I might, like many another author capitalising on his memories, preface this offering with a disclaimer, pointing out that it is a work of fiction and that nothing in it should be taken as referring to real events, places or personages. But if I go further to say that nothing herein is true, does that not apply also to the disclaimer? What then is to be believed? What, as Pontius Pilate famously asked, is truth?

Put it this way. I may aspire to tell a tale that is completely fictional. But mankind has been around for perhaps a couple of million years, civilisation of some kind for ten or twenty thousand, recognisably modern societies for a few hundred, and there’s no way for any but the most fantastic elements of a story to be without factual precedent some time, somewhere, somehow. Even the most elaborate fantasies probably have recognisable antecedents. After all, there are supposed to be no more than about half a dozen basic plot lines, but don’t expect me to list them.

Then again, any one of those basic plots can be recited in a few seconds, whereas I hope to hold attention for at least ten minutes, with luck perhaps for an hour, or if inspiration really runs away with me beyond all experience or likelihood, for perhaps a day or two. To do that I must flesh out the bare bones of the story with the organs and muscle to drive the narrative, provide a substantial skin of context to hold together the various components, and to avoid being unutterably prosaic, clothe it with tasteful adornment. The more I add, the more likely - indeed, the more nearly certain - it becomes that conscious or unwitting recollections of past reality will be pressed into service.

So when I say that nothing hereafter reflects actual fact, don’t believe a word of it.

Martin Graham was by far the greatest liar I ever knew. He lied habitually, not generally to gain advantage, avoid blame or even save embarrassment to other people, although any of these motives might apply to some extent according to circumstance. In fact his lying seemed not so much a habit as a matter of principle: that the truth was too precious a commodity to be wantonly squandered. He took to an extreme the strictures of Kipling’s Kim on the naivety of a man who "told the truth to strangers."

This involved him in a good deal of mental tension. There is no point in a lie that cannot be believed, and sustained credibility demands more than superficial consistency. To maintain a life of complete falsehood that fits together even within itself, let alone avoiding obvious clashes with known reality, is very much more difficult than telling the truth - fortunately for criminal investigators and writers of farce. It also makes any kind of social life impossible, since no appointment can be kept, no promise fulfilled, no interaction with the mechanisms of state or commerce taken to fruition.

Hence came the greatest lie of all. Martin was not the name given by his parents, nor were they called Graham. Rather like Jekyll and Hyde, though without the gothic overtones, he had a completely genuine name and persona in which he lived a normal life: normal, that is, except for concealing his dual identity and in other respects maintaining an almost obsessive truthfulness. It was as though he had shed all tendencies towards mendacity on to his alter ego. Martin, as a flight of fancy, occupied only a small and manageable portion of his existence, and was kept completely distinct from the rest. He would have been Oscar Wilde’s ideal Bunburyist.

I knew none of this at the time, of course. Our first meeting was at a hotel some hundred and twenty miles away across country from my home, too far to be sure of arriving there on time for the start of a conference if I were to set off at a tolerable hour that morning. Other participants had to travel further, and we all agreed to stay there the night before and have a fairly late dinner together. We tried that evening to avoid talking shop beyond the bare essentials, but one point of procedure needed to be settled and after the meal Huw Evans went out to his car to get some relevant papers while the rest of us adjourned to the bar lounge. The parking area was poorly lit, but through the window I saw him exchange a few words with a stranger.

On his return he commented on having bumped into a former pupil of his old school, who purportedly remembered following him a couple of years behind. The recollection was one-sided but there was nothing unusual about that, since in any school interest in personalities tends to be directed upwards rather than downwards, so no one was inclined to question the claim. As a natural courtesy Huw had invited the man to join our party. Some of us had uneasy visions of the evening descending into an Old Boys’ duologue, but we needn’t have worried. Martin proved to have a fund of stories ranging from the plausible to the outrageous that kept us entertained for rather longer than we really should have continued, until someone remembered that the barman lived out and ought to be allowed home.

The next morning not all the party turned up for breakfast, and there were some bleary eyes among those who did, but Martin was disconcertingly perky. He made the round of the more fully awakened among us, wishing farewell and a good meeting, then disappeared. There was no reason to expect any occasion for coming across him again. I suddenly realised that owing to the distraction we still hadn’t settled the matter for which Huw had brought in the papers, and suggested to him that those of us who were more or less capable of it had better do so promptly while the rest nursed their hangovers, in the hope that they would agree afterwards. It was the sort of question for which any reasonable answer is better than continuing to argue, and when ours was put to the less abstemious it was accepted with little demur.

