The Beauty of the End

by Debbie Howells

  She’d stared at me. “You don’t sound so sure.” Her voice held a trace of an accent I couldn’t identify, her words leaving me vaguely uncomfortable.

  It happened a few times, before we slowly got to know each other. We’d never be friends. She was too disapproving, outspokenly critical of my solitary ways, but we rubbed along, Clara asking probing questions on subjects I didn’t want to talk about, then sweeping aside my objections one by one, distaste written on her face, as though she was peeling the layers of an onion.

  “You should get yourself out of here. Go to the pub. Meet people your own age.” By people she meant girls; I think Clara thought I should have been happily married off. I’d grunted something unintelligible, resisting the temptation to tell her that I’d come close—twice—but that was enough for anyone and I didn’t plan on doing it again.

  “It’s better to be alone than with the wrong person,” I’d said with the defensiveness that comes from being badly hurt, knowing that wasn’t what she was getting at, yet again aware of her unblinking gaze.

  I didn’t want to drag myself out to make small talk with strangers. Even when I found myself a part-time position in a local solicitor’s office, it wasn’t good enough for her. My reason for moving here was to write, I kept reminding myself. But Clara didn’t approve of that, either.

  “So whatever is it that keeps you in your books?” Her words laced with disapproval, as on yet another occasion, she’d caught me unawares.

  Turning back to my work, I’d finished the sentence I was writing, then looked up. “I used to be a lawyer.”

  Even I could hear how defensive I sounded, because it had been an identity I’d worn, like an expensive coat, that, in the blinkered mind-set of the society we live in, had set me apart as a recognizable someone who garnered respect. An identity I’d yet to replace.

  “I know that,” she’d said impatiently. “Not now, though, are you?”

  She wasn’t intentionally unkind, as I found out later. It was just her way, in part cultural, and maybe also the legacy of a difficult life, which had left her direct, brusque, to the point.

  I remember I’d hesitated, because most people didn’t understand. I’d given up trying to explain, but then this was Clara. “If you really want to know, it’s research. Into the psychological profiles—of murderers, mostly.”

  I’d watched her as she drew back. “Sweet Jesus. Delilah didn’t tell me that.”

  “She didn’t know. I don’t really talk about it. But there are case studies, weighing up any number of possible causal factors. Like family background. Whether the father or mother is an offender, whether other lesser crimes are committed first. Even the structure of the brain. But there are other cases, less easily explained, where a solid pillar of society somehow undergoes a fundamental change and becomes a murderer. Like John Smith, who worked his whole life until one day he chucked in his job, then went home and shot his wife. . . .”

  With my captive audience of one, I’d been getting into my stride, enjoying myself because John Smith was my classic example, until the look of horror on her face stopped me.

  “Okay,” I’d said more soberly. “Let me ask you something. First impressions. What do you think of them?”

  Clara loved to get a spark going and watch what followed. But that time she’d shaken her head. “That’s the trouble with you young people.”

  Saying young as though it was a bad thing.

  “You’re in too darn much of a hurry to notice.”

  “Notice what, exactly?”

  “The difference,” she’d replied slowly, as if I were particularly stupid, “between what people want you to see, and what’s real.”

  “Exactly!” I’d said triumphantly. “That’s what I was saying.”

  Clara had glared at me, then shaking her head, stared out the window. “You’re talking about what you see with your eyes,” she’d muttered. “Eyes tell you nothing, don’t you know that? You need to look with your heart.”

  An awkward silence had fallen between us after that, heavy with irritation on my part at Clara’s all-knowingness, because I didn’t need her to tell me appearances could be deceptive; disgust on hers at my arrogance, as no doubt she perceived it.

  Coming over, she’d picked up one of my books on the Jack the Ripper murders.

  “And you . . . enjoy this?” Her face was unfathomable.

