The Good Liar

by Nicholas Searle

  ‘Good,’ said Roy soothingly. ‘Excellent. I’ll drink to that.’ He

  allowed himself a little inward grin. He had reasserted a healthy

  measure of control.

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  Chapter Seven

  Domestic Bliss

  1

  They are spared Roy’s presence this weekend. Distracted and mut-

  tering, ill- tempered after a bad night’s sleep, he has taken himself off to his own place, to sort his affairs out. So he says. He plans to place most of his belongings in storage and to sell up. It is his last chance to make a modest profit, he claims, given the state of the

  property market.

  ‘That’s why I’m consulting Vincent,’ he had said over breakfast.

  ‘You have to look after yourself. I’ve seen a lot in my lifetime. You don’t get to our age without having a history, do you?’

  It is not a question and she has heard this refrain before, despite his reluctance to talk about his past and his occasional contradictory insistence that he has led a humdrum life. He could at least make

  the effort to be consistent. Evidently he sees her as the gullible type.

  He barrels on regardless. ‘Maybe I’ve seen more than you. I’m

  glad you’ve led a sheltered life, truly I am. You wouldn’t have wanted to see some of the things I have. But then again I’ve learned about preserving the important things in life. You have to look after

  all you’ve worked to secure. Your assets, your interests, your fam-

  ily. You’ll want to leave a future for Michael, and Stephen and

  Emma, when you, I mean . . . Let’s face it, we both have to be real-istic. We’re well into that age when at any moment . . .’

  She smiles meekly at him, as if he were reading the weather

  forecast from his newspaper.

  ‘I mean, if at any stage you’d like a word with Vincent . . .’

  But for now he is gone to settle whatever affairs are to be settled, and she has some breathing space.

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  Stephen is with her. His offer to drive Roy to his home was

  brusquely declined.

  ‘Piece of cake. Wouldn’t mind a lift to the station, but then

  change at Reading, cab from Paddington and Bob’s your uncle. I

  probably won’t be back until tomorrow. Lots to sort out.’

  The air is easier without him, which is not in the least surprising.

  There seems to be a sustained exhalation as they potter in the kit-

  chen and there is almost a relaxed elegance in their counterpoint

  movements around the house. He grinds coffee beans at the counter

  as she washes parsley. As she turns to cut the herbs, he moves with perfect timing to the cupboard to locate the cafetière. He pours the boiling water from the kettle as she reaches for the biscuit tin. They complete this wordless choreography by walking together into the

  lounge and settling by the pile of Saturday broadsheets, she in her upright chair, he sprawling somewhat on the sofa.

  The herbs are drying on kitchen paper for the omelette she will

  cook for their lunch in an hour or so. Then they may go out for a

  short drive into the countryside before he deals with his emails and a few other pressing IT matters at the kitchen table. She may have a nap in her chair or perhaps simply listen to Bach with her eyes

  closed. They have talked of ordering in an Indian meal in the even-

  ing. Roy cannot abide spicy food, so this will be a treat.

  2

  Vincent opens his mouth but does not speak. He seems to be work-

  ing his way up to something. Eventually he says, ‘Why are you

  doing this, Roy? You can do without the bother. You must be well

  enough off. You can’t need the money.’

  Well, a little disclosure will do no harm, at this stage in his life. It will be good to explain, if only to Vincent, his only legatee so to speak in this world.

  ‘I can always do with more,’ he replies. ‘You can never have too

  much cash. Besides, it’s what I do. I do it because I can, because I’m good at it. And these people. These stupid complacent people. They

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  don’t know what it is like to suffer. They sit at the centre of their own lives, warm and cosy. They need shaking up.’

  He could have added, it’s a weakness, a compulsion. The pains-

  taking construction of the lie and its intricate underpinnings: they make the adrenalin flow. In a previous life he was taught not to

  show joy at getting away with the big lie, and to avoid the urge to embroider to within an inch of believability just for the thrill of mocking the mark. One big lie is all you ever need, he knows

  through experience, and to feel the joy solely internally is gratifying enough. It’s necessary not to ignore the endgame; but that’s not

  where the sense of accomplishment lies for Roy. It’s in the execu-

  tion, the act of deception. But Vincent wouldn’t understand. He’s a singularly joyless person.

  ‘They’re nice enough people,’ he continues quickly, ‘of their sort.

  Privileged, smug, small- minded. You’ll get to meet them. You’ll

  probably like her. I do.’

  ‘And yet it doesn’t stop you?’ says Vincent

  ‘Why should it? It’s an important lesson for her. Albeit at a rather advanced age. I like her, but I only know her because she presented herself. From the get- go. In my time I’ve had to . . . deal with . . .

  plenty of people who’ve been pleasant enough.’

