Twenty-Four Hours Without Lies
When Patrick realised the client hadnt learned his lines again, there were just three days left till New Year, and in the studio, the team was editing footage of fireworks that wouldnt be happening.
“Not ‘dear friends,'” he said, glancing at the autocue. “That’s not even cheesy anymore, it’s just dead. Let’s go with ‘good evening.’ Drop the ‘dear.'”
The candidate, a governor of a mid-sized but very ambitious English county, yawned and scratched his neck.
“Can I say ‘respected citizens’? They do respect us, don’t they?” he asked.
“They don’t,” Patrick replied automatically, then caught himself. “But we pretend they do, and they pretend to believe. It’s how holidays work.”
In the fourth-floor room of a rented business centre, three stage lights, a background Christmas tree, and a green screen with an image of Westminster Abbey filled the space. On the desk in front of Patrick lay two drafts. The first was classic: “We’ve achieved much, but much remains to be done,” “each of you,” “together we stand.” The second was slightly more ‘human’, with a made-up story about how the governor celebrated New Year as a child in a cramped London flat.
“We start with gratitude,” Patrick instructed, handing over the first sheet. “Then a promise. Follow with a warm family scene. Then a quick bridge to the future. No facts, just feelings. You’re a symbol, not an accountant.”
“Im certainly not an accountant,” laughed the governor. “I failed maths twice at school.”
“All the better,” Patrick grinned. “Cameras in half an hour. Let’s rehearse.”
He stopped listening as the governor tripped over the word “inclusivity” and turned his thoughts to editing. The address would air as if live, complete with added snowfall outside and the clocks chime. The hardest part was the voice: it had to sound genuine, not read off a script.
This was his craft. Orchestrating others words, calibrating the right tone and dose of artifice. Patrick relished transforming dull officials scared of real people into confident regional leaders. Taking a noisy raw track and polishing it until it sang clean.
Are we mentioning hospitals? the governor asked, pausing.
Patrick glanced at the text. Were saying Well continue to improve the quality of healthcare. It means everything and nothing. If someones unhappy, it sounds like you acknowledge the problem. If alls well, it means youre doing a great job. No need to get specific.
But, our hospitals the governor waved his hand. Never mind. You know best.
He did know bestnot about healthcare, but about dodging the topic.
Two hours later, as the crew packed away the lights and the makeup artist gently wiped off the governors foundation, Patrick was back in his corner of HQ, tweaking the press release: County leader reflects on the year and discusses plans for the future. He deleted discusses, replaced it with emphasises. Less substance, more spin.
Laughter echoed from the room next door, where the team was overheard planning the office party. A willowy woman with faded blonde hairthe PR directorpoked her head in.
“Will you come tomorrow after the morning meeting? Were not monsters, you know. People need some fun.”
“Unless theres an emergency,” said Patrick. “Though were partial to scheduled emergencies.”
She snorted and left. Patrick glanced at his screen. A message from his wife flashed in the messenger: Will you make it to Charlies Christmas play? Hes waiting for you. The reply was already half-typed: I have a broadcast, I cant, but he paused, knowing hed send it, then rewrite the governors Instagram greeting to cut out much loved. The governor didnt love his county; he loved control and silence.
Patrick didnt see himself as a villainhe was a packaging expert. People crave a fairy tale at New Year; he delivers. Instead of spreadsheets, they get a cosy story about coming together. Instead of admitting failures, he promises greater effort. The lies werent so much deceit as the grease that kept the machinery of social life from squeaking.
Hed believed thisuntil the next morning.
On New Years Eve Eve, he woke up dry-mouthed, with one phrase looping in his mind: “We’ve achieved much.” Suddenly, it sounded hollow.
His phone buzzed on the bedside table. A voice note from his wife: Youre coming today? Charlie practised his poem. He hit play, then replied:
Ill come
His throat spasmed. The word come stuck in his mouth. Patrick coughed, tried again:
I probably wont make it. Ive got work. I’ll miss it again.
