An Honest Deceit

by Guy Mankowski

  We all stood, waiting for his stammer to pass. ‘W-w-w.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Phillip said. ‘Is this really how the school is run? Kraver’s sent you to do his dirty work. Donkeys sent by donkeys.’

  Robertson looked at the floor. ‘The panel didn’t get the chance to reach a decision, as Paul Kraver stated that he was not prepared to supervise you anymore. As such, that forces this case from being informal to being formal. You will now have to answer formal claims about your Fitness To Practice, in another hearing.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Phillip said. ‘Kraver is just forcing you into a situation where he can make false charges against you official. He’s already got those minutes signed, so he can pretend you’ve accepted these bullshit accusations.’ He addressed Robertson, directly. ‘Do you realize that you’re part of a character assassination?’ he hissed. Robertson didn’t reply. ‘Course not. You look like you wouldn’t run if your arse was on fire. This is a kangaroo court!’

  Robertson looked at the floor. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘the process has flaws. There is n-n-n-nothing I can do. You will get the chance to make your voice heard at the formal hearing, which will happen as soon as possible. I suggest you just allow this process to take its course.’

  When he had gone, with everyone looking up at the ceiling, Phillip leant towards me again. ‘We have to get you on TV before this formal hearing,’ he said. ‘You have to save your reputation before they officially ruin it.’

  ‘I just hope they don’t get wind of you going on television in the next three days,’ Bracewell whispered. ‘Because if they do, you can bet they will schedule the formal hearing the morning before the show. So that by the time you try and fight your corner, you are already banned from teaching.’

  Phillip stood up. ‘Presumably your appearance will be in the TV listings, so they will hear about it coming up?’

  ‘Three days is too soon for even Kraver to put together a formal hearing. Unless he has planned this all along to ensure you are formally charged of something in the next day or two.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ I said.

  ‘So we can’t get you in front of the cameras quick enough,’ Juliette said.

  At the thought of being on the television, I was bitterly disappointed to again feel something rise in my throat. I tore from my chair and into the gents toilets. The hot fluid scalded my mouth as it passed into the bowl. As I tried to steady myself against the wall I heard Bracewell, from outside. ‘You all have to have faith,’ he was saying. ‘These systems exist for a reason. They keep our country what it is.’

  I sat down, and as I took deep breaths I heard Juliette trying to calm Phillip down.

  ‘No, Juliette. I’m not going to listen to this jingoistic rubbish,’ he was saying.

  ‘It’s not rubbish,’ Bracewell responded. ‘Our constitution has existed for hundreds of years, and it survives because it works.’

  ‘It doesn’t work,’ Phillip fumed. ‘If it did, Ben wouldn’t be in this situation, don’t you see?’

  I couldn’t hear Bracewell’s response, but Phillip’s riposte was loud enough.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about the Dunkirk spirit,’ Phillip said. ‘Even if it got us through a war, it didn’t manage to survive until now. This is a nation of people watching their own back, and their bank balance. Nothing more. You think Jimmy Savile would have got away with it if it was anything else? No one wanted to speak out because they didn’t want to risk anything, and all the large institutions that we’re told to adore just let it happen. You have any idea how many people must have been known about that scandal, who could have stopped it? How many people were complicit, with their silence? That situation just needed one hero, in the right place, and it never came.’

  ‘It’s true. Ben can be that man,’ Juliette said. ‘You two don’t know him like I do.’ There was a strength to her tone. ‘At the beginning of our relationship he showed strength that I’ve never known in anyone else. He can do it.’

  I stood upright, and moved over to the mirror. I didn’t recognize my reflection. He seemed altered somehow, almost to the point of being a different man. I wondered if Juliette was right about him. Our enemies shape us as much as our friends, I thought.

  NINETEEN

  ‘I WOULDN’T TAKE too much notice of Phillip’s cynicism,’ Violet said, biting her bottom lip as she plunged the percolator.

