by Jeff Keithly
He seemed not to hear me, but turned his haunted gaze to Jane. “I’m so ashamed,” he said. “I’ve hurt you so badly! You never deserved it. You deserved a man who was strong, and good, and knew what he wanted to do with his life! For God’s sake, you at least deserved a husband who knew who he was! I... I wanted to tell you, my darling. I just never had the guts.”
“It’s all right, Bernie,” I said, edging closer. “Why don’t you give me the gun, now. The police are on their way – we don’t want any misunderstandings.”
“I don’t blame you for seeking comfort in Dex’s arms – God knows I’ve wanted to, sometimes. He’s a good man. And you’re an incomparable woman. Forgive me, Jane. You deserved better than me.”
And he raised the gun to his head.
Then Jane was there, walking toward him, nearly naked but calm and unafraid. “Bernie, darling, no,” she said. “Don’t leave me – not like this. I love you, Bernie. I don’t want you to go. It’s me who should be asking your forgiveness. Now don’t be an ass – this won’t solve anything. Give Dex the gun.”
“Jane, I...”
Her voice sharpened. “Don’t argue, Bernie. Give Dex the gun.”
Like one in a dream, Bernie slowly lowered the pistol until it hung limply at his side. I took it from him carefully as Jane rushed into his arms. “Bernie you ass, you ass! What were you thinking?”
“I... don’t know,” I heard him murmur dazedly. “Just seemed like the thing to do.”
Ian lay on his back, eyes open, as if unable to believe the unthinkable tragedy that had, at last, overtaken him. I felt his carotid – no pulse. The blackened bullet-hole under his chin and the spreading pool of blood beneath his head told the story. He’d come here tonight to kill me – I knew that. So why was I crying, sobs wracking my weary shoulders, as all the bitter, earth-shaking grief of his loss a decade or more ago came flooding back?
I felt arms around me then, as both Jane and Bernie forgot their own anguish and tried to comfort me. And that’s how the uniformed boys found us – three grief-stricken people, two of them half-naked, clinging desperately to one another like climbers lost in an Everest blizzard, with a corpse on the floor and a smoking Glock on the table.
Chapter 27
The last time I saw Ian Chalmers, before he vanished from my life in 1994, we’d met for a drink after work, at the Barley Mow in Dorset Street, a cozy old pub with very private booths tucked away in various crannies and crevices. Ian was several pints ahead of me when I arrived, fresh from a particularly sad and disturbing homicide. A pleasant, quiet couple in their 50s, the Healys, had lived for years in a row-house in Nottingham Street, in Marylebone. They’d been married 41 years. Earlier that afternoon, the wife, Beryl, had rung 999 to suggest that it might be a good idea if the police called ‘round. When the operator asked why, Beryl had replied calmly, “Because I’ve killed him.” She then provided her address, brushed her hair, touched up her makeup, and waited placidly next to her rapidly-cooling husband for the police.
It seemed that when Mr. Healy had arrived home for his lunch, Beryl had served him a nice curry laced with enough rat poison to kill a hippopotamus. When I asked her why, she had frowned slightly, a pleasant-looking, grandmotherly woman with an impressive bosom, her soft brown hair now running to grey, as if trying to think of a plausible reason. “I couldn’t stand the way he belched when he ate,” she replied at length.
Ian had absorbed this tale with gloomy concentration. He looked uncharacteristically harried and out of sorts; I could tell there was something weighing on him. “That’s the fascinating thing about relationships, isn’t it, Dex?” he’d said when I finished. “You think you know someone, then boom! One day they turn on you. It’s like you never really knew them at all! And yet, if you never trust anyone, you’ll never be loved in return. And what kind of life is that? Once you’re dead, it’s like you never existed.” He drained his pint, signaled for another. “I hope that, when I’m dead, you, at least, will remember me fondly.”
“No worries, mate. Now tell me – what’s bothering you? You seem a bit gloomy, but perhaps it’s just constipation, or impotence.”
“That obvious, is it?”
“I’m a policeman, Ian – I’m paid to notice things. Anything I can do to help?”
