2007 - The Dead Pool

by Sue Walker; Prefers to remain anonymous

  Ross was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘God, Kirsty! You were always such a soft touch. Just as well you never thought of being a prosecutor. You’d be letting them all off!’

  The comment stung but she let it pass. He wasn’t intending to be offensive. He was just being his usual patronizing, insensitive, infuriating self.

  She shook her head back at him. ‘Just being humane. That’s all.’ You should try itsometime. She accepted another refill and dropped her eyes, toying with the glass.

  ‘Look, Ross. I’m glad you called. Really I am. And I’m glad I’m here. But I don’t want to talk about us tonight. I want to…ask you…something. Something we only touched on at the cemetery. Tell me, what exactly do you think happened to your dad?’ If she couldn’t discuss her meeting with Glen, she could at least try to unearth what Ross was really thinking about the death of his father.

  Ross didn’t react immediately. Instead, he turned away towards the window, seeming absorbed in the blackness of outside. She wondered if he hadn’t heard her. She felt the irrational urge to lean over and touch his arm, check if he was still breathing. Then he inhaled—a loud, deep breath—and turned to face her, full on, his eyes locked on hers.

  ‘I have thought about it. Almost endlessly. And I do have an idea. It’s not one you might want to hear…To find an answer, you need to go back four years. You’ll remember some of that time, I’m sure. Dad’s retirement was the start of it. He had great plans for doing all the things he and Miim hadn’t done because he’d worked so hard all his life. The ‘wonders’ of retirement. Not in his case. The truth…the bitter truth for Dad was something else. The fact is, Mum was happy doing her stuff at home. The garden, reading, her coffee mornings, evening classes, and all the rest of it. All that stuff well-to-do, middle·class older women do. I’m not knocking it. Just stating a fact. Mum didn’t want her life turned upside down by Dad’s retirement plans. And once he recognized this, I think he quickly became disappointed. In short, their marriage worked because they had separate lives.’

  He paused to break eye contact with her, and she thought he’d never seemed so sad, so weary. But within a moment he’d rallied and met her gaze once more.

  ‘It’s an age-old story. Mum’s domestic life was already full and fulfilling. Dad felt a huge gaping hole in his. No work, no business lunches, no client dinners. All that he used to fill his days and nights with had gone. So it didn’t take long for him to start drifting back into the office, ‘on the off chance’. Once or twice at the start was fine. I and some of the more senior partners would take him out for a good lunch. But it wasn’t long after that when he started quizzing me and others about cases, about old clients of his. And thereafter it was one short step to offering ‘advice’. It was a very tricky situation. A bit of a nightmare, frankly.’

  She looked at him, puzzled. ‘Why didn’t I know any of this?’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you, and I freely admit I was a coward. I hadn’t the balls to tell Dad where to get off. One or two of the older partners tried, but it was useless. They were old buddies of Dad’s, still played golf with him. So they botded out. Can’t blame them. In the end it was down to poor old Mum to dish the dirt. And she didn’t pull her punches. I came round for one or two Sunday lunches just after. Dad was depressed. The GP had put him on some tablets.’

  ‘What? Antidepressants?’ This was news to her.

  ‘That’s right. They helped. A bit. Mum had a private word with me about it and asked, insisted, that I didn’t tell you. Dad wouldn’t want it. He’d be embarrassed if you knew. Anyway, the medication worked up to a point. He and Mum were learning to coexist. Donald was helping too. He’d take Dad out, keep him occupied many days of the week. I don’t think Donald cares much for me, but I will say he was good for Dad.’

  She watched Ross momentarily close his eyes, as if composing himself for the next words. ‘And then, out of a clear blue sky, the worst happened. Mum died. Gone. And you know the rest. Well, most of it. Up until you left, that is. To bring you up to date, the last two years have been a nightmare. I believe Dad became mentally ill. He refused to see the GP or take any more tablets. I’m no psychiatrist but I think, in addition to his depression, there was the trauma of sudden bereavement. And there was tetchiness, and paranoia, and—I’m sorry, Kirstin—I think Dad finally got very, very tired of living. And remember, before you remonstrate with me about this, you didnot see him during the last year and a half of his life. I did.’