He felt ashamed, but the admission was surprisingly effortless. He stopped, surprised at himself. His wife responded almost instantly:
I knew you wouldnt.
Hed expected reproach, but there was only weariness.
Twenty minutes later, Patrick was in his car, stuck in a morning traffic jam. Radio hosts chatted about pre-holiday chaos and making a list of resolutions. Then the signal cut, and every frequency filled with the same newsreaders voice:
A strange phenomenon is being reported worldwide. People are finding it impossible to make knowingly false statements. Attempts to lie may cause discomfort, cramps, impaired speech. Scientists are puzzled. Authorities recommend staying calm.
Nonsense, Patrick said aloud. Just another internet prank.
But as he added, This will blow over in a few hours, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He cursed and fell silent. Annoyance rosehe hated unexpected detours.
HQ was in chaos. Normally by late December, theyd be on autopilot: greetings, press releases, guest lists. Today, three news channels played side-by-side on the conference room screenall talking about the same strange event.
On one channel, the host tried to joke, but as he said, Its just mass hysteria, he choked and confessed, trembling, I dont know what it is, and Im scared. On another, an expert confidently began, Theres no evidence, but then admitted to reading several studies and not understanding how this was possible.
What the? The PR director trailed off, her own mouth oddly twisted as she tried to swear more gently than usual. Right. Back to work. Patrick, explain.
He wanted to say, Itll pass. We just need to wait, but instead he heard his own voice:
I dont know. If this is true, our plan falls apart.
Why? the governor asked, popping in. I recorded everything yesterday. Itll be broadcast as usual.
Yesterday, you bent the truth every other sentence, Patrick replied calmly. If this is real, playing the recording will result in you coughing your way through it on national TV.
He felt a tightening in his chest. Ordinarily, hed soften that: not quite accurate, there are allowances. Now, his tongue refused its old euphemisms.
Maybe it only happens when we speak live? the governor suggested. The recording is safe.
They played yesterdays file. The governor smiled and said, We did everything to ensure every resident felt supported by the government. As he hit everything, the video stutteredthe audio fizzedand his face twisted, as if choking. The file crashed.
Silence.
Is that editing? asked the cameraman, looking pale.
Its not editing, said Patrick. Its
He wanted to say anomaly, but his tongue chose:
Its a ban.
They stared at the frozen frame. The governor took off his glasses, rubbed his nose bridge.
So I cant claim we did everything, he said slowly, because thats not true.
Yes, said Patrick. You did some things. Sometimes well. Sometimes terribly. But not everything.
What now? the PR director whispered. Tomorrow, we go live on the national channel. People expect glitter. What do we give thema report from the Office for National Statistics?
Patrick opened his laptop. His fingers typed, Weve achieved much, but He tried deleting much and replacing it with what we could, but his hand shook. For the first time in years, he found himself unable to start with the standard line.
Lets test it, he said. Say something obviously untrue.
The governor shrugged. I love waking at six and exercising.
At love, his face contorted. He coughed, eyes watering.
I hate it, he managed. I do it sometimes because doctors insist.
Noted, Patrick murmured. Looks like its real.
The rest of the day was a scramble. Lawyers in the conference room shoutedtheir client, a major housing developer, had blurted out on local TV, We cut corners on materials to increase profits. The PR exec tried to interrupt, but when asked about corporate social responsibility, he snapped, We only care about margins. The rest is window dressing.
Screenshots from social media flew around the HQ. People commented under brand holiday messages: You laid off half your staff, You hiked prices and call it caring. The social media managers replied but couldnt use their go-to lines. Instead of, Were sorry you feel that way, they typed, We dont really care, were just following protocol. Then deleted their own posts, but screenshots circulated anyway.
This cant go on, someone in HQ said. The world doesnt work like this.
The world runs on self-delusion, said Patrick, only now realising he was seeing the machinerys guts. Without embellishments, everything starts to grate.
He wanted to add, maybe its useful, but his tongue wouldnt let him. He didnt feel certain anymore.
