by Xavier Mayne
“That may be,” Donnelly said, “but one imagines he’s out of a job now, since his pouch has been stolen.” Imre winced, clearly regretting that his theft might indeed have negative ramifications for Sandler. “Was it worth it? What was inside?”
“It’s one of two things,” Imre said somewhat mysteriously.
“You don’t know?” Donnelly stared at him, mouth dropping open before he could stop it. “I can’t decide which is crazier: that you stole it without even knowing what’s in it, or that you’ve been holding it since yesterday and haven’t opened it yet.”
“I don’t say this to in any way excuse my behavior, but I’ve been wracked with guilt ever since that pouch arrived in my cabin. I intended to open it immediately, but once I had it in my hands, the enormity of what I’d done overcame me, and I had to hide it and get as far away from it as possible.”
“I don’t think I understand,” Donnelly said. “You went through all the trouble of getting on this ship with that pouch, then you managed to convince a member of the staff to steal it for you, and finally you have it… what’s keeping you from opening it?”
“I’m afraid of what I’ll find inside” was Imre’s lame reply.
“You said it was one of two things,” Donnelly prompted.
“Yes. My grandfather has been ill for some time. For him to arrange for a diplomatic pouch after all those years, well, it had to be a matter of extreme importance. He was well aware of the recent investigations into pedophile rings in the British government, and I think he feared he was about to be unmasked.”
“What do you think he put in the pouch?” Donnelly asked, unable to choose from the possibilities swirling in his head.
“Evidence. One way or the other. Either my grandfather sent a confession—a literal deathbed confession—or he sent something that he ginned up to clear his name.”
“You’re sure there’s no possibility that he is innocent?”
Imre shook his head gravely. “Not a chance. I recently found a story in the newspaper about a cricket team in Africa he’d helped start in the sixties that had grown over the years and last year won a championship. I showed it to my classmates at our reunion several months ago, proud to have a relation who had done some good in the world. Three of them, each independently of the others, pulled me aside and told me that they knew him. In the years before I got there, he’d been a benefactor of the school, returning to check on the progress of the students who benefited from his largesse—noble families fallen on hard times. The price he exacted for his generosity was paid late at night in the boathouse. Each was terribly ashamed and would never breathe a word of it to the school staff or their families. But in that bizarre fraternity, we had no secrets among ourselves, and so they let me know—without stinting any detail—how my grandfather had raped them. It was harrowing for them, and devastating for me.” Imre took a deep breath, shaking as if the shock were still fresh. “So no, there’s no chance he’s innocent.”
“What are you going to do once you open the pouch?”
“If it’s a confession, I’ll make sure it gets to the right people. The person to whom it’s addressed may be inclined to keep it quiet, especially if a confession might cast a negative light on anyone else who’s still alive. If it’s fraudulent ‘proof’ of his innocence, I’ll need some time to be sure I’ve got evidence against him and get that into the public record alongside whatever he’s faked up. I don’t think he’ll face prosecution—he wouldn’t last through opening statements—but the record must reflect what he’s done.”
Donnelly thought about this for a moment. “Here’s what I don’t understand. You’re pretty sure you know what’s in the pouch, one way or the other. You know what you’re going to do with whatever it is you find.” He paused, and Imre nodded to each of his points. “Then why the hesitation to open it?”
Imre sighed at the stars, then turned and walked back into the cabin. He sat on the small sofa, then set his empty glass on the coffee table. He was silent.
Donnelly, having followed him into the cabin, waited for a bit to see if the explanation was forthcoming, then walked over to the tray where the bourbon bottle sat. He picked it up and poured Imre—and himself—another drink. Imre nodded his thanks but remained silent.
Figuring he might be in for a wait, Donnelly sat down next to him and joined in, staring at the glass of bourbon as proxy for staring at Imre. It didn’t work. Finally, he could wait no longer.
“Did your grandfather… did he—”
“Rape me?” Imre said under his breath.
Donnelly nodded with apprehensive encouragement.
Imre picked up the bourbon and took a long drink. He set the glass down and stared at it for a while longer. “No,” he said.
Donnelly, hugely relieved but careful not to show it, took a healthy swig of the bourbon he’d poured himself. “Then what is it? What are you afraid you’re going to find in that pouch?”
“Myself.”
“But you just said he never—”
“Not myself as a victim. But myself as… him.” Imre suddenly turned to face Donnelly, his eyes ringed with red, his expression desperate. “I don’t want to be him.”
Donnelly had always been a perceptive judge of character, and his time with Imre had led him to a confident conclusion. “You are not your grandfather,” he said, slowly and soothingly.
“But you know what it’s like,” Imre said, growing more animated. “Growing up you hear all of these horror stories about how gay men are child molesters and can’t be trusted. When I left school and had to face the fact that it wasn’t just a phase for me, I had to convince myself I was still a good person.” He looked at Donnelly pleadingly. “You said you grew up in a small town—you must have had it even worse than I did.”
Donnelly couldn’t answer. He knew what he should do—agree and keep the conversation going so he could finally understand what had made Imre steal the pouch—but in that moment he couldn’t lie. Not about something as personal as this.