  She watched as he sank back into the deepest corner of the sofa. What had been a dignified and painfully frank speech had left him clearly exhausted. Ross was right. She had not been around. The Jamie she had known might not have killed himself. But there was another Jamie being described here now. Another Jamie that Donald, Glen and Morag had described to her also. Many Jamies, maybe. But not all of them were bad.

  She shifted her position to lean towards Ross. ‘Donald told me something about Jamie that both surprised and heartened me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah, during the last couple of years before he retired—and for a while afterwards, I think—Jamie was apparently helping some small wildlife and environmental groups in their struggle against a building development on the east coast.’

  ‘He what? Ross shook his head in astonishment.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, and that…well, it seems to go against this notion of him being terminally depressed, not engaged with the world. It suggests quite the opposite, actually.’

  ‘The bloody fool.’ Ross was still shaking his head. ‘I hope to God it wasn’t one of our clients he was advising against.

  He would have got us, the firm, into so much trouble. But…that doesn’t matter now. It just underlines a spectacular loss of judgement…of balance. The fact is, after he retired, after Mum died, he got depressed, clinically so. Until the river work came up, but then he…mucked that up. He changed, went downhill. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.’

  Kirstin leant back and glanced out towards the river, barely visible now through the darkness. A year and a half had led to untold change in her own life. For the better. Why couldn’t the reverse be true for Jamie? To his credit, Ross had not tried to instil any guilt concerning her absence while Jamie deteriorated. He didn’t need to. She was carrying enough of her own. Perhaps what Ross was trying to say as gently as he could was ‘leave it alone’. But how could she? She was still left kicking against her ex-husband’s firm belief in his father’s suicide. Ross believed what he was saying. No doubt. But Ross didn’t know what she knew. And if he did? Like Glen, he’d still come up with the same conclusion. That Jamie was somehow responsible for his own death.

  She suddenly felt alone in it all. Glen might be troubled, but he’d already decided what had happened. Ross too. That left her and dear old Donald. It would have been laughable in other circumstances. Jamie’s flag-carriers—a directionless divorcee and a seventy-odd-year-old man who missed his best friend. Oh, and maybe there was one other she could recruit, to complete a ridiculous trio. A vilified, furious and depressed woman. A woman everyone, except herself, thought was a ruthless killer.

  Thirteen

  Morag knew it was madness. Coming down to the Cauldron at dead of night. But she’d had a restless time of it since her disastrous session with Dr Lockhart that afternoon. Things were calming down again. Dr Lockhart had called her, obviously worried that she might rush into some foolish, self-destructive action. And here she was. Morag, the Bitch-Witch-Cauldron-Killer, is out, at night, on her own, by the river!

  As she passed along the path, atop the hill opposite she could see the reassuring lights of her own house and the window where the telescope stood, pointed right towards her at this very moment. She imagined looking down at herself. Here she was, Morag the hermit, padding along on this surprisingly bright moonlit evening, leaving the heavy torch swinging redundant by her side. The occasional scuffles in the undergrowth, and the owls hooting above, were reminders that other
creatures were keeping her company tonight.

  She gathered the long-sleeved cotton shirt around her. The night was warm but with the gentlest of cooling breezes scudding along the wide river valley. All the nearby houses were in darkness. What hour was it? She’d left her watch behind. Unusually, uniquely, since her descent into hell, she’d stayed out on her patio until well after sunset—how proud Dr Lockhart would have been of her—listening to the radio, nicking through an old National Geographic magazine but taking little in. That morning’s encounter with Kirstin Rutherford had been playing back and forth in her mind, eventually to the exclusion of all other worries: money, the house, Dr Lockhart, hypnotherapy.

