The Liar's Dictionary

by Eley Williams

  I wondered how you date an edible clam, and other sentences.

  There are certain words that have such a pleasing consistency, texture, taste, colour, odour, network, milieu, stance, poise, arch, crane, comfort, peak, trough; limpid, tepid, torpid, torqued, liquid, lacquered, honeyed, latched, thatched, throstle-sungèd, spangled words. The normal pH of these words is between 3.8 and 4.5, so there is some bite to them.

  I supposed there was a man with the surname Skene. I supposed there was a man called Bartholin. Glands and ducts named after them, in the same way men name mountains and creatures after themselves. I hoped these men were kind.

  I preferred secrete as a hiding verb rather than anything concerned with outwardliness. It is secreted about my person.

  Have you ever heard the word Spinnbarkeit? I hadn’t. Why didn’t we all have these words at the tips of our fingers? Who had been stockpiling them?

  ‘They have an entry for queer bird,’ said Pip, looking up from her dictionary page. ‘But, ah, “Obsolete”. Poor word’s extinct.’

  Obsolescence itself was just another beautiful word for a nothinging. Secrete it about your person and pearlgrit your teeth with a new vocabulary.

  My office phone rang and I jumped on instinct – Pip did not have the same Pavlovian response to this sound. The peal ricocheted off the surfaces in the office.

  ‘Don’t—’ I said, but it was pointless. Pip was already there, hand on the receiver and lifting it to her face.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, and with a brightness that was purely for my benefit. There was only a slight hesitation when she improvised what she should be saying. ‘Mallory’s office phone?’

  I watched her expression change. She did not want me to see her concern so she angled her body away from mine as though a glancing blow had turned her shoulder.

  I wanted to ask if it was the hoaxer. I wanted to tell her to put down the phone and felt a rush of defensiveness. He was my problem, not hers. He was my threat, my reason for waking up with my heart in my mouth and horror pinching my throat. She was meant to be doodling on her hands or singing in a pub garden or holding me: his cartoon voice and his malice shouldn’t touch her. His words should stop an inch from her ears and wilt in the air.

  I realised that I had no words for what I’d do to protect her.

  T is for treachery (n.)

  Winceworth descended to the basement of the Scrivenery in a creaking, cage-like lift. He had only glimpsed down to the cellar once before – as far as he knew it was an untouched, unbothered part of the building, sequestered and sectioned away until the first edition of the dictionary was ready to print. It was full of damp and shadows, the scuttle of strange unseen unnameables alongside the ready-for-use printing presses. He struck a match as he descended and in the flash of light saw the pristine presses sitting waiting in the dark. He could not have told you what the parts of machinery were called nor their intended function – they looked hulking and sleek in the dark and somehow open-jawed. They made the air stink like metal: a foretaste of the steam and inksweat of printing to come whenever Swansby’s New Encyclopaedic Dictionary was ready to roll out volume by volume, word by word.

  Something skipped over his foot and Winceworth shrank back in the lift. What was the point in all these cats if a burlesque of mice was able to hotch beneath the floorboards? What he thought he had heard from the Scrivenery hall was no pest, however, or a mere clank of pipes expanding or floorboards flexing. He stepped forward into the gloom and struck another match as another mnmunmuffled laugh crept from behind one of the nearest printing presses. He rounded the corner and looked down. The woman scrabbled to cover herself as he lowered the match to her level, and she rolled away and bobbed behind a pile of boxes in the shadows. As she did so, she gave another titter.

  Frasham had no such scruples. He was dressed in only his shirtsleeves and socks, everything unbuttoned and encyclopaedic. Winceworth swept his match in an arc and saw his colleague reclining odalisque on the ground, propped up on one elbow and using his jacket as a blanket.

  Frasham extended his arms: ‘The whispering lisper!’ He seemed unruffled and either genuinely delighted to have been caught or delighted by his companion’s embarrassment. ‘My good man, descend and join the party!’

