Arthur picks up his tools and leads Brian back to the house. It’s tea time. He wants this conversation to stop. It’s about ancient matters. Brian has correctly diagnosed himself as obsessive. He won’t let go.
“I kept up hope until I lost the appeal. The only relief I got is when they dumped on you. I was angry at you, angry at the verdict. But maybe I was searching for someone to blame other than myself.”
In the Appeal Court, Brian denounced the excesses perpetrated by a rookie prosecutor who hadn’t appreciated the historic role demanded of Her Majesty’s fair and disinterested counsel. The three appeal judges affirmed that some of Arthur’s tactics had been “a shade less than savoury,” but found that any harm was minimal, and they unanimously dismissed the appeal.
“That case was the turning point of my life.” Brian sits on the steps, still shifting between moods, morose now, staring at his hands. “My career never recovered from it. I got sucked into a downward spiral. All the drinking, drugs, the inconstancy … I lost Caroline’s respect.”
He’s still rambling as they mount the steps to the veranda, where Arthur exchanges his workboots for hiking shoes. He shoulders a pack. Afternoon tea will wait.
“And then I lost Caroline totally. I cheated on her, yeah, even gave her the clap once. I deserved getting skinned in court. Couldn’t keep up the alimony. I was spending a mint on pain relievers. Mostly, snow, blow, snot grass. Once you starting accepting retainers in kind from Cocaine Bill and Morphine Sue, it’s over. Where are you going?”
“I’m about to enjoy a deep sense of oneness.”
§
Halfway to Hopeless Bay, near the ferry turnoff, Arthur intuits that he’s being followed. For a moment he feels clammy, but the sensation fades when he turns to see Niko a hundred paces away, hurrying toward him on her plump, short legs. He waits.
She’s out of breath as she says, “Not to worry,” a newly learned expression. “Not to worry, Niko is here.” There’s a whistle around her neck, a smart phone in her hand, for use in an emergency as a weapon. She seems to be affecting more courage than she feels.
As they walk, he tries to explain — in the basic English they employ — that any alarms rung by his visitor are false. Brian is a comedian, a storyteller, a writer of many failed fictions, and Arthur has decided to let him have his fun.
Niko seems unconvinced and swivels continually, behind, to left and right, like a Secret Service agent. “Very bad man, he say. Cut out … what is gizzard, please?”
Arthur tries to explain it’s an imaginary organ unless one is a bird, a colloquialism for the stomach. She is all the more confused.
“Not to worry,” he says. He hums the Worried Man tune. He can’t help it. How does the next stanza go? “Twenty-nine links of chain around my leg …”
The General Store and Brig come into view as the road descends. A dozen vehicles are parked out front, including the RCMP van. Arthur gives Niko money for groceries and treats at the store and carries on up to the pub.
Ernst Pound is sitting at the bar. Kurt Zoller is wandering among the patrons, handing out flyers, presumably duplicates of the one tacked to the bulletin board picturing a shiny orange Hummer, its owner smiling from the driver’s seat. “have you seen this vehicle?”
Despite the heavy police presence, there’s an illicit poker game out on the deck. Smoking is open and rampant. No one’s afraid of Pound now — the author of Operation Pot-Snatch has no one’s respect, including his own. He’s off-duty anyway, in jeans and a ball cap, drinking beer. Zoller ventures to the deck with his leaflets, only to find himself getting ribbed by the boys.
Arthur drops some change into an honour box and retrieves a one-page weekend extra of the Bleat. A Nelson Forbish exclusive is headlined: “Drug Raid Backfires, Popular Local Busted.” There was “widespread concern” that Mr. Dog Zbrinjkowitz was being held without bail “in retaliation for the botched raid.” Zbrinjkowitz? A miracle if that was not misspelled. Farther down: “A militant pro-Dog faction is suspected in the mysterious disappearance of local law enforcer Kurt Zoller’s Hummer.”
Arthur sits on the stool beside Pound and signals to Emily LeMay that he’ll have his regular: black tea with one-percent.
