A Version of the Truth

by B P Walter

  Night-time fun. The phrase disgusts me and I look away.

  Almost a minute’s silence follows before he says his next sentence. When he speaks, my stomach constricts.

  ‘And now we must get to James’s little mistake.’

  Just as he says it, I notice the tablet. It’s on the coffee table, propped up against two big Taschen books on Monet I keep there. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before now. Ernest is looking at it, too.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve both been rather slipshod when it comes to our wives,’ he says, glancing at me, then at James, then resting his gaze on the blank screen once again.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, apprehensive as to what he’s going to reveal now.

  ‘You aren’t the first to discover our, er, little hobby.’

  Something clicks into place in my mind and I gasp. ‘Louise. She knows. That’s why she didn’t look surprised.’

  Ernest nods. ‘I’m afraid she came back from her trip to Paris two days earlier than planned a little while ago. I thought I was completely alone in the house. She overheard a rather important phone conversation. It wasn’t a pleasant discussion. It took some time to put things in perspective. In the end, she needed to get some professional help. And it did help, in its way. She has to take medication, but most of the time she sees the world the right way up.’

  ‘Mad, Bad and Sad,’ I say under my breath.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a book by Lisa Appignanesi. About the history of women and mental health.’

  ‘Right,’ he says, as if wholly uninterested in Ms Appignanesi and whatever book she might have written. ‘It seems James now finds himself in a similar situation to me with his little … er … faux pas. To be honest, I’m astounded he didn’t protect his picks from the recent catalogue of options more carefully. But we all live stressful lives, I suppose. It’s so easy to transfer highly sensitive documents into very public places. Human error. The downfall of many.’

  ‘He tried to tell me they were for MI5,’ I say.

  Ernest laughs. ‘Yes, I think he’s always fancied himself as a spy. I gather his aim was to either frighten or impress you into silence. I think he’s been watching too much Homeland.’

  He looks at James again, who continues to avoid eye contact.

  ‘He was warned about this, when he begged me some years ago to be let in on my little hobby and join the club I’d founded. You see, the thing is, it takes rather a lot of money to keep this type of thing working smoothly, and for that you need a certain kind of investor. And our investors – or, rather, my business partners, I should say – are not the types to take breaches of security lightly. We’re supposed to keep these things on entirely separate devices, not general home computers, email addresses or shared accounts anyone could pick up. No automatic sign-ins, no ‘remember password’, no insecure Cloud accounts. But middle age is when the memory starts to fade, even in the best of us.’

  James has started crying again, and is now looking at me pleadingly, as if silently begging me to come to his rescue.

  ‘And it’s through ignoring protocol like this that we find ourselves in the kind of situation we have here.’

  I don’t want to look at either of the two men. My eyes settle on the presents under the tree: gift bags, unopened cards, beautifully wrapped boxes. My mind travels to the box delivered from Apple. It now feels like a lifetime ago. ‘What’s his new MacBook for? The one that arrived the other day? Next season’s catalogue?’ The word repulses me as I say it, my nausea rising once again.

  Ernest raises an eyebrow. ‘Not exactly the height of subtlety, your James. We used to think his quiet, brooding nature was a sign of the depths of his intelligence. I think we all overestimated him a bit. His potentially calamitous behaviour in this instance really does test my faith in him.’

  ‘Maybe he wanted to be found out. Helped. Given treatment.’ The words sound false as I say them aloud, like wishful thinking or cod-psychology. Ernest seems to think so, too, and scoffs disbelievingly.

  ‘I’d be surprised if that were the case,’ he says, getting up off the sofa and walking over to me. I feel myself drawing away from him automatically, back into the sofa, as if he’s about to attack. This seems to amuse him, but he doesn’t touch me. Instead, he reaches forward to the coffee table, picks up the tablet and turns it on. ‘I seriously doubt he would want to risk something so precious to him.’ He’s holding it out, the screen facing me, and again I see that familiar, terrible list of numbered files. ‘Tap the first one, Julianne.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’ve read it. More than once already. I know what it says.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Oh, you haven’t read this one, Julianne. This document is brand-new. Or rather, it’s been kept safe for a while. As insurance. Just in case anything went wrong.’

