Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  During dinner, he was more shocked to discover, late into the dessert, that she and her husband, Adriano, were now separated. He didn’t see that one coming. Agnes explained, awkwardly, that they had slowly drifted apart over the years. Their relationship was still strong, for the sake of their only child, but they were more like brother and sister these days. She still retained the gallery and workshop, and lived in the apartment above. He helped on a part-time basis. Life carried on, she insisted.

  He detected an embarrassment in her demeanour, which was natural in the circumstances. He just wished he had shaved a little more carefully earlier and felt a little grubby with his choice of clothes, which he had largely just slung together. This was not normally his style. He never suspected that he had strong feelings for Agnes, but sitting here in the little restaurant and seeing the ambient lighting softly catch her face, he just knew that he had to be careful not to make a fool of himself. He was hopeless at reading the so-called signals between the sexes but… there was something there. He just had to play safe. He’d had enough passion and lust in his previous relationship to last a lifetime, and that nearly destroyed him. Agnes was sweet and endearing and he didn’t want to hurt her or misread their close friendship. He could fantasise about his cravings for her but in reality he wasn’t prepared to cross the boundaries and lose her friendship. It didn’t help that she often stretched out her hand longingly to his.

  Then she asked: ‘How are you and Adele?’

  ‘I think you already know the answer to that question…’

  ‘I didn’t want to be so forward…’

  ‘We are divorced.’

  ‘Do you still see her?’

  ‘It’s finished.’

  He detected a hidden smile flicker across her face.

  ‘Is she with anyone?’

  ‘Johnny…I think you met him once.’

  ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘Who knows? Good riddance to the both of them.’

  Agnes put her hand to her mouth, and muttered, ‘I’m sorry I shouldn’t – what do you say in England – pry?’

  ‘Adele wanted to destroy me. She failed.’

  He refilled their glasses. An awkwardness sat between them.

  Then he said sharply, ‘This is how it happened.’

  They drunk more wine and over time he revealed painfully the terrible events that had shaped his life over the preceding months. He just had to tell her about his all-consuming battle with Adele and the intense relationship with Lauren. Both had damaged him to the core. His history of guilt carried a serious excess baggage allowance warning. He wanted to be honest with her. It didn’t make for a romantic interlude.

  Agnes was horrified by the catalogue of disasters, and this he noted was a genuine reaction to his deliberately diluted version of events, which touched him deeply. She wouldn’t be able to take the full version. That would nullify any respect that she had for him. She wasn’t as strong as Terry, he guessed, a man who could handle anything however depraved. He dealt with human failings every working day. It came with the territory.

  Michael felt the need to change the subject. It was all getting too heavy. He idly mentioned the need to appraise the works of art in Theo’s newly acquired house, omitting to tell her of the impending row that was about to erupt with his mysterious client. She was intrigued enough and agreed to meet up with him on his proposed journey to Venice to help form an inventory of sale, for a fee to be agreed, of course. At this stage, he also decided to conceal the so-called hidden masterpiece from her, which was always his intention. That transaction was between him and Theo. And in the meantime, he would have to speak with Theo to settle their differences. The deal could easily implode, as it probably had already. He was still hopping mad with the abuse thrown at Gemma. The guy was a rattlesnake.

  He checked the time and was stunned to discover they had been in the restaurant for over four hours. Agnes excused herself and Michael noticed that she had applied fresh lipstick on her return from the powder room. They finished with a cognac for him and a Bailey’s on ice for her. Agnes insisted on settling the bill. This was a woman he was seriously falling for.

  He felt light-headed walking back in the direction of his apartment, arm in arm, and still chatting nonstop to her. It felt great, but surreal. He had no idea where they were heading. He looked for a bar. They passed close to a hotel near Jermyn Street. Then she stopped abruptly.

  ‘This is me’ she said, hovering outside the revolving doors.

  ‘Oh,’ he replied, halting in his tracks. He felt like a complete prat, his jaw aquiver.

  ‘Can we get together tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d like that, Michael.’

  Signals. ‘Right…right…tomorrow it will be.’

  Neither of them moved.

  Bashfully, she suggested: ‘Would you care to come in?’

  Oddly, she turned and pointed upwards rather than in, beyond the grand entrance. It took him a few seconds to twig.

  He fumbled a response. ‘Well, yes…’

  ‘Then that’s where we’ll go,’ she whispered, taking his hand.

  And that’s exactly where they went. Straight to her room: all night long.

  ***

  Seeing Agnes asleep, lying naked beside him, he could scarcely believe it. He marvelled as the mellow dawn light slowly crept through the window slats and bathed her flawless skin in alternating parallel patterns, reminiscent of a glossy photoshoot in a fashion magazine. He kissed her shoulder, then her dry mouth and she murmured softly. This was all too soon but he wished for it to never end. He now had a better grasp on the signals, but was so grateful to be led like a child to his first day at school. He knew how it worked of course but still he was nervous of the expectation but delighted with the outcome. Agnes had brought him home. They showered together, and later had warm croissants and freshly squeezed orange juice in the Terrace Breakfast Bar on the first floor of the hotel. They sat in companionable silence, their eyes firmly fixed upon each other, as if devouring this precious moment…and the night they just had.

