A Judgement on a Life

by Stephen Baddeley

  When the truth about the fake and the set-up came out, I thought it was all over and that Sir Peter would settle down, keep his head down and maybe accept defeat. I should have listened to the Guv’nor and should have known that wasn’t going to happen. I knew enough about Sir Peter and should have known he would never accept defeat. I suppose, I wanted to believe that it was over, because I wanted it to be over. I wanted it to be over, so I assumed it was over, and that was a mistake.

  When the Guv’nor was killed, I thought the company might collapse, but I didn’t know how strong Duncan, my oldest brother, really was and still is. He’s twelve years older than me and when I was a child I never really got to know him. He’d left home by the time I was six. When I finished my law degree and joined the company, as I was expected to do, and was happy to do, I got to know him better.

  All four of us, The Brethren as Duncan called us, knew the Guv’nor would never retire, not in the normal way people retired. We knew he would want a say in how the company was run, even if he got to be ninety, but we knew Duncan was the ‘Heir Apparent’ and would gradually take over as the Guv’nor got older. We accepted that and none of us had a problem with it.

  After Duncan, came Angus and after him came Douglas. Douglas was only two years older than me and we were at school together in Aberdeen. I was closer to him than Duncan and Angus, but I suppose that’s not surprising. I was always a bit in awe of Duncan, because of his age and of Angus because of his time in the army, but Douglas and I were more like old school friends and it was easier for me to talk to him than it was to the others.

  After the Guv’nor was killed, Duncan took over running the company, but I thought that without the Guv’nor it might all go pear-shaped and the reason it didn’t was that Duncan had been groomed for just such an eventuality. Did the Guv’nor know this might happen? None of us knew, but we suspected that he might have had that pencilled in as a possibility from way back when. We all knew the Guv’nor liked to have all possibilities covered and, perhaps, even the possibility of his own murder.

  The Brethren met after the memorial service. There was no funeral, because they never found his body. It was somewhere at the bottom of Loch na Beiste. Duncan gave us his thoughts about how he thought the company should be run and who should be doing what. We talked about what we were going to do about the Guv’nor’s murder. We knew it was murder, because accidents didn’t happen to the Guv’nor, not when he was on Rob Roy. We decided that leaving it to the police wasn’t what the Guv’nor would have expected, not of us, not of his sons. So Duncan asked Angus to pass on his other duties to Douglas and to concentrate on finding out about the murder. He asked him not to take any action until we’d discussed what he’d found. Then we had a meeting with the other company execs and made our plans. I knew, then, that there was no way Munroe & Sons was going to go pear-shaped.

  So The Brethren made their plans and they were plans of all sorts. But only The Triumvirate knew about the other plan, the plan, the only plan that mattered. Only The Triumvirate knew that there was no way around the fact that Prouse needed to die. No one else needed to know that.

  So, I went and thought about the best way of killing him, well, maybe not killing him, getting him to be dead. I wondered what the Guv’nor would have done, but I knew what he would have done and what he would have done was ‘nothing’, nothing to start with anyway. He would have waited, because the Guv’nor was a patient man. He said most problems sorted themselves out, if you only had the patience to wait.

  The Guv’nor wasn’t, not that any of us knew of, into killing people and that’s why he would have waited, waited and watched. But I wasn’t as patient as the Guv’nor and neither were the other Triumvirates.

  So, I thought about how to do it, how to have it happen, how to make it happen, without any comeback for any of us. I would have no problems with my conscience. No gnawing guilt. I knew Tom wouldn’t have a problem with his conscience either, but I thought Joe might, however we went about it. I thought it was the residue of his Catholicism that would cause him problems.

  Thirty-Five

  I didn’t tell Annie what I was thinking. I didn’t want Watson to tell her. So I didn’t tell Watson either, not then. I didn’t want either of them to know what I was thinking, not then. I didn’t want them to know what I was talking about with Iain and Joe. That Prouse needed to die. That Prouse would, perhaps, need to be killed. Well, not by us anyway. They were interesting thoughts.

