A Suitable Lie

by Michael J Malone

  ‘Change out of your suit, Andy. Dinner’ll be ready in five minutes.’ No mention of the police, what was she playing at?

  ‘Have you got a present for us, Dad?’ asked Pat as I walked towards the stairs. Turning round I was presented with two eager faces.

  ‘Oh, silly me. Forgot all about my two best boys. See this plastic bag in my hand. What do we have in here?’ I pulled out some chocolates and some collectible cards that every child in the know had to have.

  ‘Yeees,’ they chanted in unison as they held out their hands. Ryan, wasn’t really sure what he was cheering about but he was happy to follow the lead of his big brother.

  Having changed into a pair of jogging trousers and a t-shirt, I entered the kitchen and approached Anna. Aware that the boys could see us from their vantage point in front of the TV, I put my arm around Anna’s waist and kissed the side of her head. My kiss would have been aimed at her face had she allowed, but she was refusing to play the role.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ She stirred the pan of bolognaise vigorously.

  ‘Oh, there’s a good explanation for that.’ I shuffled to the other side of the room. Out of reach.

  ‘There’d better be. Could you get me a spoon out of that drawer?’

  I was puzzled. It was easily within reach.

  ‘Andy, that drawer, a wooden spoon, please.’

  Wondering what was going on, I moved over to her side and opening the drawer, put my hand in for a spoon. Anna slammed it shut, jamming my fingers.

  ‘Ow. That hurt!’ My fingers pulsed with pain.

  ‘It was meant to,’ Anna hissed. Louder she said, ‘Silly Daddy, catching his fingers in the drawer.’ Her voice quietened again. ‘So where the hell were you? I must have phoned that hotel a thousand times.’

  I moved as if to go back to the other side of the room. Like a disobedient dog, I was ordered to stay. So I did. This was not a battle I needed to win.

  ‘I was in jail,’ I answered.

  Anna stopped stirring. Her mouth opened and closed.

  ‘What do you mean, in jail?’ she eventually asked.

  ‘I assaulted a barman.’ It was difficult to even say it out loud. ‘So the police locked me up for the night.’

  ‘And the bank? What are they saying about this?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it won’t look too good.’

  Anna swept her eyes up and down my frame, as if seeing me for the first time. ‘You’re a real man after all.’

  ‘You’re not angry?’ I was amazed at her lack of reaction. I had expected her to go crazy.

  ‘No, why should I be? You got in a fight. Big deal. Is this other guy going to press charges?’

  ‘Don’t know how it all works.’

  ‘We’ll get you a good lawyer. Say it was the pressure of work. When will your case come up?’

  ‘Not sure. The policeman thought it could be anything from three to six weeks.’ With the reference to the police hanging in the air I paused. I needed to find out what the hell was going on, so, with my heart wedged somewhere in my throat, I asked her. ‘What are the police going to do … you know … about your complaint?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she continued stirring. If cordon bleu depended on use of a spoon, Anna would be a top chef.

  ‘Nothing?’ I asked, keeping the relief from my voice.

  ‘You deaf? Nothing. I didn’t tell them.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes, I changed my mind. I was going to cos you don’t know your strength. A big man like you shouldn’t go around hitting women. But next time…’

  In the normal course of events, my work provided some sort of respite from my problems, but it was with some trepidation that I went to the office that Monday. I could detect nothing different in the usual greetings from the staff. Even the brashest people in the office had nothing out of the ordinary to say. Word had obviously not reached Ayr yet.

  ‘What, ten to nine and a caffeine-break already?’ asked Carol from Personal Accounts when she saw me at the coffee machine.

  ‘Yeah. I need something to help me face this place of a morning,’ I answered.

  ‘Not the positive message we like our managers to provide,’ a familiar voice at my ear said. I turned round as if scalded.

  ‘Roy. I didn’t know you were in this morning.’

  ‘Evidently,’ he crowed. ‘Once you’ve finished motivating your staff, could I have a word with you in private.’

