The Good Liar (8 page)

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1

Stephen says, ‘It’s the proximity I find difficult.’

Gerald purses his lips and steeples his fingers. There is an audible intake of breath as he makes to speak but thinks better of it. He

must, Stephen supposes, be trying to find a softer way of saying it.

Most unlike Gerald, with all his affected asceticism, particularly

when both know, more or less, the thrust of what he will say next.

‘Proximity. What, precisely, do you mean by the word proxim-

ity?’ asks Gerald eventually, with evident difficulty.

Oh well, thinks Stephen, that’s as good as emollience from Ger-

ald: postponement.

‘It’s the getting so close,’ he says.

‘Hmm,’ says Gerald, and Stephen can see his impatience grow.

‘I’m not sure I needed a dictionary definition, however inexact.’

Stephen grins ruefully; he cannot help it, though he knows it will

irritate Gerald further. ‘I’m not explaining myself very well, am I?’

he says.

‘Not particularly, no. But carry on.’

‘What I mean is the process of finding out absolutely everything

about him. It’s the logging and the noting with painstaking care.

This is the first time I’ve ever been involved in such an extensive project about one person. So intense and detailed, getting so close in.’

‘The proximity. Yes, I believe you mentioned,’ says Gerald drily.

‘It’s the methodical nature of it. Dissecting him into his constituent parts and laying them out neatly under the lights on the

examining table, all stainless steel and clean. They don’t seem to fit together. They don’t seem to be part of him.’

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‘That, though, is the job of the researcher. You must surely real-

ize that? Not to rely on assumptions or theories or accepted truths.

To go back to original sources and to come up with an amalgam of

the facts that better approximates the truth.’

Stephen notes the steel in Gerald’s eyes, the sense of purpose

that could have seen him, with different choices, as a captain of

industry or a prominent politician rather than what he is. He recognizes that he possesses none of that backbone. It is backbone that

the subject of his research also possesses in abundance. He perse-

veres for the moment, however.

‘But it seems the closer I get and the more detail I gather, the less I know.’

‘Isn’t that rather, if I may say so, a rather workaday observation?’

says Gerald, striving, it seems, for equanimity. ‘The myopia that

closeness can induce, the lack of perspective. Isn’t it just part of the job to alternate between the microscopic and the strategic?’

Part of my job, that’s what you mean, thinks Stephen, and he can

see Gerald’s rising annoyance.

Gerald wraps a delicate hand around the cafetière, flexing his

long fingers, and evidently finds the coffee is still warm enough to pour himself a second cup.

‘Of course,’ he says eventually with a small smile, ‘this could

simply be a rather unsubtle ruse on your part to divert our session and disguise a certain lack of progress.’ And, more gently: ‘Let’s just see what you have laid out on your examining table so far and

whether we will be able to make something coherent from its parts.

We did, after all, start out with rather a lot of material. What form will Frankenstein’s monster take?’

They sit together at the large table in Gerald’s study, illuminated by strategically placed lamps. A masculine room, thinks Stephen,

though designed with an aesthetic touch. Gerald is keen to project

the face of the high- minded academic, but Stephen knows he cares

for appearance and impression.

Stephen lays out his papers carefully, the bundles from his

briefcase transforming them into little piles of facsimiles of ori-

ginal documents, printed commentaries, typescript and his latest

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handwritten rushes. The piles represent decades of his subject’s life, an existence desiccated into dead words on cheap paper. Dotted

around the table, they form an irregular oblong; and in the centre, on the polished rosewood, is where Stephen looks in vain for the

sum of the parts. Where is he? he thinks. He eludes me still.

‘Now then,’ says Gerald not unkindly, ‘where shall we begin?’

Stephen is mildly irritated at Gerald’s didactic tone but says

self- deprecatingly, ‘I find it confusing. He seems all things to all men at different times; and at the same time several different people in one soul.’

‘Aren’t we all? Is any of us the epitome of consistency, exactitude and disclosure? Don’t worry about the jaggedness. It’s in the cracks that we’ll find something original to say. Just focus on following

your man, capturing him in the net of your mind and pinning him.’

‘Like a butterfly on a board?’

‘Exactly. That is what we’re attempting to achieve, after all, is it not? Now, what do we have here?’

They pore over the documents together. Stephen is aware that he

has not come as well prepared as he might have. Gerald sighs and

looks at the small pile of images that Stephen has been attempting

to verify.

‘This is from when?’ he asks, extracting one carefully.

‘That one’s verified. He’s in his mid- thirties, nothing more spe-

cific than that,’ replies Stephen. ‘I think it was in Edinburgh.’ He picks up another picture, like the rest a poor- quality reproduction.

‘We have others spanning the period of his twenties to early forties.

They’re mostly verified. As sure as I can be, they’re all of him. Then we have these other five that I’ve yet to confirm. They include possible pictures of him as a boy and a young man.’

Stephen studies the photocopied sheets again. To him the images

look as if they are of the same individual. The face that stares out has the same features that will later in life mark him out as handsome. More strikingly, he can see in the boy the same superiority

and disdain. But he must be cautious, as he knows that it was the

convention of the age to produce pictures that both idealized the

subject and emphasized his arrogant seriousness. Innocent smiles

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would not have been customary, even for a child. He looks at the

eyes, pixelated crudely, and can derive no meaning.

‘Now, what are your largest gaps?’ asks Gerald.

‘Predictably, his mid- to late twenties. He spent some time in the Low Countries and also in France, with the army. Things are sketchy during this period and it’s difficult to keep track.’