  I’d thought about it before I answered. “Not enjoy, exactly. All murders are someone’s tragedy. But think of the murderer for a moment.... Some people just don’t have boundaries, I know that, and there are some who claim to enjoy it.” A look of distaste registered on her face. “But for me, it’s the psychology that’s so interesting, because if you knew what drove someone to such extremes, maybe you could do something to prevent it.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go getting your hopes up,” Clara had muttered darkly. “Some folks have it in them, no matter what.”

  I’d put my book down. “Okay. Now you’re talking about psychopaths.”

  I’d caught her interest. Sitting down, she’d leaned toward me. “I should know. I was married to one. Thought the world of himself, but he didn’t give a fig about no one—not even his own wife. Wasn’t a killer, though. Tell you what I think. There’s plenty of people don’t think anything of it—raping and killing, for the sake of it.”

  “Exactly.” I sat back and looked at her. “And there’s a reason. Upbringing, a constant diet of violence around them, the TV every time they turn it on . . .”

  Clara grunted. “Maybe. But folks like that don’t change.”

  “Do you really believe that? Isn’t that a rather depressing view of humanity?”

  “Yes, well, most likely you think it is. But you young people are all the same. Always looking for excuses, instead of facing the facts.”

  “I don’t believe that’s true,” I’d started to argue. But she’d taken offense for some reason, stomping off, slamming the door behind her.

  But I’d got used to her, and since I had no family to speak of, no friends, her inherent nosiness, her way of speaking her mind, were vaguely companionable, if somewhat abrasive. Even now, with a modestly successful, published novel to my name, if it had given me credibility in her eyes, she’d never said.

  * * *

  “Haven’t eaten, have you?” she says tonight, a statement framed as a question to which she already knows the answer, looking disapprovingly around the kitchen, unwrapping the dish she’s carrying before placing it on the table.

  “Thanks. I was just looking for something.” Tins of beans I bought at the garage. Maybe a drink.

  She shakes her head. “No point you even looking. You never have anything in them cupboards of yours. You need to get out, Noah. Find that new supermarket that’s just opened. Go to the pub before you forget how to talk to people. Does you no good shutting yourself away.” She speaks with the familiarity of the years we’ve known each other, condensed into bluntness.

  “It’s not that bad. There’s the vegetable garden, remember? The one you nagged me about looking after?” I point out, thinking of the plot in the garden that according to Clara had been so lovingly tended by my aunt, that now, however hard I worked on it, in my inexperienced hands, was only minimally productive. “I go to the office now and then. And I talk to you.”

  “I mean young people,” she says sharply.

  “Yeah. Well, it so happens, I am going away. . . .” I break off. “You eating with me?”

  She pulls off her jacket and slides stiffly onto one of the wooden chairs. “If you’ve something to tell that’s interesting, and not about them books of yours, I may as well.”

  “Okay.” I rummage in a cupboard for two plates. “Drink?”

  “Whisky, you mean,” she says drily. “Go on then. But a small one. With a drop of water.”

  I’ve poured her enough of them over the last four years to know precisely how Clara likes her whisky. Pouring another for myself, I join her at the ta
ble.

  “I had a call earlier. From someone who used to be a friend.” I take a mouthful of her casserole. “This is good.”

  “Rabbit.” She continues eating, jerking her head just once. “You were telling me about some phone call.”

  “Well, there’s been a murder in the town where we grew up. He thought I’d want to know, because a girl we knew at school is the main suspect.”

  I take another mouthful, still puzzled as to why Will is so convinced of April’s guilt. Feeling Clara’s eyes on me, unflinching.

  “It’s strange. We’re not even friends. In fact, I hadn’t spoken to him for years. He’s sure she’s guilty.” Frowning, I put my fork down. And as I knew only too well, he’d been in love with her, too. “Christ. How can he think that?”

  Clara takes another mouthful. “You don’t, then?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t see it. I’d even go so far as to say I utterly, absolutely know she isn’t. She couldn’t have done it.”

  Clara frowns. “You could be wrong.”

  Sitting back in my chair, I shrug. “I can see why you’d say that, but I’m not. I know I’m not. And you’re forgetting something.”

