A Sense of Guilt

by Andrea Newman

  ‘Sorry. I haven’t had much sleep and things just come out. I’m not thinking straight. Don’t hold it against me.’

  She did look very tired and it was a crisis; Elizabeth had to forgive her. But the words rankled.

  ‘I wish you’d come to supper,’ she said, more out of duty now. ‘I bet you’re not eating properly.’

  ‘I’d rather be alone, honestly,’ Helen said, her hand on the door knob.

  Elizabeth had one last try. ‘Does Sally know about this?’

  ‘I haven’t told her anything, but Richard did. She rang up to say she was sorry. What more can she do?’

  ‘I thought maybe she might… come home for weekends. Just be with you.’ She remembered all she had done, resentfully, for her own parents.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect that. She’s got her own life. Anyway, she’ll be home for the vac and that’s not far away.’

  ‘Maybe Richard’ll be back by then.’ Elizabeth felt Helen was pulling rank on her, telling her she didn’t understand what could be reasonably expected of children these days.

  ‘Yes, that’s what Sally said. She’s like you, she’s sure he’ll come back.’

  ‘But you’re not.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I just have a feeling of doom. But I’d love to be wrong. Well, I’m really going this time.’

  How beautiful she was still, Elizabeth thought, even looking old and tired, thin and miserable. Pale and angular and beautiful like one of her paintings. Inaccessible. And yet she must have come with some purpose. Elizabeth felt she was trying to decode something dangerous. She even wondered if they had ever really been friends. Had she ever known Helen at all? She knew Felix desired her and would never have her, and she could see why, and that knowledge would always be between them although it was not Helen’s fault.

  Helen turned in the doorway, on her way out. She was very casual. ‘Oh, Elizabeth, do me a favour. Don’t mention any of this to Felix. I’d rather he heard it from Richard. It seems only fair.’

  * * *

  When Richard had finally got rid of Helen he went into Marion’s office and told her at some length how angry he was. Even as he spoke he thought he sounded hysterical and he marvelled that Marion could listen so calmly.

  Eventually she said, ‘I’m sorry you’re annoyed with me for letting her in but I did it from the best of motives. She was very upset. She needed to see you.’

  ‘And I call it interference. If I wanted to talk to Helen, I do know where she lives.’ He started to laugh. ‘God, this must be how our clients feel when we keep interfering in their lives from the best of motives.’

  ‘Richard, I do wish you’d tell me what this is all about.’

  ‘It’s an education.’ Why couldn’t he stop? He knew he had made his point. It was frightening to go on and on, like the runaway train. ‘I feel like a client. Or a child. That’s how we treat them, isn’t it? Like moronic or delinquent children. We patronise them.’

  Marion appeared to be giving this serious consideration. ‘I don’t think so. It’s quite possible to respect someone as an adult even though they need help with their problems. Why not? It happens all the time in everyday life. If I call in a plumber, for instance, or go to the dentist or the hairdresser. I need help from an expert. But I don’t feel they’re patronising me.’

  He said, ‘Oh, Marion, you’re wonderful. You’re so rational.’

  After a moment she said, ‘Richard, d’you have a good GP?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I really think you need to talk to someone you trust and it obviously isn’t me.’

  * * *

  It was difficult to ring Felix when the time came. He woke knowing it was the right day but thinking with relief, It’s too early to ring him, he won’t be there yet. Then he got caught up in work and suddenly it was lunchtime, so Felix would surely be out. By mid afternoon he was promising himself he would do it after his next cup of coffee.

  He had carried his anger for so long, nurtured it until it had become a part of him. It felt unreal that today he was obliged to express it; he couldn’t imagine what he would do afterwards.

  Felix took a long time to answer and Richard almost hoped he might get the machine instead. Then there was a sleepy hullo. Richard felt a painful sensation of loss when he heard the familiar voice: it was as if he had not fully realised how much he loved Felix until he learned to hate him. He was conscious that the friendship hung suspended: until he broke it, it would still exist in Felix’s mind.