  He gently places the tablet into my hands. I take it.

  ‘Just have a read of this,’ he says. And taps the first file.

  I can’t speak. Words fail me completely. The screen is a blurry mess. I can barely see through my tears. But I know what’s there. I recognise the photo as soon as it comes on-screen. And the key details at the start of the page are ones I’ll be able to recite until my dying day.

  Name: Stephen Knight

  Date of Birth: 1 June 2002

  Occupation: School student

  Area: Knightsbridge, West London

  Tears fall from my eyes silently. ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘This can’t be real. You’ve done this just now … you’re trying to upset me …’ I look over at James. He’s got his face buried in the sofa now. I can’t think because of a horrible noise filling my ears, and then I realise it’s him. He’s crying, howling, as if someone is tearing him apart.

  ‘Shut up!’ Ernest shouts at him.

  ‘Please, just stop this,’ I say, my vision clouding through my tears, dropping the tablet. ‘I can’t take any more.’

  ‘You don’t want to go on, Julianne? You don’t want to read the finer points of what your son’s got to offer? Many people will want to know, Julianne. Of course, no trial runs have taken place yet, but they will be arranged. Very swiftly, I assure you.’

  I wipe my nose and eyes. ‘I can’t … I can’t …’

  ‘Stop crying. Both of you,’ he barks. He is standing in the centre of the room now and for a fleeting moment I’m reminded what a good politician he is. How he can command the House with just his tone of voice and the movement of his hand. People revere him. Some are intimidated by him. I fucking hate him.

  ‘I apologise to you both that we had to do this, but it was necessary.’ His voice is strong, hard and confident and I can’t help but listen to his every word. ‘Necessary for you to understand exactly what we are dealing with here, and necessary for me to get some assurance that this is where it all stays. Inside this room. As I’m sure you remember, what I alluded to earlier isn’t just a joke or a tabloid theory. I am being deadly serious. If you choose to act on what you’ve seen here tonight – Julianne, I’m talking to you – things will get extremely uncomfortable.’

  I stare at him through torn-up eyes, tears and lashes smearing the sides so he looks like he’s floating in front of the Christmas tree. ‘And this isn’t uncomfortable?’ I sob at him.

  ‘This is reality. I don’t want to get melodramatic, Julianne, but if you go to the police, or your husband over there gets a crisis of conscience, you really don’t want to know where that will lead. In the end, it all comes down to how much you love your son.’

  I feel myself tremble as he comes towards me and puts his hand on my leg. He pats it, as if comforting me, then, with a single finger, turns my head so I’m facing him. ‘Things can so easily go awry, Julianne,’ he says quietly, almost in a whisper. ‘It would be such a shame if your son were to be unsuccessful in his attempts to get a place at a good university. Of course, when one fails at such an important hurdle in life, it can be hard to live with the setback. Even the strongest
of people might start to lose their grip on sanity at that point. Depression is rife among teenagers. And then, who knows, his health might start to suffer. Or he might get hurt.’

  I pull my leg closer to me, away from his hand, but he holds on tight. Like he did to Holly. Like he’s no doubt done to hundreds of women. ‘You don’t want to know what would happen if this document were to go live. If his profile was circulated. If people who are particularly interested in a beautiful young lad like him were to receive an update to their current catalogues. A late addition. Higher risk than most, maybe, but still a relatively sound investment.’

  His face is now calm, his voice low and slow. He could be reading me a bedtime story. And worst of all, I can tell he’s enjoying this.

  ‘Perhaps he might end up somewhere unsafe. Wander into the wrong part of London and find himself with people who are dangerous. Or maybe things won’t really get interesting until he gets into university. Not Oxford, of course, but some lesser institution where children are sent by their disappointed parents to coast along with all the other lightweights. What if someone were to slip into his dorm room at night? Or put something in his drink at a bar? Lead him away to somewhere less busy. Somewhere lonely. It’s a real risk, Julianne. And James knows this already. We had a little chat while you were out for the count, so to speak.’

