Sleazy Secrets of TV Comic
The Dark Side of the Funnyman
A Sexual Predator
These are just a few of the choice headlines. Every woman who’s so much as looked at Gabriel in the past five years has offered her two penn’orth: ‘There was another side to him that scared me,’ said Laetitia from Surrey. (Scared her so much she went back for more the following week.)
Legally, they aren’t allowed to call Gabriel a murderer. Innocent until proven guilty. But the papers only pay lip service to the law. His guilt protrudes from every word and sentence. Even his professional photographs have been made to look sinister: What is he hiding behind the smile?
I scour the columns for Mariela’s name. Has he been accused of my murder and hers too? One killing away from becoming a serial killer. The only information I can find are a few paragraphs on page two of the Telegraph saying police are still investigating the murder of another woman close to Gabriel’s house. Nothing else.
Our mother/son relationship is held aloft for forensic scrutiny. Had life in the public eye affected the young Gabriel? Had I been too soft/too hard on him? Too absent? In one, there is a feature under the banner, NO, WOMEN CAN’T HAVE IT ALL, a neat photo of me as Home Secretary to illustrate how a woman’s decision to pursue a career can have deadly consequences.
Then there is the army of psychologists wheeled out to waffle on for eight hundred words about our relationship. Did Gabriel always feel inferior?
Every possible line of examination and discussion is wrung dry. It is an editor’s dream, after all – ex Home Secretary’s son held for her murder. What hubris!
But what tops off all the acres of utter nonsense are the quotes from my friends.
Bernadette Mulligan, a close friend of the family, said she was numbed by the news, ‘I’m absolutely devastated. Linda was my best friend for more than forty years,’ but she added, ‘I’ve known Gabriel since he was a baby and he was always trouble. Linda could never see the wrong in him.’
‘Words cannot express my sadness,’ said Mrs Moscow’s former colleague Henry Sinclair. ‘Linda was a great friend and inspiration. She worked tirelessly for what she believed in, and many of the advances in child protection are a credit to her. It’s particularly sad because Linda was a wonderful mother who would have done anything for her son.’
Each word of Henry’s sends a dart of pain shooting through me. He has no shame, nothing sticks to him, no dirt, no suspicion. I stand by the window, look out at the darkness circling, sucking the light from the day. These men are untouchable. Unassailable. And unless I find a means of escape, they will remain so.
I go to the door, hammer on it with my fist. I summon my voice, force it out. ‘Someone come . . . please!’ I regret the ‘please’ but politeness is a hard habit to kick. I listen for a reaction but hear only snippets of chat rolling up from the living room. ‘Help me!’ I scream.
Nothing.
Then.
Footfall.
Keys twisting in the lock, the sound judders through me. The door is pushed open. Anna stands there with her finger to her lips.
Shhhh.
So much to say, to squeeze into a moment. Questions thrash at my skull. Why why why? But not now. We exchange a look, packed with too much meaning to decipher.
‘I’m desperate for the loo,’ I say. Back to the script.
She turns to check the hallway behind her before standing aside. ‘Be quick.’ Her voice is a comfort, it is Anna again. But I tell myself not to be fooled.
The bathroom is next to my bedroom. Quietly, I slip inside, close the door, trying not to invite creaks or groans, any noise at all.
The small window key. I pull it out of my pocket. A ribbon of sunlight gleams on the metal, all that is left of my hope. But first, I fill a cup with water, pour a little down the loo for Anna’s benefit, should she be listening.
Jittery fingers guide the key into the lock. It turns, first time.
Don’t say it’s too easy.
I press the pane of glass and the window creaks open with a child’s whine. I peer out. The drop is about five foot, nothing more. I climb on to the loo, then on to the ledge.
How did it come to this?
Shut up and jump.
I land on my shoulder, the grass damp and cold against my cheek. Pain trickles down my back but I drive it away with an order: Get to the road. Get help.