  There had always been rumours about Frasham and his friends carrying on in this way. Carrying on in this way – Winceworth’s mind became prissy and frilled with euphemism. He heard plenty of gossipy mutterings about Frasham’s dalliances, with talk of lewd boasts and comments and tally charts. Winceworth picked up on this chatter because people talked over his head in the Scrivenery and it was impossible not to rake through the ashtrays and berms of conversations. He had always assumed that these tales of trysts and encounters were just swagger and braggadocio, or, if indeed real, they occurred in grotty hotels or alleyways in Whitechapel. But of course that was not Frasham’s style – of course he would use the Scrivenery as his own bordello once everybody else had gone home. It rankled that even the private and unexpected, scurrilous luxury of after-hours Swansby House had been taken away from him the very evening that he made use of it. Terence Clovis Frasham had been there the whole time beneath the floorboards, snuffling and rutting and doing what he did best with not a care in the world.

  Winceworth turned to leave. As the match guttered he noticed again the woman who had shrank back to the side of the room. She was not cowering from Frasham, necessarily, but from discovery. Winceworth recognised her salt-white hair as the match burned out.

  ‘I trust you are well, Miss Cottingham,’ he said. She tutted and drew some piece of clothing under her chin.

  ‘Now really,’ Frasham said, smiling through his moustache in such a way that his teeth caught the light, ‘you’ll embarrass her. A drink?’

  There was a tfft of flame and Frasham lit a lamp by his side. It revealed a table with an open bottle on it and two glasses. The clothing on the floor tripped Winceworth slightly as he came forward. Pons pons pons. His head was splitting.

  ‘You are all right, Miss Cottingham?’

  ‘Perfectly well,’ came the reply, snapped and guarded. Frasham laughed.

  ‘I would say please, sit down but perhaps your company would not be entirely appreciated. Another time, perhaps.’

  ‘Until tomorrow, Frasham.’ Winceworth made for the stairs.

  ‘I’ll never get tired of how you say my name, dear Winceworth. Fraffth’m. You make me sound positively effervescent.’

  Winceworth heard a dutiful snicker from Miss Cottingham. ‘Leave him alone,’ she chided, but went on laughing.

  Frasham went on: ‘You look completely ludicrous: like you’d been in the wars with a hedge.’ Winceworth moved again to leave but Frasham called after him, ‘Completely battered – a rum job, old man, rum job. And to think it was because of my little prank you were anywhere near Barking. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?’ Winceworth didn’t say anything. Frasham did not seem to notice. ‘Especially since your battle of wits with the bird earlier. And I must say, I’m surprised to find you still in the building: why is that, do you think, darling?’ He directed this to Miss Cottingham. ‘Working over-hours? Got your own little projects to attend to?’ and Frasham raised an arm and indicated the underground room that he occupied, his little kingdom.

  ‘I bid you both a good night,’ Winceworth said.

  ‘I’d be pleased if you didn’t mention to anyone your bumping into us,’ Frasham said. The tone was gentle, with no sense of pleading or shame in it, but had an extra edge.

  ‘I am sure you would be.’ Frasham regarded him. Then, smoothing down his shirt so that it just grazed past his knees, he approached Winceworth. Winceworth took a step back, closer to the lift, but untrousered Frasham pulled his arm and brought them together into a loose embrace as if they were the oldest friends. His breath was sweet and clear.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to say—’

  ‘You do not need to make jokes about my lisp.’

  ‘
You misunderstand!’ Frasham recoiled, hurt, then closed back in. ‘My uncle has a friend who has a friend,’ he said, his moustache close to Winceworth’s ear, ‘who knows a man about a dog who knows a man who works in the British Museum. He has keys. Keys to rooms you wouldn’t imagine.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Winceworth said.

  Frasham gave a conspiratorial, boyish wiggle of his shoulders. He had never spoken one-on-one to his lowly desk-man counterpart at such length before, and Winceworth felt adrift in the dynamics of power at play. He felt all vulnerability, vulning.