At that time my path crossed Huw’s two or three times a year, and some months later he told me that he had been dragooned into acting as a trustee for his school, and as an unwelcome consequence was landed with a load of raffle tickets to sell for the development fund. A generous prize (a quite respectable car, even by his high standards) had been donated and the tickets were correspondingly expensive, so he would understand if I didn’t want to subscribe, but I had been sounding off about the need to support good educational establishments and felt unable to refuse. He went on to say that the gift had been anonymous, but the school secretary had done a bit of detective work and traced it back to - guess who? I had no idea. Apparently it was Martin Graham.

There was some mystery about this. The records for the year in question held no mention of his having been admitted to the school, but had been damaged in a fire and might conceivably be incomplete. Had that been all, such an explanation would have been readily accepted, but more strangely, none of the supposed contemporaries who could be contacted had any memory of the name. However, everything connected with the purchase and delivery of the prize appeared to be completely in order; he was not angling for any benefit from his supposed attendance (indeed, quite the reverse); no one could think of any other motive for an imposture, and the situation remained baffling.

It also put the school authorities into something of a quandary. A prize of that nature and value could hardly be handed over like a cake at the church fair; the draw ought to be the climax of some substantial ceremony on the school’s Open Day, with visiting dignitaries and the local Press if not national representatives invited. The obvious person to present the prize would be the donor himself, but for his evident wish to remain unidentified. At that stage, of course, none of us realised that he was using a pseudonym. In the end it was a toss-up between the headmaster and the chairman of the governors, and the Head won - or lost, according to how you regard it. Whichever way, he landed the task. Huw suspected some surreptitious manipulation, as the chairman was a notoriously long-winded speaker inclined to pomposity.

Although there was no need for me to attend for the draw as the winner would be notified in any case, one of my more affluent relatives was interested in the school for his own reasons and asked me to take a look as he was otherwise committed for that day; in retrospect I’m not at all sure that any of my observations were ever of much use to him, but that’s another matter. Since I was there, I took the opportunity to take a good look at the prize, and found myself talking to the dealer who had supplied it and come along ostensibly to get necessary details for the subsequent paperwork. He naturally took the opportunity to show off all the good points of the car in the hope of another sale, and having seen the programme for the day was surprised that the presentation was not to be by the donor.

I told him that the gift was supposed to be anonymous, which he accepted as a valid reason, but he went on to comment that he’d bumped into the man among the guests; at least, he had thought it was he but had been met with a stark denial. He had a good memory for faces - as he said, it was quite important in his business - and could have sworn that he wasn’t mistaken, but supposed it was just possible for two near-identical people to be involved with the same occasion. At that point his attention was taken by another prospect and the conversation ended.

The circumstances were intriguing enough for me to look out for Martin, or whoever it was, and I eventually spotted him entering the refreshment tent. Inside, I saw him standing by himself with a drink and plate of something or other, and getting into a position with a clear view of him but out of his line of sight, called "Martin!". There was just enough reaction, promptly suppressed, to constitute a kind of acknowledgement, so I approached and said "Martin Graham, isn’t it? We met in Ludlow last March." He politely denied it, as expected, so I made the usual apologies and withdrew. It was not the right time or place to take issue with him, but I made a point of noting where he went afterwards and waited for a more favourable opportunity.

A little later the headmaster came on the PA system and announced the start of the raffle. There was a good deal more than the car to be won: Huw had mentioned that some of the regular donors evidently regarded their offerings as competitive status symbols, and while they couldn’t, or at least wouldn’t, attempt to outdo Martin’s, they had certainly upped their stakes from previous occasions. From the examples he gave – one was a weekend for two, no questions asked, at a particularly luxurious country house hotel - I could see what he meant.

It didn’t start at that level, of course, but with relative trifles like a case of Moet & Chandon or a restaurant dinner. The Head was evidently a bit of a showman and played each draw with all the histrionics it could take, so it was over half an hour before he reached the climax. The car was then driven to the front of the stand by the dealer’s very pretty assistant, who the Head was at pains to point out did not come as part of the fittings, but she certainly added plenty to the interest.

There was a good deal of razzmatazz before the ticket was actually drawn, but dead silence as the previous winner thoroughly stirred up the counterfoils and passed one to the Head to be unfolded. He pretended to fumble with it for a few seconds, then slowly read out "Number ... one hundred ... and ... sixty ... six." Dead silence again. "Come on, now; someone must have it. Number one hundred and sixty six." Still no answer. People started looking around, as they do on such occasions, and I was no exception. My glance chanced to fall on the man I had taken for Martin, and I was struck by the look of utter horror on his face as he gazed at his ticket.

He seemed to be in a state of shock, until his neighbour, looking over his shoulder, tapped him on it and pointed to the ticket. Then he seemed to come part-way out of his trance, went forward and with extraordinary diffidence claimed the prize, which was announced to the customary applause to have been won by Mr. Gareth Carpenter. Accepting the obligatory kiss from the pretty assistant with a lack of enthusiasm that can’t have done anything for her self-esteem, he seemed from what could be heard over the PA system to be saying that he had come alone in his own car and would make arrangements to collect the prize later. The dealer took his particulars for the log book, and Carpenter made his way towards the refreshment tent, presumably with the idea of getting something to steady his nerves.

