether the journey had been ok and if he was on his way yet. It was only then that Alfred realised that he'd missed his alarm; he hastily babbled that yes, he was on his way, but there was traffic so he might arrive a little later than planned. He then dressed himself at a rate of knots and hailed down the first cab that passed him on the already busy streets of London.

In hindsight, he should've set multiple alarms that morning, for the traffic was, as he'd unfortunately predicted, extremely bad. For hours, he sat in the back of the black vehicle with its dark tinted windows as the driver shouted obscene profanities at nobody in particular. For once in his relatively short life, Alfred wished he liked reading books, for that would've made the journey a little more enthralling than it turned out to be; there was only so much pleasure he could derive from the games on his dying phone and the views of the flooded pavements outside.

And now, after a hellish 7-hour drive from the hustle and bustle of London, he stood outside the humble abode of the Kirkland family.

He stayed poised on the doorstep, his feet shuffling in anticipation. Now that he was here, in what appeared to be 'the middle of freakin' nowhere', Alfred wasn't so sure about his decision to come and stay with the family. It had all been his father's idea: Mr. Jones was a highly successful business man, but not such a brilliant father. Since the divorce of his wife- Alfred's mother- when Alfred was only two years old, Mr. Jones had resented the responsibility of being a father to the young boy, though the child was entirely ignorant of this fact. He had on many occasions tried to pass his young son Alfred onto his biological mother, but she had long since left the country to live in Chile with her new lover and his family. Needless to say, contact with her was akin to impossible.

So instead he'd hired a host of nannies to keep Alfred looked after. Over the years, He had in fact grown relatively fond of his son, what with his boisterous antics and unprecedented joie de vivre. But still, he kept a safe distance so as not to become too involved and, by consequence, too responsible for the growing boy. Then, when Mr. Jones was contacted by an old friend from his university days, he had immediately asked whether his wonderful 18-year old son could stay with the other to understand a different way of life and 'improve his cultural knowledge of the world'. He wanted Alfred to grow into a cultured young man, though it was less because he cared about Alfred's future and more about proving to Alfred's vanished mother that he was a far more capable parent than she, should she ever come knocking. He also knew that it wouldn't do for a well-known businessman like himself to have a rebellious teenage son as so many citizens of high ranking had had before. So, without so much as a goodbye, Alfred found himself shipped off to what appeared to be the most desolate place in the whole wide world. He now regretted having eagerly agreed to his father's grand scheme…

The cold had begun to penetrate Alfred's loose hoodie and he shivered involuntarily. He looked up at the house, noting the white plaster walls and the low thatched roof. It was nothing like his modern apartment in New York, which he longed for with all his heart at that moment in time…

Well, here goes nothing, he thought as he lifted his shaking hand to the oak door before him and knocked hesitantly. At first he heard nothing, and was about to knock again when the murmur of muffled voices rose from within the small cottage. The sound of a bolt being undone rang out, and Alfred gulped loudly as the door creaked open; a tall man peaked out, squinting down at Alfred with acid green eyes.

Alfred took in a deep breath and grinned at the man, lifting his hand in a small waving motion;

"Hello there sir! I'm Alfred F Jones! Thank you for allowing me to come stay with you! I hope I can be of great help to you and your family".

Though the speech was well-rehearsed, it still came out a little hoarsely, and Alfred cringed as his voice warbled with nerves. Mr. Kirkland, however, appeared unfazed by it. Alfred averted his eyes as Mr. Kirkland studied him for longer than seemed truly necessary before he looked up to find the door opening further and the other man's form filling the hallway. Alfred hadn't noted just how large Mr. Kirkland was until that very moment; he stood at least a head and half above Alfred, who was already tall at 6ft 2". He had wide shoulders and his face was weather-beaten and stern. Alfred tried not to cower away from the huge man as he stepped into the warm home.

"Ye look just like ye father"

Alfred jumped at the sound of the gruff voice before turning to smile politely at Mr. Kirkland, scratching his head nervously. "Thanks, I guess" he said. Mr. Kirkland just grunted, then motioned for Alfred to follow him further into the house. As Alfred made to pursue the taller man, Mr. Kirkland looked over his shoulder and muttered "Taker yer shoes off by the door". Alfred blushed and nodded, before bending down and untying his shoe laces with shaky, frozen fingers.

The house smelt of baking bread and wood, with a slightly musty undertone that was only detectable if one focused on it for a few moments. The floor beneath Alfred's feet was wood panelling, and further down the hallway a wool rug lay proudly, its worn fibres standing haphazardly above the solid flooring. The roof was low and wooden beams were clearly visible; Alfred had never seen anything like it. His father had said that Mr. Kirkland (who was in fact named Albion, Alfred found out later) and his family lived in a cottage, but Alfred hadn't really understood exactly what that meant until now.

Noise from the kitchen brought Alfred out of his thoughts and he hurried towards it, heart thrumming nervously in his chest. His eyes widened when he entered the room, for his father had failed to mention one tiny detail to him:

The Kirkland family was BIG.

At the long wooden table, 7 people were sat, each eyeing him with a mixture of surprise and excitement.

All was a blur after that; Alfred was rapidly introduced to all the children by Mrs. Kirkland ("Please, call me Fleta") though he'd forgotten them all just a few seconds later. Then they all sat down for dinner: Alfred was very conscious that everyone was watching him as he gratefully accepted the food and began to eat, and soon he was being bombarded with questions about America.

"What's New York like?"

Oh, well, it's uh, big, I guess…"

"Have you travelled around America?"

"Nuh uh! It's a huge place man! Never had the time"

"What food do you eat there?"

"Well it's like here but better- and oh boy, the hamburgers are great!"

Alfred began to feel at home as the family laughed with him and talked to him as if they'd known him for years. Perhaps this trip would be fun after all!

After a while, however, he noticed that one member of the family was staying stoically silent; a boy, sat on the farthest edge of the table, who clearly did not care about the appearance of the American, or indeed any of the chatter that was flying between the other members of his family. Alfred eyed the boy with mild intrigue, unable to remember his name. 'what a weird kid' he thought to himself, before his attention was once again stolen by another probing question from another member of the family.

After dinner, Alfred was given the sweet mercy of going to bed; Fleta showed Alfred his room, which was up in the attic of the cottage. Alfred thanked her and she smiled warmly at him before closing the door and leaving him to his own devices.

That night, Alfred lay staring up at the ceiling, trying to sort out his thoughts on the family he was now destined to stay with. He furrowed his brow as he tried to recall the names of each family member: Mr and Mrs Kirkland were easy to remember because their names were so strange- Albion and Fleta (though Alfred knew he would never have the courage to call Mr. Kirkland anything but Mr. Kirkland). Their children were harder to remember, though Alfred did recall that the oldest child, with fiery red hair and a loud voice, was called Allistair. Then came twins- a boy and a girl who both had curly, ginger hair and many freckles. He knew the girl was called Alannah, but the boy's name completely escaped him. The only other he remembered was the youngest child's name, because he'd ensured to reiterate that his name was "Peter Kirkland!" at least seven times in his hyper excitement at having the visitor in his house. Alfred suddenly found that his thoughts had wandered back to the silent boy at the end of the table. The kid had sandy coloured hair and large eyebrows, clearly a trait inherited from his huge father. I wonder what he's called, Alfred pondered. It then occurred to him that in fact, the boy hadn't been introduced at all, at least not that he remembered. How odd… I wonder if maybe it was just because they were all so excited an' he was just… Well… quiet… Eventually, Alfred's thoughts drifted and within minutes, sleep had taken him into its heavy embrace.