  ‘I take him with a pinch of salt,’ I answered. ‘But I’ve found there’s always truth in what he says. So, you think you’ve got the measure of him?’

  ‘I take him with a pinch of salt too. I’ve got my faults,’ Violet said, as the percolator splashed coffee onto her wrists. ‘Being incredibly clumsy is evidently just one of them.’

  She moved her hand over the sink and doused it under the cold jet. I took in for a moment the long, somehow unsure curve of her body, the hair lapped over each shoulder. ‘But being a poor judge of character isn’t.’

  ‘I should take that as a compliment, then,’ I said.

  Phillip had spent the afternoon, with Art, vigorously schooling me in preparation for the TV interview. Under pressure from Phillip, Art had confirmed that filming would definitely take place the following day. I imagined Juliette had spent the afternoon loitering around at home, waiting for the letter about the formal hearing to arrive.

  As Art and Phillip traded notes in the living room, Violet poured us both a strong, black coffee in the kitchen. It had been a shock and a guilty pleasure to see her at Phillip’s house on arrival. Noticing my reaction, she had quickly insisted that she was ‘just here to see how you’re getting on’.

  I felt acutely aware of my responsibility to manage the situation with her. To not get any closer to her, but at the same time to not look reticent.

  ‘Does Phillip know about what happened with us?’ she whispered.

  ‘No. I really think he was hoping something would happen with the two of you. So he can’t know about us.’

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘So now I’m your dirty secret?’

  ‘No. That’s not it at all.’

  ‘Did you say anything to Juliette?’ Something in her eyes betrayed that Violet had been considering the question deeply.

  ‘It’s not the right time,’ I said.

  ‘When do you think the right time might be?’

  I tried to weigh up her tone. I found myself checking where Phillip and Art were. Phillip was showing off the functions of his new wide-screen TV, and telling him how it was great for watching porn on. Violet heard the puerile exchange, and smiled.

  ‘See why I’m perhaps more interested in you?’

  ‘I’m caught between a rock and a hard place here, Violet. If I do tell Juliette what happened she’ll want to hear that it meant nothing and was a silly accident. But the problem is …’

  Violet sucked on her scalded wrist. ‘It did mean something?’ she said.

  ‘How did you know?’ I asked.

  ‘A lucky guess. Of course, there’s no way I feel exactly the same,’ she said, with a sarcastic smile.

  I smiled back, considering her expression.

  ‘So how was the media training?’ she asked, leaning against the work surface.

  ‘They seem to think I can suddenly turn into this evangelical preacher man, in front of a live studio audience, while I happen to be sweating buckets,’ I said, taking the cup of coffee from her.

  ‘Don’t worry about all that stuff about your posture and that. That’ll just make you overthink it.’ She dropped her voice, as she moved towards me. Her scent was as enticing as before. But this time it reassured as much as it seduced. ‘You know what I first liked about you, when I saw Educating Bristol?’ she asked.

  I had a sudden flash of memory. Violet, her mouth open with pleasure, as we writhed together on her sheets. I pushed it from my mind.

  ‘No.’

  ‘That you weren’t self-conscious at all. That you had no ego. When I watched you on that show, it wasn’t
that charismatic speech in the after-school detention that I liked. It was the fact that when you were in front of those children you were entirely at their service. You’d have mooed like a cow, brayed like a donkey, or swung from the chandeliers to give them the information you wanted them to have.’

  ‘Swung from the chandeliers?’

  ‘Okay, perhaps not that. But what I’m saying is, when you’re on TV, I think you should think of the whole country like one massive classroom.’

  A stray lock of her hair fell onto her cheeks. I remembered the sky blue hair band she pulled from her hair as she straddled me on her bed.

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ she said. ‘If you can tame a room of Year Eleven’s and get them through their GCSE’s, you can tame one fattening presenter and a load of armchair critics. You’ll be mint.’

  I took a sip of coffee, and gazed through the doorway. Art was gathering up papers.

