White Knight/Black Swan

by David Gemmell

  ‘There is a letter in the cabinet. See that Bimbo gets it. You know, my friend, that I am very frightened. I have never died before. I wonder who will be waiting to mock me. So many.’ Softly the old man began to sing. ‘Oh Tannenbaum, Oh Tannenbaum, wie grun sind deine blatter, du grunst nicht nur in Sommerzeit, nein auch in Winter wenn es schneit, Oh Tannenbaum, Oh Tannenbaum, wie grun sind deine blatter.’ He looked at Stan. ‘Ist gut, ja?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s good. What’s it mean?’

  ‘It was a song we sang before the war. Would you pour me some Armagnac?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Stan. Locating the bottle, he searched for a glass. Returning to Stepney he froze. The old man’s eyes were unfocused, and Stan knew instinctively he was dead. As he had seen in so many movies, he closed the dead eyes. Bimbo came pounding up the stairs.

  ‘I got ’em, Step. I got ’em.’ He stumbled to a halt.

  ‘He’s sleepin’ aint he?’

  ‘He’s gone, son.’

  ‘But I got ’em. Here, look. I got his peppermints here. Step!’ Kneeling by the chair he took the old man’s hand. Stan lifted the first box of leaflets and carried them down the stairs.

  Bimbo stayed with the old man for a long time, holding his hand and talking to him. There were no tears, for it seemed to Bimbo that Stepney had not gone. The silence in the room was curiously reassuring, and Bimbo could not take his eyes from the old man’s face. It was so still. You couldn’t mistake that stillness for sleep. There was not the tiniest movement. He understood then what people meant when they talked about serenity. He didn’t know if Stepney was at peace or burning in the fires of Hell. All he knew was that after today, after these few quiet moments, he would never sit with his friend again.

  Stan came back after a while and Bimbo failed to hear his arrival.

  ‘I called the ambulance, Bim.’

  ‘Bit late for that.’

  ‘I know, but it wouldn’t do to leave him sittin’ here, would it? They’ll take him away and sort out the death certificate and that. You better find his keys, then we can lock up.’

  After the ambulance had left Bimbo wandered into Chiswick, strolling the High Street through to Hammersmith and along the Fulham Palace Road to Charing Cross Hospital. Here now were two of the few friends he had. One was dead, the other, perhaps, dying. He made his way to Adrian’s room. The policeman came out to him. He was a middle-aged copper that Bimbo hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Mr Jardine?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’s not doing too badly. Blood pressure is up and the doctors say the internal bleeding is slowing down.’

  ‘Thanks, pal. Nice of you to let me know.’

  ‘Well, you don’t get many friends in life, do you?’ said the policeman. Bimbo shook his head and walked away. A receptionist directed him to Dr Adams, who had been on duty when Stepney’s body was brought in.

  The doctor sat with Bimbo in the reception area and lit a cigarette. ‘I shouldn’t,’ said Adams, ‘especially knowing what I know, but I don’t think I could get through a day without a smoke.’

  ‘It gets some people that way,’ agreed Bimbo. ‘What’s the score, doc? About Step, I mean.’

  ‘Are you family?’

  ‘Yeah. Near as. There aint nobody else.’

  ‘You’ll need a death certificate. You can collect the necessary documents from here tomorrow morning before 11.30. Then you’ll have to go to Fulham Town Hall to register the death. Have you ever arranged a funeral? No? Well, you’ll need copies of the death certificate. The undertaker will want one, so will the banks, or building societies, or wherever he kept his money. You’ll have to notify the pensions office.’

  ‘I’ll sort it out.’

  ‘Were you close?’

  Bimbo nodded and looked away.

  ‘He was a tough old man,’ said Adams. ‘And he possessed enormous courage. If it’s any help I don’t think he regretted dying. I saw him several times before the end. He wanted to die at home, with his family. At least he did that.’

  ‘I was out gettin’ peppermints for him. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘You were there, Mr Jardine. He knew you were there. Was he insured?’

  ‘Dunno. I don’t know nothin’ about his private life. Why?’

