door.’
‘Do you ever commit to anything?’
‘Commit? What exactly does that mean? And anyway, why should
I? Beyond an honest day’s wage for an honest day’s work?’
‘Because we can change the world, if we want.’
He looked at her with an expression of astonishment.
‘Change things? And why would I want to do that? Assuming, for
the moment, that such a stupid idea held any water. The world is
what the world is. We just get on with it, getting whatever we can
from it.’
‘You don’t care about anything, do you?’ she repeated.
‘That’s for others. I get my orders and carry them out. I get paid.
Or if I don’t do what I’m told I get fired. Simple as that.’
There was a loud thud from the flat above. Possibly a suitcase had
been dropped, or a body had hit the floor.
‘I’m just interested in getting on with things. Not theorizing. Not changing the world.’ He hurled this last out with a bitter, thin line of spittle that hung like gossamer on his chin. He wiped it off with his sleeve.
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She was silent, at a loss. It was as if she suddenly lacked the power, or the will, to contend with this.
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Well, don’t say anything, then,’ he riposted immediately but
with intent.
‘Shall we just stop this conversation now?’ she said.
Despite its sharpness, he knew that for her this amounted to a
proposal for a truce, however uneasy. Early, he thought: normally
they arrived here much later, exhausted and impotently frustrated
each with the other. Perhaps the edge to his voice had alerted some subliminal instinct in her. But he was not about to let go. Oh no.
‘I’ve had about enough of this bleeding- heart nonsense,’ he said.
‘I’d like to teach the world to sing. In perfect harmony. Well, buy a bloody Coke, then, and shut your trap.’
She was visibly alarmed. This was not how the game was played.
These were not the rules.
‘Well, you know what you can do, then,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes,’ he said decisively.
Her eyes narrowed slightly and he was certain he could sense her
flinch.
He was not proud of it. It had happened when he was at a vulner-
able point, when he had returned from the pub on a particularly
dark and windy night. She had gone on and on, about something he
could not now recall. So he had belted her, quick and hard, about
the temple. A short, sharp shock. It had not been sufficient to knock her from her feet or inflict greater damage, but no doubt she was
dazed. Her head had lolled elastically on her neck for a moment. It had had the desired effect: the momentary look of animus had
turned to fear and then, gratifyingly, to compliance. It had been
spontaneous and unplanned, but he had learned from its efficacy.
He had felt no shame. In the circumstances the act, while not pre-
cisely desirable or elegant, had been defensible; even necessary, he now thought. He looked at her and saw that glint again in her eyes.
‘Why don’t you go and spend a few days with your mum?’ he
said, and it was less a placatory question than a quiet command.
73
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As she looked at him her resentful fear melted into resignation.
‘Yes, I might,’ she said, and he continued to look at her steadily.
6
Busy busy busy. Time to get weaving. Taking his belongings and
removing all trace of himself, he had moved swiftly out of the flat, having learned enough to last a lifetime about playing house. He
cleared the building society account, placing some of the money
into his own account but retaining most as ready cash. They had
opened that account together, at Maureen’s insistence, to save for a mortgage. So much for her being unconventional and against the
system. So much, now, for happy families. He had enjoyed ripping
up the passbook.
He resigned from the Ministry by means of a curt letter painfully
scratched
‘Do you ever commit to anything?’
‘Commit? What exactly does that mean? And anyway, why should
I? Beyond an honest day’s wage for an honest day’s work?’
‘Because we can change the world, if we want.’
He looked at her with an expression of astonishment.
‘Change things? And why would I want to do that? Assuming, for
the moment, that such a stupid idea held any water. The world is
what the world is. We just get on with it, getting whatever we can
from it.’
‘You don’t care about anything, do you?’ she repeated.
‘That’s for others. I get my orders and carry them out. I get paid.
Or if I don’t do what I’m told I get fired. Simple as that.’
There was a loud thud from the flat above. Possibly a suitcase had
been dropped, or a body had hit the floor.
‘I’m just interested in getting on with things. Not theorizing. Not changing the world.’ He hurled this last out with a bitter, thin line of spittle that hung like gossamer on his chin. He wiped it off with his sleeve.
72
1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 72
05/05/15 5:32 PM
She was silent, at a loss. It was as if she suddenly lacked the power, or the will, to contend with this.
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Well, don’t say anything, then,’ he riposted immediately but
with intent.
‘Shall we just stop this conversation now?’ she said.
Despite its sharpness, he knew that for her this amounted to a
proposal for a truce, however uneasy. Early, he thought: normally
they arrived here much later, exhausted and impotently frustrated
each with the other. Perhaps the edge to his voice had alerted some subliminal instinct in her. But he was not about to let go. Oh no.
‘I’ve had about enough of this bleeding- heart nonsense,’ he said.
‘I’d like to teach the world to sing. In perfect harmony. Well, buy a bloody Coke, then, and shut your trap.’
She was visibly alarmed. This was not how the game was played.
These were not the rules.
‘Well, you know what you can do, then,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes,’ he said decisively.
Her eyes narrowed slightly and he was certain he could sense her
flinch.
He was not proud of it. It had happened when he was at a vulner-
able point, when he had returned from the pub on a particularly
dark and windy night. She had gone on and on, about something he
could not now recall. So he had belted her, quick and hard, about
the temple. A short, sharp shock. It had not been sufficient to knock her from her feet or inflict greater damage, but no doubt she was
dazed. Her head had lolled elastically on her neck for a moment. It had had the desired effect: the momentary look of animus had
turned to fear and then, gratifyingly, to compliance. It had been
spontaneous and unplanned, but he had learned from its efficacy.
He had felt no shame. In the circumstances the act, while not pre-
cisely desirable or elegant, had been defensible; even necessary, he now thought. He looked at her and saw that glint again in her eyes.
‘Why don’t you go and spend a few days with your mum?’ he
said, and it was less a placatory question than a quiet command.
73
1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 73
05/05/15 5:32 PM
As she looked at him her resentful fear melted into resignation.
‘Yes, I might,’ she said, and he continued to look at her steadily.
6
Busy busy busy. Time to get weaving. Taking his belongings and
removing all trace of himself, he had moved swiftly out of the flat, having learned enough to last a lifetime about playing house. He
cleared the building society account, placing some of the money
into his own account but retaining most as ready cash. They had
opened that account together, at Maureen’s insistence, to save for a mortgage. So much for her being unconventional and against the
system. So much, now, for happy families. He had enjoyed ripping
up the passbook.
He resigned from the Ministry by means of a curt letter painfully
scratched
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