The King's Shilling

by Fraser John Macnaught

  She goes back inside.

  I finish my cigarette and I crush it out and put the butt in a bin and I’m watching people walking along the canal and riding bikes and holding hands and laughing.

  And then I hear music and it’s coming from a boat I can see about a hundred yards away to my right. The boat’s going quite fast and it sounds like there’s a party on board. As the boat gets closer I can see a woman at the bow, and she’s standing there doing the ‘King of the World’ bit from Titanic, holding her arms out and singing. She has long blonde curly hair and she looks slim and as the boat comes almost level I can see that she’s very beautiful. There are maybe twenty or thirty people on the boat and they’re drinking and dancing. I can hear ‘Libertango’ by Grace Jones, one of my favourite tunes. A champagne cork pops and I see a man spraying bubbly over a couple at the back of the boat. Maybe it’s an engagement party or a wedding. Then I look back at the blonde at the bow and she’s level with me now and it’s Sarah.

  “Sarah!” I shout, but a motorbike goes by behind me blaring its horn and there’s no way she can hear me. I start running along the bank and I catch up with the boat and I shout “Sarah!” again but now the music’s too loud. I look ahead and there’s a bridge so I sprint forward and I reach the bridge and turn onto it and I’m ahead of the boat and I’m thinking, this is amazing, seeing Sarah here, and what if she sees me…? And then I look down and Sarah’s there… I can see her hair and her face and her cheeks and her mouth and her eyes and it really is her, and I shout “Sarah!” and she looks up just as the boat goes under the bridge… and she’s gone. I run back onto the bank and I just miss colliding with a guy on a bike and then a car comes and I have to wait and I run along the bank some more, skipping and jumping over tie-ropes and bollards and I catch up with the boat again and the boat has slowed down because another boat’s coming in the opposite direction. Sarah’s boat’s heading for the other bank now and it’s further away but I can still see her. She’s wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt with no bra and cowboy boots and I think that’s strange, it doesn’t seem like her style, but then I realise I don’t know what her style might be… Just then she sees me running and maybe she can hear me shouting as I run… and she waves! I wave back… but now she’s ducked behind some people dancing and she’s gone again. I look ahead and there’s another bridge so I run on even though I’m getting breathless and I reach the bridge and I turn onto it and the boat comes and I can’t see Sarah any more. I’m thinking about jumping onto the boat but by the time I’ve made up my mind the boat’s passed under the bridge and I try to cross the road to the other side but there are too many people and it takes a minute and when I get there the boat’s too far away. I look along both sides of the canal wondering what to do and then I see the boat turning left into another canal and I’m thinking I should run in that direction but there’s no bank anymore, there’s no road or path, just buildings along the edge of the water, so I have to cut along a street and run along it and I hope that it leads to the canal where the boat is but it doesn’t… it curves round to the left and I have to follow it. I’m getting a stitch now and I can feel spicy bile in my throat but then I see the canal off to my right down a passage and I dive down the passage and I run and I get to the end and I see the canal but it’s open water now… it’s the river or the harbour or something and the boat’s about fifty yards out and heading away from me... And then I see Sarah dancing at the back of it, her hair swaying from side to side and her arms outstretched and waving free and I think maybe she looks back towards the bank for a moment and I think I can hear the Buzzcocks, “Ever Fallen In Love…” but I’m not sure. And she’s gone again.

  I sit down on some steps and I watch the boat until it becomes a vague luminous speck across the channel.

  Then I lose it among other luminous specks but I keep watching anyway.

  I look at the lights flickering on the water and I watch more boats passing from right to left and from left to right.

  I don’t know how long I do that for. It’s as if I’m hypnotised.

  For a brief moment, perhaps no more than a split second, I don’t know where I am or what day it is.

  I don’t know who I am any more.

  I suddenly realise that 95% of the women I’ve slept with over the past five years have all been slim blondes.

  It suddenly hits me that I’ve been lying to myself and believing my own lies.

  I feel like somebody else inside my own body. And there’s not just a hole in my head but a hole everywhere. I’m hollow.

  I think of Susan Kenworthy waiting in her room, perhaps staring at the bubbles in the foamy suds on her bath… and they slowly burst and sink and waste away, leaving a scummy slick on the tepid water.

  She’ll be wondering what’s happened to me and why and if there’s something wrong with me or something wrong with her.

  She’ll be feeling frustrated and then angry and then disappointed and then sad and then angry again.

  And she might have a drink and then another one, perhaps one too many, and she’ll look at herself in the bathroom mirror and see nothing but a shadow of the person she wanted to be. Of the person she thought she deserved to be.

  I know I won’t see her again.

  And I know I won’t care. Not really.

  But I know too that I might care about something.

  Even if it’s only about myself, yet again.

  And about the hole in my head and what it is that’s missing, and I know that the hole is a part of me and instead of trying to fill it with lies and charades and one-night stands with women I’ll never see again, I have to accept it and cherish it and be true to it. Because it’s all I have. It’s all I am.

  And so I decide to go and get drunk, to have one too many, like Susan, and if I happen to meet a German skinhead or two that look at me in the wrong way then maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow with my eyes all swollen and red. And maybe they will too.

