The Talisman

by Lynda La Plante

  Her head and body felt light, carrying her out on to the balcony, into the night, of their own accord. The shutters opened wide with one touch of her fingertips, the curtains billowed in the still night . . . Jinks knew, knew he was dead. In her dream she had seen the road, the blazing car, the smile on her father’s handsome face . . . Edward Barkley was dead. Her chest heaved as a searing, scorching pain ripped through her, forcing the breath from her body. Something . . . something had flown out of her . . .

  The tingling sensation subsided, and she returned to her room, struggling to close the heavy, unwieldy shutters. She started to pack her cases.

  To her friend’s astonishment, Jinks left first thing in the morning for New York. She had always tried to prepare herself for the death of her father, but it had come sooner than she anticipated. She felt no loss, but an excitement, a release . . . She felt free.

  Evelyn Barkley had been sentenced to eighteen months’ imprisonment, the judge accepting his innocence of the acts of terrorism. At the same time, however, Evelyn had voluntarily financed the terrorists’ activities, and thus aided their cause.

  He had already been in jail for five months, so he would, with good behaviour, be released in three to four months’ time. But his lawyer’s request for him to be allowed to serve the sentence in England was refused.

  When he was led away to begin his sentence, he was told he would be allowed a few minutes alone with his father. He was coming to say goodbye before returning to England.

  Alex had sat in court every day during the hearing. He had been supportive, attentive to Evelyn’s every need, and in return his son gave him a warm but respectful show of affection. He wanted, needed, to give Alex his solemn oath that on his release he would prove to his father and his uncle that everything they had done for him was worthwhile.

  Evelyn was shocked at his father’s appearance. It was as though he had aged ten years in a matter of hours. Evelyn made an involuntary move towards him, but he stepped back. Knowing there was something terribly wrong, Evelyn placed a chair beside his father because he looked about to collapse.

  ‘He’s dead, I just got a call as I left the court. They want me to identify the body – I’m sorry, but I will have to go.’

  Evelyn could not touch him. Alex seemed to recoil from any physical contact. He was so shocked, at a loss, and his confusion had a helpless, childlike quality to it. He clutched his briefcase, half rose, then sat down again. ‘Anything you need, the lawyer . . . er, the lawyer . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, father, you go and do what you have to. I’ll write, and . . . I’ll be home soon. Thank you for all you’ve done . . .’

  ‘All I’ve done? It was Edward, Edward . . . Eddie? Eddie?’

  Alex stared around the room, repeating his brother’s name, then turned as his chauffeur appeared at the door. Evelyn watched as Alex slowly walked out, leaning heavily on the man’s arm for support. When he turned back his eyes were brimming with tears.

  ‘One time at school, this bully punched me and another kid. Eddie came in with fists flying, an’ he got a right shiner. Ma found us and demanded to know what was going on. Eddie said . . . he said, “Eh, Ma, this bully punched me an’ Alex and this kid, it’s not our fault.”’ Alex said it softly, more to the room than his son. He gave a strange, sad smile, then abruptly walked out. Now that Edward was gone he was trying to find an excuse for him, but there was none. In the end he was still the Big Bad Wolf.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  At the mortuary Alex was handed the gold medallion with the single word ‘Stubbs’ engraved on one side. He turned it over in the palm of his hand. He held it tight, afraid someone might take it from him. There were also Edward’s charred wallet and papers, but he could not bring himself to touch them.

  Barbara was waiting at the airport, and she too was shocked at her husband’s appearance. She helped him into the Rolls, and instructed the chauffeur to take them straight home. They were being flooded with calls, and Barbara had hired a secretary to fend off all the enquiries.

  The news stands carried posters, ‘TYCOON DIES’. Evelyn’s trial was no longer front-page news.

  Edward Barkley’s remains were flown back to England, and Barbara set about arranging the funeral. Alex wanted a small, quiet ceremony with only the family – Barbara could go to town on the memorial service if she wished. Barbara fully intended it to be unforgettable in the hope that it would cover her embarrassment at their son’s imprisonment.

