Free The Devil I Know by Claire Kilroy Page A

as simple as that. I cannot overstate the degree of my indebtedness. Without M. Deauville, I would be long in my grave. Of that there is no doubt.
    â€˜You’re a saint,’ I told him after one particularly gruelling session which had racked my body with tears, wrung it out like an old rag. I nodded vigorously to persuade him of my sincerity, as if he were there in the room. I felt him there. I felt him with me. ‘A saint,’ I averred, ‘a walking saint!’
    It was the only time I ever heard M. Deauville laugh.
    *
    No, I’m afraid I cannot disclose M. Deauville’s full name to the Commission, primarily because I don’t know it. He never mentioned a Christian name. Alcoholics Anonymous it is called. That first phone call on the hospital steps was the only time he had occasion to use his name, which led to the confusion that later ensued. We’ll come to that.
    Naturally, I waited for him to invite me to use his forename – please, just call me X – particularly since he never addressed me as Mr St Lawrence. Or Lord Howth, if you wish to get pedantic. Always it was Tristram, but this familiarity did not extend both ways.
    His nationality? Again, this is something of a grey area. There are no white areas in my tale. His English was elegant although I doubt it was his mother tongue. His use of it was too formal, too academic. I was unable to pinpoint his first language, such was his mastery of them all. When a minion entered his office seeking authorisation on some matter, he would answer in German or French or Russian or on one occasion in what I think was Mandarin, switching from one language to another as if changing stations on a radio. His calls originated from every corner of the globe since he moved about constantly to service his many international business interests. If I apologised for taking up his time at an ungodly hour, he would murmur to think nothing of it, that all hours were ungodly and that it was the working day in his part of the world. Sometimes airport announcements were audible in the background. The flight for Dubai is now boarding. Please have your passport and boarding card ready for inspection . And then you’d hear nothing for a few hours, his phone set to flight mode.
    Over the years of our association, I came to think of M. Deauville as another Lawrence, pronounced with a Gallic inflection: Laurent. He was my own personal Saint Lawrence, my Higher Power. It is true that M. Deauville did not put his signature to a single document pertaining to Castle Holdings, despite his being the architect of the enterprise. I trawled through every last communication in my possession before submitting the file in its entirety to you. Unfortunately, it is my family name that is scrawled all over the operation, mine and Desmond Hickey’s. Therefore, I cannot confirm the spelling. Perhaps I misheard him on the hospital steps. Perhaps he was not Laurent Deauville but Laurent de Ville, Lawrence of the City, the ultimate urbanite, the bottom line in sophistication. Yes, it is fair to say I was in awe of him. He was a man from an old era, you see, from an old family, older than mine. All families are old, it goes without saying, but some – well, they have moulded history. They have exerted a force through time. I would not have been in the least bit surprised had M. Deauville revealed to me that he could trace a direct line to the Medici princes, or to Alexander the Great, or Ivan the Terrible. But he did not reveal any such thing to me. He revealed nothing at all. Monsieur du Veil, he should have called himself, because he always wore one. You will never catch him. There is not a chance of that. There is not a chance in hell.

No, Fergus, I cannot.
    No, Fergus, I cannot. That is a matter for Hickey’s conscience and Hickey’s conscience alone, if he has one. To my knowledge, M. Deauville spoke only to me. To me and through me. I am an interpreter, a perfect