… seven, eight …
The memories were rushing through Michael’s mind faster than he was moving down the corridor; their sound and texture ahead and behind, giving a push, drawing him on.
‘Peter is not a good man, Michael,’ murmured Emma, crushing Michael’s hands in hers.
‘I know.’
‘Before they locked him up he was mouthing off on the radio about morality.’
‘Darling, I remember.’
‘He went to prison for the wrong reason.’
… nine, ten. Michael was in the sitting room now, driven by the voices of an Irish gunman and an English vet, people who knew a thing or two about killing. He raised the Browning, striding towards the shape in the chair. He imagined Peter, book in hand, frozen by confusion.
… eleven …
‘He never cared for her.’ Emma was angling her head, coming closer to Michael. ‘And yet he got all the sympathy and praise.’
Twelve.
‘If you want peace,’ whispered Liam, ‘you’ll have to pull the trigger.’
BAM-BAM.
Michael had heard a mingling of detonations and screaming in his mind. But most important of all, against his fearful expectation, there’d been no hint of a still, small voice with something new to say. Not a whimper. Not a cough. Not a stutter. Which was a relief … as much as a strangely disappointing revelation. For such, in the end, was human conscience. When faced with the extreme crises that will haunt a man for the rest of his life, it had nothing to say, other than repeat his name.
What, then, had happened on the marshes by the Denes? Why had Michael felt the terrifying immanence of a fresh message? He’d got worked up, that’s all. With the memory of Jenny still vivid to his mind and the gulls screeching overhead, his imagination had got carried away. There was nothing else to it. That voice in his soul had simply been a distraction. A temptation for a coward who fears what has to be done. With daring and contempt, Michael put himself back in front of Néall Ó Mórdha. He stared provocatively at the candlelight flickering behind the black, wide pupils.
Michael, Michael, Michael.
Three times, like the three gates. Michael waited and then he laughed. There was nothing more to come.
BAM-BAM.
Forgetting the Donegal operation, Michael unhooked a mouldering curtain from a rusted nail. Light splashed into the dirty room. Standing over the chair, he checked the target. Dissatisfied, he began an appraisal of the operation.
His hands had been still. There’d been no wavering. Good.
He’d only hit Peter once, though, ripping a trough through the top right-hand side of the head. Not good.
What had gone wrong?
He’d been distracted by those voices. They’d come to help, but in the end they’d got in the way, making him a fraction too rushed, a hair too keen, a breath too angry. Now that his conscience was out of the way, he had to deal with these others.
‘I need to think of nothing and no one,’ said Michael, quietly. ‘Not about Peter or what he did. Not about Jenny. Or Eugene or Liam. I must bring the quiet of nothing. The quiet that doesn’t listen any more. The silence of death itself; so I can bring death.’
There were eight rounds left: one up the spout and seven ready to go. Michael retraced his steps, counting down from twelve. At the door to the sitting room of the Killing House he turned around. Peter was no longer in the chair. All he could see was a torn plastic bag holding a split cabbage and two sprouts. He felt nothing.
29
Anselm was familiar with HM Prison Hollesley Bay. He’d been there in his other life. Originally a training college for those intending to emigrate throughout the empire it had, after a spell as a labour colony for London’s unemployed, become a borstal and then a prison complex for Category D men and young offenders, counting Brendan Behan and Jeffrey Archer among its more distinguished alumni. Peter Henderson, being a Cambridge don, had brought a sort of silk trim to the club’s standard gown of ignominy. The opportunities of the old world had slowly given way to the problems of the new.
A word with the governor secured not only a visit at short notice but Peter Henderson’s temporary release. He would, after all, be freed in two days anyway.
‘You’ll have to wait an hour or so,’ explained the governor. ‘He’s giving a literacy class.’
The delay presented Anselm with a last-minute opportunity to reflect. Turning to Mitch, he said, ‘Bring him to Shingle Street please.’
