William Brodrick - The Day of the Lie

‘None whatsoever.’

Anselm dropped his pencil and closed his empty pad. ‘It’s a fight, then.’

The defendants had pleaded justification, implying that hard evidence would be forthcoming, presumably from credible persons with knowledge about John and the work of the intelligence community. However nothing was disclosed. Like John, they claimed to be protecting their source. Which, while admirable, was not a recognised defence to libel. They’d thought the little man wouldn’t stand his ground. Negotiations began at the court door.

What should have been one of those rare experiences of uncomplicated joy for Anselm — knowing he’d won before he’d opened his mouth — turned out to be a remarkably unpleasant tutorial in humiliation. He was pitted against the most renowned performers from London’s specialised libel chambers who viewed him, not altogether unfairly as a mole on their lawn. Every offer of settlement refused by Anselm was met with soaring contempt.

‘Now you’re being greedy’ said one, with a slow, patrician sneer.

‘I’d thought your client was being better advised,’ mused another, a short man who seemed to look down while looking up.

They eventually caved in. And John won a retraction, a public apology, and what is always called, enticingly ‘undisclosed substantial damages’. That outcome ought to have been the signal for celebration: he’d recovered his reputation with compound interest. But within two weeks neither meant anything to him. He’d lost far more than his standing or its abstract value. Tragedies are like that. They redefine what is important.

Anselm tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. The train from London rumbled out of the darkness, its brakes screeching, the carriages shuddering. The tannoy crackled and a low Suffolk voice announced the arrival from London and a few pending departures. Anselm got out of his car, opened his umbrella and shambled pensively towards the station entrance.

The first tragedy to strike John took place the day following his victory. He’d not been alone in quitting Warsaw A dissident and colourful intellectual had taken the same plane to London. Celina Something-or-other had irked the censors for years through her ambiguous documentary films but she’d finally had enough of the intimidation and restrictions placed upon her work. She’d chosen exile. John had adored her, from the tangled dyed hair, past the plastic belt, and down to the green canvas shoes. Anselm had imagined that before long they’d marry and that tiny feet with garish, painted nails would patter round Hampstead — a happy vision that was only blurred by his inclination to anticipate all manner of crises best expressed in German.

Though unfounded, his angstlichkeit turned prophetic. John’s association with Celina came to an abrupt conclusion on the very day that the agreed apologies were printed in the various newspapers. John never spoke of the matter save to say, in clinical terms, that things hadn’t worked out.

‘It’s over.’

‘Why?’

‘Why not?’

The accident occurred within a month of that conversation, though John refused at any point afterwards to call it a tragedy He’d been screaming up the Al when he went off the road after skidding in slurry. It turned out the farmer was on his way back to clean up the mess, but John had got there first, blown through a fence and hit a couple of trees. After a few weeks in intensive care, surgeons in Leeds and London achieved quite astonishing results in facial reconstruction.

‘You wouldn’t know the difference,’ Anselm said, polishing his glasses on the lining of his jacket.

‘I’d banked on improvement,’ observed John, his voice flat and dry.

A year or so later Anselm left the Bar to join the community at Larkwood. The sound of monastic bells had been ringing in his memory ever since he’d stumbled on the Suffolk retreat in his youth. He’d been stung by simple words on a leaflet… something about tasting a peace this world cannot give. Like water dripping on a stone, some moisture in the phrase had finally got through to his heart. Surreptitiously, he’d gone back to the quiet valley He’d mooched around the enclosure, knowing, even before he knew why that this remote place was home. When John had said he was off to Warsaw, Anselm had lured him up the bell tower, intending to reveal the strange longing that had seized hold of him: but they’d ended up talking cross purposes. Looking down upon the fiery green of the cloister Garth, they’d spoken of love and reasons — that the twain would never meet — and John had thought Anselm meant an ample Jazz singer who reigned over a basement club near Finsbury Park. When, following the accident, Anselm finally disclosed his intention to leave the Bar, John had been hurt and stunned.

‘You’re not serious?’

‘I am.’

‘A monk? Sandals? Sackcloth?’

‘Yes.’

‘Covert flagellation?’

‘No, communal.’

‘You kept that to yourself.’

‘Sort of.’

‘Bloody hell. Why didn’t you tell me when we were up the bell tower?’

And yet, in a curious way Anselm’s departure proved decisive for John’s long-term rehabilitation: a deeper healing beyond the visible injuries. Unsure of where his future might lie now that his career as a journalist was over, he came to Larkwood. For months he shared the simple rhythm of Anselm’s life, the experience communicating with depth what his friend could never have expressed in words. He returned to Hampstead understanding not only Anselm but his own future, bent on academia with a resolution only comparable to his first day at Reuters.

Over the following years John frequently made the trek to Larkwood. He told Anselm everything, from the contents of his dissertation to the underground politics that shaped the common room rebellions. They chewed over the past, as old friends do. But 1982 remained the year they never spoke about. Which, of course, made it for ever present. Because that was the time John had been in Warsaw Whatever had happened over there he’d come home to lose everything that had once mattered. And a little bit more.

Passengers appeared in the mist. They moved quickly and purposefully shoulders hunched, hands buried in pockets. John was the last to leave the station. He stepped outside, tapping his stick in a wide arc before his feet. Anselm had cut it down shortly after John had moved into the guesthouse. The bottom half had been painted white in deference to city life and the conventions that announce disability.

‘I need more than a lawyer,’ he said, knowing that Anselm was out there, reaching for his arm. ‘I need you to be my eyes and hands.’

The fire hissed and spat. Anselm had chopped young wood, not old. The apple timbers hadn’t had enough time to dry out so the resin boiled and ran. Heat efficiency was reduced, but you got that unusual smell, the warming aroma of smoky cider, hot pies and an imagined cinnamon. Anselm threw on a couple more logs and shambled to a small oak cupboard built into the wall of the calefactory Situated as it was within the monastery, the room was not accessible to any of the guests. But Larkwood always made exceptions. To quote the Prior, it’s what the rules were for. And Anselm wanted complete privacy and the surrounding silence that promoted absolute candour.

‘Whisky?’

‘Yep.’

‘Water?’

‘Nope.’

A couple of burgundy armchairs, the leather shabby and worn, faced the stone hearth, their feather cushions plumped and yielding. Between each stood a small round table with a faded military insignia dated 1916. They’d been picked up way back for a few quid by Father William at a Salvation Army second-hand furniture store in Manchester. Like all Larkwood’s cobbled furnishings, they carried the secret histories of many unknown lives. They linked the community to the world they served. Anselm handed John his drink and then sank into his chair.