The Convenience of Lies

by Geoffrey Seed

  Ships pass on the curve of the far horizon, names unseen, crews unknown. The anonymous life appeals to McCall, goes with his desire to travel but never arrive.

  ‘I’m an historian, Mac. I research people who are no more and times for which there are only the sketchiest of records. Events and people and their motives back then were as endlessly complicated as they are now so it is unwise to jump to conclusions about anything or anyone too quickly.’

  McCall knows this outdoor tutorial is no accident. Whatever Evan says today will have a purpose, coded or otherwise. But at its heart is the joust for a lady’s hand. There can only be one winner. Those are the rules of the game.

  ‘Most people are rarely what they seem… take you, for instance.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘Well, to anyone who doesn’t know better, you’re a bright undergraduate from a well off and well connected family with a big old house in Shropshire. But what’s the real story about you?’

  ‘That’s not something I talk about.’

  ‘Well, let me try. You’re called Francis after the husband of the couple who adopted you, the Wrenns, because your father was his rear gunner when they flew together in the war. Tragically, your parents were killed in a car crash when you were little. They were quite poor so the Wrenns raised you as their own in rather pleasing surroundings near Ludlow. Mr Wrenn is now a diplomat in Moscow and has hopes for your success in Cambridge. Unfortunately, they’re not going to be realised, are they?’

  There is no hint of triumph or recrimination in Evan’s words. McCall has never been confronted with the facts of his own life by an outsider before. What Evan says is a shock. He has seen behind the veil.

  ‘How have you found all this out?’

  ‘I know what to ask and of whom to ask it.’

  ‘But why have you bothered?’

  ‘Because you’ve crossed my path and I need to know about you so I can work out how best to deal with the situation that has arisen.’

  McCall is now aware his infuriatingly conciliatory rival might appear to turn the other cheek but never unclenches his fists. Maybe Evan cannot conceive of life without Lexie, either. Odd as it seems, McCall does not dislike him – quite the opposite.

  He feels Evan actually understands how raw he is inside. It is this compassion which makes him more of a man than one who would knock him to the ground.

  But his inner steeliness disturbs McCall. His own desire for Lexie, the blood-hot, base infatuation to possess her, is no less but now seems shaded by his opponent’s more calculating passion. For all this, McCall remains in the grip of a blind madness. It’s already caused him to step off life as he has known it - and always thought it would be - and drop into the fearful unknown. And the malady has yet to run its course.

  *

  They make toast on a long brass fork by the fire then spread it with Norfolk honey for supper. There are two bottles of house red which Evan bought earlier at the Ship Hotel. The room is lit by candles and feels like a den where schoolboys might share secrets.

  ‘You must understand, Mac… I do realise how difficult all this must be for you.’

  ‘Difficult?’

  ‘Yes, it cannot be easy for you… this… this situation, I mean.’

  McCall can think of nothing to say so keeps quiet.

  ‘Lexie and I have known each other many years. She is a singularly complex person for reasons which, if you’ll forgive me for saying, you cannot understand at your age.’

  ‘I understand that I love her. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Sadly, no. The fact is Mac, I shall marry Lexie and you will find someone else. That is what will happen.’

  McCall empties his teacup of wine in a single swig and refills it from the second bottle. He wants to be drunk. He has a sudden urge to shout and fight and draw blood from his enemy then steal his car and drive to Lexie. But where would she be? He doesn’t even know where she lives, only that she lives with Evan. Everything comes back to Evan.

  Tears of frustrated anger well up into McCall’s eyes and he hurls his cup into the hearth. It is a pointless, juvenile gesture which he regrets immediately. Evan clears away the mess with a brush and pan and wipes the wine stain from the chimney breast with a damp cloth.

  McCall sits with his head in his hands. Evan leans against the jamb of the kitchen door, arms folded.

  ‘If you will let me, I’ll help you. Nothing that’s happened says we can’t be friends.’

