Chapter 17
‘WAKE UP, SPORT.’
Nick, in depths black and heavy, senses obliterated by sleep, brain obliterated by chemicals legal but plentifully administered, heard the voice at the far end of an echoing tunnel.
‘Nick, come on. Wakey-wakey.’
Someone was gripping Nick’s shoulder, shaking it gently but relentlessly. Focusing on this sensation he used it to haul himself into the light.
It was Mel. Nick closed his eyes again and began to examine the messages his waking body was sending him. None of them was pleasant.
‘It’s three,’ Mel announced. ‘David’s arrived. And the lawyer.’
Three. It took him a moment to realize it was afternoon. He felt a moment’s resentment for not having been woken earlier, then remembered that it had been ten that morning before he had finally slept.
He muttered: ‘I’ll be down.’ When Mel had gone he swung his feet to the floor and waited for his brain to catch up with his body. A nightmare still racketed round the edges of his mind and it was a moment before he was able to shake himself free of it. The half consciousness between sleep and waking was always the worst, worse even than jerking awake in the night, heart pounding, or lying with no hope of sleep, listening to the wailing of the wind.
He took a shower, dressed and went downstairs unshaven.
Mrs Alton was in the kitchen, looking flustered. She had risen to the challenge of preparing ready-to-heat food for all-night rehearsals, but she had not quite adjusted to finding Mel and Joe frying steak and chips at seven in the morning. ‘Would you like something?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Coffee and toast, please, Mrs Alton.’
On his way across the hall he saw the envelope propped against a vase on the side table. It was marked urgent, in large letters. He scooped it up and carried it into the drawing room.
He found David and the lawyer either side of a roaring fire. David was sitting in a wing chair with Mrs Alton’s full afternoon tea, complete with silver service, on a table in front of him. He had a scone half-way to his mouth but, on seeing Nick, put it down.
‘How are you, Nick?’ His expression was a blend of concern and faint alarm, and Nick realized that he was reading the full spectrum of bad news into his unshaven bleary-eyed appearance.
The lawyer rose from the seat opposite. He was a Glasgow solicitor called Bennett, a mousy little man with a mild manner and soft deferential voice which concealed a sharp mind.
‘I was wondering if you’d given any more thought to what I suggested?’ Bennett said as soon they were sitting down. ‘It’s rather late in the day but, given the circumstances, I’m sure we would find favourable consideration.’
Nick lit a cigarette and said nothing. He’d become adept at silences.
‘The inquiry will be exactly what it says it is,’ Bennett continued in patient tones. ‘That is, a public enquiry. The press will not miss a moment, Mr Mackenzie, and if there’s anything’ – he paused to choose his words – ‘if there’s anything worth reporting – well, they will be bound to use it. It will all be very exposed. Very trying for you.’ He paused then, getting no response, continued: ‘I’ve been looking into precedents and it is perfectly possible that the Lord Advocate might consider withdrawing his recommendation for an inquiry, even at this late stage, since it was you yourself who pressed for it. I don’t think he will take much convincing that, despite everything, it is not after all a matter of public interest and concern.’ He looked across to David as if for support. ‘Then the whole matter could be left to rest, Mr Mackenzie. In peace, one might say.’
They had been over all this before, Nick thought with bemusement. Perhaps Bennett hadn’t listened properly when they’d first discussed it – when was it? A month ago? Two months? Last week? Time had become strangely elastic and shapeless, until whole images were wiped out or transposed. But he could see this particular scene all right: they had been in this room, the two of them, the fire burning brightly in the cavernous fireplace, Bennett sitting on the settee, Nick where David was now. Nick had explained it to him, carefully, at length. Bennett had argued, Nick had held his ground. In those weeks immediately after the accident he had felt a curious energy, he remembered, an extraordinary clarity of mind which had carried him forward, allowing him to tackle things in the most minute detail; he had even garnered an odd sort of pleasure in getting everything done in the correct and proper manner – in the way Alusha would have approved. Her presence had had form then; a bright living speaking thing. It was different now. Her face was fading. He could no longer see it clearly, could no longer hear her voice.
