Nothing But the Truth Read online

  Samuel Lock

  Nothing But The Truth

  Contents

  PART ONE Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  PART TWO Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  PART THREE Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  PART FOUR Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  PART FIVE Chapter XXII

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  Samuel Lock was born in 1926. He has worked as a painter and stage designer, and as a scriptwriter in documentary cinema. He is the author of five plays and two previous novels, one of which, As Luck Would Have It, won the Sagittarius Award.

  by the same author

  AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT

  THE WHITES OF GOLD

  for

  Adrian de Menasce

  and for

  James Merrill

  I had arrived then at the conclusion that in fashioning a work of art we are by no means free, that we do not choose how we shall make it but that it is pre-existent to us and therefore we are obliged, since it is both necessary and hidden, to do what we should have to do if it were a law of nature, that is to say discover it.

  Marcel Proust

  PART ONE

  I

  In the late evening, after he had eaten at a small restaurant just off the King’s Road – in London, that is, in Chelsea – Jason made his way towards the river, and towards a tall dark rambling turn-of-the-century building, in which he had lived for the past three years; renting from the man who lived below – a rather eccentric old gossip who claimed to know everyone in the area – a suite of rooms that overlooked the garden at the back: a garden so unkempt and so uncared-for that, to Jason’s mind, whenever he sat before it to write, and at a sturdy, gate-legged table that he would sometimes use as a desk, it offered a space he found quite valuable, and one that he had almost grown to like.

  Why should this be – or, rather, why should this have been? Why should this middle-aged man, whose forty-fifth birthday had been a few weeks ago, take pleasure in a garden that could only be called a ruin? Did he perhaps see in its wild disorder some reflection of his inner life?; see in its unchecked weeds that had pushed their way between the cracked stones of its pathways, or in its riot of unpruned briars and brambles that overhung the tops of its crumbling, grey-pink walls, some uncared-for garden within himself that was now claiming his attention; but before which, as if he might be some reluctant, hesitant gardener, who is too daunted by his task, he had been putting off that moment when work on it must begin?

  Whatever, he had spent the day alone; not answering his doorbell in the late morning; nor his telephone, which had rung a while after that: and he had passed much of the afternoon amongst the shoppers in the King’s Road, glad to be physically close to people he didn’t know, and most of whom (there were just a few local faces that were familiar to him) he had not seen before in his life. How deeply sad and strangely sorry he felt as he made his way home through the darkening streets. He was bearded, tall – or tallish, rather – and was now excessively overweight; which partly accounted, he half thought to himself, for why he was feeling so depressed. Food had become for him a consolation of sorts. He didn’t smoke, at least; or only occasionally – and only when in the company of other smokers – but he did like to eat and to drink: enjoying going out to restaurants for a good meal (for he seldom ate at home) and clinging to the social contacts he could gain from this: the greetings from the staff who knew him as he came in, and a number of whom had known him for some years (for he had lived a long time in the area); and who often wondered why it should be that, after the brief exchanges as he arrived, and after the generous tips he gave as he left, he never paused to converse: to speak of who he was, or where he lived, or of what his occupation might be. And they had come to accept this; to think of him as ‘The Mystery Man’ (the nickname they had coined for him). Someone polite; someone authoritative in his way; but surrounded by some curious aura of shade, as though he might be the guardian of some secret.

  This view of him was to a certain extent a truthful one. Not that he had any secret to hide – or none that he was conscious of, at least – but he was certainly in hiding from himself; not wanting to know – perhaps not being able to know – exactly who he was; and depending more and more upon the externals of daily life; such as the letters that he would receive from his readers or from his publisher (for Jason was a writer); and upon the steady, careful replies he would send in a small, neat, elegant script; the proportions of which were in such contrast to the general weight and scale of his physique.

  In fact, for people who didn’t know him at all, receiving one of these carefully written messages of his would give the impression that their sender must be some rather slender, masculine figure who has everything under control: whose cabin is neat, orderly and trim, and in which all is what one calls ‘shipshape’.

  They – meaning the letters – would give no suggestion to their readers of Jason’s physical build; of how he was something of a bull or of an ox; and of how he would almost moan aloud at times in the street; and of how, when it was full, he might sometimes pause to look up at the moon; then, having been drawn by its dreamy light, would submit to drifts into the unconscious that most people would be nervous of and be anxious to avoid.

  This ungovernable side of his nature appeared to be now gaining in power. When young, it had been easily pushed aside. He had always been quick of mind; always been able to sum things up; been able to analyse; to assess. And these qualities were reflected in the books he had written; one, a biography of an obscure poet by the name of Andrew Bron; and the rest, stories – novels, that is – all with an excellent sense of surface. Not that easy to read, perhaps, but intelligent, accomplished pieces of writing, in which the characters had a quirky kind of liveliness, even if the books as a whole lacked depth. They were well planned, well thought out: the plots not too complicated – with, occasionally, the suggestion of something larger about to break through: particularly when he was writing of family matters.

