My Biggest Lie (20 page)

‘No, Craig's tastes never became more expensive. We'd still get through quite a lot of money together in the pub when he came to London, don't get me wrong. But the rest of the time he was quiet, at home in Wales, trying to live the simple life, perhaps failing as much as he succeeded. All of you here who knew Craig knew his gentleness, knew it through his concern for you. If he liked you, he was concerned. When we argued it was because he was trying to look after me, because he was trying to stop me from falling over. Many of you may remember times he
put himself in the way of your fall. No, he was not a pusher but a catcher.'

‘Well, that's true at least,' muttered Alejandro.

‘He was not a pusher but a catcher,' repeated James sonorously, then laughed at himself. The tone of his voice was changing. He was trying to be jokey, cheerful, professional, but a revulsion was showing through, attacking his usual persona. He looked over at us and smiled again. ‘Make of that what you will.' He straightened up again and paused. He suddenly looked stricken. ‘He is not around to catch us any more.'

I wondered to what extent he had planned to look like this at this point of his speech, how staged his presentation was. A month ago I had stood in front of the same sort of curtains, making a speech for Dad. Afterwards so many people came up to me and said how moved they had been. I had regretted it every day since, its fluency, its easy humour, cheap sentiment and professionalism. I had treated the occasion like another book launch. My sisters watching me in the front row. My simplifications. An excuse for a public-speaking contest. A brick wall spray-painted with a stickman.

James looked to be learning about that. His face contorted with disgust.

‘The next time I decide to do something stupid – more stupid even than falling out of a window – I will not have Craig to prevent me. Except, because he is not here, and will never be here again, I will have to remember him, what he loved about us and what we loved about him. So perhaps he will still protect me. It is one way to keep him alive, to keep me alive. And when I need a reminder of what he was like, or want to share Craig with someone who never met him, I will turn to the books.

‘This is why we are here today. There is one more book to read. In a while we will be hearing from this, an extract chosen by Craig's sister Helen, who sadly can't be here with us today as she's expecting a baby this month. Craig's agent Suzy Carling will read the extract, and a message from Helen. I want to thank Suzy and Helen, who together with myself are Craig's literary executors. I want to thank them for choosing to work again with Craig's long-term publisher Eliot, Quinn – we'll have to hope that in his travels across the world Craig has left many more manuscripts lying around. Who knows what he might have left behind in a carrier bag in one of his eighty-four favourite bars? I will certainly be heading to one of them when I leave here tonight.' James looked up at me and his face fell. ‘Sadly,' he went on, ‘I think we may have already had more luck than we have deserved in finding this book.

‘Before I talk about what this book contains, I – I was going to say something in my speech now about another man who loved Craig. I've decided instead, on the spur of the moment, to talk about two other men who loved Craig and who both played an integral part in bringing us this novel – a novel I know you will want to buy and take home with you today.'

James had looked steadily towards Alejandro and me as he spoke, and the audience were turning as one to follow the direction of his gaze. I say as one, but there was a notable exception, Belinda, who was staring at the side of James' head as if, if she concentrated hard enough, she could burn a hole in it. James was careful never to turn once in her direction.

‘The reason why I had only planned to speak of one of these men,' said James, ‘is because I didn't think the other one would turn up. Specifically, I didn't think he would
turn up because the bouncers on the door were given strict orders not to admit him.' James smiled and the crowd laughed, assuming he was joking. ‘You think I'm joking but I'm not. What's more, Belinda told me earlier that the bouncer carried out these orders and turned this man away. This is a man, I can tell you, who loves Craig so much I have learned he climbed through the window of the ladies' toilets to be here. I'm talking about my friend and colleague Liam Wilson, who, having seen Craig Bennett have the heart attack that killed him, blamed himself for this, quit his job and moved to Buenos Aires. It was in this city we assume that Craig had written this novel
My Biggest Lie
, which we're all here for today, perhaps at the same age as Liam, just a few years before he won the Booker Prize with his first published novel
Talking to Pedro
.

