Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

fools. I was not one of you. I was bold and handsome. I did not falter or trip.

He is no longer fifteen. Or fifty, or eighty for that matter. But your instincts never change. Once a charmer, ineffably attractive to the opposite sex, always a charmer. He could not help it even if he

wanted to.

There she is. The one he has selected for singular attention. Regu-

lation short black skirt and black tights encasing slender womanly

legs. The tights are at odds with the school uniform, yet, he thinks knowingly, perfectly congruent given context. Perhaps fifteen,

maybe as young as a well- developed thirteen; they grow so quickly these days. Petite anyway, with that wild blonde- streaked Medusa

hair that seems never to go out of fashion. Eyeshadow daubed inex-

pertly but to good effect from where he is sitting. She thinks she is a rebel, an individual, but she is simply treading a familiar path to eventual conformity. If only he were younger he could teach her a

thing or two. She might feign haughtiness and indifference, a lan-

guorous pretence of experience. She might be enthusiastic as she

ventured on the path of discovery, but eventually she would show

fear. Roy can deal with fear. Oh yes.

*

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Stephen, meanwhile, is running late. Story of his life. He has promised to deliver some books to Betty and then he must be back for a

meeting with Gerald at six that is sure to be gruelling. He can predict the questions: Everything on track? All the corners covered? All the boxes ticked? Let’s just sit down and make doubly sure, shall we?

This project is pretty damned important, after all.

To be honest, the questions are pertinent and Stephen requires

supervision. This, not Gerald, is what troubles Stephen. Gerald is all right, though he does revel somewhat in his position. The fundamental issue is, though, that Stephen does not know whether

everything is on track. He can’t see the track, let alone the corners.

He hasn’t yet worked out what the boxes are that need to be ticked.

This thing seems to have a life of its own.

Project management is not Stephen’s thing. Management isn’t

his thing. Purpose, mental exertion, careful research, the joy of

winkling out new facts that change the terrain, a sense of creating something worthwhile, these are the important things, not dry process. Gerald is a necessary evil, he supposes. What would he do

without him?

He finds the alleyway between the chemist’s and the estate

agent’s that connects the new town with the old and hastens up it

from standard issue high street to centuries- old cobblestones and the Green. The clock is chiming the half- hour somewhere behind

the screen of oaks whose leaves rustle in the breeze and dapple the sunlight, casting undulating light and shade over the fine verdant

carpet.

It is a gorgeous day in England, one of few so far this summer.

The sun is high in a blue sky and pristine white powder- puff clouds skim on the breeze. Children swarm busily from their daily endeavours, the adrenalin of release fuelling their exuberance. At a distance their uniforms look neat and tidy but as he approaches he can see

that the demands of the day, as well as sundry attempts to declaim

individuality, have taken their toll. Blazers are tossed on shoulders, shirts are crumpled and grubby, shoes are scuffed. And there is the smell of schoolchildren, their sweat and urine and dirt intermingled with heavy- duty synthetic fabrics and that odd faint reek that seeps 13

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from the institution itself, combining the almost metallic smell of cleaning fluid and polish with the aroma of dusty wooded age exuding from its parquet floors and the august panelling of the main hall.

There is a cheeriness about the children that bolsters his opti-

mism. He passes through the melee of boys and behind them are

the various phalanxes of girls, more cliquey, quieter, more guarded.

Older in fact, and more self- aware.

Stephen is careful to be careful about the way he regards the girls, for he knows of the suspicion of every male that must reside in each female heart these days. Was it ever so? He does not know but cannot risk his look being mistaken for a leer.

He is interested in the phenomenon of youth, though not quite

sure why. It could be simple curiosity about the human condition,

piqued by these young things in that phase of growing, as they

observe, mimic, experiment, revise, adapt and finally begin to

achieve identity. Perhaps it is because he himself has not yet com-

pleted that final phase, despite pushing thirty.

Across the Green he sees a young girl, maybe fourteen, walking

on her own, gawky, uncertain, meaninglessly defiant. Her skirt is

short, her eyes blackened, her chin juts with attitude, yet she is just a child and in her eyes he sees fear. Her affectation provokes a series of emotions: a flood of something he can only think of as love, an

acknowledgement of her vulnerability and a desire, despite his

powerlessness to do so and the absurdity of the proposition, to protect. He examines his motives, searching for the shadow of lust

contorted into more palatable expressions. He can honestly say that it does not lurk, but it is interesting that he needs to check.

And then he sees him, in Betty’s chair by the window. Roy, who

has been living at Betty’s for two months now. Those lizard eyes are fixed on this girl, acquisitive, hungry. She continues to walk, oblivious as she composes a text. As she passes Stephen, Roy sees him and their eyes lock. Inside a second Roy’s expression changes from incredulity to hostility and finally to the sad old man harmlessly passing his days looking out on the world. Roy smiles experimentally and

Stephen returns the smile, waving diffidently. He thinks: I know

you. However much I dislike you.

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2

‘I’d be very careful if I were you,’ says Roy when Stephen enters the room.

‘Sorry?’ says Stephen.

‘I said you want to be careful,’ repeats Roy, jerking his head the-

atrically towards the window.

Stephen frowns in puzzlement, opens his mouth to say some-

thing, but thinks better of it. Roy’s eyes are on his face.

He says, ‘Cup of tea?’

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ replies Roy, leaning back in his chair again.

When Stephen has brought the mugs of tea – terracotta- strong

with three sugars for Roy, milky- white with none for himself – Roy resumes.

He says, ‘Can’t be too careful.’

The words hang in the air for a moment.

‘Er, yes,’ says Stephen finally. ‘Pardon?’

Away with the fairies, thinks Roy. Mind off somewhere else.

Hopeless. All over the place. Typical academic.

‘Misunderstandings,’ he says.

‘Oh, yes,’ says Stephen, inattentive, smiling weakly. ‘Yes.’

‘Don’t patronize me, son.’

Stephen stares at him blankly and says nothing.

‘Betty not around?’ he comes up with finally.

Roy backs off. Like being cruel to a puppy. Not, necessarily, that

that would stop him. But Stephen bores him. Unlikely to be any

sport there. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Out meeting a friend for tea.’

‘Oh, right. Any idea when she’ll be back?’

‘Oh no. She’s a law to herself, that one.’ Roy chuckles. ‘I’m not

her keeper.’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘You in a hurry? You seem distracted.’

‘A lot on at the moment. I just dropped by with these books I