  ‘Any regrets?’ she asked, finally.

  He smiled, and whispered: ‘Absolutely none.’

  ***

  It was her idea to take the train to Brighton for the day, just the two of them. It was a mad, impulsive gesture and she loved it that he responded so enthusiastically.

  It was sunny and sharp as they ambled along the seafront wrapped in each other’s arms. Later, they took tea and scones in a café overlooking the seafront and then picked their way through the tiny antique and book shops which occupied The Lanes, a fashionable area for locals, tourists…and lovers.

  It was a great day, with a great woman, Michael concluded. They still had several hours to enjoy together before her flight home. His mobile interrupted his thoughts, momentarily. He anticipated a call from Theo. Instead, it was Nick, the concierge at the apartments where he lived on Chelsea Harbour. A rare occurrence, he had to concede.

  ‘What’s the problem, Nick?’ Michael asked cagily. He stood on the pebbled beach, gulls encircling his head, the busy promenade glistening in the sunlight. Agnes walked ahead, turning her head in his direction every now and again. He thought of her naked body and then came back to earth as the conversation kicked in.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Strange, I wouldn’t normally bother you.’

  Michael knew the reference to his surname made this an official call. Normally they were on Christian name terms.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he insisted.

  ‘I’ve had to gain access to your apartment. The washing machine from one of the flats above leaked water and flooded your kitchen.’

  ‘Let me guess…Ms Byrne?’

  ‘The very one. She informed me of the situation and luckily we rectified the problem and stopped more damage occurring. I’ve had the maintenance team over and they’ve cleaned up. It could have been a disaster but everything is back to normal, just a little damp patch on the ceiling.’

>   ‘Have the electrics been affected?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thanks Nick, for acting so promptly.’

  ‘No probs. Didn’t want you to come home and find mess and stuff, and thought that someone had snooped around your property.’

  ‘Appreciate the call. Has the washing machine been replaced?’

  ‘Yeah, they came down afterwards and inspected the damage and offered to pay for any repairs, but it’s cosmetic as we acted so promptly. When are you back in London?’

  ‘Tonight, if everything goes smoothly.’

  ‘See you then, sorry to bring bad news.’

  ‘Perhaps you could just keep an eye out in case of lightning striking twice…’

  ‘Will do.’

  Michael clicked off and slowly walked in the direction of the woman who waved back at him from further down the beach: The crazy Italian woman with the radiant smile.

  Inexplicably, Nick’s words re-entered his thoughts, and spoilt the moment. Something in their conversation nagged at him, but he couldn’t think what.

  ***

  Terry re-read his notes and listened to Michael’s confession over and over, trying to form the basis of his magazine piece, which would run to six pages of text. This was a big story, the first to hit the headlines since the daily tabloids eased down on the initial explosion of interest at the time of the fire. The death of a mysterious and alluring woman in suspicious circumstances hogged the front pages for several weeks.

  Michael weathered the first storm, Terry concluded, mainly because the police were complicit in protecting the real identity of Lauren O’Neill. She had a brutal past, one that the authorities wanted to keep hidden. The media soon uncovered the truth. Now the gloves were off again. How would his friend react to this latest and more intimate portrayal? After hearing every gruesome detail, he realised that he had a truly sensational story to rival any of the most notorious ones of the past fifty years. Christ, he could write a four hundred page book on all this debauchery. There were lies and then these lies. How could Michael sleep at night? How did he live with this shame?

  Terry made a decision. Straight from the off, he elected to put the blame squarely at the feet of the sisters of doom. This way he could protect his friend but, more to the point, shield both Kara and Marcus, who now had a baby boy to look after. This was Michael’s wish, but he had stressed that Terry could throw the book at him if this then had the desired effect in cushioning the lives of the two young parents. Pull every trick in the book, he asked. After all, Michael had explained, what was the worst that could happen to him? The worst had already happened. He could then simply retire from life and bury himself in solitude and drink. Not a bad compromise, he argued.

  Terry saw it differently. The Press could and would crucify Michael if he, as a journalist, didn’t do his job correctly. He needed to balance the story, but at the same time making his friend the real victim. If he left gaping holes in the testimonies of those involved then they would be buried up to their necks by those in the business who knew how to use spades. It took one to know one.

  This intrepid journalist was ahead of the game, but only just. So far, the tabloids had tired of the story, after the initial impact, simply because the police had hastily closed the case. However, his editor-in-chief smelt a rat in the works, and was convinced there was a huge scandal to unearth. After hearing what Michael had to say, she was right. This story – a powder keg – would explode and circle the globe with its dynamic release.

  Knowing this, Terry wanted to tread very carefully. Hence, his need for two versions: the truth and the near-truth. He had spoken to the main protagonist. He had visited Laburnum Farm. He had read all the news stories from the other national tabloids, watched the TV coverage at the time from the library archives and had gained access to some (but not all) of the police files from an unnamed source from within his trusted circle. Ideally, he wished to interview Kara and Marcus and Julius Gray and his girlfriend, Antonia. Would they all cooperate on his terms? Would Michael smooth the path clear for him to do his job properly? Or would they recoil from him…this persistent man with the awkward questions?

