The Vital Chain

by Sally Spencer

  Andy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What’s the catch?’ he asked.

  ‘No catch. I just want you to be in a position to finish your book so I can publish it.’

  McBride shook his head. ‘There just hasta be more to it than that.’

  ‘Maybe there is,’ I agreed. ‘I hit a low a few years ago, and perhaps I’d still be there now if my grandfather hadn’t stepped in and helped me.’

  McBride took his third swallow of cider. The bottle was nearly half empty, and he was swaying from side to side. ‘The only thing ma granddad ever give me was the back o’ his hand,’ he said.

  ‘Let me do for you what my grandfather did for me,’ I pleaded.

  Andy looked down at his exercise book. ‘Canna even see the words nae more,’ he slurred. ‘Just a loada squiggles.’

  ‘You can come through this thing if you really want to,’ I said.

  McBride screwed up his eyes, as if he were having difficulties focusing. ‘Go away!’ he said.

  ‘Please think about what I’ve just said.’

  ‘Go away afore I turn nasty and hurt ye.’

  It was laughable even to suggest that in his condition he could do me any harm, but I left anyway. There didn’t seem to be much else I could do, now that the writer I’d spoken to a few minutes earlier had transformed himself into just another drunkard.

  I went looking for Andy McBride again the next morning, but he was neither at St Giles nor in any of the other places where the residents of the Citadel gathered. I repeated the procedure the following day, and the day after that, but I had no success.

  In spite of my best efforts, I told myself, I’d done what I feared I’d do, and frightened McBride off. The man could have gone anywhere – perhaps to London, as he’d originally intended, perhaps back to Glasgow. There would be no more exercise books dropping through Cormorant’s letterbox. I had lost Andy McBride, and all I was left with was an incomplete work of near-genius.

  ****

  It was more than two weeks after our encounter on St Giles that Janet rang through to my office to say, agitatedly, that we had an unwelcome visitor at reception who insisted on seeing me.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s …’ Janet lowered her voice, ‘… well, he’s a tramp.’

  I sprang from my chair, and rushed down the corridor. Janet was sitting at her desk, glaring up Andy McBride. The tramp-writer was wearing the same clothes he’d had on the last time I’d seen him, but his face and hands were looking considerably cleaner.

  McBride seemed to find my appearance on the scene embarrassing, even though meeting me again was the purpose of his visit.

  ‘Ye said … ye said if I wanted help …’ he mumbled, staring down at the ground.

  ‘Come into my office and we can talk about it, Mr McBride,’ I said.

  He followed me into the office, and sat down in the chair I offered him. He didn’t look comfortable. ‘Aboot what ye said yesterday …’ he began.

  ‘It wasn’t yesterday,’ I interrupted. ‘It was two weeks ago.’

  Andy shook his head, as if trying to clear it of muzzy thoughts.

  ‘I sometimes lose tracka time,’ he admitted. ‘Anyway, what ye said …’

  ‘I meant it.’

  ‘Ye’ll rent me a bed-sit?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ll give you a small living allowance while you finish the book.’

  ‘I nearly didna come,’ McBride said. ‘Even when I waz half way up the stairs, I didna know if I waz gonna make it.’

  ‘I’m glad you did.’

  ‘Thing is, where I am now, I’ve got no further to fall,’ McBride said. ‘An’ there’s a kinda comfort in that – a kinda security. But what ye’re offerin’ me is a chance, an’ I’m bloody terrified I might blow it.’

  ‘We’re all terrified we might blow it,’ I told him, thinking of all the nights I had lain awake worrying about my own delicate mental balance. ‘And I can’t tell you that you won’t. But just think of the rewards if you don’t blow it.’

  McBride’s lower lip quivered, and the sight of the big Glaswegian on the point of crying almost made me want to burst into tears, too.

  I reached across my desk and put my hand on his shoulder. ‘You can handle it, Andy,’ I said. ‘We’ll handle it together.’

  McBride nodded. ‘Maybes I can a’ that,’ he agreed. ‘When do I start?’

