Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

began again in earnest. He was bored. The room had no television

and he returned from his excursion to Soho with his copy of the

Sun , which he read from cover to cover. He slept for a while in the afternoon.

It was even worse being dependent on Martin. For the moment,

Martin was in the lead, sorting out their travel arrangements and

obtaining passports from a contact he knew in the East End. Roy had no option but to trust him: he had removed all his cash from his bank accounts but dared not set out on his own to put things right. He was bereft of ideas, devoid of contacts. With his light manner at their meetings each evening, Martin unwittingly piled more indignity on

to Roy. At some stage in their joint career, Martin would pay for this.

Tonight, allegedly, they would be on the move. For the photographs

to be used in their new forged passports that Roy judged prudent

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just in case the police should arrest them as they attempted to leave the country, they had each had their shoulder- length locks cut to a short- back- and- sides and shaved off their moustaches. Martin had been dispatched to some contacts of his in the East End to have the passports made up. We shall see, thought Roy, we shall see whether

young Mr White turns up.

But he duly did, and Roy felt a hatred that was undampened by its

irrationality. Martin had reduced him to this: impotence and dependence on a generally harmless and usually useful fool. He disguised

his contempt, as effectively as Martin concealed his new- found superiority, in cheerful solicitousness.

It was a big night, not just for them. Crowds milled around cen-

tral London, many heading for Wembley and the big match that

would see England qualify for the World Cup in Germany the fol-

lowing year. To give him his due, Martin had thought it through.

While the Metropolitan Police strained to effect crowd control in

London and residual lazy coppers watched Brian Clough drone his

ITV punditry on control room televisions, they would be going

against the flow.

Once they had negotiated the Tube and the teeming concourse

at Victoria, things became easier. They found an empty carriage on

the boat train and the worst to contend with was the waiting, as

British Rail vainly resumed its daily struggle to get a train away on time. People straggled into the compartment, a blinking German

student with evidently not a clue, obliviously knocking him on the

knee with his sharp- edged rucksack, two ugly Italian girls chatting thirteen to the dozen, three smiling and loud Dutch boys. Soon

there was the full complement of eight and Roy contained his seeth-

ing anger only by feigning to doze. This was not travelling in style.

This was not what he had imagined for himself.

Eventually the train pulled out only forty- five minutes behind

schedule. It screeched to a jarring halt outside Dover station, shaking him from the deep slumber he had fallen into, and waited almost twenty minutes before, apparently without reason, jerking forward

again.

They waited until their young companions had disgorged from

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the train before picking up their bags, shrugging their coats on to their shoulders and heading through the passage towards the ferry

and passport control. Roy checked mentally that he had his cur-

rency well hidden in the bottom of his grip. The sense that if he

were to be detained and his belongings searched it would all be up

was, in a strange but familiar way, calming. He had travelled this

path before. The only factors that were in play at this moment were his demeanour and fortune, good or bad.

Martin and Roy separated and he hung at the back of a cluster of

young people, evidently on a trip of some kind, of excited English

secondary school children. He looked at their shabby guardians and

loosened his tie, mussed his hair and adopted a world- weary expression. His new passport indicated, after all, that he was a teacher. It was over in a moment once he had waited for all twenty- six children and the adults to pass and ensured that he followed them immediately. The official looked at him, bored, scrutinized his passport

fleetingly and handed it back. Simple as that, and he felt an inner glow.

As he boarded the vessel by the glare of the dock lights a blaring

radio carried by one of the seamen announced that England had

drawn against Poland and would not after all be at the 1974 World

Cup. England, my England, he thought, as he glanced back at Dover.

Good to get you off my back for a while.

They were well into their third celebratory pint at the bar when

Roy raised the subject of their plans for the future. The ferry lurched and swayed on the rough seas and empty glasses slid on neighbouring tables. They were almost the only people in the half- lit space.

Martin looked wan and extinguished his cigarette, but Roy’s stom-

ach was stronger.

‘What next, Martin?’ he asked.

‘Hadn’t given it a thought,’ slurred Martin. ‘The main priority

was clearing out before the rozzers found us.’

‘Quite right,’ said Roy calmly, and waited a beat. ‘But we do need

a plan.’ He smiled encouragingly.

‘Thought we’d find some cheap hotel in Paris and take it from

there.’

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Roy sighed, almost but not quite imperceptibly. He said, ‘All right.

That’ll do for starters. But then?’

Martin looked blank.

‘You’ve got some contacts in Brussels?’ said Roy, prompting with

a cocked eyebrow.

‘Yes.’

‘Who deal in various commodities?’

‘Yes, but if you –’

‘Yes?’

‘You’d need money for starters.’

‘I reckon I could lay my hands on some cash. Seems a pity to

waste these lovely new passports.’

‘If you’re thinking of going back to England . . .’

‘I didn’t say that. But if your pals need some help getting stuff

down from Scandinavia or over from North Africa, who better than

a couple of upstanding British businessmen to help them? I’m sure

we could turn our hands to that. Don’t you agree? As long as the

price is right. And, as time goes on, set ourselves up properly in the import- export business.’

‘Cut them out, you mean? They won’t like that.’

‘You’re getting ahead of yourself, Martin. That’s not what I said.

Let’s just make ourselves useful in the first place and see where that takes us, shall we? Or have you got a better idea?’

‘No.’

‘Well then. You just set up the meetings and I’ll worry about the

money. How does that sound? All right with you, is it?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘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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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.