  Jinks did not come to the funeral, but sent a small wreath. She telephoned to say she would arrive in time for the memorial service. Edward’s ashes were left at the crematorium, with a small plaque saying simply, ‘Edward Barkley, 1924–1987’.

  Alex finally went to the office. Miss Henderson was wearing black, and was obviously distressed. Aware that she cared a great deal for his brother, Alex offered her as much time off as she wanted.

  The building seemed empty, and everyone was shocked and uneasy. Suddenly there was no ‘king’. Edward’s death had left his throne empty and yet unattainable. Alex could not bear to look in the direction of Edward’s office door, where his name still hung on a black plaque. It reminded Alex of Edward’s grave, and Alex could not climb into that vacant throne.

  Alex coped with the many necessary meetings, long overdue because of Alex’s absence and the death of his brother. The French police had investigated the accident, even at one time hinting that Edward’s car could have had explosives planted in it. Alex dismissed these far-fetched theories, as there were police witnesses to the fact that Edward had been driving at over a hundred miles an hour when he crashed. However, when he was alone he did consider the possibility. Edward had made contact with a lot of unsavoury people to enable him to bribe Evelyn’s partners in crime. At one point he even made out a list – there were more people than he cared to think about who might want his brother dead. Even George Windsor had given him a look that seemed to say how fortuitous Edward’s accident was. Alex made a conscious decision to forget the whole thing, but it still hung over him like a small, black cloud, whether he liked it or not. Edward had had many enemies – at one time Alex had numbered himself among them. But at the end he could honestly say they were friends, brothers once more.

  Eventually Alex could no longer put off entering Edward’s office. There were papers to be found, documents to be signed. The executors of the estate were in constant contact. The will would take a long time to sort out. They were having difficulty tracing some of the many beneficiaries, and Edward had stipulated so many conditions. Alex was not overly concerned – he did, after all, know exactly what his brother’s will contained, or the bulk of it. He was the sole heir, everything came to him, and so the delay did not concern him over much. He had so many other matters to deal with.

  Edward’s death also helped considerably over the allegations of insider dealing. It enabled Alex to cover his tracks, and by the time he had finished there was not one iota of proof against him – any illegal transactions had been swept under the carpet, or rather into Edward’s grave. All the blame was down to his brother – Alex was, and always had been, above reproach.

  The portrait of Edward dominated the office. There was still the old wooden panelling, the vast oak desk. When Alex entered, he realized for the first time what Edward had meant by power. It took his breath away, and he felt it from every square inch of the room. Now it came home to him, now the power was his, and his alone. It all belonged to him – at long last, Alex had everything.

  He experienced a tremendous surge of energy, and slowly everyone began to notice – it was as if Alex had taken on Edward’s persona. He was more confident, more outgoing, and now he began to take an interest in the arrangements for the memorial service. He knew he was still on the current year’s Honours List, and began to like the sound of ‘Sir Alex Barkley’. The throne was no longer empty, the empire had a king, and it was Alex. The company swung back into action under his control.

  Mi
ss Henderson discovered Alex trying to open one of Edward’s locked drawers. ‘There seem to be some keys missing, I know Edward had a personal safe in here, is it in the desk?’

  ‘No, sir, the entire office is computerized. You see, he had a double security system installed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Every office has a camera, as you know, connected to the security room in the basement – but they are also connected to a bank of screens behind that wall, and the computer is built into the desk.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s very complicated, and I’m not sure how it works, no one but Mr Edward ever touched it.’

  Alex glanced at his watch – he would be late if he didn’t get a move on. He told Miss Henderson to get a representative from the security firm that installed the equipment into the office first thing in the morning.

  Miss Henderson, still dressed from head to toe in black, was waiting anxiously for Alex to leave so she and the rest of the staff could go to the memorial service. Of course, they had not been invited to the Savoy for champagne afterwards with two hundred other guests.

