Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

wants to hear.

3

He is in the lavatory, in some difficulty. The stomach cramps have

arrived again with no notice and he has had to rush upstairs, speedily dropping his trousers and underpants and settling on to the thing with a momentary sigh of relief that there had been no preliminary

mishap before the onslaught. A painful and troubling series of detonations rock the core of his body with shots of kerosene fire,

followed swiftly by a noxious cascade of liquid during which his

entire being seems to be sluicing into the bowl. He is alarmed by the explosive force of the action. He bends forward, his every muscle

tensed in a vain effort to gain mastery. The smell, sulphur and rotting innards, is unspeakable; he is close to gagging.

He sits there and lets it happen. He has no choice. It is involuntary –

it seems almost as if a valve has blown and he is being rid of

badness – yet it is also effortful. His organs and reflexes are no longer his to govern. This is happening to him in the most intimate fashion, yet he has no say in how he responds. He is afraid, both of the 113

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moment and of a near future of which this may be a waymarker. It

is the loss of control that he fears most, not the pain, not the indignity. He whimpers quietly.

When he is, finally, null and void, he is exhausted. He remains

seated awhile to steady himself, trembling and wheezing, anxious,

unduly hot, mind racing. Having cleaned himself as best he can and

holding his trousers up by a shaky hand, his braces dangling and his shirt tail untucked, he shuffles slowly through to his bedroom, using his free hand to support himself against the wall. Eventually he

flops on to the bed and there is an audible twang from the springs.

Exhausted still, his sphincter burning sore, he stares at the ceiling and forces himself to think.

Betty has proved something of a disappointment in a way. So gul-

lible and ripe for the taking. No challenge. It’s all been too easy, with no adrenalin burn. Well, no matter. Diversion and entertainment

were only secondary reasons for this whole enterprise. More

importantly she is, to use the phrase in vogue these days, minted.

The letters from her fund manager that he reads at his leisure when he goes through her bedroom while she is out tell him that. And if

her complacency and gullibility mean less challenge in the game, it may be no bad thing. If this adventure has shown him one thing it is that you become less agile in every way as you age. Once this one is over that will be it for him. A sad thought, but there you are.

She calls from downstairs, ‘Are you all right, Roy?’

‘I’m OK,’ he replies weakly.

She comes upstairs and enters the bedroom. ‘Oh dear,’ she says,

seeing him spreadeagled in unkempt disarray on top of the coun-

terpane. He is flushed and agitated. ‘You don’t look too well.’

‘I’m fine,’ he says with a small confiding smile. ‘Just taken agin

something I’ve eaten. I’m all right really.’

She sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Are you sure?’ she asks, her brow furrowed in a particularly attractive way. If only he had known her in her youth. And his.

‘I’m quite all right, thank you, my dear,’ he says, kindly smile still intact. He pats her hand.

‘I’ve been thinking, Roy . . .’

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‘Yes?’

‘Perhaps I could benefit from reviewing my investments. But I

don’t know where to begin.’

He is at once alert and with difficulty props himself up on one

elbow.

‘Surely you have someone who handles your portfolio?’

‘Well, yes, this company . . .’

‘Company? Ah.’

‘What is it, Roy?’

‘I’ll wager they take a large commission each year for doing very

little. I suppose they write to you every so often. Do you know anyone there by name? Have you ever spoken to anyone there?’

‘Well, no. The funds were invested so long ago and I wouldn’t

know who to ask for. They seem all right from the letters.’

‘I’m sure they are. In their own way. But . . .’

‘They lack, I suppose, well, the personal touch.’

‘Hmm.’

He waits. She must say it, not he.

‘I was wondering . . .’

‘Yes?’ Not too quick.

‘You mentioned you knew someone . . .’

‘Vincent, you mean?’

‘Yes. Your friend.’

‘Oh, Vincent’s not so much a friend as a professional. Though I’d

trust him with my life.’

‘Do you think he’d be prepared to talk to me about my

investments?’

‘Oh yes. I’m sure he would. On a non- commitment basis of

course. If I put a word in I’ve no doubt he’d be happy to speak

with you.’

Easy. Much easier than he had imagined. The pain in his stomach

seems to have dissipated a little.

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Never Had It So Good

1

They would have to make a rapid and discreet departure. This meant

the sprinkling of thousands of francs among those who would facili-

tate it: first and foremost the hotel manager and down the hierarchy through the head concierge, the desk clerk, all the way to the lift boy.

He formed neat piles on the desk as he calculated the exchange rate.

They had completed the packing, admittedly rather haphazardly

and frantically, and Roy rang down to the front desk. When he was

put through to the manager he said quietly, ‘We’re ready.’

‘I am not sure,’ came the reply, ‘whether I should contact the

police after all. I have the reputation of the hotel to consider.’

He did not have time to count to ten, so he counted to three.

‘That’s what I’m thinking about too, Claude,’ he said, his voice

laden with sympathy and regret. ‘It’s the very reason we need to

manage this together.’

‘But if the police later discovered that I have assisted the escape of a felon . . .’

‘Lord Stanbrook is not a felon,’ said Roy with irritated emphasis.

‘I’ve explained it to you. It was a misunderstanding. A situation that got out of hand. I’m trying to handle this with delicacy.’

‘Hmm. But it is I who am left to deal with the consequences if

the police begin to ask difficult questions.’

‘There are no consequences for you. There are no difficult ques-

tions. You simply say you’ve no idea where the noble lord is.’

‘That is easy for you to say. But it is I who am taking the risk with the name of this hotel. On my own.’

‘Not at all, not at all. Oh no. We’re both attempting to preserve

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the reputation of the George V. What could be worse than the arrest of a member of the British aristocracy in its halls? What would your clientele think? I see your point, though. I’m asking a lot of you.

You’ve a lot to take on trust. On reflection, I think the consideration I mentioned may be a little too modest.’

With this, the conversation was easy to complete. Roy counted

out a few more notes on to the largest pile on the desk. His employer was sitting in the bedroom on the edge of the bed. Through the

open door Roy could see he had his head in his hands.

He walked through and touched him gently on the shoulder.

‘All right, Charles. We’re just about ready to go. Five minutes?’

‘Problems?’ asked Stanbrook.

‘Not really. The manager wanted more, that’s all. Par for the