by C F Dunn
* * *
“Good,” Matthew said when I went to find him in his laboratory. “Then justice is done.”
“Did you get rid of Shotter?”
“Me? Why would you think I had anything to do with that?”
“Because Siggie said as much. Did you tell her to give me my job back, too?”
“No, I didn’t. I don’t have that authority and she is quite capable of making her own judgment on the suitability – or otherwise – of potential staff. If she is offering you the position, it is because she thinks you are the best person for the job. Period.” On a computer keyboard, he tapped in a rapid series of numbers, clicked enter, pursed his lips as he read the result, and typed some more.
“And Shotter?”
His mouth lifted at one corner and, without taking his eyes from the screen, said, “Ah, well, I might have pointed people in the right direction.” With a last look at the figures, he turned his back on the computer and, folding his arms, leant against the work surface. “Siggie is right in one other respect: we could do with a break. I promised you a proper holiday after the trial, and our honeymoon could hardly be called restful.” He pushed away from the workbench to stand indecently close to me. “Do you think, if I asked her nicely, she would give me time off for good behaviour?”
I raised a weary smile. “I don’t know about good behaviour – I don’t think I have the energy to be anything but good – but I think Siggie would insist you accompany me, to prevent me doing myself a mischief.”
“Wise woman,” he said. “In that case, pack your bags and sun lotion; we’re going on holiday.”
CHAPTER
2
Facing Demons
I picked up a water-worn pebble and turned it over in the palm of my hand. “I hoped I might find some peace here.” I lobbed the stone into the water and watched it be consumed by the restless surface of the sea. “But I won’t, will I? I can’t escape my conscience.” We walked along the shore for a few yards before I stopped and picked up another stone – smoothed grey as a gull wing, about the size of a small hen’s egg, but flat, with a vein of quartz in the shape of a slanted cross. I ran my thumb across the face of the stone. “You said as much, Matthew, that night I wanted to kill Guy. You said you could never take back so irrevocable an act and it would be something I would have to live with for the rest of my life. As you have.”
He didn’t answer and we walked on again, finding our way around the larger boulders that edged the beach – all grey or black under the featureless pewter sky. I found no peace in it, but a quiet beauty that gave me the space to think. I had done a lot of thinking since we arrived on New Zealand’s North Island.
“The difference,” I continued, “between you and me, is that you killed for a purpose – in the line of duty – an act of war.”
“Do you think that makes it better?”
“No – well, yes, perhaps. You went into battle knowing why you were there. Whether fighting for Parliament or the King, both sides fought for a cause and you all understood that death might be a consequence of war.” For days now we had walked and talked and walked until – too tired to think any more – I could sleep. A spine of rock, rising out of the greywacke stones from the water’s edge to the cliff, blocked our path like the backbone of some great extinct creature. He made a cushion out of his jacket for me and we sat in the shelter of the rock. He lifted his arm and I leant against his solidity, drawing on the comfort he gave.
“Emma, you told me shortly after the crash that you wanted to kill him, but at the point of impact you changed your mind. You told me it was an accident. Don’t you remember?”
I thought back to the bridge and the twisted remains of the barrier that had given way to the nose of the truck before my own car was pushed through it and into the river below.
“I couldn’t kill him, Matthew, but I hated him. He died because of my hatred. He died because of me.”
“No!” Matthew said with vehemence. “No, Emma, he died because a steel reinforcing bar entered the left ventricle of his heart, and pierced his lung. It was no act of malice on your part. However you felt about him – and by God’s sweet name, he deserved everything he got after what he did to you – however you felt, you were not responsible for his death.”
“But I am partly responsible for his life,” I said quietly. “By my actions I brought about his death before… before…” I crushed my fist against my mouth as I felt my chin quiver. “Before he could repent,” I finished. I heard Matthew’s exclamation but could not look at him.
“Is this what it is all about? You are concerned for his soul? Emma, the man’s spiritual state was not yours to worry about. You are not responsible for anyone else’s other than your own.”
