The Discourtesy of Death

by William Brodrick

He quietly opened the back door.

  He flicked the imaginary trip switch.

  He strode swiftly, counting.

  At twelve, two hands extended, legs apart, he fired.

  BAM-BAM.

  Michael’s hands hadn’t shaken at all. The voices had been far away, like a home crowd excluded from an away match. They’d chanted the old songs loyally, each ignoring the other, making a swell of combined noise to send Michael on his way. This time the target had been struck once above the left eye and once just below the nose. The plastic bag had been ripped open with a hopeless flap of resistance. The sprouts had simply vanished.

  Michael was ready. His reconstruction was almost complete.

  Danny Carpenter had been right: handle the burning emotions and the heat will go out of them. Keep them buried and they’ll stay scorching hot. Michael felt as if he’d finally discovered and completed the right kind of therapy: he’d revisited the past with a view to repeating the action that had caused the mental injury in the first place. Danny couldn’t have thought of that. And he couldn’t be blamed for proposing a tape recording of bells in Tibet. Or for recommending controlled violence – the exhilaration of causing damage to property. Because Danny didn’t know what had happened in Donegal. And if he had done, he certainly wouldn’t have counselled replication. No, as far as the Army was concerned, Michael had simply shown that he lacked the nerve for frontline intelligence work. Even Emma didn’t know what had transpired, though she knew it had been hush-hush. The brutal fact beyond everyone’s appreciation was this: there was no therapy. None had been devised for Michael’s particular situation. So he’d had to manage on his own and muddle through, never imagining that one day the purging of his guilt would come so very close to vengeance: the killing of Peter Henderson. Only it wasn’t revenge at all. It was an act of mercy for the benefit of the innocent, that they might live without … troubles.

  Michael was ready. Though he could never be restored – Northern Ireland had seen to that – he was ready to make amends. Able, at last, to take the final steps.

  Like a council worker sent to clean out a squat, Michael tidied up the Killing House. Within fifteen minutes the Citroën instruction manual was back in the glove box and the chair had been smashed to pieces, the chunks of wood and padding thrown on top of the plastic bag in the boot of his car. Back inside for one last check, he picked up some shreds of plastic, flaps of green matter and a couple of toothpicks. He then secured the premises, reattaching the padlock housing to the front and back doors with new screws bought from a hardware store. On the way to Southwold he tossed all the rubbish into a skip at the side of the road. All in all, it had been just like raking leaves at Polstead.

  Yes, Michael was ready.

  Ready to press play on Father Doyle’s tape recorder.

  On the passenger seat, covered by his overcoat, lay the Browning automatic, potent symbol of the last of all steps open to those who know that something has to be done. Four rounds remained, one up the spout and three ready to go.

  Part Four

  The Diary of Timothy Henderson

  28th August

  How could someone who moved so beautifully not be able to walk again? When Mum came home I just watched her from far away, unbelieving. She just didn’t budge. She couldn’t. She was in a bed by the window in the sitting room. I watched her from the door, from the corridor, from the garden and she was always still. I tried to cry but I couldn’t. Part of me couldn’t move either. I wanted to give her my legs. I wanted to have an accident as well and bring my bed downstairs.

  5th September

  Suddenly my dad was there. I’d seen him mostly on television or heard him on the radio. My mum used to put him on and say, ‘That’s your dad.’ But he dropped all that. He was in the house. He watched my mum, too. From the door, the corridor and the garden, and I was watching him, though he’d no idea. He cried a lot. He’d put his head in his hands and pull at his hair. But with Mum he was completely different, never showing her what he felt. He read her stories and poems and he put films on. He called out to her a lot. It was like he just wanted to say her name.

  12th September

  I feel bad writing this. But it’s true. I was sort of angry with my mum. Because we didn’t speak to each other much any more. We didn’t have any of our chats. I know what it was, she felt guilty for being paralysed. She felt she shouldn’t be there, reminding me all the time that she wasn’t like all the other mums. But that’s not what made me angry the most. What got to me was that she spoke to my dad. He was there all the time at her side and I was sort of in the way. I felt left out so I’d listen to them from the landing.