“I didn’t, actually,” he said softly. “I grew up… straight.”
“What?” Imre was clearly startled.
“I grew up believing I was straight. Dated girls, went to prom, even had some girlfriends in college. It wasn’t until I met… someone… that I even considered I might be gay.”
“Wow. You’re like the polar opposite of everyone I went to school with—most of them had sex every night, but never with a woman, at least until they graduated. I didn’t know anyone did it the other way around.” He smiled wanly. “He must have been an amazing guy.”
“Indeed he was.” And still is. “But I know very well the internal prejudice that gets built up over time that makes you think if you kiss a guy and like it you’re suddenly a pervert. My mother was crystal clear on that.”
“Well, two sons who turn out gay—I guess she was entitled to her tantrum. Any other siblings for her to pin her hopes on?”
“Just my sister, and she has a track record of making far worse choices in men than either my brother or myself did.”
Imre chuckled, his angst about the pouch lifting. Donnelly saw his opportunity and decided to press on.
“So how about it? Let’s bust that thing open.”
Imre burst out laughing. “That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear from you tonight, just not about the pouch.”
“And there goes your dignified-diplomat façade,” scolded Donnelly.
“I figured I had to take a shot,” Imre replied, a sly grin on his face.
“We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Where’s the pouch?”
Imre nodded. “You’re right, I need to just do it. Thank you for being here with me.” He patted Donnelly on the shoulder as he passed by on his way to the closet. From underneath his clothes, he pulled out Sandler’s messenger bag.
Donnelly remembered it so clearly from the first forty-eight hours he and Sandler had been on this crazy journey. Its worn leather smell carried the essence o
f Sandler with it.
Imre set the pouch on the bed and sat next to it. Donnelly joined him, sitting on the other side of the bed, and they stared at it together. “Well, best be getting on with it,” Imre said, unbuckling the messenger bag’s metal clasps. He folded open the bag and withdrew an envelope with a discreet red seal on the front.
Imre set the envelope on the bed, and looked up at Donnelly. “I’m about to break a very serious law,” he said.
“You don’t have to,” Donnelly replied. “You can take it to the ship’s security officer right now, and he’ll get it back to Sandler. I’m sure if you explain it to the ambassador, she’d understand. You had the right intentions.”
Imre looked at Donnelly, the color draining from his cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” Donnelly asked. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“Who did you say should get the pouch?”
“The ship’s security officer. I saw him… during the lifeboat drill. Seemed like a nice guy.”
“No, after that.” Imre’s eyes, unblinking, gave Donnelly a chill.
“Uh, the ambassador? That’s who should get the pouch, right?”
“You said ‘Sandler.’ How did you know the courier’s name, Gabriel?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
“You mentioned it yourself, a while ago, when we were talking about how he managed to find a way to get to England despite the volcano.” Donnelly looked for any sign he was believed. He saw none.
“Something of which you may not be aware, being an American, is that when someone is in service, he is referred to by last name only. If I did mention his name, I would have called him ‘Birkin.’ I only recall his first name because it’s unusual, and I certainly would never use it to refer to him.”
One of the first rules of telling lies, Donnelly reflected in that moment, is to know when to stop telling them. He took a deep breath and gave up.
“You’re right. I know Sandler. He’s a friend of mine. And he is simply desperate to find out what happened to his pouch. We did some asking around and discovered the connection between your grandfather and the pouch. It was the only lead we had, and we decided to take our best shot at figuring out what happened. That’s why I showed up at your tea table—to see if I could gather some information.”
“And then once we’d spent almost the entire day together under false pretenses, you were going to… what? Grab the pouch and smash your way out of my cabin with it? Is that why you’re doing this?”
“No, that’s not what I was going to do—not at all. Imre, listen to me. What you’ve done you did for the right reasons. You had the protection of children at heart, and though you’ve made some questionable decisions in terms of the law, you have acted ethically in trying to ensure your grandfather’s crimes are brought to light. If I’m ever forced to choose between the Vienna Convention and the welfare of children, I wouldn’t hesitate to make the same choice you did.” He put his hand on Imre’s, trying to drive the point home. “I’m on your side, Imre.”
Imre studied his eyes for a long moment, squinting as if trying to reach into the depths of Donnelly’s soul and weigh the morality he found there. Then, abruptly, he blinked twice and took a deep breath.
Donnelly waited, hoping he was found worthy.
Imre looked down at the pouch, then back up to Donnelly, and back down again. “In my ethics classes, it never felt this way. They give you alternatives, and you have to reason your way to a course of action. But both choices just feel wrong here. If I open the pouch, I’m going against what I’ve devoted my career to preserving—the sanctity of Crown and country. But if I don’t open it, my grandfather’s crimes might never be known—or worse, he might be exonerated by false evidence. I don’t know what to do.”
“I can’t answer that for you. I wish I could. All I can say is you should do what you think will cause the greatest benefit—or the least suffering—for the most people. Or the people who can’t help themselves.”