  ‘You must have heard of it,’ Frasham continued. At school we used to talk about nothing else. Stuff straight from Burton’s translations, Pisanus Fraxi and all that – sculptures and everything.’ Across the room, the Condiment pulled a chemise across her shoulders and fidgeted with hairpins. Frasham seemed to have completely forgotten about her and their discovery. ‘All sorts in there that the public is not allowed to see.’ Frasham studied Winceworth’s face. ‘Well! My uncle and I have been pulling some connections and tomorrow night we have a private viewing! To properly celebrate my being back in the Great Wen!’ He laughed, open-mouthed. ‘What do you make of that?’

  ‘Sounds quite the evening.’

  For his contribution, Winceworth earned another laugh. All Frasham seemed to do was laugh. ‘Elizabeth will be there,’ Frasham said, nodding at Miss Cottingham. She kept Winceworth at a firm distance, jaw set and tight.

  ‘And Sophia?’ Winceworth asked.

  Frasham smirked. ‘Well, now, certain subjects and activities are not perhaps best suited for one such as she. These evenings can get rather raucous.’

  ‘As if that would keep her away,’ Miss Cottingham snorted. ‘Isn’t she selling some of her collection? Brought all the way from the wild and savage Steppes?’

  ‘But!’ said Frasham, rolling back on his heels, ‘I see I have been remiss!’ He brought his face so close that Winceworth could have kissed him, their legs planted one against the other. Frasham smelt lightly drunk, his chest slick and cooling. Winceworth felt grimier than he ever had before. ‘But you simply must be part of our merrie bande, I think. Shake something loose, my good man – you always look so vexed. It was good to see you with a drink inside you at the 1,500 Mile Society – what do you say? Do you fancy it? Find something there for you? My uncle can lay on quite a festival when he puts his mind to it.’

  Of course, Frasham was not a week back in London before he was organising orgies in a museum. Of course, he would be standing there half-naked, caught with his trousers not only down but way across the room, yet still have the upper hand!

  The colour of the explosion scorched the backs of Winceworth’s eyes.

  It would be good for his career to accept this ridiculous invitation. The thought disgusted him, but it was invariably true. If he could be in Frasham’s inner, trusted circle, who knows what new futures his life could hold: what escapes, what wished-for possibilities?

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ he said.

  ‘Then that’s settled! Come by the museum after midnight – we’ll show you how a relaxing evening progresses.’

  Miss Cottingham laughed again, and Frasham held Winceworth’s gaze for many seconds more than was at all necessary. The lamp sputtered once more and made the shadows waver across the scene – Swansby House’s desk-man and the field-man, one covered in dried blood and soot and the other hot with lust for life, momentarily arm in arm in their Westminster basement.

  U is for unimpeachable (adj.)

  ‘Mallory’s not here right now.’ Pip’s tone sounded bright and businesslike on the phone. I strained to hear the robo-voice of the hoax caller, its rasp and tininess and tinniness. I tried to sidle closer but she moved the phone cord over her shoulder and swivelled away from me on her chair, out of reach.

  ‘Who am I?’ Pip echoed. I made cut-it-out gestures near my carotid artery but she dismissived them with a wave. She was grinding her teeth and I wondered if the caller could hear it down the phone.

  Another flake of plaster fell from the ceiling. I watched the blister of it settle its pace in the air and land on my shoulder.