  Chapter 18

  Wednesday April 24th 2013

  Paul gave Morgan the bare bones of the story. The strict minimum.

  “Incredible! What are the chances of that?” Morgan said, looking suitably surprised.

  “Well, when you think about it, not that slim, really. I mean, I spent years going round Europe’s capitals, hanging out at the most famous sites… Places every tourist goes to… I’ve seen quite a few familiar faces over the years in places you wouldn’t normally expect…”.

  This was a lie but it sounded believable to Paul’s ears. And apparently to Morgan’s too.

  “Yes, I suppose so… Amsterdam, eh? Are you thinking of going? For this job?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  The shed was almost demolished now and the fire was blazing. Paul opened a bottle of water and passed it to Morgan.

  “So how do you know Sarah?”, Morgan said, taking a swig.

  “We went to school together.”

  “Really? The local school?”

  He passed the bottle to Paul.

  “Yeah. How about you? How did you meet?”

  “Well… I met Greville… at a business function, a couple of years ago I suppose. We got to talking, and he was telling me about a new development along the valley and I said I might be interested. It’s a handy spot here, smack in the middle of the country between the east and west coasts… we have a logistics complex just outside Bradford…”

  Paul smiled to himself. What used to be called trucking or haulage was now called logistics. And a lorry driver was a logistics operative. And a logistics complex was a warehouse.

  “… so he invited me for a visit, and then lunch, and I met Sarah…”

  “I see.”

  They stoked the fire and Paul started ripping up dead weeds and Morgan gathered up some old crates that were stacked up to one side of the garden.

  “We met on and off, although she wasn’t here on a regular basis, she was often Stateside, with the foundation…”

 
Paul wondered what Sarah had thought of Morgan when she had first met him. He had no idea.

  “It was really only after her father died that we saw more of each other. I’d become quite close to Rebecca… we’d often take tea together… and so I was around… at a time they both needed someone... to listen, to share their grief… to be there…”

  He glanced at Morgan, who for an instant appeared to be regretting what he’d said, or perhaps he was thinking he hadn’t formulated it in quite the right way.

  “Of course”, Paul said, “I haven’t really seen Sarah for years. She was a very pretty girl, I must imagine she’s quite the looker now?”

  Morgan seemed to think about this for a moment.

  “Yes, of course, she’s a very beautiful woman. I’m a very lucky man.”

  The two men stared at each other.

  “Were you close?”, Morgan asked.

  Paul threw an armful of dead leaves onto the fire.

  “Well, we came from different worlds… my parents worked for the Hartleys. We were as close as we were allowed to be.”

  “Yes, I see. Strange that she’s never mentioned you…”

  “I suppose the death of her father affected her very much”, Paul said.

  Morgan threw half a broken wheelbarrow into the flames.

  “Naturally.”

  “I heard she was quite depressed.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?”

  “Quite distraught, even.”

  “I don’t know about that…”

  Paul stamped hard on the legs of the broken desk from the office and they splintered and snapped and he chucked them onto the bonfire. Sparks flew up and blew into Morgan’s face. He stood back and brushed flakes of soot and embers from his hair.

  “I heard she tried to kill herself.”

  Morgan’s face was dark from the ash.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  Morgan looked at him and Paul saw the flames reflecting in his eyes.

  “People should mind their own business.”

  “So she was very lucky to have you around, at a time like that. It must have brought you closer in some way, perhaps?”

  Morgan bent down to tie a shoe-lace.

  “I suppose so…”

  “Not ideal circumstances for a romance, maybe…”

  “No…”

  “But still… your attentions must have been appreciated.”

  “I tried to be as supportive as possible… without…”

  “Without showing any ulterior motives.”

  Morgan stood up.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I’m just imagining it can’t have been easy for you… Sarah being, as you say, a very beautiful woman, and obviously you were attracted to her… and yet she’s just lost her beloved father… and she’s mourning him… It must have been difficult for you, striking a balance between your concern for her well-being and… your feelings for her… or whatever…”

  Morgan considered this.

  “You’re right, of course…”

  He paced up and down, straightening his back and puffing out his chest and working his shoulders, as if he had strained a muscle somewhere.

  “I actually talked to Rebecca about it… I suggested that I… withdraw to a certain degree, and give Sarah time to… put things in perspective. I was aware of the delicacy and the tact that such a situation required, naturally…”

  Paul heaved up a length of railway sleeper and let it fall onto the fire. He knew it wouldn’t burn well but it crashed down with a satisfying thump and there were more sparks and the fire crackled and spat. Morgan was startled and his eyes flicked towards Paul for a second but he continued.

  “But she encouraged me… and yes, Sarah was depressed. After the funeral she seemed to pick up a little, as if she’d resolved something within herself, you know?”

  “I’ve been in that situation.”

  Morgan wasn’t listening to him.

  “But shortly afterwards she fell into a terrible funk… and was quite distressed… she actually asked me to ‘give her some space’ of all things… a terrible expression, don’t you think? … But I obliged of course… only too happy to… and that was when she did have a little problem with the sleeping-pills, which may have given rise to…”

  “I understand.”

