The Good Liar (3 page)

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Stephen, meanwhile, is running late. Story of his life. He has promised to deliver some books to Betty and then he must be back for a

meeting with Gerald at six that is sure to be gruelling. He can predict the questions: Everything on track? All the corners covered? All the boxes ticked? Let’s just sit down and make doubly sure, shall we?

This project is pretty damned important, after all.

To be honest, the questions are pertinent and Stephen requires

supervision. This, not Gerald, is what troubles Stephen. Gerald is all right, though he does revel somewhat in his position. The fundamental issue is, though, that Stephen does not know whether

everything is on track. He can’t see the track, let alone the corners.

He hasn’t yet worked out what the boxes are that need to be ticked.

This thing seems to have a life of its own.

Project management is not Stephen’s thing. Management isn’t

his thing. Purpose, mental exertion, careful research, the joy of

winkling out new facts that change the terrain, a sense of creating something worthwhile, these are the important things, not dry process. Gerald is a necessary evil, he supposes. What would he do

without him?

He finds the alleyway between the chemist’s and the estate

agent’s that connects the new town with the old and hastens up it

from standard issue high street to centuries- old cobblestones and the Green. The clock is chiming the half- hour somewhere behind

the screen of oaks whose leaves rustle in the breeze and dapple the sunlight, casting undulating light and shade over the fine verdant

carpet.

It is a gorgeous day in England, one of few so far this summer.

The sun is high in a blue sky and pristine white powder- puff clouds skim on the breeze. Children swarm busily from their daily endeavours, the adrenalin of release fuelling their exuberance. At a distance their uniforms look neat and tidy but as he approaches he can see

that the demands of the day, as well as sundry attempts to declaim

individuality, have taken their toll. Blazers are tossed on shoulders, shirts are crumpled and grubby, shoes are scuffed. And there is the smell of schoolchildren, their sweat and urine and dirt intermingled with heavy- duty synthetic fabrics and that odd faint reek that seeps 13

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from the institution itself, combining the almost metallic smell of cleaning fluid and polish with the aroma of dusty wooded age exuding from its parquet floors and the august panelling of the main hall.

There is a cheeriness about the children that bolsters his opti-

mism. He passes through the melee of boys and behind them are

the various phalanxes of girls, more cliquey, quieter, more guarded.

Older in fact, and more self- aware.

Stephen is careful to be careful about the way he regards the girls, for he knows of the suspicion of every male that must reside in each female heart these days. Was it ever so? He does not know but cannot risk his look being mistaken for a leer.

He is interested in the phenomenon of youth, though not quite

sure why. It could be simple curiosity about the human condition,

piqued by these young things in that phase of growing, as they

observe, mimic, experiment, revise, adapt and finally begin to

achieve identity. Perhaps it is because he himself has not yet com-

pleted that final phase, despite pushing thirty.

Across the Green he sees a young girl, maybe fourteen, walking

on her own, gawky, uncertain, meaninglessly defiant. Her skirt is

short, her eyes blackened, her chin juts with attitude, yet she is just a child and in her eyes he sees fear. Her affectation provokes a series of emotions: a flood of something he can only think of as love, an

acknowledgement of her vulnerability and a desire, despite his

powerlessness to do so and the absurdity of the proposition, to protect. He examines his motives, searching for the shadow of lust

contorted into more palatable expressions. He can honestly say that it does not lurk, but it is interesting that he needs to check.

And then he sees him, in Betty’s chair by the window. Roy, who

has been living at Betty’s for two months now. Those lizard eyes are fixed on this girl, acquisitive, hungry. She continues to walk, oblivious as she composes a text. As she passes Stephen, Roy sees him and their eyes lock. Inside a second Roy’s expression changes from incredulity to hostility and finally to the sad old man harmlessly passing his days looking out on the world. Roy smiles experimentally and

Stephen returns the smile, waving diffidently. He thinks: I know

you. However much I dislike you.

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2

‘I’d be very careful if I were you,’ says Roy when Stephen enters the room.

‘Sorry?’ says Stephen.

‘I said you want to be careful,’ repeats Roy, jerking his head the-

atrically towards the window.

Stephen frowns in puzzlement, opens his mouth to say some-

thing, but thinks better of it. Roy’s eyes are on his face.

He says, ‘Cup of tea?’

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ replies Roy, leaning back in his chair again.

When Stephen has brought the mugs of tea – terracotta- strong

with three sugars for Roy, milky- white with none for himself – Roy resumes.

He says, ‘Can’t be too careful.’

The words hang in the air for a moment.

‘Er, yes,’ says Stephen finally. ‘Pardon?’

Away with the fairies, thinks Roy. Mind off somewhere else.

Hopeless. All over the place. Typical academic.

‘Misunderstandings,’ he says.

‘Oh, yes,’ says Stephen, inattentive, smiling weakly. ‘Yes.’

‘Don’t patronize me, son.’

Stephen stares at him blankly and says nothing.

‘Betty not around?’ he comes up with finally.

Roy backs off. Like being cruel to a puppy. Not, necessarily, that

that would stop him. But Stephen bores him. Unlikely to be any

sport there. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Out meeting a friend for tea.’

‘Oh, right. Any idea when she’ll be back?’

‘Oh no. She’s a law to herself, that one.’ Roy chuckles. ‘I’m not

her keeper.’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘You in a hurry? You seem distracted.’

‘A lot on at the moment. I just dropped by with these books I

promised Betty.’ He holds out the orange carrier bag as evidence.

‘She said she’d like to borrow them.’

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‘Oh yes,’ says Roy, looking at him steadily.

Stephen places himself on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward,

elbows on thighs, jacket still on despite the heat, ready to leave.

After a pause Roy asks, ‘Your work going OK?’

