Fatal Choices

by Anne Morgellyn

  There was no evidence here to suggest Drew’s fall had not been accidental. But I knew it wasn’t an accident. I knew what he had done. I pictured him taking the train to Montreux, limping up the gentle slope towards the viaduct that carried the road across the wooded gorge, and jumping off. He must have been determined, in spite of his leg and his sickness. He must have been driven. What was in his mind as he neared the trees and rocks that would rend his body? Did time contract for him then or expand into a glut of lifetime memories? Would he have felt the same if he had taken the drugs at the Clinic? The same awful compulsion, the same fear? Like Buz, he had known what was happening to him with the advancing disease. I had seen his discomfort for myself. The hospital he was taken to after his aborted suicide had deceived him. Why give him false hope – because they really couldn’t treat him, or was it because he was non-domiciled, penniless, without insurance? I could have helped him though, I could have given him the money.

  ‘Mummy, come and look what I’ve done.’

  I went into the salon. The lower branches of the tree were hung with tinsel and gold and silver balls, all clumped together. It was not a bad effort, but it would need some tweaking later, when he’d gone to sleep.

  ‘Daddy can put the star on the top,’ I said. ‘We’ll leave that to him. Have you wrapped his present?’

  ‘It’s there, under the tree.’

  The iPod package had been bundled into several sheets of dinosaur paper stuck all over with tape.

  ‘Can I play with my Game-Boy now?’

  ‘Just for half an hour.’

  The package contained Drew’s leather jacket and a smashed up watch – it might have been crushed in the fall. In the rucksack was an earthy-smelling T-shirt and a withered get-well card signed Mhairi and the kids. Rock on xxxx. I had no idea who these people were. I had no idea who I could contact to let them know about Drew’s passing. I contacted Arun and told him I was arranging Drew’s funeral. He said he couldn’t fly because of his tinnitus and the train was too expensive. He asked me to represent him.

  Drew’s passport was not in the rucksack. I called the British Embassy to see if they had it and could give me the address of Drew’s next of kin, but they were unable to help me. Everything was winding down for Christmas, the festival of lights in a cold, dark season. Then it would be the new year and the attraction of the ski slopes; Capricorn, the rutting goat, life going on. Drew’s cellphone was still in the drawer, completely dead now. There was no one else to call.

  31

  Chas arrived on the twenty-third, carrying a bulging hold-all. I got to him before Nicky, who pressed us into a group hug.

  ‘Daddy, did you get my Wii?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait to see what Santa brings tomorrow night.’

  ‘I know it’s you, Dad. Father Christmases are just men with fake beards. The one at school was Monsieur Metz pretending. Sharon told me. She saw him put it on when she went to the toilet.’

  ‘I see, well, my beard isn’t fake, and I say you have to wait till tomorrow.’

  ‘Come and see the tree. You’ve got to put the star on.’

  ‘I’ll be through in a minute. Give me chance to catch my breath.’ He took the hold-all into the bedroom and put it in the closet. I was close behind.

  ‘Would Drew have been in pain, from those metastases?’

  ‘Oh Christ, Louise. I hope you’re not going to go on about him all through the holiday. The mets didn’t stop him taking a train to Montreux and climbing to the top of a viaduct. Maybe he went on the bus. Maybe he was running on your chicken soup.’

  ‘The funeral’s on the twenty eighth.’

  He put his arms around me: ‘I know it was a shock for you, but you didn’t even know the guy, not really.’

  ‘He asked me to help him. Some Good Samaritan I turned out to be.’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up about this, Louise. It’s the same with Vrubin. They made their decision. Don’t lay it on yourself, especially not now. It’s Christmas. I thought you were going out tonight. I fetched a box of crackers like you said.’

  ‘That’s good. I’d better get ready. Go and put up the star.’

  The Cinque Portes bar was alive with flushed young people, full of Christmas spirit. I tried to get into the mood for Masha’s sake because Veronique, the mousy French admin assistant, looked as morose as I felt. I gave them both a cracker.

  ‘What is this?’ Masha said.

  ‘It’s a British thing, part of the Christmas tradition. We pull them and the one who ends up with most of the cracker gets the prize. There are paper hats inside too. We don’t have to pull them now if you don’t want to.’