By lunchtime, the president appeared on the news. Facing reporters without his usual poise, when asked, Do you have the situation under control? he began, Of course, but immediately faltered, stammering, “Partially. In many respects, no.” The country held its breath.
If even he cant lie,” said the PR director, then this is serious.
Its everywhere, Patrick replied. Its not just about us.
Thats no comfort, she muttered.
By evening, they gathered in a small, windowless room. On the table lay piles of last years addresses, reports, summaries. In the corner, the TV flashed silently; an on-air mayor confessed he’d never read the budget he’d passed.
We need a new speech, said the governor. One I can actually deliver without being crucified.
You dont need a speech, Patrick replied. You need a format. If you go on as always, youll be ripped apart. If you just confess everything, theyll call you weak. We need a middle path.
Whats that? asked the PR director.
Patrick didnt know. The familiar scripts didnt work. He couldnt promise a home for every family if it wouldnt happen. Couldnt claim we wont let prices rise, when inflation had swallowed half the incomes. Couldnt even call people dear when he felt like swearing.
He looked at the governornot a monster, just a tired, lost man whod lost his language.
Lets do this, Patrick said. Ill ask questions. You answer honestly. Well build the speech from whats left.
You want me to dig my own grave? the governor joked grimly.
I want you to say something you can actually stand by, just once, said Patrick, surprised at how direct he sounded.
Fine, sighed the governor. Fire away.
Through the night, Patrick asked basic questions: What did you actually do this yearno reports, just gut feeling? What did you fail at? What scares you? What do you want for yourself next year, not for the county?
Sometimes the governor tried generic answers, but hed start coughing. So he had to be blunt:
I didnt go to the town after the crash because I was afraid of the crowds.
I dont read full reports, only summaries.
I dont believe I can fix the roads in a year.
I want to get re-elected because I’m afraid of losing status and security.
The PR director sat making notes, her face grey.
If this goes on air,” she finally said, “well be eaten alive.
If we hide it, said Patrick, well be eaten alive anyway. Just differently.
He noticed, for the first time, that he used we. Before, it had always been client and audience. Now, he felt part of the whole machine.
Close to midnight, his phone rang. His wife.
Are you coming? she asked, without greeting.
He wanted to say Ill be late, but Ill try, but couldnt.
No, he said. I wont make it. I chose worknot because its more important, just because its what I know. Im scared of not knowing what to say to you and Charlie.
Silence at her end.
Thanks for not pretending, she finally said. Charlie will recite his poem anyway. Ill record it and send it.
He hung up and stared at his laptop. The speech draft was full of raw phrases:
I didnt do much of what I promised.
I cant guarantee next year will be any easier.
Im scared too.
It wasnt a speech, it was confessionunbroadcastable.
Cant say this, the governor said, reading. Theyll switch off after thirty seconds.
Yes, Patrick agreed. Needs to be shaped.
He started reworking. Not to lie, but to structure. Replace Im scared with I understand and share your worries. Cut detail that only wounds. Keep the essence.
Every time he tried to soften the truth beyond honesty, his tongue rebelled. Words stuck, sentences broke. He had to hunt for formulations that were honest, yet not destructive.
I didnt do much of what I promised became: Not all pledges were met this year. That went down easily.
I cant guarantee next year will be easier turned into: I cant promise the year will be simple, but I wont pretend there are no problems. That worked.
Step by step, they built a new address. Not heroic, not penitentialjust awkwardly human.
Its odd, the governor said after another read-through. I feel exposed.
At least youre breathing freely, Patrick replied. Maybe they will too.
On the morning of the thirty-first, the whole town felt like a strange experiment. Shop clerks openly complained about crowds. Customers admitted buying extra cake out of loneliness. Taxi drivers shared how many times theyd broken speed limits getting home.
At HQ, phones went crazy. Whitehall called: Do you realise what your governor is about to say live? Are you checking the text? Patrick answered honestly:
Were checkingto an extent. He might go off-script. Weve done our best to avoid outright lies.