Anselm walked onto the deserted beach of smooth pebbles. He’d passed a sign saying:
‘Shingle Street is Special. Only you can keep it that way’
And another which made the often ignored link between the special and the dangerous:
‘WARNING. Strong Currents. Unsuitable for Bathing’
The sky was completely swept of cloud. A misty pale blue swung down to the cold, slate grey of the sea and a thin string of houses, closed up for the season. The beach itself was wide and long with vegetation sprouting here and there among the shingle. It looked more like scrubland or desert. A place for Clint Eastwood to appear bringing rough justice. The terrain of Unforgiven. But the wind was wet and cold. This was Suffolk. No one was going to kick a door down, swear and send the damned flying from their chairs. Shivering, Anselm thrust his hands into his habit pockets. There were two competing narratives about the death of Jenny Henderson. Only one of them could be right.
As a matter of logic – thought Anselm – Jenny Henderson could simply have been brutally murdered. Peter Henderson might have snapped under the strain of caring. He might have got drunk and lost his head. He might have wanted his life back in London sooner rather than later. All manner of scenarios presented themselves. And Anselm excluded them all. Just as he’d now excluded the possibility that Peter Henderson had faked his kindness after the accident. Such vistas were inconsistent with what he’d learned about Peter Henderson’s character. And it was unlikely that Doctor Ingleby would have agreed to conceal any such conduct. The most compelling picture – which Anselm took very seriously – was that Peter Henderson had effectively forced Jenny to consent to her own dying through a seductive but ultimately sinister compassion. Why? Because he thought it was for the best.
It would be very easy to do. All it would take was honesty when no one else was around. The weighed-down look. The tired voice. The anxiety for Timothy. Troubled glances. Always trying one’s best. Strained fussing. False cheerfulness. A sigh in the kitchen. They would all add up to an incredible weight that would easily crush the spirit of an already crushed woman. Peter Henderson could have built up that weight, without even realising what he was doing. Or through wilful blindness. Or by hardening himself to what was happening … because he thought it was right.
For Jenny.
For Timothy.
And, yes, for himself.
And if his conscience began to speak, then he’d have shut it out or turned the other way: this can be done. Anselm had seen it many times, in good men and bad. And everyone else, those watching, will have seen his genuine kindness; because it was genuine. He was helping her down a very difficult road. His compassion couldn’t have been deeper.
In those circumstances – in effect pressure – Jenny could easily have wanted to end her life. Vincent Cooper had evoked the most damning and terrible scene … Peter being kind, and Jenny constantly saying sorry. So she’d made a choice. And afterwards – this was Anselm’s fear – Peter had done nothing to dissuade her. He’d given her his support. He’d backed her wishes. And by so doing he’d nudged her towards a calm that no one had properly understood. It was the calm of surrender. And having surrendered, it would have been very difficult for Jenny to tell Peter she wasn’t so sure … that she’d even changed her mind. To the extent that if she did … if she tried … even Peter Henderson wouldn’t have listened. Because bowel cancer when you’re paralysed isn’t very nice. Not for the patient. Not for those watching. The momentum towards a controlled, quick
and merciful death was under way and he wouldn’t want to consider the alternative … the undignified, drawn-out suffering, watched by a boy who still loved Spiderman. Had he used the Exit Mask? Not if Jenny didn’t ask for it. Not if she was lingering a bit too long through lack of courage. Perhaps Peter Henderson had found another way when Jenny wasn’t looking. Perhaps Doctor Ingleby had helped him.
Anselm reached down and picked up a fistful of stones. He walked to the edge of the sea and threw them one after the other at a chain of surf. In the distance, towards the mouth of the River Ore, he could see shingle banks breaking the surface of the water: a menace for boats rather than bathers.
There was – he thought, with a sigh – a second narrative. It was the simplest. The weight of evidence leaned heavily in its direction. And it was this: Jenny had, in fact, freely consented to her own death. Peter had helped her. Doctor Ingleby had smoothed over the legal wrinkle – judged a wrinkle by their shared convictions (Jenny’s included) set against the extremely distressing nature of Jenny’s medical condition. And if one item of evidence was needed to support this second narrative, surely it was Jenny’s last testament to Nigel: her seeming avowal that she’d lost hope in any late surprises.
