and he returned from his excursion to Soho with his copy of the
Sun
, which he read from cover to cover. He slept for a while in the afternoon.
It was even worse being dependent on Martin. For the moment,
Martin was in the lead, sorting out their travel arrangements and
obtaining passports from a contact he knew in the East End. Roy had no option but to trust him: he had removed all his cash from his bank accounts but dared not set out on his own to put things right. He was bereft of ideas, devoid of contacts. With his light manner at their meetings each evening, Martin unwittingly piled more indignity on
to Roy. At some stage in their joint career, Martin would pay for this.
Tonight, allegedly, they would be on the move. For the photographs
to be used in their new forged passports that Roy judged prudent
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just in case the police should arrest them as they attempted to leave the country, they had each had their shoulder- length locks cut to a short- back- and- sides and shaved off their moustaches. Martin had been dispatched to some contacts of his in the East End to have the passports made up. We shall see, thought Roy, we shall see whether
young Mr White turns up.
But he duly did, and Roy felt a hatred that was undampened by its
irrationality. Martin had reduced him to this: impotence and dependence on a generally harmless and usually useful fool. He disguised
his contempt, as effectively as Martin concealed his new- found superiority, in cheerful solicitousness.
It was a big night, not just for them. Crowds milled around cen-
tral London, many heading for Wembley and the big match that
would see England qualify for the World Cup in Germany the fol-
lowing year. To give him his due, Martin had thought it through.
While the Metropolitan Police strained to effect crowd control in
London and residual lazy coppers watched Brian Clough drone his
ITV punditry on control room televisions, they would be going
against the flow.
Once they had negotiated the Tube and the teeming concourse
at Victoria, things became easier. They found an empty carriage on
the boat train and the worst to contend with was the waiting, as
British Rail vainly resumed its daily struggle to get a train away on time. People straggled into the compartment, a blinking German
student with evidently not a clue, obliviously knocking him on the
knee with his sharp- edged rucksack, two ugly Italian girls chatting thirteen to the dozen, three smiling and loud Dutch boys. Soon
there was the full complement of eight and Roy contained his seeth-
ing anger only by feigning to doze. This was not travelling in style.
This was not what he had imagined for himself.
Eventually the train pulled out only forty- five minutes behind
schedule. It screeched to a jarring halt outside Dover station, shaking him from the deep slumber he had fallen into, and waited almost twenty minutes before, apparently without reason, jerking forward
again.
They waited until their young companions had disgorged from
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the train before picking up their bags, shrugging their coats on to their shoulders and heading through the passage towards the ferry
and passport control. Roy checked mentally that he had his cur-
rency well hidden in the bottom of his grip. The sense that if he
were to be detained and his belongings searched it would all be up
was, in a strange but familiar way, calming. He had travelled this
path before. The only factors that were in play at this moment were his demeanour and fortune, good or bad.
Martin and Roy separated and he hung at the back of a cluster of
young people, evidently on a trip of some kind, of excited English
secondary school children. He looked at their shabby guardians and
loosened his tie, mussed his hair and adopted a world- weary expression. His new passport indicated, after all, that he was a teacher. It was over in a moment once he had waited for all twenty- six children and the adults to pass and ensured that he followed them immediately. The official looked at him, bored, scrutinized his passport
fleetingly and handed it back. Simple as that, and he felt an inner glow.
As he boarded the vessel by the glare of the dock lights a blaring
radio carried by one of the seamen announced that England had
drawn against Poland and would not after all be at the 1974 World
Cup. England, my England, he thought, as he glanced back at Dover.
Good to get you off my back for a while.
They were well into their third celebratory pint at the bar when
Roy raised the subject of their plans for the future. The ferry lurched and swayed on the rough seas and empty glasses slid on neighbouring tables. They were almost the only people in the half- lit space.
Martin looked wan and extinguished his cigarette, but Roy’s stom-
ach was stronger.
‘What next, Martin?’ he asked.
‘Hadn’t given it a thought,’ slurred Martin. ‘The main priority
was clearing out before the rozzers found us.’
‘Quite right,’ said Roy calmly, and waited a beat. ‘But we do need
a plan.’ He smiled encouragingly.
‘Thought we’d find some cheap hotel in Paris and take it from
there.’
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Roy sighed, almost but not quite imperceptibly. He said, ‘All right.
That’ll do for starters. But then?’
Martin looked blank.
‘You’ve got some contacts in Brussels?’ said Roy, prompting with
a cocked eyebrow.
‘Yes.’
‘Who deal in various commodities?’
‘Yes, but if you –’
‘Yes?’
‘You’d need money for starters.’
‘I reckon I could lay my hands on some cash. Seems a pity to
waste these lovely new passports.’
‘If you’re thinking of going back to England . . .’
‘I didn’t say that. But if your pals need some help getting stuff
down from Scandinavia or over from North Africa, who better than
a couple of upstanding British businessmen to help them? I’m sure
we could turn our hands to that. Don’t you agree? As long as the
price is right. And, as time goes on, set ourselves up properly in the import- export business.’
‘Cut them out, you mean? They won’t like that.’
‘You’re getting ahead of yourself, Martin. That’s not what I said.
Let’s just make ourselves useful in the first place and see where that takes us, shall we? Or have you got a better idea?’
‘No.’
‘Well then. You just set up the meetings and I’ll worry about the
money. How does that sound? All right with you, is it?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Good,’ said Roy soothingly. ‘Excellent. I’ll drink to that.’ He
allowed himself a little inward grin. He had reasserted a healthy
measure of control.