I start to run – as good as – hunkering as low as possible, hiding in the uneven tufts of grass.
I’m covering ground, moving at pace. I steal a look behind me. Anna’s face a smudge of white at the open window.
‘Linda.’ She is barely audible.
Then. ‘LINDA!’ She shouts this time.
Shouts but doesn’t move. Not an inch.
She’s not coming to get me.
I turn eyes back towards the path ahead, fix them on moving forward. Run run as fast as you can. Ignore the roar of your lungs, the acid streaming through your legs. Concentrate on the rhythm of your motion. All you have to do is seal this moment off so they can’t breach it. Stretch it out for as long as it takes to get help.
But.
A tumble leaves me sprawled in the mud. I scramble to recover. I can’t give up, not when I’m this close to the path, the road, the sound of the water, to saving Gabriel.
More shouts inject the air, pack it full of surprise and panic. They’re not Anna’s this time, they belong to the Scot, to Huxtable, and they’re chasing me down, an army of feet gaining ground. The road, the road, I try to draw it closer. I can see the opening now, a car passes by.
Help! I’d shout, if I had any breath left.
The ground begins to shake, the thunder of their footsteps. They are near, running at twice my speed. They are hunters. I am their prey.
The first contact sends me hurtling forward.
A crack. The sound of bone against rock. Pain consumes me. Obliterates everything else.
I count four boots and two trainers. The toe of one boot digs into my skull. ‘Ye need tae be a bit faster next time.’ The Scot yanks me up. My wrist dangles from my arm as if attached by a thread.
‘I think Anna here needs tae teach ye a lesson. You could’ve got her intae a lot of trouble running away like that. Isn’t that right, Anna?’
Her face is leached of colour.
‘I said, isn’t that right?’
‘That’s right,’ she says.
‘I for one,’ said the Scot, ‘am very upset that Linda decided tae spurn our hospitality. Tae think Henry has gone tae all this trouble. Perhaps she wasn’t comfortable enough. Maybe we can do better.’
His fist clenches and my body tightens, readies for the impact.
‘Oh, you’ve no need tae worry about me. I’d never hit a woman . . . Well, maybe not never, but I don’t make a habit of it. See her . . .’ he points to Anna. ‘She can hit a woman because she is a woman.’ He is pleased with himself, as if he is the only person who could have made such an observation.
Anna’s eyes flit between the Scot and Huxtable.
‘What are you waiting for, an invitation?’
‘I’ll take her back to the cottage,’ Anna says.
‘Or maybe ye don’t want tae, is that it?’ The Scot is an extraordinarily ugly man with deep lines and ridges slicing up his face. Huxtable hovers behind, eyes to the ground, silent.
Even in my current state, I know Anna is out of her depth, so pale and thin I imagine putting a finger through her and seeing it come out the other side. She’s trapped like a fly behind glass. The Scot watches her every move, goads her into action.
‘Anna,’ he says, harsher this time.
And then she obeys.
Slaps me with such force that I fall back into a tree. It creates a cleft i
n my body, adds new layers of pain.
I steady myself on the tree trunk as Anna moves closer again, her back towards the Scot and Huxtable. She mouths a word that sits in the silence between us.
Sorry.
‘A bit feisty that one, eh?’ the Scot says, his smile packed with pride. ‘I’ll take ye back, shall I?’ he says to me. ‘Make sure you’re safe.’
And he does, all the way back to my room, locking the door behind me.
I sit and wait as the night draws close and smothers me in darkness. Tomorrow is on its way and Henry and Curtis have me cornered, just as they did before.
November 1996
Linda
Bad mother. I didn’t see it coming. The nausea, sleepiness, stomach pains were all clues, if I had been looking close enough, but I was busy, too busy and I thought he was putting it on, trying to carve a few extra days off school. Always think the worst before anything else. I hadn’t noticed how much he’d changed, how all the words that used to run out of him in a stream of consciousness had dried up and hardened into silence.
