Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

here. Plus more. Price. Craig. Taub. Courtnay. Smith. Others too he can’t place just at the moment.

They’re all watching him.

‘Sylvia.’ A plaintive whisper, with ice in his fearful heart.

They lie in perfumed sheets in her large bed. Sweat cools on his

torso. It is as if he has been in a rain shower. His hair is drenched.

He watches as a salty drop runs from his shoulder, blackening the

silk. He has held it off. Soon he will be required to hammer away

again. Hammer and tongues. This is how she wants it, with her

cruel eye. And what she wants, she gets. Regardless of his exhaus-

tion. Next door Sir Tommy is getting his too, from that milksop

from the Ministry. A neat arrangement. Wheels within wheels, oil-

ing the wheels. The springs in the two beds creak in rhythmic

unison, a weird symphonic syncopation. Filthy bastard, Sir Tommy.

The whole lot of them, bastards. Plotting his downfall. All in it

together. Charlie Stanbrook, Albert Schröder, Old King Cole, Bryn,

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Bernie, Mr Smith, old Mr Precise fucking Price of the good old

Lyons Bank. And the rest of them. Not a propitious time. But a

most propitious time to rip that weaselly wispy moustache off your

quivering lip. Teach you a lesson, all of you. Herr Weber, Renate

Taub and her pipsqueak hubbie. Think you can fool me, you got

another think coming. Just leave me be.

He’s still sweating as he mounts her again. She grimaces with joy

as Weber pins him with that smile again. Well, are the Schröders Jews or not, boy? Yes, sir. Speak up, boy. You don’t sound sure. Yes. Sir.

That’s better. And how do you know for certain? Schröder told my

father, sir. And you’re prepared to testify to that? What, sir? In court?

No, to the world. Like this, sir, with no clothes on? Well, of course.

Not got much choice, have you? Rock and a hard place. And you was

in the khazi how long? How long was it, Bernie? Thirty- three minutes precisely, Bryn. Well, there you go. You was in the khazi thirty- three minutes precisely, was you? So how come you wasn’t there when we

checked the stalls? We wants to know, don’t we, boys?

BANG! Dear old Roy, his life hanging by a thread. No, he was

always one for exactness. His eyeball hanging by a thread, to be precise. He wants to reach out and pluck it off, to tidy it up. Go on, says Bob. Do it. And he does, feeling its squishiness; he squeezes harder and harder until it bursts gently, pulpy wet and slime slithering

down his wrist and his arm as he holds it aloft. Pull him off and lay him on the blanket. Cold cold cold rain on his head as it pours. The sweat trickles down his forehead, obscuring his eyesight. All he can see is that biscuit- tin- sized hole in Bob’s guts. Nicely down on the blanket now, Bob. It’s all for the best. Just shut up while I think about this. I need Martin to blag me out while Bernie catches their attention. One of his off- colour jokes should do the trick. Fucking hell, Bob, why’d you have to go and do that? So bloody cold. No wonder,

bleeding hit I’ve taken. I’m shivering, for Christ’s sake. Just get hold of his coat. They’ll never know and if they do just say it was the

shock. Confused. Not far wrong if truth be told. What in hell’s

name is going on? Christ, me feet are wet now. It’s all that sweat.

Are you done yet, Sylvia, my love? He looks down at her in shock.

It’s the woman from the train. Marlene, he calls her. She shows no

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signs of life. What you all staring at? I didn’t do nuffink. Course I wouldn’t do nuffink to a kid. Even a fucking Schröder kid, you

know all about them, Herr Weber. Ten a penny, them girls. What

you looking at me in that tone of voice for? You and Vincent, the

both of you? Got your anxious face on, have you, Vinny? All spec-

tacles and frowns. All right, nice one, but you can can the act now.

It’s me, remember, not some mark. Give up on your prodding, you

fucking Scotch bastard. And stop mumbling among yourselves.

Speak up. Whassat?

I don’t think we can afford to . . .

Couldn’t withstand the . . .

No, the stress . . .

Hmm . . .

In his condition . . .

Could we try . . . Nah, silly idea . . .

Not much we can do about . . .

Better leave it at that . . .

Blah- di- fucking- blah.

Jesus, it’s hot in here. Those bleeding lights flashing. You sure you got this boxed off, Martin? What a fucking mess. Couldn’t bloody

trust you with nothing. Gonna have to make a run for it. Brussels is the best bet. Or Paris. We’re staying at the Crillon, actually. His Lordship’s favoured establishment when in the city. Actually, he’s on the lookout for a little, um, light entertainment. You do understand me? Jolly good. We’re prepared to reward you handsomely for the

right services and the appropriate, ahem, discretion. Charles? We’re on. Nudge nudge, wink wink. You simply wouldn’t believe me. You

explain, Martin. Ha ha ha ha ha. No, I’m not from Russia. Dearie

me. Come from Croatia, proper German. But we can do business,

right? Get on with it, lads. I’ll just sit here looking wise and mysteri-ous. Wipe the grin off that bastard Karovsky’s face. I will have my piece of flesh.

Und Sie, Herr Schröder? Nein. Bin gar kein Jude. Echt deutsch . So cold.

Quiet now, and dark. He can feel his heart flapping like a trapped, dying bird in his chest. The lights come up and a couple take the

stage. The man wears a three- piece suit in mustard with red

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windowpane checks that match his red beard, and a bowler hat

which he tips off and replaces with deft dandiness. The woman is

silent and superior, a sardonic smirk on her face, in a black evening gown and diamonds. It’s Konrad and Renate Taub, the famous

comedians!

‘Well,’ says Konrad, beaming, sweat mingling with greasepaint as

it drips from his forehead in the footlight glare, once the audience has finished its introductory tittering. ‘Well. Did you hear the one about the German lad who sold his good old mum and dad down

the river? Ah, never mind. Thick bastards.’

Tomatoes and eggs rain on to the stage and they shield them-

selves with their arms. A noose descends from above. The light is

cut and again it is silent.

The lights come up more gradually the second time and it is

darker. Smoke, delicious smoke whorls around the seedy cabaret

club. The announcer takes the stage, his fixed grin flashing malevolence to all corners.

‘And now, gentlemen,’ he says in German, ‘you’ve met her sisters,

all three of them. You’ve even met her mother. She’s young but

she’ll knock you off your feet –’

‘Get on with it, Weber. And get orf the stage.’

Weber pauses and sweats and shines that spotlight white- toothed

beam again.

‘Gentlemen, for your very great pleasure. May I present? The one

and only. Lili Schröder.’

He dances to the wings and there is a hush. She approaches from

the rear of the stage, at first in outline, then clearer. She is wrinkled and disorientated. Crimson silken tassels hang from tired old tits.

Her knickers slip off her bony hips. She opens her mouth. He is terrified, sweating ice. He can see the outlines of the chimneys behind her, pumping out that gorgeous smoke. There is muted applause.

‘Lili,’ he cries plangently, though no one can hear him. ‘You’re