Living with the Truth - Chapter Two by Jim Murdoch

The story so far ...


Not a great deal has happened so far. We've seen Jonathan get up and learned a bit about the kind of man he is, an isolated and fairly miserable person. At the very end of Chapter 1 he sees a man in the yard outside his flat and this sends him into a panic.



Jonathan squinted through the net curtain. A man in a suit. Standing in a place he ought not to. No way should a man be standing there. Not at this time. Come to think of it, not at any time. That was not a place where men stood. Jonathan’s mind searched itself for further possible permutations but he seemed to have covered the essentials. And what was he up to there? No good, no doubt. Surely not just standing. There were far more interesting places he could stand if he had a particular inkling to stand about for no good reason. He looked like a policeman; Jonathan had a thing about policemen; they were one of only two things in this life that could cause genuine paranoia in the man. Didn’t this man realise the upset he could cause people? He must tell him. Mind you, that’s a bit drastic. And what must he tell him? Why not to stand there. But why not? Good question.

Jonathan stood himself in an absolute frenzy of immobility, trapped in his own thoughts, like Robbie the Robot in Forbidden Planet. The man stood and Jonathan stood. Then the coffee percolator had the effrontery to butt in and when he glanced again the man was gone. Suddenly freed from this logic loop he checked again going right over to the window to peer out as far as possible but the man seemed to have vanished.

And then the doorbell rang.

Jonathan’s legs gave way. He slumped onto the nearest stool and ran his fingers through his hair—what was left of it. He was sweating. It must be the man. That man. The man he’d never seen before. Why was he here? What did he want? His mind was a reeling blackness. He felt short of breath, and his heart was palpitating. Or was it the damn coffee percolator?

Nothing happened. He must have gone. Should he check? Yes, that would be wise. So he peeked, in his own home, in his own castle, slowly round the door of the kitchen and into the hall. No shadow behind the crazy glass. Nothing. Merely the sound of his own heart competing with the percolator in the kitchen and coming off not bad at that. The main thing was that there seemed to be nothing to get in a state about. No sir.

Shame on you, doddery old fool getting.

So coffee was drunk and his suit donned and an appropriate tie selected—after appropriate deliberation. Breakfast was prepared and eaten, and his heart settled into its normal Tuesday rhythm—which was none too different from any other day actually—till he chanced to glance out of the kitchen window again. The man had returned, framed in translucent nylon, to exactly the same spot and everything was as before. Except that he was in possession of a bottle of milk. Specifically, Jonathan’s bottle of milk; it had a gold top. He always got gold top delivered. What did he think he was doing with his milk? Oh this was too much. And what was he doing looking up here?

To be sure, the man with the milk was looking up at Jonathan’s kitchen window. Not staring. Not peering. Not even squinting. Just looking. People are allowed to look. There’s no rule against that. No rules about looking at all were there? Not as far as he could remember. A cat can look at a queen. But there ought to be rules about misappropriating a man’s gold top—not that Jonathan had actually paid for it—but the money was in the saucer on the window sill. And that wasn’t the point anyway. What was the point?

The point was he was moving. The man with Jonathan’s pinta was moving. He was climbing the stairs at the back. He was walking down the side of the flat. He could hear the sound of his shoes creak like a warn out argument and he remembered an old rhyme:


One step, two step, three step, four –
The boogeyman is at your door.


And he could hear his bell being rung once more.

Now Jonathan, get a grip. Men come to the door all the time. No they don’t. But they could. Yes they could. And now one has. Maybe you’ve forgotten to take your library books back. So what do you do? You open the door.

The bell binged but where was the bong? There should be a bong. There was always a bong. It stands to reason: bing bong, bing bong. He must be still holding the bell. Uh oh! Suddenly Jonathan discovered himself in the hall. He would rather have discovered penicillin or a beautiful, mysterious women in his bed when he woke up. Sheer funk had a firm grip on him. He hadn’t, of course, meant to be in the hall. He hadn’t thought it that far through. But here he was surrounded by hall. And there was that man—or, to be fair, his silhouette against the crazy glass with the sun behind him. But no bong.

