The Lying Tongue (15 page)

A chink of light slashed into the night, illuminating the area around Eliza’s front door. A woman with dark hair cradling a batch of newspapers in her arms stood in the entrance. She paused for a moment, gazing into the dark as if she could almost sense my presence. I took another step back into the shadows, hoping the dark spot by the tree shielded me from her sight. She licked her pale, thin, beautiful lips, bent down and eased the lid off the green recycling box that lay outside in the front garden. She slid the papers into the plastic container, straightened up again and turned away. I wanted to call out to her, perhaps just shout her name so I could see her reaction. I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat was paralyzed. As she closed the door and the entrance returned to darkness, I said her name to myself, silently.

I couldn’t waste anymore time on her. I had moved on. I had a job to do, certain things to find out.

As I walked away from the flat and down to the station, I imagined Eliza’s reaction to my biography. I saw her walking into the bookshop on the high street, browsing through the paperbacks, and then suddenly stopping as she sees my name emblazoned across the cover and spine of a big, fat book. She picks it up and turns it over and over in her hands, not quite believing what she sees. She flicks to the inside back cover, presuming that it must be some other, older Adam Woods. But she would be wrong. Her eyes widen slightly as she reads the words: “Adam Woods studied art history at London University before moving to Venice, where he met the reclusive novelist Gordon Crace. This is his first book; his novel is due out next year.”

It would be the best revenge. The infliction of pain—physical violence—would be nothing compared to that sensation.

On the platform, a couple of young teenagers, their faces hidden by their hoods, kicked a plastic takeaway box. A middle-aged, besuited man nodded his head in time to a beat only he could hear. A slapper in a tight white skirt shouted into a mobile as I walked passed her.

I suddenly felt weak and unbearably tired. I knew where my parents kept their spare key—under a large cardboard box at the left-hand side of their garage—but thought I should ring them to tell them I was back. After all, it was late.

I dialed their number using my new mobile.

“Hello?” It was my mum, her voice deep, groggy.

“Hi, Mum. It’s me.”

“Adam? Where have you been? It’s been so—”

“I’m fine, Mum. Listen, I’m home. I’m in London.”

“Are you all right? What about your teaching job? What about Venice?”

“I’ll tell you everything when I get home. I’m about to get a train. I’ll be there in about half an hour. Is that okay?”

There was a pause. I heard a shuffling noise and then a series of muffled, unintelligible words, as if Mum had put her hand over the receiver.

“Yes, that’s fine, darling. We’re… I’m looking forward to seeing you. It’s too late to go through everything when you come in. You’ll be tired. But we’ll have a chat tomorrow. There’s an envelope for you—it looks like it’s from college, your exam results.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. I couldn’t really care less how I had done in my degree. I had a new life now. “I’ll look at it when I get in.”

“I hope you’ve done well, you deserve it.” She paused. “But, Adam, I’ve got to tell you that your father is still very upset and angry. Just so you know. We were hoping you’d send us a forwarding address. Not knowing how you’ve been, you can’t imagine how—”

“Okay, okay, Mum. Got to go—the train’s about to come any minute.”

It wasn’t quite true. I had at least five or seven minutes to spare, but I didn’t want to hear it. Not those words, not again.

“Jake? Hi. It’s Adam.”

“Adam…hi there. Where are you? Where’ve you been? It’s like you…you disappeared, man.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been in Venice—writing. But I’m back in London—for a couple of days anyhow. Listen, I was going to go back to my folks, but things are still a bit difficult with them, you know?”

“Yeah, right. You can always crash here if you want. There’s only a mangy sofa, but it’s yours if you’d like it.”

“Really? That’s great. I’m in North London at the moment, so I’ll be there in…what…half an hour?”

I rang my mum back and said that I’d changed my plans. I could hear the disappointment in her voice, but told her she could call me and gave her my new number. She had probably thought Dad and me could thrash out our differences once and for all and we could start behaving like a happy family, as if that was ever going to happen. I heard my father in the background snarling about how I never thought about anyone else except myself. But she made me promise that I would at least go and see them in the next couple of days so I could pick up my post and find out about my degree.