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1
They are spared Roy’s presence this weekend. Distracted and mut-
tering, ill- tempered after a bad night’s sleep, he has taken himself off to his own place, to sort his affairs out. So he says. He plans to place most of his belongings in storage and to sell up. It is his last chance to make a modest profit, he claims, given the state of the
property market.
‘That’s why I’m consulting Vincent,’ he had said over breakfast.
‘You have to look after yourself. I’ve seen a lot in my lifetime. You don’t get to our age without having a history, do you?’
It is not a question and she has heard this refrain before, despite his reluctance to talk about his past and his occasional contradictory insistence that he has led a humdrum life. He could at least make
the effort to be consistent. Evidently he sees her as the gullible type.
He barrels on regardless. ‘Maybe I’ve seen more than you. I’m
glad you’ve led a sheltered life, truly I am. You wouldn’t have wanted to see some of the things I have. But then again I’ve learned about preserving the important things in life. You have to look after
all you’ve worked to secure. Your assets, your interests, your fam-
ily. You’ll want to leave a future for Michael, and Stephen and
Emma, when you, I mean . . . Let’s face it, we both have to be real-istic. We’re well into that age when at any moment . . .’
She smiles meekly at him, as if he were reading the weather
forecast from his newspaper.
‘I mean, if at any stage you’d like a word with Vincent . . .’
But for now he is gone to settle whatever affairs are to be settled, and she has some breathing space.
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Stephen is with her. His offer to drive Roy to his home was
brusquely declined.
‘Piece of cake. Wouldn’t mind a lift to the station, but then
change at Reading, cab from Paddington and Bob’s your uncle. I
probably won’t be back until tomorrow. Lots to sort out.’
The air is easier without him, which is not in the least surprising.
There seems to be a sustained exhalation as they potter in the kit-
chen and there is almost a relaxed elegance in their counterpoint
movements around the house. He grinds coffee beans at the counter
as she washes parsley. As she turns to cut the herbs, he moves with perfect timing to the cupboard to locate the cafetière. He pours the boiling water from the kettle as she reaches for the biscuit tin. They complete this wordless choreography by walking together into the
lounge and settling by the pile of Saturday broadsheets, she in her upright chair, he sprawling somewhat on the sofa.
The herbs are drying on kitchen paper for the omelette she will
cook for their lunch in an hour or so. Then they may go out for a
short drive into the countryside before he deals with his emails and a few other pressing IT matters at the kitchen table. She may have a nap in her chair or perhaps simply listen to Bach with her eyes
closed. They have talked of ordering in an Indian meal in the even-
ing. Roy cannot abide spicy food, so this will be a treat.
2
Vincent opens his mouth but does not speak. He seems to be work-
ing his way up to something. Eventually he says, ‘Why are you
doing this, Roy? You can do without the bother. You must be well
enough off. You can’t need the money.’
Well, a little disclosure will do no harm, at this stage in his life. It will be good to explain, if only to Vincent, his only legatee so to speak in this world.
‘I can always do with more,’ he replies. ‘You can never have too
much cash. Besides, it’s what I do. I do it because I can, because I’m good at it. And these people. These stupid complacent people. They
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don’t know what it is like to suffer. They sit at the centre of their own lives, warm and cosy. They need shaking up.’
He could have added, it’s a weakness, a compulsion. The pains-
taking construction of the lie and its intricate underpinnings: they make the adrenalin flow. In a previous life he was taught not to
show joy at getting away with the big lie, and to avoid the urge to embroider to within an inch of believability just for the thrill of mocking the mark. One big lie is all you ever need, he knows
through experience, and to feel the joy solely internally is gratifying enough. It’s necessary not to ignore the endgame; but that’s not
where the sense of accomplishment lies for Roy. It’s in the execu-
tion, the act of deception. But Vincent wouldn’t understand. He’s a singularly joyless person.
‘They’re nice enough people,’ he continues quickly, ‘of their sort.
Privileged, smug, small- minded. You’ll get to meet them. You’ll
probably like her. I do.’
‘And yet it doesn’t stop you?’ says Vincent
‘Why should it? It’s an important lesson for her. Albeit at a rather advanced age. I like her, but I only know her because she presented herself. From the get- go. In my time I’ve had to . . . deal with . . .
plenty of people who’ve been pleasant enough.’
It is not imperative, though, to do this; he could scrape by on
what he has left, though it has dwindled alarmingly over the past
few years. But this is where he derives his satisfaction and while he likes her he also sneers at her. And as for her dreadful family, good grief.
They return to the business at hand, after the rather embarrass-
ing partial opening- up. No, on reflection disclosure is not a good thing, thinks Roy. It doesn’t salve the soul. It invites questions, not least from oneself, and upsets the certainty at which one has arrived.
At his age he can do without such perturbations.
Vincent will be called in when Roy has been able to persuade
Betty that she needs his advice. This will take some tenacity, though he has started along the way. He runs through who else Betty may
wish to have there: with luck the callow Stephen, with slightly less luck her son, Michael. Both should, ultimately, be manageable. Roy
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takes some care in prescribing how Vincent should present himself,
his demeanour and even the clothes he should wear. Vincent is not
offended; he knows well Roy’s attention to detail and that, gener-
ally, he is right.
They run through the basic script. It can only be an outline since
they will need to extemporize considerably, not least to deal with