A tale told by an accountant
Charles Maclean
THE SETT by Ranulph Fiennes Heinemann, £15.99, pp. 502 or years I believed that Sir Ranulph Fiennes, 'the world's greatest living explor- er', was a fictional character, a sort of Carstairs of the Frozen Tundra, whose intrepid exploits and amazing feats of endurance were pure invention, the more enjoyable for being almost mad enough to be true. The author's photograph staring out with narrow-eyed purpose from the back of The Sett's dust-jacket dispels this illusion, but I mention it here, and Sir Ranulph's mugshot, because both have a bearing on his latest escapade.
Fiennes has written several books about yours faithfully . . his adventurous life. He has won medals and honours for Polar exploration and in 1993 was awarded the OBE for 'human endeavour and charitable services', having raised through his expeditions more than £3 million for the Multiple Sclerosis Soci- ety. Now, he has added to his considerable achievements a book based not on his own experiences but on a tale told him by a `mild mannered accountant', who sought him out — there was some claim they had been army cadets at Mons together in the early Sixties — suggesting that the famous author/explorer write his life story. Fiennes had no recollection of an Alex Goodman at Mons and expressed misgivings about the public's willingness to buy 'the biographies of nonentities'. His initial reluctance, how- ever, was overcome by the sensational nature of Goodman's story. Feeling hard up at the time, Sir Ranulph agreed to write the accountant's biography, but only on condition that he keep all the money.
The gist of Goodman's story is as follows. On 30 July 1984 he woke with a serious head wound and total amnesia in Smethwick Neurological Centre. His last clear memory was of taking his wife and daughter for a walk in the woods and sur- prising some thuggish types being cruel to badgers. For Goodman, a man with no memory and no past, there then began a ten-year search for his identity and the truth about what happened to his family. The desire for revenge entangled Good- man, and subsequently his doughty biogra- pher, in a web of global crime so heinous, so hopping with baddies, it soon had our man Carstairs — Fiennes, I mean — long- ing for the relative safety of bottomless crevices and angry polar bears:
As my efforts to verify his story drew me into the terrifying worlds of the Yardies, the Korean Troons, the FBI, the drugs trade and the sickening ruins of BCCI, I was threat- ened, and feared for the safety of my family.
Which may be why Fiennes has chosen not to burden the reader with an account of his research. He presents Goodman's story in the form of a suspense novel, `inventing dialogue and thoughts to bring the history of the events alive'. Much of the history 'novelised' in the book like the 1984 McDonald's massacre in San Diego and the Broadwater Farm riot a year later will be familiar as the most lurid press stories of their day.
Tragic events, contributing little or nothing to the plot, they seem to have been included for the opportunity to describe carnage and to lend authenticity (with the help of an index and a few photographs) to Goodman's fantastic yarn.
The author commits himself somewhere to saying that he believes his accountant's story to be true. The best evidence to support this view is that as a novel The Sett lacks any sense of plot, pace or character; it seems hard to believe that someone could have invented such poor, muddled stuff. `Each reader', Sir Ranulph booms from his press kit, 'will have to come to his or her own conclusion: fact or fiction.' In other words, we must judge for ourselves whether or not Alex Goodman is a psychopathic liar who spun Fiennes this nasty, brutish and overextended yarn — the result perhaps of a bump on the head, or staring too long into the Arctic sun.
Goodman naturally refused to be photographed, but Sir Ranulph tells us that to satisfy his publishers he had a Flying Squad pal snap a covert head and shoul- ders of the accountant in a London hotel. The result shows a man of about 50 sport- ing a very obvious wig, heavy spectacles and what appears to be a false nose. If you look behind his clumsy disguise, you will certainly recognise the magnificent chiselled profile of the world's greatest living explorer.
Sorry, Carstairs old man, but having slogged through 500 pages of this nonsense, and feeling that I deserve a gong for endurance, I'm calling your bluff.
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