Imre seemed to ponder this for a moment, then closed his eyes and nodded, as if he’d answered the question for himself. When he opened his eyes, the confused desperation had been replaced with a new calm, a sense of purpose Donnelly could feel just by looking at him. He picked up the envelope and slid his finger under the seal. Having accomplished this diplomatic violation, he let out the breath he’d been holding and reached into the envelope. He pulled out a small packet about the size of a paperback book. It was covered in heavy green paper and bore a label inscribed in the flowing but tremulous hand of an elderly civil servant.
“I know this name.” Imre said, reading the label. “It’s an old friend of his in the Foreign Office. I think he’s the only person still in service with whom my grandfather served—everyone else is either pensioned or dead.” He stared at the packet, running his fingertips over his grandfather’s cursive. He was lost in his reverie for some time before shaking it off. “Sorry, you must think me a sap just sitting here staring at my grandfather’s handwriting.”
“Not at all. Take all the time you need.”
“What do you do, Gabriel?” Imre asked lightly, not taking his eyes off his grandfather’s script.
“When I’m not sleuthing on cruise ships, you mean?”
Imre managed a chuckle. “Yes, though you are quite good at that, it seems.”
“I’m a police officer—a state trooper, as we’re called where I live.”
Imre’s laugh was loud, but largely mirthless. “Perfect. I’ve now committed a treaty violation in the presence of an officer of the law. This just keeps getting better.”
Donnelly held his hands out in a shrug. “I’m afraid I have no jurisdiction here,” he said. “The Vienna Convention will have to find other defenders.”
Imre put his hand on Donnelly’s knee. “Thank you,” he said, with a not-very-convincing tone of irony. He was clearly relieved. He sighed and looked again at the packet in his hands. “I guess it’s time to find out.”
He tugged gingerly at the seal on the packet, teasing it open without ripping the paper. He unfolded it carefully and spread it open on the bed between them.
On top of the paper lay a box with a small envelope on top of it. This slid off to the side as Imre picked up the box and turned it over in his hands. It was made of paperboard, and had probably at some time in the distant past contained stationery for writing letters—likely with a fountain pen. Imre set it back down and gripped the lid of the box with trembling fingers. Slowly, he lifted it off. It made a barely audible groan, as if reluctant to give up its secrets. Imre set the lid aside and looked into the box.
It contained a leather-bound notebook, its corners frayed slightly. There was a monogram on the cover, over which Imre ran his fingers.
“It was his,” he whispered, as if holding a relic of the man not yet dead.
He opened it.
Donnelly watched his eyes flicker over the first page, then the next, and the four or five after that. The corners of his mouth turned down—the disgust he felt was writ large on his face. He flipped through the pages with increasing speed, his look of horror deepening. He reached the end and dropped the little book as if it had bitten him.
“What is it?” Donnelly asked.
“He… he kept—” Imre bolted up from the bed and ran to the bathroom. Donnelly heard him retching, a violent noise of strain and disgust, only stopping when the sound of his throwing up was replaced by his sobs.
Donnelly walked gingerly over to the bathroom door and peeked in. Imre was sitting on the floor next to the toilet, panting, crying, looking like the world had been knocked out from under him all at once.
“You okay?” Donnelly asked as he uncapped the little bottle of mouthwash that stood sentry by the sink. He poured the contents into a glass and handed it to Imre, along with a hand towel.
“No,” Imre replied. He tossed back the mouthwash, swished it for a moment, then spat it into the bathtub next to him. He handed Donnelly the gla
ss and wiped his mouth. “Thank you.”
Donnelly took the glass, rinsed it out, then filled it with water and handed it back to him. “Stress barfing can really dehydrate a person,” he said.
Imre took a long blink, as if trying to fend off the silly remark, but a smile made its way onto his face. He drank the water, then got to his feet and put the glass on the bathroom counter himself. “Thank you, Gabriel. I’m glad not to have been alone when I opened it.”
“Do you want to talk about what you found?” Donnelly asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Imre said, leading the way back to the bed.
“If it would help you to share it, I want you to. I can handle it.”
“That’s right, you’re a police officer. You’ve probably seen some horrible things.”
Donnelly nodded grimly.
“My grandfather apparently kept a running account of every young life he destroyed, every boy he robbed of his innocence. The first entries are from his own boyhood, but he seems to have kept at it all his life. Well, until the last few years, anyway, when his ill health finally ended his predations.” Imre took a deep breath, looking very much like he was going to be sick again. “He kept very detailed notes—names and dates, but also how he seduced or threatened them, and what exactly he did to them. It’s all preserved in his Edwardian script, as if he were recording bird sightings during pleasant walks in the Lake District.” He swallowed hard. “He is a monster, Gabriel. An absolute monster.”
“That’s horrifying,” Donnelly replied, shaken by what Imre had described. “How does someone do such things and then write them up in a tidy little notebook? Why would he keep such detailed records?”
“And more to the point, why was he sending it by courier? There’s only one reason I can think of—he wanted to be sure it was out of the grasp of anyone who might want to investigate him.”
“Why wouldn’t he just burn it?”
“He’s been confined to a sickbed for the last several years. He wouldn’t have had a chance. This was his only way to hide the record of his crimes.”