  To have him/them die, without being killed, by us, was a different way of thinking. It was a different way of looking at the problem. I hated Prouse and the Major. I wanted them both dead. But I didn’t want to kill either of them, if it could be avoided.

  I didn’t want to spend my life waiting for the tap on the shoulder. The two polite, but determined, policemen. The court again. Needing Mr Ian Baker QC again. The NT News again. The wankers from ABC again. The years in jail.

  I escaped jail once. I didn’t want to go through that again. I didn’t want the women I loved to go through that again. I didn’t want the girls to go through that, ever.

  I had ideas. I talked to Iain about the ideas. Iain liked the ideas. Liked them in an academic sort of way. Not in a definitive sort of way.

  But they were only ideas. There were other ideas. We thought about all the ideas. But we did other things. We found out things. We found them out in the same way we found out things before. Found out things in Eaton Square.

  There are experts at finding things out, without being found out that they are finding things out. Munroe & Sons had experts for finding things out. Things I didn’t know could be found out.

  It was fun to find things out. But it was fun in an unhappy sort of way. We were finding things out so the woman I loved could come home. Could come home to the daughters she loved, to the damaged woman she loved too.

  Ambrosia was the physically damaged woman she loved. I was the damaged man she loved, but damaged in other ways. Ways no one could see. But ways I could see. Ways I didn’t want to look at.

  So, having Prouse and the Major die, die without being killed, by us, was the idea that filled my mind, the idea that filled the front of my mind. There was no more important thing to fill the front of my mind. I thought of nothing else.

  Our experts found out things about Prouse. In finding out things about Prouse, they found out things about the Major too. The Major wasn’t a nice man. Never was a nice man. I knew that already. I didn’t like the Major. But I didn’t know how much there was for me not to like. Really not like.

  So, where to start? For a start, he wasn’t a major, never was. He was netted by National Service. He was in Cyprus during the troubles. He raped a little girl. He was in ‘The Glasshouse’ for seven years. When he got out he did the things men like the Major do. He became a thief, petty, at first, then not so petty, then a violent, thieving and nasty person and then an inmate of ‘The Scrubs’ and then a more violent, thieving and nasty person. That’s how he met Prouse.

  Prouse netted him when he broke into Eaton Square, with a gun, a mask, a striped jersey and a bag marked ‘SWAG’. The police came. The Major was arrested. They put him in jail. Prouse visited him. Charges were dropped. The Major moved to Eaton Square. Any time he wanted, Prouse could send him back. Prouse held his life in the palm of his hand. It was what he liked having. He held mine there too.

  But there was something else. The Major wasn’t all bad. Hard to believe, but true. Even the Major had someone he loved. Harder to believe, but true. Even the Major had someone he cared for. That someone was his daughter. She was the daughter he had with his childhood sweetheart, before he was taken by the army.

  During his stint in ‘The Glasshouse’, his sweetheart married and moved away. He still loved his daughter. He watched her from afar. She was his bridge to the decent life he would never recross. She had talent. She played the cello. She was compared to Jacquelin
e du Pré. She had a limitless future. The Major was proud of her. The pride made the Major love her more. Then there was the car crash. Then she was quadriplegic. Then she was in an NHS home for the elderly in Leeds. It was where she would be forever. The Major visited her. It was terrible. He was horrified. Prouse heard of it. She was moved to Windsor. Moved to the best there was. The Major was grateful. Prouse held him tighter in the palm of his hand.

  So, Prouse held the Major, where Prouse held me. Or thought he did. I wondered what the Major thought about that. The Major wouldn’t like being held like that. I knew that. But he would know he had no choice. Love and fear held him where he was.

  So, the Major didn’t have a choice, like I didn’t have a choice. Not before I thought what might be done.

  It was food for thought. My thoughts were hungry for food.