  It is not imperative, though, to do this; he could scrape by on

  what he has left, though it has dwindled alarmingly over the past

  few years. But this is where he derives his satisfaction and while he likes her he also sneers at her. And as for her dreadful family, good grief.

  They return to the business at hand, after the rather embarrass-

  ing partial opening- up. No, on reflection disclosure is not a good thing, thinks Roy. It doesn’t salve the soul. It invites questions, not least from oneself, and upsets the certainty at which one has arrived.

  At his age he can do without such perturbations.

  Vincent will be called in when Roy has been able to persuade

  Betty that she needs his advice. This will take some tenacity, though he has started along the way. He runs through who else Betty may

  wish to have there: with luck the callow Stephen, with slightly less luck her son, Michael. Both should, ultimately, be manageable. Roy

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  takes some care in prescribing how Vincent should present himself,

  his demeanour and even the clothes he should wear. Vincent is not

  offended; he knows well Roy’s attention to detail and that, gener-

  ally, he is right.

  They run through the basic script. It can only be an outline since

  they will need to extemporize considerably, not least to deal with

  queries that Betty may have. Roy reinforces the key messages and

  the boundaries beyond which they must not stray. There are some

  tricky areas that have to be gone over more than once, mainly con-

  cerning how to manoeuvre Betty into entering into it all jointly

  with Roy. Vincent and Roy could manage separate accounts, but

  this would involve more technical wizardry than they would prefer

  and expose the whole venture to greater risk than normally

  acceptable.

  Finally, they tackle the information technology issues. The />
  accounts are already set up and Roy has tested online access dis-

  creetly on the slim tablet computer that he keeps concealed in his

  bedroom at Betty’s. Roy explains that when it comes to the moment

  he wants, for the sake of dramatic verisimilitude, them both to

  transfer funds to a joint account in their names in an obscure off-

  shore financial institution. Vincent feels that this may be problematic but realizes that Roy, as ever, wants to do things with a flourish. He emphasizes just how important it is for Roy to shift the funds on

  from there at the earliest opportunity. The endgame will then be on them and he will need to have made his next plans in advance, ready to deploy immediately.

  They may well not have a further opportunity to confer at length

  before the wheels are in motion. After that their chances to talk may be snatched and unreliable, so it is important that both are entirely clear on the collective vision and contingencies should events take an unexpected turn. With Betty, Roy will want to maintain the

  appearance of complete transparency and not to arouse even min-

  imal doubt. This is well- trodden territory for the two of them, with far tougher adversaries, and they shake hands before Roy heads for

  the return train. It will not be a problem. Oh no.

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  3

  ‘I think,’ he says, ‘I owe you an apology.’

  ‘Oh?’ says Betty. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking. While I’ve been away. You’ve told me all

  about your life and your family and I’ve been a little . . .’

  ‘Reticent?’

  ‘To put it mildly. Unlike you, there’s been little of interest. But you see, I can’t say I feel any pride in my life. And I don’t care for opening up, or whatever they call it. I was brought up to mind my

  own business. But I owe it to you to tell you rather more about me

  than I have. If, that is, we’re about to take the next step.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘If, as you suggested, I’m to sell up and to move in with you

  permanently.’

  ‘I rather thought you’d already moved in. And I didn’t know it

  was my suggestion,’ she added pertly.

  ‘Yes, well. Selling my little flat will formalize it. As well as giving us the funds to secure a wonderful future together.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I want you to be clear on one thing. I’ve never told you any lies.

  I’ve simply been, well . . .’

  ‘Economical with the truth?’

  He scowls and says emphatically, ‘Oh no. I don’t like that expres-

  sion. Perhaps I’ve not been as forthcoming as I might have been.’

  ‘I was joking, Roy. Only teasing you.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Well. At any rate, this is me. It’s a short and humdrum

  story. There’s nothing to alarm you. A good cure for insomnia. To

  begin with, I come originally from Dorset. I have to tell you that I was something of the black sheep of my family. My father was a

  country rector there, like his father. As the eldest son, I was expected to follow in their footsteps. I was put up for a private education and slated to study theology at Cambridge. But then the war intervened.

  And besides, I was – I am indeed – something of an adventurer. I

  signed up as soon as I was able but sadly never got to serve on the 87

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  front line in the push. It was a mixture of the training requirements, the chaos of the times and the fact that the war was in fact entering its final phase and fizzling out. Those who had fought the hard yards were generally permitted to apply the coup de grâce. We youngsters were held in reserve. It’s always been a regret of mine. I was in what they laughably call military intelligence. But I suppose I served my country as best I could. I was part of a small group sent to Europe to investigate incidents and try to locate fleeing war criminals.

