The Liar

by Peter D Wilson

to the dealer who had supplied it and come along ostensibly to get necessary details for the subsequent paperwork. He naturally took the opportunity to show off all the good points of the car in the hope of another sale, and having seen the programme for the day was surprised that the presentation was not to be by the donor.

  I told him that the gift was supposed to be anonymous, which he accepted as a valid reason, but he went on to comment that he’d bumped into the man among the guests; at least, he had thought it was he but had been met with a stark denial. He had a good memory for faces - as he said, it was quite important in his business - and could have sworn that he wasn’t mistaken, but supposed it was just possible for two near-identical people to be involved with the same occasion. At that point his attention was taken by another prospect and the conversation ended.

  The circumstances were intriguing enough for me to look out for Martin, or whoever it was, and I eventually spotted him entering the refreshment tent. Inside, I saw him standing by himself with a drink and plate of something or other, and getting into a position with a clear view of him but out of his line of sight, called “Martin!”. There was just enough reaction, promptly suppressed, to constitute a kind of acknowledgement, so I approached and said “Martin Graham, isn’t it? We met in Ludlow last March.” He politely denied it, as expected, so I made the usual apologies and withdrew. It was not the right time or place to take issue with him, but I made a point of noting where he went afterwards and waited for a more favourable opportunity.

  A little later the headmaster came on the PA system and announced the start of the raffle. There was a good deal more than the car to be won: Huw had mentioned that some of the regular donors evidently regarded their offerings as competitive status symbols, and while they couldn’t, or at least wouldn’t, attempt to outdo Martin’s, they had certainly upped their stakes from previous occasions. From the examples he gave – one was a weekend for two, no questions asked, at a particularly luxurious country house hotel - I could see what he meant.

  It didn’t start at that level, of course, but with relative trifles like a case of Moet & Chandon or a restaurant dinner. The Head was evidently a bit of a showman and played each draw with all the histrionics it could take, so it was over half an hour before he reached the climax. The car was then driven to the front of the stand by the dealer’s very pretty assistant, who the Head was at pains to point out did not come as part of the fittings, but she certainly added plenty to the interest.

  There was a good deal of razzmatazz before the ticket was actually drawn, but dead silence as the previous winner thoroughly stirred up the counterfoils and passed one to the Head to be unfolded. He pretended to fumble with it for a few seconds, then slowly read out “Number ... one hundred ... and ... sixty ... six.” Dead silence again. “Come on, now; someone must have it. Number one hundred and sixty six.” Still no answer. People started looking around, as they do on such occasions, and I was no exception. My glance chanced to fall on the man I had taken for Martin, and I was struck by the look of utter horror on his face as he gazed at his ticket.

  He seemed to be in a state of shock, until his neighbour, looking over his shoulder, tapped him on it and pointed to the ticket. Then he seemed to come part-way out of his trance, went forward and with extraordinary diffidence claimed the prize, which was announced to the customary applause to have been won by Mr. Gareth Carpenter. Accepting the obligatory kiss from the pretty assistant with a lack of enthusiasm that can’t have done anything for her self-esteem, he seemed from what could be heard over the PA system to be saying that he had come alone in his own car and would make arrangements to collect the prize later. The dealer took his particulars for the log book, and Carpenter made his way towards the refreshment tent, presumably with the idea of getting something to steady his nerves.

  Evidently there were good grounds for such an idea, as he still seemed to be rather dazed. For some reason I felt concerned for him and thought I ought to apologise for my previous blunder, so I made my way towards him. I’d almost caught up near the entrance when he tripped over a guy rope, fell heavily and cracked his head on a tent peg, causing quite a nasty gash. He looked pretty groggy as he tried to stand up, and people rushed to help while someone phoned for an ambulance. A chair was fetched from the tent and he was guided on to it, with various ladies fussing over him; I suppose one or two might have had an idea of getting a ride in the prize car and perhaps something afterwards, but for the most part it was probably genuine solicitude.