  Thirty-Six

  I spoke to brother Benny, and Benny listened careful, like for sure I knew he would. Benny was good at listening and I knew the reason he listened careful was because the Marine Corps trained all their men to listen careful to the things they were told and the other reason I knew he would listen careful to me was that I was his elder brother, eldest brother, and because of that he loved and respected me and wanted to please me, or not displease me. Whatever.

  Benny was comfortable with hierarchies and that’s why Benny made a good Marine. It wasn’t his fault he shot the man, one of his own men, the man kneeling at the wire. The man he thought was trying to cut the wire. Not the man who was checking the wire.

  So, they put Benny on trial, and all the good things Benny done, all the good things he done all around the world, didn’t seem to count a whole heap. Benny fucked up and Marines weren’t meant to do that. So they kicked Benny out, after a year in the brig, and without the Corps Benny was one mighty lost boy.

  I was never much of an Action Man, not like some men are and, for certain, not like my brother Benny was. I was more a guy who liked to sit-and-think, think-and-listen, think-and-look. Never much of a think-and-do and never to do-and-then-think type guy. I just wasn’t that sort of a guy and, in a funny way, I envied Benny because he was.

  So, should we sit and think some more, or should we get on with it. In the end, after sitting and thinking, I thought we should. Get on with it, I mean.

  Thirty-Seven

  I asked Watson to say things to Prouse, when he was on his own. Just to say little things to Prouse. I asked Watson to say things to the Major, when he was on his own. Just to say little things to the Major.

  It was sneaky. I knew that. Was it better to be a sneaky person than a murdering person? I thought it was. Even if the result of being a sneaky person would be the same as the result of being a murdering person? I thought it was. I didn’t want to be a sneaky person, but because I didn’t want to be a murdering person, I needed to be a sneaky person. So, I had no choice. Not really.

  Bad people who do bad things to good people don’t expect the good people to do bad things back to them. I knew that. I knew that bad people who do bad things to bad people do expect the bad people to do bad things back to them. I knew that too. I don’t know how I knew that. I didn’t know much about the workings of bad men’s minds, but I knew that. The knowing of that was a good thing to know. Well, it was a good thing to know right then.

  So, I talked to Watson. I talked to her as head minion. I asked her to say things to the Major, as a head minion would. I asked her to say things, and, in the saying of them, suggest things. Things for him to think about. Suggestions for him to think about.

  I talked to Watson some more. I talked to her as head minion. I asked her to say things to Prouse, as a head minion would. I asked her to say things, and, in the saying of them, suggest things. Things for him to think about. Suggestions for him to think about.

  The things for her to tell Prouse weren’t the same things for her to tell the Major. The things for her to tell the Major weren’t the same things for her to tell Prouse. They were things to make Prouse think about the Major. They were things to make the Major think about Prouse. I wanted them to think in ways I wanted them to think in. Not in ways they wanted to think in. Different ways to the ways they were thinking in before. Watson told them those things. I was grateful to her for doing that.

  Thirty-Eight

  It was a Thursday morning when Peggy came to see me. It was a good time for her to come and she always came on those times. The good times were the times when Peter and the Major went away on the Esmeralda, and they always went away on the Esmeralda when they had things to talk about that were things they didn’t want anyone else to know about, and that was quite often now. Recently, it was every day.

  They knew all about the things that had been done to look and listen into Eaton Square, when they knew Tommy was planning to steal Peter’s Melancholies and use them to bargain for the girls, and perhaps bargain for me too. The Esmeralda was ‘swept’ every time they went out, so they knew what they said could never be heard by Tommy and his watchers and listeners. They did paranoia well, but then, I suppose, they needed to. I knew, and they knew, that Tommy would be using every way there was to pry into what was going on.

  So when I saw Peter and the Major go onto the Esmeralda and then steam off down the harbour I knew it wouldn’t be long before Peggy came to see me.

  I wasn’t allowed to wear clothes, because Peter liked it that way. It was easier for me if Peter was happy and I always did what I was told to do, or told not to do. My whole aim in life was to survive this hell until Tommy, or someone, maybe Joe, now that I knew Joe was around, came to save me. Doing what Peter wanted and keeping Peter happy was one of the ways for me to survive.