  She glances at me. “And what might that be?”

  “Well, firstly, I knew her—really well.” I don’t tell Clara I was in love with her. “But also, even if I didn’t, I’ve spent years of my life trying to understand the criminal mind, as you know. I’ve profiled dozens of killers, male and female, from all kinds of backgrounds who committed all kinds of crimes. It’s taught me something.”

  “Ah. Those books of yours. It hasn’t taught you one thing, though, has it?” She raises her lined face, her rheumy eyes staring into mine. “People act on impulse. Make mistakes. They’re people, aren’t they? And this isn’t no scientific method you’re on about. It’s judgment, pure and simple.”

  Meaning my judgment, and I feel myself grow irritated, because every time we discuss my work, it ends like this.

  “You know what?” I look at Clara. “No disrespect, but you could just as equally be wrong, too.”

  It’s a good answer. She nods slowly; then her face crinkles into a rare smile, which just as abruptly vanishes.

  “So, you’re going to see her.” It’s a statement rather than a question.

  I hesitate, then nod.

  But instead of the scathing retort I’m expecting, she surprises me. “Could be a good thing, couldn’t it? I mean, could be good for you. Don’t look like that! Writers need life experience to draw on.” She stares across the table at me. “Don’t they?”

  “You need imagination. And there’s nothing wrong with my writing.” She’s touched a nerve and I’m defensive again. “Anyway, I’ve had plenty of experience. And writers don’t need people. They clutter your head, take up too much of your time. I’d never get anything done.”

  Telling myself that it was true and that the odd pang of loneliness was a small price to pay for the simple life that made writing easier. Okay, so I’d kept up my occasional mornings at Jed Luxton’s office, because being a part-time lawyer meant I was someone. But if I was honest, apart from the occasional intrusion from Clara, I preferred to be alone.

  I decide to tell her. “I may end up staying for a while. If the police are going to charge her, she’ll need a lawyer. I thought if there’s no one else, it might as well be me.”

  Clara snorts. “You?”

  But instead of undermined, I feel my resolve strengthen as I sit back and look at her.

  “Can you do that?” She stares at me.

  “I still work,” I remind her, ignoring her derisive snort. “And I know, before you say anything, that Jed Luxton only deals with the most minor offenders. But you’re forgetting, I only left my job four years ago. There’s nothing really to stop me.” Pausing for a moment before adding, more heartfelt, the truth. “Anyway, I can’t not.”

  Clara’s long, drawn-out sigh ends in silence as I wait, because there’ll be more. Clara’s never silent for long. But, to my surprise, she doesn’t ask why.

  “You even look in the mirror these days?”

  Words that are candid rather than insulting, but still startle me, even though I know what she’s saying.

  “I’ll get a haircut,” I tell her. “I’ll even shave.”

  But as she shakes her head, I know it’s more than that. That physical neglect cuts deeper than just skin, that everything about me reeks of failure.

  “So when are you going? To see the girl? In a prison, is she?”

  “No. Actually she’s not. That’s another thing. She took an overdose. She’s on life support.”

  Clara looks at me as if I’m insane. “So you’re going back to do the job you hated to defend an old girlfriend who’s killed someone then tried to kill herself.”

  “It’s not like that,” I tell her obstinately, irked that she’s read between the lines.

  * * *

  Having extracted what she wants from me, Clara doesn’t stay long. Pouring another whisky, I take it into my office, where I power up my laptop and look up the address of the hospital where April was taken. Then I go upstairs and run a bath, and in the glare of the lightbulb above the mirror scrutinize my appearance, forced to see myself through Clara’s eyes. It’s far worse than I’d thought. I knew my hair needed cutting, but as I examine my reflection, I realize I’ve aged, my eyes dulled and skin puffy, the appearance of sharp cheekbones making me gaunt. All the more shocking, because until now I hadn’t noticed.