“I’m on strike,” Pound says. “I’m a wreck. Don’t blame me about Dog. He’s Kurt’s nab. I got nothing to do with it. Klostert is in a rage over that frigging freak show, he’s pushing to get me transferred to where the sun don’t shine from October to March. At least I’ll be out of this festering snakepit.”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, Ernst, but someone wants to kill me.”
“It’s just a mush-rumour.” He tries to smile, but it’s more of a grimace. “Get it? Mush-rumour. Mushroom rumour.”
“I get it, Ernst. How did you hear?”
“The dance. There was this mouthy off-island dude passing around his produce like after-dinner mints. I’d have collared him, except it would have backfired on me like every frigging thing I’ve ever done on this island.”
Arthur sips his tea, annoyed with Brian. He will make sure he’s on that flight to Haida Gwaii on Tuesday.
“Tildy Sears was in thick with the shroom guy, her and her entire infield, all competing for his favours, and then she and her team came over to tell me how to do my job. They were tripping, I couldn’t make hide or hair. A disgruntled former client is after you. You overcharged him, cheated him, got him wrongly convicted, drove his brother to suicide. One dame had a theory it’s a psycho who escaped from the nut house. Another had you boffing the wife of a jealous husband. A serial killer. A thrill killer! That’s a good one.”
“That, unfortunately, is the official version of the rumour.”
“Great. A thrill killer roaming about. Just what this island deserves. It’s bullshit. I told those girls to shut up and not get folks riled up.”
“His name is Randolph Skyler. Call up his record. Better yet, read chapter eighteen of Thirst for Justice. I gave you a copy.”
Pound shrugs, takes a swig of Alka-Seltzer, grimaces. “Edwina took it. Every frigging thing. She sneaked into the house while I was on Ponsonby. She and that shit from Telus. They must have had a moving van.”
“At any rate, the report is highly exaggerated and totally unlikely. Based on a few petulant words spoken a quarter of a century ago, and supposedly repeated to a cell mate, a thief. Nevertheless …”
Pound has his own agenda. “Now we got Kurt’s Hummer being held hostage. I’m not even going to ask you what you know about it.”
Arthur gives up. He will talk business with Pound another time. Zoller is still out on the deck, firing back at his tormentors, rattling his handcuffs, a gesture that scares no one. Arthur, whose own beloved vehicle has been truck-napped multiple times, feels a morsel of empathy for him. But he’ll not get dragged into it.
Emily, who is usually sunny but seems grumpy today, sets Pound up with another draft, then pushes the tip jar toward Arthur. “All proceeds to Dog’s defence.” She strides off. Feeling ridiculous, Arthur slips a twenty into the jar. That seems cheap, and he adds twenty more.
Zoller finally comes back inside, followed by Honk Gilmore, taunting him. “Anything happens, Kurt, we got your back. We may be a little slow getting there, is all.”
“You want my opinion, Honk, you fellows are conspiring to obstruct justice. Tell them what the Criminal Code says, Arthur.”
“Dog’s in the can for what?” Honk yells. “A measly bag of seeds and sticks?”
Pound gets off his stool. “Easy, boys.”
Honk rails on. “Kurt here sticks thirty bucks in his pocket and picks up a bag from the table, you call that dealing dope?”
Honk has more than a little expertise in dealing: he’s a prosperous retired grower. Arthur surmises that Garibaldi’s ragtag unit of law enforcers hasn’t learned that he hosted the Potlatch at his farm.
“I shecond the motion,” Baldy Johanssen slurs, passing by on the way to the men’s.
Arthur slaps the bar and stands. “I’ve had enough of this, gentlemen. I am formally and officially retired from the practice of law. I am a farmer. Get used to it. Tomorrow morning, Dog will be represented in court by a first-class counsel who will arrange for his release on minimal bail terms. You have my word on that.”
The rebellion quelled, Arthur buys a round for the house and goes off to fetch Niko at the store.
§
Arthur whips up a blackberry smoothie before settling into his club chair for Margaret’s regular Sunday evening call. Usually, she has unwound from a week in the House by then, but she’s worked up tonight. “Things are going crazy here, Arthur. It’s just been leaked that they’re gutting the Species at Risk Act. This is a government without courage or conscience, sycophants to the energistas.” The energy lobby.
