The Good Liar Page 8
here and new ones sprouted. Plus ça change. After a floor show that in his youth would have been described as exotic he found himself
at two in the morning in a soulless, smelly hotel room with a woman he had picked up, unable to perform. Earlier she had been hesitant
but had said, when he was insistent, ‘OK, Grandpa,’ led him to this room and tied him up as he had specified. It was not surprising that he was not up to the task, since it must have been some ten years
since he had last been able to bring himself to the point, but he had anticipated some buzz, some illusion of excitement. It was, however, simply fatiguing, in an unpleasant way.
It came as a mild shock, which in earlier times might have been
an amusing diversion, that the woman was in fact a man. This
became apparent only after his failure. ‘I thought you realized,
Grandpa,’ he said, but at that point Roy dropped off, to find on waking, aching, dry- mouthed and nauseous, that his wallet was empty.
Fortunately his binds were untied.
This would not have happened to him even ten years ago. At least
he had thought to leave most of his cash and all of his cards and
other valuables in his room safe and secrete his hotel keycard under the orthotic insole in his shoe, but he had to admit he had lost much of his street- sharpness. He gathered up his trousers, pulled them on and made as quick an exit as his arthritic bones would allow.
Fortunately, he was able to hail a cab outside the KaDeWe depart-
ment store, and the driver clearly regarded him as respectable
enough. The car sped through sleek night streets and, despite his
experience, Roy still felt a shimmer of excitement. He was living, or approximating living, again. There was the potential for a minor
incident back at the hotel, but he was able to prevail upon the night porter to pay the fare temporarily, claiming, with reasonable credibility, absent- minded dotage.
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3
It has been an unseasonably hot day in Berlin for April. Betty and
Roy are sitting on the terrace of a restaurant in Hackescher Markt, at one time a bustling market near Alexanderplatz and now a bustling hub of eateries. They have strolled through the Hackescher
Höfe, once a labyrinthine arrangement of grey tenement blocks
lowering over small courtyards with squalid little shops but now a
trendy, multicoloured retail haven, with funky shops and green
communal areas. Here, Betty has bought gifts to take back with her.
Roy has had no such need.
She sips her sharp green tinder- dry Riesling while he eagerly
quaffs Pilsner beer from a large glass that is almost a jug. He examines the remains of his pork knuckle for potential remnants of fatty flesh that he may yet be able to harvest. Pink and garish, with startling white bone, it resembles the aftermath of an autopsy. He picks but has to content himself with a few elastic strands of pork fat and the odd tangy ribbon of sauerkraut, such has been the efficacy of
his attack. He is somewhat revived, and buoyed by the alcohol.
‘All this history,’ she says, and he realizes he is expected to
respond.
‘Oh yes,’ he says. He is surprised she remains so bright- eyed, so chirpy. For his own part, he feels oppressed by it all, crushed as if under these monuments.
‘Indeed,’ he adds.
‘So much suffering, of course,’ she says, as if reading his thoughts.
‘Indeed,’ he repeats. He does not require a long exegesis on the
Weimar Republic, the Third Reich or the Cold War from the read-
ing she has done this afternoon.
‘ Dort wo man Bücher verbrennt, verbrennt man auch am Ende Men-
schen,’ she says. ‘That’s what Heinrich Heine wrote in 1821.’
‘Oh yes,’ he says.
‘I thought you didn’t speak German.’
Caught, he decides to confess to inattention with an insolently
sheepish grin.
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‘ “Where they burn books, in the end they also burn people”,’ she
says without a quiver in her voice.
‘Indeed. And when did he write that?’
‘In 1821.’
‘Very interesting.’ To his mind this is not exactly the stuff of holidays. But just as quickly, her brightness is back.
‘Do you like the Germans?’ she asks him keenly.
‘Oh yes,’ he says quickly.
‘Why?’
This is rather more taxing a question. He had thought he was
simply keeping up polite conversation, not participating in a forensic debate.
‘Oh, I don’t know. They’re very efficient, you know. The hotel is
spotlessly clean. And the service is top class. We could use a bit of their efficiency back home.’
They are silent for a moment. Betty consults her menu before
summoning the waiter and ordering a coffee in her surprisingly
good German. Roy will pass, he says; as she knows, coffee after
lunchtime will lose him a night’s sleep. Not that there is much danger tonight of him losing sleep, after the previous night’s rigours.
‘Have you enjoyed it here?’ she asks.
‘Oh yes,’ he says instantly. ‘Oh yes.’
‘Because you’ve seemed rather bored at times.’
‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘Simply a bit tired. I can’t keep up with you, I’m afraid. I just need some time every so often to recharge my
batteries.’
