Final Venture

by Michael Ridpath

  'No. But it was definitely there this evening.'

  'Let me see it,' I said.

  'I threw it away. I didn't want it in the apartment. The cops might come back at any moment.'

  'Where? Where did you throw it?'

  'I went for a run and threw it in the river.'

  'Oh, Jesus. Did anyone see you?'

  'I don't know. It was in a plastic bag.' She looked up at me. 'Don't worry. I'm not going to tell the police.'

  I put my head in my hands. Disconnected thoughts tumbled around my brain.

  'You shouldn't have done that, Lisa.'

  'Done what?'

  'Thrown the gun away.'

  'Why? Did you want to hang it on the wall?'

  'I could have given it to the police.'

  'That would have been dumb, wouldn't it? Give the police the evidence they need to arrest you?'

  'But don't you see? It might have helped clear my name. If I gave it to them voluntarily, they would hardly suspect me, would they?'

  'It's easy for you to say that now.' She shook her head, and more tears came. 'It was horrible to see it. The thing that killed Dad. I couldn't stand having it here in the apartment. I had to get rid of it right away. And I thought I was doing you a favour!'

  This was ridiculous. 'Lisa, it's not my gun. I didn't put it there. I didn't kill your father.'

  'It was there, right in front of my eyes, Simon. I can't ignore it.'

  I rushed over to her, and put my hands on her shoulders. She tried to wriggle free.

  'Lisa. Lisa! Look at me.'

  Reluctantly, she did.

  'How can you believe I murdered him? You know me. How can you think I'd do something like that?'

  Lisa held my eyes, and then looked away. 'I can't bear to think about it.'

  'It wasn't mine, Lisa. You must believe that.'

  'I don't know what to believe.' Her hands reached my chest and pushed me away. 'Let go of me!'

  I released her shoulders and stood back. Frustration at my inability to convince her boiled up inside me. 'Lisa. It wasn't me. I didn't kill your father. I've never even seen the bloody gun. I didn't kill your father!' I shouted.

  She sat still, letting the echo of my denial reverberate though the small room. Then she looked up at me. 'I'm going to bed,' she said, and pushed past me to the bedroom.

  She said nothing to me the next morning, as we both got ready for work. I tried to initiate some kind of communication, but with no success. Her face was set in stony misery, the corners of her mouth turned down, her brow furrowed. In the bathroom, while she was brushing her teeth and looking in the mirror, she burst into tears. I went to comfort her, I wanted to comfort her so badly, but as I touched her, her whole body tensed up, rigid, and she held her breath in tight, until I removed my hand.

  A couple of minutes later, she left the apartment to walk to the Charles Street 'T' for the short subway journey to Boston Peptides' lab in Cambridge, and I set off in the other direction.

  It was a long, cruel day at work. I couldn't focus on anything properly. I couldn't even focus on what the gun was doing in our apartment. All I could think about was Lisa. What would she do? How would she react? Would she believe me? How could I make her believe me? How could I calm her down, bring back the old Lisa?

  Daniel and John must have realized something was wrong, but they left me alone. I was grateful.

  Lisa didn't get home till eight. I waited for her with apprehension, fiddling about with a salad we would have for supper.

  When I heard the front door of the apartment slam, I walked out to meet her, and gave her a quick kiss on the lips which she reluctantly returned.

  'Hi,' I said.

  'Hi.'

  'Good day?'

  Stupid question. 'Simon. BioOne is going to take the place apart. No it wasn't a good day.'

  'Sorry. I made a salad.'

  'Great,' Lisa said with little enthusiasm, and picked up her mail.

  I went back into the kitchen, poured a couple of glasses of wine, and handed Lisa one. She grunted her thanks, and read a piece of junk mail from a credit card company with great interest.

  'Supper's ready,' I said a few minutes later.

  'Oh, I won't be a minute. I just want to call Eddie.'

  She disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door. She was half an hour. I reread the newspaper and tried not to get angry, but failed.

  Eventually she came out. She'd been crying. Her eyes were red, but she'd wiped away the tears. Her face was pinched, the corners of her mouth in what was becoming their habitual turned-down position. I moved over to her to hold her. She didn't push me away, but she remained tense.

