William Boyd: On the Yankee Station: Stories

I was in London by late evening. I was summoned home by a phone call just before lunch the next day. Dreadful news. I have to take the twin blows of my fiancée’s infidelity and my brother’s accidental death. My parents are grim and unforgiving; they think Louella is in some way responsible. I am shocked and stunned. But poor Louella. She has to turn somewhere. I am deeply hurt, but relent under the shared burden of grief. We go for drives and talk and, to cut a long story short, we …

But I’ve lost you, haven’t I? Where was it? That bit about me hiding in the wood? Or setting up my alibi and following them to Scotland? It wasn’t a question of continuing to suspend disbelief, but rather the belief beginning to crumble away of its own accord. You were saying: “If he wants us to believe him; if he wants us to think we’re reading something true, then surely confessing to a murder in cold print is, well, a bit implausible?”

You’re right, of course. I got carried away. Fiction took over once again. Anyway, I could never do a thing like that, could I?

P.S.: Frank and “Louella,” wherever you are, if you should happen to read this — no hard feelings? It’s just a joke.