We put our trust

George smelled smoke. All the time. It was a neurological condition, he would explain, inflicted upon him during a car accident he was involved in, back in 1999. He was on his way to the wedding of two friends in Wakefield, and pulled into a lay-by to check his route. Bending down to prize the road atlas from under his seat, he was propelled forward by a shunt to his back bumper. Elderly man in rusty Austin Allegro at 15mph, so minor crash had the steering column not presented itself to fontanelle. Concussion, days in hospital, missed wedding but what could you. Must remember to get present to happy couple, memory not what it what? Oh, yes please. Same again.

None of this story was true. Well, there was a wedding, and George did miss it. But the rest was a fabrication. Spun, tortuously, to justify George's sharp U-turn on A-road when realized had not bought present! Idiot, but lot on mind. Anyway, four years later, still no purchase. Keep intending to, but what can you say after so long?

Actually, George had indeed had an accident that day, and ended up in hospital. But was just luck that coincided with "forgetting"---yes, poor show, I know---to spew the requisite at Allders. Recidivist tight-arse, probably parents to blame, misplaced good intentions, scrimp and save, fine words butter no parsnips.

The other car had been a Citröen, not an Austin. But there had been an accident. Crushed the lovely rice steamer bought for the occasion, hundred quid from Debenhams, well you've got to for a wedding, haven't you?

It wasn't a car accident: minor derailment of the Bournemouth--Edinburgh train outside Bee Enn Ess.

... Say not that none of the story was true, then, but that it lay at two extremes: the corroborated that everyone witnessed (according to the traditions of the Church of England), and the uncorroboratable related by George (according to his own traditions, ineffable and capricious). Never twice same story. And though Peter loved George like a brother, shared a history with him as a brother would, his fabrications that presented themselves as a natural progression from the facts, through history, to George's neverending alibi for living, made the man infuriating company. And an unreliable whistleblower.

Peter sipped his coffee, decaffeinated for his nerves, and resisted the urge to scratch the itch on his shoulder. That itch was still there in his head, too: Karen hadn't been in the Globe yesterday. None of the Socialists for Democracy had appeared all night, and the barman had tugged on his beard and reacted towards most of Peter's questions about the group's whereabouts as if he had insulted Che Guevara. Again.

Then, after a restless night and no breakfast, he had got the call from George. Shortly after leaving the house, and practically an order to meet for lunch at one-thirty and discuss "something major." George was already twenty minutes late but Peter knew to give him at least another ten. He had to keep calm also, steel himself for the barrage of George's first, inevitable tale: "why I was late for today's lunchtime appointment", by George M Douglas. If Peter were sucked in by the first few lies then it would leave him unable to sort wheat from chaff in the story George claimed to have for him. Hush, Peter told himself. Yet despite the impotency of his drink his heart was still beating out Saint-Saëns on his ribcage./p>

Not for the first time Peter wished for more hours in the day. He was already past his deadline for three, no four reports he was meant to be writing for different independent news portals. Ever keen to look cool, one of the nationals was close to re-employing him as a freelance, a loose cannon unafraid to take a swing at anything in need of being swung at. But he was close to losing the stripes he'd gained so far, pissing away the good will down a drain consisting of wasted evenings in the Globe trying to get stories, and wasted days filing, photocopying and doing a hundred other mindless jobs for a legal firm near Liverpool Street Station.

Once again, Peter's life seemed to be getting in the way of itself.

Right, he thought, throwing his serviette onto the table and waving for the bill. Forty minutes late now, probably even a record for that lazy swine. I'll ring him later and he can come round to see me. That way at least I won't be sitting round doing sod all while I wait. He put enough money down for a feeble tip (but leaving quite a gap in his wallet) and started through the restaurant towards the door. Against the heat of summer the air conditioning breathed one last caress of coolness towards him: clean, ionized air, fighting against the city's smog.

As he reached the street there was a squeal of tyres from a turnoff a few hundred yards away. A dark blue saloon roared along the street, not pausing as the boot was thrown open and a bundle of clothes thrown out behind it, only to bounce and roll to a halt near the front of the restaurant. When a crowd started forming round it then Peter realized it contained a human being; a little closer and he could recognize the dress sense as being George's. He was still moving, and Peter decided that this was probably a blessing after all. As a groan creaked out of his friend, Peter stepped forward to accept responsibility for him and the trouble he had become. Under a thin veneer of calm Peter shuddered and sweated, fear crawling up his back and round his neck to throttle him with panic. George had been right: whatever it was that he had been involved in, it was certainly bigger than him.