‘It’s not as if the inquiry would have gone ahead without ourselves specifically requesting it,’ Bennett repeated, giving it one last shot. ‘It’s not as if the Lord Advocate had recommended it off his own bat, so to speak.’ Casting an appraising look at Nick, he gathered himself to approach from another tack. ‘What concerns me,’ he began carefully, ‘is the ambiguities that are bound to creep in, the ones I outlined to you.’
‘Ambiguities?’
‘Concerning the manner of your wife’s illness. The differences of opinion. The uncertainties. Would you not agree that they might be best avoided? They could be very – disturbing for you.’
Nick roused himself to an argument for which he had little enthusiasm. ‘But the evidence from the Boston man. There’s no ambiguity there.’
Bennett dropped his head briefly over his clasped hands. ‘I have to say as I’ve said before, Mr Mackenzie, that I believe it would be unwise to put too much reliance on Gravely’s affidavit. Being an alternative practitioner, his opinion will not be viewed in the same light as an orthodox practitioner’s. His views may well be – how shall I say? – put into question. And not being present in person, he won’t be able to defend those views. It would be a different matter if we had some other opinion or opinions to back him up. Like those of a toxicologist, for example. Without what one might call hard evidence it is going to be almost impossible to establish our theory.’ He broke off as Mrs Alton came into the room and put a tray of coffee and toast beside Nick. ‘Of course there’s always an adjournment,’ he continued when the door had closed again. ‘I am not sure whether the Lord Advocate would be persuaded to consider such a thing at this late stage, but I could but try. And given some extra time, then perhaps we could renew our enquiries among the toxicologists …’
He left the suggestion hanging hopefully in the air.
Nick drew on his cigarette and fiddled with the unfilled coffee cup at his side. ‘No. No … I don’t want a delay. No delay.’
There was a silence. Bennett clasped his hands more tightly and drew breath. ‘The procurator fiscal’s finding – is it that which concerns you, Mr Mackenzie? Is it that which you feel must not be allowed to rest?’
Hardly trusting himself to speak, Nick said: ‘Well, of course, of course it is! What d’you expect me to feel when it’s wrong! Wrong and dangerous.’
‘It’s natural that you should be upset, anyone would be. It’s always hard to accept something like that …’
‘She didn’t kill herself.’ The quietness of his voice did not conceal its tension.
‘No, no. I accept that, Mr Mackenzie …’ Bennett used a kindly, humouring tone. ‘… But since the finding was not published, since the procurator fiscal’s finding – erroneous though it may be – is to all intents and purpose a private matter, can the whole business not be put behind you?’
‘No.’
‘Mr Mackenzie, sometimes grief … the emotions … can colour our better judgement.’
‘No.’
Nick was suddenly gripped by such a wave of despair and confusion that he had to get up and stand at the window until he regained the ability to speak. He longed for an enormous drink, a great big golden Scotch, just like the one he’d had yesterday at about this time and had followed with regular top-ups through the night. But he couldn’t bring himself to go openly to the drinks tro
lley, not with David in the room. Already he could feel David’s eagle eye on him, sizing up the situation, wondering whether he’d succumbed.
Bennett cleared his throat. ‘Even allowing for your very admirable wish that nothing like this should be permitted to happen again, I am concerned that the inquiry will fail to deliver the appropriate sort of warning. I am concerned that the wrong message will come through, that you will be disappointed.’
David appeared briefly at Nick’s elbow and pushed a cup of coffee into his hand. Nick stared at it for a moment before nodding his thanks and draining the cup in one gulp. He stared out into the park, towards the wide spread of one of the larger cedars, its branches unbalanced by the loss of a lower limb in a winter gale. At some point he had meant to ask Duncan to prop up some of the more fragile branches, but could no longer remember if he’d ever got round to it. This memory, like so many of the recent and not so recent past, was lost in a haze that seemed to have invaded every part of his brain. The worrying thing was not that the fog existed, but that he had developed a strong need for it. Whenever it lifted he had to take steps to bring it back again; drink or Librium usually did the trick or, more effective still, both.
Bennett came back onto old ground. ‘Peace of mind is worth a great deal, Mr Mackenzie.’