“But I am, Matthew, don’t you understand? I did the worst thing I possibly could – just as bad as killing him myself: he had no time to make peace with God. Whatever he did in life, I had no right to condemn him to eternal death.”
“He made his choice…”
“And I gave him no chance to change it!” Angrily, I thrust my hand into a pocket of gritty sand and crushed it into a loose ball. “The men you fought – the men you killed – knew the possibility of death and had time to repent before it became reality. You don’t have to carry the burden of that, but I do.”
“Don’t I, Emma? Do you really think killing came so easily to me?”
“I didn’t mean… But you don’t talk about it.”
“No.” He rose and walked long-limbed the few yards to the edge of the sea. Insistent waves lapped at his feet, testing his resolve with foam-tipped tongues. “They say the more you kill, the easier it becomes,” he said, with his back to me, “but it doesn’t. One life, or many, the effect is still the same. Or at least, I have found it to be so.” He turned around. “If this were a physical pain you harboured, I could reach inside you and take it. If I could do what you did for me, and provide some balm for your emotional hurt, I would. But I can’t. I’m sorry you have this burden, Emma; I would have done anything to prevent it being so.”
“Including killing him yourself?”
“Yes, if I had to – if I could find no other way.”
“How do you live with your conscience, Matthew?”
He gave a short grunt of a laugh. “Because I have no choice in the matter.” He crunched across the shingle-strewn sand to sit beside me again. He took my clenched hand in his, turned it over, and opened my fingers. “I can find no peace in death; it is denied me. For the meantime, I have to make do and find it in life.” He traced the cross on the stone I still held in my palm. “And you must do the same.” He closed my fingers over the pebble.
“I don’t know how,” I whispered.
He looked at me with earnest concern, face softening, eyes gentle. “Yes, you do – you told me once, not long ago, that I am forgiven – do you remember? That God has forgiven me and what I need to do is to accept that, and forgive myself. I can live with what I have done because I have repented. It is what you believe, Emma – not in theory, but in fact. Make it real.”
“I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
“No, nor do any of us. Your remorse – mine – is worth nothing unless you make it real.”
I had shrunk inside myself, taken refuge, but I could not escape the truth of it, because it lay at the very heart of me. The wind gusted, tearing at my hair and whipping strands into my eyes.
“I know what I have to do, Matthew. I just don’t know how to do it.”
He pulled my hood over my head and secured my hair inside it. His hand lingered, his gaze also; and I, trapped by both, felt a shift in me. He too sensed it.
“It is already done,” he said, and pressed his lips to my forehead, sealing it. “It is time to move on.”
It didn’t happen immediately, but in layers – one by one dropping away, until one day, sheltering from a sudden downpour in a tin shack of a church, hail rattling on the roof like claws, I remembered a verse my
friend Tom had left me in those dark days between Guy and my new-born faith.
“I’ve never been alone with this, have I – spiritually, I mean?”
Matthew looked up from studying the map he had spread over a side table to dry.
“No, I don’t believe you have.”
With my head tipped on one side, I surveyed the simple cross made of wood sitting on the plain altar table with its starched white cloth. “I think, although I always knew it in my head, perhaps I didn’t feel it in my heart.”
Matthew folded the map, tucked it in his pocket, and picked up his motorcycle helmet. “And do you now?” he asked.
I spent longer considering the question than I think he expected, and he crossed the worn planks scrubbed clean by years of feet and mops, to sit beside me on the wobbly pew. I looked about me, at the love and devotion sewn into the embroidered kneelers, and the blue pressed-glass vase filled with unfamiliar wild flowers.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
We spent the next weeks on the Harley we hired continuing our journey south and west, skirting the Tasman Sea, then into the mountains and fiords of South Island – so different to those of Maine – staying in isolated lodges for a few days before moving on to a village B&B the next. The bike gave us access to areas so remote we felt at times that we were the only inhabitants of a pristine planet in an age before knowledge stained it. In that time, I found the understanding I had been looking for, and the peace that came with it.