All, this time, slipped out smoothly. He really had done all he could that night.
PR director smoked nervously by the window.
If this works, she said, well be paraded around as the new sincerity at every seminar. If it flops
Well be sacked, Patrick finished. Could be worse.
He thought of all the times things had gone worse in his life, and, surprisingly, his tongue didnt resist. Maybe it was true.
An hour before air, they went to the studio. This time, no Westminster backdrop. They filmed in the real governors officesmall tree, stack of documents on the desk.
We could at least tidy those up, the cameraman suggested.
Leave them, said Patrick. Let them show.
The governor sat, fixed his tie, looked at the camera and at Patrick.
If I start spouting nonsense, will you stop me? he asked.
I cant, Patrick replied honestly. My tongue doesnt cooperate either.
The director counted: Three, two, one. The red light glowed.
The governor breathed in.
“Good evening,” he said. “I won’t pretend this year was easy. It was difficultfor many of you and for me.”
Patrick held his breath. The words landed. The speech walked a tense tightrope.
I didnt deliver on many of my promises, the governor continued. We made mistakes, missed deadlines, feared tough choices. You see it, you feel it.
Someone muttered in the control room. PR director closed her eyes.
I won’t promise that problems will vanish next year, said the governor. But I can promise I wont pretend they arent there. Ill speak honestly, even if it’s uncomfortable for us both.
He wasnt perfecthe stumbled, hunted for words, glanced at his notes, but avoided stock phrases. Instead of “We made significant progress,” he said, We took some important steps, but its not enough. Instead of each and every one of youmany of you. Rather than Im proud of every citizenIm grateful to those who persevered.
At the end, he broke from the script.
I need to say something personal, he managed. I often didnt visit places where people wanted me, because I was frightened to face you. I wont promise I’m transformed overnight, but I acknowledge things can’t go on like this.
A chill ran down Patricks spine. That line wasnt in the text, but it came out freely; so it must have been true.
Happy New Year, the governor concluded. Let it be a bit more honest.
The red light went out. Silence hung over the studio.
Well, that’s it, said the PR director. Weve been devoured.
Lets wait, replied Patrick.
Reaction wasnt jubilant or furiousjust mixed.
On social media, some wrote, Same words, well judge the actions. Others noted, At least he didnt spin fairy tales. Some complained, We know things are badwhy spoil New Year with this? Others thanked him for not trying to paint a pretty picture.
News pundits argued. Some called it a worrying precedent, others, a sign of new public expectations. Some said it was all PR, but as soon as they tried to say It was all planned, they stammered.
HQ was oddly quiet. No back-slapping or congratulations. Everyone sat in corners scrolling feeds.
We havent been sacked, PR director said, phone in hand. The centre messaged brave. Then added, Well analyse as an example. I don’t know if that’s praise or threat.
Both, said Patrick.
The exhaustion wasnt just sleeplessness. It felt as if hed had to relearn how to speak.
His phone buzzed. Wife had sent a video. Charlie stood on a nursery stool, reciting a poem about the Christmas tree. At the end, he faltered, glanced at the camera and said:
Dad didnt come again, but Ill say it anyway.
Patrick watched, and, without justifying, recognised: yes, thats true.
He replied: Im sorry. I dont know how to fix it, but I want to try. His fingers trembled, but his tongue didnt fight him. That was honest.
His wife answered briefly: Well see.
The night passed half-awake. Outside, real fireworks poppednot the digital ones Patrick usually edited. Around the city, people shouted greetings out their windowsbut also said, Ive loved you for years, or I’m only with you because Im scared to be alone. Perhaps marriages collapsed, honest conversations started, ones delayed for years.
Patrick lay on the sofa in his empty flat, thinking: his profession was built on nuanced bending of reality. Not breaking it, but bending to fit the brief. Now this skill was in question. If the world demanded straight talk, hed have to master a new craft.