Peace of mind? Nick couldn’t begin to imagine what that must feel like.
‘We go ahead,’ he said.
A reproving silence while Bennett regrouped. ‘Just so long as you appreciate that I’ll have very little control over what might come out in court.’
‘What might come out?’ There was a roaring in Nick’s ears, like being under water. ‘What do you mean – what might come out?’
Bennett held up both hands placatingly. ‘I meant merely that we will have no control over the evidence that the procurator fiscal might introduce.’
‘There’s nothing to come out,’ Nick retorted, refusing to be mollified. ‘Except that my wife was half killed by a dangerous chemical, and that’s exactly what I do want to come out!’ Marching up to his chair, he dropped the cup and saucer onto the tray with a clatter. ‘The only thing that can come out is the truth! What did you mean – what might come out? Christ.’
‘The London psychiatrist, Carter …’
‘Just one opinion!’
‘But that will not stop them from introducing the evidence, will it, Mr Mackenzie! It will not stop those sorts of ideas from being discussed in public.’
‘Well, it’ll be your job to stop it, won’t it!’
His anger was senseless, he knew it, senseless and destructive.
‘I’ll do my best, Mr Mackenzie, of that you may be sure.’
Sinking into his chair, Nick rubbed a hand over his eyes, and fighting for equilibrium said in a calmer voice: ‘I accept the risks.’
Bennett reached for his briefcase and said regretfully: ‘Very well.’
David, professional smoother of troubled waters, stepped in and asked Bennett how long he thought the inquiry would last.
Nick’s gaze fell on the envelope that he’d carried in from the hall. He pulled it out from under the tray and, opening it, glanced down the handwritten letter. Daisy Field. There was no date and the envelope bore no post mark. He read the letter grudgingly.
An airfield, an aerial spraying programme. She asked if he’d considered the possibility that it wasn’t Reldane at all, that Alusha had been affected by another substance altogether? There was a boy with similar symptoms, and a couple of other people who might be affected.
He rapidly lost interest. This sounded like the theory of that man Campbell, or a variant of it. The very thought of Campbell caused him to tighten his grip on the paper.
With time and resources we hope to get firm evidence, she wrote. Which meant she had no evidence at all. Just like the Reldane situation: all wishful thinking and wild promises and nothing to back it up.
She finished with an offer to give evidence at the inquiry if he thought that might help. She gave the telephone number of a hotel in Inveraray.
Bennett was getting up. ‘Forgive me for mentioning it, Mr Mackenzie …’ He gestured a slight apology. ‘But tomorrow – a suit and tie might be a good idea.’
Ah, thought Nick, mustn’t have the widowed husband looking degenerate.
Seeing the dangerous gleam in his eye, David interposed: ‘They were rehearsing till six this morning. They’ve only just got up.’
‘Of course,’ Bennett said, with an indulgent smile to show that, as a man of the world, he understood the ways of artists.
Nick showed him to the door, grateful both for an end to the discussion and for the chance to slip upstairs and grab a nip of Scotch.
When he came down again he was revived and anaesthetized, and feeling a little more able to face the day, though this didn’t stop him from needling David at the first opportunity.
David was standing in the hall waiting for him, wearing that mournful, mildly reproachful expression that Nick knew so well. It was the one he’d used in the old days when Nick had done things like falling downstairs and not getting up again.
‘Well?’ Nick demanded defensively.
David looked wide-eyed. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Why’re you looking at me like that? What’s the problem?’
‘There’s no problem, Nick,’ he replied, sounding hurt. ‘There’s never a problem.’
‘I’ve managed to get another three bookings,’ David explained, pouring himself another cup of tea. ‘Chicago, Detroit and Philadelphia. All cancellations from that Rotten Apple tour. Some tight logistics, I’m afraid, but otherwise good.’
‘That’s it then, is it?’
‘Can’t get any more bookings, not at this sort of notice. Lucky to get what we have.’
Nick got up and stood in front of the fire. ‘How many’s that then?’
‘Seven. Start and finish at Madison Square. Well, not quite – actually Detroit will come last.’
