Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

army blanket crumpled untidily under the passenger seat. He picked

up the crank handle that lay in the passenger footwell but he told

himself again to wait for Bob and his box of tricks.

4

It was relatively easy to take the rise out of Bob. Make reference to his country bumpkin demeanour and existence, light blue touch

paper and retire, to laugh sardonically at his expense.

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There was, though, a sort of purpose in the ribbing. Bob wanted,

and needed, to see more of life before entering the open prison of

marriage. He listened enthralled as Roy told him of his exploits in immediate post- war central Europe, arraigning Nazis at the end

of a pistol, or of his later journeys around the world with Lord

Stanbrook, arriving back at Raffles Hotel just in time to catch a

Singapore sunrise. Most of this was approximated, at least, but it

seemed somehow to fire something inside Bob that resembled an

imagination.

In truth he despised them all, Bob included, who, though he liked

him, was simply the most palatable of these heavy- footed dullards.

This period of respite had been tolerable if surprising when it had come, but five years: oh dear. Now was the time to return somewhere near the hub of things.

So he bided his time and entertained himself by stoking Bob’s

ambition and wanderlust, and annoying Bob’s father, who had lec-

tured Roy on more than one occasion about his fancy ideas. Roy

had duly ignored him, not exactly grinning in his face. Not exactly.

Tweaking Mr Mannion’s tail was, however, barely sport; and

rather beneath his aspirations. He wanted to return to the world of dinner jackets and hunting tweeds, of whispered conversations over

a cigar and a port, where things were fixed and cogs oiled, of glamorous, haughty women eager to assuage their boredom and

contempt for their husbands through sex.

Under his tutelage, Bob had shown genuine signs of becoming

restive that extended beyond barroom chat. He had argued with his

father, indicating that he rather fancied trying his chances in the Smoke. He had gone to the barber’s in King’s Lynn, where he had

acquired a reasonably spectacular quiff that he tended with pains-

taking care. He had taken to wearing a leather jacket. He dashed

around on his Triumph, the stainless- steel parts of the engine block and chrome exhausts shined to a bright finish.

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5

Finally, there was the distant buzz of a motorcycle.

He strained to hear, then was certain. The noise was becoming

louder.

Soon Bob would have his hands among the oily innards of the

vehicle, a cheerful surgeon jabbering away thirteen to the dozen,

grinning as he worked, his Woodbine between his lips. Eventually

he would remove his oily fingers, wipe them on a rag and proceed

with a flourish to fire her up.

By now the noise was recognizable as Bob’s motorcycle, no

longer an angry little buzz but a guttural grating roar as the throttle was opened. Roy went to the long snout of the truck and opened

the bonnet. He would drive the truck back to the garage and Bob

would follow on behind. It would be a bit early for a pint, but perhaps Mrs Langley, Roy’s landlady, would knock up a fry- up for them.

Like most women, she had a soft spot for cheeky young Bob.

He’d be freezing on that thing. This must be one of the first times this year that Bob had been out on it. When on earth would warmth

return to this country?

The sound of the approaching motorcycle grew louder still. The

shattering of the silence was welcome to him; things began to move.

And then the world stopped again.

Still attending to the bonnet of the vehicle, Roy had a sudden

sense of imminence. He would later put this down to an uncon-

scious reckoning that the sound of the motorcycle was too loud and

close, but he had no time to reason this out.

The motorcycle motor screamed. Somewhere on the other side

of the truck and unseen by Roy, it revved helplessly as traction was lost. There was a loud thud, and Roy felt the lorry shake briefly as an impact occurred on the opposite side. It quickly settled again. He could hear the sound of metal clawing at the tarmac and even as he

was aware of sparks underneath the lorry he watched the motor-

cycle, an angry writhing beast, slither into view from beneath it and skate some yards down the road before stalling.

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The oppressive silence returned. Roy still had his hand on the

bonnet, holding it open. There was no sign of Bob.

It took some presence of mind for Roy to let go of the bonnet. It

crashed down and the echoes rippled into the mist. He stood for a

moment, helpless, before coughing, simply to make noise, to hear

its hollowness, as if to confirm his own existence.

An odd, detached foreboding spread through him which did not

quite amount to dread. Experimentally, he croaked, ‘Bob?’, then

found his voice and shouted more loudly. No response. It took him

a moment more to get his leg muscles to respond and begin the

long journey to the other side of the truck.

Bob had been impaled on the cross- member that jutted out from

the cast- iron chassis of the flatbed lorry. He had seemingly met it square in his midriff and he was suspended from it as if in mid- air, the tips of his toes touching the ground, in a sitting position, his arms extended as if he were still riding.

It must have been a freak occurrence. He wondered how fast

Bob had been travelling: a reckless sixty, seventy, ninety miles an hour? Stupid boy. What flow of blood had ensued had ceased, spattering the ice- covered road with an almost symmetrical circular

pattern. The scar of the motorcycle’s further trajectory could be

seen under the truck.

6

He had no sense of cold now. All he felt was numbness, physical and mental. Total silence had returned. The fog hung heavy and white.

He ordered his brain to work. His first conclusion was an odd

one. This dreadful sequence of events should trigger an automatic

and corresponding reaction. He should, of course, do what he could

for Bob, but was there any point fretting around his mortal remains?

Possibly he should vomit at the terrible sight in front of him. He

should begin grieving for his friend in whatever fashion was suit-

able. Perhaps not keening, but something more fitting than simply

raising a glass at the pub that evening. He should make his way as

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quickly as possible to the authorities, so they could do whatever was appropriate. Well, maybe, in a moment.

But none of these things came to pass. He regarded Bob with

dispassion, and a sigh formed that he was able to suppress. A bit

inconvenient, this. Or possibly not.

Shortly Bob had passed from being a friend to a conundrum in the

abstract, a series of practical challenges that comprised an intriguing package of threat and opportunity. What did he need to do at the

scene to effect decency just in case some passer- by should happen on this, though the chances were admittedly tiny? How would he get to

the nearest police station? What would he say to Bob’s parents?

Or.

It did not take long for the binary choice to form in Roy’s mind.

Stick or twist? As ever, his instant choice was to twist. He under-

stood, both rationally and intuitively, that the next few days and