For just a moment, he seemed on the verge of spilling whatever was on his mind. Then he managed a sour grin, and clapped me on the shoulder. “Nah, but thanks for asking. You’ve always been the best of them, do you know that, Dex? I knew the first time I laid eyes on you that there was something special about you. Remember, in that changing-room at school? You’d just given that stuck-up little turd Lord Westbrook a right walloping. I invited you to come out for rugby.”
I raised my glass. “And started me on the road to perdition. I do have a lot to blame you for, don’t I?”
“Let me buy you a drink, to make partial amends,” he said, signaling the barman. “Life’s an uncertain thing, Dex! Who knows? It could be the last we’ll ever have together.”
“In that case,” I said, “better make it a large one.”
And that was the last time I ever saw Ian Chalmers – until the night, a decade or so later, that he came to kill me.
II
I was dozing fitfully next to Brian’s bed, in a chair that apparently had been ordered from Marquis de Sade Hospital Furnishings Ltd., when a croaking voice, like that of Hell’s parched doorman, awakened me. “Christ, you look worse than I feel.”
“God’s balls!” I leapt to my feet. “Brian, you’re awake!”
“I just now woke up. Where the hell am I?”
I turned briefly away to hide the tears that suddenly sprang to my eyes. “University Hospital,” I managed, after a pause. “How d’you feel?”
“Like shit, mate. My head hurts like somebody’s drilled a hole in it.”
“Funny you should say that.”
Brian regarded me speculatively. “They didn’t.”
“No choice. You gave Fee and I quite a turn, I don’t mind telling you now.”
“What happened to me?”
“You were set upon and beaten within an inch of your bloody life. You don’t remember?”
“Last thing I remember is walking down the Charing Cross Road, chatting to you on the mobile, about... what were we talking about?”
“The Weathersby case.”
“Right. And after that, it’s all a blank until I woke up here. What’s the date? How long have I been out?”
“Six days. Today’s the 17 of November.”
“Six days? JESUS CHRIST!” A pause, and Brian raised his uninjured hand shakily to his brow. “Oooh – shouldn’t have done that. Six days! Fancy that. No wonder I’m famished. Who was it attacked me?”
“Four teenaged thugs. They were paid to thrash you. They’re behind bars even as we speak, repenting their sins.”
“Paid to attack me.” Brian paused to take inventory -- bandaged head, stitches in his forehead, right arm in a cast to the armpit, left leg in a cast, broken ribs bound up, assorted abrasions, cuts and contusions. “They earned their money, I’ll give them that. I take it they were being paid by the blow. But by whom?”
“Do you remember anything about the conversation we were having when you were attacked?”
Brian frowned painfully. “Is there any water? I’m parched.” I found a pitcher, poured a glass and helped him drink. “Thanks, Dex. I remember snatches. Bits and pieces. I remember I’d just been to see... Devilliers. One of the boys in Computer Crime... Graves... had tapped into Devilliers’ computer. He found...” Brian trailed off.
“You told me you knew who killed Weathersby – that you’d solved the case. But you wouldn’t tell me who it was, you bastard! We were going to meet for a pint so you could tell me all about it.”
Brian closed his eyes in an agony of concentration. Then, abruptly, they snapped open. “Chalmers!” he rasped. “It was Chalmers, Dex! I remember now! Graves found an email... D
ex, he’s alive! Chalmers is alive!”
“Not anymore, Brian.” And I filled him in on the events of the last few days.
“Oh, sweet Jesus and Mary,” he said when I’d finished. “You poor bastard. He was your mate, wasn’t he?”
I nodded, feeling the anguish of it afresh, like heat to a new burn. “Like a brother.”
“But he was going to kill you?”
“Oh, yes. And Jane. And Bernie. And make it look like Bernie did it, in a jealous, drunken rage.”
“And I’d have been next – a pillow over the face, or an injection of air.”
I nodded again. “In all likelihood. Devilliers too, perhaps. Then Ian’s secret would’ve been safe forever.”
“And Jane? How did she happen to be there?”
I told him about Jane and me. I wanted no secrets between us. Not anymore.