He pauses, and ventures, ‘On the other hand, you’ve simply spar-
kled, my dear. You’ve been radiant.’
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I find this city so vibrant. It’s slightly
absurd given all the dark things that have occurred here, but it seems so alive. Some vital force seems to be at work here. It reminds one of when one was young.’
‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘But, as you say, there are so many secrets locked
up here.’
‘Oh, I know. But you can’t blame a place for the inhumanity of
the people who’ve lived here in the past. Or can you?’
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‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ he says gently.
It is peaceable among the hubbub. The outdoor heaters have
been fired up and have taken the chill off. Blankets provided by the restaurant are neatly folded on the backs of chairs in case that is not sufficient. An Australian woman strums a guitar and churns out
passable acoustic versions of pop standards. People toss loose
change into her guitar case as they pass. Betty is looking out on to the cobbled marketplace, a smile on her face that conveys contentment. Roy decides that now may be the moment.
‘I’ve been sorting out my affairs,’ he says, sidling up to the
subject.
She is jolted out of her reverie. ‘What? Here?’
‘No, no. Before we came out here. Trying to get a few things
sorted.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s a nightmare for us pensioners.’
‘What is?’
He thinks: is she being deliberately obtuse? But he maintains his
equilibrium.
‘The recession,’ he says. ‘It’s hit us pensioners especially hard.’
‘I suppose so,’ she replies, as if she has never given it a thought.
‘Yes. Low interest rates. High inflation. Difficult for your investments to keep pace.’
‘Yes, well. I have my occupational pension, which suffices, even if it isn’t particularly generous. And my saving
s. There are trust funds that my husband set up. The rest I more or less leave in a deposit
account in the bank.’
‘Oh dear. Oh dearie me.’
‘What’s wrong, Roy?’
‘I don’t mean to pry, but that won’t do. Presumably you have a
reasonable amount of capital?’ He looks at her expectantly.
‘Oh, I’m comfortably enough off. I’m not interested in money.
I’m more interested in living,’ she says cheerily.
‘Goodness me. But having said that, finding a safe place to invest
and a decent return is a challenge, I can tell you.’ He shakes his head despondently.
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‘You have some money put away?’ she asks.
‘A little,’ he replies. ‘Though no doubt rather less than you, I
should have thought. If I sold my little flat I’d have more.’
He pauses before continuing. ‘People don’t like talking about
money, do they? It’s a taboo subject, isn’t it? Yet it’s so important.’
‘Like sex,’ she says.
‘Pardon?’
‘Like sex. Critically important but not a subject for polite
conversation.’
‘Oh, I see, I see. Indeed. But the thing is . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘You see. I have this man. Accountant chappie. Miracle worker, I
call him. He’s looked after my portfolio, such as it is, for years.’
Betty does not reply but looks at Roy as if perplexed.
‘Yes. I believe you’ve mentioned him,’ she says eventually.
‘Name of Vincent. Works wonders. Could sit down with you if
you like and go through your holdings.’
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Chapter Six
September 1973
Living in Sin
1
They were living in sin. Over the brush, as she had put it, with her knowing Northern giggle. It seemed that, inexorably and inexplica-bly, he might be settling down. She was a stunner, this new girl of his, without a doubt. Kenny down the pub had emitted a discreet
‘phwoar’ when he had introduced her to the smoky atmosphere
some four months previously.
She came from Manchester, or Liverpool, or Leeds. One of those
places anyway. A graduate trainee at the Ministry, she had been
placed for six months in the outlying office in the suburbs where he held a low- profile, menial post. They had met in the shabby kitchen area, with its refrigerator full of grey- green mould and the stench of curdled milk, and its lime- encrusted no longer stainless steel sink.
She had been searching for a mug that was at least not so filthy as to pose a health risk, and he had offered her his spare one, together
with a gleaming teaspoon, which he had fetched from his desk. She
was a looker, so he had turned on the charm, framing himself as an
oasis of humanity – and cleanliness – in this desert of anonymity.
He had explained to her how the hierarchy worked. He was an
underling, a clerical officer buried under a pile of management and paper, and not so very different from a Dickensian quill- wielding clerk. She, on the other hand, was an executive officer, of the graduate cadre no less, one marked for potential greatness, or as much
greatness as the Department of Education and Science could
muster.
And so it had progressed. Lunch was followed by dinner, and vis-
its to the cinema. His age – he was some twenty- three years
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older – seemed not to matter to her. If anything, it seemed to be an advantage. She found people of her own age so immature, she said.