  ‘Funerals can be expensive, you know, but you can get a grant.’

  ‘He was my friend. I aint countin’ no cost.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant. He was a very organised man. I would imagine he made arrangements with a solicitor. Check his papers, you’ll probably find the man’s name.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Bimbo felt as if he was coming apart. The muscles of his face were tight, while his stomach trembled. He breathed deeply, then turned to the doctor. ‘Look, doc, no offence, but I can’t talk about it now. I’ll be seein’ ya.’

  Bimbo stood and moved away, stepping out into the cold night. The wind was picking up and, uncharacteristically, Bimbo hailed a cab to take him home.

  The following morning he was back, sitting in a waiting room to collect the death certificate. He was ushered through to a small office where a middle-aged woman with greying hair sat before an untidy desk. She smiled nervously and lifted a large brown envelope.

  ‘I’d like you to verify these personal belongings,’ she said, tipping the envelope and emptying the contents on to the table top. There was a fob watch, a gold ring, and a slender golden crucifix on a narrow chain. The ring spun on the table top. Bimbo stared at it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the woman. ‘But we have to be careful. It’s necessary that you agree all his belongings are here.’ She took a pen and read out the items, ticking each one’s description as it was recorded on the sheet before her.

  ‘I never knew about the cross,’ he said.

  He took the death certificate to Fulham Town Hall and waited with four other people. One was an old man with sad, empty eyes. He was dressed in a suit and a wide kipper tie. Alongside him were two young women, and there was a baby in a new pram.

  It didn’t take a genius to work out that the old man had come to register a death and the women to register a birth. Bimbo smiled at the man who looked at him, then away without acknowledgment.

  ‘It aint right,’ Bimbo told the clerk who registered the deaths and births. ‘It aint right we should all be sittin’ together.’

  The clerk was elderly, with wispy white hair and a long, ascetic face.

  ‘l appreciate your point, Mr Jardine. But this is life, isn’t it? We are born and we die. It’s a circle. Some people find it a great comfort to sit outside and see the joy of life. Many comment on it.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bimbo. ‘I just did. And it still aint right.’

  The man at the undertaker’s was tall, grey-haired and punctiliously polite. He took the documents and showed Bimbo a series of brochures highlighting coffins.

  ‘Is it a burial or cremation, sir?’

  ‘Cremation. It’s what he wanted.’

  ‘Then I should avoid the oak. It’s a lovely casket, but it does not burn very well. But this one is nice. It has oak veneer and simulated brass handles. Will you be keeping the ashes?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Some people like to. However, we will have Mr Stepney’s scattered in the Garden of Remembrance.’

  ‘Yeah. That sounds nice.’

  ‘Will you wish to view?’

  ‘View?’

  ‘The deceased. If you wish we can place him in an open coffin in the chapel.’

  ‘No. No, I don’t want that. And his name’s not Stepney. It’s Stolz. Heinrich Stolz. He wanted his real name used.’

  ‘I am afraid we must go by the name on the death certificate.’

  ‘I want his name on the coffin. I promised him.’

  ‘I could put Henry Stepney, born Heinrich Stolz.’

 
; ‘That’d be fine,’ said Bimbo.

  ‘When would you like the funeral?’

  ‘Whenever’s convenient.’

  ‘Friday?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘At Mortlake then. 2 p.m.?’

  ‘Sure. Look, who does the talkin’?’

  ‘Talking?’ said the man, bemused.

  ‘You know, says the words over him. I want somebody good.’

  ‘They’re all quite reasonable, Mr Jardine. They do this a lot.’

  ‘I don’t want “quite reasonable”,’ snapped Bimbo, feeling his anger rise.

  ‘No, no, of course not. If there is someone you’d like to suggest …’

  ‘I’ll sort it out. Now, how much?’

  The man slid an estimate across the table. ‘That’s kosher is it?’ asked Bimbo.

  ‘We’re not overcharging you, sir. There is a cheaper coffin if you wish.’ Bimbo sighed, and wondered how he could raise the money.