  I feel bile rising in my throat. I’m paralysed. Can hardly breathe.

  ‘I hear you get all types hanging around abandoned warehouses or factories.’ He comes in close, his face near mine as he continues in that terrible half-whisper. ‘They’d rape him, Julianne. Violently and without a condom. He’d be shared around, passed from one man to another. They’d make him do things. Terrible things. I can’t guarantee they’d always be careful with him. I hear the number of HIV infections is on the rise among young gay men in the UK. It would be so awful if he became one of the thousands a year who contract it. Or hepatitis B. Or maybe an addiction. Bad men carry needles. It only takes a little bit of heroin for him to want more, and more and more. All these things are real issues, Julianne. I’m just concerned for the boy’s safety. I’d hate for it to all end in tears. For him to overdose. And his fine young dead body to be, er … interfered with.’

  I throw up. I can’t stop myself. The hot vomit rises quickly and arrives on my lap and on his hand, splashing onto the tablet on the floor.

  ‘Christ,’ he mutters as he pulls his hand back, wiping it on the side of the sofa. I stand up as soon as he relinquishes his grip and walk out of the room. I need to get out. I can’t stay here. I don’t want to set foot in my home ever again. It’s not my home. It’s a house of horrors – a place where I’ve been made to imagine the worst things imaginable. And I’ve had enough. The world spins as I enter the entrance hall.

  ‘Julianne!’ I hear one of them shout – I think it’s Ernest but I can’t be sure.

  I don’t respond or slow down. I’m running now. Grabbing my keys as I pull open the front door. It’s started to snow since I last looked outside and a fine coating greets me on the pavement under my feet. I get in the car and start the ignition, but the windscreen has frozen. I turn on the de-icer then climb out, brushing the excess snow from the car with my bare hands. I barely even feel it sting.

  ‘Julianne!’ It’s James’s voice. I can tell the sound of his voice instantly now. He runs out of the front door and over to me. ‘I’m sorry! Please. Please. I’ve always tried … I’ve always loved …’

  ‘Get the fuck away from me!’ I scream at him. I hear a front door across the street open. We’re causing a scene. People are watching and I don’t care. Let them watch.

  ‘Please, I need to talk. I need to explain.’

  ‘Explain! I’ve just had to listen to your cunt of a best friend explain what you are. Explain what you’ve done. And you said nothing. Nothing to defend yourself, nothing to defend your son, nothing to comfort me. You didn’t even bother trying.’

  He’s shaking his head, brushing tears off his cheeks as he sobs. ‘I couldn’t. I was so scared—’

  ‘Well, join the fucking club,’ I snap as I get back into the car and slam the door. The window is still coated with large patches of ice but I don’t stop. I reverse out of the tight parking space with a screech and, from the corner of my eye, see him jump out of the way as the car comes close to him. Part of me wishes I’d hit him – run over his feet, broken some bones – but I see him run off.

  The car pulls out behind me almost immediately. His car. James is following me. I speed up, turning down a side street, desperate to get away from him. I don’t really know where I’m going. The snow is getting heavier and I can barely see through the sparse patches of clear glass that have defrosted. I’m going to my mother’s. Away from all of this. Away from the horror my life has become. Although I’m slightly ashamed to admit it, I’ve never driven from Knightsbridge to Richmond, especially not in conditions like this. I need to use the inbuilt satnav and for that I need my mother’s postcode. I swerve round a corner, narrowly missing a lamppost, and feel in my pocket for my phone. By some miracle it’s still in my cardigan pocket and I pull it out. This is madness and I know it. I’m barely in control of the car as it is, and then, within a second, the steering wheel is spinning and I can’t slow down. With a horrible screeching sound I hit the brakes. The car comes to a stop, but only after I’ve scraped up against the side of a vehicle parked alongside the pavement. I’m breathing heavily. I should go and check out the damage, but I need a second to get my head straight.