Eventually they had found themselves in bed together. This was
very satisfactory. Maureen was youthful, exuberant evidence that
the world was at last emerging from the guilt of war, untainted and unconstrained by loss, guilt and deprivation.
He had quickly learned that she thought of herself as a radical.
Horrified by the church- organ- playing yachtsman Heath, despairing of grimy Kagan Gannex Wilson, she was a vociferous member of an
obscure Trotskyist political organization. This did not dismay Roy; she could be a card- carrying member of the provisional wing of the Tufty road safety club as long as she emitted those gratifying little yelps in her nakedness every so often. Her earnest do- gooding political commitment rather amused him, though he took care to hide
his mirth. He had on occasion to pay lip service to her feminism, but it did not particularly affect their life together. He took care not to talk about current affairs, lest his less egalitarian view of the world became evident.
They had come gradually to the idea of living together. The deci-
sion had been at least partly practical. Neither of them was exactly flush, with their meagre Civil Service salaries, and they were spending more time together. He found himself navigating towards a
calculation that he might hitch his fate to hers. While they did not work in the same office in the building, he knew well that Maureen
was both gifted and highly regarded. When she returned to head
office she would be going somewhere. Her radicalism was if any-
thing an asset here in this outpost, but she might later need to tone it down somewhat. He could advise her on that: she seemed to see
in his bluff practicality a kind of wisdom.
Cohabitation was a significant point along this continuum. It
gave him the chance to assess at leisure whether a life with Maureen was a long- term option for him. He had never lived with anyone
before, as an adult. He did not count his time in the post- war
military. He was unaccustomed to the trivial and important com-
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without let or hindrance. Whether the sex and the promise of finan-
cial security were sufficient compensations was an open question.
But still they drifted on and the direction of the current was clear to both of them.
The available time to make his choices was finite. Maureen was
some distance from primly conventional, but there remained for
her some imperatives and living together unmarried was only
slowly becoming regarded as normal. She might, just, be content
for them to be together on a more permanent basis without getting
wed; but she would require him at some stage to achieve an at least low- friction relationship with her parents, with whom she remained close. Roy had, so far, been able to avoid the dreaded train journey to the dark frozen North, with its Neanderthal miners, its pints of mild, its fat women wearing headscarves as they washed the doorsteps of their dreary little houses, its horrible bleak towns and the even bleaker moors. He was not eager to meet Maureen’s family.
He understood that her father and mother knew of his existence,
doubted that they knew his age and was almost certain that they
did) not know that Roy and Maureen shared a home and a bed.
His main conclusion about this new life was that it was boring.
He no longer had the liberty to come home in the evening, sit before the television in his vest with a bottle or two of Bass, eating fish and chips from the paper. He could not easily spend his wages at the betting shop, or absent himself at the Arsenal for most of a Saturday
before returning home and flopping drunk on the bed. He had had
to hide his stash of smutty magazines ca
refully. He could not bring women home from the local.
There was some respite. Maureen had meetings at least twice a
week and Roy could escape to the pub and Kenny and his mates. But
the ale there now had the taste of tame mediocrity and increasingly he would find himself in the West End looking for trouble, even on
those nights when Maureen did not have her earnest, world- changing conclaves.
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2
He was coming to a definitive view on this version of domestic bliss.
It did not take long for it to crystallize into a single vision. The equivocations became rapidly smaller and finally vanished. He saw a way
out of the doldrums of his awful office job. Unlike Maureen, he
could draw no gratification from being a tiny part of the
decision- making machine that would determine the – educational,
at least – lives of the younger generation of this country. Such gran-diose notions left him cold; in his lowly job he couldn’t influence anything even if he wanted to. Which emphatically he did not. What
nonsense, he would harrumph to himself while indulging her youth-
ful conceits. She would learn, but not quickly enough for him.
He was looking for a business opportunity and rapidly found it,
in what he had become accustomed to think of as his playground.
Soho remained a grubby, dark, dangerous place, an underworld set
yards away from the glitz of Regent Street. Graft and gangsters
ruled here still, offering titillation to one section of the population, outrage to another, and suffering to those who interfered. The sad
pros whose shelf life had expired and who had been kicked out of
their sordid nests by their erstwhile pimps bore witness, mainlining on heroin as they tried to pick up on the streets – a couple of quid for a fuck in a doorway.
It had been in the alleyway between two clubs that, at two in the
morning, he had come across Martin White, lying in his own vomit
and incapable of response. He had known White as a front- of- house man in one of the clubs. His toffish manner had, it seemed, offended one of the gangland clientele and Martin had found himself out of
favour, homeless and on the drink. However, Roy could see for him
an important role in his plans. He had flung him three quid, told