  *

  McCall’s meeting with his tutor is brief. He leaves with a suitcase containing only a few clothes and the books he intends to keep. He looks haggard and distressed. Of Lexie, he knows nothing. Evan drove him back to Cambridge the previous day. The atmosphere was strained. McCall went to the Arts Theatre but they said Lexie wasn’t there. No one knew where she was or when she might return.

  It is coming mid-day. McCall is at Cambridge Station waiting for a train to London. He might tag along with a blues band he knows and put a soundtrack to a life that’s come off the rails. He dreads having to tell Bea and Francis the worst possible news.

  The station’s buffet is crowded and steamy. He buys a cheese roll and a cup of tea then finds a window seat. Through the condensation, he watches one train depart then another. In his mind, the moment he actually steps inside a carriage will signify he accepts he is beaten. He will have lost everything – and for what? Lexie always belonged to Evan. McCall only borrowed her for a day here, a night there.

  He thinks of a tutorial discussion about a letter from Jack Kerouac’s friend, William S. Burroughs… There is no intensity of love or feeling that does not involve the risk of crippling hurt. It is our duty to take this risk. And what then, comrade?

  Another London train is announced. McCall knows he must catch it. He makes for the door. Before he can open it, a girl in a duffel coat walks in… a girl with dancer’s legs, hair the colour of sunshine and a smile which promises pleasures to come.

  ‘I guessed you’d be here,’ she says. ‘I’ve got a car outside. Let’s go back to the cottage.’

  So they did for that was what Lexie wanted.

  Twelve

  Being a Scotland Yard press officer gave Malky Hoare a status he’d never had before, a feeling of managing serious events, not just peddling tabloid scandals from the margins as before. Some of his pre-divorce chutzpah was coming back - thanks to Benwick. He’d pinned a hero-gram on the PR department’s notice board lauding Hoare’s handling of the televised press conference when Etta Ross ran out in distress. Who wouldn’t be thinking cosmetic dentistry?

  Hoare was calling various news desks to alert them to a photo opportunity in the Ruby investigation when McCall rang from a phone box in Norfolk.

  ‘Glad you’ve touched base,’ Hoare said. ‘There’s been a significant development. Benwick’s having the reservoir dragged the day after tomorrow. You need to be down here early.’

  ‘So he’s given up hope of finding Ruby alive?’

  ‘Got to face facts. If they’re not found in the first twenty-four hours, it usually means the worst and the kid’s been gone for over a week now.’

  ‘How’s the mother?’

  ‘In a hell of a state, apparently.’

  ‘I’ll need to talk to her… and Benwick. Let’s meet before any other hacks pitch up.’

  ‘What about a coffee, seven-thirty on the day? There’s a greasy spoon in Woodberry Street just by the reservoir. Café Leila, it’s called.’

  ‘OK, you’re on. One last question - is the mother a suspect in any of this?’

  ‘Christ, Mac. You know I can’t comment on anything like that - even if I knew.’

  *

  McCall decided against telling Lexie about the reservoir being dragged. If Etta finally answered one of her sister’s many phone calls and mentioned it, he’d still advise against Lexie being there. A body recovered from water can be a gruesome sight.

  They’d time for a walk along the dunes before leaving for Garth
Hall. Lexie needed to collect her car then attend to business in Bristol. McCall would head for London.

  ‘Evan’s a lovely old sweetheart, isn’t he, Mac?’

  ‘For buying the cottage?’

  ‘It’s like we’ve got a time machine to travel back to where everything was happy.’

  Lexie squeezed McCall’s hand a little more tightly.

  ‘Are you ever going to tell me what you were doing in Oxford that day I saw you?’

  ‘There’s not much to say, not really… just dealing with something from the past.’

  ‘Go on, I’m listening.’

  ‘Some African stuff… something catching up with me.’

  ‘Don’t talk in riddles. What happened in Africa?’

  He withdrew his hand from hers and hunched forward slightly as if to make himself a smaller target. Lexie stopped and made him face her.

  ‘Come on, Mac. Tell me. It’s obviously bothering you.’

  McCall looked away, looked anywhere but into her eyes. It began to drizzle. The sky sank into the sea over Lexie’s shoulder.