“Well,” he said, not quite knowing what to say. “I’m shocked and appalled, in case Fee asks. Just between you and me, having seen her, I don’t think I could’ve resisted her either. Is this going to be a permanent arrangement, then?”
“I hope so,” I replied. “I’d like it to be, but it’s up to her. I’m meeting her in half an hour – guess I’ll find out then. And now...” I went to the bedside phone, punched in a number, and held the receiver to Brian’s ear, “there’s someone you need to talk to more than me.”
“Hullo, gorgeous,” Brian croaked. “Send the kids to your sisters and peel off your knickers – I’m coming home!” I pretended not to notice the tears running in rivers into his beard.
III
Jane had asked me to meet her in the bar at the Park Hotel – the very place our affair had begun so many years ago. I hadn’t seen her since that terrible night in my flat, though we had spoken often and affectionately on the phone. She was sipping a gimlet when I arrived; she rose and kissed me softly. “Hullo, Dex,” she smiled. “I like to come here sometimes, you see. To think about that thrilling night 15 years ago, when we first...” she trailed off.
I felt an awkwardness between us, a constraint that hadn’t been there two nights ago. Then, talking to her had seemed the easiest and most natural thing in the world. Now I sensed wariness in her, saw something in her warm brown eyes that gave me pause. “How’s Bernie?” I asked at length.
“Oh, you know. On the mend. At times he seems the Bernie of old. But it’s going to take time. All of the press coverage isn’t helping.”
“And how’s Jane?” I asked quietly, taking her hand.
“Muddled, Dex, to be honest.” She gave me a tremulous smile. “I love you – I’m clear on that. But you saw Bernie the other night. He was going to... Dex, I just don’t know what to do anymore.”
I’d be the first to tell you that I’m a mess, romantically – unable to commit unreservedly, distant, wary, emotionally stunted. But now, for once in my life, I knew I had to consign caution to the crapper. I took Jane’s other hand, and pulled her around to look me in the face.
“I’ll tell you what to do, then. All my life I’ve done good deeds for other people – opening doors for old ladies, punching sadistic bastards on the rugby pitch, putting criminals in prison. And what’s it got me? It seems to me that, here lately, every time I do someone a good turn, fate gives me one in the knackers. Fair enough, I’m a big boy, I can take it. But I’m through with doing the honorable thing.”
I took a deep breath. “I’ve always been honest with you, Jane. So I’m going to tell you the God’s honest truth – I love you. I love you, beyond dreaming and hope. I love the way the morning sun looks in your hair. I love the music of your laughter. I love coming home and smelling your perfume, and the delicious anticipation of knowing you’ll be waiting there for me. I love the way you reach out and touch me while we’re reading, or watching the telly, or talking. I love your tender heart, even though I know it’s the reason I’m going to lose you again.” I paused, for there were tears in her eyes now. “I am going to lose you, aren’t I?”
She threw her arms around my neck, sobbing like Eve as the gates of paradise closed behind her, hot tears soaking my shirt. I just held her, and stroked her lovely curly hair, knowing in my too-weary heart that it was, in all likelihood, for the very last time. Finally she drew back, that heartbreak face red, tear-tracked and swollen. All she could do was nod mutely.
“Why?” I asked. “I’ve waited so long for you, Jane. Can’t you find a little pity for me as well?”
“You’re the strong one, Dex! You saw what Bernie did the other night. His only brother has disowned him – saw the report on the news and called to say he never wanted to see Bernie again. He’s the only family Bernie’s got! If I leave him now, he’ll be all alone! I’m afraid he’ll kill himself – maybe not with a bullet to the head, but more slowly, with drink! I just can’t have that on my conscience. I’ve got to get him settled first. Then I can come back to you.”
“Jane,” I said, as gently as I could. “If someone’s going to kill themselves with drink, there’s nothing you can do. They have to want to live!”
”I know,” she said fiercely. “I know that’s true, Dex! But I can’t give him another reason to want to die!”
There was a weighty sense of finality about that. Still, I had to try. I had to. “I need you too,” I said. “For 15 years I’ve been waiting for you to come to your senses. I know it’s pathetic, but since the night we met here, in this bar, I’ve never loved anyone but you. I’m begging you. Don’t go.”