  And that’s when I hear the bang. A horrendous crash mingled with a crunching, splintering sound. It’s happened just behind me.

  I get out of the car immediately and turn to face the wreckage. I’m standing in a residential square, mere walking distance from my house, my car parked at the side, houses similar to my own all around me. I see lights come on in windows. Then I see James’s car. It’s collided with a tree at the side of the snow-laden expanse of grass in the centre. The tree looks broken, its branches arranged strangely, as if it shouldn’t be standing upright, with its scraggly arms pressed down onto the car’s roof. I don’t think about it – I just run automatically, skidding on the icy road as I cross over to the grass and run towards the car.

  ‘Don’t go over to it!’ A woman’s voice from the other side of the square, from one of the houses, shouts over to me. ‘It might blow up.’

  ‘It’s my husband!’ I shout as I reach the front passenger door.

  ‘I’ve called an ambulance,’ the voice shouts back.

  I stop dead still, trying to work out what I’m seeing. The windscreen is smashed. Half of it has come away completely from the body of the car. It still has a thick coating of ice and snow. James hadn’t had time to defrost it before he’d pulled out. And there he is. Sitting in the driver’s seat, a splintered and severed branch of the tree pinning him there. Part of me expects to feel sick again, but I don’t. I feel strangely calm. I open the car door and get in, and I see, through the darkness and the snow, which is starting to come in and settle on the dashboard, that the spikes of wood have torn into his neck and chest and part of his stomach. His yellow Oxford shirt is starting to change colour from all the blood, large stains of it growing and spreading. I think he’s dead, then suddenly he takes in a loud, rattling gasp of air. It makes me jump.

  ‘Juli.… anne …’ He croaks my name, weakly raising his left hand off the steering wheel. I just stare at it. He’s dying. I know it. With an immense effort, I turn to look him in the eye and find that it’s right, what they say in books and films and poetry – you really can see the life leaving them.

  ‘Please …’ he says, managing to get his hand a few inches closer to mine. He wants me to take it. He wants me to hold his hand as he leaves this world. As he leaves me. And I lift my hand, too, and for a second both are suspended in mid-air, none of the fingers touching, both reaching out for the other. And then I pull mine away, and leave his raised in the darkness without anythi
ng to take hold of.

  ‘I … love …’ He starts to say the words, but can’t finish them. I see the last tear leave his eyes. I look down at his wounds and I can literally see the blood trickling out of him. ‘You.’

  I don’t respond. I wait until the last glimmer of life leaves his face. The orange lamplight makes his skin glow strangely, as if lit from within. Then I brush the snow off my sleeve and get out of the car, closing the door behind me.

  EPILOGUE

  The car draws up at the house and she gets out of the front seat. She’s still beautiful. I hadn’t really noticed it when I spoke to her briefly in London last year. Her red-brown hair is still strong in colour, her figure still slim. It’s only when she comes closer and taps on the front door that I notice the lines in her face. Age, sure, but I get the sense there’s something else there, too. I can tell she’s experienced something.

  I leave the sitting-room window seat and walk round to let her in. She smiles when she sees me. A nice smile – warm and genuine – and I try to return it, though I’m conscious my expression is stiff and unconvincing. I look quickly at the ground, feeling awkward.

  ‘Hello, Holly,’ she says. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘Hello,’ I say, forcing myself to look up and meet her eyes. ‘Thanks for coming all this way.’

  ‘I wanted to.’ Then, after a few seconds, she says, ‘So, can I come in?’

  I laugh and she laughs, and the awkwardness, if not entirely gone, is diluted a little while I take her coat and she follows me into the kitchen. She comments what a nice house it is and how she’s always rather fancied moving out to the countryside. ‘I envy the amazing view you have,’ she says, looking out of the kitchen window, over the vast expanse of hills with only the odd white smudge of a building speckling the landscape.