  ‘How was the holiday?’ He heard himself trying to sound normal and failing. Surely Felix would pick up that something was terribly wrong? But the drowsy voice sounded unafraid.

  ‘Oh – hullo, Richard. Terrific. I finished the book.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ His heart thumped and his mouth was dry. Felix knew him so well; why didn’t he notice the tension, the rage?

  ‘Thanks. I feel great. At least I will when I wake up. I had my snout in the trough with Natasha at lunchtime and what with that and the jet lag…’ His voice petered out, sounding sunny and genial.

  Richard said, ‘I thought I might call in for a drink on my way home.’

  ‘Why not? We could celebrate. What sort of time?’

  ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be finished here.’

  ‘No matter. Turn up when you like.’

  Richard put down the phone. He was shaking: Felix sounded so innocent, so accommodating, so normal. He opened his desk drawer and took out a half bottle of whisky. He wanted to deal out justice with a cool head but he knew he needed some artificial courage first, though he must be careful not to have too much. The familiar voice had unnerved him, bringing back twenty years of friendship. He took a long swig from the bottle and put it back in his desk. Then he began to focus very deliberately on what Felix had done. Presently he realised that he wanted to kill Felix but that it would also be like killing a part of himself.

  * * *

  As he opened the door, Richard struck him, a heavy blow, catching him full in the face. Off balance, Felix staggered backwards, nearly falling over, catching at furniture to save himself, feeling a mixture of pain and surprise. In all his fantasies of being found out, he had never thought of violence.

  ‘And don’t bother pretending you don’t know what this is about,’ Richard said, coming in and closing the door behind him.

  Felix clutched his jaw, tasting blood from a cut lip, hoping Richard hadn’t loosened any teeth. ‘Jesus. That really hurt.’

  ‘I’d like to kill you,’ Richard said, with a kind of grim resolve in his voice, suggesting more of an intention than a wish, as if he might actually do it.

  ‘I do hope you won’t,’ said Felix, trying to introduce a half-joking tone that he felt might have a calming effect.

  ‘God, I thought we were friends, I trusted you.’

  Of course he couldn’t be sure how much Richard had found out. It might be just the affair and not the abortion. He would have to be careful.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said. ‘I’d like to be sure I know what we’re talking about.’

  But this only seemed to enrage Richard further. ‘You’re unbelievable. Even now you’re trying to wriggle out of it. Look, I know everything. Inge told me.’

  ‘Inge?’

  ‘She found a letter from Sally. Christ. You’re still doing it. That bloody shifty look. Now you’re wondering which letter. God, even now you’d lie to me if you thought you could get away with it. I can see it in your face.’

  ‘No point in asking for trouble,’ said Felix reasonably.

  ‘Look, I know about the abortion.’

  Well, that made it simpler. Worse but simpler. ‘I really am very sorry,’ he said, the straightforward approach, man to man. ‘About the whole affair, I mean. It should never have happened. I take full responsibility. What more can I say?’ He tried to gauge Richard’s reaction from his face but it was blank with rage, the eyes wild. ‘Let’s have a drink and talk it over.’

 
; ‘You can’t imagine I’ll drink with you.’

  ‘Well, I need one.’

  He poured himself some whisky and drank it quickly. It stung his mouth. He poured some more.

  ‘God, you’re a shit,’ Richard said.

  Felix was irritated: he thought Richard sounded contemptuous and smug. ‘Look, Richard, we’ve been friends a long time. You know I like having affairs. OK, Sally was out of bounds, but she had a sort of crush on me and it was very tempting. I mean she made it easy for me. Well, irresistible really,’ he said, remembering.

  ‘Christ, you’re even trying to blame her.’

  He hardly recognised this Richard: the anger transformed him, like a dormant volcano suddenly erupting. Felix even felt a prickle of fear. He could no longer predict how this person might behave.

