The Good Liar (41 page)

‘I think I’m pretty well placed.’

‘Have you finished?’

‘For the moment.’

‘I’m not interested in what you think. I’m not looking for your

forgiveness.’

‘That’s more like it. I’m sure you’re not. I doubt forgiveness

enters your thinking. Or understanding. But fear of the approach-

ing infinity does, I’m sure. You feel it as much as I do. The difference is that you’ve nothing to take heart from.’

‘And you can? With your irrelevant scribblings?’

She smiles. ‘It’s tempting to think you’re being deliberately

obtuse. But you’re not, are you? You really can’t see.’

‘See what?’

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‘That goodness does exist, however much we seek to deny it, just

as much as its counterpart. Oh, never mind.’

She sighs.

He grunts and says impatiently, ‘What is it you want from me?’

‘Want? Nothing really. I’m not seeking contrition from you. Not

with all that rage burning inside you. I’ve no desire to be reconciled with you. I don’t even want you to comprehend. I just want to look

you in the eye, feel your intimidation and emerge untainted. Surviving you, that was the point of it.’

She smiles at him with a warmth of feeling that surprises even

her. It is not hostility, it is not victory. It is something resembling contentment. To be able to smile at this moment is in some strange

way liberating.

‘I wish you no ill,’ she says. ‘I really don’t. For some time I have borne this malice towards you, but it’s gone. I’m beyond you. So I

think we will leave it at that. Andrew?’

6

A few seconds after they have left the house and he has held the car door for her, Andrew pats his jacket pockets, a little too theatrically for Hans’s taste. He sees him talking to her through the open door

before coming back to the house.

He knocks on the door. It is not the knock of a confident

individual.

Hans takes a while to answer, then looks him up and down for

the first time. He had not given him much attention earlier.

This Andrew does not seem as if he could have any connection

with her. Broad, verging on pudginess, with tousled black hair, a

tanned almost Latin complexion that is Plasticine in texture, he

smiles bashfully as he stands obediently for this appraisal. Appearances can be deceptive – very much so – but he seems to be totally the unreflective type. No presence. Unlike Elisabeth, to give her her due. But on further consideration, a little like she had once seemed to him: complacent and single- faceted. Oh yes, they can be very

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devious, people. Physically, though, very unalike: Andrew with his

large ungainliness, as if his enthusiasm might inadvertently crush

something he loves; Elisabeth, petite and slim, of small features and large eyes. He somewhat obvious and ugly and happily shy; she direct and challenging and teasing and, Hans now finds, beautiful.

Elisabeth: he must remember to call her that.

‘Sorry,’ says Andrew, breaking the silence between them. ‘I seem

to have forgotten my phone.’

‘Oh,’ grunts Hans.

‘And my grandmother asked me to remind you that the lease

runs out on this place on Monday. The agents will be in then. But of course there’s no furniture anyway . . .’ He speaks with that smooth Scottish brogue. ‘May I come in?’ he asks, his smile intact but

becoming less confident. ‘I think it must be in the kitchen.’

‘What?’ says Hans. ‘Oh, do what you want.’

He stands to one side, but only partly, so that Andrew has to sidle past him uncomfortably. He fixes the younger man with a piercing

look and Andrew averts his eyes, bustling through to the kitchen.

‘Here it is,’ calls Andrew from the kitchen, and comes back

through. His expression changes to hostility. ‘It was in my pocket all along. But we both knew that, didn’t we?’

Hans holds the door handle still, ready to usher this nonentity

out of his life for good, but Andrew pushes the door carefully to.

‘Let’s not do this here, eh?’ he says, moving into the living room

and turning to signal that Hans has not complied quickly enough.

Hans follows meekly enough, but regards him with no attempt

to disguise his contempt.

‘What?’ he says.

‘We’d all heard about you, of course,’ says Andrew. ‘My grand-

mother never kept it a secret from us. She told us about you. But it never seemed real. It seemed impossible that a boy could have done

all this harm to her family. To my family. That’s why it’s good to

meet you.’

‘Yes?’ Hans is bored with this.

‘Yes. Meeting you, what seemed so surreal is now so natural. It all falls into place. She’s right: you are evil.’

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‘Have you finished?’

Andrew’s seriousness breaks into a smile. ‘People know me as a

nice guy. I work for an agricultural insurance company. I don’t have a high- powered job, I’m not ambitious. I work hard, get on with my clients, and that does me. I suppose others would think of me as an amiable small- town plodder. Which is fine by me. But appearances

aren’t everything.’

‘Really?’ Hans rolls his eyes. ‘Interesting, I’m sure.’

‘But we’re both more interested in you, really, aren’t we? No one

really knows what makes you tick, do they? Least of all you. At a

guess I’d say you hate yourself more than anyone else. My gran said as much.’

‘How Freudian. Or is it Jungian?’

‘I don’t know. What I do know is that you’re a very unhappy man.

A sad old bastard. Really, you deserve to be put out of your

misery.’

Hans recoils in alarm, his eyes wide.

‘Not that I’m about to do anything like that,’ says Andrew softly.

‘I’m known as a gentle giant, after all. Just like my grandaddy. But I do think it’d somehow be right for you to live the rest of your life in worry.’ He pauses. ‘Money’s really important to you, isn’t it? Or

what it symbolizes?’

‘How perceptive. Your grandmother will be getting rather

impatient. I can imagine how deferential to her you must all be. If you’re trying to unsettle me, I’m sorry to disappoint. Bigger people have tried to do that. And failed.’

‘I’m sure that’s true. No. I’m a gentle guy, Mr Taub. But I do have this rather unkind streak. Generally I like to keep it well hidden.

But . . .’

He takes a step forward and prods Hans in the chest. Hans starts,

and feels his back touch the wall and his knees begin to crumple

beneath him.

‘Cheque,’ says Andrew.

‘What?’ says Hans.

‘Cheque. The one my gran gave you.’

‘Oh.’ He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out his wallet.

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‘Thanks.’

Andrew holds the cheque up, examines it, tears it into several

pieces and lets them fall on to the carpet.

‘My gran’s a very moral person, you see,’ he says, ‘and very for-

giving. I’m more vindictive. I guess it’s the male psyche, partly.

Freud or Jung, I couldn’t give a toss. I’ll not be fretting whether you’ve learned from your experiences. But I will take satisfaction

from knowing that you’ve suffered, if only materially. It’s primitive, it’s uncomplicated, sure. But that’s just me. Mind how you go, now.’

He turns and leaves the house.

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1

I . . .

Just a little turn is all. Right as rain. Back on my feet. Just a turn for the worse. Mind your own. You. Yes, you. Come on if you think

you’re hard enough. Me scared? Are you having a laugh?

‘ M- M- M- M- M –’ he stammers. ‘Maureen!’ he eventually bawls

with elongated vowels.

Their names churn through his head involuntarily, with no let- up.

He cannot make them stop.

Maureen. Dave. Charlotte. Bob. Martin. Charlie. Bryn. Renate.

Magda. Marlene. Anneliese. Konrad. Hannelore. Roy. They’re all

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.