by Paul Charles
Even now, drained by a highly emotional day, ann rea looked more late-twenties than her actual thirty-three and a third years on this planet. Her fingers were still combing his hair as she leaned her face closer to him. He thought she was leaning in to kiss him, and perhaps she had started off this movement with that in mind, but at the last possible second she aborted the mission and sent her lips to within half an inch of his ear. She whispered into it, sprang up from the sofa and headed towards the bar.
Kennedy hadn’t heard what she had said and when, upon her return laden with two fresh glasses of wine, he enquired as to the contents of her remark, she hiked her shoulders as if to try to find the words to explain, but instead settled for: ‘Oh, just that it was my round.’ But the manner in which she delivered the line lead Kennedy to believe that what she had whispered had been anything but those innocent words.
The detective let it go, for now.
‘When did you see Esther Bluewood last?’
‘I can tell you exactly when it was,’ ann rea replied, her mood picking up a notch, apparently happy at the new tangent.
‘Yes?’ Kennedy prodded, stretching the words into an incredible four syllables.
‘Yes, it was the night of the British Music Industry Awards. I remember it well; it was so gross. She invited me over to watch it with her, saying she knew I shared her healthy dislike of all the back-slapping the industry gets up to. She said it always depressed her but that she still found it compulsive viewing, and she invited me over. She claimed, being American herself, that America was particularly to blame as they had started the whole awards ceremonies thing in the first place. We all know that you can’t possibly say Titanic is a better movie than Saving Private Ryan or Waking Ned. It’s the same as saying a 747 Jet is better than Morse’s XJ6 Jaguar – that’s really what they’re trying to do.’
‘I agree, so what made it such compulsive viewing?’ Kennedy asked.
‘Perversity, that’s probably the best word to describe it. Even though you know the awards are pointless, you still want the person or film you like to win, and maybe, and this might be an even bigger motivation, you like to see certain people lose. I have to admit this year’s awards were pretty perverse by any standard. Right, you have our good friends in the music industry paying six hundred pounds each to sit and eat something like eight thousand pounds of smoked salmon, one thousand eggs, four thousand chicken breasts and six hundred fillets of beef. They wash this down with roughly twelve thousand bottles of various booze and then Bono, never a man short of a cause, parades out Stevie Wonder and poor Muhammad Ali and announces, as part of the 2000 Campaign, that we can’t expect all the starving people in the world to repay their debts.’
‘Well, I suppose someone had to draw attention to it,’ said Kennedy, trying to provide some balance.
‘Yes, perhaps, but did he really need to bring out Muhammad Ali? The man’s ill, for heaven’s sake. That was so undignified.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t have been there if he hadn’t wanted to be on public view,’ Kennedy offered with a shrug. He stole a sip of wine before continuing, ‘Was Esther grossed out by it as well?’
‘Totally. We were quite squiffy towards the end of the television coverage of the awards. We’d drunk lots of wine and had no food. Lethal. Bad mistake. I remember being quite mad about the spectacle but in a light-hearted way. But Esther, well she was becoming visibly upset. “Don’t let it upset you,” I said, “what’s going on there has nothing to do with you.” “The problem is,” she replied, most people think this is what the music business is all about. People sitting at home won’t be encouraged to do what I do.” She then went into a real spiral as yet another bland act took their turn to perform.’
‘Who was that, then?’ Kennedy felt obliged to ask.
‘Oh, it doesn’t really matter, probably someone like Michael Bolton. But then Esther said, “There’s no place for people like me in the music business. They only want groups like bla bla bla who are manufactured and consequently controlled artistically and personally. People tell them what clothes to wear, what to say, what songs to sing, which producer to use. What dance steps. Everything. I’d like to think that someone sitting in Belfast or Glasgow or even Boston, who feels the way I do, would have access to a platform to express those feelings and, consequently, be able to deal with their own stuff. Instead, what do we get? We get this crap.” And she pointed to the TV screen.’
ann rea broke into a laugh. Kennedy knew she was remembering something else.
‘And then, guess what she did?’ she said through her laughter.
‘What?’ asked Kennedy, desperate to know. ‘What?’
‘She threw the remains of a tin of cold baked beans she’d been eating at the TV screen so hard she smashed it. It was beautiful. Here was something that was annoying us so much, making us madder and madder, and just by chucking a tin of bleeding baked beans at it, we had removed it, removed our problems as though forever. After the screen was smashed, the television spluttered and splattered and gave up the ghost with a feeble puff of smoke. And then it was all over. The Brits were over and the silence was golden. The contrast was incredible you know, from all that crap, grossness, visual and audio pollution and obscenity to beautiful peace and quiet. And then we both rolled about on the floor in stitches laughing about how decadent we were smashing up TVs. Oasis or what?’
‘It was The Who, actually, who smashed up TV screens, threw them out of hotels rooms.’
‘Who?’ ann rea asked, a hint of devilment creeping across her face.
Kennedy was about to explain when he realised he’d been caught, or very nearly caught.
*
Two further glasses of wine each and forty minutes later they were back at Kennedy’s house.