  On the increasingly, and thankfully, rare occasions when he came into my sitting room, we would sit in armchairs facing one another over the Fabergé chess set. Then he would stare at me and look me over with a critical, almost clinical, eye and I knew he was looking at me like that because I was a part of his collection and he was looking at me in the same way he looked at his Melancholies every morning. I wasn’t as valuable as his Melancholies, but I was still a thing he owned and a thing he liked to know he owned and liked to remind himself he owned and liked to remind himself no one else owned.

  Then we played chess. He insisted on playing chess. He always won, of course, and I didn’t have to let him win, because he was better than me, but if he wasn’t better than me, I would still have let him win. He wasn’t a man you should ever beat, not at anything.

  Dad taught me how to play, during my first summer holiday at uni, but Tommy taught me how to play better. It was during those first few months, when I was telling him all the lies I’d worked out to tell him, so I could get him to sell his Melancholy to Hiram Lambert, when I knew he was really selling it to Peter, the one man on earth Tommy didn’t want to sell it to.

  After I’d played chess with Peter and after he’d won and I’d lost, I would go into the bedroom and lie on the bed with my arms held wide and my legs apart. He wanted his Vitruvian Woman horizontal. Then he’d run his hands over every part of me and do things to me that were lovely things when Tommy and Ambrosia and Peggy did them to me, but were foul and dirty things when he did them to me. When Tommy and Ambrosia did those things, they did them out of love and when Peggy did them, she did them out of lust, but when he did them to me, he did them because he could, and other people, the people I wanted to be doing them to me, couldn’t.

  He liked to pinch and twist and dig his nails into my nipples, and to do it until they bled. He stared into my face as he did it. He liked watching my pain as he caused it.

  Rarely now, when the sight, touch and smell of me and the knowledge of the pain I was feeling, was enough to arouse him, he would take off his own clothes and climb on top of me. He knew I found him abhorrent and found sex with him more abhorrent. I think the knowledge of my disgust increased the pleasure of his pathetic orgasms.

  T
he Major took pleasure in my nakedness. There was nothing sexual about it. He took pleasure in ogling my scarred and torn body, and in knowing that he was the author of what I’d become, of what he’d turned me into. I think it excited him to look at the damaged body he’d arranged for me to live with. I hated Peter, but I think I hated the Major more, and if I had a gun with only one bullet, I think I’d shoot the Major. It would be a line-ball decision, but I think that’s what I’d do.

  On that Thursday morning, after the Esmeralda was gone far out to sea, beyond the sonic buoys they suspected Tommy might have planted, Peggy came to see me. I was already in bed and needed her more that I’d needed her for weeks. When she came now she wasn’t just Peggy because she was Tommy and Ambrosia too.

  She looked at my bruised and torn nipples. She said, “Fuck,” and gently kissed them. I wondered if she’d ever said ‘fuck’ when she was in bed with Tommy. I told her the story of Tommy and of all the naked women he’d met who’d said ‘fuck’; his mother, a barmaid, me, Mary, eventually Pip, but never Ambrosia. She’s obsessed with ‘fucking’, but not with saying ‘fuck’. I know she wouldn’t like Jesus to hear her say ‘fuck’. That’s called ‘cognitive dissonance’. ‘There’s a lot of it about’, as my dear Tommy would say.

  So, I asked Peggy about it and she said, “Yes, he asked me to say ‘fuck’ and, when I asked him why, all he did was laugh. So I said ‘fuck’ and he was happy. So I said it, then we did it. He kept his eyes closed, like he does a lot these days, so I suppose he was really fucking you.” Then she was quiet and then she said, “You know, Annie, it’s funny, every time we make love, I’m making love to him and I know he’s making love to you. Then I come back here and we make love together, and I know you’re making love to him… I know you both like me, but it’s like being the middle-man.”