The Nightingale Sings

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘You told me one of the reasons you came over here.’

  ‘I came over here because I had to see you.’

  ‘You don’t have to say that now, you know—’

  ‘That is the truth. The extradition is purely academic. If I’d stayed in England, once it hit the fan I’d have given myself up.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘Because I had to see you.’

  Cassie looked at him, sat down opposite Joel and leaned forward to look him straight in the eye. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Tell me about it. I want to hear everything, right from the beginning. What happened to you and what is going to happen to you.’

  ‘The truth, Mrs Rosse, is that I have killed someone,’ Joel said, raising his eyebrows at her before turning away to look into the fire. ‘That part at least is true.’

  ‘Joel,’ Cassie said with undisguised shock. ‘Joel, who did you kill? What does all this mean?’

  ‘It means that as the law stands I killed someone, Cassie,’ he continued. ‘But I am perfectly prepared to answer for it. You see, the person I killed was my father.’

  ‘Dear God,’ Cassie said, getting up and coming to sit beside him on the sofa.

  ‘He had rheumatoid arthritis, Cassie,’ Joel began. ‘I don’t know how much you know about the disease, but when it takes hold it’s a bastard. It doesn’t just confine itself to the joints – it can affect practically every part of the body, heart, lungs, blood vessels, your eyes, your mouth, everything – the lymph nodes, the spleen – it’s so much more, so very much worse than what it sounds. Some sufferers reach a point where they can’t take it any more because the pain is so bad they can’t touch or be touched. Their bones are all but through their skin. Quite literally they are in mortal agony. No-one should be left to die in that condition, not nowadays. When it gets as bad as that, life no longer has a purpose. In fact seeing someone like that mocks life. Instead it’s a vision of hell. My father had a wonderful doctor who would have put a merciful end to his suffering but he died before my father, leaving him in the hands of one of these modern heartless sods. You know, the health police. This bloke did everything by the book and he expected all his patients to do the same. To live their lives according to the regulations and if you didn’t, then your disease was down to you. How rheumatoid arthritis can be self-induced, you tell me. But because my father drank and smoked and ate butter and didn’t run up the side of a mountain every morning, according to the health policeman even though rheumatoid arthritis is nothing to do with these things he got what was coming to him. Luckily we had this agreement, my father and I, since being the elder brother I was next in line as it were, my brother and I being the only family left. He never remarried after my mother died, you see. There was just him and me and my bro. He said when it got too much to bear, he and I would have a couple of drinks together and say our farewells. I got the message he was asking to see me just as you were about to operate on your horse. He was at home, where he was being nursed, I’d got what was needed from a medic friend of mine in London several months ago when I knew he was worsening, so I mixed us a couple of drinks, him one sort, me another. Then we had a chat – well, we didn’t actually, because he couldn’t really talk. We sat there, I drank my drink, and I helped him drink his, through a straw because he couldn’t hold anything for himself any more. Then we sat some more and then he died. It was very peaceful really. He just went to sleep and at last there was an end to all his agony. I thought we might have got away with it because both his nurses were very sympathetic and certainly weren’t whistle-blowers. But the health policeman was obviously never off duty and if the police are after me then he must have ordered a post-mortem and found the barbiturates. It’s not that this guy believed in the Right to Life. He’s just the kind of misguided idiot who doesn’t only think we shouldn’t have a say in how we choose to depart this life but that really we shouldn’t have any say in how we live it. That was the old man’s favourite joke, by the way. Do you know the difference between God and a doctor? God doesn’t think he’s a doctor.’

  ‘Oh, Joel,’ Cassie said, taking his hands in hers. ‘What are you going to do? This is a Catholic country, remember, and for taking a life sure as anything they’ll extradite you.’

  ‘They won’t have to, Cassie,’ Joel assured her. ‘I said I didn’t come here to hide. I came here to see you. There won’t be the need for any formalities. I’ll go back and hand myself in.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’ Cassie asked him, holding herself ever closer to him. ‘Why couldn’t you tell me?’

  ‘You have other crosses to bear, Cassie, without this one of mine.’