  I picked up the phone. ‘Janet, put me through to one of those estate agents on the Cowley Road … No, it doesn’t matter which.’ I turned my attention back to Andy McBride. ‘You’ve already started,’ I said.

  ****

  We very quickly fell into a pattern. I would pick Andy up from his bed-sit every morning and take him to the office. Once there, he would go straight to the desk I’d made available for him. Sometimes he would write, sometimes he would just gaze at the wall, but all the time he would be fighting his craving for a drink. The two of us would have lunch together, then after the day’s work we would usually go for a long walk, followed by dinner. To close the evening, I would drive Andy home, making sure that we arrived at his door after the pubs and off-licences had closed. And twice a week, on Tuesday and Fridays, we attended meetings of the Oxford branch of Alcoholics Anonymous.

  It was an exhausting process, but a rewarding one, too. Andy had a fund of stories to tell, and now that he was sober, a genuine interest in what was going on around him. I had originally thought that he would eventually produce just the one marvellous book he had in him, but now I began to let myself hope that perhaps there might be others to follow it.

  The days grew into weeks, the weeks into months, and still Andy steered clear of the drink. It was a great feat of courage – a marvellous transformation – and when I left Oxford to attend my brother’s wedding, I was confident that even without my presence Andy would be able to stay on the wagon.

  ****

  ‘I’m thinkin’ o’ tryin’ to get inta university to study lit’rature,’ Andy McBride told me in the hospital room in Bridgend. ‘What do ye think?’

  ‘It’s a good idea,’ I replied. ‘Most writers claim they’ve benefited from studying the works of other people.’

  ‘But d’ye think I’d get in?’ Andy asked worriedly. ‘I have’na got much in the way of formal qualifications.’

  I laughed. ‘Give them a couple of years and Gobshite will be on the university’s syllabus,’ I said. ‘So I don’t imagine they’ll have any difficulty admitting you as a student.’

  Andy checked his watch. ‘I’d better be goin’ if I’m to get back to Oxford tonight,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’ll come down an’ see ye again soon.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ I told him. They’re discharging me tomorrow.’

  ‘So ye’ll be comin’ home yerself?’

  Even the thought of returning to Oxford made my stomach churn.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not for a while, anyway.’

  Andy gave me a strange look. ‘It’s not like you to stay away from your work. Wha’s the problem?’

  The problem? The problem was that Marie was in Oxford – Marie, the woman who hadn’t even bothered to ring me to see how I was feeling.

  How would I face her when we next met? Should I act as if I hadn’t noticed her lack of concern? Or should I, with a towering anger, demand to know how she could have been so callous? Did I even have the choice? Was I enough in control of myself to guide my own actions?

  ‘It’s her, isna it?’ Andy said. ‘She’s the problem.’

  ‘It’s her,’ I admitted.

  He shook his head wonderingly. ‘I dunna know why you bother wi’ her,’ he said. ‘The woman does nothin’ but play games with ye.’

  I sighed. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘Isna it?’ Andy countered. ‘Ye’ve bin seein’ her for two years, an’ she’ll not let ye do so much as hold her hand. An’ then there’s that flat o’ hers.’

  We had had this discussion countless times b
efore. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said wearily.

  ‘She’s bin roond to your place, but ye’ve no been roond to hers,’ Andy pressed on relentlessly. ‘Now why is that?’

  ‘She has a small flat. Part of it is her office. There simply isn’t room to entertain,’ I said, even though I’d been the first one to raise the question of why she would never let me cross her threshold.

  ‘No room! Tha’s bollocks!’ Andy retorted. ‘She wilna have ye roond because she’s got somethin’ to hide. But it’d be easy enough to find out what that somethin’ is,’ he continued, lowering his voice even though there was no one else in the room.

  ‘No!’ I said emphatically.

  ‘We’d be in an’ oot o’ the place in five minutes,’ Andy said. ‘Christ, I musta broken inta hundreds of flats in my time.’

  ‘It’s not right,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not right tae torment yerself, either. If you had a quick look aroond, it might answer all kinds o’ questions.’