  ‘Sure.’ Shit, I thought. ‘We’ll just use my office.’

  From the satisfied expression on his face, I could have bet my life savings that he knew everything. But had he already informed the Regional Director’s office?

  ‘Word has reached Sam Hyslop at Regional Office,’ he began before we even reached my room, ‘of an unsavoury event in Campbeltown.’

  ‘Oh.’ I sunk into a chair.

  ‘Oh?’ He remained standing. ‘Is that all you have to say for yourself? What’s going on in that head of yours, Boyd?’

  I shrugged, I had no defence. He sat on the side of my desk and looked down at me.

  ‘I’ve to provide a written report for Sam. He wants to know if you’re being charged and if it has hit the local press over in Kintyre?’

  ‘Yes I’m being charged. I’ve been told that my case could take up to six weeks before coming before the local Sheriff.’

  ‘And when it does,’ Roy said, ‘you can bet the local journalists will have a field day.’ He took a deep breath as if what he was about to say was at some personal cost and a great deal of emotional pain. ‘I’m to offer you every support. If there are … issues you’re struggling with … then I’d like to help you.’ He looked as if he’d rather chew on a hand grenade.

  ‘Thanks for the offer, Roy. There’s nothing wrong, but I’ll come to you if I have any problems.’ As I spoke I realised how far I had fallen. Only a matter of months ago I would have thrown him out of my office and told him that I’d rather air my problems on a crass chat show than tell him. That day, I sat bowed on my chair, fingers laced together as if in desperate prayer. My mouth was dry with the dirt of the thousand apologies I’d uttered that weekend. I could no more speak up to him than I could Anna. Lost in a haar of uncertainty, I waited for direction from the foghorn of his voice.

  ‘You’ve to carry on working’ – that meant they’d already considered suspending me – ‘until we conduct an investigation. We will then estimate how much damage you’ve done to the bank.’

  ‘Could I lose my job?’ The thought burst from my lips.

  ‘Who knows what will happen? Sacked or demoted? We’ll just have to wait and see. I don’t mean to be rough on you, Andy. But it’s better that you know the truth.’

  I sipped at my coffee, more from a need to do something than from thirst.

  ‘Thanks for being honest with me, Roy.’ In some recess of my mind the other Andy Boyd recoiled at my passivity, but there was nothing else I could do. I had no excuse, or none that I cared to admit. It was bad enough to confess that I had drank too much, but how bad would it sound to everyone that I lashed out at a stranger because I couldn’t handle my own wife.

  ‘Too much alcohol,’ I mumbled.

  Once I had provided Roy with an account of what happened, excluding my motivation, he left me to re-acquaint myself with the current state of affairs in my own branch. Each of the section heads reported that all was well, apart from the usual moans about sales targets and staffing levels.

  Steve, the team leader at one of the Personal Banking units, provided me with my only problem of the morning. A customer had come in late on Friday and demanded a refund on an erroneous charge she had noticed on last month’s statement. The narrative on the entry read ‘Safe Custody’. The customer had never used that particular service. Steve had investigated, verified the customer’s claim and found a debit slip, initialled by me. The writing was not mine and I could not therefore offer an explanation as to why the customer had been charged. I authorised a refund and dic
tated a letter of apology.

  The stack of mail on my desk was daunting and with little enthusiasm for the job I started to read. Two hours later, having absorbed very little indeed, neck sore, eyes sore, I decided to give myself a break. A coffee and a wee chat with a friendly face was in order. Although I had very little to say for myself, I would be more than happy to listen.

  ‘Where’s Malcolm?’ I asked Sandra at the reception desk.

  ‘Don’t know, Mr Boyd.’ Sandra was very much of the old school of banking. Managers must still have worn bowler hats when she joined the bank for no amount of cajoling would encourage her to call me by my first name. Today, however, any reminder that I could wield some power was welcome.

  ‘His mother phoned in for him. Said he was sick,’ someone said.