Nick stared into the flames. ‘It’s going to work out, is it?’
What did he mean? David took a guess and replied: ‘Sure. The Madison Square dates sold out straight away – I knew they would. We could have filled the Shea Stadium. Well – given more notice we could have. Next time, eh?’
‘The material. It worries me.’
‘In what way?’
‘The new stuff.’
‘What about it?’
‘Not enough.’
‘What – three songs? That’s plenty, Nick, for this sort of gig at least. A major tour – well, that would be different. But with a low-scale comeback like this, most of the fans’ll be coming for the old numbers anyway, you know that.’
Nick shook his head.
‘It’ll be okay, Nick, don’t worry.’
But he was miles away, wearing the sort of look that rang alarm bells deep in David’s memory.
‘I’m booking the European tour, Nick. Is that all right?’
‘What?’
‘I should go ahead, should I?’
Nick pulled himself back from whatever had been detaining him. ‘Sure.’
David thought: Give me signals, Nick. Let me know if you’re going to make it. Let me know if you’re in trouble.
He said: ‘If you’ve any doubts, then you only have to tell me.’
Nick ambled back to his seat. ‘No – fine. Go ahead.’
‘What worries me is the timing, Nick. Will there be enough time to do the album? I worry that you’re taking on too much.’ He thought: I also worry that you won’t be able to deal with it.
‘It’ll keep me out of trouble.’ He grimaced at the platitude.
‘So long as it’s what you want, Nick. So long as it’ll make you happy.’
‘It’s what I want.’ He didn’t sound too sure. In fact it seemed to David’s sinking heart there was an edge of panic in his voice, an underlying appeal, like a child who can’t admit to having made a mistake. Nick had always been stubborn. It was his greatest strength,
and his greatest weakness. But desperate though David was to get an accurate grasp of the situation, this wasn’t the time to press Nick, not on the day before the inquiry.
‘I had an idea,’ David said brightly. ‘How about a one-off gig in London before you start the European tour. A sort of warm-up welcome-back we’re-here date. It’d coincide with the announcement of the UK tour. Great publicity, particularly if it’s a charity do – you know, handshaking with some royals and all in a good cause.’
‘If you think so.’
‘Well, I’ll leave the idea with you, shall I? Then we’ll bounce it off the others. Just thought I’d sound you out first, Nick. You’re the boss.’
But he wasn’t listening. He was staring at the fire, his hands moving relentlessly on the chair arms, a crossed leg swinging frenetically back and forth. David wasn’t surprised when a few moments later he made a show of looking at his watch and, getting up, sidled towards the door in that hesitant way of his. ‘Got to call someone. Have some more tea, David. Make yourself at home.’ He hovered at the door for an instant.
‘Won’t be long.’ Then he was gone. He hadn’t looked David in the eye.
David sank back in his chair, thinking: We’ve been here before, Nick. I recognize the signs.
Booze. Uppers. Downers. All three maybe. What difference did it make? The whole scene was like a rerun. Everyone knew their parts, everyone knew their lines. Everyone knew they had to pretend it wasn’t happening. Everyone hoped it was going to be different but knew it was going to be just the same.
But the ending – that wouldn’t be the same. This time there wasn’t going to be anyone to catch Nick when he fell.
Mrs McKay’s bed-and-breakfast establishment was at the far end of Balinteith, a dark two-storey villa of small proportions but grand design, set back from the road behind a damp garden of tall shrubs. Campbell chose to stay in the car, presumably to nurse his hangover, though Daisy hadn’t enquired too closely about that.
A low gate with a broken latch and a short concrete path led to a porch and a glass-fronted door exhibiting a No Vacancies sign and the badges of two bed-and-breakfast associations. The bell sounded deep in the house and was met by a long silence. The glass door panels were draped with thick lace curtains, as were the windows on either side of the porch, and the whole place had a closed-up air to it, as if the owner had gone away. Daisy was hovering irresolutely on the path, searching the upper windows, when a large woman with a shock of white hair pulled back into an extravagant bun rolled in through the gate, a bulging shopping trolley in tow.
Requiem Page 32