  ‘And if we got caught, a three-time offender like you would go straight back to gaol,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I’d be willin’ tae take the risk if I knew it was helpin’ you,’ Andy said. ‘I owe ye more than I can ever repay.’

  I forced a smile onto my face. ‘Who’s talking bollocks now?’ I asked him. ‘What I’d really like – what would really make me happy – is for you to go back to Oxford and write me another masterpiece. Will you do that for me?’

  ‘Aye, I will, if that’s what ye want,’ Andy agreed. ‘But if ye ever change yer mind aboot that other thing …’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said, with more certainty than I actually felt.

  Chapter Eleven

  Owen Flint hated hotel rooms. He hated the way the mass-purchased beds were precisely slotted in, so that there was just enough room for the mass-purchased bedside cabinets. He hated the fact that the room next door would probably be a perfect replica of his own room, and that they had probably been laid out in some design office in London. He hated, in other words, the feel of the places because though they were a hundred times more luxurious than the Spartan dormitory he had lived in as a child, they were still institutional. Thus, the moment he had unpacked his small suitcase, he picked up the leather-bound photograph album that Grandmother had lent him and headed for the bar.

  Once there, he ordered a pint of best bitter and opened the album at random. The first picture he came across was a group photograph, probably taken some time in the late Forties when Grandfather was still working in his father’s store. Grandfather stood in the centre of the photograph next to Grandmother. The serious expression on his face could almost have been Victorian, Flint thought, had it not been for the slight twist of the mouth which suggested that as well as dispensing authority, he was also capable of great kindness. The children were either side of their parents. The one on the left – my father – had a slightly preoccupied look, as if he lived most of the time in a world of his own. The one on the right – Uncle Tony – seemed very much aware of the real world, and the possibilities it offered for making mischief, and Flint sensed that, the second before the photograph had been taken, Tony had been glancing around the room assessing his opportunities.

  The Chief Inspector took another sip of his pint and turned a few pages. The wild boy he’d seen in the previous picture had grown into a broad man. The woman next to him had dark brown hair which spilled in curls over her shoulders. She was wearing a cloak over a low-cut dress. She held a cigarette in her left hand, and underneath the picture someone had written “Tony and Jane. Their engagement party”.

  So this was Philip’s mother – the woman who had run away from home when her son was still a child. Flint found himself wondering what had made her do it, just as he wondered – though he had never plucked up the nerve to find out – what had happened to his own parents. He made a mental note to ask Grandmother about Jane the next time he saw her.

  Somehow, examining the photographs seemed to drain him. He’d look at one more, he promised himself, and then he’d call it a night. He turned almost to the back of the album and saw the familiar sight of Magdalene College Bridge. He recognised the people in the picture, too. How could he not! There was me, looking blissfully happy. And there was Jill – beautiful, delicate Jill – with her hand resting on her proud boyfriend’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s Mr Flint, isn’t it?’ said a voice to his left.

  Flint looked up and saw a pretty blonde woman. For a moment he wondered where he’d seen her before, then realised it was the absence of a uniform which was confusing him.

  She was the nurse who had looked after Charles Conroy, and her name was Trollop. No, it was Torlopp.

  ‘Is it your night off, Miss Torlopp?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ the nurse replied. She hesitated for a second, then said, ‘Well, it’s been nice meeting you again.’

  ‘Would you like to join me in a drink, Miss Torlopp?’ Flint suggested.

  The nurse giggled. ‘I don’t think we’d both fit into just one,’ she said, but she pulled out one of the high stools and sat down. ‘You’re looking at one of Mrs Conroy’s photograph albums, I see.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Flint agreed. ‘How is the old lady?’

  ‘If you ask me, it’s not all sunk in yet,’ the nurse told him. ‘But it will. It always does in the end.’

  Flint signalled a waiter. ‘What would you like to drink, Miss Torlopp?’ he asked.

  ‘A white wine, please. And call me Jo.’

  The Chief Inspector placed the order. ‘Can I ask you a question, Jo?’ he asked, turning back to the woman.

  ‘I’m 31, and what you’ve heard about the voracious sex drive of nurses is a gross exaggeration,’ she said.