  She became agitated, looking at the clock. ‘Mrs Barkley is waiting, sir. Shall I tell her you are just on your way? It’s almost time.’

  ‘Yes, yes, do that . . .’

  Alex took another look round Edward’s office. Now he had a damned good idea how his brother had kept tabs on every move the company made. As he left he looked into his own office, and sure enough there was another camera. He would never have known it was there if he hadn’t known to look for it.

  He sat at his desk, rang down for his car. The medallion was in a drawer, and he took it out, held it in the palm of his hand. Alex had been ‘killed’ in a car crash, his body identified by false dental evidence. For a moment he wondered, could Edward . . .? Would he have done it to himself? He turned the medallion over – ‘Stubbs’. Barbara burst into the room.

  ‘Alex, if we don’t get a move on we will be late – it’s your brother, for Chrissake! Really, I’ve been waiting for over half an hour, and we are in the front pew . . .’

  ‘All right, all right . . . I’ll be with you. Wait in the car.’

  ‘Yes Alex, no Alex, you know you are beginning to sound like him? Just don’t get like him, I don’t think I could stand it.’

  ‘No? You did once, more than liked him.’

  ‘That was uncalled for.’

  ‘Maybe, but if you don’t like our present arrangement then you know what you can do, any time you want. Right, let’s get this show on the road – has anyone had word from his wayward daughter?’

  ‘She’ll no doubt be at the memorial service . . .’

  ‘No doubt.’

  Alex replaced the medallion in the drawer and slammed it shut.

  Miss Henderson was just leaving. As she hurried along the corridor, a tall figure, veiled and swathed in black, walked into reception.

  ‘Hello, Hennie – recognize me?’

  Slowly the figure lifted the mourning veil and smiled. Miss Henderson gasped. ‘Why it’s Miss Jinks . . .’

  ‘I hate to be called that – Juliana, my name is Juliana.’

  The memorial service was, as Barbara had planned, an ornate show of wealth and social contacts. Cars were parked along the Strand almost to Trafalgar Square. The small St Mark’s Chapel was filled to capacity and press photographers clustered outside snapping politicians, film stars, actors . . . It was an elaborate but exceptionally well-organized circus.

  Barbara had invited four well-known Shakespearian actors to read verses, and they stood in the small vestry rehearsing their lines as though getting ready for a theatrical première. In some ways it was – out in the pews were some very famous people, and one never knew when luck would strike. Why not at Edward Barkley’s funeral?

  Alex and Barbara were the last to arrive. Barbara’s grandchildren were acting as ushers. Every pew was filled, and the rows of elegantly attired people looked around to see who was there. Two rows of exceptionally beautiful women, all dressed in black, sat in the centre of the chapel. No one knew who they were, but all eyes were upon them. They looked neither to left nor right. Jodie and her girls mourned Edward Barkley, some of the older ones more than the new young breed of girls. Jodie had brought them all from the still-flourishing Notting Hill Gate house. She was soon to own it outright – Edward Barkley had remembered her in his will.

  Jinks sat well back, her hat pulled over her face to make sure she was not photographed or pressured into giving an interview. Jinks was not emotionally disturbed in any way by the showiness of the occasion – far from it. She took surreptitious glances at her watch, wondering how long it would go on.

  A few seats in front of her Miss Henderson wiped the tears from her eyes. She turned and gave Juliana Barkley a small, intimate smile.

  Alex was growing impatient. Yet another actor stepped up to the small, lily-bedecked rostrum. His voice rang out as he began Christina Rossetti’s poem, ‘Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand . . .’

  Alex turned to Barbara in fury. ‘Who chose this? Why this?’

  Barbara looked round the chapel quickly, then glared at Alex. She whispered that it was Dewint’s idea, apparently Edward had liked it. Alex bowed his head – it had been his mother’s favourite poem, the one she had recited to him when he was a child. He gripped the edge of his seat, gritted his teeth. He could hear his mother’s voice.