  19th September

  This isn’t working. I’m putting down all these memories but I don’t feel any better. I feel bad again. Bad because I couldn’t make my mum understand how much I loved her. She was all wrong, thinking that she had to be like the others. I wanted her in any condition, moving or not. I don’t think she ever realised that nothing had changed for me, except that she couldn’t look me in the eye any more. That really did me in. It still does. It made me want to die.

  35

  After a fitful and feverish sleep Anselm mumbled his way through Lauds, not quite reading the words on his psalter but staring at the imprint in his mind of Nigel Goodwin’s chronology. Forsaking breakfast, Anselm snatched the keys for Larkwood’s Fiat, neglecting to fill in the register that recorded who’d gone where and at what time and when the car was likely to be back in the garage. Within minutes he was breaking the speed limit on the road to Newmarket. The trip seemed curiously well timed. On the day that Peter Henderson was released from prison, Anselm had set off to confront the person who’d probably killed his disabled partner.

  A more careful examination of Nigel Goodwin’s chronology disclosed two points of substance, though only the second really counted. First, everyone except Helen had enjoyed a moment of privacy with Jenny on the night she died. Each had asked to see her alone – which, in the circumstances, was normal, because Jenny couldn’t move, so time with her alone had to be organised. Doctor Ingleby had carried out a short medical examination. The others had been with her for a matter of minutes, no more, save Peter who was, of course, resident. But – second – the last visitor to see Jenny alive was not a member of the family but an old and disappointed friend. He’d come back after everyone had left. Peter had let him in and he’d then spoken to Jenny for a long while … until she’d fallen asleep.

  Anselm slowed down and released his grip on the wheel. He wanted to find his calm and review, yet again, the surrounding now significant details.

  Logically speaking, anyone could have done something to Jenny earlier in the evening. Michael, Emma, Helen, Doctor Ingleby, Peter … they all could have had merciful plans known only to themselves. But that was all fantasy. Ridiculous. They could have hardly acted in concert or by coincidence. And remember Occam: keep things simple. And the last person to see Jenny awake was Vincent Cooper … a man who’d told Mitch that he’d come and gone before the others had even arrived. A man who’d failed to say that he’d come back.

  A man, therefore, who’d lied.

  Anselm parked in Newmarket and went straight to the narrow alley that led to the specialised business of Vincent Cooper: ‘Vintage Automotive Services’. Stepping onto the cold and empty forecourt, however, Anselm came to a troubled halt. The work bay shutters were down. Propped against the inside of a window was a large red sign belonging to Keegan’s Estate Agents (Commercial Division) which announced: FOR SALE.

  With a growing certainty that he’d found his man, Anselm walked briskly towards the railway station and the street of Edwardian homes that had caught Vincent Cooper’s eye. He’d left Sudbury and bought himself a nice terraced house after Jenny had died. And now it was on the market again. Anselm paused at the gate by Keegan’s blue (Residential Division) placard. The windows were like dull slate. All the curtains were drawn. Anselm knocked on the door without c
onviction, recognising that the place had already been abandoned.

  ‘Where’ve you gone, Vincent?’ asked Anselm, kindly.

  He didn’t want to condemn him. He didn’t want to chase him around Suffolk. He just wanted to talk to him. Help him recognise that Peter probably couldn’t keep the secret much longer. The breakdown in Manchester, if it meant anything, proved that Peter Henderson’s conscience was very much alive and well. This tragic story couldn’t remain buried much longer.

  ‘You killed her and then you told Peter what you’d done,’ said Anselm, staring up at the box room window. ‘You didn’t like the freezer bag and the rubber pipe and the gas bottle. I don’t blame you. There’s not much dignity in that … not what you’d want for someone you loved.’

  Anselm turned away and ambled down the empty street, visualising what had happened next. Vincent had stepped away from the body. He’d called to Peter. He’d explained what he’d done. Maybe they’d cried together. But then Vincent had left because at this point, however shaken Peter might have been, there was a structure in place to be followed once Jenny had been helped to die. Friends and family were involved. A call was made to Doctor Ingleby. He’d come to the house. He’d examined the body. He’d spoken to Peter. He’d signed the death certificate.