‘All right. I do think you need to bring more structure to this. I’d like you to take each decade, as represented by these piles, and draw together a series of narratives, each with a summary and of course

referenced footnotes. Leave out commentary, emphases and con-

clusions for the moment. And don’t worry about style. Once you’ve

assembled your facts you’ll see your whole individual and have to

rely less on hunches.’

Stephen accepts the rebuke, delivered drily and with neither sym-

pathy nor annoyance. He knows what Gerald says is true: academic

research is about methodical plodding and not intellectual bril-

liance. Until perhaps, like Gerald, you have served your time and

reached the exalted heights from which you can instruct others to

deliver the facts, leaving you to add the instinct and the inspiration.

2

Later the same day Stephen sits at Betty’s kitchen table.

‘Just how can you stand him?’ he asks her.

‘It’s not at all as you imagine,’ she replies calmly. ‘It’s turned out pretty much as I envisaged.’

‘But he’s repulsive. How can you bear being so close to him?’

‘I’ve experienced worse things. You may not like him. I can under-

stand that. But I make my own choices, thank you very much. I

don’t require your permission or blessing. You may wish to consider respecting my views.’

She speaks these words not as a reprimand but evenly and firmly

as everyday observations.

‘I’m sorry. But he’s big and he’s shambolic and he smells.’

‘He smells slightly because he’s old. He smells because of his age, 49

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seeping from his bones. We die of old age from the inside out, rot-

ting gradually as we get older. It’s not something he can necessarily help.’

‘You don’t smell.’

‘I suppose I’m to take that as a compliment. I’m a woman. And

perhaps women are different from men in some regards, however

much I dislike generalizations. Do I detect a touch of jealousy here?’

Stephen is aware that his face is ablaze. He finds it difficult to

deny.

‘But you aren’t with someone or apart from them because of the

way they smell.’

‘Why not?’ asks Stephen sharply. ‘Why ever not? It’s as good a

criterion as most.’

‘That’s not such a ridiculous observation,’ she says, smiling. ‘But other things come into play, you know. And I must make the odd

compromise if I’m to see my way into the future.’

‘But is it worth it? With him, I mean? You know enough about

him already.’

‘I’m quite prepared to talk about it. But I’m afraid you won’t

budge me,’ she says with an implacable gentleness.

‘My main concern is for you. Is this really what you want? How

can you be sure you’re safe? He does have a quick temper and he’s

still strong for his age.’

‘Oh, he has and he is. But I can manage him. As you know, I have

a shrewd idea what he wants from this relationship and his needs

will act as a brake on his angry impulses. He’s very much in control of those impulses, I think. And to answer your question: this is very much what I want. I need this.’

‘I’m sorry. I just care for you so much.’

‘I know you do,’ she says fondly. ‘So the best thing is to fall in line with my intentions and to be pleasant to Roy. Not over- fawning;

pleasant will do just fine. You should be able to do that, as you’re such a nice boy.’

‘I’ll try,’ he says.

‘It’s Gerald, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

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‘Gerald’s being difficult, isn’t he? Putting the pressure on.’

‘No more than usual. You know what Gerald’s like. And we do

need to make headway.’

‘Can I help at all?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. But thanks.’

‘I’m not decrepit yet, Stephen. I do know how Gerald’s mind

works, after all.’

‘No. I have every regard for your academic expertise. And I know

Gerald does too. Your views are critically important, of course. But you’ve no need to worry about Gerald. I don’t think weighing in

would do much good.’

‘I’m assuming it’s his normal refrain on accuracy, attention to

detail and verification?’

‘More or less.’

‘Well, he’s right in a way. But he does bore on the subject. Exactly the same when he was preparing his thesis. I think the most important thing in a researcher is a good heart. That’s what I used to tell my students, including Gerald. Objectivity is critical of course. But if one sets about with malign intent to mankind, or even indifference or entirely selfish motives, then that way madness lies. Gerald believes this too, beneath the verbiage. He stresses dispassion precisely because he’s so passionate himself. He has a good heart and

so do you.’

3

‘What’s the matter?’ asks Roy as Stephen peers through the wind-

screen and the car makes its glacial progress towards the bypass.

Though not exactly genial, Roy is not aggressively scornful. Maybe

he too has had a pep talk from Betty. ‘You look as if you’ve had a

hard day. Your face could turn milk sour.’

Prompted by Betty, Stephen has embarked on an excursion with

Roy, who needs to go to the garden centre. In the sketchy curricu-

lum vitae that Roy has delivered verbally there is an obscure

reference to a former role managing a nursery. He professes, at

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least, a knowledge of plants and Betty is looking to revitalize the small patch of walled garden she has at the back of the mews cottage. Roy has taken on the project quite happily, but insists that

Betty does not accompany him on his purchasing mission. Instead,

while he does the job professionally, she may remain at home with

the cleaning and ironing. But he requires a driver and this is where Stephen comes in useful.

‘Not really,’ says Stephen in as placatory a tone as he can muster

while concentrating on the journey. ‘Just normal stuff. Work.’

‘You take it all too seriously if you ask me.’

‘It’s important to me. I believe in it.’

‘It’s just work at the end of the day. Your boss giving you a hard

time?’

‘My supervisor.’ Stephen utters the corrective gently. ‘Kind of.

Well, no. Gerald’s always like that. It’s just a tricky phase.’

‘Sounds like he’s a tricky character. And I’ve known a few in my

time. Needs to have his card marked if you ask me. Tell me about

this bloke you’re researching. What was his name again?’

‘John Graham of Claverhouse, later Viscount Dundee. Born in

1648 and a key figure in the early Jacobite rebellions.’