The Liar (15 page)

‘Oh yes, that’s right. You cheated.’

‘Cheated?’

‘Donald Trefusis. Philip Slattery’s uncle. Friend of old Biffo Biffen’s from school. I don’t forget anything, me. Mnemosyne was, let us not forget it, the mother of the Muses.’

Adrian looked at him in surprise. ‘Well, quite.’

‘At least according to Hesiod. So what is the old fart that you love doing here?’

‘He’s the ADC treasurer.’

Jenny came up with Gary.

‘For God’s sake stop drinking, Hugo. You’ll look forty tomorrow instead of fourteen if you carry on at this rate.’

‘A man who has just exposed himself to four hundred people, including his mother, has every right to drink.’

‘God yes, I forgot the famous Helen Lewis was in,’ said Adrian. ‘How did she like it?’

‘She was highly complimentary about everyone except me.’

‘She didn’t like you?’ Jenny asked.

‘She just didn’t mention me, that’s all.’

Jenny consoled him with the thought that it was probably professional jealousy. Adrian beckoned to Gary, who was pogo-ing with a lighting technician.

‘Trefusis knows all,’ he said. ‘The bugger burglarised our rooms. But it’s all all right.’

‘What does Trefusis know?’ said Hugo, who had overheard.

‘Nothing, nothing.’

‘He’s the old fart that Adrian loves,’ Hugo confided to Jenny and the rest of the room. ‘I used to be the old fart that he loves. Now it’s Trefusisisisis.’

‘That’s right, Hugo, time for bye-byes.’

‘Really?’ said Jenny. ‘I thought
I
was the old fart he loved.’

‘Adrian loves everybody, didn’t you know? He even loves Lucy.’

‘And who the hell is Lucy?’

‘Oh my goodness, is that the time? Jenny, if we’re going to hit Newnham tonight we should …’

‘Lucy is his dog. He loves Lucy.’

‘That’s right. I love Lucy. Starring Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. Now I really think …’

‘Do you know what he did once? In Harrogate. He pretended to …’

‘Oh shit, he’s about to throw,’ said Gary.

Adrian caught the brunt of the vomit, which, in an unusual fit of humility, he rather thought he deserved.

III

‘So let me see if I understood you, Dr Anderson.’ Menzies removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose like a rep actor in a court-room drama. ‘Not one word, not one syllable of this document is in fact the work of Charles Dickens?’

‘It certainly looks as if the paper and writing materials are modern. The handwriting however …’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake, if the ink is twentieth-century how can the manuscript be in Dickens’s own hand? Or are we now to authorise research grants that will establish the use of the retractable biro in Victorian Britain? Perhaps you even believe that Dickens is still alive?’

‘I think I should remind the governing body,’ said Clinton-Lacey, ‘that the film is due to be premièred next week. Some kind of statement is going to have to be made.’

‘The college will be a laughing-stock.’

‘Yes indeed,’ said Trefusis. ‘Sketches on
Not The Nine O’Clock News
, a cartoon by Marc. Calamitous.’

‘Well it’s your department, Donald,’ said Menzies. ‘Rather than sit back and enjoy this cataclysm, why don’t you come up with a solution?’

Trefusis stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Well now, that is precisely what I have taken the liberty of doing,’ he said. ‘With your permission I shall read a statement that the press might be offered without too much embarrassment.’

Everyone around the table murmured assent. Trefusis took a piece of paper from his satchel.

‘“Using a linguistic analysis program pioneered by the English faculty in collaboration with the Department of Computing Science,”’ he read, ‘“Dr Tim Anderson, Fellow of St Matthew’s College and Lecturer in English at the University, has refined and perfected techniques which have allowed him to determine precisely which parts of the play
The Two Noble Kinsmen
were written by Shakespeare and which by Fletcher.”’

‘Er … I have?’ asked Tim Anderson.

‘Yes, Tim, you have.’

‘What on earth has Shakespeare got to do with it?’ cried Menzies. ‘We are talking about …’

‘“Comparing textual samples of known Shakespeare against the writings of the Earl of Oxford, Francis Bacon and Christopher Marlowe, he is also in a position to prove that all the plays of the Shakespearean canon are the work of one hand, William Shakespeare’s, and that Oxford, Bacon and Marlowe are responsible for none of it. There are, however, some intriguing passages in three of the plays which would appear not to be by Shakespeare. Dr Anderson and his team are working on them now and should soon have positive results. An interesting by-product of this important work is the discovery that the novel
Peter Flowerbuck
is not by Charles Dickens, but is almost certainly the work of a twentieth-century writer. There is evidence, however, that the story is based on an original Dickens plot. Dr Anderson’s team is following up this suggestion with great energy.” I think that should meet the case.’