  ‘That’s why you were drinking, isn’t it? I mean drinking the way you were drinking.’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Afraid so?’

  ‘It really is no excuse.’

  ‘But the reason you shut yourself away – that wasn’t to cure yourself from drinking. It was to try to come to terms with what you had done.’

  Joel turned to her, taking his hands from her grasp and holding her instead by her shoulders. ‘Let me tell you something,’ he said, ‘I had no idea of the kickback. You think about these things, of course you do. But then when you come to do it – it bears no relation to the abstract. What man is born who ever thinks he’ll have a hand in his father’s death? But of course because it was all so unreal, I suppose it didn’t really hit me for a while, because I was obviously in shock. It was only when I got here – to your home, to this place which is so warm and so full of love and life.’ Joel stopped and sighed, opening his dark eyes wide.

  ‘I’m not alcoholic,’ he continued. ‘I don’t have the disease. At least not according to my doctor in London. Sometimes, too often probably, I take refuge in it, that’s all.’

  The fire suddenly crackled, sending a shower of sparks flying up the chimney. Cassie and Joel both watched them disappear in silence and then Cassie leaned towards him and gently kissed him.

  ‘What you did is the bravest thing I’ve heard of anyone doing for an awful long time,’ she said.

  ‘Things born out of love bring their own courage,’ Joel replied.

  ‘I don’t think so, Joel,’ Cassie replied. ‘Not necessarily. I think you really are a brave and a good man.’

  ‘The brave and the good man was my father, Cassie. I wish you had known him, but there you are. I shall go home tomorrow, so don’t worry. I won’t cause you any more anxiety.’

  ‘I could talk to some people,’ Cassie said, pushing some long strands of dark hair from his eyes. ‘We could possibly delay your return until after Christmas.’

  ‘Thanks but no,’ Joel said. ‘I said if it came to this I’d go back at once. I really couldn’t stay on with the thought of it hanging over me. And over you.’

  ‘Have you any idea what will happen?’

  ‘I imagine I’ll be committed for trial, I hope on a charge of manslaughter rather than murder one, as the Yanks call it. Although while I’m praying I’ll be allowed out on bail.’

  ‘And the prognosis? As far as the outcome goes.’

  ‘Dad and I gave this a lot of thought, obviously,’ Joel said, leaning back so that Cassie could rest her head on his shoulder. ‘We both knew there was a risk. I could still come up before a hanging judge, as it were, a member of the old guard who thinks society’s getting out of hand and people should not take the law into their own hands, et cetera et cetera, and he could send me down – but it’s an outside chance. The way things are now, a suspended sentence is the most likely, at least according to another chum who’s an eminent QC who said if it came to it he’d defend me. He says given the details of the case a suspended sentence should be about the size of it.’

  ‘If they allow you bail. I’ll stand it.’

  ‘Thanks, but no need,’ Joel told her. ‘I have enough collateral.’

  ‘Even so, there’ll be a wait between now and the trial, and you won’t be allowed back in Ireland
–’

  ‘I know. I thought of that.’

  ‘Then I’ll come over to England with you,’ Cassie said, sitting up and turning to look at him. ‘We could spend Christmas together in London.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘I know I don’t have to. But I’d like to.’

  Then she kissed him again, more slowly this time, much more slowly, until he slipped his arms around her waist and held her tightly to him.

  When they got upstairs he led her to her bedroom but she stopped him in the door, turning to look at him as much as to say no.

  ‘It’s only a bed, Cassie,’ he said, turning her back round to face the room through the open door. ‘It’s only a piece of furniture.’

  ‘That isn’t it. You don’t understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he replied in some despair. ‘So help me to understand. I really thought you were through all this. That finally you’d let him go.’

  ‘Just hold me,’ she whispered back. ‘Just put your arms around me.’ She turned back to him. He put both arms round her and held her.