  ‘No, of course I’m not. I’m just explaining how it happened. She’d made a start with some boy at school, well, you know I don’t go chasing after virgins, and she was disappointed, and there I was. Look, I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I’m easily tempted and I was flattered. She’s very beautiful.’ He was distressed to find that talking about it actually made him yearn for Sally again.

  ‘She was eighteen years old, for God’s sake.’

  ‘She made me feel young again,’ said Felix, remembering more.

  ‘Jesus, she paid a high price.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I know, that was rotten luck. But she said she was on the pill.’ He was starting to feel he had grovelled enough and perhaps it was time to stand up for himself a little. ‘It’s not as if I took a chance on purpose, I’m not that irresponsible. But OK, it should have been belt and braces. People do make mistakes or forget or whatever. I know that.’

  ‘She could have died,’ Richard said.

  ‘Oh, come on.’ This was going too far. ‘Abortion’s actually safer than having a baby, for obvious reasons. Done properly, I mean.’

  ‘Did you ever think of letting her have it?’

  This seemed an extraordinary question. How could Richard possibly have wanted that? ‘I never thought of leaving Elizabeth, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I mean did you ever make Sally feel she had a choice?’ Felix found this hard to answer. All he could remember was panic, ‘I think I felt it was very much her decision. Hers and Helen’s.’

  ‘Not mine. None of you thought I had a right to know.’ Now they were getting to the real issue: Richard’s pride was hurt. Perhaps that was more important than the affair, more important than the abortion. ‘Well, it was up to them if they wanted to tell you or not.’

  ‘Did you offer to help financially?’ Richard was moving around the room, small, restless movements that Felix found quite threatening.

  ‘I paid for the abortion, of course.’

  ‘I meant child support.’

  ‘I really can’t remember.’ What was the point of discussing maintenance for a child he had never intended to be born? ‘I don’t think I did. But I would have done, of course, if she’d decided to have it. Only I was rather hoping she wouldn’t, because of upsetting Elizabeth.’

  Richard stopped moving around and stood in front of Felix, close to him. ‘I hope you rot in hell.’ It sounded like a serious curse, not mere words, and Felix felt uneasy. He had seen too many operas where curses were effective.

  ‘I expect I will,’ he said lightly. ‘If there is a hell.’

  ‘Oh, there is for people like you,’ said Richard, staring at him. ‘There just aren’t any words for what I think of you.’

  ‘I’m getting the message.’ Felix moved away. ‘You don’t think you might be over-reacting, just a touch? It wasn’t all gloom and doom, you know. We fell in love. We had a nice time. It wasn’t just mindless screwing.’ He was edging towards the drinks tray, wondering if a third whisky would be a good idea or whether he needed a clear head. ‘When I say I like having affairs, I mean just that. Not only the sex but the chat, the presents, the secrecy. The whole package. It was a magic time for both of us. We were happy.’ The more he spoke, the more he believed his own words.

  ‘And that’s all that matters.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s important.’ He tried a small joke. ‘My parents named me well.’

  ‘Would you ever have told me if I hadn’t found out?’

  ‘No, of course not. Whatever for? I told you about Inge and you had mixed feelings about that. I’m just sorry this one ended in tears.’ He could see from Richard’s face that he was making it worse, but he was running out of patience. Richard had hit him and abused him and he had apologised: what more was there to say? He poured himself another drink and swallowed it quickly. ‘Oh, come on, Richard, relax. You’ve been getting off on my adventures for years, only you don’t like them too close to home. OK, point taken. I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.’

  But Richard was staring at him as if he were some strange, alien, deeply disgusting creature. ‘You don’t understand. This so-called friendship is over. You’ve ruined my marriage and you may have ruined Sally’s life.’

  ‘Now you’re being absurd.’ Felix had had enough: he couldn’t resist the obvious final taunt. ‘Maybe you’re jealous. You probably fancy her yourself. I’ve only done what you’d like—’

  The second blow was much heavier. He reeled backwards, cracking his head on the edge of the fireplace, and fell into darkness.