  ‘Damn Barbara, damn her interfering bloody memorial service . . .’ he cursed silently. ‘Damn you, Edward, for this charade.’ He could feel himself ready to explode, ‘I’ve got to get out of here . . .’

  Alex half rose from his seat, and was saved an embarrassing moment as the congregation stood to sing the final hymn.

  Standing hidden in the shadows at the very back of the church was Evelyn Barkley. He had only just made it. He had been released from prison ahead of time, his lawyers having requested for him to be present. He had watched Alex’s face during the proceedings, and his mother, sitting there like royalty. Before the end of the service he left, feeling unable to cope with everyone at the Savoy, unable to return to the house in Mayfair . . . His good intentions were already fading. He didn’t want to talk to his mother.

  Evelyn arrived at the manor house, he had nowhere else to go and no money. Dewint came walking painfully up the overgrown gravel drive. He wore razor sharp creases in his trousers, his stiff-collared shirt and black tie, a thick black arm band around his jacket sleeve. He had to support himself with a stick, his arthritis was so bad. He had been allocated a seat at the very back of the church, and had wept through the entire service. When he saw the boy waiting, he couldn’t walk another step, he recognized him immediately but couldn’t speak.

  ‘Hello, it’s Dewint, isn’t it? I hope you don’t mind, I wondered if I could stay over for the night. It’s Evelyn, Evelyn Barkley.’

  ‘I know who you are – come in, sah, we’ll go the back way, Mr Edward put a new-fangled lock on the front door and I’m blowed if I can fathom it out . . .’ The pixie face crumpled, and he apologized as he took out a neatly pressed handkerchief. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sah, but I just can’t get used to not having him come home.’

  Evelyn helped the aged servant round to the back door, and they entered the kitchen. Having Evelyn there gave Dewint something to do, and he bustled around muttering about making up a bed, and that it would be best to use Mr Edward’s as the spare rooms had not been slept in for years. He appeared not to need his walking stick, and fussed over Evelyn like an old woman.

  Evelyn wandered around the house. It was in dreadful disrepair, and creaked and groaned. Shutters banged, and it was obvious that Dewint had not dusted or cleaned for months. Evelyn pushed open the door to what had once been Jinks’ bedroom, the neat rows of toys still there, as if waiting for the child to return. Evelyn flushed as he remembered her – she was someone to whom he had to make amends, the funny l
ittle girl with the cross-eyes and lopsided pigtails . . . He had not seen her at the memorial service and he wondered how she had taken the death of her father.

  Eventually he found his way to the master bedroom. The four-poster bed had been made up, and he touched the linen sheets. He noticed that his uncle’s initials were embroidered on everything, sheets, towels, pillowcases, even his shirts in the wardrobe . . .

  Dewint smiled at Evelyn’s interest. ‘Oh, that was Miss Harriet, she took a course in it. I’ve even got a few embroidered tea towels. She did it with a machine, very professionally . . . If you have everything you need, sah, then I’ll say goodnight, sah.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Dewint.’

  ‘Will you be staying for the reading of the will, sah? The whole family’s coming, Mr Edward stipulated it. It’s to be read in the dining hall.’

  ‘If it’s all right with you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I would like it, it’s good to have someone here.’

  Evelyn waited until the old boy had gone up to his attic, then went back downstairs. The lounge was shuttered and dark. There were ashes left in the grate from the last fire . . . Then he realized there was something missing – he remembered there had been a large, ornate mirror over the fireplace.

  He lifted the dusty lid of the old-fashioned record player, and twisted his neck to read the label of the record still on the turntable. He chuckled – it happened to be one of his favourite groups, The Doors, the lead singer long-since dead. He switched it on, settling back on the old, worn velvet sofa. Jim Morrison’s voice boomed out.

  This is the end, my beeeautiful friend,

  This is the end, my only friend,

  It hurts to see you free, but you’ll never follow me.

  This is the end of laughter and soft lies,

  The end of summer nights we tried to die,

  This is the eeennnddd . . .