‘Ingenious, Donald,’ said Clinton-Lacey. ‘Quite ingenious.’

‘You’re too kind.’

‘I don’t see what’s so ingenious about it. Why bring Shakespeare in?’

‘He’s diverting attention, Garth,’ Clinton-Lacey explained. ‘Bring out the name Shakespeare and it’s even bigger copy than Dickens.’

‘But all this guff about Dr Anderson working on bits of Shakespeare and the plot lines being original Dickens? What’s that about?’

‘Well you see,’ said Trefusis. ‘It shows that we are currently researching all this important material, that there may be
something
in
Peter Flowerbuck
after all.’

‘But there isn’t!’

‘We know that, but the newspapers don’t. In a couple of months’ time the whole thing will be forgotten. If they do make enquiries about our progress we can say that Dr Anderson is still working on the problem. I’m sure Tim will be able to bemuse the press.’

‘He will be the one to make the announcement then?’

‘Certainly,’ said Trefusis. ‘I have nothing to do with the affair.’

‘I’m unsure as to what the tension between the ethical boundaries and the margins of pragmatism might announce themselves to be in a situation which …’ Anderson began.

‘You see? Tim will do splendidly. His is the only major European language I still find myself utterly unable to comprehend. The press will be bored. It isn’t quite enough of a hoax story to excite them and is too rigorous and scientific to have any human interest.’

‘But all this means that we will have to keep funding the extra staff,’ Menzies complained. ‘For appearances’ sake.’

‘Yes,’ said Trefusis dreamily, ‘there is that drawback of course.’

‘That’s outrageous.’

‘Oh I don’t know. As long as they’re kept busy lecturing, teaching undergraduates and authenticating documents that will be sent to us from all over the world – now that we are acknowledged as the leading university for authorial fingerprinting – I’m sure we’ll find a use for them. They may even pay their way.’

IV

‘You’re lying,’ said Gary. ‘You’ve got to be lying.’

‘I wish I were,’ said Adrian. ‘No, that’s not true, I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds.’

‘You’re telling me that you sold your arse down the Dilly?’

‘Why not? Someone’s got to. Anyway it wasn’t my arse exactly.’

Gary paced up and down the room while Adrian watched him. He didn’t know why he had told him. He supposed because he had been stung once too often by the accusation that he had no idea what the real world was like.

It had started when Adrian had mentioned that he was seriously considering marrying Jenny.

‘Do you love her?’

‘Look Gary. I’m twenty-two years old. I got here by the skin of my teeth, because I awoke from the bad dream of adolescence in the nick of time. Every morning for the next, God knows, fifty years, I’m going to have to get out of bed and participate in the day. I simply do not trust myself to be able to do that on my own. I’ll need someone to get up for.’

‘But do you love her?’

‘I am magnificently prepared for the long littleness of life. There is diddley-squat for me to look forward to. Zilch, zero, zip-all, sweet lipperty-pipperty nothing. The only thought that will give me the energy to carry on is that someone has a life which would be diminished by my departure from it.’

‘Yes, but do you love her?’

‘You’re beginning to sound like Olivier in
The Marathon Man
, “Is it safe? Is it safe?” “Sure it’s safe. It’s real safe.” “Is it safe?” “No, it’s not safe. It’s incredibly unsafe.” “Is it safe?” How the hell do I know?’

‘You don’t love her.’

‘Oh piss off, Gary. I don’t love anyone, anything, or anybody. Well, “anyone” and “anybody” are the same, but I can’t think of a third “any”. Which reminds me … that bloody Martini advert, it’s bugged me for years. “Any time, any place, anywhere.” What the fuck difference is there between any place and anywhere? Some advertising copywriter was paid thousands for that piece of rubbish.’

‘This is a change of subject on a cosmic scale. You don’t love her, do you?’

‘I just said. I don’t love anyone, anything or any body, any time, any place, anywhere. Who does?’

‘Jenny does.’

‘Women are different, you know that.’

‘I do as well.’

‘Men are different too.’

‘Gay men, you mean.’