  As we sat down, I felt a turmoil of opposing emotions. One was a powerful desire to pull Lisa towards me, to comfort her, to try to heal the terrible hurt she was feeling. The other was anger that she wouldn't let me do that, that she wouldn't trust me, that she was suspicious of me.

  We sat in silence munching the salad. A tear ran down her cheek. At first she tried to ignore it, and then she sniffed and wiped it away.

  'Oh, Lisa,' I said, moving my hand across to her. As I touched her sleeve she shook it off, and picked up her fork to stab a chunk of avocado. 'Talk to me.'

  'What about?'

  'About Frank. About me. About you and me.'

  She put down her fork, and sniffed. 'What about you and me?'

  'I need to know whether you think I killed your father.'

  She put down her fork, and took a deep breath. 'I don't know,' she said.

  Despite my resolution to control it, the anger flashed inside me. 'What do you mean, you don't know? You have to know! You have to believe me.'

  Her eyes flashed at me. 'Yes, I guess I do have to believe you, don't I? If I'm going to live here under the same roof with you, I've got to believe you.'

  'Well? Do you?'

  Lisa shrugged, and looked down at her salad. 'I guess so,' she said.

  'That's not good enough!' As soon as I'd said this I regretted it.

  Lisa threw down her fork. 'I'm sorry that's not good enough for you, but it's the best I can do. The truth is, Simon, I just don't know. I've been thinking about it all day, and I'm totally confused. The police think you killed Dad, Eddie thinks you killed Dad, and I'm left wondering whether I'm just the stupid little wife, living with a murderer, sleeping next to a murderer. But you're right, how can I believe you'd do something like that? How can I even think something like that?'

  'You have to trust me, Lisa – '

  'Simon, I'd love to trust you. But don't you see, I can't.' She paused, taking in deep breaths, trying, and failing, to hold back the tears. 'Today I decided I'd just try to live with you, and ignore all my doubts, but I'm not sure I can do it.'

  'You can, Lisa. You can.'

  She sat in silence for a moment, the tears flowing freely. Then she shook her head. 'No. It won't work. I'm confused, I'm tired, I've never felt so miserable. Everything is just . . . falling apart. I don't have the strength to stay here when I don't know whether . . . whether . . . ' She couldn't finish the sentence.

  'But you need me to look after you.'

  'Do I?'

  'Yes, you do.'

  She flashed an angry glance across the table, and then attacked her salad. She was so tense she was shaking. The plate clattered with each blow at the salad from her fork. She seemed to be making a superhuman effort to contain the turmoil within her.

  I was losing her. I knew I was losing her.

  'Lisa . . .'

  She ignored me. Then after a few more seconds, she threw down her fork, pushed her plate away, and rushed from the room, head down, avoiding my eye.

  I followed her. She went straight for the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  I opened it. She was pulling a case down from the closet on to the floor.

  'Lisa! What are you doing?'

  'What does it look like I'm doing?'

  'You can't leave!'

  'Why
not? I can't stay.' She stuffed clothes, shoes, washing things into the bag.

  'Lisa. I'm sorry about what I said earlier. Don't go. Please stay here. We can work through this.'

  I walked over to the case, and tried to pick it up.

  'Leave that alone!' she screamed, and pulled at it. For an absurd moment, I held on, pulling it back towards me.

  'Let go, Simon!'

  I couldn't physically stop her if she wanted to go. So I loosened my grip.

  'Thank you.' She snatched the bag. 'Now, let me finish packing my bag, and I'll be out of your hair.'

  'Where are you going?'

  'To stay with Kelly' Kelly was a friend of hers from work. She zipped the bag shut. 'I'll get the rest later.'

  'Lisa . . .'

  She strode towards the door, carrying the bulging bag.

  'Goodbye, Simon.'

  13

  I hardly slept at all that night. I needed to get out of the apartment, so I went in to work at Revere as soon as was decently possible, and stared at Tetracom papers without really taking in their contents. I more or less ignored Daniel and John. I waited for a quarter past nine, by which time Lisa would be sure to have arrived at the lab. Daniel was out of the room and John was on the phone.