When we landed in Portland’s jetport in the middle of the night after a long and convoluted journey, Henry greeted us.
“And how’s my favourite step-mom?” He hugged me warmly, then stood back at arm’s length, initiating an inspection. He nodded his approval. “Better for your vacation, I see. I should think I’m the only septuagenarian whose step-mom is less than half his age and can double as a supermodel.”
“Flatterer,” I laughed, and hugged him back. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being your…”
Matthew cleared his throat beside me as an airport security guard passed within earshot. I lowered my voice. “… Stepmother,” I completed as he went beyond hearing range.
Henry turned to Matthew. “Dad,” he said, clasping Matthew in a bear hug. “It’s been strange not having you around; can’t say I like it much. I guess we’ve not spent this long apart since the war.”
Matthew returned the older man’s embrace. “It’s good to be home, son. Is everything all right with the family? How’s Ellie?”
Looking suddenly grave, Henry fingered his beard. “We had a bit of a scare a couple of weeks ago; she started spotting after riding Lizzie. We ran a CBC, and ultrasound showed the foetus still viable – and a boy.” He threw a quick look in my direction. “She’s pushing her luck – working double-shifts – you know what she’s like, but we can’t get through to her. Maybe you can.”
“Maybe. You ran the tests yourself?”
“I did, then destroyed the samples. The data’s been encoded and uploaded on to E.V.E; I thought you’d want to see it.”
“I do, thanks. Good work.” Matthew noticed me smothering a yawn. “We’d better fetch the luggage and get Emma home before she falls asleep on her feet.”
In Henry’s comfortable car we headed north and west away from the sharp lights of Portland and into the strengthening night of the woods of Maine. Resting my head on Matthew’s shoulder, I asked sleepily, “Why did Henry need to destroy Ellie’s blood samples?”
“For the same reason she will have a home birth – as a precaution. Her blood carries genetic markers and we don’t want it getting into the wrong hands.”
Henry’s eyes briefly met Matthew’s in his driving mirror – the two so alike despite the care Henry took to disguise the similarity.
“Well, at least you don’t have that problem with me,” I said, bringing Matthew’s arm around my shoulders and kissing his hand as he momentarily caressed the side of my face. Matthew looked out of the window into the darkness.
“No, indeed,” he replied.
CHAPTER
3
Birthday Boy
“It’s no good, Pat. I’ve tried, really I have, but the blessed things won’t cooperate.” I flung the oven gloves on the side and scowled at the soggy flat objects in the little baking tins. They glowered back, palely. I regretted ever suggesting preparing lunch for our friends in celebration of Matthew’s birthday, and rather thought that Pat might too. She tut-tutted in her motherly way and peered at the semi-cooked batter over the tops of her glasses.
“Emma, did you pre-heat the oven?”
I looked at her askance. “Of course I did! They wouldn’t cook otherwise, would they?”
“Pre-heat, Emma – that means heating the oven for at least twenty minutes before you put them in. Didn’t you read the recipe?”
I had – sort of. She had given us – me – a wonderful cookery book which I read with great diligence, but this morning I had received a really interesting article exploring the transition from feudal to absolutist monarchies in Europe, so I lost track of the time – a bit. My eyes slid away from hers.
“You could have chosen something simpler than roast beef and Yorkshire puddings, sweetie. Or you could let Matthew cook.”
That would have been the easiest solution, it was true, but it was the first birthday of his that we had shared and I had been determined to do something resembling traditional British cooking for our friends, and I wanted to do it myself. I had failed on both counts. Now, as everyone waited patiently in the drawing room, I could almost hear their stomachs growl from where I stood. The door from the hall opened, bringing a gale of laughter as Matthew appeared still chuckling and carrying a tall-stemmed wine glass. He looked immensely cheerful, but then he wasn’t hungry.