  ‘No, yes, I’ve heard all about you,’ Pip said. ‘And do you know what – sticks and stones, mate. You’re worried that a dictionary is going to change the definition of a word? You know that we laugh about you, right? Your little squeaky vowels and your threats. You know Mallory goes home and thinks about you every day? And I’m not a violent person, but I ask her what is wrong and when she tells me, I imagine you sat in your little house and I imagine feeding your hair into a lawnmower. You know what other words have changed over time? Wash your mouth out. What else has changed? Words like girl. Sanguine. Spinster. No, don’t ask me how or why, I have no interest whatsoever: frankly I’ve not the slightest interest. Mallory explained it once over a delicious dinner and I was concentrating on not tripping over my own tongue – look it up yourself if you’re so invested. You clearly have the time. Who else do you ring up and bully? Weather forecasters? Tide-tablers? Whoever tables the tide. I bet you resent that we’re not still speaking Latin. No, actually, I bet you resent Latin’s influence on the language and wish we could just be speaking in good old whatever came before. Anglo-Saxon. Jute. I’ve no idea, please don’t try and correct me on this, I haven’t the foggiest. You’re just a gross little troll who likes freaking people out, like something from the Grimm brothers. They wrote a dictionary too, didn’t they, Mallory? Did you tell me that once?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘So you listen here,’ Pip said to the caller, and she stabbed the air in front of her with a finger. Colour flushed beneath her collar and across her neck. ‘You silly little man. No, don’t apologise to me. I didn’t call sick off work to have you, what, snivelling on speed-dial. I’m not sure what your deal is – homophobia? Fear of change, or language, or gays, or both, or is it you feel like you’re left out or behind and there might not be a place and time for you in a book that no one reads, that you can’t abide – got me using words like abide – the smallest thing that makes no bit of difference to you? I learned a new word for wood pigeon today – that’s so much more important than you. You know who you’re speaking to? This may as well be the dictionary, right. You want to tell me that there’s a bomb in the building because you don’t want a word’s meaning to change and get with the times? Well, I’m the dictionary today and I am telling you in the strongest possible terms to get bent.’

  She slammed the receiver back down into its cradle.

  ‘He hung up ages ago, didn’t he,’ I said.

  ‘The second he realised that it wasn’t you on the phone,’ Pip said.

  I came around and hugged her, burying my face in that yard of closeness between the top of her head and her shoulder. ‘Into a lawnmower—?’

  ‘Felt good to say,’ Pip said. She hugged me back. ‘Oh!’ she said into my hairline, ‘I think I found another one.’ She pointed at a place in the index cards, finger grazing the paper.

  The phone began to ring again.

  There was a noise above us, a creak or stamp or thuddery. We stared at the ceiling tile above us.

  paracmasticon (adj.), one who seeks out truth through guile in a time of crisis

  ‘I’ll take a look,’ Pip said. ‘Don’t pick up that phone, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  And Pip swing-swang-swung from the room. The phone kept on insisting. I waited until I could hear her feet on the stairs and then picked up the receiver.

  ‘I’m a man of my word,’ the digitised voice said. The voice disguiser meant that I could not tell whether the tone or pitch of it had heightened. It might have been my imagination, but the words seemed to be tumbling out more quickly. ‘I hope you enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Enjoy?’ I asked.

  ‘Enjoy,’ the voice echoed.

  ‘Enjoy,’ I repeated.

  ‘Hello?’ said the person down the phone line. Then, ‘Oh – hold on a sec
ond—’ and then there was that obscure sound of a phone being dropped from a small height and a sad, robotic, flatted autotune string of shit-shit-shit.

  There was a corresponding thump from above. Then there came the shriek of a fire alarm, blaring at such a volume you could feel it in your blood.

  V is for vilify (v. transitive)

  As the cab pulled up outside his lodgings, an exhausted Winceworth tipped the driver far too much because the idea of weighing out or counting coins suddenly seemed an impossibly intellectual and physical undertaking. He race-dragged up the stairs to his front door, fell inside and slammed the door behind him with as much energy as he could muster.

  Before undressing for bed Winceworth threw his Swansby House attaché case across his bedroom. He withered onto his bed so that his shoes came away from his feet. The very essence of him became simple and synonymous with drooping, flagging – he sagged on the counterpane and as his clothes slid to the floor puffs of masonry and grit leapt into the air. Between the birthday-cake-icing-sugared pockets of the morning, the cat vomit, tiny pieces of dandelion clock, the pelican blood mixed with ink and Barking’s brick dust, his clothes were ruined with documentation of the day. He compared his own pale forgettable body, already goosepimpling in the cold of his bedroom, with Frasham’s easy half-nakedness in the dark beneath the Scrivenery. He dwelled on this for some moments – too many moments – before pulling his bedsheet over his face. Bedsheets, he thought, negate the need for time. He burrowed deeper and he tried some of the breathing exercises Dr Rochfort-Smith recommended to him. He exhaled and inhaled, inspired and aspired according to his pulse, and within seconds he fell asleep in his socks. There should be a word for how horrible this will make him feel upon waking.