  I pack enough clothes for a few days, including my suit, before deciding that with a long drive ahead of me in the morning I should probably have an early night. I’m suddenly tired just at the thought of it.

  Only my mind is too wired, sleep impossible. I toss and turn, restless, listening to the bark of a fox, then a lone owl and the last, bloodcurdling death throes of its prey, until in the early hours, eventually my eyes close.

  But even when it comes, sleep brings no relief and I’m flung into a vivid dream of a burning woman, her dark shape featureless, her face silhouetted against an orange sky. In the midst of the flames, she’s holding something out to me.

  “This is my gift,” she keeps saying over and over, her voice urgent, as she thrusts what she’s holding toward me.

  But each time I reach to take it, the flames force me back. In the end, I’m forced to watch, powerless, as the fire consumes her, only realizing when I awaken, my heart pounding and my skin coated in sweat. She never told me what it was.

  7

  1995

  “Man, I need to get out of this dump.” Will was prone to exaggerating. He’d already packed, leaving his large bedroom empty except for the pile of boxes and suitcases. I was putting off my own packing as long as possible, but then I wasn’t leaving for another week. I felt exactly as he did, though. Since my father had died, my mother’s anxious, neurotic ways were driving me mad.

  “You’ll miss having your meals cooked for you,” I reminded him. “And your washing done . . .”

  “I won’t. I’ll be too busy partying and schmoozing with all those girls. . . .” Will closed his eyes and sighed lasciviously. “Maybe I’ll find one who can cook.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. Students are all rabid women’s libbers,” I warned him, thinking he was going to be disappointed. “Pub? Or is that too boring for a budding Cambridge student such as yourself? Remind me, why are we both committing to some of the most complicated subjects known to man?”

  “So we’ll be rich and famous. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  We walked the half mile to the North Star, with the easy self-centeredness of being eighteen years old and on the brink of breaking away—from loving, but nevertheless constraining parents on Will’s part, and on mine, from my increasingly overanxious mother.

  “This is it, mate.” Will couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice. “After this, it all changes. I know we’ll come back, but we’ll have our own places. No one looking o
ver us. And girls, think of all the girls. . . .” He held up his hands to the heavens and pretended to sink to his knees.

  Bizarrely, while I seemed caught in a stage of perpetual lankiness, Will had grown from a short, spotty kid into a babe magnet, but then Will had never lacked confidence. Even round here, he was never short of female attention, though his activities were somewhat inhibited by living at home. But all that, he was convinced, was about to change.

  “It probably won’t be quite how you’re imagining,” I told him, as we walked up the steps.

  “It probably will.” He pushed the door open and I followed him in.

  I was going to miss him—for about a week—until I headed off, too, to Bristol.

  “There’ll be lectures,” I reminded him. “And you’ll have competition. There’ll be other guys hanging around. . . .”

  “Yeah, but none with my charm and charisma. Watch and learn, buddy. Watch and learn.”

  He ambled over to the bar, where a blond-haired girl stood with her back to us, buying a drink. I watched as he exchanged a few words, his head bent toward her. I didn’t need to see his face to picture the self-deprecating smile that girls seemed to find irresistible; the seemingly instant fascination with them he adopted, as if they were the only girl in the world. He knew all the tricks. I was still watching, a little enviously, when, from behind me, I heard my name.

  “Noah?”

  As I turned round, I felt the smile plastered on my face, even before I saw her.

  “April! I don’t believe it!”

  So many times, I’d dreamed of such a moment. Struck by adolescent clumsiness, I felt the years peel away. Three years to be precise, since I’d last seen her. I didn’t know what to say. I just looked at her, dumbstruck. Still lovely, her hair in long, red waves down her back, her eyes lit by secrets.

  “You look . . .” She paused, her eyes teasing as she looked at me.

  “Taller?” I said it jokingly; hopefully, too, wanting her not to remember the awkward schoolboy, and instead see someone altogether more worthy of her. Then as we stood there, in seconds, it was back. The old magic, its tendrils tightening around my heart.