  ‘You want it in advance?’

  ‘No, sir, we’ll send the bill to your home. Will there be flowers?’

  ‘Only from me.’

  ‘What about cars?’

  ‘Cars?’

  ‘To carry the mourners.’

  ‘There aint no mourners. Only me. And I’ll make me own way there.’

  The Reverend Richard Kilbey had thought his library cum study quite spacious until this afternoon, when the towering figure of Bimbo Jardine seemed to cause the walls to shrink. Bimbo was clearly uncomfortable and Richard seated him in his own wide-bodied chair.

  ‘So how can I help?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a funeral Friday. I was ’oping you’d do the words.’

  ‘Well, Friday’s my day off …’

  ‘It don’t matter then,’ said Bimbo, half rising.

  ‘Sit down, please, and let me finish. What I was going to say was that it should be all right. Because it is my day off I have no other commitments. Look, let me get you a cup of tea, then we’ll talk.’ Kilbey patted Bimbo’s shoulder and left the room. His wife, Sheila, was standing in the long kitchen, her slender face set in an expression of distaste.

  ‘What is that man doing here, Richard?’

  ‘He wants me to perform a funeral service.’

  ‘Someone he killed, no doubt.’

  ‘Sheila!’

  ‘Honestly, Richard, you are so naive sometimes. He’s an awful man. You should hear some of the stories. And yesterday he was being questioned by the police about that murder in Hammersmith.’

  ‘Would you bring some tea in?’

  ‘You really have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?’

  ‘We’ll discuss it later,’ he said, returning to the study. Bimbo was standing by the bookshelves. Most of the volumes were scriptural, Barclay Essays on the Gospels, discussions on Greek syntax, historical tracts of the early church, the works of St Thomas Aquinas. But on the shelves by the window was a series of tomes on twentieth century history.

  ‘Tea is on its way, Bimbo. Now tell me about the funeral.’

  ‘It’s at Mortlake at two. Be nice if you could do it.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Cos I know ya, Rev. I don’t know nobody else what could do it right.’

  ‘Do it right?’

  ‘I want somebody who cares. And you care, dontcha?’

  ‘I hope so. Who is the deceased?’

  ‘A friend of mine. Henry Stepney. He run the antique shop up by the station.’

  ‘Was he Jewish?’

  ‘No. Not by a long shot. His real name was Stolz. ’Einrich Stolz. He changed it after the war, but he told me he wanted to be buried with his real name.’

  ‘Tell me about him’

  ‘Is that important?’

  Kilbey smiled. ‘lf l don’t know about him, how can I speak of him, or declare him to God?’

  Sheila Kilbey entered with a tray, bearing a teapot and two cups, a small jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar. She did not speak or look at Bimbo. When she had gone a red-faced Richard Kilbey poured the tea. Bimbo said nothing.

  ‘Go on, please.’

  ‘What, everything?’

  ‘As much as you know.’

  ‘Well, he was a nice old geezer. He taught me to play chess. And he was ever so sorry about bein’ a Nazi, and that.’ Kilbey closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair as Bimbo’s story continued. At last the big man’s voice faded to silence. Kilbey opened his eyes. He stood and walked to the shelf by the window, scanning the history books and finally pulling one clear. Returning to his seat, he flipped through the pages for some minutes. Then he nodded.

  ‘Have you ever heard of Kraniskow? No, I suppose you haven’t. It was quite famous in the days after the war. It was a Russian town. Every man, woman and child was butchered by the SS. The officer in command of that vicious massacre was one Heinrich Stolz.’

  ‘Yeah, he told me about that. It played on his mind a bit.’

  ‘A bit? It says here that Stolz was such a committed party member he had his own wife taken to the gas chambers when he found she had Jewish blood.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. He was sorry about that and all.’

  Kilbey put the book to one side. ‘Bimbo, if this was anyone but you I would think I was the victim of some bizarre practical joke. You are asking me to intercede with God Almighty for the soul of a mass killer, a dark legend who has been hunted for fifty years?’

