The Last Lie

by Alex Lake

‘I feel I ought to let him know. Warn him he’s got a stalker who wants his babies.’

  Jodie’s eyes widened in mock anger. ‘Don’t you dare! I’ll kill you.’

  ‘All right,’ Alfie said. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Powdering his nose.’ Alfie gestured to the bathroom. ‘So how’s everything else, Jodie?’

  ‘Fine. Work’s the same. My boss is still as creepy as ever.’ She sipped her wine. ‘I am a bit concerned about Pippa, though. I haven’t heard from her since she went on her date.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Thursday.’

  ‘It’s only a couple of days,’ Claire said. ‘And if he’s the one for her she might be otherwise occupied.’

  ‘Probably. But I’m getting worried, to be honest.’

  ‘What was the guy’s name?’ Claire said.

  ‘Henry something. Hang on a sec. I have it in a text from a while back.’ Jodie took out her phone and scrolled through the messages. ‘Henry Bryant,’ she said. ‘He’s a doctor.’

  ‘Google him,’ Claire said. ‘If he’s a doctor, he should show up.’

  Jodie tapped on her screen. After a few seconds she frowned.

  ‘That’s weird,’ she said. ‘There’s a few Dr Henry Bryants. But they’re all in the US. I don’t see any over here.’

  ‘Maybe he’s not on the internet,’ Alfie said. ‘Not everyone is.’

  ‘No,’ Jodie said. ‘I suppose not. But still. You’d think there’d be something.’ She put her phone down. ‘It seems a bit odd. Tomorrow I think I’ll ask some other friends of hers if they’ve heard from her.’

  As she finished, Josh walked in. He was holding a bottle of white wine. ‘You left this in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘Top-up, anyone?’

  Alfie

  Alfie opened his desk drawer and took out his Henry Bryant phone. Claire had gone to an exhibition at the Tate Modern with Nicole, a friend from university whose parents were rich enough, and willing enough, to indulge her fantasies of being a sculptor. Alfie had been to an exhibition of her work once. She held it at her studio, presumably because no gallery wanted to associate itself with the shapeless lumps of junk she produced.

  Alfie had to force himself not to collapse into giggles as she took them around, describing how her creations were abstract representations of different aspects of human experience. He had nodded, and murmured how beautiful they were and how talented she was. On their way home, Claire had expressed some doubts over Nicole’s prospects for success, but Alfie – despite thinking they were the kind of garbage that talentless nobodies produced and called art – had said he liked them.

  It’s not simply about commercial success. She’s realizing her artistic vision, and that’s what counts. I admire what she’s doing. She’s got a real talent.

  Even at the time, he’d wondered where he got such bullshit from, but it had the effect he wanted.

  That’s what I love about you, Claire replied. You’re so uncynical. So generous. You see the best in everyone. Most of us view success in traditional terms – selling well or getting a big exhibition or becoming a doctor or a lawyer – but you don’t think the same way as everyone else.

  That last statement was certainly true, but not quite in the way Claire thought, which was why he was in his office at ten a.m. on a Sunday morning.

  The dinner party had sucked the life out of him. Josh was thoroughly tedious, a middle-of-the-road member of the chattering classes with a mind as yet unsullied by an original thought. They had stood in the kitchen and he had talked about the government and public sector pay and social justice and how great Jodie was until Alfie had considered strangling him and walking into the dining room to tell Jodie and Claire that there’d been a terrible accident and Josh had choked on his own self-righteousness.

  Of course, Claire loved him. He was exactly the kind of table-clearing, nappy-changing, peace-loving, sensitive guy she thought Alfie was.

  He needed a break, so he told her he had to get some work done in the morning so he could play golf with a clear conscience in the afternoon.

  He was going to do neither.

  He’d decided not to meet anyone new until he’d dealt with Claire, but he needed some excitement. Some colour. Something that wasn’t Claire and Jodie and Nicole and all the dull, uninspired tedious people like them mistook for a life.

