All this because he didn’t die that day.
All this because of me. The reason he didn’t die was that I saved his life.
I sat looking at what I’d written, and ran my hand over the scar on my forehead. That gesture was getting to be a habit. The hospital had pulled a tiny bit of plastic out of the gash I had there, and it had healed quite well after that. As had the various other scratches, bruises, and minor injuries I’d accumulated since Rob and June’s wedding.
The doctors had also checked my heart and pronounced it fully operational, but suggested that I should take it easy for a while. I had no arguments with that – not that Sandy would have allowed any.
So I’d spent most of the past few days in my office, writing almost non-stop. All the stories I’d been collecting over the years, all the quotes and anecdotes, all the highlights and lowlights of Adi’s career – everything I’d been trying to put together for so long – suddenly poured out of me and onto the screen.
But I was having trouble with the beginning. I knew how the story went, but I wasn’t sure where to start it. This was my latest attempt, and I’d been staring at it for over an hour. The problem was, although it was all true, it wasn’t true enough. Or rather, it wasn’t enough truth. Adi’s story was incomplete without all the things I had recently learned about him.
I wasn’t sure how to tell the complete story. I wasn’t even sure I should. What would Karen and the girls think if I wrote it all down, put it out in public? What about Declan, Johnnie, Angie, and every other person who had known him, loved him, cheered for him? I thought back to the lad on the reception desk at the Stag, and his whole family. In my mind, they stood for the entire town.
Could I bear to tell them about the real Adi Varney?
Or could I tell them a lie? A nice, comforting lie, that made Adi out to be the hero and legend they’d always thought he was. That I’d always wanted him to be.
To tell a lie like that went against every principle I had as a Christian and a reporter. But so did hurting people, and the truth would hurt a lot of people. It was hurting me.
Sam came in. “Cup of tea, Dad?” He framed it as a question, but that was no more than a form of words: the tea was already made, in my favourite mug, which he placed on the desk next to me, before leaning over my shoulder to read the words on the screen. “You’ve settled on a title, then? And a way to start it off?”
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m still not sure about it.”
“Perhaps you just need to give it more time. But – speaking of time – Mum said to remind you that our visitor is due any moment now.”
Even as he spoke, the front doorbell rang, and Brodie howled. “And this time he’s on time,” I said. “For a change.”
I took my mug with me as we went back through to the living room. Sandra was already there, ushering a man in. Grey hair, smart suit, the sort of face that would blend in with a crowd. He was carrying a long box, which seemed out of place – a briefcase would have seemed more appropriate for him.
Sandra gave me an anxious look. Contrary to expectations, she hadn’t said one word of rebuke for what I’d got myself involved in – not even for getting Sam into it as well. But she wanted it to be over and in the past as soon as possible.
Which made at least two of us, if not three – I wasn’t quite sure where Sam was on this.
Brodie, having sniffed the stranger cautiously and deemed him acceptable, was banished to the kitchen, while Sandra made introductions.
“Graham – Sam – this is Mr Smith. From the government.”
“Oh yes?” I raised an eyebrow. “Which department?”
He gave me a bland smile, which I took to mean, “Don’t ask silly questions.” I thought of requesting some ID, but I was pretty certain that he could show me any sort of ID I might ask for.
“Would you like some tea, Mr Smith?” Sandra asked. “Or coffee?” The biscuits were already out.
“No, thank you, Mrs Deeson.” Smith had a polite, well-practised smile. “I shan’t be troubling you long. But as I said on the phone earlier, there are a few matters which we need to go over.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be here long enough to sit down at least,” I said, and indicated our collection of sofas and armchairs. “Comfortable and well lived in,” I think described them. Sandra had insisted on putting throws over the most well-lived-in items.
He smiled again and sat down. “Let’s get straight to it, shall we? It has been decided, at a very high level, that it would be best for all if the recent events had not happened.”
“You can say that again,” I told him, with feeling.
He nodded. “I quite understand how you feel, Mr Deeson. But if I give you a little background information to put things into context, then I think you’ll see what I mean.”
“Please. I’d like to hear that. We all would.”
“Yes. Well, the thing is, neither Rocco Lonza nor Ignacio D’Razzo – or, indeed, their, ah, ‘support staff’ – should have been in this country at all. Not without our knowledge, anyway. We have an arrangement, you see, with colleagues in various places, to let us know about the movements of people like that.”
“Gangsters, you mean?”
“Yes, Mr Deeson. Gangsters, top-level criminals, terrorist suspects – any individuals likely to cause trouble, really. Unfortunately, in this case the arrangement seems to have broken down. Rather a worrying development, and obviously we will be looking into it. But the point is that these two people, rather significant people in the US criminal rankings, were in Britain without us being aware of it. I’m afraid that, as a result, when you initially contacted us” – he nodded at Sam – “your information was not accurately assessed.”
“You didn’t believe that Lonza was over here,” Sam said. With his usual charming smile. I wasn’t sure how much use it would be with Smith.
“Well, in view of our expectation of such intelligence being corroborated from other sources, there was a question mark, as you might say.”