  ‘Some people got killed… some villagers there.’

  ‘Killed?’

  ‘Yes… murdered. Six of them.’

  ‘You weren’t there, were you… on a story?’

  ‘That’s what I do, isn’t it?’

  ‘God, Mac. That’s awful but how’s this connected to Oxford?’

  ‘Through a shrink there. He was recommended to me.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s it. What happened was bad enough to trouble you, psychologically?’

  ‘I’d seen worse… but I was younger then. Life was still a game.’

  ‘Was the shrink able to help you?’

  ‘Not a lot, no… right out of magic wands that day, apparently.’

  *

  Neither spoke much on their drive back across England. McCall regretted opening up to her on the beach. Admitting to mental stress felt like confessing to a weakness. But it also exposed him to questions he wasn’t prepared to answer - not to her, anyway. He needed to divert her attention.

  ‘So, come on, I’ve given you a confidence so you tell me why you’ve really pitched up in my life again.’

  ‘Because Ruby is missing.’

  ‘No other reason, then? Just because me being a hack might help you?’

  ‘Well, that and I’ve thought about you lots over the years. Felt guilty, I suppose.’

  ‘But we were a long time ago.’

  ‘True but you were special.’

  ‘But not special enough for you not to marry Evan.’

  ‘You know, Mac… if you think about it, you should be thankful I didn’t marry you.’

  ‘Thankful?’

  ‘Yes, grateful even.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘Simply because I would have destroyed you and your career back then.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘My unfaithful streak was a mile wide. Can you imagine what I’d have got up to while you were away on stories for weeks on end? You could never have trusted me. You’d never have been happy.’

  ‘So you were doing me a favour, dumping me?’

  ‘I know you were hurt and I’m truly sorry but I knew only Evan could put up with me in the long run. I couldn’t have given you loyalty, not then. Evan represented the security I needed.’

  ‘So it wasn’t love between you and Evan - just a matter of convenience?’

  ‘I always worked on the basis that if I had two men who cared for me and one went, I’d still have the other.’

  ‘Do you regret anything?’

  ‘Well, I’ve never had kids with anyone. But as my mother always said, if you’ve none to make you laugh, you’ve none to make you cry.’

  Thirteen

  Hoare waited at Café Leila, booted and suited and ready for the world. Benwick might play the Florida cop but Hoare was old Fleet Street, dressed to meet duke or dustman and cause offence to neither.

  He’d breakfasted on steak and eggs with two cups of coffee, black, well sugared then the first cigarette of the day. This was always the best. It cleared his head for plots and schemes. Benwick had only wanted a photo call for the frogmen’s search of the reservoir. But Hoare knew a theatrical agent who could lay on a Ruby look-alike for a reconstruction of her last known movements.

  ‘We’ll get terrific press pictures and better TV coverage.’

  ‘Great idea,’ Benwick said. ‘Glad I thought of it.’

  Hoare saw McCall crossing the street towards Café Leila in a blue cotton jacket and stone-coloured Chinos. McCall always looked nervy and drawn but that morning, seemed even more so. Hoare bought him a coffee and asked for a receipt.

  ‘OK, I’ve talked to The Sunday Telegraph,’ McCall said. ‘They want twelve-hundred words and pictures on Ruby.’

  ‘That’s a whole page.’

  ‘Yes, I sold the idea hard but I must have the mother exclusive, Malky. The piece won’t work otherwise.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Benwick. It should bring a smile to his face but don’t bet the farm on it.’

  ‘So what else can you give me for old time’s sake?’

  ‘Listen, Mac. You can’t keep leaning on me like this. I’ll give you Benwick’s mobile number and his confidential direct line then that’s it. Debt paid.’

  Hoare left to meet Benwick for a final briefing with the frogmen who would search the reservoir. Despite their friendship, McCall didn’t trust Hoare enough to tell him about Ruby’s brilliant artworks, still less that he was her aunt’s lover.

