The Lying Tongue (31 page)

Dear Mum,

I don’t know how to say this. It’s about Dad. Do you remember that Guy Fawkes night all those years ago? Stupid question, of course you do. It’s probably branded into your memory just as much as it is into mine. It was all my fault.

Earlier that day I watched from outside his classroom as he failed to control his pupils. I seized my opportunity and ran to the loos, where I wrote a note and slipped it under the headmaster’s door. I know it was an awful thing to do, but at the time I thought it would be for the best. Dad might lose his job, but he’d get another one, and I’d move schools, to a place where I wouldn’t be afraid to open my mouth.

I couldn’t go without telling you that. Sorry. But that’s not why I’m doing this.

I’m not sure when it started to go wrong—probably soon after I dropped out of university. I know you were set against me leaving the course, but Gordon really did think that I had a future as a writer. He looked at my work—a few short stories and character sketches—and proclaimed it good, fine writing, almost ready for publication. But what I needed to do, he said, was channel my energies into a novel. Most first novels, he said, were really nothing more than thinly disguised autobiographies, but there was nothing wrong with that, and so we decided that the best thing to do was to start off with something close to my heart, something I felt was true.

So I started to look through my old diary. That was the hardest thing, I can tell you, reading things I had written years back.

Gordon suggested trying to relive some of my memories, ones perhaps I’d recorded already in my journal, and write down what I felt. He said I could take one incident—for instance, my first day at Winterborne—and then try and write about it over and over again, each time from a different perspective or using different vocabulary. It was incredibly stimulating and it really seemed to work. Some days, if I got really stuck, which was quite often, he told me just to talk. According to him, speaking about an experience was sometimes enough to kick-start the unconscious into processing it into a form ready for expression on the page. Occasionally, Gordon would take notes. “Why are you bothering to write all this down?” I’d say. “Just for the record, that’s all. You never know when you might need it,” he’d reply.

Gordon, of course, did not actually need to write another book after the success of
The Debating Society
, yet every morning he went into his study and emerged at 12:30, confident that he had written his allotted words for that day. He was so self-assured. My production was far from steady, however. Most days, I have to confess, my “writing” consisted of nothing more than looking through my diary and writing out, over and over again, scenes I’d already recorded in my journal. Whenever I tried to tell Gordon about my worries, he insisted that I was doing splendidly. Just as long as I was working every day, that was the most important thing. I was instilling a sense of creative discipline, which was essential in any writer. He told me not to worry too much about narrative or plot, as that would come with the development of character; rather, I should try and capture the experience of living—consciousness, he called it.

I’m not sure how best to tell you what happened next. But I don’t want you to do anything to hurt or damage Gordon above and beyond what I ask of you. The last thing I want, believe me, is you being dragged into all of this. I couldn’t bear it if I knew that was going to happen.

It started with little things, a sense that Gordon was preoccupied, anxious. He had a faraway look in his eyes that worried me. Whenever I tried to ask him whether he was all right or tell him how I thought he seemed a little distant, he said it was nothing more than problems with his book. But then Gordon started to disappear in the afternoons. He said he was going for a stroll, to get some fresh air. The first time he did this, I went to get my coat, and he told me he needed time alone, to think. Writer’s block, he said. I helped myself to a large whiskey and soda that afternoon. I’d already had a couple that morning—Gordon said the drink might help me relax, might encourage me to write—and soon it became a regular fixture, as normal as a cup of coffee first thing or a bite to eat at lunchtime. It wasn’t a problem. Both of us could carry it. In fact, I’m having a drink while I write this and I can hardly feel its effects.

Anyway, Gordon’s strolls shifted from afternoons to late at night, walks that seemed to last a few hours. And then there were the mysterious telephone calls, callers who would hang up whenever I picked up the receiver. I didn’t tell you any of this before because I didn’t want to worry you. And I thought it would all blow over. Writers are supposed to be temperamental souls, after all, aren’t they? As you know, I’ve always respected Gordon’s privacy. He was always a little funny about his so-called sacred spaces. We used to laugh about it. But I prided myself on the fact that he could trust me. I wish now he hadn’t. I wish he had regarded me as no better than a common snoop. Perhaps things would have been different.

