Verbatim

by Andrew Hill

  The end of the journey; for Grant was close to the bus stop where he assumed Rob would alight on his homeward journey little knowing what was in store for him. Grant parked the car carefully in a position allowing him to drive off very quickly without being hemmed in by vehicles front and behind. Once settled, the tall dark haired woman sat back as calm as you like and waited. The bus came, several passengers alighted. Rob was not one them. Grant could relax once more. A dull grey day turned into a rainy one and by the time the second bus appeared it was raining heavily. This time Rob was among those who were terminating their journey. Grant switched on his engine and manoeuvred out into the road. Rob had just started to cross the road when Grant pushed his accelerator to the floor and headed straight for him. Rob looked up, saw the car coming as an arrow at him. He tried to run across, it was closer than turning back. The car neither swerved to avoid him nor hit him but went straight on at him. Rob might have made it across but he slipped on the wet road surface, before he could get up the front nearside wheel had severed both his legs. Witnesses screamed, one vomited, a mother covered her child’s eyes. No one can imagine the pain Rob was in but mercifully it was not for long as he lapsed into unconsciousness. A dark haired woman clearly seen by witnesses drove away as quickly as possible. Two witnesses managed to take the registration number. An ambulance was called but Rob was beyond any help planet Earth could provide.

  Little time elapsed before an observant police officer driving slowly along one of Oxford’s many side streets noticed a dark blue Kia and pulled up to check it out. The registration number tallied with the one he’d been given and a blood stained nearside wing betrayed this car as the murder weapon. There was, not surprisingly, no sign of a tall dark haired woman. Grant had taken a predetermined route which took him to a block of flats he knew he could casually enter. Anyone might have seen a tall woman with shoulder length dark brown hair enter Didcot Court Apartments but would make no connection with the six-foot man with a shaved head who left through the same door carrying a bundle which hid from sight women’s clothes and a wig just a few minutes later.

  Grant’s aim was to get back at Carol and this he has done in a terrible and shocking way. Although Carol’s life had been devastated she still has no knowledge of it being planned or an understanding of why.

  Imagine you’ve done something wrong, severely wrong, here on Earth and when you die you’re sentenced as a punishment to be reborn in dire circumstances of poverty, war and disease but are given no knowledge of the life you have just left behind. In what sense would your new life be a punishment? Punishment is only that if you know it is and you know why. Carol doesn’t know. So what is Grant’s long-term motive? What is he up to? What will be the next product of his diseased mind? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

  In the shorter term Grant gave up his Oxford flat and returned to live permanently in London. Through his contacts in the criminal world he became deeply involved in drug dealing, people smuggling and what is termed modern slavery. Grant owned a number of small clothing factories which would be better called sweatshops or even slave labour facilities in which illegal immigrants worked, they were often scared of terrible state retribution if found out, such fears were propagated by Grant and, though based on falsehoods, were genuine but these desperate fugitives took it all in, worked all hours for very low pay and returned to squalid homes, also owned by Grant, where they would live sometimes whole families in one room. All this time Grant was driving around in a new Bentley and living the life of luxury in Mayfair.

  But this couldn’t last. The Home Office is not idle and Grant’s activities have been known to them and early one morning they pounced on Grant’s empire. His sweatshops were closed down, the illegals were taken into custody in immigration detention centres and a long legal struggle to remain in the UK would begin. But what of Grant himself? The lucky Grant wasn’t at home when they came looking for him and he took flight. Manchester was to become the new centre of Grant’s activities.

  A new city was to bring a new name. Grant Webster was to become a Gordon Williams, note the same initials.

  Manchester is a long way from Oxford but Grant was able to keep tabs on all the key events of Carol’s life. He knew her financial position, he knew which school Josh attended and that he was learning the French horn. He knew about Carol’s occasional male friends including Quinton and most critical of all he knew precisely where she lived which was not the same address as when Rob was killed. Staying in that house was too much for her to bear and she and Josh moved to another part of Oxford.

  So now you know. I have alluded to the death of Rob earlier in the story but now you know the full horror of what really happened that early autumn afternoon in Oxford. Carol, even to this day, is unaware of this truth and still believes Rob was killed by an unknown joy rider. But this explanation is not without its flaws, not in Carol’s mind anyway, many of the witnesses seemed to think it was much more deliberate. Officially, the case is still open for further investigations; in reality the police are not looking.

  Gordon Williams, if that’s what I should be calling him, sat in front of his TV on Tuesday evening to view the pilot episode of a new detective series, The Genevieve Mysteries. This episode was entitled ‘Dead Letter Perfect’, which Gordon Williams quite correctly regarded as his own work.

  As Grant watched he became more and more angry; he started to rage and kicked the pouffe, then the tables, he knocked over the standard lamp, flung his arm along a shelf scattering the books, videos and other objects all over the floor, he fell on his knees and wept.

  “What can I do? All I want is what is mine,” he bawled this out at the top of his voice like a young child who’s had a toy taken from him.

  “But Grant,” a voice intruded, “what you have done is beyond forgiveness.”

  “Why? She deserves it.”