When did this hall get to be so flamin’ long? he thought as he edged his way towards the door. Fumbling with the chain like a woman’s bra strap, all of a sudden he felt very exposed. But then his flies were undone. And it’s not the done thing to meet strange men first thing in the morning with your flies undone. Whether or not they have your milk hostage is beside the point. So he hastily buttoned himself up and with a weary heave opened the door to Destiny. Only it wasn’t.

Wait a minute, didn’t he know this man? This man standing—well, leaning actually—bold as brass, leaning against his doorbell, cradling Jonathan’s gold top in his free arm. He knew him. He was sure of it. But where from?

“Mr Payne?” began the man, to which answer came there none. “Mr Payne? Mr Jonathan Payne?” He sounded like a policeman too. This did not bode well. He nodded numbly. “Excellent!” Bong! “Do you mind if I come in a minute?”

And he was in, before you could say, “Now hang on a darned cotton pickin’ minute,” which would not have been Jonathan’s first choice of something to say at that juncture. He was in, gold top and all, like a character from a Monty Python sketch, but not like the angel of death. He was in the kitchen and if you concentrated, the sound of him pouring himself a cup of coffee could almost be made out.

“Got any Java in?” came a disembodied voice from the bowels of Jonathan’s flat.

Jonathan had somehow found the wherewithal to actually close the door. “Er, all I have is Java, I’m afraid.” Why was he apologising for goodness sake?

“Ah, yes. Sorry. Should’ve known that. Just joshing actually. You know they make it from these great big yellow beans?”

Yellow beans? Was it his imagination or did he sound like Eric Idle now?

“I’m sorry but, er, how can I help you, Mister…?” Why was he still standing in the hall?

“Truth. Mister Truth. Or you can call me ‘The’ if you like. Or even plain ol’ Truth. Or is that a magazine? It’s much the same to me.” And with that, Truth popped his head round the door jamb, clicked his heels, doffed an imaginary cap and grinned mischievously before disappearing back into the kitchen. It was a strange way to start any conversation and indeed it was to be a strange conversation. Dazed and confused, Jonathan wandered into the kitchen, not really having taken in the full import of what he had been told.

“Now,” started Jonathan putting on his best I-mean-business voice, “Look here...” Such a pompous thing to say.

“Yes, Jonathan, yes,” came the all-knowing response, “What do I want? What do any of us want? To be happy? To put together a little nest egg for a rainy day? To get our end away, eh?”

“This is absurd.”

“Ah but (and I quote) ‘better to be absurd than not to exist at all’—R.D. Laing: The Politics of Experience—you got up to page 33 before jacking it in. But what do I really, really want? Well nothing—in as much as anything can actually be nothing—truth has no purpose in itself. Well, as much purpose as a mountain—it’s just there. And I’m here. All for you.” With that he took a mouthful of coffee, “Ooo, hot.”

For me? For me? What’s he mean, for me? I never asked him here. This is preposterous. I don’t want him here. How can he be the truth? The truth’s not real, well, not this real!

“Now, now, now! Don’t go and get all inhospitable on me. Remember what Holmes said in The Beryl Coronet: ‘It is an old maxim of mine’ (that’s Holmes talking here) ‘that whenever you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth’ and there you have it: the evidence is here before you and you may question me to your little heart’s content to determine the validity of my credentials. And if you care to start by checking that quotation you can find it on page 73 of your Complete Sherlock Holmes—second shelf to the right beside the fire. As always. Whatever you wish, sahib.” At which he bowed in true Indian fashion.

“I wish you’d go.”

“Yes, well, if wishes were horses they’d all stampede and trample you underfoot. Wishes don’t come true old chap. You know that as well as the next man.”

Jonathan did indeed. For most of what passed for his adolescence he had worn the mantle of the idle dreamer and it was a role to which he found himself uncommonly well suited. He’d hated Billy Liar when he first read it but didn’t like to pass comment; it’s not good to be found to be too knowledgeable on certain subjects. And The Secret Life of Walter Mitty made him grue. He’d never cared much for Danny Kaye in any case. Too Jewish. Or was it Polish? It didn’t matter. Now here he was. Here, indeed, with a perfect stranger purporting to be the personification of truth. Truth in a business suit—what a ridiculous concept. For all that, there was something uncomfortably real about all of this. And why did he look so familiar? He’d have to ask.