  The ambulance arrived quite quickly and a paramedic smartly patched up the wound, but was afraid of underlying damage and thought the patient should go to A&E. At that moment his own phone rang, and the call evidently shook him. “There’s been a bad smash on the motorway with dozens hurt and they need all the ambulances they can get. Can someone take this fellow to the hospital?” There were no other offers, I had no particular commitments and so volunteered.

  Carpenter seemed to get worse on the way and it was as much as I could do to help him to Reception, where he was evidently in no state to answer questions. When the clerk asked me for his personal details all I could say was that the name was probably Gareth Carpenter but I wasn’t sure. “You’re not a relative, then?”

  “No, just a casual acquaintance. He must have some identification on him, though – a driving licence, at least, I imagine.”

  “I don’t like going through his pockets – would you mind ...”

  “Of course not. You can witness that I’m doing nothing improper.”

  Fortunately a diary confirmed the name and even had the address and phone number of an emergency contact. “But that’s over two hundred miles away. And we’re short-staffed and with this horrendous motorway accident ... It’s thoroughly irregular but he needs to have someone with him ... If we get him into a ward would you mind staying for a while?”

  “Well – if needs must ....”

  A medic hastily checked the injury with an indrawn breath, tut-tutted a bit and told a nurse to renew the dressings, then both had to dash off and I was left alone with Carpenter. He still seemed in a daze, but after a few minutes he appeared to come more nearly to himself, looked at me for a few moments with a puzzled expression, then his face cleared. “Oh, it’s you. I couldn’t remember ... It’s very good of you to do this ...”

  “Well, someone had to, and I was nearest.”

  “Thanks, anyway. I don’t really know what came over me.”

  “Whatever it was, it had something to do with winning the raffle.”

  “That damned raffle! It seemed such a good idea at the time. I should have known it wouldn’t work.”

  “What wouldn’t work?”

  “Oh, it’s a long story.”

  “It looks as though we’ll have time for it. There’s been a dreadful smash on the motorway, I gather, and that takes priority.”

  “I see. Now ... I wonder ...”

  “Yes?”

  “Since we’re stuck here, could I ask another favour?”

  “No harm in asking.”

  “You see, I’ve a feeling I may be on the way out – no, don’t come out with the usual platitudes, I could be completely wrong but this is just in case. There are a few people I owe explanations to, and I’d be grateful if you’d get in touch with them if it turns out that I can’t.”

  He gave me half a dozen names and addresses; luckily I always carry a notebook, as one of my hobbies is writing stories and ideas sometimes come to me when I can do no more than jot down the outline before I forget.

  “Right. You needn’t give the whole tale to everyone; just use your judgement. To start with, you were quite right in thinking you met me as Martin Graham in Ludlow. I’m sorry to have tried to put you off; it’s part of a long history of deception going right back to my school days.”

  Apparently he had belonged to a dramatic society in which one of the more imaginative members used to write his own plays, usually fairly garish blood-and-thunder effo
rts almost in the Jacobean tradition. One of them revolved around an obsession with the occult, and Carpenter was given a part that involved officiating at a Black Mass. Coming from a religious background he objected, but Fletcher (that was the author’s name – I wondered later if it might be significant) insisted that it was only a play and didn’t count. Carpenter wasn’t entirely convinced, but went along with it for the time being, until at the first rehearsal of that scene he found he couldn’t bring himself to utter the words.

  No amount of persuasion could shift him, since it was the capability as much as the will that was lacking. Fletcher had let it pass for the time being, suspecting that however contemptuous the others might pretend to be about it, any alternative casting would run into the same difficulty; if the worst came to the worst he could scrap that scene and get round its narrative function in some other way, although with serious loss of dramatic impact. However, before that became necessary, he hit on the idea of giving Carpenter a stage name, and so Martin Graham came into a rather nebulous existence; it wouldn’t be Carpenter, but Martin, speaking the dreadful formulae of allegiance to Satan.

  Crude though the stratagem might seem, it worked; Carpenter, as Martin, continued in the part and played it well. Performed as a