  Veronique had put her cracker in her handbag.

  ‘You need two people to pull them,’ I said. ‘It’s not like a surprise.’

  ‘OK, Louise. I’ll pull with you.’ Masha held out her cracker. It snapped, and she got the lion’s share. She put on the hat. It wasn’t too conspicuous amongst the fancy masks and hats with bells worn by some of the other drinkers.

  ‘Look, I got surprise.’ It was a little pen, encrusted with spangles. ‘This is good surprise. I can put it in my diary.’

  I held out my cracker in turn, and again, she got the lion’s share. This time it was a little compass.

  ‘All useful things for field work,’ she laughed. ‘Veronique, come on, it’s joke.’

  Reluctantly, Veronique got out her cracker and held it out to me. I got the lion’s share – a tiny notebook, but I gave her the hat to wear. Frowning, she put it on her head. Nobody took any notice.

  We finished our cocktails and went out into the cold, still wearing our hats. It wasn’t far to the Cafe de Paris and the legendary steak and salad, but I wasn’t very hungry, especially after the cocktail. All through the meal, Veronique kept checking her watch. When it was time for her to go and catch her train, Masha proposed a return to the Cinq-Portes for a night cap. She faced going home to an empty apartment, so I asked her back to the villa with me.

  ‘You can get a taxi home,’ I said. ‘Chas will treat you.’

  ‘He’s there?’

  ‘He won’t bother us. He’ll be doing things with Nicky.’

  ‘OK, that will be nice. Thank you.’

  We wished Veronique a good holiday and walked round to the villa.

  ‘She is miserable girl,’ Masha said. ‘Her grandfather just died, but I think she is miserable anyway. Or maybe she’s just French,’ she added, laughing.

  ‘Someone I know just died,’ I said, and bit my lip. The air was suddenly very cold. We walked briskly up the drive towards the villa. Rodolfo was still in Naples, but the security lights came on, letting me know he was there in spirit. The lights of our Christmas tree were blocked by the heavy shutters but when we got inside, Masha gasped. Chas and Nicky were playing snap on the floor. Chas stood up and shook Masha’s hand.

  ‘There’s plenty to drink,’ he said. ‘Come on, Nick, I think it’s time for you to hit the deck.’

  ‘He seems like good man,’ Masha said, when they had closed the door behind them.

  ‘Yes, he is. We’ve got over our problem.’

  ‘He looks fine. Strong.’ She took a sip of whiskey.

  ‘Have you heard from Zonny?’

  ‘No. I’m not really like her. It was just an experiment. I like men, but I don’t trust them, not any of them, especially the sexy ones.’

  ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’

  ‘This day means nothing to me. I am Orthodox. Our Christmas is on 7 January.’

  ‘Chas is Orthodox – well, he was baptised.’

  We had not had Nicky baptised, I thought, maybe we should.

  He came running in to say good night. He had brushed his teeth. Masha pulled him onto her knee. He wriggled a bit but seemed to like it.

  ‘I saw your star. I know a story about star.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘It’s about Baboushka, old woman who gives presents to good child
ren.’ She looked up at Chas. ‘You know story?’

  ‘Tell it.’ He sat beside me on the sofa and put his arm around me.

  ‘It is about Three Kings. They follow star because they want to see Christ. They go to Babushka’s house and tell her about Him and show her their gifts.’

  ‘Gold, frankincense, and myrrh,’ I put in. ‘You know that, Nicky. It’s in the Nativity.’

  ‘Babushka had a child but it died,’ Masha went on. ‘She decides to follow star herself and she takes her child’s toys and leaves them at the houses of good children that she passes on the way to see Jesus. She does this every Christmas since.’

  ‘She can’t. She must be dead if she met the kings. It was two thousand years – but it was after the dinosaurs.’

  I felt Chas chuckling to himself.

  ‘Time doesn’t matter when you look for something real. Love is real. Babushka loves children. She is typical Russian grandmother. There is another old woman, Baba-Yaga. She’s bad. She is a witch.’

  ‘I know about her,’ Chas said. ‘She eats children for breakfast.’