  The voice came back, “She did wrong, Grant, but murdering her husband for revenge is far, far worse.”

  The voice faded to silence and he was left lying on the floor saying, “No, she brought my life as a writer to ruin and she must suffer pain and anguish before facing the ultimate punishment herself.”

  So now we have it. ‘the ultimate punishment’ and we all know what that means don’t we?

  Part Three

  1

  The brutal and still unsolved murder of Robert Wilson was now eighteen years previous. His widow was still a widow, importantly Gordon/Grant knew this. Referring to this man under both names leads me to inform you that he will in the near future abandon those names for a third. After abandoning the name of Gordon Williams, he couldn’t decide whether to call himself Gordon Grant or Grant Gordon. He will settle for the former.

  Apart from seeing Grant very briefly at the book signing, Carol and Grant haven’t met for many years, not since the meeting in the café in Shaftsbury Avenue which is now over a quarter of a century ago, approaching thirty years in fact. At the time of her brief confrontation at the book signing Grant was wearing tinted contact lenses which would help disguise him, even so, he wanted to put a few more years behind him before putting the innocent Carol through more hell. This time he would perhaps murder Josh! This seemed rational enough to Grant, it would mean a double suffering for Carol. But how to do it? Another hit and run might seem too coincidental. A burglary gone wrong would be better.

  “I can break into the house when Josh is in but the female is out, it’s easy.”

  To Grant’s perverted mind it was simple and why shouldn’t it be, he is an experience burglar. For the time being Grant was earning a living in a more twenty-first century way; a whiz kid despite now being in his fifties. Rather than dealing in drugs or burglary which set him on his life of crime, Grant was involved in bogus telephone calls, conning the unwary into handing over their PINs and passwords.

  Grant pulled into the forecourt of the three-storey Georgian house, now converted into thr
ee flats, one of which he occupies on the ground floor. The forecourt had once been a large well-kept front garden but that was when England was, or at least perceived by many, a very different place; a country of wealth and empire. A rich family of merchants or factory owners would have lived here then. Now the other two flats are occupied by people who work in the digital world, sitting at a computer, holding video conferences and making, so it would seem, loads of money.

  Grant leaves his Jaguar, he thought it prudent to abandon the Bentley after the Home Office raids on his establishments in London, and enters his flat. He misses the Bentley but his sleek new Jag is a sight to behold.

  This accommodation is short of nothing, luxury furniture throughout, a kitchen any serious chef would die for. He had only the best tailor-made clothing and lots of it. Apart from a few things left untidily about the place the flat looked modern and cool as if it were a show flat for the company that built it. But did this luxury apartment really lack nothing? No, there are two things not here. It contains no history of Grant, no remnants of childhood, not even the occasional toy car he was so fond of when he was a boy. No story in pictures was told by photograph albums from childhood to university. Even his name, Grant Webster, the name he had all his life was gone, assigned to oblivion. Where are all the Objets d’art that a life accumulates? Where are all the things that distinguish a home from a mere place of residence? They say crime doesn’t pay. In Grant’s case it pays well if you consider money as the only payment, perhaps money is the only payment crime can reward the criminal; crime doesn’t pay in happiness and fulfilment, friendship and a family life.

  Our master criminal, for that’s how he thinks of himself, is single, childless and deep down very lonely. Will he ever achieve the basic human longing? Probably not, he certainly doesn’t deserve to. The only sex Grant has had for many years has been paid for in money or in ‘favours’. Grant was now reaching the age when questions arise in the mind concerning minor matters such as, ‘Why am I on this Earth?’ and ‘What happens when it’s all over?’ You know the sort of thing I mean, if you’re old enough to understand that is. But we cannot sympathise with any midlife crisis Grant may be going through, can we?

  Somewhere in England there is a family with all the toys, photographs, school reports, even a birth certificate of the son they once knew and loved like any other family, a son who left home and make a new life in London, who kept in touch for several years before completely vanishing. For all Grant’s terrible deeds we must never forget that he was once a normal child, ambitious, who just wanted the big city life when he grew up and all he ever did was write a novel which, so it would seem, was also being written by someone else.

  But we cannot forgive Grant. If his comeuppance doesn’t come here on Earth it will manifest itself elsewhere.

  A tall thinnish man with a shaved head but sporting a neat goatee beard draws up in a tidy but modest sports car outside his tidy but modest second-floor flat in Oxford. So what happened to his Jaguar? Grant had swapped it for something a little less conspicuous and more in keeping with his current life-style. He’s not over smart in his dress but is far from being scruffy; he has not been a scruffy dresser for many years. This man is Gordon Grant better known to us as Grant Webster but Gordon Grant is the name he now uses. It’s not hard to acquire a new identity if you really want to especially with Grant’s connections. He has a birth certificate, passport and driving licence all in that name. Everyone accepts him under that name, why shouldn’t they? The only friends he has in Oxford have only known him since acquiring the name he now uses. What you can’t do so easily is exchange your fingerprints and perhaps even more damningly your DNA. Ironically, Grant’s flat was burgled only a couple of months earlier but he did not, indeed could not, report it to the police because they’d find his dabs all over the place – let us not forget that he remains a wanted man – so Grant, after returning home from London in the early hours and finding his flat in total disarray, first shrugged his shoulders and said, “What’s it matter?” He went straight to bed and tidied up the whole place the next morning.