‘I cannot believe I am having this conversation. You think I’m like Emma, don’t you? “Adrian Healey, handsome, clever and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-three years in the world with very little to disturb or vex him.”’

‘
Distress
or vex, I think you’ll find. It’s as good a description as any.’

‘Really? Well, I may have missed some of Jane Austen’s subtler hints, but I don’t think Emma Woodhouse spent part of her seventeenth year as a harlot in Piccadilly. I haven’t read it for a couple of years of course, and some of the obliquer references could have passed over my head. Miss Austen also seems to fight very shy of describing Emma’s time in chokey on remand for possession of cocaine. Again I’m perfectly prepared to concede that she
did
and that I have simply failed to pick up the clues.’

‘What the fuck are you going on about?’

And Adrian had told him something of his life between school and Cambridge.

Gary was still indignant. ‘You plan to marry Jenny without telling her any of this?’

‘Don’t be so bourgeois, my dear. It doesn’t suit you at all.’

Adrian was growing disillusioned with Gary. He had started on his History of Art, or History O Fart, as Adrian liked to call it, at the beginning of the year and ever since he had begun to evolve into something else. Bondage trousers had given way to second-hand tweed jackets with Hermès silk flourishing from the breast pockets. The hair returned to its natural dark, slicked back with KY jelly; knives and forks dangled no more from the lobes. The Damned and The Clash were less likely to blast across the court from the rooms now than Couperin and Bruckner.

‘It only needs a moustache for you to look like Roy Strong,’ Adrian had told him once, but Gary hadn’t been moved. He wasn’t going to be the world’s little piece of pet rough any more and that was that. And now he was lecturing Adrian on the ethics of personal relations.

‘Anyway, why should I tell her? What difference would it make?’

‘Why should you marry her? What difference would it make?’

‘Oh let’s not go round in circles. I’ve tried to tell you. I’ve done all my living. There’s nothing to look forward to. Do I go into advertising? Do I teach? Do I apply to the BBC? Do I write plays and become the voice of the Bland Young Man generation? Do I consider journalism? Do I go to an acting school? Do I have a shot at industry? The only justification for my existence is that I am loved. Whether or not I like it, I am responsible for Jenny and that is something to get up in the morning for.’

‘So it’s a life of sacrifice. You’re afraid that if you don’t marry her, she’ll top herself? I hate to wound your vanity but people don’t behave like that.’

‘Oh don’t they? Don’t people kill themselves?’

Jenny entered without knocking.

‘Hiya, bum-holes, I cleared your pigeon-holes on the way in. Exciting jiffy-bag for you, big boy. Could it be the clitoral exciter we ordered?’

‘Morning toast more like,’ said Gary, taking the package and passing it over.

Adrian opened it while Gary explained to Jenny the history of Toast By Post.

‘You taught a boy two years ago and he
still
has this crush on you?’

‘His faithful little heart overflows with love.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Adrian. ‘It was never more than an elaborate joke. If anything the parcels mock me.’

‘Do you think he wanks into them before he seals them up?’

‘Gary!’ Jenny was shocked.

‘As in “I’m coming in a jiffy”, you mean? No, I do not, though I grant you the toast is a bit soggy. What else have we? A little pot of apricot jam, a pat of butter, a note which says, “And Conradin made himself another piece of toast …”’

‘That boy is weird.’

‘Who’s Conradin?’ Jenny asked.

‘Reach down my index, Watson, and look under “C”. Dear me, what villainy is grouped under this letter alone! There’s Callaghan, the politician to whose door we traced what you in your memoirs gave the somewhat fanciful title the “Winter of Discontent”, Watson. Here’s Callow, the second most dangerous actor in London, any one of whose grimaces may be fatal, Lewis Collins, Charlie Chester, Leslie Crowther of dread memory, Marti Caine, what a catalogue of infamy is here … but no Conradin. Peter Conrad, who invented opera, William Conrad, whose Cannon was a Quinn Martin Production, but no Conradin.’

‘I think it’s from a Saki short story,’ said Gary. ‘Sredni Vashtar, the polecat.’

‘Oh yes, you’re quite right. Or was he a ferret?’

‘And what’s the relevance to you?’ asked Jenny.

‘Well, there we have to peer into the dark, dripping mind of Hunt the Thimble. The chances are that it is simply a literary reference to toast, and he is fast running out of those. But there could be a Meaning.’