Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

‘See what?’

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‘That goodness does exist, however much we seek to deny it, just

as much as its counterpart. Oh, never mind.’

She sighs.

He grunts and says impatiently, ‘What is it you want from me?’

‘Want? Nothing really. I’m not seeking contrition from you. Not

with all that rage burning inside you. I’ve no desire to be reconciled with you. I don’t even want you to comprehend. I just want to look

you in the eye, feel your intimidation and emerge untainted. Surviving you, that was the point of it.’

She smiles at him with a warmth of feeling that surprises even

her. It is not hostility, it is not victory. It is something resembling contentment. To be able to smile at this moment is in some strange

way liberating.

‘I wish you no ill,’ she says. ‘I really don’t. For some time I have borne this malice towards you, but it’s gone. I’m beyond you. So I

think we will leave it at that. Andrew?’

6

A few seconds after they have left the house and he has held the car door for her, Andrew pats his jacket pockets, a little too theatrically for Hans’s taste. He sees him talking to her through the open door

before coming back to the house.

He knocks on the door. It is not the knock of a confident

individual.

Hans takes a while to answer, then looks him up and down for

the first time. He had not given him much attention earlier.

This Andrew does not seem as if he could have any connection

with her. Broad, verging on pudginess, with tousled black hair, a

tanned almost Latin complexion that is Plasticine in texture, he

smiles bashfully as he stands obediently for this appraisal. Appearances can be deceptive – very much so – but he seems to be totally the unreflective type. No presence. Unlike Elisabeth, to give her her due. But on further consideration, a little like she had once seemed to him: complacent and single- faceted. Oh yes, they can be very

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devious, people. Physically, though, very unalike: Andrew with his

large ungainliness, as if his enthusiasm might inadvertently crush

something he loves; Elisabeth, petite and slim, of small features and large eyes. He somewhat obvious and ugly and happily shy; she direct and challenging and teasing and, Hans now finds, beautiful.

Elisabeth: he must remember to call her that.

‘Sorry,’ says Andrew, breaking the silence between them. ‘I seem

to have forgotten my phone.’

‘Oh,’ grunts Hans.

‘And my grandmother asked me to remind you that the lease

runs out on this place on Monday. The agents will be in then. But of course there’s no furniture anyway . . .’ He speaks with that smooth Scottish brogue. ‘May I come in?’ he asks, his smile intact but

becoming less confident. ‘I think it must be in the kitchen.’

‘What?’ says Hans. ‘Oh, do what you want.’

He stands to one side, but only partly, so that Andrew has to sidle past him uncomfortably. He fixes the younger man with a piercing

look and Andrew averts his eyes, bustling through to the kitchen.

‘Here it is,’ calls Andrew from the kitchen, and comes back

through. His expression changes to hostility. ‘It was in my pocket all along. But we both knew that, didn’t we?’

Hans holds the door handle still, ready to usher this nonentity

out of his life for good, but Andrew pushes the door carefully to.

‘Let’s not do this here, eh?’ he says, moving into the living room

and turning to signal that Hans has not complied quickly enough.

Hans follows meekly enough, but regards him with no attempt

to disguise his contempt.

‘What?’ he says.

‘We’d all heard about you, of course,’ says Andrew. ‘My grand-

mother never kept it a secret from us. She told us about you. But it never seemed real. It seemed impossible that a boy could have done

all this harm to her family. To my family. That’s why it’s good to

meet you.’

‘Yes?’ Hans is bored with this.

‘Yes. Meeting you, what seemed so surreal is now so natural. It all falls into place. She’s right: you are evil.’

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‘Have you finished?’

Andrew’s seriousness breaks into a smile. ‘People know me as a

nice guy. I work for an agricultural insurance company. I don’t have a high- powered job, I’m not ambitious. I work hard, get on with my clients, and that does me. I suppose others would think of me as an amiable small- town plodder. Which is fine by me. But appearances

aren’t everything.’

‘Really?’ Hans rolls his eyes. ‘Interesting, I’m sure.’

‘But we’re both more interested in you, really, aren’t we? No one

really knows what makes you tick, do they? Least of all you. At a

guess I’d say you hate yourself more than anyone else. My gran said as much.’

‘How Freudian. Or is it Jungian?’

‘I don’t know. What I do know is that you’re a very unhappy man.

A sad old bastard. Really, you deserve to be put out of your

misery.’

Hans recoils in alarm, his eyes wide.

‘Not that I’m about to do anything like that,’ says Andrew softly.

‘I’m known as a gentle giant, after all. Just like my grandaddy. But I do think it’d somehow be right for you to live the rest of your life in worry.’ He pauses. ‘Money’s really important to you, isn’t it? Or

what it symbolizes?’

‘How perceptive. Your grandmother will be getting rather

impatient. I can imagine how deferential to her you must all be. If you’re trying to unsettle me, I’m sorry to disappoint. Bigger people have tried to do that. And failed.’

‘I’m sure that’s true. No. I’m a gentle guy, Mr Taub. But I do have this rather unkind streak. Generally I like to keep it well hidden.

But . . .’

He takes a step forward and prods Hans in the chest. Hans starts,

and feels his back touch the wall and his knees begin to crumple

beneath him.

‘Cheque,’ says Andrew.

‘What?’ says Hans.

‘Cheque. The one my gran gave you.’

‘Oh.’ He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out his wallet.

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‘Thanks.’

Andrew holds the cheque up, examines it, tears it into several

pieces and lets them fall on to the carpet.

‘My gran’s a very moral person, you see,’ he says, ‘and very for-

giving. I’m more vindictive. I guess it’s the male psyche, partly.

Freud or Jung, I couldn’t give a toss. I’ll not be fretting whether you’ve learned from your experiences. But I will take satisfaction

from knowing that you’ve suffered, if only materially. It’s primitive, it’s uncomplicated, sure. But that’s just me. Mind how you go, now.’

He turns and leaves the house.

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1

I . . .

Just a little turn is all. Right as rain. Back on my feet. Just a turn for the worse. Mind your own. You. Yes, you. Come on if you think

you’re hard enough. Me scared? Are you having a laugh?

‘ M- M- M- M- M –’ he stammers. ‘Maureen!’ he eventually bawls

with elongated vowels.

Their names churn through his head involuntarily, with no let- up.

He cannot make them stop.

Maureen. Dave. Charlotte. Bob. Martin. Charlie. Bryn. Renate.

Magda. Marlene. Anneliese. Konrad. Hannelore. Roy. They’re all