It’s hard for me to admit this to you, but you have probably guessed by now that I suspected him of seeing someone else. I’d heard a few things said about him, but

I’d never believed them. Nothing more than bitchy comments by jealous types. Gordon wouldn’t stoop to such a level. But then why did he keep spending so much time away from me? He stopped talking to me, but whenever I tried to question him, he told me to stop being so pathetic and hysterical. I tried to leave him once, I really did. I was going to come home to you. But he told me that he needed me, that he loved me, that he’d never be able to write without me. He started to cry like a little boy. I found that I couldn’t do it.

I did not want to give in to the temptation to search his things. It just wouldn’t be right. But last night was different. That’s when it all changed. I hate him now for making me do that. But I hate myself more.

At about ten o’clock Gordon came into the sitting room from his study and announced that he was going out. I asked him where, but he responded, as usual, with the words, “For a walk.” He said it in such a way as if it was perfectly normal, as if I was the odd one for questioning him. I probably made a bit of a scene, I’ll admit that much, but what else was I to do? He stormed out, and that’s when I told myself I was going to find out about his little walks. I went into the bedroom and started to look through his things in the wardrobe, tossing jackets and ties and trousers all over the place. I found a couple of tickets to an exhibition, some matches from a restaurant—places I was sure I’d never been to—and a handkerchief stinking of cheap aftershave, but nothing that gave me a clue to his strange behavior. What if the rumors had been right? No, I refused to believe it.

I’d never been inside his study—it was, he had said many, many times, completely out of bounds—but as I stood outside the door, I felt that if I just had a quick look inside, I would discover, once and for all, the reason why he was behaving so oddly. I almost convinced myself that I was going to do something that was, in a way, quite noble. After all, if I discovered nothing amiss, then Gordon had been telling me the truth all along, that he loved me and no one else.

I pushed open the door, tentatively, almost afraid that I would see him there sitting in his chair by his desk. But, of course, there was no one there. I quickly set to work, searching through the pockets of his corduroy jacket that hung over the back of the chair and then his desk. I suddenly felt shoddy, dirty, and very, very stupid,
and I was about to give the whole thing up and pour myself another large drink when I opened the bottom drawer. Underneath a pile of old newspapers and magazines there were two boxes of typing paper. I don’t know what made me think of opening them; perhaps it was the way they were covered by all that newsprint, as if they were being deliberately hidden away. I put the newspapers to one side and lifted the first box. It was quite heavy. I eased open the top of the box and inside was a manuscript.

On the front page, in bold capital letters, were the words
THE MUSIC TEACHER
, followed by Gordon’s name. I can’t tell you the feeling of dread that came over me. I wanted to die there and then. The second box contained a carbon copy. As I flicked through the manuscript, familiar phrases jumped out at me; there were sentences I could complete without even having to read to the end. It was all about a boy—me—and his relationship with his father, a music teacher and organist at a minor public school who suffers from depression. Of course, I didn’t need to read its final pages to know what happened, but there it all was—a climax in which the man blows his brains out on Bonfire Night.

As I looked at these final pages, I heard the front door click. I didn’t bother to move. I didn’t care what happened to me anymore. Gordon came in, found me in his study and started screaming and shouting, but I remained deathly calm as I showed him what I had found in his bottom drawer. He couldn’t deny it, of course. But when I asked him what he was playing at, using my story in this way, he turned on me. He told me that I

would have to face up to facts, that I would never be a writer, that I just didn’t have it in me. Someone may as well use the material, he said, as I was plainly not going to do anything with it. I tried to tell him that this was
my
experience, that these were
my
words, but he wouldn’t let me speak. He was just drawing on the life around him, he said. He was a writer, a published writer, and writers take other people’s lives. I was nothing more than an amateur.

I told him I couldn’t go on. That I didn’t care anymore, I wanted to end it all. Then, stupidly, I told him I still loved him. He brushed me off and stormed out of the room. He came back with a couple of packets of sleeping pills. He’d had enough of me, he said. Just do the decent thing, he said. Try not to leave a mess. Then I heard the slamming of the door. I haven’t seen him since.

I don’t want to write any more. Like I said, I can’t. I haven’t much time left. With this letter you should find the carbon copy of Gordon’s book, which should, I hope, now never see the light of day. It will be dead, like me.

I’m leaving Gordon a note telling him what I have done, as well as one that should satisfy the police. If Gordon ever does try to take his book further, all you need do is show him or his publishers this letter, together with my diary, which I’m sending you as well and which will tell you in more detail what happened on that Bonfire Night. I hope you will be able to forgive me. If Gordon agrees not to publish his novel, please don’t say anything. I don’t want any fuss.

Your loving son,

Chris