“Whatever it is, it smells good,” he remarked, pouring a third of the contents of his glass down the sink, and then peering over my shoulder. “Ah,” he added when he saw the flaccid goo. “Well, who needs Yorkshire pudding when there’s plenty of beef and vegetables?” He hesitated. “There is, isn’t there?”
I managed to get that right at any rate; I mean, how hard can it be to cook frozen peas? And the beef did smell – meaty. He saw my dejected look and kissed my flaming forehead.
“I’ll give you a hand putting it together, if you like. Our guests didn’t come here to test your cooking ability; they came for our company. They’ll love whatever you produce.”
I pulled a face. “That’s good, because they’ll need iron stomachs to eat this.”
Pat lifted the beef from the oven before it burned any more, swapping it for the upside-down pudding. “Did you want gravy for the beef, Emma?”
I groaned. “Gravy! I forgot.”
Pat and Matthew probably exchanged looks at that point, but I was too busy rummaging in the cupboard for a saucepan, muttering furiously to myself, to notice. Matthew leant down.
“Emma, there’ll be plenty more opportunities to master the art of gravy-making.” A stack of saucepans collapsed noisily and I said something I shouldn’t. “There’s no reason why you should be good at cooking,” he persisted.
I emerged with a saucepan. “You are,” I waved it at him, “and you don’t even eat.” I picked up the recipe book, peered at the index, and found sauce. I squinted at the wavering print before me. “Does that say 2 or 12 dessertspoons of cornstarch? What’s cornstarch?”
Saul leaned forwards, nursing his glass and, in his soft melodic voice, continued with his gentle interrogation. “I understand your fascination with forms of punishment, Emma – I see it all the time in my line of work – but I don’t understand why you think its study as necessary to your research.”
I internally sighed. The same old misconception that had dogged me for years and which had been trotted out by the defence team as justification for Staahl’s vicious attack on me.
“I don’t study methods of torture as much as the persecution of groups and individuals it was u
sed against, and I certainly don’t get a buzz from it. Torture and interrogation are just part of the bigger picture that enables me to gain perspective. Nor am I interested in brutality for the sake of it; there are countless examples of that. I’m only interested in institutionalized interrogation such as that employed by the Inquisition for a specific purpose.”
His kind face wrinkled into perplexed, olive folds. “But what of the victims of such violence? Does this not concern you also? Are you not at risk of diminishing the crime by giving a voice to the perpetrator – I would say, almost justifying their purpose by rationalizing it?”
“Of course it concerns me as a person – acutely – and I believe that there can be no justification for its use. But that’s missing the point. Torture was just the mechanics of a machine driven by the hopes, desires, fears of the men who applied it. People get too involved in the mechanics, but the study of interrogation in itself does not define the reasoning behind it any more than a knowledge of a car engine tells you where the car has come from, or where it will go. Yes, the research is distressing – sometimes more than I can bear – but it is as relevant now as it was five hundred – a thousand – years ago, because what drove men then still drives them today, both in the persecution of belief, and in the persecuted. The power of suggestion, of rumour and what derives from it – that is what I’m interested in: people’s motives, not necessarily their actions.”
“We are at different ends of the perspective, then,” Siggie enjoined. “We make it our work to understand the repercussions of persecution – I, in how it affects the psyche, while Saul assesses the culture of despotism and its impact on society.”
I tore a grape from the branchlet on my plate. “And Matthew picks up the broken pieces and fixes them.”
“Tries to,” Matthew said, refilling Elena’s empty glass, “and not always succeeding. Thankfully, it doesn’t constitute a substantial element in my work, but when it crops up, it’s hard to forget.” He didn’t need to refer directly to Staahl because, from their faces, everyone knew what he meant. “I don’t think the value of Emma’s work in relation to the modern world can be underestimated just because she focuses on the past. As she says, the relevance lies in what it tells us about people’s behaviour – and that never changes.”
