The Good Liar (18 page)

better off.’

‘So a lack of knowledge is a good thing?’

‘Oh no. Of course not. But . . .’

‘You still haven’t answered my question. About women. About me.’

He ventures another sheepish grin.

‘Betty, I’ve nothing but respect for you. You’ve achieved so much

in your life. You leave me standing.’

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It is an unstoppable, pointless juggernaut. Roy is not concerned

about the sense of what he says; it simply fills the gaps. He hardly stops to consider whether his statements are comprehensible, let

alone cogent, still less whether he actually believes this garbage. It’s all just part of the game, he thinks: men and women.

He bestows on her a look of undiluted venom veiled by a benefi-

cent smile. She is too stupid to see it, he thinks.

He doesn’t realize I can see it, she thinks. She enjoys making him

squirm, in a way. He cannot, or will not, marshal an argument. He

is right that he is less intelligent than she is, so there is an element of cruelty in her tweaking him like this. It is good, though, to see him floundering, mildly discomposed and losing control. He is just bab-bling. It is a small vengeance, perhaps taken unwisely. She supposes she will later need to make it up to him, by saying the thing he

wants to hear.

3

He is in the lavatory, in some difficulty. The stomach cramps have

arrived again with no notice and he has had to rush upstairs, speedily dropping his trousers and underpants and settling on to the thing with a momentary sigh of relief that there had been no preliminary

mishap before the onslaught. A painful and troubling series of detonations rock the core of his body with shots of kerosene fire,

followed swiftly by a noxious cascade of liquid during which his

entire being seems to be sluicing into the bowl. He is alarmed by the explosive force of the action. He bends forward, his every muscle

tensed in a vain effort to gain mastery. The smell, sulphur and rotting innards, is unspeakable; he is close to gagging.

He sits there and lets it happen. He has no choice. It is involuntary –

it seems almost as if a valve has blown and he is being rid of

badness – yet it is also effortful. His organs and reflexes are no longer his to govern. This is happening to him in the most intimate fashion, yet he has no say in how he responds. He is afraid, both of the 113

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moment and of a near future of which this may be a waymarker. It

is the loss of control that he fears most, not the pain, not the indignity. He whimpers quietly.

When he is, finally, null and void, he is exhausted. He remains

seated awhile to steady himself, trembling and wheezing, anxious,

unduly hot, mind racing. Having cleaned himself as best he can and

holding his trousers up by a shaky hand, his braces dangling and his shirt tail untucked, he shuffles slowly through to his bedroom, using his free hand to support himself against the wall. Eventually he

flops on to the bed and there is an audible twang from the springs.

Exhausted still, his sphincter burning sore, he stares at the ceiling and forces himself to think.

Betty has proved something of a disappointment in a way. So gul-

lible and ripe for the taking. No challenge. It’s all been too easy, with no adrenalin burn. Well, no matter. Diversion and entertainment

were only secondary reasons for this whole enterprise. More

importantly she is, to use the phrase in vogue these days, minted.

The letters from her fund manager that he reads at his leisure when he goes through her bedroom while she is out tell him that. And if

her complacency and gullibility mean less challenge in the game, it may be no bad thing. If this adventure has shown him one thing it is that you become less agile in every way as you age. Once this one is over that will be it for him. A sad thought, but there you are.

She calls from downstairs, ‘Are you all right, Roy?’

‘I’m OK,’ he replies weakly.

She comes upstairs and enters the bedroom. ‘Oh dear,’ she says,

seeing him spreadeagled in unkempt disarray on top of the coun-

terpane. He is flushed and agitated. ‘You don’t look too well.’

‘I’m fine,’ he says with a small confiding smile. ‘Just taken agin

something I’ve eaten. I’m all right really.’

She sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Are you sure?’ she asks, her brow furrowed in a particularly attractive way. If only he had known her in her youth. And his.

‘I’m quite all right, thank you, my dear,’ he says, kindly smile still intact. He pats her hand.

‘I’ve been thinking, Roy . . .’

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‘Yes?’

‘Perhaps I could benefit from reviewing my investments. But I

don’t know where to begin.’

He is at once alert and with difficulty props himself up on one

elbow.

‘Surely you have someone who handles your portfolio?’

‘Well, yes, this company . . .’

‘Company? Ah.’

‘What is it, Roy?’

‘I’ll wager they take a large commission each year for doing very

little. I suppose they write to you every so often. Do you know anyone there by name? Have you ever spoken to anyone there?’

‘Well, no. The funds were invested so long ago and I wouldn’t

know who to ask for. They seem all right from the letters.’

‘I’m sure they are. In their own way. But . . .’

‘They lack, I suppose, well, the personal touch.’

‘Hmm.’

He waits. She must say it, not he.

‘I was wondering . . .’

‘Yes?’ Not too quick.

‘You mentioned you knew someone . . .’

‘Vincent, you mean?’

‘Yes. Your friend.’

‘Oh, Vincent’s not so much a friend as a professional. Though I’d

trust him with my life.’

‘Do you think he’d be prepared to talk to me about my

investments?’

‘Oh yes. I’m sure he would. On a non- commitment basis of

course. If I put a word in I’ve no doubt he’d be happy to speak

with you.’

Easy. Much easier than he had imagined. The pain in his stomach

seems to have dissipated a little.

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Never Had It So Good

1

They would have to make a rapid and discreet departure. This meant

the sprinkling of thousands of francs among those who would facili-

tate it: first and foremost the hotel manager and down the hierarchy through the head concierge, the desk clerk, all the way to the lift boy.