  ‘That’s pathetic,’ someone else said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That a guy in his mid-thirties is still getting his mum to phone in for him.’

  ‘I’ve always wondered about him.’

  ‘Yeah, living with his mother at that age. Must be a poof.’

  Another member of staff swivelled on their chair to talk to me. It was Sadie Banks. She and Anna had been friends of sorts at the last branch they worked together, or so Sadie thought. She was a quiet girl, keeping pretty much to herself. I thought she saw a similarity between her and Anna.

  ‘How’s Anna?’ she asked. ‘Haven’t spoken to her for a while.’

  ‘She’s fine,’ I answered. ‘You should give her a call. She’d be delighted to hear from you.’

  Leaving the staff to their speculation, I went back to my office. I had lost count of the times that I had overheard variations of the conversation about Malcolm. At times I butted in, defending him, saying that it was a shame that people felt they had to speculate on his sexuality based on such a cliché. So much for living in more enlightened times. Or, I would cite simple economics, the guy couldn’t afford a house of his own, the bank didn’t pay him enough. Today, I didn’t have the energy.

  10

  Sheila continued to inhabit my thoughts. I scanned my brain for any excuse to call her. Each one I rehearsed sounded more pathetic than the last. Why was I bothering? She would want nothing more to do with me. She’d witnessed what kind of a man I really was. I was a sham, an embarrassment to my gender. She’d had enough problems with men in the past. A bully and a drunk were what she had seen in action. I was simply a taller version of what she was used to.

  Anna should have been enough reason for me to put Sheila out of my mind. But her image persisted. Like a child with its comforter, I would imagine pulling Sheila to me. Strangely, not once was the thought sexual. Each time I held her in my imagination, I was seeking comfort, trying to borrow strength.

  Sheila phoned me.

  ‘Andy, I heard about the investigation. How are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, you know. Shite.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Everything will blow over.’

  ‘Although I don’t agree with you, the thought is appreciated. Where are you?’ I asked, grateful for the call. It heartened me to know that there was someone on my side. There was no way that I could explain to Sheila what was going on but the hope that she might understand, if I did tell her, was a help.

  ‘I’ve been sent to Troon, to do an audit.’

  ‘Someone else been naughty?’ The petty thought occurred to me that if someone else was in trouble it might take the spotlight off me.

  ‘No, just routine stuff.’

  Silence sang in my ear as I thought of something else to say. Sheila spoke first.

  ‘So how are you, Andy? Really?’

  ‘Worried about my job.’ A part-truth was a safe answer.

  ‘If you need a chat, any time, give me a call. I’ll be happy to listen.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I hung up. As far as I was concerned the offer would remain on a shelf like a forgotten memento. Occasionally, I would pick it up, blow off the dust, think ‘what if…’, but ultimately put it back in its place, unused.

  Only lunchtime and it felt like I’d been back at the office for a month. One more customer complaint about an incorrect Safe Custody charge arrived on my desk. Again, I wrote an apology. Again, the monies were refunded.

  I wasn’t hungry. The thought of putting anything to my mouth was enough to make me nauseous. Instead, I bought myself a newspaper and sipped at a coffee while I skimmed over the major events of the previous day. A cat in Kazakhstan could have triggered a nuclear explosion and I doubt if I would have really noticed.

  After lunch, there was another complaint. The member of staff on the reception desk was so frustrated at having to field another unhappy customer’s comments that she came and demanded that I speak to them.

  ‘I mean, it’s not as if it’s even my fault,’ she said with a sniff, arms crossed tight. ‘I think the manager should deal with this.’

  ‘Okay.’ I stood up slowly, ‘Who is it this time?’

  ‘Mrs Johnson-Smythe. She emptied her Safe Custody items out the year before last and is about to close her account after further evidence of our ineptitude. I mean, I don’t even know how to spell that word. Anyway, the snooty cow is in one of the interview areas.’