He offers to join her on the barricades and spurs her on with occasional exclamations of support. Arthur’s concerns pale against the loss of woodland caribou, of burrowing owls. He feels dwarfed by this bold, energetic woman of high conscience and noble causes. No wonder she’s cooling on him. If she is. Is he just imagining that?
He realizes that he must not let the mush-rumour find its way to Ottawa. He has to call off Tildy and her security system, call off the Woofer bodyguards. How witless it was of him to have heeded an alarmist with a record of nervous breakdowns.
When Margaret asks how their gentle island fares, Arthur struggles for words. “Amid the usual turmoil, Brian Pomeroy has shown up. He has probably entered Zone Five by now.” Arthur’s guest is on the veranda, in a hammock, bundled up, with his laptop on his stomach, composing a scene, chuckling to himself.
“Zone Five? I suppose that means he’s flying on something.” Margaret knows him well — over the years, the Bad News Bear, as she calls him, has achieved Most Frequent Visitor status at Blunder Bay. “You sound a little strained. Have you been taking your supps?”
She has him on health food supplements. Sometimes he forgets and makes tasty smoothies instead. He says he’s bursting with health, and tries to prove it with a vigorous account of the Dog and Hummer show, the rebukes suffered from fellow Garibaldians, the antics of Brian Pomeroy, his liaison with Tildy.
“What’s the reason for his visit?”
Arthur buys time by loudly draining his smoothie. From the veranda, there’s a burst of maniacal laughter. A comedy? Horror, more likely. “Friendly visit. He had some downtime. Leaves Tuesday. We’re rehashing some of our old trials.”
“Poor you. And poor Dog. He’s such a gentle, generous character.”
He quickly assures her, as he has assured the entire island, that Dog will be sprung tomorrow in Saltspring Provincial Court.
Since making his dramatic vow in the Brig, Arthur has persuaded the Legal Aid Society to send over a specialist, a drug defender. He has Reverend Al ready to testify to Dog’s high standing in the community — Al will be on the early ferry to nearby Saltspring. The public’s right to know will be enforced by Nelson Forbish of the Bleat.
“Meanwhile,” he adds, “the orange monster remains lost.”
“Far better for the environment if it stays lost. Don’t repeat that.”
They laugh, and chat a little more, and at the end, she says, “Thanks, I needed that.” Her words make Arthur happy, yet when he hangs up, he feels let down, feels the distance between them. He wants her in bed with him this night. But of course that thought, that desire, makes him feel guilty. She is alone too. A woman of healthy sexual appetite, she may be suffering more than he, with his less active libido. How often has she been tempted?
There he goes again.
It’s all due to Annabelle, who made him forever distrustful. He knew there’d been a few men — but eighteen? She must have been babbling drunk when she confessed all to Deborah. Eighteen! As his daughter related this heroic feat on a long-distance call from Melbourne, he sat numbed on a kitchen stool. Her chiropractor. Her accountant. A forensic shrink on Arthur’s retainer. A busboy in Barcelona! Hubbell Meyerson … recently sworn in as High Commissioner to Barbados, with Margaret Blake as his guest, looking hot.
Arthur goes out into the starry night and does his tai chi.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 24
Wet and wild-haired, Brian grimaces as he emerges from bed and shower, finally, at a quarter to ten. “Crashed on re-entry,” he says, pouring coffee with a shaky hand. “Revisited my fucked-up life for hours. Couldn’t escape.”
So much for Zone Five. He even looks like a bad trip. He’s been eating poorly, and stands gaunt in cutoffs and a ragged message T-shirt, a Will Rogers saying: “Never slap a man who’s chewing tobacco.”
Arthur puts some toast on for him, warms the rest of the scrambled eggs, then passes him a note with the phone number of Irwin Jenkinsop, Skyler’s parole officer. “I didn’t say you were out of it, just out. He asked you to get back to him at your leisure. Lacking in his voice was a note of alarm. I have told Tildy to put matters on hold.”
“That must have been a blow. I practically guaranteed her the job.”
“Thus was she persuaded to bed with you?”
Brian jumps when the toaster pops. “I’m wrung out. Need to get down.” He steps outside and lights a cigarette. Not nicotine but cannabis: Arthur can smell it, presumably an antidote to stressful re-entering.