“Until the bomb went off,” I said drily. I made no attempt to be charming.
Smith was unfazed. “Exactly so. Though I would point out that by then we had checked the references that your son had provided, and – given the very positive report from your friend down in Africa – we were already upgrading the matter somewhat. However, events rather got away from us, I’m afraid.”
“I would say so,” I agreed. “In fact, most of the events took place without you.”
The professional imperturbability took a hit from that: Smith looked embarrassed for a moment.
“Yes, I have to admit that is the case. And we do owe you an apology. We should have been quicker off the mark. Unfortunately, we didn’t have assets immediately available. A team was assembled and dispatched as soon as possible, but it took a little longer than we would have liked. However” – he recovered quickly – “we did at least arrive soon enough to neutralize the last gunman before he could cause any trouble.”
I had a brief mental picture of Donnie falling forward onto his assault rifle. I had to admit, he could have caused a lot of trouble with that.
“Yes, and we do appreciate that very much,” I conceded. “But it was a very close thing.”
“It was. And I must say that, given the circumstances, you handled things very well. The outcome, whilst not the most desirable, could at any rate have been much worse.”
“They could,” said Sandra. “I might have lost my husband and my son.” She couldn’t quite keep the sharp edge from her voice.
Smith nodded. “As I said, we do apologize. However, I must make it clear that this apology, whilst quite sincerely meant, cannot be made officially.”
“Because officially nothing happened?” Sam suggested.
“Exactly so. The degree of trouble that has already been caused could only be exacerbated by making these events public knowledge.”
“Plus it would be very embarrassing for some people?” I s
uggested.
“Hmm, well, perhaps.”
“Such as?”
“Well, Mr Deeson, here’s the thing: in government circles there’s often talk of embarrassment, but it is often very hard to pin it down to individuals. So I couldn’t possibly say who is actually embarrassed. As a newspaperman, Mr Deeson, I’m sure you understand what I mean.”
I reflected on that and saw his point. “So what non-embarrassing events did actually happen? Officially, that is.”
“Ah. Well, it seems that Mr Lonza paid a brief visit to the UK to deal with some business matters here. However, he returned to the United States where he was unfortunate enough to be involved in a fatal car accident, along with an associate of his, one Jack Crail. I understand that, as a result of his visit, all the UK branches of his law firm will be suspending their operations and relocating elsewhere.”
“I see. And Ignacio D’Razzo? The Poet, as he liked to call himself?”
Smith shrugged. “Who? There’s no record of him ever entering the UK. It’s possible that someone of that name died recently in some sort of gang warfare incident. There were several other casualties as well – some shootings, some involving a blunt instrument. But that all happened in America. Exactly where has yet to be decided, but that will be up to our friends over there to sort out.”
“What about Casey?” I wondered.
“Believed to have gone to Mexico. Some parts of the country are very dangerous at the moment, with all the drug cartels.” Smith shook his head, looking quite worried.
“And the actor?” Sam asked. “Jimmy Wayland?”
Smith’s brow was furrowed, as if trying to recall a fragment of unimportant information. “Oh, he had a fall, I believe. Fatal. Somewhere in a remote part of California. After we dug him out of the back garden at Merstan House, that is. There’s certainly no trace of him ever having been in the UK. Not even blood samples in a police station – thank you for letting us know about them, by the way.”
I reflected on the sad irony of Jimmy Wayland’s life. He’d lived as an actor, he’d died being someone else, and then even his death was turned into a fiction.
“Talking of Merstan House,” Smith continued. “You may have heard reports of an explosion there. There were some rumours of a bomb, but it turned out to have been a gas explosion. Fortunately, no one was hurt.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I said, fingering my scar and carefully avoiding any sarcastic overtones. I hesitated for a moment, then plunged on. “But what… what about Adi?”
I felt Sandy’s hand in mine, and gripped it tightly.
“Yes. Now that is a bit more of a problem, especially given your long friendship with him. And of course, Adi Varney is a great British hero. Particularly in this town, but he had fans and admirers all over the country.” Smith met my gaze. “I remember seeing him at Wembley, in that last international game. The one that finished his playing career. I was impressed by his skill, of course, as we always were – but even more, I remember being amazed by the sheer raw courage of the man. And I say that as someone who sees a lot of courage. I’m not easily impressed, or amazed for that matter, but Adi Varney was something special.”
“He was. He was… unique,” I said quietly.
“Agreed. That being the case, we wanted to find some suitable way of bringing his story to a close, as it were. Unfortunately, that hasn’t been easy. Especially given his long disappearance. But it now seems that he died as a result of a mugging. A street robbery that went wrong. It must have happened very shortly after that stunning victory over Real Madrid in California: his body was concealed and has only recently been found.”
“A mugging?” Sandy shook her head. “You call that suitable? Didn’t you think how it would be for his wife and kids to hear that? Can’t you make it – I don’t know, a heart attack or something?”
“They’ve got to explain the bullet wounds, Mum,” Sam explained gently, and Smith nodded.
“Just so,” he agreed. “And we can say that at least he died at a high point of his life, after pulling off a stunning and unexpected victory.”
