Neither Shackleton nor the Gnome was drunk but they were more relaxed with one another than they had been before. Jenni was no longer an uncomfortable presence.
The conversation roamed amiably and grazed on several subjects before MacIntyre said, ‘How’s that neighbour of yours? Lucy, wasn’t it?’
Shackleton was so taken aback he didn’t say anything but he could feel himself getting hot. His face and ears were burning. Red. For God’s sake, he was blushing. He was confused – maybe he had had too much to drink. That must be it. He put his glass down.
The Gnome was watching him, amused. He’d never seen Tom Shackleton shaken before.
‘I enjoyed meeting her. I thought she was a very …’ He paused, swirling his brandy and summoning the right word. ‘… A very sweet person. Am I right, Tom? Is she sweet?’
He’d leaned in close to Shackleton now, close enough to see the fine hairs on the other man’s cheekbones and the flushed skin underneath.
‘I’ve no idea, I don’t know her very well. She’s a – she was a friend of Jenni’s.’
The Gnome was smiling now. The alcohol was making him playful. He was in what Lizie called his ‘kitten with a ball of string’ mood.
‘Really? I got the impression you’ – a breath – ‘were her special friend.’
Shackleton turned to MacIntyre and was surprised at the benign amusement on the dwarfish face. He struggled to maintain a tone of moderate outrage.
‘For Christ’s sake, what the hell gave you that idea?’
The Gnome shrugged and sat back, still watching Shackleton with a sort of elfish mischievousness.
‘Oh, nothing really. Except she’s in love with you.’
Shackleton clenched his hands together and suppressed a laugh.
It was a spectacularly inappropriate reaction and delighted the Gnome. He was always interested in unforeseen reactions to embarrassment. This was much more interesting than outrage or anger.
‘Oh, while I think of it, we must have another meeting about budgets. That tight bugger at the Treasury’s getting jumpy again. Another brandy?’
Having had his fun MacIntyre got up and went to the bar to join their host. There were waves of laughter from the men there. Shackleton knew they weren’t laughing at him but it felt the same as when he was in the playground surrounded by laughter and didn’t find out until his mother slapped him that his trousers were split, exposing his hand-me-down vest and pants. Group laughter had made him uneasy ever since.
He prepared to stand up but wasn’t sure he could move. He must have drunk more than he realised.
Lucy. Bloody Lucy. Why couldn’t she leave him alone? She’d made him say goodbye. That should have been it. The relief of a life without emotional clutter.
He got up. No, it wasn’t too much drink, it was emotional poisoning. The residue of too much feeling in a hitherto emotional teetotaller.
Pleading pressure of work he said his goodbyes and didn’t allow himself to think again until he was out of the building. He walked across the square to his car and looked back at the great gold Pallas Athene above the pillared entrance of the club. The goddess of wisdom.
He wondered who the goddess of rank stupidity was because that’s who he needed tonight.
His driver opened the car door.
‘No. No it’s all right, thanks. You go. I want to walk for a while.’
The man looked sceptical but he just said goodnight and drove off.
It was cold. He put on his white raincoat, the one Jenni had derided as being far too Humphrey Bogart, and walked down the steps to the Mall. The buildings were luminous in the moonlight as he walked past the war memorial in the park, with the empty Horse-guards Parade on his left.
A car passed, illuminating the back of Downing Street. The pelicans he’d thought were swans on his first visit shone white on the rocky islands of the lake. The little gingerbread house opposite the Cabinet Office looked enchanted.
And he missed Lucy.
He sat on one of the low railings edging the grass, his back to Whitehall, his face to the quiet stirrings in the park, and allowed himself for the first time since the phone call to think about her.
Amidst all the guilt and confusion, the one thing he now realised, too late, was he missed her. He really missed her. It wasn’t Jenni’s absence he felt but that of cosy, loving Lucy.
‘Oh Lucy. Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.’
A Canadian goose, disturbed by Shackleton’s lovesick repetitions, honked.
