The Liar's Dictionary

Maybe the doctor was fully aware the lisp was false: if you waste my time, I shall peep-twang my way through yours. This was Winceworth’s only rational explanation for the tuning forks. It was doubtful that their resonance could be heard over the songbird, anyway. He had no idea how Dr Rochfort-Smith stood this sound – for his part, Winceworth’s headache set about trying to wring liquid or pluck a particular note from his optic nerve. Blood thudded in his ears, pons pons pons, and Dr Rochfort-Smith suddenly had either far too many teeth or too small a mouth. A squint might clarify things, Winceworth thought. A thorough, concerted winching of the eyes might portion the world into tolerable slices. He did not want to appear rude. Gently does it, steady, the Buffs – he need only lower his brows by a fraction and bend his forehead into the subtlest of corrugations so that his squint would pass as mere attentiveness.

Dr Rochfort-Smith’s tuning forks struck again and Winceworth’s face buckled.

There really should be a specific word associated with the effects of drinking an excess of alcohol. The headaches, the seething sense of paranoia – language seemed the poorer for not having one. Winceworth decided he would bring this up with one of his editors.

Whisky was the cause of his morning’s horrors, and on this point Winceworth was sure, but the preceding night’s wines, eaux-de-vie and spirits no doubt contributed. Some of the blame must also lie in not having eaten sufficiently prior to the birthday party. Winceworth remembered buying some chestnuts from a barrow. He could not swear that he had dined on anything more than this, and on reflection he suspected that the chestnuts may have been boiled to look plumper before roasting. Bad chestnuts, enough drink to fell a buffalo – Winceworth had returned this paltry meal onto the frost-glazed early-morning pavement somewhere near the Royal Opera House. Memories coalesced and glistened with new brightness. A lady had dropped her lorgnette into the mess and, profuse with brandied bliss, Winceworth had scooped up the eyeglasses in order to return them. The lady had reeled away from him, aghast.

Winceworth rediscovered this lorgnette still nestled in his coat pocket as he hurried from bed to Dr Rochfort-Smith’s rooms. One of the lenses had a small asterisk shatter across it.

Winceworth dipped his hand into his trouser pocket while Dr Rochfort-Smith spoke. There he experienced one of the most exotic disappointments possible – his fingers closed, firmly, around an uneaten slice of birthday cake.

‘Are you all right, Mr Winceworth?’

The patient coughed. ‘It is rather – ah, only that it is rather warm today, I think,’ he said.

‘I do not think so,’ said the doctor, looking at his fire.

‘A trifle close, perhaps,’ Winceworth said. He made sure to emphasise the false wasp-wing buzz of the lisp. He added an extra heartfelt sorry too to compound the effect, and across the room the songbird looked disgusted.

Dr Rochfort-Smith made a scribble in an orange notebook. ‘Never lose heart, Mr Winceworth. You are in good company – after all, Moses lisped, God lisped.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yes!’ Dr Rochfort-Smith spread his arms. ‘And it would be remiss not to pass on my congratulations: there have been some definite improvements in your diction these few weeks.’

Winceworth dabbed his upper lip with a sleeve. He noticed there was cake icing on his thumb and he folded his hands into his lap. On his way to the doctor’s rooms he had mistakenly walked through a spiderweb – that horrible feeling of being snagged, caught by an unseen force, had stayed with him all morning. ‘That is heartening to hear, thank you.’

‘And now,’ Rochfort-Smith went on, bringing the tuning forks back down to his knees, ‘with your chin slightly relaxed: “‘Zounds!’ shouted Ezra as he seized the amazed Zeno’s ears.”’