She kissed me then, tenderly, and with such emotion, that I dared to dream, for one brief moment, that hope, true love and passion had triumphed over guilt, and fate, and the weary weight of obligation. And then she put her hands on my biceps, and pushed herself away.
“I’m so sorry, Dex. I just can’t leave him. Not now.” And then fell the heaviest blow of all. “We’re emigrating to New Zealand. To get away from the paparazzi – they’ve been so horrible.”
“New Zealand,” I murmured, like a man in a dream.
She rose. “I’ll call you when I get settled. And some day, some day soon...”
I rose too. “You’ll love New Zealand. It’s green, and quiet, with lots of exotic flowers. You’ll be right at home, there. Goodbye, my love.” And then I left, before I could wound her further.
Chapter 28
And so the Hastewicke Gentlemen, the only rugby club I’d ever known, were no more. And Jane was gone as well, far away and over the sea, never to return. I contemplated a future without either of the great loves of my life, and realized, with sudden chilling clarity, what a cold and monochromatic place the world could be.
The long night, alone in my flat, loomed before me. I started to ring Brian, out of habit, then remembered and clicked off the phone. Instead I stirred up a bite to eat. But the food tasted like jersey-fabric; I should know. I went to my bookshelves, took down The Pickwick Papers, but even the droll adventures of Sam Weller, Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Winkle and the Fat Boy failed to cheer me.
I suddenly remembered it was music night at my local pub, the Old White Beare. Perhaps a pint, and an hour or so of merry tunes, would set me right. I slipped on a leather jacket and wandered down.
The Beare was crowded tonight; I squeezed in at the bar and ordered Sam Smith’s from the oak. The comforting hiss of the hand-pump was barely audible over the raucous growl of an old Pogues tune, emanating from the tiny bandstand in the corner. Celtic tonight, it would appear. The song ended, and most of the band left the stage. A single musician remained, seated on a stool, head bowed over his instrument. Suddenly the haunting moan of the Uilleann bagpipes, so much sweeter than their Highland counterparts, wafted over the room, keening of unsustainable grief and bitter loss, in perfect harmony with my own bleak mood.
Then the piper raised his head, eyes closed, lost in his wordless tale of heart-squeezing melancholy. It was Mick Ryan, Artemis Paul’s onetime leg-breaker, the bellows strapped to his arm, playing the pipes with great concentration. Then his eyes opened
, and he noticed me, and nodded. When the lament mourned eerily to a close, the band took a break, and he wandered over.
“Great tune. Stood the hairs up on the back of my neck.”
“Thanks. It’s one I wrote. Is that for me?” He indicated the second pint at my elbow. I nodded. “Cheers. It’s thirsty work.”
“I’ve heard the Irish pipes are the hardest instrument to learn in all of music. Is that true?”
Mick shrugged. “I’ve practiced every day for the past 20 years. Another 20, and I might scratch the surface of what they can give me.”
Mick set down his pint, shot me a speculative glance. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if unsure how to proceed. “Listen, I just wanted to tell you something. I’m not gay.”
“I know. Never thought you were. Never thought it mattered. We all do what we have to do to survive.”
He gave a satisfied nod; that cleared that up, then. “You still playin’?”
“What, rugby? Not lately.” And, with nothing better to do, I wasted fifteen minutes of his time, and told him the whole sordid tale. “And so the Hastewicke Gentlemen are now but a memory. I know one thing for sure. If I ever play again, I’ll be a lot better-behaved on tour.”
“Nah.” He grinned. “You won’t. That’s the glory of the game, isn’t it? It’s all about trust. After all, if you can’t trust your rugby mates, who can you trust?”
Mick signaled the barman for two more of the same. “Why not join us, then?”
“Who? Your band?”
“Christ no – I’ve heard you sing at drink-ups. The London Celtic Gentlemen, of course. Our open-side flanker’s just about ready to hang it up – got two bad knees and a hietal hernia. Not worth a damn on the pitch, really, but we keep him around for his fine tenor voice. You should hear him sing ‘The Balls of O’Leary.’ Bring tears to your eyes.”