Meanwhile Truth was busy amusing himself arbitrarily picking up things from around the kitchen, whatever caught his attention. This drove Jonathan mad. He didn’t like people in his house, touching his stuff, moving things from here to there where they didn’t belong, for no good reason, wrecking the private harmony of the room. The house was an extension of himself: he felt interfered with. What a gruesome metaphor.

At that particular moment Truth was engrossed in the back of the corn flakes box.

“Y’know,” he began absentmindedly, and then continued with more conviction, “Well, of course you know! You used to have a set of model cars exactly like these. Mind you, the quality was better in them days. Your dad gave you an awful leathering for losing the Bentley down a drain, didn’t he?” And he flicked the packet round for a second to show Jonathan the offer he’d missed. “You do realise that breakfast is the most important meal of the day? Coffee and corn flakes? You really should take better care of yourself, you know.”

He knew, about breakfast, but how did this fellow know about the cars? He must’ve been at school with him. That was it.

“I know you now: you’re Billy Wiggett aren’t you?”

“Billy Wiggett? What kind of name’s that to conjure with? No, ‘fraid not. Bill’s out in North Africa at the moment, believe it or not, slaving over some godforsaken engineering project and he hasn’t had a decent drink in two years now. And, anyway, he went bald. I should be insulted. And he’s twice my age.”

All right. He wasn’t Billy. It was only a guess and a pretty stupid one at that now he thought about it. Maybe it was his son. He’d be about that age by now. Assuming he’d ever had a family. Nevertheless he must have known you from somewhere along the line. You know that. Test him. Didn’t he say to ask him questions? Yes. Then again, maybe not.

“Look, I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a very bad time—I’m actually on my way out to work—so if you could possibly excuse me. You know how it is. Perhaps another time.” Good: he was on the offensive.

“Have a good ‘Number Three’ this morning did we?” Truth threw a perfect googly, catching him off-balance and leaving him standing there with his mouth flapping, “That is what you call them isn’t it? You got the idea from a joke about farts. Look, you don’t need to come all coy with me, I know all about your little proclivities, your five-finger shuffles and your right hand jives. What was it ol’ Diogenese used to say to me? That’s it: ‘I only wish to high heaven I could satisfy my hunger when my stomach barks for food simply by rubbing it.’ Hey, I like a man with the bottle to get the obligatory sex scene over early in the day. Everything by the numbers, eh, Johnny boy? And you never liked being called that either did you?”

He body swerved amazement but was bowled over by shock and horror.

“Eh, did you?”

No, no, no. No. Things like this only happened in books or in films This was reality. (Was he losing his mind)? What did he want? What did he want? Why didn’t he ask him?

“What do you want?” he pleaded. Or was it yelled. Or perhaps there isn’t a convenient word to acoustically define how, precisely, the words came out. His bottom lip was trembling. His mouth was dry. “What do you want?” Again. “What do you want?”

“Whoa boy. Whoa. You look as if you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet. Calm down. Don’t get yourself in such a tizzy. I don’t want anything. Well, apart from your attention—and I think you’re all ears now. I’ve got everything. Everything anyone would want to know about you, that is. And some. Mind you wouldn’t that be pitiably few? No. I’ve taken on corporeality—as is my wont now and again—to present you with a chance that so few people get (I mean there is only one Truth and one can’t be everywhere at once even if one does happen to be lumbered with knowing what’s happening everywhere at once) and you did seem such a deserving case. So make the most of me.” With that he tipped the remains of his cup into the sink, swilled it under the hot tap (only the immersion heater was off and the water was cold), turned it upside down squarely on the draining board and marched into the hall. “It’s not as if you’ve only got three wishes or anything. Mmm, nice—so... hallway.” Was he rooting around in the cupboard? “You do realise you’ve never used the little round whadjit for your Hoover since the day you got it?”

“I never knew what it was for.”

“Neither did the designers but it looked good in the box. Spare bedroom’s in here isn’t it?”

Jonathan didn’t see fit to answer. What was there to answer? If he was Truth—and the evidence to date was impressive—then he would know full well it was.

What was he going to do? He’d have to leave for work soon.