Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

of hearing and stubborn.

‘Shall I get you some more of your ready meals?’ she shouts

through, but he cannot hear. She goes into the living room and

repeats her question. He makes an effort to disguise his annoyance

and reduces the volume.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’

‘Are you sure?’ she persists. ‘It seems hardly likely we’ll be able to get to the shops in the next few days.’

‘Oh, all right, then. A couple.’

‘I don’t know what we’d do without online supermarkets.’

‘No,’ he says, and is already turning back to the screen.

‘In fact I don’t know what we’d do without the internet.’

‘No.’

‘You’ve never wanted to use it?’

‘Oh no,’ he chortles, and for a moment suspends his tetchiness.

‘Don’t trust those things. Wouldn’t know where to start. You’re

braver than me, I must say.’

‘I don’t know. It’s not that difficult. I could show you.’

‘No thank you,’ he replies firmly. ‘I’m stuck in my ways. They’ve

always done for me.’

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There is a pause filled with the Technicolor flashes of the

television.

‘But how did you find me?’ she asks with innocent curiosity.

‘Eh?’ he says, irritation simmering again.

‘The internet. We met via the internet.’

He glares at her for a moment, as if she has accused him of infi-

delity. Then he says, lightening perceptibly, ‘One of the neighbours.

Nice lad. He’s hot on all that stuff. I began by using the newspaper.

No, he said, that’s not the way to do it. Sat me down and took me

through it. I’d sit in his flat and he’d press all the buttons. Like magic.

But not for me. Can’t teach this old dog new tricks.’

He smiles and begins to turn back to the television.

Oh well, in for a penny, she thinks.

‘Roy,’ she says experimentally. She does not know why she has

landed on what she is about to say. Possibly the mention of his old ways.

‘Yes,’ he says, still – just – with her.

‘You never talk about your past,’ she says gently.

‘Oh, I believe what’s done is done. No point in harking back,’ he

says with an air of finality.

‘But there must be so many things you could tell me. So many

memories. I’d be interested. I can imagine you have a history.’

‘Oh, at our age you’re bound to have a history,’ he says, maintain-

ing his good humour, then the smile fades. ‘But you wouldn’t be

interested in anything I’d have to say. My life’s been pretty boring.’

‘I find that hard to believe. What I find boring is the sound of my own voice wittering on with all of my stories.’

He says nothing and his attention is being drawn by the bright

lights on the screen.

‘And you have no mementoes,’ she says. ‘No photos. Why’s

that?’

‘I did have,’ he says wistfully. ‘Used to keep them in an old suit-

case. All those memories. But then there was a house fire in the 90s.

All lost. All gone.’

He looks up sadly.

‘Tell me about it, Roy,’ she says softly.

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‘No,’ he replies, almost brusquely. ‘Too painful. All gone. All lost.

No point raking over the past. I live for the now, for us and our

future.’

He is lost, again, to her. She leaves him to attempt to pick up the threads of his hospital drama and returns to the kitchen to complete the supermarket order. The snow continues to fall.

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London Pride

1

They were gathered here, these brothers in arms, for the purpose of celebrating another glorious victory. Apart from Vincent, for whom

Roy had other uses. None was aware, except Vincent, that this was

Roy’s sign- off. Or kiss- off might have been a more appropriate

expression. Nor were the others aware that, strictly speaking, a celebration wasn’t really quite the thing. Glorious wasn’t the right word either, any more than victory. For them at least. In fact they should be drowning their sorrows, little though they knew it. But they need not worry their greedy little heads about that now. All in good time.

They sat at a window table and watched the Thames sparkle in

the sun. There was the usual commotion of river traffic. The pun-

gency of the river, wide and metropolitan, mingled with diesel

fumes and the hoppy aroma of their beer. London Pride. It could

not get more English, Roy thought. These were the best of times;

this smiling bunch were in their prime. The elation of triumph,

however illusory. The boys weren’t to know. A few beers. Cigars all round. A sunny day by the Embankment watching the world go by

and getting pissed. These were the days that, shortly, would be over for him.

He looked at them with affection and a practised air of noncha-

lance. They were sharp, these boys, but none was as spry as he was.

They wouldn’t catch him out. He had been there and he had done

most of it. Vincent: now he really did have something about him, as well as the letters after his name. Which is why Roy had selected

him to be his partner on the final part of this navigation. With all the right checks and balances, of course. Perhaps they would have

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their own private celebration afterwards, the two of them. He

doubted it: Vincent was too serious and, bluntly, Roy was beyond all that.

This motley crew had seemingly formed organically, as if by

osmosis, over the years, but in fact Roy had assembled them with

painstaking care. Dave was at the bar getting the next round in,

while fat Bernie launched yet another telegraphed ribald joke on to the table. Watchful Welsh Bryn, Jones the Eyes, did what he did: he observed, though he too was already two sheets to the wind and

cracked a smile. Martin, suave and mustachioed, was in tears with

laughter. Tomorrow they would all wake up and ask themselves:

why on earth did we think that joke of Bernie’s was so funny? Oh,

but we laughed.

‘Where’s that cunt Dave got to?’ boomed Bernie, and Martin

winced, amused.

Roy had known Martin the longest, had fished him out of the

gutter it must have been twenty- five years before. Martin was not bright but he knew the bounds of his limited intelligence, as well as what he was good at. The son of an army colonel and the product

of a prematurely terminated public school education, Martin could

start a conversation from nothing and keep it going almost indefin-

itely, exuding empathy and understanding. He was what they called

a people person and with his wonderful modulated tones, lovely

manners and cut- glass accent he was infinitely credible, however

little he knew about the subject at hand. He was biddable, nerveless and ready to be deployed in the trickiest of situations.

‘Oh, here he is,’ continued Bernie, as Dave, every inch the cheer-

ful ex- copper, approached holding a tray laden with pints, smiling as he dispensed splashes of bitter over the seated customers between

whom he weaved in size fourteen boots. Roy could well imagine

Dave, uniformed up in dark blue serge, helmeted, red- faced, as the laughing policeman. ‘And that fucking bastard Vinny. How come

he’s not here? What did you say again?’

They turned to Roy. Patiently, above the din, he explained.