The Good Liar (12 page)

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Well, don’t say anything, then,’ he riposted immediately but

with intent.

‘Shall we just stop this conversation now?’ she said.

Despite its sharpness, he knew that for her this amounted to a

proposal for a truce, however uneasy. Early, he thought: normally

they arrived here much later, exhausted and impotently frustrated

each with the other. Perhaps the edge to his voice had alerted some subliminal instinct in her. But he was not about to let go. Oh no.

‘I’ve had about enough of this bleeding- heart nonsense,’ he said.

‘I’d like to teach the world to sing. In perfect harmony. Well, buy a bloody Coke, then, and shut your trap.’

She was visibly alarmed. This was not how the game was played.

These were not the rules.

‘Well, you know what you can do, then,’ she said quietly.

‘Yes,’ he said decisively.

Her eyes narrowed slightly and he was certain he could sense her

flinch.

He was not proud of it. It had happened when he was at a vulner-

able point, when he had returned from the pub on a particularly

dark and windy night. She had gone on and on, about something he

could not now recall. So he had belted her, quick and hard, about

the temple. A short, sharp shock. It had not been sufficient to knock her from her feet or inflict greater damage, but no doubt she was

dazed. Her head had lolled elastically on her neck for a moment. It had had the desired effect: the momentary look of animus had

turned to fear and then, gratifyingly, to compliance. It had been

spontaneous and unplanned, but he had learned from its efficacy.

He had felt no shame. In the circumstances the act, while not pre-

cisely desirable or elegant, had been defensible; even necessary, he now thought. He looked at her and saw that glint again in her eyes.

‘Why don’t you go and spend a few days with your mum?’ he

said, and it was less a placatory question than a quiet command.

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As she looked at him her resentful fear melted into resignation.

‘Yes, I might,’ she said, and he continued to look at her steadily.

6

Busy busy busy. Time to get weaving. Taking his belongings and

removing all trace of himself, he had moved swiftly out of the flat, having learned enough to last a lifetime about playing house. He

cleared the building society account, placing some of the money

into his own account but retaining most as ready cash. They had

opened that account together, at Maureen’s insistence, to save for a mortgage. So much for her being unconventional and against the

system. So much, now, for happy families. He had enjoyed ripping

up the passbook.

He resigned from the Ministry by means of a curt letter painfully

scratched out with blotchy biro on grubby Basildon Bond. To hell

with the notice period, he had thought; to hell with the final month’s salary. Let them find me, let them sue.

The shop was now his home. It was squalid but liveable: there

was neither hot water nor heating and he had to sleep in the tiny

windowless back room on a threadbare old couch that bore grisly

stains and exuded an unpleasant aroma. But he had known much,

much worse in his lifetime. The bank loan had been declined, so

there was a potential cash flow crisis. But for the moment he could juggle, using the money from the building society account and citing the bank’s ineptitude to the landlords. The sale of the first

consignments would see them right. The important thing was that

he once again felt alive, no longer an emasculated zombie wage

slave. He chuckled: Maureen would habitually speak of the dignity

of labour. There was no dignity, he thought: labour was subjuga-

tion, and all subjugation was humiliation.

Martin had been on the blower with his associates. It was worth

the cost, frantically slotting ten- pence pieces to feed the insatiable appetite of the telephone around the corner. The first consignment

was to be expected in days, although details had yet to be finalized.

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Meanwhile they had set to redecorating the dingy little shop, covering the window first with newspaper. They had ripped out the

ancient carpet, painted the dark walls that reeked of tobacco with

white emulsion and slapped gloss paint over the dented old counter.

For their stock, Martin’s contacts in Belgium, the Netherlands and

Scandinavia were vital. Roy provided the business know- how and

the backbone.

He was just thinking of climbing uncomfortably from the sofa

and brewing a cup of tea for himself when an impatient rap came

on the front door of the shop. He threw off the frayed grey blanket and, taking his time, dragged on his shoes, ran his fingers though

his hair, tucked his shirt inside his trousers and shuffled towards the noise, which had not abated. A short, snappily dressed young man

stood on the other side of the glass door. He looked impatiently at Roy, who looked him up and down, taking in his chalk- stripe suit

with wide lapels and flared trousers, his Chelsea boots, his wispy

moustache, his Brylcreemed hair and his cocky expression. He

knew his type: on the make and in a hurry. No doubt there was

some angle here and Roy would have to hear him out: some special

offer on some tame porn or knock- off booze, or suchlike. Well, he would listen politely.

‘Mr Mannion, is it?’ asked the young man brightly. Roy had taken

the precaution of using the name for this piece of business.

‘Who’s asking?’ said Roy brusquely.

‘Name of Smith. John Smith. No, that really is my name.’ The

young man laughed to denote the practised joke. ‘Like a millstone I carry around with me, that name. No one believes me. But here I

am. Large as life. John Smith. Care to see my driving licence?’

Roy looked uninterested. It could well be a hooky one anyway.

‘Why should I? What do you want?’

‘You’re new on this plot, aren’t you? My associates and me knew

Archie well. Good old boy. One of the best. Old school. Knew his

civic duty, played a part. No, Mr M. I thought I’d just come by and welcome you to the area on behalf of the local businesses. I may

have seen you around before in fact. You may have noticed me.’

‘Can’t say I have. Where’s your shop?’

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‘Oh, my business is all over the place. I don’t have a fixed base. Me and my associates are in the business of providing services for our customers. And we sincerely hope you’ll shortly be one too.’

He grinned broadly. Roy did not. He was bored. He was having

none of this schoolboy shakedown.

‘What kind of services?’