Evidently there were good grounds for such an idea, as he still seemed to be rather dazed. For some reason I felt concerned for him and thought I ought to apologise for my previous blunder, so I made my way towards him. I’d almost caught up near the entrance when he tripped over a guy rope, fell heavily and cracked his head on a tent peg, causing quite a nasty gash. He looked pretty groggy as he tried to stand up, and people rushed to help while someone phoned for an ambulance. A chair was fetched from the tent and he was guided on to it, with various ladies fussing over him; I suppose one or two might have had an idea of getting a ride in the prize car and perhaps something afterwards, but for the most part it was probably genuine solicitude.

The ambulance arrived quite quickly and a paramedic smartly patched up the wound, but was afraid of underlying damage and thought the patient should go to A&E. At that moment his own phone rang, and the call evidently shook him. "There’s been a bad smash on the motorway with dozens hurt and they need all the ambulances they can get. Can someone take this fellow to the hospital?" There were no other offers, I had no particular commitments and so volunteered.

Carpenter seemed to get worse on the way and it was as much as I could do to help him to Reception, where he was evidently in no state to answer questions. When the clerk asked me for his personal details all I could say was that the name was probably Gareth Carpenter but I wasn’t sure. "You’re not a relative, then?"

"No, just a casual acquaintance. He must have some identification on him, though – a driving licence, at least, I imagine."

"I don’t like going through his pockets – would you mind ..."

"Of course not. You can witness that I’m doing nothing improper."

Fortunately a diary confirmed the name and even had the address and phone number of an emergency contact. "But that’s over two hundred miles away. And we’re short-staffed and with this horrendous motorway accident ... It’s thoroughly irregular but he needs to have someone with him ... If we get him into a ward would you mind staying for a while?"

"Well – if needs must ...."

A medic hastily checked the injury with an indrawn breath, tut-tutted a bit and told a nurse to renew the dressings, then both had to dash off and I was left alone with Carpenter. He still seemed in a daze, but after a few minutes he appeared to come more nearly to himself, looked at me for a few moments with a puzzled expression, then his face cleared. "Oh, it’s you. I couldn’t remember ... It’s very good of you to do this ..."

"Well, someone had to, and I was nearest."

"Thanks, anyway. I don’t really know what came over me."

"Whatever it was, it had something to do with winning the raffle."

"That damned raffle! It seemed such a good idea at the time. I should have known it wouldn’t work."

"What wouldn’t work?"

"Oh, it’s a long story."

"It looks as though we’ll have time for it. There’s been a dreadful smash on the motorway, I gather, and that takes priority."

"I see. Now ... I wonder ..."

"Yes?"

"Since we’re stuck here, could I ask another favour?"

"No harm in asking."

"You see, I’ve a feeling I may be on the way out – no, don’t come out with the usual platitudes, I could be completely wrong but this is just in case. There are a few people I owe explanations to, and I’d be grateful if you’d get in touch with them if it turns out that I can’t."

He gave me half a dozen names and addresses; luckily I always carry a notebook, as one of my hobbies is writing stories and ideas sometimes come to me when I can do no more than jot down the bare bones before I forget.

"Right. You needn’t give the whole tale to everyone; just use your judgement. To start with, you were quite right in thinking you met me as Martin Graham in Ludlow. I’m sorry to have tried to put you off; it’s part of a long history of deception going right back to my school days."

Apparently he had belonged to a dramatic society in which one of the more imaginative members used to write his own plays, usually fairly garish blood-and-thunder efforts almost in the Jacobean tradition. One of them revolved around an obsession with the occult, and Carpenter was given a part that involved officiating at a Black Mass. Coming from a religious background he objected, but Fletcher (that was the author’s name – I wondered later if it might be significant) insisted that it was only a play and didn’t count. Carpenter wasn’t entirely convinced, but went along with it for the time being, until at the first rehearsal of that scene he found he couldn’t bring himself to utter the words.

No amount of persuasion could shift him, since it was the capability as much as the will that was lacking. Fletcher had let it pass for the time being, suspecting that however contemptuous the others might pretend to be about it, any alternative casting would run into the same difficulty; if the worst came to the worst he could scrap that scene and get round its narrative function in some other way, although with serious loss of dramatic impact. However, before that became necessary, he hit on the idea of giving Carpenter a stage name, and so Martin Graham came into a rather nebulous existence; it wouldn’t be Carpenter, but Martin, speaking the dreadful formulae of allegiance to Satan.