  'I'm just nipping out,' I called over to John. 'I'll be back in quarter of an hour.'

  John waved as he continued talking.

  I put on my jacket, took the lift down to the ground floor, and strolled out on to Federal Street. It was quiet, although the sounds of the 'Big Dig', Boston's heroic attempt to bury the highway that bisected the city, seeped round the giant buildings. I flipped open my cell phone, dialled Boston Peptides' switchboard, and was soon put through.

  'Lisa Cook's phone.'

  It wasn't her voice.

  'Can I speak to her, please?'

  'I'll see if she's available. Who's speaking?'

  'Simon.'

  Normally the response would have been: 'Yeah, sure, here she is.' I wasn't at all surprised when the voice told me Lisa was unavailable.

  I waited five minutes, hands in pockets, shifting from foot to foot with impatience. Then I tried again.

  'Lisa Cook's telephone.'

  A different voice. Good. I put on my attempt at an American accent. 'Oh, hi, can I speak with Lisa please? It's her brother, Eddie.'

  'One moment.'

  There was a pause, and then Lisa's voice came on the line. 'Eddie! You're up early.'

  'It's not Eddie,' I said. 'It's me.'

  'Listen, Simon, don't you ever try to pretend – '

  'No, Lisa. Listen to me. We were both upset last night when you walked out. We need to talk it through again when we're both calmer.'

  There was a moment's silence. I prayed that she wouldn't hang up. Then I heard her sigh. 'Let me transfer you to a different phone.' A click and more silence, until I heard her voice again. 'OK, I can talk now.'

  'I think we should meet somewhere so we can talk properly.'

  'There's no need, Simon. I've been thinking about it all night. I've made up my mind.'

  'But you can't leave me, Lisa.'

  'No, Simon. I can't stay with you. Not when I think you might have killed my father.'

  'You said "might". You're not sure then, are you?'

  There was a pause at the other end. 'Look, I'm confused, OK? I feel lousy. Really bad. I just want to be away from you for a while.'

  'I understand that's how you feel. But I don't understand why. Just think about it from my point of view for a second. I have a right to know why you're doing this. Why don't we meet for a cup of coffee, and you can explain it?'

  'I'm not sure I can explain it.'

  'You can try. I deserve at least that.'

  There was silence on the phone. 'OK. I guess you're right. Can you get here now?'

  'Yes,' I said immediately. 'I'll be there right away.'

  I took a cab.

  Despite its name, Boston Peptides was housed in a scruffy looking one-storey building in Cambridge, in the wasteland between MIT and Harvard. On one side was a small engineering company making castings, and on the other was an open patch of land that was temporarily being used as a soccer pitch. Backhoes churned up the plot in front.

  Lisa was waiting on the steps. The tired look of misery I had grown accustomed to in the last few days was set firmly on her face.

  'Let's walk,' she said, and we made our way towards the soccer pitch. Two teams of kids were playing, one in green and one in red. They weren't bad for eight-year-olds. One day, I thought, the United States is going to field a decent team in the World Cup.

  We sat on a wall and watched them for a few moments, both of us nervous of starting a conversation that could, and probably would, end in disaster. The backhoes ground and clanked behind us.

  'Well?' said Lisa.

  'Why did you leave last night?'

  She said nothing for a few moments. 'I need to get away for a bit. Sort myself out.'

  'I see.' I forced myself to speak slowly and calmly. 'But why do you have to leave me to do that? Surely you'd be better staying with me? Then I can help you with your problems.'

  'Simon, I think you might be the problem.'

  'No, Lisa. It's not me. Your father died. You're worried about work. You're tired. You need me to help you.'

  Lisa glanced up at me, and then back to the soccer players.

  I waited for her to say something. She didn't.

  'You shouldn't listen to Eddie. He hates me. He hates himself.'

  'Maybe Eddie can see things more clearly than I can.'

  I lost the calm I had been trying so hard to maintain. 'Lisa. You know me. I'm your husband. I love you. You know I'm not capable of killing your father.'

  Lisa turned to me, her eyes moist. 'Then what was the gun doing there?'

  'I don't know,' I said in exasperation.

  Lisa looked ahead.