  Michael had been adamant that Kara and her boyfriend should be protected…but they held the key, without a shadow of doubt. Marcus was a mystery to him: what did he have to hide? And what of Julius, the oddball artist, the boy wonder with the golden touch…a naïve boy who became a husband who then sought revenge against the woman he once loved…the devil incarnate, Lauren O’Neill. This was the same man who also managed to manipulate all those around him, including Michael. He was a clever one, dictating events from the sidelines, keeping his hands clean while Michael and Kara were sucked into danger.

  Terry tried to picture Lauren. What would he have made of her if she was still alive? She was indeed a master without equal when she was alive. A woman with a corrupt heart, a black heart. Only Maggie, her sister, could control her unrepentant rage and bring her back down to earth where she would simmer for a while, hiding behind one of her many crazy split-personalities. This calm before the storm lasted for only so long, though. Then the volcano would erupt again, her wrath cascading down like burning hot lava on the pathetic sinners who dared to cross her path. Against the odds, he calculated, his friend was one of the lucky few to survive this maelstrom of wickedness.

  And finally there was Maggie. With her sister now dead, it was she who carried the threat of revenge upon all of their lives. Was this her only motive? Could Terry believe in this portrait of a killer, painted in graphic detail by Michael, a man who by his own admission was bordering on the insane at that time? Was Maggie real or a figment of Michael’s imagination? Who could Terry trust in his quest for the truth? Could he track Maggie down, assuming Michael was correct in his assumption that she was stalking him in London and hell-bent on wanton destruction?

  His head pounded. After examining all the information he had at his disposal, certain issues began to gnaw at him. For instance, how did the fire really start at the barn? Michael said (and the police corroborated on this in all their statements), that it was an accidental fire, started when an oil lamp toppled over as Bruno, the dog, went berserk. This seemed reasonable, but the fire department suggested that the seat of the fire ignited at the far end of the barn, where Marcus stood after he had gained entry from the secret tunnel which led from the main house. Surely the lamp would have been in the middle of the barn, where Lauren held Kara captive? And if the fire had originated at this point, then it would have stopped Marcus escaping by this route, especially as the fireball was sudden and fearsome. This led Terry to agree with the theory that the inferno started behind where Marcus stood. How could this be so? If this was the case, what really happened and what were they all hiding? Had Marcus started the fire deliberately…and if so, was he therefore responsible for the death of Lauren? Was this the real reason for Michael’s insistence on protecting this young man?

  The Coroner’s verdict was ‘death by misadventure’. The police file was unofficially closed. The only issue unresolved was which sister perished, as forensic evidence was inconclusive. Michael was convinced that Maggie had escaped. He swore by it, insisting that he saw Lauren succumb to the flames, hit by a blazing roof timber. This image still haunted him, he confided to Terry. But how could he be so positive as to which sister fell, with thick, toxic smoke hindering his view? Marcus, in the mayhem, told the inquest that could not recall this fateful moment with any real clarity, concentrating instead on saving Michael from inevitable death. It was only afterwards, dragging themselves to safety, that they all understood that the barn had become a tomb. All that mattered was that the three of them (Kara included) were alive and out of harm’s way.

  Terry tried to imagine the utter chaos and panic during these vital seconds. He had visited the farm and saw first-hand the devastation. Oddly, Marcus and Kara stuck to their stories, word for word, according to police files. Almost as if they had rehearsed their version of events, rathe
r like the actors learning their lines from a script. It was too contrived. But did it really matter? Nothing would bring Lauren back from the dead.

  But there was something that didn’t quite add up, according to Terry, as he reworked the testimonies and tried to analyse the chain of events. If Maggie had escaped, where did she go? More importantly, how did she flee from the farm? If Michael was to be believed, there was a horde

  of cash and two passports in the bedroom in the main house, which disappeared after Maggie escaped. Had she the presence of mind, while badly wounded, to recover these items? And if so, why would she take both passports, if she was aware that her sister was dead? Also, Maggie had no means of transport, having been collected from Gatwick airport by her sister just days earlier. The vehicle in question was discovered by police still parked up at the house after they arrived on the scene. The police report confirmed this. It was inconceivable that Maggie, wounded and weak, could have picked up the money and somehow ran off across the fields…and to where? The farm was in the middle of nowhere. It was winter. She wouldn’t have got far, unless she had an accomplice. Was this possible? What really happened in those mad and bad seconds which allowed a wounded fugitive to suddenly vanish into thin air?

  Terry deduced that this was an impossibility…unless, unless. Think. There were five people at the barn that day. They were all implicated in the death of one of their number. They were all guilty. It was a miracle that any of them had survived, but four of them did. Now each of them had to face the consequences of their actions, however unpalatable this now seemed.

  They were tortured souls, living with the lies they all told. Beyond that, they had to move on. The evil game they played meant that the final dice had not been thrown. It was payback time. A person or persons unknown had either been in on the plan and was part of the escape or had been innocently drawn in against their better judgment.