Crude though the stratagem might seem, it worked; Carpenter, as Martin, continued in the part and played it well. Performed as a Parents’ Day function, the play attracted a storm of criticism from some and extravagant praise from others, both based on habitual positions of principle rather than artistic flaws or merits in the work itself, as Fletcher himself recognised. Realistic about his own talents, he went on in later life to become a successful director of other writers’ works, especially in dealing with notoriously "difficult" performers.

That is by the way. Carpenter, looking back over his conduct to date some years afterwards, realised that aspects of it sat uncomfortably with his generally high principles, and to ease his conscience started almost without thinking of it to ascribe his defaults to Martin rather than to his real persona. He soon recognised what he was doing and abandoned that approach in its crude form, instead playing a kind of game in making Martin a model of mendacity while the real Carpenter stuck more or less faithfully to the truth and other virtues. He now saw that in some instances his tricks had caused real difficulty for other people; mostly he had been able to make it up somehow without giving the game away, but in the half-dozen he had listed for me it had not been possible and he would like me to give them his explanation and an apology.

Meanwhile his career had prospered modestly and he had a little spare money looking for useful occupation, preferably providing amusement if not a profit. A friend in the stock-broking business had suggested speculating in the commodities market, and he toyed with the idea for a while, but felt a little uneasy about gambling on other people’s misjudgements. Nevertheless he felt an attraction to it and eventually yielded to the temptation, but only in the name of Martin. He was well aware of being just as likely to lose as to gain by his transactions, but in the circumstances it didn’t matter so long as the sums were not too great. In the event that didn’t happen and he put down the string of early successes to a surprising but not impossible run of good luck. As it continued increasingly beyond statistical probability he began to worry that there was something seriously untoward behind it, and he determined that "Martin’s" funds should be kept strictly apart from Carpenter’s. There were plenty of worthy organisations very willing to relieve his embarrassment over the recurring surpluses.

However, there came a time a few years back when his real business fell into difficulties, and he had to use some of the Martin fund to get out of them. Perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, from then onward the profits rose sharply, and Carpenter began to fear that his whole life might have become contaminated by the infusion. In the hope of clearing the infection, he resolved after months of agonising to divest himself of the Martin account and everything connected with it, partly by paying in that name for the exceptionally expensive prize in the school raffle. When he realised that he himself had won it, the fear became a certainty; hence the state of shock in which he had fallen over the guy rope.

At that point of the narrative he fell into a kind of convulsion, but while apparently in agony he somehow got out a plea to take hold of his hand which was flailing around like a loose rope in a gale. I didn’t see the point and hesitated, but he begged again and after a few failures I managed to get hold of it. It seemed to calm him a little; gradually the convulsions subsided, and he sank back on the pillow with an expression that I read as resigned acceptance, and then, quite suddenly with a sigh of relief, actual peace. So it remained until the nurse returned, checked, and closed the eyelids.

I never heard what happened afterwards, but presumably the hospital authorities would have taken up the emergency contact to make arrangements for dealing with Carpenter’s material affairs. I had my own commission. Two people on the list had evidently moved and no one knew where, but the others I was able to meet. One of them gave me the description of Martin’s character at the start of this account. In general the trouble his lies had caused had been significant but not disastrous, for instance a matrimonial dispute that threatened to end in divorce but was amicably settled when misunderstandings were cleared up after a few months, and a broken engagement that in hindsight would probably have been more than regrettable had it actually been fulfilled. They were now "water under the bridge" and the people concerned took the news of his death as a cause for apparently genuine regret.

I then had to deal with problems that suddenly arose in my own business. At first I thought them desperate, but on closer examination they didn’t seem quite so insuperable and with a year’s hard work it was back into profitability. In fact it started to do rather better than before, and I was able with a clear conscience to take a real holiday for the first time in years.

A fellow guest at the hotel, with whom I happened to get into conversation, mentioned that he had started a publishing business as a loss-maker for tax purposes, so I told him about my stories that no one else would even look at. It was a rather humiliating ploy, but if it worked, better than not getting them out at all. He took them unseen, splashed out he hoped ruinously on publicity, and probably for that reason alone they sold like hot cakes, making a handsome profit; he wasn’t too pleased. Still, his next venture was an anthology of modern verse that got rave reviews from the critics and was very gratifyingly remaindered after selling less than a hundred copies. When I offered him my draft of a novel, written long before in my days of relative leisure, he turned it down flat, but another firm whose boss had liked my stories took it on and for the past three months it’s been doing quite nicely, thank you very much.

Then yesterday I bumped into Julia Hitchins, about whom I’ve secretly fantasised for years despite her total indifference, and she startled me by asking if she could come tonight for advice on how to deal with a personal difficulty. Thinking of Martin, I’m rather worried about it.

I don’t really see why I should be. After all, the whole thing is pure fiction – isn’t it?

Peter D. Wilson

December 2011

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