The Lying Tongue (32 page)

“You seem preoccupied,” said Lavinia. “Are you all right?”

“Sorry?”

“There—I think I’ve proved my point,” she said, laughing.

After leaving Shaw, I had returned to the hotel and met Lavinia in the bar. She had insisted on buying me drinks to thank me for acting as a go-between. She was in a celebratory mood and had already knocked back nearly a bottle of wine. Her self-satisfaction blinded her to the truth. But how was she to know what my real intentions were? I had given back her documents, which I had copied, and she had passed over her synopsis, which, although most probably heavily censored by her, nevertheless gave me an insight into her methods. I wasn’t so stupid as to try and copy from it, but at least it would provide me with an arc to the story, a structure from which I could work. As I poured her another glass of red wine, I tried to tell myself that I was the one who should be celebrating.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Lavinia,” I said. “I can’t stop thinking about my resemblance to that boy in the photograph. What was his name?”

“Christopher. Christopher Davidson.”

“That’s it. I know I said I’d try to put it out of my mind, that it didn’t mean anything, but the more I think about it, the odder it seems. Sorry. I suppose I’m not making much sense.”

“No, don’t be silly. Of course it must be extremely odd. I can’t quite work it out myself.”

“You asked me why Mr. Crace had hired me. At the time I had been naive to assume it was because he liked me, or at the very least thought me capable of doing the job. But now—”

“What?”

“I just wonder what he’s really getting out of it.”

“I see what you mean,” she said, gulping back her red wine.

“So if I seem a little out of sorts tonight, that’s why. Sorry.”

“But you are going to go back?”

There was slight note of panic in her voice. She obviously thought that she had won me over with her charms and that, most probably, I would do anything for her. I hesitated longer than I needed to so I could watch the terror of uncertainty creep into her face. Without me near Crace, she would lose one of her closest allies.

“Yes, I am,” I said, rather wearily. “In fact, I’m catching a train to London tomorrow and then flying back to Mr. Crace. But only because I can’t afford not to. I’ve got to get on with my book.”

“Oh, yes, I meant to ask you about that,” she said. “So it’s set in Venice?”

“Yes, part of it is set in Venice and part in England.”

“How intriguing. In the present day?”

“Mostly,” I said, “except for a small segment in the past.”

“So you’ve started writing—”

I hesitated, not knowing what to say.

“Sorry. You probably don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

“No, it’s not that, it’s that… that photograph…I don’t know—”

“I understand completely,” she said, placing a hand gently on my knee. “What you need is a breath of fresh air.” There was a note of flirtatiousness in her voice. “Do you fancy a stroll?”

“What? Now?”

“Yes. It might help get things in perspective.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll just go and get my coat,” she said, smiling. As she tried to stand up, she had to steady herself by her chair. “Oh, gosh. That wine has gone to my head.” She ran her hand through her hair and laughed nervously, girlishly. “Wait for me down here. I won’t be a minute.”

During those five or so minutes alone, I realized that I had been presented with the perfect opportunity. It had to be now. She had served her purpose.

“Are you ready?” she said, slightly slurring her words. In her room she had applied a sheen of plum-colored lipstick and an extra covering of powder to try and make herself appear more presentable, but it was obvious she was a little drunk.

“Yes,” I said. “But I’ve just thought of something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know how it could have slipped my mind.”

“Yes?”

“And to think that I was about to leave without showing you.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Adam. What is it?”

“Mr. Crace’s favorite place when he worked at the school, the spot where he said he had the idea for
The Debating Society.”

“What?”

“The chapel up on the hill. Have you come across it?”

“No, I’ve never heard of it.”

“Mr. Crace just mentioned it in passing to me one day. There was something about its atmosphere, he said, that was conducive to creation. But…it’s out of the question.”

“What is?”

“Walking up there. It’s too far from here. But I suppose you can always go and explore it by yourself tomorrow.”

I could tell I had caught her interest.