At the same time a taxi, its old diesel engine shattering the romantic calm of the scene, clattered round the corner. Shackleton hailed it. If it had a third gear he might just make the eleven o’clock train.
The thought of Lucy alone in the house, and the residue of good wines and brandy, sustained Shackleton all the way to her front door.
Then the doubts set in. The sight of his house, the memories, the sheer idiocy of what he was doing. What was he doing? He wasn’t sure. What had he come for? He didn’t know. No. That wasn’t true. He’d come to talk. Lucy was the only one he could talk to. She was a part of him. He sat on the step. If she was part of him she was the only good part. He saw how far he’d travelled when he realised he didn’t want to lose that.
He remembered, in the warm, dark stillness-of one of their nights together, he’d said, in reply to her probing for some sign of affection, ‘If we were both free, our relationship would be very different.’ As always, phrasing himself ambiguously. As always, open to interpretation. Well, now he wanted it to be different. All right, they weren’t both free but they could talk, maybe make plans for the future, after Gary … when Gary … Shackleton stopped himself. Jenni had taught him the destructive power of allowing wishes to germinate. Leave it. Go back to London. The monster Hope had rarely visited his life – it wasn’t the time to invite it to take up residence now.
But he couldn’t stop himself. Lucy had become the one thing, the one person who could save him from the nothing that was threatening to envelop him. She had held him and told him he was alive. The black women had said only wood could defeat him. With Lucy and the scrupulous avoidance of splinters he’d make a life, a life like other people had, with happiness and tranquillity. He laughed out loud. That was it, Lucy was the key to life.
The front door opened behind him. He stood up like a guilty schoolboy.
‘Can I help you?’
It was a woman in her forties with tightly curled rust-blonde hair, discreet reddish lipstick and blue eyeshadow unrelieved by either mascara or liner. Her dress was dark blue in the fashion of women who despised fashion. Her shoes sensible and suitable for anything required of a foot besides glamour. She was formidable and English, and born a century too late.
‘My name’s Shackleton, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise the time, I was hoping to –’
She didn’t allow him to finish, used as she was to a lifetime of completing the sentences of others.
‘Pop in for a visit, yes. Now I see you in the light, you’re that chap who’s the new Crime Tsar. Used to live opposite. Lucy’s mentioned you.’
‘Is Lucy –?’
‘Yes, come in. Oh how do you do, by the way, I’m Christine, Christine Stroud. We were just going to have hot chocolate.’
Shackleton followed her into the hall. His heart was beating fast. He hadn’t felt like this for years. Or had he ever felt such excitement at the prospect of seeing a woman?
The house was smaller and shabbier than he remembered, but then he hadn’t set foot in it for a long time.
Christine tapped on the door as she passed the front room.
‘Visitor for you,’ she called and went on to the kitchen indicating Shackleton should go in.
He was shaking and sweating. Out of breath. He’d been having breathless attacks since Jenni died. The doctors couldn’t find any reason. Just stress, they said, reaction. Whatever the cause he was panting now, like a smoker after a flight of steep stairs.
The door handle
was stiff and made too loud a noise as he turned it and went in. The heat of the room struck him immediately. It was stuffy with the blast of a very efficient radiator and heavily curtained windows.
Then he saw why.
Instead of Lucy there was Gary, lying in his bed with three pillows raising him to a half-seated position. Hanging by his side the urine bag hooked over the bed frame.
‘I’m sorry, I thought –’
He wanted to run out of the house before Gary turned his head and saw him. But Gary didn’t turn. He was asleep. His breathing steadier than Shackleton’s and deeper.
Christine bustled in with a tray.
‘Go on in. Sit down. I’ll put Gary’s under this little cover. I doubt he’ll wake now he’s had his medication. He doesn’t usually go off this quick though.’
Shackleton didn’t move.
‘Well, why don’t you stay a while – he might wake up. He’d be glad to see you.’ She lowered her voice to a pitch that could summon foxhounds. ‘I think he’s lonely without Lucy here. Misses her dreadfully.’
Shackleton was lost for what to say.
‘Are you a relation?’
