by Oliver Tidy
He walked, following the river, believing that it was giving him something, that he was taking something from it. Going back to Susan’s would mean company and conversation, explanations and awkwardness – none of which he wanted. He took his bearings and instead decided to find his new home. The journey would provide him with the time he needed to come to terms with his devastating news.
*
The request for Gerald’s property as part of his deal had been a spur of the moment decision, an impulsive demand made because he had felt powerful and wanted to exercise that power. Now, he was wondering why he had bothered. He hadn’t even been expecting to stay in the UK. And of all the houses to have chosen, Gerald’s should have been the last. It was filled with family memories that would distress him and the ghosts of those unfortunate police officers would probably haunt any night he had to endure there. It had been a mistake. But it was one that would be easily solved. Perhaps he could do something with it and then sell it on when the address and its associated horrors had finally faded from the public consciousness. It was a good property in a smart London postcode.
There was more than a hint of autumn in the air now. A coolness pervaded despite the best efforts of the watery sunshine. The chill was exaggerated by the breeze that came unimpeded up the waterway. His decision to leave the house in only a T-shirt was something he was coming to regret. He turned in towards the protection of the city.
*
The hours it took to navigate his unhurried way to Gerald’s provided him with an opportunity for reflection. By the time he arrived, he had reached a decision. Eda, like Alison and Abigail, was gone. There would be nothing to be gained from collapsing himself into a period of useless mourning, morose depression and self-pity. He had no claim on Eda’s body or her life in Turkey. He had no need or no business to go back there now and nothing good could possibly come from such maudlin foolishness. It would be a pointless sentimental exercise that would do no one any good. Eda was dead and death was final.
After his wife and child had been taken from him, he had spent months staring into the abyss. It had not helped him. He had begun to feel it staring back. If he had not had his survival and his desperate desire to live to avenge them to motivate him, he would almost certainly have perished on the desolate island. His core need for revenge had been pure, powerful and had provided him with the determination to survive. Fulfilment of that objective had ultimately given him a measure of closure and satisfaction that he knew had helped him in his letting go and recovery.
As he navigated his way on foot across the capital, the thought again crossed his mind that perhaps Eda’s death was no accident. He promised himself and her memory that that would be something he would discover in the fullness of time and if he found that someone was responsible – and he immediately considered Smith and his policy of tying loose ends – then the sponsor, architect and anyone else involved in causing her death would not find refuge anywhere in the four corners of the world. He owed her that, despite what she would think of it. He owed it to himself.
*
When he eventually arrived, he took up a position opposite the property, preparing himself mentally for closer inspection under the pretence of surveying it. He had to appreciate the house for its design and location and realised that it would command a substantial price on the open market without its recent history to encumber a sale. A large white van was parked outside and Sansom caught movement through the little side gate in the rambling garden beyond. With the confidence of his new-found sense of ownership, he crossed the road to investigate.
Two men in disposable body suits, wellington boots and elbow-length gauntlets were smoking outside the back door.
‘Help you, mate?’ said one.
‘I’m the new owner,’ said Sansom. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Cleaning up. I take it you know what’s gone on here?’
Sansom nodded. Perhaps Crouch had ordered it. He walked in and neither man tried to stop him. The dark patches of congealed blood that had indicated where the police had been shot dead were completely erased. In the lounge the rug where Bishop had been standing when he had shot himself was pristine. It didn’t matter. Sansom had never liked it. It would not be staying. He walked back out. ‘Have you finished?’
‘Just about. Look, have you got any identification? How do I know you are who you say you are?’
‘Phone who you have to. I’ll be inside.’
‘Do I know you?’ said the talker, looking like he did.
‘No,’ said Sansom and left them trying to remember where they had seen his face.
He moved from room to room with the luxury of time and confidence that he had not enjoyed on his two previous visits. The electricity was still off but the water was on. The remnants of Gerald’s life that had been ignored by relatives who had come to pick the place clean of anything with any value for them had taken on a tawdry, sad appearance.
A voice called up from downstairs. ‘We’re off. Have you got a key?’
He put his head over the banisters. ‘Did you make your phone call?’
‘Yes.’ He could see that the man knew who he was now.
