by Daniel Kemp
“It bothered me for ages why Aberman had almost imploded when I mentioned the name Schuschnigg to him in the Israeli embassy. But all became so much clearer after my research. Still no recollection of that Képesszemély name, Sir Richard?”
“No, Patrick, nothing is stirring upstairs for me.”
“Kurt Schuschnigg was András Képesszemély's uncle, Sir Richard, and according to a genealogical tree I had drawn up for me, Kurt is related to someone living in a very big house close to where we are now sitting. Shall I go on, sir?” It was at that moment our dessert was served.
“Ah, the crumble, Patrick. It's always important to enjoy the cream, don't you think? He said as he reached for one of the bowls at the side of his dessert. “Although, by that look of contentment on your face you seem to be lapping it up already.”
“Cream is indeed nice, sir. By the way, I almost forgot to congratulate you on the announcement of your upcoming peerage. Have you selected a title yet?”
For a moment the apple crumble became less important than my question.
“I haven't, Patrick, and thank you. I wonder what my dear wife would think of Lord Richard and Lady Sheila Blythe-Smith of Woolwich. It has a certain - ring about it, don't you think!”
“I remember little of my father, sir, but one thing I do remember is a saying of his - if you have to tell a lie, son, make it a big one! There seems to be many that have been told surrounding the secret of Vienna, sir.”
* * *
Lies are the currency of life. They move effortlessly through every corridor where the spoken word is the favoured method of communication. The endemic proportion of the insidiousness of lying has become essential to civilised human existence. It sustains the very essence of life installed in us all from birth - You are important - That's the biggest lie ever spoken, written or assumed. The truth is - You are unimportant.
People such as I, Jack Price and Fianna, or Bridget if you prefer, were hostages to lies. We, like you, once believed that there was a virtue in truth. We were encouraged to seek it out and follow its lead to the salvation it offered to our soul. But it led to a hollow grave where those that are important occasionally visit to hear the echo of insanity crying; 'listen to me, I'm important. I have an opinion. My vote counts'. Their derision slowly drowns the noise to a whimper that no one hears as nobody has the time to deflect away from their envy of the perfection offered by lies. It's the lies that are not heard but kept as a secret that own us all.
The best Westerns, the cowboy variety, end when the good guy defeats the bad one in a gunfight. Fianna's and my own trip to America ended in a gun battle of sorts. I'll grant you the fact that it was more modern but nevertheless similar to the old fashion showdown type. However, I'm not sure if it was the good guys who survived the fight or the bad ones. What I am convinced of is that my thesis was correct in its assumptions: There is no Right, there is only Wrong.
The End
About the Author
Danny Kemp, ex-London police officer, mini-cab business owner, pub tenant and licensed London taxi driver, never planned to be a writer, but after his first novel —The Desolate Garden — was under a paid option to become a $30 million film for five years until distribution became an insurmountable problem for the production company what else could he do?
Nowadays he is a prolific storyteller, and although it’s true to say that he mainly concentrates on what he knows most about; murders laced by the intrigue involving spies, his diverse experience of life shows in the short stories he compiles both for adults and children.
He is the recipient of rave reviews from a prestigious Manhattan publication, been described as —the new Graham Green — by a managerial employee of Waterstones Books, for whom he did a countrywide tour of signing events, and he has appeared on ‘live’ nationwide television.
http://www-thedesolategarden-com.co.uk/
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