He might as well have said, ‘Do you support the disestablishment of the Church?’
‘Good Lord, no. I’m a nurse, Mr Shackleton. Have been all my life. Lucy always asks for me when she’s away. Not that she’s away much, she’s such a saint, no. She’s gone off for a few days R and R. Apparently she lost someone close recently and has taken it rather hard. I’m sure you’ – emphasis on the you and a rounding of the blue-lidded eyes – ‘of all people will understand that.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll leave you alone then. If you want anything I’ll be in the kitchen.’
She’d put the tray down by the bed. Shackleton went across and looked down at Gary.
‘You’d better drink it before it gets a skin.’
Gary spoke without opening his eyes, though the desire to see Shackleton’s face was almost irresistible. He was rewarded by the sound of a cup being knocked over. He opened them then and turned to look at Shackleton.
‘Don’t worry, the Angel of Death will clear it up.’
Shackleton looked lost.
‘Nurse Stroud. I call her the Angel of Death. Every time she comes here she has yet another lurid tale of how one of her patients has “crossed over”. Probably be me next. So … How have you been?’
‘Fine … Fine. Good. I was just over at the house, checking everything’s all right.’
‘Oh Lucy could have done that for you. But of course … you changed the locks, didn’t you?’
Shackleton avoided the challenge.
‘I’m sorry it’s so late – I hadn’t realised the time. Why don’t I come back another day?’
‘When Lucy’s here.’
‘Well, yes, it would be nice to see her again. How is she?’
That tone of polite indifference really annoyed Gary.
‘How is she? Well, Tom, what can I say? She’s in love with another man who’s just got a new job and moved away from the area. Suicidal might be a word I’d use only I don’t think even Lucy could be so stupid as to kill herself for that piece of low life. And he’s vicious low life, he’s the sort of man who comes sniffing round when he thinks Lucy’s husband is in hospital. Unfortunately for him there were no beds and Lucy’s away visiting the rock pools and historic sites of Hastings.’
Shackleton looked like a stunned fish. Gary was gratified by the effect.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Gary exploded, and as the words poured out of him, he realised this was what he’d been missing in the politeness of disability. The opportunity of tearing into someone and feeling chunks of their flesh ripping under the onslaught. No, not someone, Tom Shackleton.
‘Oh you nasty, cowardly piece of shit. Haven’t you even got the balls to admit you’ve been sleeping with her? It wasn’t even an affair for you, was it? She was just somewhere to put your frustrations, a soft repository for your ego. What have you come back for? Eh? To make sure she doesn’t think too badly of you? Because you don’t need her any more, do you? You’ve got rid of Jenni, you got rid of Carter and now it’s Lucy’s turn. But she doesn’t have to die, Tom, does she? Not so anyone will notice, anyway. You found a much more subtle way to kill her, you just broke her heart. So, come on, what have you come back for, you evil bastard? A last shag? Your bag of drugs?’
Shackleton, stunned by the attack, struggled to reply.
‘Oh, it’s all right, Tom, Lucy wouldn’t let me do anything to hurt you, you’re quite safe.’ He paused, he was blazing like a consumptive and from somewhere found the strength to pull himself upright in the bed. ‘Until I die, Shackleton. Until then. Don’t ever forget a deathbed deposition is a statement. Admissible in court as evidence.’
Shackleton fought back.
‘Evidence of what? There’s nothing to link me with anything. Any accusation I would defend robustly.’
Gary was contemptuous.
‘You can’t defend yourself against a dead man, particularly if there are as many people as you’ve got out there just waiting for you to be brought low.’ He was baiting Shackleton now. ‘So come on, what did you come back for? And don’t say to see me, try telling the truth, just for once, you might like it.’
When Shackleton spoke it was quietly but with a sort of defiance.
‘I came back to see Lucy.’
Contempt took the anger out of Gary’s words.
‘Well, I know that. But why? Why do you want to see her?’
‘To tell her I love her.’