  But none of his characters ever grew to any real size. Nothing in his books was ever larger than himself. He was never possessed by his subject. It was always kept at a distance. The control – the order – was what he relied upon; what he valued; what he could never give up.

  And it had reaped its rewards for him, in that he had quickly found a publisher, which in turn had brought him some fame. Of a limited kind, perhaps, but fame nonetheless. For his books were always well received by the brighter of the critics. ‘Another fine piece of writing’, would be the type of comment he would receive. ‘Intelligent, well planned – a book you should read’; which could almost sound as if the reviewer was saying to his readers that Jason was performing a public service: that he was maintaining a standard of good writing – of decent literature. Indeed, at one moment, he had been quite a fashionable novelist. Not exactly the literary sensation of London, but certainly belonging to what was thought of as the upper bracket of writers.

  ‘Jason Callow’s third and most recent novel,’ one critic had written a few years ago, ‘is that rare thing these days – a work of real intelligence. For those who enjoy books and reading, this novel must be highly recommended.’

  So why should he be feeling sorry for himself? Was it because of his life, rather than his work? Because he was now
living alone; and because some time ago – it was now a little over three years – his wife had suddenly left him without reason (or at least with none that Jason would admit to or acknowledge) and because his two children, who were now in their teens, only came to visit him occasionally, however much (he would sometimes say to himself untruthfully), he might beg and plead for their company? Or was it more for some other reason; one that Jason couldn’t quite touch upon, but that nagged away at his mind; and that drove him towards these irrational moments of depression, when, as has been said, he would moan aloud to himself in the street: as he did now; pausing as he walked along, and with his arms clasped tightly across his chest: and letting out a deep, disturbing noise, that sprang from some inner point of his being.

  ‘Jason, is that you?’ a voice called out, as Jason stepped into the hallway of the building where he lived. ‘Been out again – have you? Out with your arty-tarty friends?’

  Jason didn’t reply to this, knowing the voice to be that of his landlord, who had a habit of checking on his movements in this way; and knowing as well that the best way for him to cope with this was to use the defence of silence.

  ‘The doorbell’s been ringing,’ the sharp voice continued, as Jason began to trudge his way up the stairs. ‘Your doorbell; so I knew you weren’t in.’

  By this time, Jason had reached the first-floor landing of the house, where, in a flood of yellow light, his landlord stood in the open doorway of his apartment; his gingerish hair – certainly a wig, Jason always thought – almost matching the blotchy colours of his complexion, and the slightly heavier, but still gingerish, tones of his narrow, small, pursed lips.

  ‘I’ve been out to supper,’ Jason said, pausing; and as if to indicate that he wasn’t prepared to discuss what he had been doing – or not in detail, at least – and that he would be continuing on his way towards his rooms.

  ‘Putting on weight, you know,’ his landlord spat out at him. ‘Stuffing yourself. That’s what you’re doing.’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ Jason half muttered in reply – a remark that he always held in reserve until he thought it to be necessary.

  ‘Oh, I’m not prying, dear. Your business is your own. I was just being friendly, Jason – that’s all. I wanted to tell you that someone had called. Someone who’s not been here before; not as far as I know, that is. Niceish-looking bloke. Quite young too. I went down, you see; and answered the door. Asked if I could take a message. But the sweet, dear thing said no.’

  As Arnold said this (Arnold being the name of Jason’s landlord), Jason began to wonder who the caller might be. His friends – what friends he had – were more or less of an age similar to his own; and few of them ever came to call at his door. It certainly couldn’t be a painter he knew – an artist – by the name of Joseph Mallory, because he would always telephone rather than call; and they usually met out at a local pub. And it certainly couldn’t have been his older brother, Jeremy, because he too would never call at the house without having arranged to do so beforehand.

  ‘Didn’t know you liked boys, Jason,’ Arnold now added with a snigger, ‘– young men. But there’s no knowing people’s tastes, dear – is there? Not that it’s any concern of mine.’

  ‘Whoever it was, they’ll call again,’ Jason threw back at him, as if to say that that would be the end of the matter; ‘–if they want to find me in, that is … Goodnight, Arnold. Did you get the post I brought up for you this morning?’

  ‘Yes, dear, I did … Thank you. You’re so good, Jason. A real saint you are. Those stairs are such a bother to me.’

  Once Jason had installed himself in his rooms, and had taken off his jacket and had made himself some coffee, he began to reflect upon Arnold’s brief description of the man who had called at his door – which, as we know, amounted to nothing more than that he had been young and quite good-looking; and which, as one can imagine, was much too vague and much too general a description to suggest any particular kind of image.

  ‘But the point is,’ Jason then said to himself, mulling the matter over in his mind, ‘that I really don’t know anyone under forty – not a soul. Except my nephew, perhaps, Alan. It could have been him, I suppose. Perhaps he’s in trouble.