  Like the Tate Modern, for God’s sake. If you had asked a thousand people to design a temple to self-obsessed mediocrity they would never have been able to come up with something that fitted the bill as perfectly as the Tate Modern. Alfie knew he didn’t get the art there, but he also knew that the reason was there was nothing to get. It was a scam perpetrated on people too worried about what people thought of them to admit they found it unintelligible and boring.

  He opened an app. His username for this one was Johnny Cowen; it was one of the sketchier apps, and the people who used it were unashamedly looking for sex, which was exactly what he wanted.

  He scrolled through the users. He paused on one. Yes, she was perfect. Older than him, pinched expression, smoker’s skin further damaged by a fake tan. Rougher than usual, but perfect: she’d be easy, grateful for the attention.

  They met in a pub near Victoria station. She was there when Alfie arrived, sitting at a table in the corner drinking a large glass of white wine. Some kind of horrendous cheap chardonnay, probably.

  ‘Hello,’ Alfie said. She was older than he had guessed from the photos. Late forties; maybe even early fifties. ‘I’m Johnny. You must be Katinka.’

  Which was a bullshit name if ever there was one.

  She looked at him. He could see that she had been expecting someone different, that the people she normally met were not young, handsome and in good shape.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You having a drink?’

  He looked at the barman. ‘A ginger ale, please.’

  ‘Ginger ale?’ she said. ‘That’s not a drink. Put a whisky in it.’

  ‘Bit early for me,’ Alfie said. He smiled at her. ‘But you get stuck in. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too.’ She sipped her wine. ‘You do this often?’

  ‘Often enough.’ He could smell the cigarette smoke on her breath. He found it strangely arousing. This was exactly what he needed. ‘You?’

  ‘From time to time.’ She glanced at his wedding ring and nodded. ‘I see. You like a bit on the side. No risks.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ Alfie said.

  ‘Already talking about the size of it,’ she said, and laughed, in a real smoker’s cackle. ‘You youngsters are very forward.’

  She was really quite disgusting. For a moment he had a strange feeling that she was almost a different species to him, an animal of some sort. Less than an animal; at least a dog was what it was supposed to be. She was a degraded version of a human being, a sordid, drink-soaked insult to people like him. For a second he considered what it would take to kill her. Not much – a blow to the head, or his strong hands around her wrinkled neck, like Pippa. It had been a thrill, that first time, and he was eager to try it again.

  He could do it at her house, leave the body in the bathroom. No one would trace it to him.

  He gave a shake of his head. He could do it, but he wasn’t going to. She was not his next. That was reserved for someone else. Someone special.

  ‘Everything OK?’ she said, a look of concern on her face. She’d thought his head shake was a sign he was changing his mind.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just thinking about work.’

  ‘Well put that from your mind,’ she said. ‘We’ll find something else to keep you occupied.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Alfie put a hand on her knee. It was bony, the muscles wasted. ‘You want to stay here? Or go somewhere else?’

  ‘Where did you have in mind?’

  Alfie patted the keys in his pocket. He’d chosen a furnished apartment that they had for rent and grabbed
the keys on his way out of the office.

  ‘My place is nearby,’ he said. ‘Want to go?’

  Claire

  Claire had managed to get an appointment for Wednesday morning. It was the earliest Asher could do, despite her brazen flirting. Now she was here and it was not going well.

  Dr Singh did not seem pleased to see her.

  He tapped his fingers on the edge of his desk. He looked at Claire, then looked at his computer screen.

  He’s nervous, Claire thought. No – not nervous. Uncomfortable. On edge.

  It was odd; he was normally so composed. Every time she had seen him before, he had greeted her at the door of his office, gestured for her to take a seat and then listened, her file on the desk in front of him.

  ‘So,’ he said stiffly. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Well,’ she replied. ‘Alfie told me about his fertility test and I wanted to talk about other options.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The doctor nodded three or four times. ‘I see.’ There was a long pause. ‘And what kind of options were you thinking about?’