‘Fine,’ replies Stephen. ‘It’s going well. I’m on my way to a meet-

ing with my supervisor, actually.’

‘Hard taskmaster ,is he?’

‘He’s all right, Gerald. Keeps me on the straight and narrow. I

need that.’

‘I can see that,’ says Roy, and they fall silent.

‘What is it exactly you’re studying?’

‘The Jacobite Rebellion,’ says Stephen eagerly. ‘Specifically John

Graham, his role in the instigation of the movement and his influ-

ence on the Fifteen and the Forty- Five.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s a pivotal period in our history, with the Hanoverian succession and the struggle between Scottish Catholicism and Presbyterianism.’

‘Very interesting I’m sure. I never was one for history. Not the

academic type. What’s the point of looking back? I ask myself.

What’s done is done in my humble opinion. You’ll never undo it.’

‘But you may begin to understand it.’

‘Oh yes. I suppose so. I don’t mean to knock it,’ says Roy. ‘I bow

to your greater knowledge. Just not for me, that’s all. All that living in the past.’

The clock ticks, measuring the distance between them.

‘Oh well,’ says Roy, ‘each to his own.’

‘I’d better be getting on,’ says Stephen. ‘I said I’d be at Gerald’s by six.’

‘ Righty- ho,’ says Roy, and turns to the window again. In his head Stephen has already left.

3

The beginning of autumn, as is customary after a summer whose

occasional promise failed to materialize, is perversely fine and

warm.

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Roy ventures out for a stroll, to get out of the house. Betty has

commenced her fussy cleaning routine. The racket of the vacuum

cleaner and the disruption of his having to move his feet while trying to sit in peace with the newspaper are usually enough to stir him.

She picks up items, sprays, dusts and tidies away the detritus of his existence, splashes water in invisible places and flushes the lavatory, all the while humming with tunelessness and cheerfulness in equal

measure. He cannot bear a repeat of the excruciating mini- lecture on the toilet habits of ‘little boys’ to which she once subjected him.

He felt almost sorry for her, she was so embarrassed, poor thing.

So he has mumbled that he will get out from under her feet and

leave her in peace, and now shuffles his way across the cobblestones in shambling discomfort. Only once he is out of sight of the house

will he be able to pick up his feet and quicken his pace.

It is a real effort, but a necessary one, to convey this message of infirmity. It has demanded thought, planning and occasional

self- denial to suppress that reflex urge to vigour. But this way is in his interests, and Betty’s too. They know their places. Betty is far better off contentedly managing the household and its quirks, preparing his meals and keeping everything sanitary. This is what he

has aimed for.

For the moment. His ambitions range somewhat more adventur-

ously than simply securing the ease of someone else catering to his needs. It’s a neat trick to pull, to be sure, but he also wants one last punt, one final heart- stopping session at the roulette table. And he thinks Betty is the one to enable it. The cessation of purposeful

activity rankles, and Betty can – inadvertently of course – help him scratch the itch. There will be a series of delicate balances to manage. That is his forte, he thinks fondly.

He is now some distance from the house and nearing the dark

passageway that gives on to the pedestrian area. He feels it is safe to move faster. But just as he does so he finds he has to slow again. His heart is pounding, he is breathless and he feels vaguely nauseous

and faint. He reflects that perhaps he is not in the tip- top condition he likes to imagine. He is no longer of an age for bravado. He tot-ters on, somewhat disorientated.

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In the Little Venice Coffee Shop he orders a cafetière and a slice

of chocolate cake smothered in cream. This is his haven. He has few indulgences, but decent coffee is one. Not many places in England,

let alone in this small cathedral city lying nicely out of sight and out of mind in the Wiltshire wilderness, have the competence to purchase good Arabica beans and produce something palatable from

them. This is one, and it has the gentility of good service too, solicitous but with a spine of efficiency. When the coffee arrives he sighs, closes his eyes and breathes the aroma. If he suspends disbelief

sufficiently he can imagine that he is sitting in a cafe in Vienna or in a well- upholstered
Konditorei
in some bourgeois, complacent German town. All German towns are of course bourgeois and

complacent, he thinks. He can imagine, but only briefly, and is soon brought back to dog- shit England. Maybe sixty years ago, he thinks; more like seventy, and the rest. He unfolds his newspaper and is at peace.

At last he has gone out. It seems the only way to rouse him from

that seat in the afternoon is to start to clean. She occasionally has to resort to leaving the house, for fictitious tea with fictitious

friends, or an imaginary shopping errand, so that she can compose

herself, bring her heart back to near normal and find the right face again.

He has his routine. He rises earlier than she does. Occasionally

she is woken by his movements as early as six, as he clatters in the kitchen preparing his cup of tea. Then, after an hour or so, she hears him slide across the floor and clump slowly up the stairs. He remains in bed for a further two or three hours before reappearing.

This is a good thing, since it provides her the opportunity to start her day at leisure. She can go into the small bathroom and, while

she is running her bath, clean the toilet and the area of vinyl floor around it. At the outset this task made her gag. How could one elderly man spray his urine so indiscriminately across the surfaces yet apparently be so oblivious? But she has become inured to it. Roy has proved impervious to her requests to develop strategies that either 18

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deal with the problem after the event or avoid it altogether. He

simply looks at her uncomprehendingly and says nothing.

Still, this is a small price to pay in the greater scheme of things, she tells herself, as is the full range of his idiosyncrasies. Though the idiosyncrasies – altogether too pleasant a term, she thinks – are accumulating into a tidy stack, she continues to put up with them

for the longer- term benefit.

She will bathe and take a leisurely breakfast before Roy reap-

pears, having shaved. He will sometimes have laid waste the

bathroom once more with his ablutions. She knows to ensure that