It was the night of Halloween when he collapsed, hit on the head by some delinquent he’d scared, according to Tommy. Kate, Tommy’s mother, was beside herself: ‘It’s all my fault, they weren’t supposed to go that far.’ It wasn’t of course and I didn’t blame her for a minute, but Kate’s guilt was the least of my worries.
I took fright when I saw him, his pallor, the deathliest of whites, and his lips so red. A gash down his cheek too. I wasn’t fully in charge of myself because it took the paramedic to remind me it was Halloween and his face was painted white to look like a ghoul. Kate had done quite a number on him. But even once I was in possession of the facts, I couldn’t shake the sense that someone had spirited Gabriel away and left behind only his shadow.
My memory of the following days is foggy. We were thrown into a world of tubes and bleeps and a clinical starkness that chilled me. We were dealing not with a virus or a bug that the days and weeks would make better, but acute liver failure. Every time I ventured out to the loo, or for a gasp of fresh air, I sucked in the colours and the smells, reached out to touch the life that whizzed by on the streets in the hope I could feed it back to Gabriel. I’d known trauma before, tough times, but nothing prepared me for this. It was a new level of grief. My son, my beautiful boy, holding on to life, as thin as a thread.
For many couples, a child’s illness brings them closer together. Not us. Hugh tried, at least at first. He was a gentle man and our love had always been the calm, supportive type, without any of the high drama or heated arguments some couples endure. Often, I’d retreat from Gabriel’s bedside to grab a cup of tea or some air and on my return I’d stand behind the door watching Hugh stroke his hand, catch whispers of him reading from The Twits or The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and the scale of his love for the boy winded me. It was total, complete, irrepressible. And yet, having overheard the doctors speak, I knew Gabriel wasn’t responding to treatment and he might need a transplant. I could see what was coming like a tsunami gathering force on the horizon.
The consultant wanted to talk to us about the possibility of a familial donor.
‘The odds of a mother or a father being a match are thirty per cent. If neither of you is a match, we’ll start looking through the register. What helps us in these cases is to know the ethnic origin of the child from the father’s side; it gives us a start, if you like, points us in the right direction and can speed up the process,’ Dr Zaskias told us. ‘We can arrange for testing immediately, if that’s what you wish.’
‘No reason to wait,’ Hugh said. And I rested my hand on his, the last time he would allow such affection.
‘I can’t let you do it,’ I said.
Hugh’s brows knotted together in disbelief. ‘What are you talking about?’ But I could tell the question wasn’t fully formed before the truth hit him.
‘I wanted to believe he was yours,’ I said, immediately regretting my choice of words. Now wasn’t the time for weak excuses. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
He looked at me as he might a stranger who was trying to broach an intimate subject and then said in the calmest voice, ‘I don’t want to know who he is, but if you aren’t a match you are going to find him and beg him to do one thing for our son. Our son, not his. My son.’
He picked up his polystyrene cup and left the room before I could tell him I didn’t know if that was possible. I wasn’t sure I had it in me.
I was not a match. God must be evil, if he existed at all. To punish me and punish my son. No other explanation for it.
‘There are no suitable donors on the register at the moment,’ Dr Zaskias said quietly, so as not to hurt us with his words.
Hugh led me from Dr Zaskias’ room to see Gabriel. ‘Look at him. Look at our boy.’ The tears he’d held back spilled out and collected into sobs. My husband, breaking. ‘I would do anything to be able to save him, but I can’t. I can’t do a thing. Even if there’s the smallest chance that it might work, you have to do it.’ But I already knew I would. Nothing mattered more than saving Gabriel.
I called ahead and spoke to his secretary, couldn’t risk turning up and missing him. I didn’t trust myself to go back again.
‘Will he know what it’s concerning?’ she asked.
‘I have no idea.’