  Anselm pulled out of the car park, barely noticing the markings on the road, the oncoming traffic or the signs and lights. He now understood the reason for Peter’s confession.

  Vincent had killed Jenny knowing that Peter couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d ‘helped her to die’ because, like he’d said, as a dancer he’d had a unique appreciation of Jenny’s psyche. Anselm saw him once more, leaning over the cluttered table, his eyes haemorrhaging a dark knowledge.

  You name them … Peter, Emma, the doctor and, yes, even Michael, her father, none of them could even begin to understand her like I did, to understand what she felt like after her legs had been taken away from her. She didn’t need to explain a damn thing to me. Not a thing.

  But killing her, out of love, had cost Vincent Cooper everything. That’s why he’d left Sudbury. That’s why he’d left dancing altogether. He’d had to try and start his life all over again. And Peter, recognising the huge cost, had now decided to shield him from the cold scrutiny of the law. His old friend – the friend he’d displaced – had paid enough.

  ‘Where have you gone, Vincent?’ murmured Anselm. ‘I need to talk to you. And you need to talk to me.’

  Back at Larkwood, Anselm went to the calefactory and called Keegan’s Estate Agents. Unfortunately (said Linda) the person responsible for both files – Trevor – was out and wouldn’t be back until six. So Anselm went to Saint Hildegard’s to check on Benedict and Jerome who were, in fact, trying to manufacture an improvised explosive device (a modest banger). But since (inter alia) the fertiliser lacked an essential ingredient – ammonium nitrate – Anselm left them to it. At the appointed hour, and once more in the calefactory, Anselm tried again.

  Trevor was very helpful, but he couldn’t be charmed into disclosing the present location of the vendor. In answer to direct questions he said, no, the client would not attend any visit to the house or the business, yes, a quick sale was hoped for, and yes (to that end), an offer well below the asking price would be considered. Then came the one surprising aside: the vendor was sick of England and was heading off to the sun. Somewhere in Spain. Both sales would be handled through his appointed agent.

  ‘Which is me,’ said Trevor, with a hint of his influence and sway. He turned persuasive: ‘As to the asking price on the Edwardian bijou: frankly, between our good selves, I think if you came in at—’

  Anselm put the phone down.

  ‘You haven’t gone yet, Vincent,’ he said, quietly. ‘And I’m going to find you.’

  Anselm had never quite understood how his mind worked. He often failed to see the obvious. Lying in bed, listening to ‘Sailing By’, he’d suddenly recognise what had been plain all along, the insight appearing in his mind out of nowhere and prompted by nothing. It was a phenomenon he found more maddening than humbling. And it happened now, without the benefit of darkness and music. Stepping from the calefactory into the cloister, he suddenly stalled, staring ahead at the sunlight falling in the Garth. He felt sick.

  ‘Nigel’s chronology was based on information obtained from Timothy … Nigel had spoken to him very carefully … wanting to know who’d been with Jennifer on the night she died.’

  Anselm blinked at the sharp green moss, bright with yesterday’s rainwater.

  ‘Which means that Timothy saw Vincent Cooper when he came back.’

  And if he’d seen the late return, he’d seen everything else. Because he’d seen Vincent Cooper leave. The boy had probably seen or heard the conversation between Vincent and Peter. He’d probably seen or heard the call to Doctor Ingleby, along with his arrival and all that had transpired when it had been disclosed that Jenny was now dead.

  ‘Dear God,’ whispered Anselm. ‘I asked you for help, but I didn’t ask for this. I’ve stumbled onto the one secret observer … Timothy Henderson witnessed the killing of his mother. And he’s said nothing … to protect every single person in his family.’

  The young boy had accepted his father’s whispered explanation that cancer had taken his mother away sooner than expected. He’d cried, no doubt, listening to all the other stuff about a quick and merciful end. And all the while he’d known the truth. He’d buried it … for the sake of Michael and Emma and Nigel and Helen. And his father. For the sake of family peace. For the sake of cutting back on everyone’s quota of anguish. He’d let them swallow Peter’s story, not knowing that none of them believed him.