  ‘You have to let him go, Cassie. Or you’ll be like this woman in a story I read when I was shut up next door. In a book Erin gave me. It was some Irish legend or other about two young lovers and one of them died. But the woman wouldn’t let go of her lost lover in her mind, so that instead of being a free spirit he was doomed to spend his eternal life as a cloud which was forever blowing around the mountain above where the woman lived, while in the valley below she spent the rest of her own life in tears for her lost love. And whenever it rained on her it wasn’t just ordinary rain. It was rain from the cloud on the mountain. It was the tears of her lost love which rained down on her because she would never let him go and find peace.’

  ‘I have let Tyrone go,’ Cassie whispered. ‘Don’t you understand? It’s you I’m afraid of letting go now.’ She looked up at him, and he saw tears on her face. ‘Suppose I lose you too? Suppose something happens to you? I’ve rebuilt one life. I don’t know that I have the strength left to rebuild another.’

  Joel looked down into her sad eyes and then holding her to him gently kissed her forehead. ‘You won’t lose me, Cassie, I promise. Not now we’ve found each other, you won’t ever lose me.’

  He kissed her again, but this time as a lover, holding her tightly to him before lifting her up bodily and taking her over to the large double bed where he laid her down to undress her carefully, softly kissing each part of her as it came into view, her shoulders, her arms, her breasts, her stomach, the back of her neck, her feet, all of her. He covered all her body with soft kisses, and while he kissed her she unbuttoned his dark blue wool shirt, slipping her hands inside it against his warm skin, right round his firm waist until she had pulled him to her, down on the bed, on top of her, until they were both undressed on the bed with her hand reaching to turn out the light so that there was just the pale winter moonlight on them. On his skin and on her face as she lay back, his face kissing her face, his mouth on hers and her arms round him and them as one while it seemed all she could hear was the faraway distant sound of a sea somewhere, a sound that began to be thunder while the waves grew until they were crashing over them both as at last and finally the growing storm broke.

  The next morning they caught the first available flight to London. Before they left Joel had called Scotland Yard to inform them of his voluntary return.

  ‘That way at least we’ll get a free ride into town,’ he joked.

  They were waiting for him as soon as the plane landed, four of them coming on board with the look of men coming to arrest a dangerous terrorist. Once the senior officer had formally identified him they asked Joel to stand, handcuffing him to another officer as he did so.

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ Cassie found herself asking. ‘He has flown back here of his own accord, you know.’

  ‘Standard procedure, madam,’ said the arresting officer who Cassie noticed smelt rather too strongly of cheap cologne. ‘Please nobody move until we’re out of the plane – thank you.’

  They hurried Joel along the fuselage and out of the main door. The press were waiting as they emerged from the transit corridor and all at once there was nothing but flashlights and reporters shouting their questions at both Joel and Cassie. At long last they reached the police cars waiting outside the terminal where a feeling of dreamlike unreality quickly became hard fact for Cassie as she saw one of the accompanying policeman push Joel’s head down below the level of the car roof.

  ‘Why do you do that?’ Cassie protested. ‘There’s no need to do that!’

  ‘Standard procedure, madam,’ his handcuffed companion sighed. ‘Just standard police procedure.’

  The rear door was slammed shut and the car drove off with all four officers inside it and Cassie was left stranded on the pavement.

  ‘Mrs Rosse? Mrs Rosse?’ voices called from behind her and turning instinctively, since for a moment she was lost, she found herself blinded by a barrage of flashbulbs. Putting a hand up to her face Cassie quickly turned away and got into an unhired taxi which had just pulled up alongside her. The paparazzi ran alongside the cab as it moved away, shouting more indecipherable questions through the closed windows and holding their cameras aloft to try to catch one more image of her before the taxi joined the stream of traffic pouring out of the airport.

  Despite all the press attention at the airport the story of the ‘mercy’ killing did not make every headline, being third-page news in the heavies and only making the banner headline on one tabloid. It was enough, however, to attract attention and certainly sufficient to allow everyone to ponder as they read their papers on the way to work or over coffee and toast at the breakfast table about the wrongs and rights of bringing a merciful end to unbearable pain and suffering. Such stories were always good copy and it personally delighted Leonora Lovett Andrew who when her maid handed her a freshly ironed copy of the Daily Mail actually cried out aloud with delight, such was her sense of Schadenfreude.