“He would have liked that,” I agreed. “To go out on top. I think he would have preferred that to any, ah, alternative ending.”
“Good. I’m glad you see it that way.”
“What about Declan?” Sam asked. “He saw Adi!”
“We have had a word with Mr Healy. He now understands that the person he met whom he then believed to be Adi Varney was, in fact, an imposter – just as you had warned him. He has agreed that it would be better not to mention it.”
I wondered how much Declan really understood. Certainly enough not to talk about it.
“The discovery of Mr Varney’s body will be made public in the next day or so,” Smith continued, “and I expect that there will be considerable media interest. I understand that you are something of an Adi Varney expert, Mr Deeson, and no doubt you will be contacted in regard to this. I hope I can rely on you to be discreet?”
I considered the alternative, of going public with my story of guns, gangsters, dodgy property deals, and multiple Adis, against the official account, which would no doubt be backed up by forensic evidence and eye-witness reports.
“I’ll say nothing,” I said. And while part of me was angry that the truth could so easily be suppressed, a much larger part was feeling the intense relief of a burden lifted, of a decision taken out of my hands, a responsibility no longer mine.
“You don’t have to go that far. By all means talk to the press. Give them your memories of him, tell them your stories. Just avoid any mention of the past few days, that’s all.”
“Nothing much has happened recently anyway,” I assured him.
“Good. And – sorry to pry, but I understand that you’re writing a biography? I trust you won’t put anything contradictory in it?”
“No.”
“Excellent!” Smith beamed. “I’m glad we all understand each other.”
“What about the sports centre?” Sam asked. “What will happen to that now?”
“Oh, yes. That. Well, of course I’m not privy to the contents of any will that Mr Varney might have left, but I presume that any property he owned will be inherited by his wife. What she does with that will be up to her, of course – I understand that the sports centre, or the land it stands on, could be worth quite a lot. But I think we can be confident that there will be no conflicting claims on it.”
“Karen was always very proud of what Adi contributed to charity and community work,” I said. “Especially the sports centre. I’m sure she’ll want it to continue. We’ll have to find a way to put it back on a better financial footing, though.”
“Perhaps an Adi Varney legacy appeal of some sort,” Smith suggested.
I smiled. “That would be… appropriate.”
“Poetic, even,” Sam said, with a grin.
I shook my head. “Let’s not go there.”
Smith stood up. “Well, if you do something like that, I’m sure that my department will make a contribution. Discreetly, of course, but the least we could do, under the circumstances. I think that’s got everything settled, so I’ll be on my way.”
We all stood, and there was a round of formal handshaking. When Smith got to Sam, he paused for a moment.
“Your friend in Africa said that you had great potential for this line of work, and that seems to have been borne out by recent events. Would you be interested in doing this sort of thing on a more – ah – professional basis?”
Sandy caught her breath, and we exchanged glances. But Sam was already shaking his head.
“Thanks, Mr Smith, but no. I had a similar offer when I was in Africa, and turned it down then. It’s not for me.”
Smith raised an eyebrow. “May I ask why? Many young people would jump at such an opportunity.”
“I know,” Sam answered. “But… in that recent incident that never happened, if I’d been a professional I would have killed D’Razzo and the other
man – Carlo – before they even knew I was there. However, like D’Razzo said, I’m not a killer. I don’t want to be one.”
Smith held his gaze, and behind the urbane exterior something much colder showed itself for a moment. “Yet if you had killed D’Razzo when you had the opportunity, Adi Varney would still be alive.”
Sam met his gaze. “Even so.” He looked at me. “Sorry, Dad.”
I stood next to him, put my arm round him. “Don’t be. Adi made his own choices. He created that situation, and he would have seen us both dead if things had gone his way. All the same, I would have saved him if I could have. But not at that price, Sam. Not to see you become another D’Razzo.”
“I see.” Smith nodded slowly. “Perhaps that is the wisest decision. There are plenty of people in the world who are willing to kill. Not so many who can choose not to when it comes to it.”
Sandy came and stood with us. She put her arm round Sam from the other side, and rested her hand on my shoulder.
“I’m told that Sam got his looks from me. But he got wisdom from his father.”
Smith smiled. “Yes, I can see that.”
He turned to go, then stopped at the door. “Oh, nearly forgot – that package is for you. Is yours, in fact. A cricket bat, slightly used. We found it lying around somewhere.” He smiled. “I’ll see myself out.”
Later, I went back to the office. I took the bat out of the box and looked it over. There were several new dints and nicks in the woodwork, but the signatures were undamaged and it was still a serviceable piece of willow. Needed a little linseed oil on it, that was all.
I put it back in its place, turned my computer on, and looked at what I’d written earlier.
After a while I deleted it.
Then I deleted the other chapters of A True Legend. Afterwards I started going through the rest of the Adi files, deleting them one by one. All the documents. All the videos. All the images and photos.
All the truths. All the lies.
Carefully, systematically, one by one I erased them from existence.
Until, finally, I had only one left. A black-and-white picture of two teenagers, a younger boy, and a football.
Local Legend Page 21