  ‘He’s bin good to me. It should count for somethin’, shouldn’t it?’

  Kilbey was about to speak, but he hesitated and thought through his words. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Bimbo, but for some people Christianity is like a club. They meet on Sundays and sing a few hymns and make a play at worship. But to me, and many others, God is real, and not to be mocked. Heinrich Stolz was a man of consummate evil. No minister could recommend him to God. And that, essentially, is what a funeral service is for.’

  ‘You could say a few words though, eh?’

  ‘But they are not just words, Bimbo. Did he ever say he repented? That he regretted his deeds? And I don’t mean a bit sorry.’

  ‘Yeah. He cried about it once. And he was a tough old bird, know what I mean? One time he told me God had given him forty years to atone for his crimes, but he’d wasted it. He’d never done nothin’ for no one. But he was good to me, Rev. And I never ’ad no family.’

  ‘He mentioned God? Look, give me a day, Bimbo. I need to think about it.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll come back in the mornin’.’ Bimbo paused in the doorway. ‘He once said to me that you shouldn’t never do nothin’ if your heart aint in it. So if you can’t do it, Rev, no ’ard feelins, eh?’

  Kilbey sat in the study long after Bimbo had gone. Sheila joined him there. The tea was untouched.

  ‘Are you all right, Richard?’

  ‘In a word? No.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘I told you, a funeral service.’ He outlined Stolz’s history and saw the horror reflected in her eyes.

  ‘You can’t do it,’ she said.

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘There’s no probably to it. It would be a mockery. And what if it gets out? You’ll be a laughing stock – or worse.’

  ‘That’s hardly material.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell the police.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The man was a war criminal. There’s probably a file on him somewhere. Actually,’ she said, brightening, ‘this could work out very well. There’ll be masses of publicity when you turn it down.’

  ‘There will be no publicity. I have no wish to get my name known in that way.’

  ‘And I have no wish to spend the rest of my life in this seedy little town,’ she told him. ‘You could have been – should have been – a Bishop by n
ow, like Sandy. You have all the talent. And you’re very good with people.’

  Kilbey took a deep breath, and swallowed his anger. ‘The reason I am good with people is because I like them. And sometimes – thank the Lord –I love them. I have no wish to be a Bishop. As far as I can see, there is little evidence that God ever attends a meeting of the General Synod. Furthermore, I will not court publicity on this matter, and I forbid you to tell a living soul.’ Sheila Kilbey stood and stalked from the room. Kilbey filled his ornate pipe with St Bruno and settled back to think the problem through.

  ‘Did anyone speak for Judas?’ he thought.

  Pam Edgerley was caught between fury and compassion. The woman weeping before her was dressed in a blouse of fine yellow silk, a skirt of soft wool, and shoes that were hand made in Italy. Her handbag was of a leather so soft and exquisitely tooled it must have cost more than the weekly food bill at the refuge. But the side of her face was bruised, her lip was split and her eyes were bright with panic and fear.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t know any more.’

  ‘You are not alone in this,’ said Pam. ‘And you do at least know you have to do something.’

  ‘Oh God, if he finds out I’ve been here.’

  ‘Let him find out. Leave. You are not short of money. Go somewhere. A hotel.’

  ‘He’d find me. He’ll kill me.’

  ‘Listen to me. The last time we spoke you said he had begged forgiveness, and you believed him. He said nothing like this would ever happen again. Well it has. You must leave him, or you’ll be right. He will kill you. Or cripple you.’

  ‘You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s capable of.’

  ‘I think I can see what he’s capable of.’

  ‘No,’ said the woman, ‘you don’t. When he did this, he … he …’

  ‘You don’t have to talk about it.’

  ‘I want you to understand. He called one of his men into the room. Then he ripped my clothes off and ordered the man to rape me. Then they both did it. And more.’

  ‘God! You must go to the police.’

  The woman smiled. ‘You still don’t understand, do you? Last week we had two senior policemen round for dinner. My husband pays them. He pays lots of people. Councillors, solicitors, policemen, thugs. My husband is an important man. Highly respected.’