These, then, were the two differing interpretations of Jenny’s death. And Anselm had little difficulty opting for the first. Because – more significant than any letter, be it to Larkwood’s Prior or Nigel Goodwin – Peter Henderson had thrown a brick at his own reflection.
The downside of manipulating someone – consciously or otherwise – is that once you’ve finally got what you want, you’re left feeling ill at ease. At least right-thinking people are. Because ultimately the manipulator would like the weaker party to want what they’d been forced to accept. To prefer the film on ITV as opposed to the documentary on BBC2. Nudge someone into taking their own life and you don’t feel uneasy, you feel awful. Take their life yourself, just in case they get cold feet, and, in time, you’ll feel not only awful but utterly devastated. And, in time – two years to be exact – Peter Henderson had broken down, crushed by a weight of his own making. Had Jenny chosen her death freely – the second narrative – Peter Henderson would have simply suffered from grief: deep grief. But not guilt. And it was guilt that had launched that brick.
And it was this guilt that gave Anselm his opportunity. Peter Henderson’s secret battle with his conscience was his one weakness. Deep down he wanted to make a confession.
Footsteps sounded on the beach. The shingle churned quietly with each slow tread. Anselm turned, reminding himself that Peter Henderson was a special and dangerous man.
‘Well, if it isn’t the Monk who Left it All for a Life of Crime,’ said the scholar, quoting the Sunday Times. ‘I always wanted to meet you.’
30
After another two-shot rehearsal, striking the cabbage each time, Michael left the Killing House and drove to the Queen’s Head in Bramfield (the village where the farmer talked to his fruit and veg). He’d been here twice before with Emma. The first time was eighteen months after Jenny’s accident. They’d ordered a rare breed of beef, roasted to perfection. Michael now tapped the menu in exactly the same place. In due course, the same meal appeared on the table. He began to eat, pondering over Emma’s anxiety as it roused his own.
‘Peter’s not looking after Timothy properly,’ she said, prodding the beef. ‘Never has done, and I don’t mean the laundry.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are no … no guidelines. No rules. Or not enough of them.’ She quaffed some wine, desperately. ‘Lets him do what he wants. Watches what he wants, reads what he wants. The boy’s not old enough to make his own mind up. The other day he was reading the Kama Sutra for God’s sake. There were pictures, darling. And it doesn’t end there. He’s got a copy of the Koran. And Mein Kampf. Of course, he hasn’t read the damn thing but he really shouldn’t be filling his head with that kind of Nazi nonsense. It’s the same with films. Peter completely ignores the wisdom of the censor. Eighteens all over the place and he’s only eleven. Has a DVD-thingy in his room. Found him watching some American film in the middle of the afternoon about a boxing chap who can’t understand the Trinity and a Catholic priest who uses the F-word all the time – second-generation Irish, I’d imagine – and this chap finally sneaks into a hospital and kills a brain-damaged woman. Almost a cabbage. Wires and tubes all over the place. Now, I ask you, is that really appropriate for Timothy?’
‘No.’
‘We have to do more, Michael. We have to make sure Timothy gets a decent chance in life. Take him out of the wrong books and films. Take him … sky-diving.’
‘I don’t know how.’
‘Rugby, then. Get him into a club. He needs something physical to get rid of all that energy. Have you noticed? He can’t keep still. Wiggles all the time. Jenny was never like that.’
‘No, she just changed her clothes every five minutes. It’s normal, darling. It’s his age. I used to roll all over the floor with Nigel. Tried to punch his lights out.’
The mention of his brother’s name stumped Michael. He stared at his plate, knife and fork suspended in time. Nigel was in Africa. But even if his brother had been eating beef at the adjacent table he couldn’t have been further away. Michael couldn’t face him any more, not after … Donegal. He couldn’t bear to see his eyes and feel that relentless energy. Couldn’t stand anywhere near him without recalling the homily he’d given to the medics at Sandhurst … that meditation on crisis, risk and decision; that meditation on the Still, Small Voice. When Michael had stumbled into his own crisis, he’d listened hard, almost on his knees, heart open, hands joined … around the pistol grip of a Browning automatic. He’d heard his name three times—
‘Any parental control?’ asked Emma, stabbing the beef. ‘No. None. Timothy goes wherever he likes on the internet. Clicks this, clicks that. Talks to people in China. Just like I’m doing now. Michael? Hello. Are you listening?’