  'Be rational about it, Lisa. I know you've been under a lot of pressure recently, but you must get a sense of perspective.'

  'Oh, I am being rational,' she said through gritted teeth. 'Very rational. You're right, it's difficult with all that's been going on. But let's look at the evidence here, Simon.' She was talking fast now.

  'One, you were the last person to see Dad alive. You were with him at about the time he died. Two, you and he have been getting along badly recently. You had a fight. Three, he was shot. You know how to use a gun. And four,' she looked at me defiantly, 'I found that gun hidden in our apartment.'

  'That doesn't mean anything. Why would I kill him anyway?'

  'I don't know. You need fifty thousand pounds to fight your sister's lawsuit. We'll have that now.'

  'Oh, come on.'

  'All right. Maybe you are having an affair with Diane. Maybe Dad found out. Maybe you wanted to keep him quiet. Maybe you wanted to keep him quiet and get your hands on his money.'

  'That's absurd. I'm not having an affair with anybody. Can't you trust me?'

  'I don't know,' she muttered.

  'Anyway, why would I be so stupid as to leave a gun lying around the apartment where the police could find it?'

  'I've been thinking about that, too,' said Lisa. 'It wasn't there when the police searched the apartment last week. Perhaps you were just keeping it overnight until you found a better place to hide it.'

  'Don't be ridiculous. Someone must have planted it.'

  'Like who? The police? The gun was in a Boots plastic bag. Do you think Sergeant Mahoney goes all the way to England to pick up his deodorant?'

  I managed to get myself in control again. 'None of that proves anything.'

  'It's a hypothesis. And a plausible one,' said Lisa. And I will go with it, until you can disprove it.'

  'This isn't some scientific experiment, Lisa. It's me you're talking about. Us!'

  'I know,' she said. 'But you said I should be rational. I'm trying to be rational about it. With all that's been going on in my head, the blackness I feel about everything, the wa
y I just want to scream and scream and scream, it's all I can do. Be rational. So, let's test the hypothesis. Can you prove you didn't kill Dad?'

  'No. But my point is, I shouldn't have to to you. You who know me better than anyone.'

  Lisa looked at me, her eyes filling with tears. 'But I'm not sure I do know you, Simon – know who you really are.'

  'But we're married, for God's sake!'

  'Yes. But I've only known you, what, two years? I don't know anything about who you are, really, where you come from. I've only been once with you to your own country, and that was a disaster. I do know you come from a screwed-up family, but that's no comfort. I know you're clever, I know you can hold a lot inside without talking about it, but perhaps I don't know what really is there inside you.'

  'That's ridiculous!'

  'No, it's not,' Lisa said quietly. 'Of course the Simon I fell in love with wouldn't have an affair with another woman, or kill anyone. But did that Simon ever really exist?' She wiped her eyes, and then her nose with her sleeve.

  I wanted to put my arm round her, but there was no point. I wanted to argue with her, but there seemed little point in that, either. How could I argue that I was just who I seemed to be?

  'Come back,' I said simply. 'Please.'

  Lisa took a deep breath, and shook her head. 'No, Simon.' She stood up. 'I've got to get back to work.'

  And she left me standing there beside the makeshift soccer pitch, watching her slight hunched figure disappear into the Boston Peptides building.

  I walked the couple of miles back to the office, through Cambridge, over the Salt and Pepper Bridge, and through the Common. It was a grey cold morning and the wind whipped off the water and threaded its way through the city buildings.

  I played over our conversation again and again and again. Although I hadn't been able to understand the pressure Lisa had been under recently, the grief, the misery, the exhaustion, I had seen it in her face, heard it in her words, felt it with her. But to her, I had become part of that black world that seemed to surround and threaten her.

  The bells of the Park Street Church chimed twelve o'clock as I plunged through the busy shopping streets of Downtown Crossing towards the office.

  I didn't notice the people jostling around me. My anger ebbed, leaving a huge empty feeling of loneliness, of failure. My limbs felt heavy, my face taut. I still couldn't quite believe that Lisa had just walked away from me. But she had. I couldn't bear the thought of her believing that I had killed her father. Her love was the most precious thing in the world to me. The idea of it turning to hatred for me, hurt. It hurt a lot.