He formed neat piles on the desk as he calculated the exchange rate.

They had completed the packing, admittedly rather haphazardly

and frantically, and Roy rang down to the front desk. When he was

put through to the manager he said quietly, ‘We’re ready.’

‘I am not sure,’ came the reply, ‘whether I should contact the

police after all. I have the reputation of the hotel to consider.’

He did not have time to count to ten, so he counted to three.

‘That’s what I’m thinking about too, Claude,’ he said, his voice

laden with sympathy and regret. ‘It’s the very reason we need to

manage this together.’

‘But if the police later discovered that I have assisted the escape of a felon . . .’

‘Lord Stanbrook is not a felon,’ said Roy with irritated emphasis.

‘I’ve explained it to you. It was a misunderstanding. A situation that got out of hand. I’m trying to handle this with delicacy.’

‘Hmm. But it is I who am left to deal with the consequences if

the police begin to ask difficult questions.’

‘There are no consequences for you. There are no difficult ques-

tions. You simply say you’ve no idea where the noble lord is.’

‘That is easy for you to say. But it is I who am taking the risk with the name of this hotel. On my own.’

‘Not at all, not at all. Oh no. We’re both attempting to preserve

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the reputation of the George V. What could be worse than the arrest of a member of the British aristocracy in its halls? What would your clientele think? I see your point, though. I’m asking a lot of you.

You’ve a lot to take on trust. On reflection, I think the consideration I mentioned may be a little too modest.’

With this, the conversation was easy to complete. Roy counted

out a few more notes on to the largest pile on the desk. His employer was sitting in the bedroom on the edge of the bed. Through the

open door Roy could see he had his head in his hands.

He walked through and touched him gently on the shoulder.

‘All right, Charles. We’re just about ready to go. Five minutes?’

‘Problems?’ asked Stanbrook.

‘Not really. The manager wanted more, that’s all. Par for the

course. There’ll be no problems.’

He gave the manservant careful instructions. He must wait two

hours before travelling to Orly in the car that had been ordered. He must take His Lordship’s luggage with him.

The manservant remained in the room. Roy led Stanbrook down

the corridor to the waiting lift. They each carried a suitcase, for show. The manager was inside with the attendant.

‘You are leaving very early,’ said the manager, addressing Roy.

Stanbrook stood at the back of the lift, looking dazedly into the

mirror.

‘I want to complete the formalities at Orly well before time. I’d

like to avoid any misunderstandings.’

The lift took them to the sub- basement and the shabby underpin-

nings beneath the shiny carapace. The shattering of glamorous

illusions did not matter in the circumstances. The manager led them though long corridors lit by bare light bulbs strung along the centre of the roughly plastered ceiling.

Roy took a brief, anxious glance from side to side outside the

trade entrance before ushering Charles quickly into the car. He did not trust the manager.

There were a couple of moments to take stock once the driver

had clanked the vehicle into gear and pulled away, the transmission whining like a reluctant child.

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Thank goodness last night he’d seen what was happening before

it really got out of hand and been able to drag Charles away. Thank goodness they’d told everyone they were staying at the Crillon.

Thank goodness he’d had the foresight to pack Charles’s civvy

passport. He checked again that it was safely in his inside pocket, together with his own. He had his small attaché case on his lap with the rest of their documents and the all- important cash. Charles

seemed to be holding up. He was looking distantly through the side

window of the car, but at least the tearfulness had dried up.

They sped towards Orly and sunlight skidded off the windows.

Through the corroded transmission tunnel of the old Citroën Roy

could see the tarmacadam flash by beneath their feet.

Now was the moment. In his passable French Roy told the driver

that they had changed their minds and required a different destin-

ation. He waved a wad of notes in the old man’s face and directed

him to drive to Calais, telling him that if he arrived there in time for the three o’clock sailing the fare would be doubled. Absurd: that

amount of money would have been sufficient to buy the old crate

outright, and a tankful of petrol into the bargain. The driver grunted with a sour expression that Roy took to be acquiescence. For good

measure, he reminded the driver that he knew these streets and

would detect immediately if he took an unusual route. Pure bluff,

of course. The driver grunted once more. A sidelong glare was all it took to elicit an acceptable if not enthusiastic apology from the

driver.

Roy turned to look in the back. Charles had fallen asleep, lost and vulnerable. The poor sod must be exhausted. Roy, however, needed

to remain alert as the car raced through the northern French coun-

tryside, the smell of hot leather and male sweat rising. He looked

impatiently left and right at the unremitting flatness as they made their way up the
route nationale
. Three hundred kilometres or there-abouts. The driver would have to go some if he was to make it.

At Calais they alighted at the port. The driver had earned his

bonus and sped away. Roy smelt salt and thought of England, and

safety. They smoked a cigarette by the harbour wall while Roy

watched for unusual activity that might suggest their imminent

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detention. Satisfied, he strolled to the office, engaged his winning smile and bought a pair of foot passenger tickets from the pretty

girl there. Foot passengers who turned up at the port without tick-

ets would, he guessed, be relatively rare. They would be noticed,

but this was a risk that had to be taken. It should not matter given the genial mien he deployed.

They delayed until the final moment before running for the boat,

sprinting through concrete concourses and submitting briefly to a

passport check. Roy half feared an officious check here, just to spite perfidious Albion, but all that was required was more charm, a

ready smile and the use of rather more fluent French than had been

deployed with the railway official to compliment France’s wonder-

ful capital city, its efficient rail network and its friendly natives.