  Mrs Johnson-Smythe was another of my old adversaries. She and I had had various discussions over the years. Her accounts with the branch were rather impressive, so we normally did as much as we could for her. She had struck me as someone who realised the value of a loud voice when issuing a complaint, especially when doing so in person and particularly in public. The interview area would suit her just fine, it was little more than a three-sided cube with five-foot-high partitions. Our other customers would have no trouble at all in listening to what she had to say.

  She was standing beside one of the three seats when I approached. Obviously she felt that her voice could carry further when her lungs were not constricted by a seated posture.

  ‘Mr Boyd,’ she announced. ‘So glad that you could join me.’

  ‘Mrs Johnson-Smythe, I am so sorry about this small error…’ I began, willing energy into my voice, but she interrupted.

  ‘A small error, Mr Boyd? This is a matter of thirty pounds. Not a sum to be sneezed at when you are a poor pensioner.’ No one standing in the vicinity would have believed that the voice they heard came from a ‘poor pensioner’.

  ‘I meant small from the point of view that it could be easily fixed, Mrs Johnson…’

  ‘I hope it will be easily fixed. Because if the money is not in my account before I leave this office, then I will be leaving this office with every penny I own.’

  ‘The money will be in your account immediately.’ I prayed that I did not sound as if I was grovelling. ‘I will just go and see that the entries are made and…’

  ‘…and I will wait here until you provide me with proof in black and white that matters have been rectified.’

  By the close of business that day I had refunded a further three such complaints. Each customer had been charged thirty pounds, each was as indignant as the last. Forehead resting on my palms, I tried not to look at the evidence on my desk. Six dark-pink slips punctuated the wood of my desk like warning signs. Stop. Warning. Look no further. They all bore the same handwriting – Malcolm’s – and they were all authorised by me. I had no recollection of having initialled them.

  I couldn’t understand how Malcolm could make such an elementary error. When writing out the debits for such a charge, the member of staff quite simply copied the names and account number from the Safe Custody register. Not one person who had complained was even on the register.

  ‘What else is going to go wrong?’ I asked the empty room. I’d had enough. Time to go home, I could investigate this further in the morning, when I had a clear head.

  Having slept very little, with the worry of everything happening in my life, I was back in the office at eight-fifteen the next morning. The pinks slips sat where I had left them. The cleaner must have only aimed the dust
er at the desk and gone on to something else. Foreboding hung at the edge of my every movement that morning like a border of heavy cloud. Something was not right and I was going to be implicated in it.

  The first thing I looked for was the processing report for the day in question. This was a paper printout of every entry made on any given day. I scanned the pages for the entries relating to the pieces of paper in my hand. Nothing. This was very odd. Each and every debit or credit slip had to have a corresponding entry on the report. I checked again. Still nothing. I looked at every batch of entries on every page, slowly and carefully, to no avail. But then I noticed a strange sequence of entries.

  What began as a list of debit entries, all for sums varying from twenty pounds to forty pounds, ended on the following page with a run of cross-entries. Essentially every item on these pages was part of a cross-entry. Some had two debits and one credit, others had numerous credits and one debit. The problem I had noticed was a line of debits was missing a corresponding credit to balance them off. The machinist who processed this page could not have finished her work without it. So where was it? A quick search showed that there were no pages out of order. Then a small rag of paper round the elastic rope that bound the pages together caught my attention. That explained it. Someone had ripped out the pages.

  By now the office was beginning to fill up. Staff were staring at me as I shot through the office, mumbling to myself. Where would the pages have gone and would we have another copy? The fiche copy. Yes, that was it. A copy was sent to the branch each day on a small piece of plastic that could be viewed on a fiche. But as I walked to the cupboard where the fiches were stored, I became certain that the day I was looking for would be missing as well. Whoever was behind this would have also known about the fiche copy. Sure enough, there was a blank space in the folder where it should have been. I ran my finger down the folder to check if it had been misfiled and noticed that another couple of days’ reports were missing.