  Grant had moved back to Oxford under his new identity. He kept tabs on Carol but was careful never to let her see him. Along with his false identity, Grant had acquired false references and had obtained a job as a delivery driver for a local department store in Oxford and this was his only income though it was supplemented by the large amount of money he had left over from his criminal activities. On the face of it, he’s living an honest life. No, that’s not quite right you could say he’s living an honest life but why in Oxford? Has Grant really turned over a new leaf?

  In truth a life of crime is no easy life, there’s the constant threat of arrest and imprisonment, the human frame can take only so much and Grant had spent too long inside and wasn’t keen on spending any more time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. But why Oxford? If his book does have a new leaf why open it there, the city of his most heinous crime and of the victim’s widow? They’re bound to meet sooner or later.

  ‘Carol Wilson, 24 Didcot Road, Oxford’ announces the label on a bookcase purchased by Mrs Wilson from the very department store where Grant works and there it is waiting to be delivered. Of their two drivers, it happens to be Grant who is unwittingly allocated this delivery by the manager – if only he knew.

  Grant immediately recognised the name and the address and realised he is likely to meet Carol before he intended – that’s assuming he did intend.

  The music of the French horn could be heard around Carol’s home. If you could have heard it several years ago and could hear it again today you’d be forgiven for thinking that it wasn’t the same player. Regrettably, there was no one but the hornist to hear it. In a room now called the ‘music room’ sat a young man of 25, around five feet eleven with what has become dark auburn hair. This was the fully grown Josh who had finally achieved his ambition of becoming a professional horn player but had not managed to find a regular place in an orchestra, such is the very high standard of playing required. One or two London orchestras would ask for his services occasionally when a fifth or even sixth player was required. There are also brass ensembles that need him from time to time. Between these engagements, Josh earns a living as a teacher of music and French horn which he does privately. He is here at his mother’s today; he doesn’t live here anymore but in Ealing in West London only a short walk away from the famous film studios.

  A delivery van pulled up outside the house, the driver did not need to check he’s at the correct address, he knew it by heart. As he approached the front door he was met by the beautiful sound of Josh’s horn and stopped for a moment to listen; a psychopath is as capable as anyone of appreciating good music expertly played. The music stopped. The driver raised his finger and pushed the doorbell.

  This came as no surprise to Josh; he was expecting the delivery of a bookcase. Josh descended the stairs and opened the front door. There stood his father’s murderer. Josh had never set eyes on this man as far as I know and would have attached no significance to it even if he had. Grant had seen the son of his victim many a time since the horn player was just seven years of age, before Josh even knew what a French horn was. Grant knew exactly who was standing before him and spoke first in his usual polite and business-like manner, “I have a delivery of a bookcase for a Mrs Wilson.”

  Josh confirmed that he was expecting it and asked for it to be brought in and left in the hall. This Grant did and said, “Goodbye.”

  Josh returned the farewell and closed the front door while Grant made his way back to the van. Once in the van he checked the list for his next delivery and pulled away.

  Walking along the road towards Carol’s home was a woman completely unnoticed by Grant. She was in her late fifties and, unlike so many women, she wasn’t perpetually engaged in trying to look as though the years have not taken their toll. No brown dye hiding the grey; she can look very dignified when she wants to. Her
clothing also suits her age. There is nothing about her to suggest that she is a successful author.

  Grant’s eye caught her as he drove past but quickly removed it from her and placed it on the road ahead; he wouldn’t want to kill anyone by accident, would he? Mrs Wilson noticed the van and concluded that the bookcase was in the hall. Carol took little notice of the van as it drove past. If she had looked at the driver would she have recognised him? Probably not.

  * * *

  That bookcase has been in its place for six weeks or maybe a day or two more and for the same six weeks Josh has been back in London playing the French horn, teaching his students, having a good time with his partner in a life full of hope for the future. Hope is the one thing the young have; it’s the one advantage of being young that counts. The sad thing is that the years creep up on you.

  Carol is once more on her own. There is a pile of A4 lined paper containing her latest effort. This pile should be getting bigger every day. Carol walked over to her desk and realises that it isn’t getting bigger, her latest novel is not progressing; there has been no advancement of the novel for a whole month.

  Twenty-four Didcot Road, Oxford is a house filled with melancholy. It was also filling up with dust, the cleaner of ten years’ service, Mrs Ryan, had left and Carol had not sought a replacement. This was not due to fiscal embarrassment but rather from Carol’s own lack of caring; what does it matter if the house needs dusting or the carpets need vacuuming or the washing up lays in the sink for days, even though there’s a perfectly functioning dishwasher in the kitchen.

  Out of the window the autumn leaves were just starting to fall, the rain glistened on the road and the grass of her garden, which was not as well kept as in previous years, due to the absence of her gardener of ten years, Mr Ryan who, along with his wife, had retired.