  We had some success. It taught me a lot about life, though there are some experiences I’d not want to wish on anyone else.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘Oh,’ he says, discomfited. ‘Things I don’t speak of to anyone.’

  ‘Even me?’

  ‘Especially you, my dear. Things of which you should not know.

  Things that changed me as a man and made me what I am today.’

  He regards her sadly, and she fancies she might see tears form

  in the watery corners of his eyes. But then again, she may be

  mistaken.

  ‘I moved on. I didn’t leave the army immediately, though I could

  have returned to my studies and faded nicely into a rural curacy. I did have my chance to serve on the front line, in Korea. By then I

  was a captain, promoted through the ranks. Those were tough

  times too. They have bitter winters there. I’d all but lost contact with my family. My perspectives on life were rather different from

  my parents’. Less timid, I have to say. But I regret bitterly not having made the effort. I’ve never found the courage to pick up the threads.’

  ‘You could do so now,’ she says. ‘I could help you.’

  He shakes his head vehemently.

  ‘No. All gone now. They’re all dead now, no doubt. There are the

  later generations, I suppose, but the last thing they will need is some distant long- forgotten relation landing on their doorstep.’

  ‘I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘No,’ he says decisively. ‘No. Anyway, I left the army in 1953 and

  was at a bit of a loose end for a while. I had a variety of jobs. Before I knew it I was pushing thirty and it was time to do something with my life. I was living in London then but decided I should be out in 88

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  the sticks. I moved to East Anglia, near Norwich, and that was

  where I met Mary. She was an uncomplicated girl, from a modest

  background, with simple needs. I’d long lost any desire for status or position. I was more interested in starting a family and striking out on my own. So with a small plot of land I began a market garden. I

  taught myself everything. I’d read avidly into the early hours and

  then spend the next day putting my learning into practice. And

  shortly we had Robert. It would have been the most joyous day of

  my life had the birth not been so difficult. From then on, there was little to report. I was building my business up and to be frank I spent most of my time on that. It does me no favours to say so, but I neglected Mary and Robert as the business became more successful.

  Until, that is, she fell ill. It was a terrible few years, as she slowly became worse and worse. And then she was gone. I’ve never felt so

  low in my life. That would have been the early 70s. Robert was

  about fifteen. We grew apart – it must have been at least partly the grief we couldn’t express to one another – and eventually, when he was about nineteen, he left suddenly. That almost did me in, I can

  tell you.’

  He pauses.

  ‘What did you do then?’ she asks gently.

  ‘I sold up. I told myself I needed a new start. Moved back to Lon-

  don. Got into property. And investment. It was the beginning of the boom years. That was a mistake. City folk. I got mixed up with the

  wrong crowd. I was getting drunk every night and my so- called

  partners were fleecing me left, right and centre. I was almost ruined.

  Eventually I saw sense and in 1985 took what I had left and returned to Norfolk. I managed to buy a small nursery there from a chap I

  used to know w
ho was retiring, and that kept me going until I

  retired myself. In fact it did quite well and I could live in some modest comfort. And that’s the whole story, more or less. Until you

  came along.’

  ‘And Robert?’

  ‘He travelled the world and we had no contact until 1995. Then

  out of the blue I had a letter from him from Australia. I don’t know how he found me again. Probably the internet. I’ve still not seen

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  him since we parted and we’re in touch only infrequently. He never

  comes to England.’

  ‘Would you like to see him?’

  ‘Not really,’ says Roy. ‘We have so little in common. And I’m

  afraid I’m unduly rigid when it comes to my moral standards. I

  don’t approve of his lifestyle and I doubt I could reconcile myself to it. Best just to leave it as it is. Anyway, there you have it. I felt it only fair as we enter this new phase in our lives . . .’

  ‘The last movement, possibly,’ she says with a smile.

  ‘Yes. I felt you needed to know about me. I’m afraid my experi-

  ences have made me rather taciturn. There’s little I can do about

  that. I’ve simply learned not to trust people – not you, that goes without saying. I don’t like talking about myself, and that won’t

  change. But if you have any questions . . .’

  ‘No,’ she says absently.

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  Chapter Eight

  March 1963

  Flooding

  1

  A hard, hard frost. Like the whole of the last three months or so. So cold it became difficult to think. Especially on a Sunday morning

  when you’d been dragged from your pit at no notice, from that

  snug fastness into this. He shivered as he thought of it and yearned for his bed again.

  Fog. Bitter blank freezing fog wafting across the Fens. There was

  no wind. Snow remained thick on the ground, the snow of weeks

  past, accumulated like memory. The roads had been cleared several

  times but were coated in black ice yet again.

  He leaned against the driver’s door of the lorry, his fingers numb

  and shaking as he commanded them to light his cigarette. He was