John Smith’s good humour did not leave him. He smiled again

and said, ‘Mr M. You’re a businessman. I’d have thought you’d have

some kind of idea.’

‘Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t. Enlighten me.’

‘All kinds of things. We’re entrepreneurs. We can help with sup-

plies, food, drink, literature, that kind of thing. I hear you’re opening a bookshop here.’

‘You seem well informed. Where did you get that from?’

Mr Smith ignored his question. ‘Staff, even. We’ve got a good

stock of, ahem, very presentable employees. If that’s what you’re

interested in. We have good relations with the local filth too. Can make some introductions for you if you like, to ease your path.

Pretty much anything.’

‘Thank you. But I think we’re well catered for,’ said Roy

gruffly.

‘One of our most popular lines is security. We look after a lot of

the businesses in the area. Not nice if you’re starting up a new business in a new area to fall foul to burglaries or what have you. We can make sure that doesn’t happen.’

‘Not interested. Thank you.’

‘Whereas if you don’t get sorted with the right kind of insurance

all kinds of things can happen. Or my associates may be interested

in a joint venture. A merger, shall we say? Or even in taking over

your business for the right price if it has any prospects.’

‘Just clear off out of it, will you, sonny? Or I’ll give you a clip round your ear for your pains.’

The boy continued to grin. ‘No need to be like that, now, Mr M.

We don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, do we? Don’t want no

little misunderstandings. You’ll probably need some help along the

way. Some goodwill, shall we say?’

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‘I don’t need scumbags like you and your little pals shaking me

down.’

‘My word,’ said Smith. ‘You do have a temper on you, don’t you,

Mr M? A word to the wise, this is not good for customer relations,

or for community spirit. We all like to get on. We don’t like nothing to rock the boat. Bad for business. Especially for the one doing the rocking. Can I suggest you give it some consideration? I’ll come

around tomorrow so that we can talk brass tacks.’

‘You can bugger off and if you come round here again I’ll kick

your arse for you.’

‘We obviously haven’t hit it off. Maybe if one of my associates

dropped by?’

‘I’ll kick his spotty arse for him too. Now just piss off and don’t come back.’

‘You may be making a big mistake.’

‘What? You going to call by with a few of your pals, are you? I

don’t think so. Do I look like I’m quaking in my boots?’

‘Not a good move, Mr M,’ said John Smith, wagging his finger.

7

‘Trouble,’ said Martin a few days later. ‘Big trouble.’ He was out of breath when he entered the shop.

‘Calm down, Martin,’ said Roy. ‘Now tell your Uncle Roy all

about it.’

‘Did someone calling himself John Smith come by the other day?’

‘What if he did? I can handle him.’

‘It’s not him you have to worry about. It’s who he represents.

He’s only the softening- up act.’

‘It’s just an amateur protection racket. All we need to do is stand up to them.’

‘You don’t understand. They go back years. They own most of

the properties, or if not have the landlords’ balls in the vice. They’ll let people go about their business so long as they don’t shit on their doorstep and pay their dues.’

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‘Storm in a teacup. Teething problems. We’ll be all right.’

‘No. I don’t think so. They’ve had me in and given me a good

talking- to. The big men, not your John Smith. They don’t like you.

Not much we can do about it.’

‘All right,’ said Roy slowly. ‘How much?’

‘It’s beyond that.’

‘So what? A pitched battle along Wardour Street? They wouldn’t

want that, would they?’

‘No, they wouldn’t.’

‘What’s the deal?’

‘They’ll compromise. They don’t want the bother.’

‘That’s good. So. What. Is. The. Deal. Martin?’

‘We clear out today and leave the keys on the counter. As in piss

off out of London.’

‘Or else?’

‘They didn’t specify. There’s more.’

‘There always is.’

‘They know about our consignment. I’m assuming they know

from the far end. They’ve tipped off the Old Bill about when and

where. The consignment’s been seized at Folkestone.’

‘And we’re to take their word for that?’

‘They told me exactly how it was coming in. My contact down

the dock says it’s buzzing with cops and Customs down there.

Smith’s bosses will give us thirty minutes – I pleaded with them –

and then there’ll be another phone call that goes in to tell them

where it was headed. Then the Flying Squad will be on us. Just a

little hurry- up, they said.’

Roy considered momentarily, then spoke. ‘Right, let’s go.’

In silence they gathered together Roy’s belongings in a grip. With

a damp cloth he wiped all the surfaces that he imagined he might

have touched. He removed the keys from his key ring and placed

them on the counter.

They slammed the door behind them as they left and walked

swiftly to the Tube station, their collars turned up.

‘What now?’ said Roy when they had finally settled in a pub at

Ealing Broadway.

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‘I have some ideas. Whatever got into your head, Roy?’

‘I’ve never been pushed around by anyone. Least of all a little

lowlife like that.’

‘That little lowlife is the nephew of one of the big boys. Very

highly regarded. That’s us finished here.’

‘So what next?’

‘Pastures new,’ said Martin with a smile, draining his pint glass.

8

Roy disliked intensely being wrong when Martin, idiot Martin, was

right. But he was: a precautionary and careful pass along Berwick

Street confirmed a burnt- out shop front in the place of his hopes and dreams. Unless it was an elaborate ruse of Martin’s by some

obscure means to wrest Roy’s savings from his grasp, the next move

of which he would shortly witness, it was simply true. No, no, Mar-

tin did not have the wit for the grand scheme. Oh no.

He had returned to the Paddington hotel room and waited. The

room, under the eaves, was cheap as well as nasty, but he did not

want to spend more than he needed to of his funds before his life

began again in earnest. He was bored. The room had no television