  ‘But what kind of trouble?’ he went on, turning the matter over a second time. ‘Got some girl pregnant? Owes money? Quarrelled with his parents? It could be anything – blast it – anything!’; with which he rose swiftly to his feet, slapped his thighs vigorously, and began pacing about his room. His bedroom, that is, where all his books and papers were stored; and that were stacked messily in bookcases and in piles upon the floor.

  With it being an evening in early August, it was still not yet quite dark; and for this reason, Jason had switched on none of his lights; and from a window to which he had now crossed, he could see a part of the garden below: a corner of it that was wilder and even more derelict than the rest; and where a large, earthenware bowl lay broken across its pathway; and where, above the broken tops of its walls, the snakelike branches of a briar bush swayed eerily to and fro, in the gentle summer breeze that had now blown up from the river.

  That night – some few hours later; and not long after he had gone to bed and had gone to sleep – Jason awoke with a start, feeling disturbed. Had someone entered his room? he wondered. Was someone standing close to his door or by his bed? Or was it more some elusive, ghostly figure that he had encountered in his dream-life; but which, when he awoke, had swiftly vanished?

  He could hear voices below, and glancing at an alarm clock that stood facing him, and that perched upon a narrow, painted shelf beyond his bed, knew that Arnold must have company and was staying up late; which was something he was inclined to do; seldom inviting people until ten o’clock or gone, and after he had pottered about all day in a dressing-gown – a rather shabby one – either looking at old newspapers of his – ones that he had simply not thrown away; or toying with his collection of ‘pressies’, as he always spoke of them; small, Victorian, china figures, that were brought home by people from the seaside; some of sailors, perhaps, with the words ‘A Present from Weymouth’ or ‘From Portsmouth’ painted upon them in gold: and other more curious items; such as the one of a miniature china donkey, the tail of which when pulled would release a yellow tape-measure.

  All day long Arnold would play with these various knick-knacks of his, or he would browse through his old newspapers – some of which were even a year or more in age: and with the curtains of his room half drawn; and with the windows closed; and with the odd puff or two of dust that he would disturb from time to time, drifting aimlessly about him through the narrow shafts of daylight. But at night, quite late, he would release himself; and sprucing himself up a little, with a quick dab of cologne behind the ears (‘Never on the forehead,’ he would say to that); and with a light touch of powder upon the cheeks (‘Not too much on the nose, dear,’ he would say to that); he would cast a lace-edged cloth over a table; bring out a heavy, crude decanter that he would then fill with cheap red wine; something ‘extra’, perhaps – which was usually port; some cheese; some potted shrimps, perhaps; and so be ready to ‘entertain’.

  In the darkness of his room, Jason lay listening to the voices; waiting to hear the sound of Arnold’s laughter, that he knew must soon rise to a crescendo – a rhythm with which he was familiar; the voices of the guests then quickly following, exchanging their shallow pieces of gossip about the people who lived in the area – some of whom were titled and not actually known by them in person; and not even known by Arnold, who claimed that he knew everyone.

  An odd little band. One regular guest being a thinnish, good-looking woman, with snow-white hair and a complexion to match, who always wore bright, near scarlet lipstick and a crumpled, pudding-shaped hat in either damson red or black; and whose voice, which Jason could now hear, was dark in tone; which made it sound at times as if she might be speaking from the grave.

  ‘My little vampire,’ Arnold would call her gl
eefully. ‘A real bloodsucker, she is. You should watch out for that one, Jason,’ he would say to his tenant at times.

  Occasionally, Arnold, this vampire-lady, and another friend of his – or of theirs, rather – a rather nondescript, middle-aged woman, with a fat, smudged face and a straggle of greying, yellowish hair, would be joined by two young men. Jason had seen them several times, climbing the stairs as he went out; and having let themselves in, it would seem, with a key; and wearing suits that were too small for them; their perky faces moving sharply to and fro, as if prepared for any kind of encounter; their neatly knotted ties (for they were always dressed ‘formally’) giving them a jaunty air of cheerfulness. But whenever they met Jason, they would affect to be demure; lowering their eyes piously as he passed. ‘Good evening,’ they might half murmur to him quietly; and then, having glanced at Jason briefly, they would quickly look away.

  Jason had convinced himself that these were the true bearers of local gossip; that they were the providers of what Arnold appeared to thrive upon. He could never hear the details of their conversation, of course, since it was only the general noise of the various voices that would filter through to his rooms. But he could imagine it; could imagine the quick squeals of laughter that would accompany their juicy pieces of scandal; such as the one which Arnold had once related to Jason, because he thought it might amuse him, concerning a man who lived nearby – a military man – who had always been a bachelor; but who, to the surprise of all who knew him, had decided late in life to marry.

  The story went that the real cause of this man’s celibacy was that he was obsessed by women’s clothes – their underwear in particular – and that in secret, he would often slip on petticoats and the like; which was something he felt ashamed of and refused to share with anyone. But when in his sixties, it seems that he finally met a lady-friend with whom he fell in love; and when she, not he, proposed that they should wed, he surprised her by saying yes.