  ‘You know,’ I said. ‘I think that might be the only sensible advice I’ve had all day.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Thanks for … being supportive. Given our whole situation.’

  ‘It’ll blow over. I’ll still be here,’ she said.

  I took a sip. ‘Right,’ I said.

  TWENTY

  AS PHILLIP and I gave our names at the BBC reception I tried to take in the surroundings. Lurid, pop-art portraits of famous comedians mocked us from on high. The muted buzz of private correspondence leaked out from the glass-walled offices around us. All this, I told myself, was machinery of a new kind. Carefully built to coax entertainment, from a select few, out for the masses. Yet here I was, about to use all this machinery to express something far darker.

  Phillip knowingly conducted a hushed exchange with a red-haired receptionist. Formalities dealt with, she moved from behind her desk to reveal a striking dress decorated in neon chevrons. She offered coffee and ushered us through to the studio, where passes were flashed at a silent, surly guard.

  I reminded myself of the whole point of this journey. The moment would come, in a few hours, when I would have to ignore all the pressure to provide entertainment, to simply say what I needed to say. I dreaded the thought of it, and found my fists clenching, in a vain effort to relax my arms.

  We were told to wait on a sofa in the open-plan lounge inside the studio. Runners flitted about us, pressing earpieces hard into their heads. Phillip’s leg began to twitch. ‘I can see this is asking a lot of you,’ he said, turning to me. ‘I’ve done two of these interviews and I still don’t understand how they work.’

  ‘How did they go?’ I asked.

  He exhaled, dramatically. ‘The first time my flies were undone, and in the playback you could make out a tiny knot of red throughout the whole chat.’

  ‘Your boxer shorts?’

  He did a double take at me. ‘Of course it was my boxer shorts,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I agreed.

  ‘And the second time I told an anecdote about a mad priest at my school, who was caught flashing these schoolgirls on the number 39 bus one afternoon. No one laughed. When I raised this with the host afterwards he told me that the first two rows of the audience had been made up of priests in training, on a field trip.’

  A blonde woman in a pleated skirt, jittering with nervous energy arrived moments later. She was clutching a clipboard. ‘We’ll take you to makeup,’ she said. ‘We’re running a little behind schedule, so I’ll have to brief you whilst they get you ready.’

  ‘Makeup?’ I said. ‘Is that really necessary?’

  ‘Trust me mate, when the lights are on you, there’ll be one hell of a shine on that spam of a forehead you have,’ Phillip said. The blonde lady laughed, the stud in her nose catching the light.

  ‘My advice would be to keep your jacket on too,’ Phillip said, as we stood up. ‘Those lights don’t half make you sweat.’

  As I was dabbed with makeup, on a high stool in front of mirror framed with naked bulbs, a lady with a shock of pink hair rattled through Peterson’s questions. ‘He’ll want to talk a lot about that girl Aaliyah, and why you care about the welfare of children,’ she started.

  Phillip peered over a copy of The Daily Mirror, from his chair nearby.

  ‘Why I care,’ I whispered, after she’d gone.

  ‘Caring seems to have become a rare commodity,’ Phillip said. ‘Even pretending to care is becoming one too. Now, remember. Peterson is being paid a lot of money to coax an entertaining interview out of you, and he already likes you. He’ll just be relieved that you want to talk.’ He waited until a runner had passed him by. ‘You just make damn sure you use this chance,’ he said. ‘This is your one crack at telling the world about what happened with Marine.’

  I could feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. I reached down for it. My inbox was full of new messages from Juliette.

  All of them seemed to start with the word ‘Remember’.

  Flicking through, I noticed that they were studded with one or two from Violet. I can’t handle this now, I thought.

  ‘It’s time,’ said the assistant with the nose ring. ‘Come on, hurry.’