  There had been something heartening about Kirstin’s visit. She felt believed. Kirstin had said that during her legal work she’d come across all sorts of injustice, and she had seemed to genuinely sympathize. That was important. Useful, maybe. Somehow it was more significant to be believed by her than by Dr Lockhart. And then there was Jamie. It was important to talk with someone who had really known him. Bonnie and she had talked about him after his death, but only in passing.

  Morag shook her head. Bonnie had been a let-down. Just a couple of meetings, a meditation and a few phone calls were all she’d offered. She knew why. Bonnie was simply deeply uncomfortable in her company. She wished she’d asked the question the last time they’d met: ‘Do you think I did it?’

  Perhaps that’s why she’d found Kirstin’s visit so emboldening. Here was someone who was not quite saying but implying, ‘I am, or might be, on your side. Let’s see.’ That, in turn, had freed her from the paralysing anxiety that had become her default mode of existence. And here she was taking a nocturnal jaunt to the Cauldron. Foolish? Maybe. Liberating? Certainly.

  Morag heard the weir long before it came into view. The familiar sound was welcome, almost making her smile. The freshwater scent drifted towards her as she approached the fringes of the Cauldron. She let the torch beam rove from side to side across the pool’s glassy surface, eventually settling the silver disc of light on a point opposite. Where it had happened was too far in the wooded area to pick out. Should she, could she, cross the footbridge? She swung the torch to her left and ran its beam to and fro along the wooden structure. She swivelled to her right, the light flickering off the low wall where the game had begun. She took a few tentative steps towards it. Gently, she lowered herself on to the wall, swinging her legs over to dangle on the weir side in forced playfulness. But she knew her smile was no more than a bitter curl of the lip…

  The wretched irony. How she’d loved to stroll along to this very spot on a summer’s evening and let the whoosh of the weir sweep her everyday woes away as she cooled her feet in the waters. And it had worked. Just like magic. Now look what she was reduced to. How long had it been since she’d dared to come back here? There had been regular pilgrimages soon after it happened. Some with the others. Then she had come alone a few times. She’d preferred that. Not having to deal with the others’ reactions to the place. But this was her first visit since prison. Strangely, it was Jamie’s presence she felt here tonight more than anything else. He’d died near this very spot. But on a very different night. The place transformed, the topography practically unrecognizable thanks to the power of fast-running water. Water he must have known would be a danger. And yet he came. She shook her head again, aware that her mouth was still twisted into a mock smile.

  Jamie. Silly, stupid Jamie…

  Morag felt tired now. How long had she been sitting here? She fought off the urge to lie along the broad flat surface of the wall and sleep until dawn. That could be done more comfortably in her home. Enjoy its comforts while she still could.

  She began swinging her legs over on to the path when she heard it. Another scuffle. But louder, nearer than any of the previous ones. She grappled for her torch lying nearby on the wall, and listened. Again! That was no wild creature. Fumbling with the torch in her trembling hands, she pushed the ‘on’ switch.

  Fourteen

  Her beam caught the figure full in the face. Standing ten feet away.

  ‘Turn that bloody thing off. You’re blinding me.’

  It took her a moment to recognize who it was. The voice didn’t fit with the vision before her.

  ‘Get it out of my face!’

  She kept the torch on but shifted its beam to his side so she could keep him in clear view. It was Ally all right. But he was different, completely altered. Shirt and shorts were crumpled, his chin showed several days’ growth, and she noticed that his left hand trembled as it toyed with a half-smoked cigarette.

  ‘Ally?’

  He took a step backwards, to escape the torch’s glare. ‘I’m astonished that you have the nerve to be here. I still spend a lot of time here, and I’ve not seen you. Well, not since they were foolish enough to let you out. Why have you come now? You’ve got no right to be here.’

  Immediately, she felt the need to get away. What had she been thinking of, coming down here? It had been a mad idea. She knew Ally used to haunt the place, so why hadn’t she thought about that on her way here tonight? She’d never known him to be violent, though she’d had her fair share of rows with him. But he looked so different now. Like he’d lost control of…everything. She had to leave but there was no room to back off. Her heels were jammed against the wall. Instead, she took two steps sideways as he approached.