He didnt know if he wanted that. He liked controlloved a phrase landing perfectly. Honesty was far too unpredictable.
Some time near dawn, he drifted into sleep.
He woke to his phone buzzing on the table. Dawn was breaking, his head ached.
Dozens of notifications: staff chats, news bulletins, personal messages. He opened the first.
Looks like its over, wrote the PR director. I just told my child their drawing was beautifuleven though it was dreadfuland nothing happened. Try yourself.
Patrick sat at the edge of the sofa. Tried saying aloud:
Id be delighted to visit my mother-in-law today.
No cramp. The old, comfortable white lie slipped outlike muscle memory. The anomaly had gone.
He felt relief and a touch of loss. Like the lights dimming just as his eyes adjusted.
Phone buzzed again. This time, the deputy governor.
Patrick, morning! Bright voice, as if last night never happened. That speechs gone viral. The centre called it the new level of trust. We have an offer for you.
What kind? he asked.
We want you to package this honesty. Make it our brand. Like, Our governor is the most transparent. Slogans, videosthe works. People love it. Just imagine: We wont lie to youwere with you. Youre good at this. Can you manage?
Patrick stayed silent. Ideas already flickeredlogos, hashtags, campaigns. He knew exactly how: take something real, format it, productise it. Something you could market.
You still there? pressed the deputy. We need to act quickstrike while its hot.
He wanted to say, Of course, well do it, but his tongue caught, ever so slightly. Not the barrier of yesterday, but a faint friction.
He remembered the governors words: I wont pretend. He pictured Charlies look as he finished his poem. His own message: Im sorry.
I can do it, he said slowly. Its straightforward. But whether I want to thats another question.
Laughter down the line.
Oh, dont start, mate. We all lost our marbles a bit yesterday, but the holidays over. Back to work. You live for this.
I do it for pay, Patrick thought. Living for it wouldve been a lie. But his tongue chose a third path:
I did it because it was all Id ever known. Now Im not sure I want to continue just the same way.
A pause.
What, are you going to turn preacher? the deputy smirked. Dont be daft. Look, think it over a few hours. But remember, if not you, well get someone else. Honestys a commodity now. We need it presented right.
Call ended.
Patrick set his phone down, wandered to the kitchen, put the kettle on. Thoughts whirled, not resolving into any plan. He knew one thing: he couldnt slide back into effortless lying. Not because it was impossible, but because now, every time he smoothed an edge, hed recall what it sounded like stripped bare.
He poured his tea, leaned on the windowsill, gazing outside. Snow, rubbish by the door, an old mutt scavenging in a carrier bag. Nothing festive about it.
His phone vibrated. This time, a message from his wife: Were going for a walk. If you want, join us. No promises.
He typed a reply, deleted it. Then wrote:
Ill come if I can. No promises. But I want to.
No protest from his tongue. It was an honest expression of his uncertainty.
He sent the message and returned to his phone, where staff chats and urgent new emails waited. The job hadnt vanished. The world hadnt gotten better or worse. It had simply bared itself for a day, then put the masks back on.
Patrick sat at his desk, opened his laptop, started a new file. Up top, he typed: Honest Communication Strategy. Then, in brackets: As truthful as possible.
He smiled at the disclaimer. Something inside him shifteda small change, not a revolution.
He had no idea what hed write, whether hed accept the offer, or go for a walk with his family. He didnt know who hed be next year. But he was certain: he could no longer treat lies as harmless tools. Every time he tried to bend the truth, somewhere inside, hed hear yesterdays raspy voice: I didnt deliver much of what I promised.
He closed his eyes, took a breath, and typed the first few lines.
Outside, leftover fireworks fizzed, and the news was already debating the phenomenal twenty-four hours of honesty and speculating how to monetise it in politics and business. The world rushed to turn the experience into another asset.
Patrick typed slowly, choosing words as though every one carried not just an agenda, but responsibility. Not a saint, not a whistle-blower. Just a man who, one New Years Eve, lost the ability to lieand realised hed never forget how that felt.