  Flint smiled. ‘No, it wasn’t anything like that. I was just wondering, since you’ve lived in the village for three years, whether you’d fill me in a few details.’

  ‘What kind of details?’

  ‘Well, let’s start with Edward Conroy’s executive assistant, Paul Taylor. Do you know him?’

  ‘Not well, but I’ve talked to him a few times.’

  ‘And what do you make of him?’

  ‘I’d say he was as well matched to Edward Conroy as that lout Bill Harper was to Tony.’

  Flint smiled. ‘What is it you don’t like about Bill Harper?’ he asked.

  ‘For all his show of loyalty to Tony Conroy, the only person he’s really loyal to is himself. He’s the sort of man who’d step on your fingers as you were climbing up the ladder behind him – just because he could. I don’t like the way he is with his wife, either. Admittedly, she’s not the most spirited woman I’ve ever met, but that’s no reason for treating her like a doormat – and mark my words, one day, that particular worm will turn.’

  ‘And Paul Taylor?’ Flint asked.

  ‘He’s very quiet and gentle. I don’t mean to say that he’s effeminate, but there’s a softness about him you don’t see much nowadays. I would imagine many women would find him appealing.’

  ‘Does he strike you as the irresponsible type?’

  Jo frowned. ‘No, I wouldn’t say so. He’s got no great spark about him, but I’m sure he’s conscientious enough. Why did you ask that?’

  ‘Because he still hasn’t returned from his holidays.’

  ‘Do you know, with all that’s been going on, I hadn’t really thought about that,’ Jo confessed, with a frown, ‘but you’re right. You’d have thought he’d have at least interrupted his holiday to attend the funeral, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘You would indeed,’ Flint agreed.

  Jo’s frown deepened. ‘You don’t think he had anything to do with the murders, do you?’

  ‘I think,’ Flint said, slowly and carefully, ‘that he needs to offer some explanation as to why he’s stayed away so long.’

  ****

  The clock on the wall of my hospital room continued to click relentlessly. The hands crawled around the dial, bringin
g ever closer the moment of my discharge. I felt just as I had on my last day in the mental institution – felt as if I was about to be ejected from a world filled with certainty into one full of malevolence and hostility, where – just possibly – there might be someone waiting for his opportunity to kill me. And then, as I lay there, tossing and turning, I found my thoughts turning to memories of my brother John.

  John, who had started primary school the year before Philip and myself, and who had endured a full 12 months of bullying without support or complaint.

  John, who had cried that day we killed the shrew.

  I felt so close to him, even in death, and yet I could not say that I’d ever really understood him. Perhaps part of the problem, I rationalised to myself, was that we’d spent so little time together since he turned eight. It had always been part of the plan – part of Grandfather’s plan – that we should go to the same school as Father and Uncle Tony had attended, but John failed to reach the required standard in the entrance examination and had to settle for somewhere a little less prestigious. It hadn’t seemed to bother him. Nor had he minded when I took the examination myself and passed with flying colours.

  ‘I hope Shadwell’s a tremendous place,’ he told me during the summer holidays which followed his first year at his new school. ‘But I’m glad I go to “Stoners”. The chaps are marvellous, and we have no end of fun.’

  Somehow, I always found it hard to imagine John having fun. He was so serious, so responsible, so … so introspective. Only occasionally did he show any sign of expressing emotion – like the time he first told me about Lydia.

  ****

  It was at the summer board meeting of 1984 that my grandfather announced Conroy Enterprises’ latest acquisition.

  ‘The company’s called Mid-Cheshire Maintenance,’ he told us. ‘They do contract maintenance for a number of haulage firms in the area. From now on, they’ll be doing ours as well. I’m putting John in as managing director.’

  I glanced across the table at my brother, who appeared to be slightly uncomfortable at being the centre of attention. He hadn’t changed much over the years, I thought. At 28 he still looked like the earnest boy who’d tried to make Philip and me like each other, though it must already have been plain to everyone else that we’d never get along. Still, it was undoubtedly true that his appearance would stand him in good stead in a business which was often conducted by cowboys.