  ‘Father Christmas is just a man.’

  ‘Nicky ...’

  ‘It’s you, Dad, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’ll find out when you don’t get any presents. Bed.’

  I was dismayed when Nicky said Father Christmas was just a man in a fake beard. This loss of magic so early in life, the goodwill message reduced to getting, rather than giving, was down to the Zeitgeist – the spirit of covetousness and acquisition that had ruined my generation. I remember keeping faith with Father Christmas well into my eleventh year, although it was a pretty desperate faith by then because I’d heard the rumours too. The point was, I wanted to believe, whereas Nicky was proud to have unmasked the fantasy. It now extended to the Schtroumphs and Disney characters, although not yet to the dinosaurs. I hoped that he would not lose his imagination in the world of things, that he would grow a soul. I was not religious in the church sense, but I believed men didn’t live by bread alone.

  I was thinking about that while I fought with the bird and whipped cream for the trifle while Chas and Nicky played snowballs, Rodolfo being safely away and the roses covered in sacking for the winter. The gardener had drained the pond and wrapped the fountain, a statue of Eros, in plastic sheets. Wii time was for later, after a healthy dose of fresh air. When they came in, I told Nicky to clear up all his wrapping paper and put it in the recycling box while daddy took the turkey out of the oven.

  ‘I hope he uses the microscope,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll save it for tomorrow. We can go and collect some dead leaves, maybe a worm if we can find one. I’ll cut my toe-nails and he can examine them. Shall I carve this bird in here or at the table?’

  ‘At the table, I think. It needs to rest a bit while I sort the veg.’

  ‘You’ve done a terrific job here, with Nicky, with me. Happy Christmas, Louise.’

  He pulled a little box out of his pocket. He had given me an eternity ring.

  32

  Drew’s cremation took place in that subdued time between the Christmas and New Year holidays when nobody seems to know what to do with themselves, except go to the sales. Chas and Nicky were making the best of the snow – there would be none in Primrose Hill, so I was the only person to see Drew off, apart from the pastor and the undertaker. The pastor spoke French with a very thick Swiss accent and I had difficulty following the prayers. I had no idea whether Drew had believed in God or not, but everybody believes in something, even if their hopes lie only in laying up treasure on earth. There was plenty of that in Switzerland –Zurich – too rich – and in the City of London.

  Chas and Nicky were drinking hot chocolate when I got back. The cases were packed in time for the afternoon flight. The Wii was on board, but the Game-Boy and microscope were spending New Year in Geneva.

  ‘You look worn out, Louise,’ Chas said. ‘Sit down. It’s over now, I’ll get you a drink.’

  ‘I wish I’d given him the money,’ I said. ‘I should have paid Charon.’

  Nicky piped up. ‘Sharon went to Africa for Christmas. She’s from Africa.’

  ‘No, sweetheart, this is a different Charon.’

  ‘He was a boatman in Greek mythology,’ Chas said. ‘It was his job to ferry dead bodies across the river to Hades – the land of the dead. Before they put the bodies in the boat, their friends left a coin in their mouths to pay for the passage. The mouths of the dead,’ he added. ‘Not the friends.’

  ‘Did Drew go in a boat, and Uncle Buz? Why didn’t Wanda go in a boat? Why did she have to go in the planter?

  ‘I was talking about a clinic, sweetheart – the Charon Clinic – it’s just a story.’

  ‘Did Charon take the money out of the dead people’s mouths, Dad? That’s yeeeuch.’

  ‘Well, that’s how he made his money. Everybody’s got to make a living somehow, Nick. That’s why you’re getting an expensive education, courtesy of Uncle Buz.’

  ‘I miss Uncle Buz. He licked the wish-bone. It was yeeuch ...’

  Buz had sucked the bone so he could pull it with Nicky. That reminded me to buy more crackers when we got to Primrose Hill, not that I was likely to find any there, unless they were designer and terribly expensive. I would have to look in Camden Town. Nicky would enjoy the markets there.

  The undertaker rang just as we were about to leave. Chas pointed to his wrist watch. Time was pressing.