  ‘My oh my,’ Leonora laughed, leaning back on her pile of goosefeather pillows and stroking her Siamese cat. ‘Will you just look at that, Kat? What a total mess! What else can happen I wonder to little Miss Primrose Perfect?’

  Twenty

  ‘We’re going to Mark’s father’s for Christmas,’ Josephine told Cassie when they met for lunch at the Savoy. ‘Since we didn’t hear anything from you—’

  ‘No, wait a moment,’ Cassie interrupted, with a small shake of her head. ‘You were the one who disappeared back to London without a word, not me.’

  ‘I went back to my husband, as I was always brought up to do. Husbands come first, remember?’ Cassie got the look she was given but refused to rise. ‘I just thought you might have telephoned once or twice, all things considered.’

  ‘I telephoned a lot more than twice but I always got your machine,’ Cassie replied. ‘When you didn’t return my calls—’

  ‘I didn’t get your messages,’ Josephine said. ‘That’s why I didn’t return your calls.’

  ‘I see.’ Cassie looked at her daughter and seeing how tense she still was decided against pursuing the subject. ‘Look, to get back to Christmas. I was thinking of maybe spending it in London, but if you wanted to come back home I could change my plans. We should love to have you there.’

  ‘We?’ asked Josephine so quickly that against her will Cassie found herself colouring.

  ‘Yes. Mattie and I—’

  ‘I thought Mattie had moved out—’

  ‘Is moving out—’

  ‘We can’t. Mark’s parents asked us ages ago.’

  ‘It was just a thought,’ Cassie said, putting down her knife and fork and looking out over the wintry Thames for a moment.

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ Josephine asked.

  ‘No, but some other people might,’ Cassie replied, eyeing their fellow diners. ‘And I still wish you’d give it up.’

  ‘You smoke.’

  ‘One
cigarette a week.’

  Josephine sighed impatiently. ‘Of course. I was forgetting your famous self-discipline,’ she said. ‘How after Dad died you taught yourself how to ride work, how you strengthened your leg muscles by doing those simply lethal exercises—’

  ‘OK, that’s enough,’ Cassie cut in, but with a smile.

  ‘How you ran ten miles each day come hail, rain or snow with lead weights round your wrists and ankles—’

  ‘I said that’s enough, Josephine.’

  Josephine stopped her sarcastic outburst and just sat smoking her cigarette, again staring out of the window rather than face her mother.

  ‘What’s the matter, sweetheart?’ Cassie asked out of the silence. ‘Why can’t you tell me what it is?’

  ‘There’s nothing the matter. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Of course there is. You haven’t eaten a thing, you’ve lost weight, you look terrible—’

  ‘Thanks, Mums.’

  ‘Well you do, Jo darling. You look tired and pale, and you’ve really lost an awful lot of weight.’

  ‘Conceiving in your fallopian tubes isn’t exactly life enhancing, you know.’

  ‘Of course. I know.’

  ‘No you don’t. That’s one thing that didn’t happen to you.’

  ‘I can still imagine, Jo.’

  ‘No you can’t,’ Josephine said bitterly. ‘You can’t begin to imagine.’ She bit her lip, so hard that it looked as if it was in danger of starting to bleed.

  ‘What is it, Jo?’ she asked quietly. ‘Please tell me what the matter is.’ She put a hand out to try to touch her daughter on the arm, but Josephine pulled away sharply and stubbing her half-smoked cigarette out messily on her side plate got hurriedly up.

  ‘I need to go to the loo. I’ll meet you in the lobby.’

  On her way out Josephine nearly knocked the wine waiter off his feet as he came to top up their glasses.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ Cassie said. ‘No, no more wine, thank you. I guess I’ll just have the tab.’

  Cassie sat miserably in the lounge outside the River Room waiting for her daughter to come back out of the ladies’ cloakroom. Two cups of coffee later Josephine finally reappeared, as pale as ever but with her makeup re-done and her hair brushed. She refused the offer of coffee, her reason being that she had to meet Mark to do some last-minute Christmas shopping. She did however allow her mother to share her taxi back to Knightsbridge.