  He stayed in the cafe to write up his notes about what he’d already observed of Ruby’s habitat - its litter, the dog shit, kebab smells, noise, traffic, the roaming neighbourhood kids from whose unthinking cruelty she sought escape in a private fantasia of castles and princesses. Such a child with such an imagination - and so rare a talent - could hardly be of this world and might already be in the next. That was the tragedy unfolding here which was why her story was so compelling.

  ‘You are from the newspapers, yes… about Ruby?’

  McCall looked up. A woman stood over him, late middle age, white apron, darting eyes and scraped-back hair reddened by henna.

  ‘Yes, I’m writing about Ruby. Did you know her?’

  ‘I am Leila. This is my place. Ruby come and have food here almost every day.’

  She sat down beside him. Her long, geranium-coloured nails dug into the flesh of her palms as she told him about an unlikely friendship.

  ‘I never send Ruby away. Not me. Always hungry, no playmates. Her mother, not good woman, don’t deserve Ruby.’

  ‘Why wasn’t she a good woman?’

  ‘Men come to her, all times. Many men. Sorry but it’s truth. If only Ruby visit me that day… but no… and now all this.’

  ‘Sounds like you were very fond of her.’

  ‘Yes… such a strange child, like no other… so clever but no one knew.’

  ‘In what way was she clever?’

  ‘Listen, you come. You come with me.’

  McCall followed her upstairs to living quarters furnished like the inside of a gypsy caravan – prints of snowy mountains, vases of artificial flowers, two plaster dogs either side of a gas fire. She unhooked a framed pencil portrait from the wall.

  ‘See this? This is me.’

  It was Leila all right – hooded eyes, laugh-lined and knowing, slightly Semitic nose and an alluring, full lipped smile, generous and kind.

  ‘Ruby did this of me.’

  ‘What, she sat you down and drew you?’

  ‘No, from memory she does this. She just come in one day and give it me. Believe me, if Ruby die, some of me die, too.’

  *

  Viewed from the reservoir’s edge, the very stillness of such a huge volume of water appeared threatening. Hoare figured it would take him at least twenty, twenty-five minutes just to walk the cinder path around it.

  He lit another cigarette and sent the match fizzing into t
he reeds. The rain was holding off but a bank of cloud started massing behind the battlements of the pumping station. Benwick approached shaving his chin with a battery razor.

  ‘Another night on the tiles?’

  ‘I wish,’ Benwick said. ‘Big day, today. You all set?’

  ‘The kid actress and her mum should be here shortly.’

  ‘And the reptiles?’

  ‘Couple of TV crews lined up, the local papers are all sending and I’ve just had a word with that freelance guy I told you about.’

  ‘McCall… yeah, interesting bloke.’

  ‘You’ve checked up on him?’

  ‘Always best to be prepared.’

  ‘You need to watch him. Like I said, he won’t be fobbed off with any old fanny.’

  ‘So I gather.’

  ‘He’ll want a long talk with Etta. You happy with that?’

  ‘So long as you sit in.’

  ‘What about giving him an inside track on Etta’s private life? That’d spin the story very big.’

  ‘We’ll see. Meanwhile, you do all that front of house guff with the TV people.’

  ‘OK, but won’t they be wondering why you’re not doing it?’

  ‘Not too sure I care a damn what they wonder.’

  They headed to the pumping station car park to meet the divers. A slight wind began to disturb the perfect reflection of the castle on the far bank. Benwick paused, hands in the pockets of his jeans, staring across the reservoir.

  ‘She’s out there, Mr Hoare… poor little sod… somewhere, out there.’

  Fourteen

  McCall watched the rubber-suited frogmen bob about like seals, sleek and glossy as they worked their systematic way from the main sluice towards the trees Ruby was known to climb. He got shots of them diving into the watery gloom only to emerge to give the thumbs-down.

  He’d also covered the child actress being filmed for television in a copy of the green polka dot dress Ruby had on when she vanished. Police had the look-alike walk from Linden House to the parade of take-away shops and convenience stores on Woodberry Street, hoping to jog the memory of anyone who might have seen Ruby.