Shackleton’s admission, the first time he’d ever used the word love in the context of another human being, lay between them like a robin’s egg. It was tiny, it was fragile, and it contained the possibility of new life.
Gary weighed it in silence then took great pleasure in booting it into touch.
‘Enough to marry her? Enough to put her in the spotlight? Enough to take what they’ll do to both of you when they find out you took her away from her disabled husband before your wife was cold in her grave? Can you imagine what the tabloids would do to her? And what would they do to you, the Teflon Chief Constable, now the Lord’s anointed Crime Tsar?’ Gary paused, but he hadn’t finished. When he spoke again his voice was quiet, almost a whisper. ‘How much do you love her really, Tom? I love her enough to die for her, if that’s what she wants. I’m serious. If it’s you she chooses, I won’t stand in the way.’ He laughed. It was an incongruous sound. Perfectly natural and genuinely amused. ‘Stand? I should be so lucky to be able to. But I mean it, Tom. There’s just one condition. You have to ask her. And tell her everything, I mean everything, all the stuff I can only guess at. Then let her choose.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Why? Because you might lose? I don’t think so.’
Gary was shocked to see Shackleton’s eyes were bright with tears.
‘No. No.’
Urban foxes, confident in the quiet street, shrieked as they played round the cars. An unlaid sewer pipe magnified their calls as they raced through it.
It was a moment of mutual rest in the fight between the two men but Gary wasn’t going to relax. He knew he had Shackleton down but wasn’t sure how or why.
When Shackleton looked up the tears hadn’t fallen but he was able to speak.
‘I don’t want to hurt her.’
Gary let out a shout of derision.
‘It’s a bit bloody late for that. Have you any idea what you’ve put her through, you shit –’
‘I know. I’m a bastard. I know.’
Gary was outraged now, and enjoying it.
‘Oh no … you don’t get off with a bit of self-pity and a mea culpa. All your life you’ve been doing that then carrying on just the same. You’ve got some idea that just saying you’re a bastard absolves you of responsibility. Well, it doesn’t. You’ve got to be sorry, Tom. Sorry enough to change. And I don’t
mean just reinventing yourself, which believe me I know is your usual trick. No, to change enough to make amends.’
He was sure Shackleton was beaten now. Gary hadn’t tasted triumph in so long it hit him like neat whisky. He fell back on his pillows, dizzy and euphoric.
As he did, Shackleton stood up and leaned over him, dangerous, pressing his fists into the mattress.
‘Finished, Gary? Right. Now I’ll tell you what I think. Lucy is only staying with you because she feels guilty. Think about it, Gary, if you were well, if you and I were equal, which of us would she choose? Eh? If it was just a straight call, no emotional blackmail involved. She’d leave you, wouldn’t she?’
Gary turned his head away.
Shackleton spoke in his most reasonable, most persuasive tone. ‘If you really love her, then you must think about it. What have you got to offer her? Mmm?’ He touched Gary lightly on his chest. ‘This?’ He lifted the urine bag so Gary could see it. ‘This?’ He reached across for the shaving mirror and held it in front of Gary’s face. ‘This?’ He sat down. ‘The difference between us, Gary, is I know I’m a bastard and you think you’re a saint. But I’ll tell you this. If you condemn Lucy to a lifetime of wiping drool off your chin and watching you rot you’re a bigger bastard than I could ever aspire to be.’
He stood up and stepped away from the still body on the bed. The temptation to put his hands round that scrawny neck and squeeze was overpowering.
‘More hot chocolate, gentlemen?’
Nurse Stroud spoke at the same time as knocking and entering the room. Completely oblivious to the poison air she sailed across, loaded the tray, tutted at the spill, mopped at it with a wad of tissues then turned and left with a cheerful wink at Shackleton.
‘Open the door for me, will you, Mr Shackleton. Don’t want to drop this little lot, do we?’
And she was gone in a cloud of Yardley Lavender soap and talcum powder.
Shackleton stood by the door. Not moving.
Gary couldn’t see him.
‘You still there? Tom?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Go over to the piano.’
The Crime Tsar Page 38
