Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

might be, must be concerned about his withdrawn behaviour. Or

perhaps it was a routine peacetime frippery.

‘Bound to have trauma,’ said Parsons. ‘Natural feeling, old boy.

Thing is, not to let it get on top of you.’

‘It doesn’t,’ he said quickly.

Parsons regarded him, considering, it seemed, what next to say.

‘Must have been a bit grim. That close up.’

‘It was.’

‘Want to tell me about it?’

‘Not really.’

‘Close, were you? You and this interpreter?’

‘Not particularly. We worked together.’

‘Socialize together?’

‘Just the normal amount.’

‘Good man, was he?’

‘He was all right, yes.’

‘I see. Must have been distressing for you.’

‘How would you feel if someone you’d been working with had

his face shot off in front of you?’

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Parsons seemed to give the question fair consideration. ‘Dreams?

Nightmares?’

‘No.’

‘Chose not to go back to Blighty, I see?’

‘I want to return to duty as soon as possible.’

‘Right. That’s the spirit.’

Several of their conversations followed this well- worn path and

left Parsons with a furrowed brow as he wrote his notes at the end

of their sessions. He would leave the office, pull the door quietly behind him and return to his book. He presumed that at some stage

Parsons would give him the all clear.

It was not normal for him to prevaricate over anything, but he

put off for as long as possible the letter addressed to the Rev. and Mrs J. M. P. Courtnay at the Vicarage. One long July evening, as twilight began to fall and martins fluttered outside the window against the darkening blue, he sat down at the typewriter and composed a

reply to the several anxious letters he had received. His arm allowed some movement now in the fingers of his right hand and this was

good exercise.

‘Dear Mother and Father,’ he began. ‘I am sorry I have not been

able to write until now. Thankfully my arm is healing and I am bet-

ter able to produce this most difficult letter.’

He considered what he should write next, deciding finally that he

should keep it brief. The accident, as he called it, had changed his life irrevocably. Perhaps it simply typified the change in him since military service. He would not be returning shortly to England,

either to his place at Oxford or to the family home. He saw a com-

pletely different future for himself. For the time being he planned to remain in some capacity with the military, though front- line activity was out of the question. He would then see where fate took him.

He thought a clean break was the best solution all round, so he

would not be writing to them again. He would not reply to any let-

ters they sent him. He assured them that he was perfectly well, both physically and mentally, and that this full and final decision was

made perfectly rationally. He regretted the upset this must cause

them and thanked them for his loving upbringing.

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He signed the letter with a jagged, painful ‘Roy’ and placed the

paper once again into the machine to add a postscript apologizing

for his inability to write by hand.

He had had enough of this place now and lobbied for a posting.

After three weeks he was sent to the office in Brussels that was

beginning the work of codifying the Allied Forces’ operating status in Europe following the war.

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1

He emerges from a fitful sleep into the bright light of the ward.

Around him he can hear the sound of businesslike bustling, but it is not to do with him.

He can recall vividly the moment the revolver skidded to a halt

on the floor and that split second when all three men saw that they had arrived at a turning point. He can recall his heart leaping in

fear- fuelled exultation as he made for the weapon. He can recall the two other men doing the same, and the silence of an age before the

coming- together. He can remember little else. In his mind there is a blur of action, the flash of the blade, pain in his arm and then the absence of pain, blood spattering, the crunch of bodies colliding

and the report of the Webley, astonishingly loud at such close quarters. It booms now, in his head. But then what? He is not even sure who he is.

He opens his eyes. The activity in the ward concerns a patient

across the way whose bed linen is being changed. Nothing too dras-

tic and thankfully no one looks towards his bed. He closes his eyes again to think. He hopes he will shortly be released from here and

resume real life. The office in Hannover has always seemed so hum-

drum; now it is enticing. Marjorie, the office dragon, and Derek,

Bert and Ernie, the three clerks. He has managed to get hold of

some real coffee from the American PX. They will love that. But

then it begins seeping back. Things will not return to normal,

though he does not quite know why.

Still, as soon as this wound heals he will be out of here. He shifts 168

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position and pain jags through him. The odd thing is that it seems

to be in his side rather than his arm. Even to think is an effort and he feels tired.

The next thing he knows, there is a gentle voice flowing over

him. ‘Wake up, Roy,’ it says. He wants to say: I am awake, don’t you realize? I just want to keep my eyes closed. I just want everything to stop moving, existing. But the voice is sweet, as is the waft of ver-bena perfume, and he cannot resist opening his eyes.

There she is. How can that be? Sweet little . . . No. Impossible, he realizes as the thought swirls in his brain.

Gradually he is able to focus. No. How could he be so stupid? It’s

that old woman. The one he lives with. What’s her name? Such a

simple thing, a name. At least it should be. He’s always prided

himself on his memory for names. Almost within grasp. Betty.

And with the name fragments come drifting back, weightless.

That little mews cottage by the Green. Vincent. Oh yes. Vincent.

The drugs they give you. That must be it. A bit off- colour, that’s all. He takes her hand and holds on for dear life.

A doctor comes into view, carrying a clipboard.

‘Well then, Mr Courtnay,’ he says.

Yes! Courtnay. Captain Roy Courtnay if you please. Present and

correct.

And then it begins to float into place. The world turns slowly.

Planets coincide gently. His memory docks again inaudibly and

there is clarity. Just a little turn, he thinks.

‘You’ve had a nasty fall, Mr Courtnay. A couple of cracked ribs.

They’ll be quite painful.’

Why is he telling him this? Why is he speaking so loudly? He

doesn’t need telling his ribs hurt. But he is mute, staring up at the man- child who is attending him. Long tousled hair, T- shirt under his white coat. Hasn’t shaved. Complete mess.

‘You’ll be right as rain in a few days. I said right as rain,

Mr Courtnay.’

The doctor smiles encouragingly. Roy thinks: have I turned into

some imbecile overnight? He coughs but still does not speak.

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‘And after that perhaps we need to discuss options.’

He notices he is still holding Betty’s hand and his grip is becom-