Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

‘Depends what you mean,’ he replied. ‘I do my job.’

‘That’s all it is, though, isn’t it? A job.’

‘That’s all any job is. A job. You do your work and they give you

your money. End of story.’

‘Don’t you ever think we’re doing something more important

than that?’

He shrugged before saying with deliberation, ‘It’s important for

me. It pays our bloody bills. Keeps the wolf from the door.’

‘Do you ever commit to anything?’

‘Commit? What exactly does that mean? And anyway, why should

I? Beyond an honest day’s wage for an honest day’s work?’

‘Because we can change the world, if we want.’

He looked at her with an expression of astonishment.

‘Change things? And why would I want to do that? Assuming, for

the moment, that such a stupid idea held any water. The world is

what the world is. We just get on with it, getting whatever we can

from it.’

‘You don’t care about anything, do you?’ she repeated.

‘That’s for others. I get my orders and carry them out. I get paid.

Or if I don’t do what I’m told I get fired. Simple as that.’

There was a loud thud from the flat above. Possibly a suitcase had

been dropped, or a body had hit the floor.

‘I’m just interested in getting on with things. Not theorizing. Not changing the world.’ He hurled this last out with a bitter, thin line of spittle that hung like gossamer on his chin. He wiped it off with his sleeve.

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She was silent, at a loss. It was as if she suddenly lacked the power, or the will, to contend with this.

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Well, don’t say anything, then,’ he riposted immediately but

with intent.

‘Shall we just stop this conversation now?’ she said.

Despite its sharpness, he knew that for her this amounted to a

proposal for a truce, however uneasy. Early, he thought: normally

they arrived here much later, exhausted and impotently frustrated

each with the other. Perhaps the edge to his voice had alerted some subliminal instinct in her. But he was not about to let go. Oh no.

‘I’ve had about enough of this bleeding- heart nonsense,’ he said.

‘I’d like to teach the world to sing. In perfect harmony. Well, buy a bloody Coke, then, and shut your trap.’

She was visibly alarmed. This was not how the game was played.

These were not the rules.

‘Well, you know what you can do, then,’ she said quietly.

‘Yes,’ he said decisively.

Her eyes narrowed slightly and he was certain he could sense her

flinch.

He was not proud of it. It had happened when he was at a vulner-

able point, when he had returned from the pub on a particularly

dark and windy night. She had gone on and on, about something he

could not now recall. So he had belted her, quick and hard, about

the temple. A short, sharp shock. It had not been sufficient to knock her from her feet or inflict greater damage, but no doubt she was

dazed. Her head had lolled elastically on her neck for a moment. It had had the desired effect: the momentary look of animus had

turned to fear and then, gratifyingly, to compliance. It had been

spontaneous and unplanned, but he had learned from its efficacy.

He had felt no shame. In the circumstances the act, while not pre-

cisely desirable or elegant, had been defensible; even necessary, he now thought. He looked at her and saw that glint again in her eyes.

‘Why don’t you go and spend a few days with your mum?’ he

said, and it was less a placatory question than a quiet command.

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As she looked at him her resentful fear melted into resignation.

‘Yes, I might,’ she said, and he continued to look at her steadily.

6

Busy busy busy. Time to get weaving. Taking his belongings and

removing all trace of himself, he had moved swiftly out of the flat, having learned enough to last a lifetime about playing house. He

cleared the building society account, placing some of the money

into his own account but retaining most as ready cash. They had

opened that account together, at Maureen’s insistence, to save for a mortgage. So much for her being unconventional and against the

system. So much, now, for happy families. He had enjoyed ripping

up the passbook.

He resigned from the Ministry by means of a curt letter painfully

scratched out with blotchy biro on grubby Basildon Bond. To hell

with the notice period, he had thought; to hell with the final month’s salary. Let them find me, let them sue.

The shop was now his home. It was squalid but liveable: there

was neither hot water nor heating and he had to sleep in the tiny

windowless back room on a threadbare old couch that bore grisly

stains and exuded an unpleasant aroma. But he had known much,

much worse in his lifetime. The bank loan had been declined, so

there was a potential cash flow crisis. But for the moment he could juggle, using the money from the building society account and citing the bank’s ineptitude to the landlords. The sale of the first

consignments would see them right. The important thing was that

he once again felt alive, no longer an emasculated zombie wage

slave. He chuckled: Maureen would habitually speak of the dignity

of labour. There was no dignity, he thought: labour was subjuga-

tion, and all subjugation was humiliation.

Martin had been on the blower with his associates. It was worth

the cost, frantically slotting ten- pence pieces to feed the insatiable appetite of the telephone around the corner. The first consignment

was to be expected in days, although details had yet to be finalized.

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Meanwhile they had set to redecorating the dingy little shop, covering the window first with newspaper. They had ripped out the

ancient carpet, painted the dark walls that reeked of tobacco with

white emulsion and slapped gloss paint over the dented old counter.

For their stock, Martin’s contacts in Belgium, the Netherlands and

Scandinavia were vital. Roy provided the business know- how and

the backbone.

He was just thinking of climbing uncomfortably from the sofa

and brewing a cup of tea for himself when an impatient rap came

on the front door of the shop. He threw off the frayed grey blanket and, taking his time, dragged on his shoes, ran his fingers though

his hair, tucked his shirt inside his trousers and shuffled towards the noise, which had not abated. A short, snappily dressed young man

stood on the other side of the glass door. He looked impatiently at Roy, who looked him up and down, taking in his chalk- stripe suit

with wide lapels and flared trousers, his Chelsea boots, his wispy

moustache, his Brylcreemed hair and his cocky expression. He

knew his type: on the make and in a hurry. No doubt there was

some angle here and Roy would have to hear him out: some special

offer on some tame porn or knock- off booze, or suchlike. Well, he would listen politely.

‘Mr Mannion, is it?’ asked the young man brightly. Roy had taken

the precaution of using the name for this piece of business.

‘Who’s asking?’ said Roy brusquely.

‘Name of Smith. John Smith. No, that really is my name.’ The

young man laughed to denote the practised joke. ‘Like a millstone I carry around with me, that name. No one believes me. But here I

am. Large as life. John Smith. Care to see my driving licence?’