‘I always feel safe here,’ ann rea said, as Kennedy locked the door behind them. ‘I don’t know what it is exactly. It always feels warm and homely in here. Maybe it’s the times we spent here, the memories, how close we were…’
‘Fancy a cup of tea?’
‘Very romantic, Christy. Here I am about to spill my heart out onto your hall floor and you want to know whether or not I want a cup of tea…’
‘Well, romantic or not, the point is, after all that wine and no food we could both do with some liquid of a different kind,’ Kennedy said. It wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but he didn’t feel it appropriate, in fact it was somewhat insensitive, to say at this point that he didn’t want to get into discussing their relationship again. As far as he was concerned it had been discussed to death. There were only so many times and so many ways you could reach some invisible point in a relationship, and then, for some unexplainable reason, turn and run in the opposite direction, like someone chased by demons. Although, for ann rea, any direction at all would seem to do, so long as it was away.
For his part, it wasn’t a subject that was totally resolved either. He liked being with her. He loved being with her, in fact. At one point in the relationship he thought he might have even loved her. Actually, that was rubbish. At one point in their relationship he’d felt he loved her like he’d never loved anyone before, and he couldn’t imagine loving anyone as much in the future. If there had been a battle-axe mother in the background it would have been easier for Kennedy, giving him someone else to blame. They’d started out on this wonderful journey together but for some reason they’d stumbled and fallen. Maybe it was something to do with her baggage; ann rea’s previous relationship with a man she’d loved (like she’d loved no other), a man she’d lost to another woman. Perhaps it would have been easier (for Kennedy, at least) if ann rea’s previous relationship had run its natural course and withered, rather than dying a horrible death. But she had still been in love with the other man when he’d walked out, and – to add insult to injury – he’d married his new woman only two months later. And ann rea was still trying to come to terms with her loss. To add further insult to injury the couple were still married four ye
ars later, and the proud parents of two happy, healthy children.
Kennedy was sure that ann rea didn’t begrudge her ex and his wife their happiness. No, certainly not. It was just that she’d felt herself absolutely in love with this guy and she was forever tormenting herself about it, to the point that now she and Kennedy had a…well, Kennedy wasn’t exactly sure what kind of a relationship they were enduring. They had great sex, no scrap that! They had phenomenal sex, infrequent but phenomenal. The relationship would frequently start back up again following a night of great love-making. When they were making love and all the other crap had been thrown aside, just like their clothes scattered around the bedroom floor, Kennedy was convinced that they were in love, it was spiritual. Their souls were close, as close as two souls could possibly be. But, and it was a big but, every single time they got to this stage and were warming to each other again, ann rea would become more and more nervy until eventually she would take flight, like a frightened doe. And, like the frightened doe, the more vulnerable she looked, the more attractive she became, and (consequently) the more hurt and pain Kennedy felt at her leaving.
They had broken up several times now and Kennedy was not quite weary from it but was certainly well on the way to getting there. At least that was what he felt in the cold light of day. But now, in his house this evening, both of them a few glasses over the limit even for walking, he watched as this beautiful vision relaxed in front of his eyes, her inhibitions, like her reservations, melting gently away as the alcohol took control of their minds.
‘Okay. You’ve sold me on the idea of some more liquid refreshment. Let’s see? Ahm, is there any wine in the house?’ ann rea asked enthusiastically.
‘There certainly is. There’s a bottle of white in the fridge. Why don’t you open it, while I prepare some food to soak it up?’ Kennedy laughed. He realised they would drink no more than about half a glass each, for neither of them were what you’d call drinkers, certainly not when compared to the likes of James Irvine.
ann rea struggled with the corkscrew as Kennedy struggled to make his famous psychedelic omelette, so-called not because of any mind-altering qualities but because of its colourfulness. He chucked in every brightly-coloured food he could find: sweetcorn, red peppers, green peppers, peas and scallions; all tossed into the omelette as it was browning in the pan, just before it was turned over. His secret ingredient, which he never allowed anyone to see him add, was half a spoonful of sugar scattered into the colours. This added the twist that caused people to comment about what an unusual and delicious combination it was. No one (but no one) had ever figured out the secret of this wonder of Kennedy’s world.
Wine in hand, and half an omelette each, they moved to the first-floor living room, each spreading out on a sofa. That was ann rea’s choice. She waited to see where Kennedy was going to sit before opting for the other sofa. That was another thing about ann rea Kennedy liked. It wasn’t guaranteed that they would spend the night together, it was never guaranteed. They’d known each other for five years and during that time they’d never just fallen into bed together. Kennedy liked that; he liked the uncertainty. He cherished the specialness of their lovemaking; loved the fact that it wasn’t a habit. This meant that, at least from his point of view, there was always an edge of uncertainty, always a longing, always a lusting. He still found her breathtakingly beautiful in that she literally did take his breath away whenever he looked at her. She never flaunted herself and there was always some mystery about her. They’d been naked with each other so many times over the previous five years but she still took care to do simple things like never disrobing fully before climbing into bed with him. Perhaps that was because she remembered he liked her that way. He liked to discover the final secrets in the dark, and mostly by touch. If they had married or lived together, Kennedy would have given anything for this to remain the same. He’d heard the ‘we have a shower, flop into bed, jump each other’s bones then roll over and go to sleep’ line too many times to want to be party to it.
