The Liar's Dictionary

‘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.