  * * *

  Felix’s head hit the edge of the marble fireplace with a sharp crack, like the sound of an egg-shell breaking against a cup, only much amplified. He slumped to the floor with a thud and lay there quite peacefully, looking surprised. Presently blood trickled from the back of his head.

  Richard gazed at him intently. He was astonished how calm he felt, quite removed from the event: all his violent feelings had gone into the blow. He was cold now, even to the point of discomfort; he almost shivered. Watching the blood ooze out of Felix, he wondered what it meant. Was Felix dying? Clearly he was not conscious: he did not move or make any sound. But he was not dead. Richard could see that he was still breathing.

  It was while he was noticing that Felix was still alive that he first realised he wished Felix to die. Hitting him, he had wished only to hurt him, as Sally had been hurt; but looking at him now sprawled on the carpet, he found himself sincerely hoping Felix would never get up. He was disappointed to see signs of life: it would have been a cleaner ending if Felix had been dead there and then. But evidently it was not so easy.

  He sat down for a moment to think. The obvious thing now was to call an ambulance. If Felix came round he would have to help him and he would not know what to do. Unless, of course, he hit him again. Unless he finished him off, now, without waiting for him to come round.

  He was surprised how strong this temptation was. There were several heavy objects in the room: lamps, ashtrays, even Felix’s typewriter would do. He could easily visualise smashing Felix’s skull with any of these items. He could already feel the satisfaction it would give him. That was when he began to be afraid. It was one thing to strike Felix in anger; another to regret he was not dead. But it was something else to contemplate quite seriously committing murder in cold blood.

  He had never hated anyone before, though he had listened for hours to many of his clients talking about hatred and violence and sudden death. He had listened compassionately and tried to feel into their circumstances, which had seemed so comfortably remote from his own. Most of them appeared to feel remorse, which was a greater punishment than anything the law could devise.

  Richard did not feel any remorse. He looked for a long time at the man who had been his friend and felt nothing but hatred. He knew he was not going to call an ambulance but he was not sure that he would not strike another blow. When he got up, switched off the lights and left the flat, leaving Felix alone in darkness, he still hoped that Felix would die, but at least (with considerable reluctant effort) he was giving him a chance. It was as if instead of going ahead with a hanging on board ship, he had cast th
e condemned man adrift in a small boat. Without water and without a compass, it was true, so his chance was remote (at least he hoped so) but nevertheless it was a chance. Felix was now on the open sea.

  It was only when he got out into the street that he began to shake. He found his way to the car and sat in it, trembling, unable to put the key in the ignition. He did not know where to go, what to do. But he knew it was important not to draw attention to himself, not to be questioned by any passing policeman. So this was how it felt, like a hunted animal, on the wrong side of the law.

  He started the car. There was only one place he could go, after all. They were equal now: she had killed Sally’s baby and he had murdered Felix, at least in his heart, which was where it mattered. What could be more natural than for one murderer to seek out another?

  * * *

  Helen woke without knowing what had woken her, then very quickly became frightened. She could hear footsteps downstairs. Careful, stealthy footsteps. Burglar footsteps. For a moment she was tempted to pretend she had heard nothing, to lie there with a wildly beating heart and will herself back to sleep. Then she got up, knowing something must be done. She put on her bathrobe and felt around on her dressing-table for her nail scissors – pathetic, she thought, and predicting an alarming degree of physical closeness, but the only defensive weapon she remembered having in her bedroom, or at least could find in the dark. She inched her way out of the door and along the landing, impressed by her own courage and at the same time thinking how ridiculous her behaviour was. She would not deter a burglar in the least and would be quite likely to get herself injured. But she didn’t seem able to retreat.

  Then the light in the hall went suddenly on and she was looking down into Richard’s startled face.

  She ran down the stairs, filled with joy and at the same time angry, as she might be with Sally for coming home late and worrying her.