“What a shame,” she said, maneuvering the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “It sounds fascinating.” Her eyes, which until a few moments ago drooped with drink-induced contentedness, now burned with a new intensity. “No, we’re going.”

“How?”

“I’ll drive. It’s not far. There won’t be any police out here, will there?”

“Even so,” I said, “I really don’t think you are in any condition to drive. I haven’t had as much as you, so if you don’t mind being chauffeured—”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course.”

“That’s super,” she said, smiling.

As she took the keys out of her bag, I slipped a pair of gloves on, remarking how I had heard one of the guests telling the receptionist that the temperature outside had dropped by a few degrees.

“I must admit, I feel I have had one celebratory drink too many,” she said as she handed the keys to me.

We walked to the front door and out into the cold night, the purple-black sky full of stars, an expanse of crushed diamonds. Lavinia took a deep breath and exhaled.

“You know, seeing the place that inspired Mr. Crace might help us both,” she said. “Before a book, I always feel the same way—half nervous, half excited. Each time I feel I’m going to be incapable of capturing the essence of another person, getting them
right.
No matter how much I tell myself I’ve done it before and I’ll most probably do it again, it’s always the same. Ridiculous, isn’t it? But I suppose it must be the same with you, I mean, now that you are trying your hand at fiction.”

As we walked toward her silver-gray Audi, I pressed the key and the doors unlocked.

“Sorry, I know writing fiction is very different from biography,” she said as we climbed into the car. “Novelists often don’t want to discuss their work, especially if it’s in progress. Forgive me.”

I felt her fingers brush against my hand as I reached for the gear stick and started the engine.

“No, don’t worry. It’s just that I’m a little uncertain about it, that’s all.”

“I understand. I have to say I do admire you, though. It’s certainly a brave move.”

I guided the car slowly down the winding drive, past the tall rhododendron bushes and out onto the country lane. I tried to speak, but my words disappeared in my throat. I had to pretend that everything was normal.

“H-have you tried?” I said, coughing. “Writing novels, I mean?”

“Oh, gosh no. I’m much too admiring of my subjects’ work to even try and imitate them. But that’s not to say I don’t get a thrill out of writing. To be honest, though, the research is my favorite part. Digging around in someone’s past, trying to unearth secrets, sorting through archives in the hope of finding a piece of paper that might shed light on a particular person. I mean, I can’t tell you what pleasure it brings me to know that in a few minutes I’ll see the place that inspired Gordon Crace.”

“Yes, I’m pleased I remembered to tell you about the chapel,” I said, turning the car into the lane that led up to the church. “You never know—it might help.”

The road narrowed, and I stopped the car in a passing place off the lane. By the driver’s seat there was an empty plastic bag that I slipped into my pocket. As we got out, I realized that the canopy of trees leading up to the chapel would shield us from the moonlight. I smiled to myself.

“I’m sure I’ve got one in here,” said Lavinia, pushing forward her seat and fumbling in the back of the car. “Yes, here it is.”

A beam of light temporarily blinded me. I shielded my eyes with my hand. She was holding a torch.

“Great,” I said, my mouth forming itself into a fixed smile.

“It’s not far, just at the top of this track, but it’s a bit unsteady underfoot.”

She took a couple of steps, but I could tell she was having problems negotiating the rough terrain.

“Do you want me to help?”

“Yes, that’s kind, thank you,” she said, taking my arm and passing the torch to me.

We walked slowly up the track, the light cutting through the darkness. Occasionally I let the torch drop down to the pathway, where my eyes searched the ground. In the distance I heard the cry of an owl.

“What did Mr. Crace actually tell you about this place?”

“Oh, just that he would often come up here when the teaching was getting on top of him. He’d walk up here from the school and sit on the bench and think, sometimes write in his notebook. It also gave him quite a good view of the abbey and the school down in the valley.”

“Oh, really?” she said, her body now pressing closer to me.

