The Good Liar (5 page)

dow as from a leaden sky snow falls in clumpy flakes too heavy

almost for their intricate fragility. There is a feeling indoors of cosi-ness, of protection from cold and misery in this warm centuries- old mews cottage. Perhaps it is another facet of age, she fancies: a

greater comfort with the season of winter and its imposed seden-

tary inwardnesses and reliance on such protections as fluffed- up

duvets, strong stone buildings and roaring fires.

Yet she knows this to be counter- rational. In the summer you

may at least sit out your dotage on the small patch of lawn under

the lilac tree, drink a cup of tea and read a book. You may pretend for a moment that the ageing isn’t happening. It is winter that brings arthritis, the inability to venture far, the seclusion that imprison-ment at home denotes, the reinforcement of helplessness and

uselessness. And she knows that despite the impression of cosy,

tucked- up warmth, she may be anything but safe. The wolf lurks,

yet his tune is siren- like. She must keep her wits about her.

Christmas has come and gone, a miserable non- event under

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sodden skies. Still, it was probably better all round that they were on their own. Roy’s present to her was a box of supermarket chocolates, the upmarket range admittedly. He accepted the sheepskin

coat she bought him with muted thanks but no embarrassment.

They ate Christmas dinner in silence and watched television while

Roy drank and snored. No walks in the rain. No giggling. No silly

games. No friends by the fireside. No family. These are the sacrifices she has chosen to make.

In the evening, while Roy dozed on, she spoke with Stephen by

telephone. He was solicitous and concerned, and quietly stricken.

Call it off, she could hear him uttering wordlessly down the line in the interstices of their conversation. Call it off. But she knows she will not, cannot.

She sits now at the kitchen table, her laptop unfolded before her,

while Roy watches the television at something approaching full vol-

ume. The neighbours have complained repeatedly but Roy is hard

of hearing and stubborn.

‘Shall I get you some more of your ready meals?’ she shouts

through, but he cannot hear. She goes into the living room and

repeats her question. He makes an effort to disguise his annoyance

and reduces the volume.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’

‘Are you sure?’ she persists. ‘It seems hardly likely we’ll be able to get to the shops in the next few days.’

‘Oh, all right, then. A couple.’

‘I don’t know what we’d do without online supermarkets.’

‘No,’ he says, and is already turning back to the screen.

‘In fact I don’t know what we’d do without the internet.’

‘No.’

‘You’ve never wanted to use it?’

‘Oh no,’ he chortles, and for a moment suspends his tetchiness.

‘Don’t trust those things. Wouldn’t know where to start. You’re

braver than me, I must say.’

‘I don’t know. It’s not that difficult. I could show you.’

‘No thank you,’ he replies firmly. ‘I’m stuck in my ways. They’ve

always done for me.’

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There is a pause filled with the Technicolor flashes of the

television.

‘But how did you find me?’ she asks with innocent curiosity.

‘Eh?’ he says, irritation simmering again.

‘The internet. We met via the internet.’

He glares at her for a moment, as if she has accused him of infi-

delity. Then he says, lightening perceptibly, ‘One of the neighbours.

Nice lad. He’s hot on all that stuff. I began by using the newspaper.

No, he said, that’s not the way to do it. Sat me down and took me

through it. I’d sit in his flat and he’d press all the buttons. Like magic.

But not for me. Can’t teach this old dog new tricks.’

He smiles and begins to turn back to the television.

Oh well, in for a penny, she thinks.

‘Roy,’ she says experimentally. She does not know why she has

landed on what she is about to say. Possibly the mention of his old ways.

‘Yes,’ he says, still – just – with her.

‘You never talk about your past,’ she says gently.

‘Oh, I believe what’s done is done. No point in harking back,’ he

says with an air of finality.

‘But there must be so many things you could tell me. So many

memories. I’d be interested. I can imagine you have a history.’

‘Oh, at our age you’re bound to have a history,’ he says, maintain-

ing his good humour, then the smile fades. ‘But you wouldn’t be

interested in anything I’d have to say. My life’s been pretty boring.’

‘I find that hard to believe. What I find boring is the sound of my own voice wittering on with all of my stories.’

He says nothing and his attention is being drawn by the bright

lights on the screen.

‘And you have no mementoes,’ she says. ‘No photos. Why’s

that?’

‘I did have,’ he says wistfully. ‘Used to keep them in an old suit-

case. All those memories. But then there was a house fire in the 90s.

All lost. All gone.’

He looks up sadly.

‘Tell me about it, Roy,’ she says softly.

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‘No,’ he replies, almost brusquely. ‘Too painful. All gone. All lost.

No point raking over the past. I live for the now, for us and our

future.’

He is lost, again, to her. She leaves him to attempt to pick up the threads of his hospital drama and returns to the kitchen to complete the supermarket order. The snow continues to fall.

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London Pride

1

They were gathered here, these brothers in arms, for the purpose of celebrating another glorious victory. Apart from Vincent, for whom

Roy had other uses. None was aware, except Vincent, that this was

Roy’s sign- off. Or kiss- off might have been a more appropriate

expression. Nor were the others aware that, strictly speaking, a celebration wasn’t really quite the thing. Glorious wasn’t the right word either, any more than victory. For them at least. In fact they should be drowning their sorrows, little though they knew it. But they need not worry their greedy little heads about that now. All in good time.

