4 Proof

I closed the laptop lid. The battery would run out in 15 minutes. The auto shut-down would kick in first, as it had been two pints since Vint had moved out from behind my computer. He was staring at me, giving slow nods, like someone fighting sleep.

‘Told many people that? About your mum?’

Of course, I was suspicious. His choice of words was perfect to convey he believed me, that he was on my side. Like a medium with a cold read, he was manipulating me. But I still answered.

‘Not many, no.’

‘And they didn’t believe you, did they?’ He looked at me with the sad eyes of a disappointed dog.

‘No. No, they didn’t.’

‘And why was that, do you think?’

It was like sitting with a therapist who’d decided home visits or neutral ground were acceptable alternatives to a beige office with a couch, and certificates on the wall .

‘I have no proof. The house burned down when I was eight. My Aunt Joan died.’

‘And all your “proof " went up in smoke…’

He lifted both hands and waggled the fingers as he raised them, like a primary school teacher miming a fire during story-time.

‘Not exactly.’ I said.

He stared at me and steepled his hands. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘There was evidence. Aunt Joan said there was. I just never saw it. I was 8 years old, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Proof. That’s what you need. Proof is better than evidence.’

‘What does that even mean?’

He reached into the inside pocket of the tweed jacket and brought out one of those old fashioned wallets, whose size and shape meant you wouldn’t have to fold any notes. The dark-red leather looked expensive, but old. He opened the wallet, there was a sheet of paper folded inside and a half-column-sized newspaper cutting that fit without being folded. No banknotes at all. The newspaper column was yellowed and had never been folded, otherwise it would have been two pieces of paper by then. He placed this on the table in front of me.

 This, of course, was an entirely different version of the event compared to the one he gave me whilst I read it.

He placed the unfolded sheet on the table between us. It was a birth certificate, of sorts, in the name of Prospero Vint. It had been issued by the District of Benghazi In 1952, naming Aircraftsman 1st Class Vint as the father and Maryam Al-Kut as the mother.

‘This is evidence,’ he said. ‘But not proof.’

‘You said you had proof.’

‘Not as such. I’m sure I said I could prove it was my name. Evidence leads to proof – or proving – if you like. This evidence should lead you to believe that my being Prospero Vint is true – that is proof.’

‘It’s not much evidence. Not enough to prove the truth of it.’

‘Belief is truth. Especially nowadays.’

‘So no truth is absolute? Truth is evidence-based belief?’

‘I hope so,’ he smiled.