So from that point of view he had exactly what he wanted. She was now about four feet away from him on the neighbouring sofa, and he was incredibly turned on by the vision of her. She wore her clothes dark and tight, tight as in figure-hugging. That vision always excited him like no other.
A few minutes later, ann rea set her clean plate down on to the coffee table, and after taking a swig of wine announced, ‘Great, Kennedy. That was really great. I was absolutely famished.’ She rose and walked shakily across the room to his CD collection and carefully selected and loaded a CD. She made for her original sofa, but at the last minute changed her mind and cuddled up next to Kennedy.
From the opening chord, Kennedy knew her choice: Axis by Esther Bluewood.
The introduction caught Kennedy by the throat every time he listened to it. A crisp, plaintive, electric guitar with a touch of echo set on the left-hand side of the stereo, perfectly complemented by a gently soaring ambient guitar on the right-hand side. The guitar sound occasionally floated in and out as time was kept by a plodding bass and a solitary drum beat, the drummer keeping time with drumstick resting on the snare-drum and gently beating it down with the flat of his hand. Such a simple, sweet, beautiful sound; as beautiful as the hills on Donegal.
Then the voice comes in. A sad, soulful, haunting voice, no studio enhancement, just a full voice singing:
We have one life, and one life won’t do
It was as though ann rea and Kennedy were hearing her sing it for the first time. And it totally destroyed both of them. ann rea could not hold back her tears; she didn’t even try. Kennedy held himself together but only just as Esther went around the houses a few times with variations on ‘you move much better when you’re happy’, singing her heart out. Voice and music at one, working so closely together, so tight you couldn’t tell the join. This was all intuitive. This was not thought out for her by a producer; his job was to turn on the tapes and listen and watch in bliss to all that was happening in front of him.
When Esther sang:
There is one love but one love won’t do
Kennedy lost it as well. Anyone with a heart would have lost it. The person singing the song, one of several songs she’d used to exorcise her demons, had twenty-four hours earlier either lost her battle with the demons that haunted her, or else someone had taken her life away.
Kennedy felt like he could have stayed in the space, the space created by this amazing soundscape, forever.
You move much better when you’re happy
Esther Bluewood’s voice was now double-tracked and sang against itself, building up to a crescendo, ad-libbing around the ‘you move much better when you’re happy’ theme. Then one voice drops out and she gently winds down the song, singing quieter, until, almost in a whisper, it stops.
No music Kennedy had ever listened to had moved him as deeply as that song had that night. She was an artist at one with her art and with her musicians; a brave artist who exposed her pain while at the same time offering comfort to others.
It was beyond words.
ann rea was gently sobbing into Kennedy’s chest. They held each other tightly and listened to, maybe even lived, the rest of the album. They dozed off for a time, not having spoken since ann rea had put on the CD.
She woke him at about two o’clock in the morning and took him upstairs where they made love like they’d never made love before. It was as if their lives, their beings, depended on it. It was perfect love-making, no rushing, no slowing, no worrying, no hurting, no imagining, no wishing, no chasing the butterfly, no nervousness; just love.
They made love.
Then, contented, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
At some stage in the early hours of the morning, as they both drifted back into consciousness simultaneously, ann rea put an arm around Kennedy and pulled him closer to her. Just before they drifted off to sleep again, she whispered, ‘Oh, and by the way, thanks for the omelette, Kennedy. It was a great omele
tte, just a hint too much sugar in it though.’
Chapter 13
EARLY ON the second morning of the investigation into the death of Esther Bluewood – and incidentally, the second morning of the week – Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy walked the four hundred or so yards from his house at the foot of Primrose Hill to Hugh Watson’s house-cum-workplace. The genial Watson greeted Kennedy with a smile and a firm, warm handshake. A handshake so firm Kennedy was tempted to check his fingers afterwards to make sure they were still intact. If Kennedy was not mistaken, Dr Watson was dressed exactly as he had been on the previous day’s visit, right down to his rhinestone cowboy boots.
Kennedy was led through to the same room he’d been in on the previous day. The two-bar fire was alive and there were hints of what smelled like burning dust in the air. This time, before flopping down in his chair, Watson went immediately to the fireplace and rang the bell. Three minutes later, right on cue, the old woman arrived, somewhat steadier than on the previous day, with a tray bearing not only tea but also piping hot buttered toast.
‘So,’ Kennedy began, once the formalities were out of the way, ‘did you have a chance to study the journals?’
‘I did,’ Watson replied as he munched on his toast. He looked slightly uncomfortable having to sit upright in his chair in order to drink his tea.
‘And?’
Watson signed a sigh that signified it wasn’t as easy as that. ‘What we first have to accept is that the motivation for suicide consists of both an inner…inner whatyamacallit? Turmoil, yes, that’s it, turmoil. The motivation for suicide involves turmoil, inner disturbances, if you will, and the belief that death is a solution. A solution in as much that it is an escape from the inner bedlam. To a sufferer, this is as violent as any physical violence could ever be.’ The doctor finished his cup of tea and happily sank back into his chair.