  Claire was starting to feel uneasy. ‘Adoption,’ she said. ‘But obviously you couldn’t help with that. Maybe a sperm donor. Which you could help with.’

  ‘Have you spoken with your husband about this?’

  ‘Yes, briefly.’

  ‘And he is in agreement?’

  Claire nodded. ‘I think so. I mean, we haven’t reached a final decision, but he didn’t have any objections.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘I don’t really know much about this – which is why I wanted to talk to you – but I imagine this can be a hard thing for a man to accept.’

  Dr Singh nodded. ‘Yes. The fragile male ego, and all that.’

  ‘Right. But what you have to understand about Alfie, Dr Singh, is that, even if he felt his ego was threatened by this, he’s the kind of man who would put it aside. He wants us to have a family as much as I do and he’ll do anything to make it happen.’ She shook her head. ‘He was devastated when he got the news. Devastated. I’ve never seen him like that before. I felt so sorry for him.’

  Dr Singh folded his arms. ‘Mrs Daniels. I am afraid I am not in a position to give you advice on this matter.’

  ‘I understand,’ Claire said. ‘Alfie’s state of mind is not for you to discuss. It’s not a medical matter – at least, not a fertility matter. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m only looking for some initial thoughts. What the process is, risks, that kind of thing.’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying,’ Dr Singh replied. ‘I’m unable to advise you.’

  Claire was baffled. What was he talking about? ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m afraid I am not able to tell you.’

  Claire shook her head. This was becoming ridiculous.

  ‘I don’t understand. What reason could you have for not telling me about the process of sperm donation? Why can’t I know about it?’

  ‘You can. But I’m not the right person to consult about it. I can give you the name of a colleague. You will be in good hands with her.’

  Claire didn’t reply for a while. This was beyond weird. He’d been so open with her, and now he was shutting her out. Something must have happened, and she could only think of one thing.

  ‘Dr Singh, if you don’t want to treat me for some reason – maybe you have a moral or religious objection to this – then that’s fine, although I find it odd you’d be a fertility doctor in the first place if you did have those kind of objections. But please tell me what the reason is. Surely I deserve that?’

  ‘I have no objections on those grounds,’ Dr Singh said. ‘If I had, I would tell you.’

  ‘Is it something about me, then? Is there a medical risk? To me or the child?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Then what is it?’

  Dr Singh looked up at the ceiling, as though deep in thought. Claire had the distinct impression he was on the verge of saying something but couldn’t make up his mind whether to do so. She waited for him to speak.

  ‘You are aware,’ he said in a quiet voice, ‘of doctor–patient confidentiality?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It is something I take very seriously,’ he continued. ‘It is critical to my work. My patients need to know they can trust me. Unless I suspect a serious criminal offence, I would never breach it. If word spread that I had, my practice would be irreparably damaged.’

  ‘Right,’ Claire said. ‘I get that, although I’m not sure I understand what’s going on any better.’

  ‘What I am about to tell you,’ Dr Singh said. ‘Is the most I am able to share, so please do not ask for any more information.’

  ‘OK,’ Claire said. ‘I won’t ask.’

  ‘All I am going to do is share with you some medical information which is related to the field of male fertility. What conclusions you draw from this are entirely your own. Likewise, if you were to take any action – related to your husband – on the basis of it, that would also be on your own account. I want to be clear: I am not breaching any confidentiality requirements, and I want you to agree that you will not claim later that I did.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Claire held her hands in her lap to stop them from fidgeting. Whatever this was about, she doubted it was good news. ‘Please just tell me, Dr Singh.’

  ‘What I want to tell you,’ Dr Singh said, ‘is that if a man had had a vasectomy, but had not told anyone, it would be easy to discover this. All one would have to do is look for a small scar on the side of the testicles.’

  Claire looked at him. ‘Why would you want to tell me that?’