  ‘You can’t carry that weight, Timothy,’ mumbled Anselm. ‘It will destroy you.’

  Anselm went in rapid search of the Prior. He found him alone in the nave, sitting at a bench near the back as if he were a casual visitor rather than the Superior. That was his way. He shunned all the trappings of Office. He listened to Anselm’s explanation without interrupting, showing only his pained reactions.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ admitted Anselm, his voice echoing softly. ‘I’m stunned … my mind is frozen.’

  The Prior closed his eyes. This was another of his ways. You got the impression you were no longer quite alone. After a peculiarly deep silence, he opened them.

  ‘Talk to Nigel Goodwin,’ he said. ‘He’s already questioned the poor boy and the boy will have sensed his purpose. If anyone should sit down and help Timothy go beyond what he’s been able to reveal so far, then it’s Nigel. This is his responsibility, not yours. He’s the one who’s received the boy’s partial trust, not you. It would be quite wrong for you to question him, however delicately, if you were relying on what he’d disclosed to Nigel.’

  Anselm quickly left the church and was heading towards the plum trees when he heard heavy feet stirring up the gravel behind him.

  ‘You have the keys to the Fiat? The comm-u-nal car?’

  Bede, softly panting, drew out the qualifier as if Anselm needed a firm reminder. The archivist stood legs apart, a plump hand on each hip.

  ‘I do,’ confessed Anselm.

  ‘You’re meant to put them back on the hook.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I forgot.’

  ‘And you didn’t fill in the register.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I was rushed.’

  ‘There are rules, Anselm. You can’t just forget them and run. They make the world go round. They stop an archivist killing a beekeeper.’

  Anselm studied Bede with something like awe. He’d made it all sound so simple.

  36

  The mullioned windows of the cottage at Long Melford seemed to stare back at Anselm after he’d rung the bell. A figure moved behind the glass and, after a long delay, the door opened. There, on the hearth, was neither Doctor Goodwin nor his wife, but a boy Anselm had only ever seen in a photograph, excluding (of course) the fleeting glimpse at the upstairs window. Timothy Henderson
spoke first:

  ‘They’re not in.’

  Anselm began to introduce himself, stammering his surprise, but Timothy interrupted him.

  ‘I know who you are. I read the article in the Sunday Times. You’re a monk.’

  ‘Yes.’ Anselm was pleased the boy had opted for the primary designation.

  ‘And a detective.’

  ‘I prefer “puzzled explorer lost in the fog of human doubt and confusion”,’ corrected Anselm.

  ‘That’s a bit long.’

  ‘It is. But it’s true.’

  Timothy flashed a sunny smile, its appearance so bright and unexpected that it bowled Anselm clean over. ‘Do you want to come in?’ he said. ‘They’ll be back any minute.’

  Timothy was fourteen now (Anselm reminded himself). He’d been twelve when he’d lost his mother. His brown eyes still had their boyish simplicity, but the voice was breaking and his movements were slightly awkward. Adolescence made his body twitch with a kind of static electricity. Even his hair had been scrambled by the voltage. He’d gone into the kitchen, like a proper host, offering tea and something to eat. Anselm sat down, noting the Sunday Times folded on the coffee table. The bureau in the corner was open. Beside a pad of paper and a pile of envelopes was a diary, closed upon a biro. It had ‘T.H.’ scrawled all over the cover. Timothy had been writing when Anselm had rung the bell …

  ‘My aunt makes this fruit cake,’ said Timothy, entering the room. He’d balanced a plate on the top of each mug. On each plate was a slice of Nigel’s favourite nibble. ‘She’s been making it for years … since she married my uncle.’

  Anselm helped Timothy by carefully taking the plates off the mugs. When they were both seated, Timothy continued his story.

  ‘And it’s always the same … dried out … sometimes burned … but never, ever moist. Isn’t that weird?’

  Anselm agreed, watching the boy’s bright, brown eyes. What am I to say? he thought, anxiously. You are a witness to murder. I can’t talk about cake.