‘Absolutely, darling.’
‘Something has to be done.’ Emma leaned back, exhausted, peering at Michael over the top of her wineglass. ‘We have to think of Timothy. Jenny can’t … she’s got enough on her plate.’
Michael paid the bill and stepped outside into the afternoon sunshine. Puffs of cloud seemed to be snagged in the nearby trees. A breeze tugged at the branches but the fluff wouldn’t let go. Tiny birds pecked at the floss and then exploded across the blue sky, scared by Michael’s approach. Following the memory of Emma’s voice, he walked to St Andrew’s, the local church with a thatched roof. She’d brought him here after they’d lunched a second time in Bramfield, this time on lamb. That had been a mere three months ago. Peter had just been sent to Hollesley Bay. Timothy was now fourteen.
‘I want to show you something,’ Emma had said.
Her tone had changed. Ever since Jenny’s death the flash had gone. There was no zip, no fast outrage or hasty opinions. No daft outbursts, like the sky-diving proposal. She was harrowed by the loss. Her confidence shaky. There was a bluntness where she’d once been soft. At times she was shrill.
‘Isn’t it moving?’ murmured Emma.
‘Completely.’
Michael’s voice had fragmented. They’d entered the cool nave and ambled to the chancel, watched, it seemed, by the grotesque carved headstops, sad and angry faces among the riot of vaulting. Emma was pointing at a memorial: a life-size woman lying on her bed, her infant daughter in her arms. Above the two reclining marble figures, as if on a shelf, his whole posture turned away, knelt a man, the husband and father, his hands joined in prayer.
‘Sir Arthur Coke can’t look upon what he’s lost,’ said Emma, touching the dead mother and child with a steady hand. ‘Childbirth took away their lives. He was the Lord Chief Justice of the realm. A very powerful man. There was nothing he could do. There’d been no crime.’
Emma moved away, her hand catching Michael’s sleeve.
‘Let me show you something else.’
She led him to a black ledger stone with ornate white lettering. She began to read the inscription, her voice echoing among the arches and scowling faces: ‘After the fatigues of a married life, borne by her with incredible patience …’ – Emma skipped the details that didn’t speak to her purpose – ‘… an apoplectick dart touch’t the most vital part of her brain; she must have fallen directly to the ground (as one thunder-strook) if she had not been catch’t and supported by her intended husband. Of which invisible bruise, after a struggle for above sixty hours, with that grand enemy to life (but the certain and merciful friend to helpless old age), with terrible convulsions, plaintive groans, or stupefying sleep, without recovery of her speech or senses, she dyed on ye 12th day of September in the year of our lord seventeen thirty-seven …’ Emma paused, allowing Michael’s attention to fall on the citation from the Book of Revelation. ‘Behold, I come as a thief.’
Michael felt the weight of Emma’s hand. She was still holding onto his sleeve. They didn’t speak. Each of them was thinking of Jenny and the dart to her nervous system, and Peter who’d not been there to catch her. They thought of Jenny’s groans over many years and the enemy of life who’d come too soon.
‘Peter is the thief,’ declared Emma.
Michael turned aside, like Sir Arthur on his shelf.
‘He stole her future,’ continued Emma, remorselessly. ‘She was only nineteen. She wanted to dance. She wanted to fly.’
It was true. So true. She’d longed to soar above ordinary life. One of the headstops caught Michael’s gaze. It looked like Peter. Deformed, of course, like one of those cartoons sketched at the beach, but it was him all right, in stone. The face looking down on him had the same high hairline, the same ears, the same dominating eyes.
‘Michael,’ said Emma – she, too, had found the scowling effigy at the base of the arch; she, too, was staring back, as if returning a challenge – ‘you’ve never told me what happened in Belfast and you don’t have to. I know what’s in the camera bag and I know what’s wrapped in the duster.’
The Discourtesy of Death Page 18