  He shook his head. ‘That is a good question,’ he said. ‘It is the key question. But you will have to answer it yourself. I can say nothing more.’ He folded his arms. It was clear the appointment was over.

  It was also becoming clear what he was suggesting.

  He was suggesting that Alfie had had a vasectomy.

  She walked towards the Tube station. She was on auto-pilot, her mind replaying the times she and Alfie had had sex.

  The times she had given him a blowjob. There was, she recalled it clearly, a ridge at the side of his balls. She hadn’t paid it much attention – she’d been focused on other things – but she remembered it.

  And it could have been a scar.

  And if it was, Alfie had had a vasectomy.

  And if he had – it was hard even to think that – then Dr Singh would have found out pretty quickly. He would have discussed it with Alfie, who would have told him, since it was obviously something he was keeping secret, not to say anything. The doctor would have been conflicted about it, and would have found a way to tell her.

  And that would explain all of this, apart from one thing.

  Why had Alfie done it? And why lie about it? Her stomach lurched. If he’d been lying about the vasectomy, then he’d been lying about everything. The test he’d taken at home. The test he’d taken at Dr Singh’s.

  His desire to have a kid at all.

  Their entire relationship.

  It couldn’t be true. It went against everything she knew about Alfie, against everything their marriage stood for. He would have to be an entirely different person from the man she loved, and she couldn’t believe that was the case.

  There must be a mistake. Dr Singh had got something wrong.

  That was it. This was all a misunderstanding. She just needed to talk to Alfie to find out exactly how.

  Alfie

  Alfie sat at his desk and sipped a tiny, bitter espresso. On his screen was a new listing, a four-bedroom terraced house in Wandsworth. It needed work, but it was still the best part of two million pounds. It was ridiculous. Thirty years earlier it would have been teachers and nurses who lived there, but now it was bankers and lawyers and oligarchs washing dirty money. Anyone who didn’t have either an outsized income or family money had no chance of buying a place like that.

  Not that he cared. He would have if he’d been one of the teachers and nurses, but he h
ad Mick’s money.

  And thank God for that. Without it, he’d be nowhere. His parents – still alive, as far as he knew, although he’d told Claire they’d both died when he was in his twenties because the last thing he wanted was her meeting them – had no money. His mum had been a cleaner in his school, a job that bestowed on her the name ‘Scrubber’ amongst the feral pupils who ran riot at his shit-house comprehensive, and left him with the nickname ‘Son of Scrubber’.

  He’d hated school, hated every second of every day. Hated the name and the laughter and the way he couldn’t stop himself from responding, from getting angry and shouting at them to shut up! Of course, the appeal only made them laugh harder and shout the hateful nickname louder.

  His dad was no help, but then that was no surprise. He was the most useless man Alfie had ever met; he was almost always out of work – not because there weren’t jobs around, but because every time he managed to fall into one, he was fired as soon as his employer realized he was totally incompetent. He turned up late, or at the wrong place, and, when he was there, he misunderstood his instructions or broke the equipment. He didn’t even have an excuse – he wasn’t a drinker and he had reasonable health – he was just a fool. In centuries past he would have been the village idiot.

  Alfie was amazed he’d managed to father a child. Sometimes he wondered whether he had, or whether he was the issue of a brief moment in which his mum had succeeded in finding pleasure with some other man.

  A man, Alfie liked to think, like Henry Bryant.

  Either way, he had been condemned to be the butt of jokes all through his school years. Day in, day out, right up until he walked out at sixteen with a handful of worthless qualifications and a resolution never to go back.

  And he never would. As soon as the summer holidays came he had escaped, well and truly, and before he did he had taken his revenge, made sure that Davie Andrews and Arnold McFadden and Ian Porter would wonder, for a long time after he left, whether it was something more than a coincidence that all three of their family dogs went missing at the same time he did.

  They would have found out it was no coincidence later that summer, when the school caretakers smelled something odd coming from 5V’s classroom and went in to investigate, only to find the rotting corpses of all three dogs.