  We were told to wait in the wings. Phillip and I watched through a break in the thick, red curtain whilst technical assistants straightened leads on the studio floor and rushed to consult with one another. I could hear a comedian warming up the audience, who were gradually finding their seats, and laying down coats. Small cones of light denoted people furtively turning off phones. The comic was riffing about how his fiancé was withholding food from him, forcing him to diet with her as their wedding approached. ‘I’m happy to lose weight if she is,’ he was saying to them. ‘But how far does it go? Do I need to wear a dress on the day too, so she doesn’t feel alone with that?’

  ‘Christ, he is awful,’ Phillip said. ‘That barely even makes sense.’

  The sheer size of the audience only became apparent, as their titters of amusement became waves of laughter. Phillip poked his head through the curtain. ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘It’s a full house.’

  ‘I’ve never dealt with a class this big,’ I said, thinking of Violet’s advice.

  ‘What are you on about?’ he asked.

  I tried to recall Violet’s words. They had soothed me at the time, but how would I teach a room full of students about a scandal? Step by step, I thought. Making sure that every stage had been absorbed before I moved onto the next.

  The audience roared with laughter, and at the same instant I felt sweat bloom in my arm pits. I buttoned up my jacket. I felt my forehead, already slick. I gulped, and prayed that I wouldn’t be sick, and have to rush off stage halfway through the interview. How would I manage?

  The comedian bounded offstage, rubbing his temples as he joined us in the wings. The Floor Manager walked through the curtain. ‘We’ve got one hell of a line up for you ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, pacing awkwardly in front of the crowd as he read off an iPad. ‘Fresh off a flight from The Congo, everyone’s favorite heartthrob explorer -’

  ‘That’s not you,’ Phillip said.

  ‘Peter Jefferson!’ he announced.

  The audience cheered.

  ‘We’ve got interviews with Ben Pendleton, star of Educating Bristol, and music from a smashing new Manchester electro-pop band, Scythe. Live, here, tonight!’

  ‘Now ignore all that,’ Phillip whispered, leaning into me. ‘He’ll want a few fun anecdotes about life at the school to kick-off. Remember that one we talked about, when the school was snowed in and -’

  ‘And the Shakespearean actors had to perform in the playground.’

  ‘You can always wheel that out, if you really need it.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a real humdinger,’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘She said they’d cut to some footage from the show and then Marine will be mentioned. Then you just ease your way into the story. But you’ll need to get the audience onside straight away, okay?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,
’ I said.

  ‘And lastly,’ the announcer was saying, his words booming around the auditorium, ‘we will have a short set from the woman who is bringing clowning back to 21st century audiences. Andrea Myers!’

  ‘Phillip?’

  He was trying to peek through the curtains again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know - thanks.’

  He didn’t look at me.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he said. ‘Why wouldn’t I help you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The announcer’s voice blasted out, louder than ever.

  ‘Now can you please all give a big warm welcome to your host. Craig Peterson!’

  + + + + +

  I stood rooted to the spot, trying through the crack in the curtain to follow the repartee between Peterson and his guests. The conversations fizzled past me, a stream of postmodern noise that I couldn’t understand. They talked about pop stars I’d never heard of, celebrity workouts, programs I didn’t know existed. I racked my brains for anecdotes on each subject, and found nothing.

  My name was announced. A stagehand took me by the crook of my elbow.

  ‘You’ll be brilliant,’ Phillip said, as the curtains opened, letting in a flood of light. ‘Just remember to smile.’

  The lights blinded me. A roar from the crowd went up. As I stumbled out from the curtain the glare began to sting my eyes. I moved onto the stage and as I turned to the audience each person was a blurred silhouette.

  Peterson took my hand and guided me across a shiny, black floor on which a white sofa beckoned. Peterson sat in a leather armchair opposite me as the din subsided.

  His skin was bright and clear, his eyes an unsettling shade of blue. As I settled into the sofa he smiled at me. His sleekness evoked a greyhound.

  ‘Ben, it’s great to have you on the show,’ he said, his voice smooth. ‘I loved Educating Bristol, my wife and I are simply avid fans. But the first question I have to ask you is this. What did your missus make of that nurses outfit?’

  The audience burst into laughter.