  She held up a hand, suppressing the instinct to flee. ‘Ally, look. Wh—’

  ‘I consider this to be a sacred place. For lona, her memory. I can’t believe you’ve got the nerve to be here. I tell y—’

  Without warning he lost his footing on the bumpy ground and fell to his knees. The impact must have been agony on his legs, but he seemed not to feel it. The cigarette had gone flying. He ignored it as he scrambled to stand up.

  She saw her chance and made a run for it, dodging round his body, the torch flickering wildly in front of her as she tried to avoid hidden obstacles on the uneven ground. But she hadn’t given him enough clearance.

  ‘Wait! I want to tell you something.’ His right hand grasped her ankle and she felt herself falling, the torch arcing away overhead, its bright beam illuminating a useless path through the long grass as it fell to earth. He’d managed to get to his feet and was pulling her by one arm. ‘Get up, Morag! I want to talk to you.’

  He released her arm and stood over her. She began lashing out at him with both feet, scrabbling backwards out of his grip, thanking the gods that she’d worn stout trainers tonight. In a moment she was on her feet. He seemed momentarily dazed by the ferocity of her attack and backed off a couple of steps.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Morag! Wait! What the hell are you do—’

  ‘Get away from me, Ally! I mean it!’ She spotted the torch and grasped it in her fist.

  He was shaking his head. ‘You are absolutely fucking mad. Go on, then. Piss off. But I want to tell you something before you go.’ He began inching towards her as he spoke. ‘I don’t want our paths to cross here again, ever. You have absolutely no right to be here.’ He was getting too near now.

  ‘And I want you to know that I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that the police get you. I swear to that.’

  With her full strength she aimed the torch at his head, and hurled it, catching him on the left temple. ‘Just…fuck off, Ally! Leave me alone!’

  The blow had caught him off balance, and she watched as he staggered the few feet back to the edge of the Cauldron. The loud splash told her what she needed to know. She was tempted to move forward and see where he was. But fear took over. She turned on her heel and began racing along the path. As she sprinted away, one thing cheered and worried her in equal measure. He couldn’t run after her now, but why had she heard nothing after the initial splash? Ally was a good swimmer. His instinct would have been to reach the riverbank. Christ! Had it happened again’? Was this to be her justice? Damn it all, there was irony indeed! Seeing herself facing a pr
ison cell for accidentally plunging her bitter enemy into the Cauldron. That would be too much to bear. Too much of a punishment to endure. As she hammered along the path towards the exit, she took one final glance backwards. Nothing. Had he got out and given up? Or was he lying at the silty bottom of the river?

  Yet another victim of the Cauldron?

  ‘I…I want to go back down there to the Cauldron to seel’

  Fifteen

  Kirstin held up a restraining hand and pressed Morag back into the passenger seat. They were parked, out of sight, near to Ally Sutherland’s house.

  ‘Please, Morag, we can’t do that. Just wait. Please?

  The call on her mobile had woken Kirstin in what she thought was the middle of the night. In truth it had been just after midnight. She’d thought for a millisecond that it was a dream, but realized only too quickly that it wasn’t. She’d driven to Morag’s, breaking every speed limit, and arrived to find her a dishevelled, scratched and sobbing wreck, babbling almost incoherently that she thought she’d killed Ally Sutherland. But, as she calmed Morag down, the picture became clearer. He had, in some way, made her feel threatened, and she’d retaliated. In truth, Morag’s actions had sounded like an extreme overreaction to Kirstin. But they were understandable. Morag had ventured out to the Cauldron, at night, for the first time in an age, to confront her inner demons. Instead, what she’d been confronted with was an all too real demon in the shape of Ally. If anything, Morag’s relatively unprovoked attack underlined to Kirstin just how vulnerable the woman was. She should be helped, not condemned.