‘Can you leave your key? I’ve lost mine. I’ll speak to whoever sent you if you like.’
‘That’s OK, mate. I’ll leave it on the side in the kitchen.’
On an impulse and despite his earlier reservations, Sansom decided he would move in immediately. He would have money soon enough to make a start on what needed doing cosmetically in order to make it more attractive as a purchase. In the meantime his own labour would cost him nothing and he would desperately need diversion, distraction and occupation in the coming days and weeks. On a more practical note, now that there was no Eda, he also needed somewhere to live.
He stepped out into the overgrown garden and telephoned Susan’s mobile.
‘Where are you, Acer? I’ve been worried.’ She sounded it.
‘I’m sorry. I should have called you. I’ve been with Crouch. It took longer than expected.’
‘So where are you now? When are you coming back?’
He didn’t know how to lie to her and he didn’t want to after all that she had done for him. ‘I’ve had some bad news. I just need to be alone to deal with it. Please understand. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘What bad news? Acer? Don’t hang up.’
He took his time forming the words. ‘Eda is dead. She died in a car accident yesterday.’
‘Oh, Acer, I’m so sorry.’
‘I’ll phone you tomorrow,’ he said and terminated the call. He wasn’t interested in anyone’s sympathy.
He began casually, randomly picking the odd thing up and taking it downstairs and then he decided to make it a proper start. He felt himself possessed by an irresistible anger but had no one to be angry with. He ended up taking it out on the furniture. For the rest of the afternoon he dedicated himself to what needed doing. He trawled through the house room by room, starting at the top and working his way down, removing everything he would have no need of, or desire to keep. That proved to be just about everything. He piled it all up in the large front room with the intention that the following day he’d find a charitable organisation that might come and clear it. Most of it was still functioning and would hold some small resale value.
*
When the light began to fade, he realised how tired, hungry and filthy he was. He rummaged in his pockets to find that he was down to his last twenty pounds. He managed a shower in cold water and dressed from Gerald’s wardrobe. Fashion and appearances were far from his concerns.
With the dying of the light, he realised that he didn’t want to be on his own with just his memories for company. He called Susan.
‘I know I said I’d call you tomorrow. Are you busy?’
‘No.’ She was glad to hear from him.
‘I’m down to my last twenty quid but I’ll stand you fish and chips and a cheap bottle of plonk if you don’t have plans.’
*
She arrived forty minutes later looking like she’d made an effort. He let her in at the front door and she embraced him as a friend.
‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Don’t be silly. How could I not?’
He led her through to the kitchen. When clearing out, he had come across some unopened bottles of wine. He’d already made a start on one. He rinsed her out a glass, dried it on a dirty-looking tea towel and filled it. She drank without complaint at his hygiene practices.
‘You probably think I’ve got you round here to pour my heart out to you about my shit luck and my losses. Don’t worry. I haven’t.’ He took another gulp. ‘To be honest I’d rather not talk about what’s happened to Eda. It won’t help her and it won’t help me. It’ll just depress us both.’ He tried a smile, which faltered. ‘That sounds very cold-hearted, doesn’t it? It’s not meant to. I think I loved her. I thought I might at least have had a chance to find out, of trying a life together and now that’s gone. There’s nothing anyone can do about it. I just want to remember her and the great time we had together. I don’t want to soil all that by focussing on something I can do nothing about.’ He forced out a little laugh. ‘Listen to me. Callous bastard, aren’t I? I’ve been robbed of a life before, Susan – and self-pity didn’t help at all. Sorry, didn’t I just say that I didn’t get you round here for that?’
‘I think I understand,’ she said, although she was not at all sure that his reaction was healthy. ‘I don’t want to sound like a therapist but you are entitled to be angry, distressed, to grieve. It’s not healthy just to lock it all down. If you do want to talk, I’ll listen. I’m your friend, Acer.’
‘At the moment, you’re the only one I’ve got,’ he said and the remark impacted on her with an unexpected gravity.
‘So what did you get me round here for?’ she said and instantly regretted the coquettish intonation she had given the remark. He didn’t seem to notice.