“Apparently it’s Norman and built of flint. I think Mr. Crace said that there was an inscription inside that granted a 120-day indulgence to passing pilgrims.”

“Do you think that applies to us?” she said, laughing.

“I don’t see why not.”

At that moment, just as the dark outline of the chapel came into view, I switched off the torch, pretending to drop it on the ground.

“Sorry,” I said. “It slipped out of my hands.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Can you see it?”

“Yes.” I said.

I bent down to the earth where I had already spotted a rock, a large piece of flint. I clasped it in my hand, feeling its sharp edges bite into my skin. I quickly stood up and raised my arm above me.

“What—” she said. But she didn’t have a chance to finish her sentence.

I brought the heavy rock down hard on Lavinia’s head, immediately stunning her. There was a crack and a faint cry, and I followed through with two more blows. She tried to stretch her arm out into the dark night, swayed from side to side for a moment and then slumped to the ground. The stone in my hand felt wet and sticky as I continued to pummel her skull.

Finally, I switched on the torch and shone it into her eyes. There was no reaction. If she wasn’t dead already, she would be in a matter of minutes. Blood poured down her face from several deep wounds. I pulled out the plastic supermarket bag from my pocket and placed it over her head. I didn’t want her blood staining my clothes. I crouched down and lifted Lavinia into my arms and carried her down the track, checking that there was no one around. I left her body slumped against a tree, out of sight of the road, and opened the car door. I got into the driver’s seat, made sure I had secured my seat belt, and started the engine. I took a deep breath and put the car into first gear. Although I had planned what I was going to do, I still couldn’t quite believe it. Hesitation was not an option. I slammed my foot on the accelerator and the car lurched forward. I quickly moved up a couple of gears until I was going about forty miles an hour. Then I deliberately steered the car off the road, down a track, and in the direction of a clump of trees. All my instincts told me to slam on the brakes, but I knew that I would have to resist until the very last moment. Just as a tree loomed into view, I braked, pressing down as hard as possible on the floor pedal. Two conflicting forces fought for control of the vehicle as the car crashed through the undergrowth, sounding as if it were splitting into two. I jolted forward, the shattering windscreen coming perilously close to my eyes. As my forehead slammed down hard on the steering wheel, I heard myself cry out, but the seat belt pulled me backward, tightening against my chest.

Shocked by the sudden stillness of the moment, I sat and watched the steam from the engine spiral up into the cold night air. I felt a painful throbbing all across my forehead and soreness across my right shoulder, but apart from that I was unhurt. I undid the seat belt and tried to force open the door. It didn’t move. I tried again, but it was stuck. Something was blocking it, a branch perhaps. I eased myself over to the passenger seat. That door opened easily. The front of the car looked like it had collapsed into itself, a mass of twisted metal.

I ran down to the spot where I had left Lavinia’s body. Making sure there were no other vehicles coming toward me, I took hold of her slight frame and carried her up to the car. She did not weigh much, but even so I had to stop a couple of times to catch my breath. As I supported her by the car, I checked the pulse on her neck. I could not feel anything. I pulled the bag from her head, lifted her into the passenger seat, and gently moved her over to the driver’s seat. Then I grabbed hold of her hair and slammed her face hard into the windscreen. Shards of glass embedded themselves in her fine skin, now black with blood.

All that was left for me to do was rearrange her limbs in a grotesque tableau so that it appeared she had suffered a car accident. When the police tested her blood, they would find that she was over the limit, while the staff at the hotel restaurant would testify that she had indeed enjoyed a copious amount of alcohol. By the time the police got around to questioning the young man she had dined with, he would have fled the country. If they did ever catch up with me, I would tell them that, despite my protestations that she had had too much to drink, Lavinia had insisted on driving me to the pub. Obviously she had lost control of the vehicle as she traveled back to her hotel. The fact that she had not worn a seat belt had reduced her chances of surviving the crash. Checking that I hadn’t left anything in the vehicle, I slammed the door and said a silent good-bye.