They sat at a window table and watched the Thames sparkle in

the sun. There was the usual commotion of river traffic. The pun-

gency of the river, wide and metropolitan, mingled with diesel

fumes and the hoppy aroma of their beer. London Pride. It could

not get more English, Roy thought. These were the best of times;

this smiling bunch were in their prime. The elation of triumph,

however illusory. The boys weren’t to know. A few beers. Cigars all round. A sunny day by the Embankment watching the world go by

and getting pissed. These were the days that, shortly, would be over for him.

He looked at them with affection and a practised air of noncha-

lance. They were sharp, these boys, but none was as spry as he was.

They wouldn’t catch him out. He had been there and he had done

most of it. Vincent: now he really did have something about him, as well as the letters after his name. Which is why Roy had selected

him to be his partner on the final part of this navigation. With all the right checks and balances, of course. Perhaps they would have

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their own private celebration afterwards, the two of them. He

doubted it: Vincent was too serious and, bluntly, Roy was beyond all that.

This motley crew had seemingly formed organically, as if by

osmosis, over the years, but in fact Roy had assembled them with

painstaking care. Dave was at the bar getting the next round in,

while fat Bernie launched yet another telegraphed ribald joke on to the table. Watchful Welsh Bryn, Jones the Eyes, did what he did: he observed, though he too was already two sheets to the wind and

cracked a smile. Martin, suave and mustachioed, was in tears with

laughter. Tomorrow they would all wake up and ask themselves:

why on earth did we think that joke of Bernie’s was so funny? Oh,

but we laughed.

‘Where’s that cunt Dave got to?’ boomed Bernie, and Martin

winced, amused.

Roy had known Martin the longest, had fished him out of the

gutter it must have been twenty- five years before. Martin was not bright but he knew the bounds of his limited intelligence, as well as what he was good at. The son of an army colonel and the product

of a prematurely terminated public school education, Martin could

start a conversation from nothing and keep it going almost indefin-

itely, exuding empathy and understanding. He was what they called

a people person and with his wonderful modulated tones, lovely

manners and cut- glass accent he was infinitely credible, however

little he knew about the subject at hand. He was biddable, nerveless and ready to be deployed in the trickiest of situations.

‘Oh, here he is,’ continued Bernie, as Dave, every inch the cheer-

ful ex- copper, approached holding a tray laden with pints, smiling as he dispensed splashes of bitter over the seated customers between

whom he weaved in size fourteen boots. Roy could well imagine

Dave, uniformed up in dark blue serge, helmeted, red- faced, as the laughing policeman. ‘And that fucking bastard Vinny. How come

he’s not here? What did you say again?’

They turned to Roy. Patiently, above the din, he explained.

‘Vinny’s down in Sevenoaks tidying up.’ The office in Sevenoaks

had been their base for the last three months. ‘He’s the only one

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who didn’t meet the . . . clients.’ At this word the assembled party chuckled. ‘The chances of that bunch turning up down there are

minimal, but it behoves us to be careful.’ Sage nods all round.

It was in fact Vincent’s nephew, Barry, who had earned a sly

£200 to go down to Sevenoaks in his overalls, unscrew the brass

nameplate, wash down all the surfaces inside and clear out all traces of their existence. But that was part of another story, yet to reach its piquant denouement.

They drank to absent friends, by which they meant Vinny, and

discussed the latest model Range Rovers that they were thinking of

buying. They did not touch on their personal lives, their wives or

mistresses or children, or their homes. If questioned, they were just mates who met up for a drink and a laugh every so often. Roy presumed that each lived somewhere within the bounds of the M25 but

outside the mighty city itself, in that mangled no- man’ s- land of sub-urbanized villages and towns, industrial wasteland, clusters of

prefabricated metal DIY superstores and carpet warehouses. He

assumed the others had carved out a small slice of grand comfort in the orbital motorway’s ambit, a green and pleasant acre or three

topped off by a modest mansion and protected by fences, cameras

and on- call 24/7 security.

For Roy, things were somewhat different. He lived alone in a

modest flat in Beckenham. His earnings were stockpiled, awaiting

the next step. The next leap, indeed.

Roy felt the left side of his chest tingle pleasurably, just on the nipple. This was what he had been waiting for with quiet inner

anticipation. In this din others would not have noticed his mobile

phone, on silent, vibrating in the pocket of his shirt. He let it buzz and shortly it stopped. He took a calm swig of beer and said, ‘Off to the Gents, lads. Got to point Percy at the porcelain. Could be a

while. You know me and my bladder.’

He stood and affected a drunken shamble towards the lavatory.

Once inside he took a small bottle of mouthwash from his jacket

pocket and gargled, splashed a little eau de cologne on his face,

straightened his tie and combed back his distinguished white hair.

He looked in the mirror and saw a bold, forceful man. He felt a

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frisson of excitement. This is what it’s all about, he thought. He

smiled to himself and left the toilet by the other door, the one close by the exit. Outside, allowing his eyes no more than a moment to

adjust to the sunlight, he crossed the road briskly, straight and true, to the bank opposite. He had chosen his ground carefully.

Inside he was met by a smiling Vincent and shook hands with the

business manager. He was ushered into a private office. He looked

at his watch and explained apologetically that he had only a few

minutes before he needed to be on his way to his next meeting. Politicians, he said, with a self- deprecating, rueful smile and a raise of the eyebrows. Ministers! No problem, sir, no problem, purred the

manager; everything is ready for your signature.

Coffee was offered and politely declined. The documents were

laid before Roy and he read them carefully, double- checking the

numbers, though he knew well only a few hundred pounds would

be left in the account after this transaction. Any two of the compa-ny’s board could authorize payments, save the company secretary,

Vincent. An oddity and an inconvenience, but one on which Vin-

cent had insisted to ensure total propriety when they had all