‘It was Liam himself who tracked down Craig's best friend from those days. He joins us here tonight, Alejandro Montenegro. Without Liam introducing me to him at a memorable dinner in Buenos Aires three months ago, we would not be here tonight.

‘That is a story for another time. I've said Liam feels in some way responsible for the way Craig died. I'm not going to tell Liam not to blame himself – I won't insult him that way – if he wants to blame himself, it's for him to decide how long he should do this for and for him to go into why he does. I wish he had done something different that night that would have meant Craig was still alive, but I'm not sure what that something is, or that I would have done it. Everyone makes mistakes, everyone could have done something different. We have to remember that it was Craig who made the biggest mistake, and that is why he is not here. I want to thank Liam for being his
friend on the night when my own stupid mistake meant I could not. I want to thank Liam for caring about Craig's life when it was gone, for wanting to preserve it. Thank you, Liam.'

Amy next to me began to clap and slowly the room followed, the whole room, until a wave of noise sweeping over me was like something cracking, tightening, splitting, a sound I heard and feared like it was the sound of my heart bursting. I put my head down and waited for it to finish.

‘Similarly,' began Cockburn, ‘I want to thank Alejandro Montenegro, all the way from Argentina because of his love for Craig.' At this, Amy reached over me and took Alejandro's hand. It was a nice gesture of solidarity, which had the effect of locking me down in my seat like the bar on a rollercoaster. That's what it felt like too, like being on the Big One on Blackpool Pleasure Beach, slowly cranking your way to a height from which only disaster could be conceived.

‘I have heard wonderful tales, from Craig, from Alejandro, from their friend Amy, about the closeness of their bond. They grew up in Australia together before Craig followed Alejandro to his family's home in Argentina. Alejandro was the first reader of this novel, twenty years ago. A manuscript we can only guess whether was ever sent to publishers.'

‘I'm sure he would have mentioned that,' whispered Amy across me to Alejandro.

Alejandro looked down at his feet.

‘It wouldn't surprise me if it was sent to publishers and turned down,' said James. ‘Not because it's not good: it's wonderful. No, I wouldn't be surprised if it was rejected, because publishers make mistakes. It is our job to make
mistakes, to have the courage to get it wrong so that sometimes we have the courage to get it right.' James was really beginning to choke up now. ‘I have a confession to make,' he said decisively, ‘about this book.'

This is the moment when the cart reached the top of the hill and teetered on the summit. Now he would not meet my eye. Now he was looking at Belinda and she would not meet his. I made my conclusion about her complicity. I wondered if she had known from the start or only discovered when it was too late. It had been easy at first for us to pretend we were not doing the appalling thing we were doing. Now James wanted to confess. And now was the end of all our careers, perhaps even our liberty.

The human seatbelt keeping me from fleeing grew tighter. ‘Ow!' said Amy to Alejandro. ‘You're squeezing me too hard.' He let go, and I picked my escape route, preparing to haul myself past all the knees to the aisle – and run. ‘What in God's name is he doing?' asked Alejandro, turning to me, pressing down with his hand on my knees as if predicting my impulse to flight.

‘What's wrong with you two?' asked Amy.

I looked up imploringly at James and he continued. ‘My confession is this, and it's not a good confession for a publisher to make. The thing is, I haven't, to this day, accepted what losing Craig means. Or that there's no bringing him back.' He held up the book, stark gold capitals on sex-shop black. ‘
My Biggest Lie . . .
This, after all, is only paper and ink. This, after all, is nothing.'

And with that he walked suddenly down the stairs, still holding the book, and strode with his long quick step to the back of the hall, where he disappeared through the door. A confused and excited murmuring broke out
throughout the room. Belinda made her way up the steps and back to the microphone.

‘Thank you, James,' she said, letting out her breath more quickly than she'd intended. ‘We are now going to welcome Suzy Carling to the stage, to read a short extract from
My Biggest Lie
by Craig Bennett, chosen by his sister Helen Edwards.'