On the Tube down to Brixton, I suddenly felt the possibility of happiness. Of course, I would have to keep my plans to myself. There was no point in boasting to friends about the Crace book, the biography of a literary murderer. Instead, I would maintain that I was still writing the novel, which was, in a way, true. Nobody would know what I was really working on. And then people would be amazed. By the time I emerged from the escalator at Brixton and smelt the mix of burning incense, pot and beer, I felt almost indestructible, like the events of the previous few months had never happened.

I breezed up Brixton Hill and strode confidently through the maze of streets that led to Jake’s estate. He lived on the ground floor of an ex-council block. I pressed the buzzer and waited.

“Hey, come on in, mystery man,” Jake said, appearing at the door, arms outstretched.

“How are you?”

His flat smelt faintly musty, as if the windows hadn’t been opened in months. Old papers cluttered the hallway and piles of books threatened to collapse and spill across the wooden floors, a detail that reminded me of Crace’s palazzo before I had cleaned it. Jake poured me a glass of wine, but I could tell he had something serious to say.

“So what was with all the silent treatment?”

“I know,” I said, running my hand through my hair. “I’m really sorry, mate. It’s just that…it’s been really difficult.”

“I heard from my dad that the job, the teaching thing, fell through. When I heard that, I thought you might come back to London.”

“I did think about it. Can you believe the little fucker got a girl pregnant—the maid’s daughter? The family sent him off to New York.”

“So you’ve been in Venice since then?”

I nodded and took a gulp of wine.

“Doing what?”

“Mainly just working on the book, you know.” I wasn’t lying. I made an effort not to lie.

“How’s it going? Pleased with it?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. It’s coming on.”

“So it must be pretty pricey—Venice, I mean. Did you get another job?”

“Yeah, sort of as a personal assistant to an old writer. Odd jobs, clearing, tidying. Gives me lots of time to do my own stuff, you know.”

“Great, great,” said Jake. “Anyone I would have heard of?”

“No, shouldn’t think so. Not exactly a household name.”

“So what brings you back to London? Thought you’d said you’d never come back. In fact, from the way you acted, I thought—”

“Yeah, I know,” I interrupted. I didn’t really want to be reminded about the past. “I was a little…overexcited, I suppose.”

“You can say that again. Jesus, you were far out.”

I looked at my glass and ran a finger around its rim. I felt Jake’s eyes on me, as if he was trying to assess me.

“So you were about to say—what brings you back?”

“Oh, I’m just doing a spot of research for this writer. He’s interested in genealogy.”

“Yeah?”

“In his family history,” I added. “He wants me to find his birth certificate, trace his grandparents, follow the line back into the past—”

“Okay. Sounds interesting.”

“So how have you been? How’s the job?”

“Madness, real madness,” he said, laughing. “I get pissed every night of the week and meet the most gorgeous creatures you’ve ever seen. Legs up to their armpits. Blonds. Best job in the world.”

I could tell Jake was fooling himself. At university, he had nurtured grand ambitions to write about politics and social change; at heart he was an idealist, and I suspected that his job on a newspaper diary sniffing around for snippets of gossip about C-list celebrities fell far short of his own expectations.

“What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?” I asked.

“Erm, have to see. Why?”

“It’s just that I’ve never seen where you work. I’d love to see where it all happens—you in the center of things…”

I think that made Jake feel good.

“You can come into the building, if you like. We can go to the high-class, ultra-glamorous house restaurant, aka the canteen.”

Both of us laughed weakly.

“That sounds great,” I said. “Just one more thing—does your newspaper have a cuttings library?”

“Yes. Why?”

“It’s just that I thought it might help me with my research.”

“You’re welcome to use it if you like. I can call down and tell them that you’re doing some freelancing for me. No problem.”

“Thanks,” I said.

The cutting was as thin and yellow as Crace’s skin. It was dated 8 August 1967 and was from the
London Evening News.