Saltspring Provincial Court will be in session by now. Reverend Al has promised to phone when Dog is out of custody. The laconic little man has joined Tildy Sears in the panoply of great Garibaldi heroes. Celebrations are planned. The Highlanders, ever eager for an occasion to perform, will pipe him off the afternoon ferry.
“Primo, gives a nice little uptick,” Brian says on his return, snuffing the joint between carbon-stained fingers. “Got it off that Stoney dude, traded him for some fungi.” He returns to his coffee, stirs in sugar, sips, plucks the portable phone from its cradle.
He connects quickly. “Yo, Irwin, sorry I was out. Always try to get in three clicks before breakfast. So, you got hold of that Skyler file?”
Arthur can’t hear Jenkinsop, but assumes he’s asking what has prompted Brian’s inquiry.
“Okay, we got a situation. I’m his former lawyer, so ethically I can’t say too much, except that he may be targeting the man who prosecuted him. I’m with him now. Arthur Beauchamp, QC.” A long pause. “The same.”
Brian clicks on the phone’s speaker button, fills his plate, and sits and eats.
A sound of papers being shuffled. “Okay, Randolph Skyler. Walked out of Collins Bay on Thursday, September thirteenth. Took a bus to Toronto to see his dad. His parents are separated. She’s in a retirement community in Arizona. I can confirm that Skyler is still in Toronto, but not for long — he’s due to start his job Wednesday. That’s up north, the Abitibi Conservation Area.”
His job will be to manage the park over the fall and through the winter, keeping cross-country ski trails open, watching out for poachers. He’ll be working from an isolated cabin at the mouth of a river, doing his rounds by foot, canoe, and, during the northland’s seven-month winter, snowmobile. Skyler asked for outdoor work, Jenkinsop explains, said he wanted to get back in shape while finishing his master’s degree by correspondence. “Then he plans to see what’s available in the business world.”
Brian spreads jam on his toast, waiting. More doesn’t seem to be forthcoming. “Irwin, tell me this guy is not armed. Tell me that the usual terms of parole are in effect, especially the firearms prohibition.”
An audible clearing of throat. “Well, uh, no, I think that was waived. Dangerous animals up there
, and he has no criminal history involving guns. So, yep, he’ll have a hunting rifle. They’ll be giving him a safety training course. He did some hunting as a young man, I understand.”
“Look, Irwin, I’m going to ask you to put your notes aside and give me your impressions of this guy. You’ve talked to him at least a few times, right? Did you pick up he might be holding a grudge?”
“He did some hard years in max. Learned to handle himself after some scuffles. Did a long turn in the hole. I’d say he was probably bitter, yeah. But then he underwent some behaviour changes, I gather. And they moved him to medium security, where he mellowed out. At least that’s what he told the parole board.”
“Did he show himself as angry or bitter?”
“He kept his thoughts to himself. With me, anyway.”
“But not with others, maybe?”
“I remember seeing something …” Irwin stalls.
“Like what? There are psych reports, right?”
Brian was a skilled hand with reluctant witnesses, and hasn’t lost his touch. Arthur hears more papers being shuffled. This parole officer seems pleasant enough, but not totally conversant with the file. Probably overworked, ministering to scores of troubled parolees newly on the street.
“Dr. Arnold Hawthorne. A shrink. Sorry, this is several pages long, tests, interview notes — let me flip through …”
Brian turns off the speaker, takes the phone out to the backyard, with Arthur following. Out comes a cigarette, tapped from the pack, caught between his teeth. “Irwin, why don’t you just scan it and send it to me?”
Arthur gathers some objection is being taken to that.
“Okay, maybe I can walk you through it … Or just fax it, can you manage that? Yeah, just a minute.” He covers the mouthpiece. “What’s your fax? Shit, you don’t have one.”
Arthur hesitates, then writes down Abraham Makepeace’s fax number.
§
Dutifully but sourly, Brian does the dishes, then lies down on the chesterfield with his laptop, leaving Arthur with the task of driving to the General Store to retrieve the fax. He has to do some shopping too. The bottle of malt whisky won’t survive Brian’s three-day visit.
Sing a Worried Song Page 19