  ‘I left an address with your receptionist,’ I repeated myself in French. ‘Please send the ashes to Byrne & Co, Funeral Directors, Camden Road, London NW1 – air courier, yes.’

  The flat was full of builder mess, sawdust and plaster trodden all over the floor, a box of nails left by the bedroom door. The bedroom had a new partition wall. Another door had been cut in the wall facing the bathroom.

  ‘What’s been going on here?’ I asked.

  ‘I had it reconfigured so Nicky could have his own space when you stay over.’

  Nicky was already inside it. ‘Mummy, Mummy. Dad’s got me a bunk bed. Cool ...’

  I touched the partition and felt myself breaking up. ‘That’s so nice of you,’ I said. ‘That’s really thoughtful.’

  ‘They just need to let the plaster dry out thoroughly and then they’ll paint it. It was an easy conversion, it’s just reinforced plasterboard, but it’s very serviceable.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  The room was about four square metres, but with the high ceiling, it seemed more spacious than that. There was a high bed with a cupboard and desk and drawers beneath. Nicky was up on the bunk, jumping on the duvet. It was patterned with a dinosaur scene, a little like the one he had in Geneva. I looked closely at and saw it was the one he had in Geneva. I thought the laundry had lost it, but Chas must have secreted it away and brought it here.

  ‘If you jump like that, you’ll fall and bang your head. I think I’ll sleep in here and you can go with Daddy.’

  ‘I’m not having that,’ Chas said. ‘Yeeuch.’

  Nicky got down. ‘D’you like my room, Mummy?’

  ‘I certainly do. Say thank you to Daddy.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. You both get out please. It’s my room.’

  I followed Chas into the kitchen space where he was filling the kettle.

  ‘Who did it?’ I asked. ‘Not that Horse’s-Arse, I hope.’

  ‘You must be fucking joking. I wouldn’t give him AIDS. It was a friend of Bernie’s – you know, from the garage? I fancied a pint after work, and you know I can’t stand the pubs in the village so I walked up to The Washington in England’s Lane. Bernie was in, and I was talking to him about the bike because it’s going to need a service soon. Anyway, we got on to the subject of houses and he said why didn’t I just convert the flat. He’s been here, he’s seen how big the rooms are. He introduced me to Tony and Rob – Tony’s the builder and Rob’s the plasterer. They’ve done a pretty good job, I think, cash in hand.’

  ‘It’s terrific. The
y’ve transformed it, and it will add to the value, won’t it, if you can market the flat with two bedrooms?’

  ‘I’ve decided not to sell it now.’

  ‘I am so pleased about that, Chas. This is a much better solution. It’s creative.’

  ‘I’ve got a new bed too. I thought since I was getting a bed for Nick, we should have a change as well. The old one was kind of worn down.’

  I went to look at it.

  ‘You are full of surprises,’ I said.

  ‘Try it, it’s got great back support. And it’s quiet. Silent Night.’

  ‘You think of everything, don’t you? You’re very good at keeping secrets. When did they start this?’

  ‘Back in October.’

  ‘This is still a big room,’ I said. ‘It’s not made much difference to the size.’

  ‘Big and empty.’

  ‘Minimalist – you always liked that. But it isn’t empty now.’

  33

  Mr Byrne got in touch himself to confirm receipt of Drew’s ashes and invited me to go and see him. I congratulated him on his celebrity status. A mainstream television company had made a documentary series about his funeral business and since then, he been the public face of undertaking throughout the country. He now had his own long-running show on one of the numerous satellite and digital channels that had gone on air in the UK since I left to live in New Zealand. There was a fully equipped studio in a converted warehouse at the back of the undertakers’ yard in Camden town, still the nerve centre of an operation that now had four more large outlets in the south east, as well as one in Canada. I asked Mr Byrne how he could sustain a television series, but he said there was plenty of material. People came forward in droves, hoping to take part in the show, which featured new developments in the undertaking world as well as a slot every week featuring a funeral, from the planning stage and interviews with the bereaved – usually a working class family; although there were plans to film an impoverished Marquis at his ancestral mausoleum – to the ceremony and wake. It was an ideal subject for reality television, the wakes in particular providing all sorts of conflicts, bust-ups and family feuds, as well as tears.