‘Are you all right?' Amy asked me. ‘You're both acting very strange.'

‘I'm going,' I said to her, ‘this is too weird.'

‘You're staying,' said Alejandro, holding on to my arm. ‘This is your launch. Our launch. You need to listen to this.'

‘What are you talking about?' asked Amy.

People were looking round at us, shushing. Suzy Carling made her way to the stage in a black dress and heels. She surveyed the room before she spoke, her eyes resting on me. There was no anger in the look, just calculation, the assessment a predator makes of its prey.

‘Thank you all for coming. I'm going to read you an email from Helen Edwards, Craig's sister, about why she wanted me to read this particular extract.'

She unfolded a piece of paper and read.

‘“I've chosen this extract for its simplicity, for its calm and optimism, for it's compassion for people: the facets of Craig's character everyone liked to ignore. This is Craig at his best, the Craig I know.”

‘He was a great man,' said Suzy. ‘I miss him.' She opened the book, turned the thick, creamy paper to the right part. Then she started to read.

Falling in love was not what he had thought falling in love was like. The other times had been something else, different
in kind and degree . . . After they had kissed goodbye and she had gone through to catch her plane, he walked in circles around the concourse, hungrily spinning new sights before his eyes, filling himself up with the world he was now at home in, its new language, his new palate. He sat down, giddy, and looked up at the atrium. He breathed in the air. Then he stood and went outside to the taxi queue.

On the way back to the centre, he told the taxi driver that he had fallen in love. The taxi driver laughed. You are lucky, he said. Craig asked the taxi driver about his wife, whether he had any children. The taxi driver told him about his son and daughter, 18 and 21, the son working in an office, the daughter at university studying science. He was proud of his children. ‘And your wife?' asked Craig. The taxi driver seemed not to hear him and told him instead about the area where he lived, Barracas, a poor, working-class area, but not a slum, a proud working-class area, a place famous for its protests. Craig didn't ask again about the driver's wife, you didn't do that here, but suddenly the driver was telling Craig about the night she disappeared in 1978. I think about her in a room, alone with those animals, and how I was not there to help her. She was from a different world to me, a university lecturer. She was out of my league, I thought. I don't know why she liked me but she did. A miracle. I asked her to dance with me at a
milonga
. She would not accept the way things are in this filthy country. It is where the children get their brains. My son was a baby when she went, my daughter was three years old. She would never have left them. I was terrified they would come and take me, but, shamefully, they were not even interested. I say shamefully but I am not ashamed I can be here for my children.

It was the first time since Craig had arrived in Buenos Aires that a stranger had told him a story like this, though he may have met many other people who could have. There were awful stories everywhere. The driver told him about his
mother-in-law, her illnesses and her passion, the marches she attended and invited him to attend with her. I have to drive, you know? he said. I have to work for my children. But I go with her when I can.

Craig listened and tried to imagine the taxi driver's sadness, his guilt, the way it had felt to be terrorised like he had been. He felt bad about being happy himself, until he realised he had to be happy, it was the only fair thing, because nothing had happened to the woman he loved.

A kid ran in front of the taxi, stooped to pick up a rolling football, and ran off. The taxi driver beeped his horn, opened his wallet and showed Craig two photos, a young woman smiling with a baby, a gawky teenage boy grinning as a girl put his arm round him. The taxi driver wasn't in either photo – but he had taken them, he had looked, he was the invisible part.

‘Thank you,' said Suzy Carling, putting down the book and walking back to her seat. Alejandro had been quietly crying. I felt nothing. Amy turned round and looked at me, her eyes dry, glittering, inquisitive. Was there something in the reading, some detail, that had awoken her to its untruth? I would have to go and see her tomorrow, confess and beg her to keep quiet.

Alejandro let out a big sigh. ‘Schmaltz,' he said, but he looked sad, sad the way schmaltz makes us when it reminds us how we've been tenderised to it. Belinda made a final exhortation for us to buy the book and we stood. The middle of the row, having afforded a protection earlier, now penned me in.