  “And then she called me and said she was feeling much better…”

  “Quite soon afterwards?”

  “Oh… a couple of weeks, perhaps…”

  “She felt she needed you.”

  The railway-sleeper was stifling the fire. Paul tossed some warped shelves onto it and raked the embers towards the centre.

  “I’m glad to say she did, yes.”

  “And then it all worked out and you got married. Congratulations.”

  Morgan’s eyes wandered over Paul’s face.

  He was about to say something when Paul’s phone rang.

  Morgan picked up some loose sticks and dead branches.

  “Right,” said Paul into the phone. “Got that. Yeah… The Pulitzer… Ok, bye.”

  “Hoping to win a prize, are you?” said Morgan as Paul put his phone away.

  “What?”

  “A Pulitzer…”

  “Oh, no… that’s the name of a hotel.”

  “So you are going to Amsterdam?”

  “Yes. I just accepted the proposal. The electricity won’t be on till Friday, so I can’t really do much inside the Cottage until then. And I do have to work.”

  “Right. Bon voyage, then… are you flying?”

  “Probably. There’s not much use for a car in Amsterdam.”

  Morgan looked at his watch.

  “I should be getting back, Paul… I have some business to attend to.”

  “Of course…. Thanks a lot for your help. I appreciate it.”

  “I’ll see you when you get back. I’m here if you need anything.”

  They shook hands firmly, their mouths smiling, and Neil walked back towards the Castle. Paul watched him go and wondered how hard it would be to kill him.

  Chapter 19

  Paul was glad of the chance to get away. He had made a start with the Cottage and he knew he would look forward to coming back and continuing the work. But the last few days had been hectic and strangely unsettling and the opportunity to take a break, from both recent and distant history, from the Yorkshire weather, and from Neil Morgan, was more than welcome. Plus, he did need the work, and he liked the guy who had asked him to do the piece, and he knew it would be fun to be in Amsterdam for the Queensday party.

  He made a few calls to book a flight and his hotel room and then dealt with the fire as it burned down to a pile of embers. The sky was tinged with orange, which made Paul think of Holland again. The streets of Amsterdam would be filled with people wearing orange pants and shirts and scarves and hats, with dyed orange hair and painted faces, and orange food and orange drinks available at every street corner.

  He tidied away some tools and changed his clothes, leaving his overalls and boots on the kitchen table. He turned the water off and closed up the Cottage and took one last look at it before setting off back to the gastro-pub.

  He thought about Neil Morgan. Why on earth would Neil Morgan ‘take tea’ with Rebecca Hartley? He doubted that it had been for the pleasure of her company…

  She had been an odd woman, alternating between a kind of well-bred sociability and an almost creepy, watchful wariness. She had come from a family of minor aristocrats and had a natural, inherent charm about her. An effortless, practiced gentility that Paul had seen as regal, in some way. A quiet, unquestionable authority, and an awareness of her standing, slightly above the rest of the world. She seemed instinctively convivial and accommodating, but in moments of introspection or distant brooding, it was as if these instincts were overshadowed by a certain bitterness and melancholy, and she could be irritable, and bark and snap at people like a wounded dog. She was
frail and frequently bed-ridden, particularly in winter. Sarah had sometimes not seen her for days as she recovered from yet another bout of one unnamed ailment or another.

  She had never worked, of course, but had taken part in a wide range of public and social events, representing the Hartley dynasty at charity dinners and public-spirited functions, often getting her hands dirty, as it were, helping out at garden parties, mucking in at jumble sales and church fund-raisers, even, on one occasion, arm-wrestling with a local boxing champion at a garden fête. The boxer had feigned exhaustion and admitted defeat as the cameras clicked around them and the audience applauded politely.

  Perhaps the well-intentioned benevolence gene had been passed down to Sarah, who had transformed her mother’s amateur philanthropy into a professional activity. Rebecca had schooled Sarah well, grooming her to become a respectable and well-rounded Hartley heiress. She had overseen Sarah’s riding and ballet lessons, supervised her tuition in French and Italian, and taught her the indispensable basics of etiquette, protocol and good manners. Sarah had found it all highly amusing but she and Paul had sometimes wondered at the utility and the practical sense of such skills and talents. In their early teens, as they became more aware of their own social standing and began to discuss the affairs of the world, albeit in an uninformed and impulsive manner, Sarah had rebelled at her mother’s ambition to nurture a modern-day debutante and lady-like socialite. Their relationship had become somewhat strained and Paul wondered if this friction, and his influence on Sarah, as a working-class ne’er-do-well, had not contributed to his own ostracism, and ultimately, his downfall. And perhaps too, to Rebecca’s own unhappiness.

  Perhaps Rebecca’s most redeeming feature, apart from her laudable, if deliberate and well-publicised, charity work, was her love for Robbie, the family dog.

  He was a golden retriever, a beautiful animal, and had been a gift to Sarah for her seventh birthday. Sarah had loved Robbie, and he had followed her and Paul everywhere they went, joining in their games and adventures, particularly around the lake, as he loved to swim, jumping in the water whenever he had the chance, fetching sticks and balls or paddling around them as they splashed and played on warm summer days.