She asked me to hold the line, came back a few minutes later. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’
Affluent Mayfair, red-brick buildings, Land Rovers and Porsches, antique shops, discreet boutiques – I couldn’t stand the place. His house loomed up before me. I trawled my mind for alternative options, another way to make my son better. There were none, and Gabriel was all that mattered. I had to overcome the past to give my son a future. I was here because I wanted him to live.
I told my security detail to stay outside and rang the bell. He made me wait, unlike the last time when I was swept inside, a drink pushed into my hand and then another. What had I been doing all those years ago? The answer slapped me. I’d been playing a game. Flirting; I wasn’t beyond it, knew that it could be a useful tool in politics. It was after a fundraiser. We wanted money from him and it seemed churlish to reject his invitation. I was thinking of my career and advancement. If I could get him to say yes to the sum we needed, it would get me noticed, give me a push on the career path. The sad thing was, it worked. In that respect, at least, I got exactly what I wanted.
This time he made me wait. It was never going to be any other way. Eventually, he opened the door.
‘Linda,’ he said. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Hello, Curtis.’
I followed him upstairs, the walls decked with awards – best director, best screenplay. Posters to promote his films, The Bear Chronicles, I, II and III. I never did manage to persuade Gabriel they were overrated.
Inside the drawing room, he offered me tea. ‘Or a gin and tonic – wasn’t that always your tipple, Linda?’ Hadn’t been able to drink the stuff since.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Oh now, don’t be rude. It’s been so long, and I’ve made a space in my diary for you. I insist you have tea, and lunch.’
‘Tea will suffice.’
He signalled for me to sit on an old slouchy sofa. I chose the leather armchair. Better support.
‘Haven’t you done well for yourself, Linda. Always did know how to network, maximise your assets.’ He emitted a booming laugh.
‘I need your help,’ I said. Couldn’t stand another moment of his talk.
‘You do?’
‘Gabriel, my son. He’s ill. Seriously ill.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, but I fail to see what that’s got to do with me.’
‘He’s yours too,’ I told him. ‘Gabriel is your son.’
Standing at the window overlooking th
e square, I recounted the whole story. From this position, I didn’t have to watch his reaction. I’m certain he would have feigned surprise if I’d given him an audience, but it was my strong suspicion that they (Curtis and Henry) already knew. How is Gabriel? Henry had inquired directly after asking me to cover up the abuse allegations. Besides, it was a lie. Curtis was no more Gabriel’s father than the driver who delivered me to his door. It was Hugh who had taken him to the park, taught him how to throw a ball, cheered as he scored a goal. It was into Hugh’s arms he snuggled when he wanted five more minutes before bed.
But emotions were swept aside for now. I had to plug away. No one is good or bad, I reminded myself. What I needed to do was dig deep, uncover the tiny fossil of kindness that must have existed inside Curtis.
‘He’s only twelve,’ I said. Had his birthday a few days ago. It couldn’t be his last. ‘He loves rugby and he’s very very funny.’ Don’t cry. Do not cry. I thought about showing him a picture of Gabriel, then decided against it. I didn’t want his eyes to steal any part of him. ‘There are no available donors. He doesn’t have long. He’ll die if we don’t find anyone. I know it’s a lot to ask, but there is no other way. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’
He didn’t speak, seconds suspended in the air above us. I focused on the patterns on the antique rug at my feet. Wished it was magic, that it could fly me away from here. Because I knew this was all for nothing, Curtis was never going to help. Altruism was not a concept with which he was acquainted.
‘That’s quite a case you’ve put forward, Linda.’ He rose from his seat, moved towards me. ‘I was always rather upset it was only that one weekend. We had a good time, didn’t we.’
I was straining against my reflexes to fight back, to run, to tell him I didn’t want anything from him, never would. And yet I couldn’t. He held all the cards. ‘Well, didn’t we, Linda? It does wonders for a man’s ego to be reminded.’
An Act of Silence Page 18
