The Good Liar Page 4

  it. I hope you don’t mind.’

  There is an awkward moment in the air. Roy can see Michael

  thinking, battling perhaps with an instinct to vent his annoy-

  ance. Come on, man; show some spirit at last; spit it out, he thinks.

  But no.

  ‘Oh well,’ says Michael. ‘It was just an idea. A romantic Christ-

  mas with just the two of you. Wonderful. Great.’

  Is that relief Roy sees shimmering on Stephen’s face? Possibly, but then again maybe not. It was there for just a second and he finds

  these days that his senses are not as finely tuned as once they necessarily were, and his eyesight not so sharp.

  5

  It’s a truism that the older one grows, the more conscious of the

  seasons one becomes and the separations and transitions between

  them. Maybe it’s just true. Or possibly, Betty thinks, our weather

  has become more extreme, as the experts say, and the seasons are

  consequently delineated more starkly.

  Whatever. A young person’s word that, with its tone of resigna-

  tion and extinguished hope, signifies the point this generation has reached on the journey from inquiry via bewilderment and disillusion to despondency. Not, therefore, a word for Betty. She rephrases the concept in her mind: it’s beyond me. Accompanied by a win-some girlish giggle, it will suit perfectly, she thinks; a suitably little- woman expression.

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  Roy would know the answer for sure. Which is to say he would

  be sure he knew the answer, whether or not he did, and would be

  able to state it with sufficient authority to brook no argument. He is very strong on certainty, Roy, and this is a good thing for Betty.

  At any rate the season is currently biting at its coldest, with relentless ferocity. In September she found herself wishing away summer

  and welcoming in cooler evenings and the march of the night. Bet-

  ter a genuine autumn than the apparition of summer. Strange for

  her. Since her childhood she has been a creature of the summer:

  those hot days whiled away in the garden with her sisters, the sounds and cares of the city beyond the high rose- covered brick wall; white dress, bare legs, dipping her toes in the clear pond by the summer

  house; playing with Elsa, the dog; and those fragrant evenings

  watching the elder girls through the balustrades of the gallery as

  they were courted in their ball gowns by dashing army officers. So

  long ago. Autumn brought gloom and equinoctial winds blowing

  leaves and dust along grey avenues under grey skies.

  Now the moon is full and she watches through the kitchen win-

  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 h
istory,’ 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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  Chapter Three

  August 1998

  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 lavat
ory.

  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

  established the company together.

  Vincent signed carefully: Bryn Jones. Attaboy. He could do a rea-

  sonable approximation that would pass muster against the facsimile

  held by the bank’s City branch and couriered over that morning.

  Roy signed and it was done. He shook the manager’s hand sol-

  emnly, his mind apparently on his important meeting, and thanked

  him profusely for the convenience of using the Westminster branch.

  It was, again, not a problem. Roy said goodbye to Mr Jones in for-

  mal but friendly tones, every bit the chairman to a board member

  he did not know especially well. He walked confidently to the door, crossed the road and entered the toilet again to dishevel himself

  suitably.

  ‘Fuck you been, Roy?’ asked Bernie, when he returned to the