‘Thanks, by the way. I appreciate it. You probably have a social life. For starters, Crouch wants to know what you would like for your silence. I think that so long as you are reasonable, he’ll agree to pretty much anything.’
‘I’ll think of a figure and let you know,’ she said, not sorry that they had moved on. ‘What are you doing here?’ She gestured to indicate his labours rather than his location.
‘Finding distraction. I’ll need somewhere to live now.’
‘Won’t this place hold too many memories for you?’
‘Probably, but that might not turn out to be a bad thing.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I had some good times here with my family. Apart from a few photographs, that’s all I’ve got to remember them by.’
‘And what about what’s happened more recently?’
‘I know. But it’s mine now. If it doesn’t work out for me, I can always sell. In the meantime it needs clearing out and sorting out. It might be good therapy. What else would I do with my new-found freedom?’ There was a touch of cynicism in his last sentence. He drained his glass and reached for the bottle. She had hardly touched her own drink.
‘Show me around,’ she said, ‘and then you can get those fish and chips you promised me.’ As she watched him work the cork back into the bottle, she felt a wave of sadness for him and realised that he would need a friend whether he knew it and would admit to it or not.
Despite the fading light, he was still able to give her a reasonable, if half-hearted tour and distract his thoughts. She was impressed. Spreading over three floors, it was big, far too big for one person. He explained some tentative initial plans that he had for restoring it to something like its former glory. It needed money, time and TLC, all of which he felt he would be able to provide. Although the money side would be tight, he could make a good saving on the labour bills. Having been hands-on in the renovation project that was his one and only previous property with his wife, he wasn’t without experience.
They ended up back outside staring out over the decent-sized garden. It was overrun in a good way.
‘You know what something like this is worth?’ she said.
‘I’ve got a rough idea.’
‘I’m jealous. It’s a wonderful opportunity. Now, what about my dinner? I’m starving.’
They walked a couple of streets to a take-away and brought the food back to eat out of polystyrene trays. Sansom cleared the little kitchen table and found cutlery. With no electricity they were forced to use candles. It was a mistake. The romantic connotations that had come to be associated with the lighting were at odds with the atmosphere that settled over them. Sansom was only reminded of the last time he had shared a candle-lit dinner with Eda and it distracted him painfully. Realising that his appetite was not what he had expected it to be, he sought refuge and comfort in the wine. It made him morose.
He said, ‘Crouch offered me a job.’
‘Really?’ she said, unable to contain her genuine surprise. ‘Doing what?’
‘He didn’t say exactly.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I said I’d think about it.’
‘But I thought you wanted a quiet life. That’s what you said last night.’
‘Yes, I did. But that was before I discovered Eda was dead – while I thought I had a quiet life to try.’
She put down her fork. ‘Oh.’
‘Yes, oh.’ He drained his glass and went looking for another bottle. She watched him with a sinking feeling and it made her angry.
‘So you’re just going to drink to forget, are you?’
‘Someone in the Army told me that that wasn’t a good idea. Drinking to forget risks forgetting to drink.’ He laughed at his cleverness but it was apparent that it was forced.
‘I thought you weren’t into self-pity.’
‘What are you talking about?’ She saw the reaction in his eyes, despite the lack of light.
‘This. You were sounding good earlier. Like a man. Of course, it’s terrible. Of course, it’s a shock. Of course, it seems cruel – but alcohol isn’t the answer, Acer. You can’t bring her back. You can’t bring any of them back. Do you think Eda would want you like this? Feeling sorry for yourself?’ She could see in his face that her words had missed their intention. He was staring back defiantly at her. ‘I think I’ll go,’ she said. ‘If you want to you can call me when you’ve sorted yourself out. I’m still your friend, Acer.’ She got to her feet and snatched up her bag.
She had got as far as opening the back door before he found the courage to speak. The fresh breeze that blew in made the candles gutter and die.
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t go. I’m sorry. Please. You’re right. It’s not me.’
He put the wine down on the worktop unopened. She turned on the threshold and let a deep breath escape her. And then she crossed to him and they embraced. She looked up into the shadow that was his face about to say something but instead found his mouth press against hers. It was not how she wanted it but it was what she wanted. She responded eagerly, even though she was aware that for him she was probably someone else and in the morning he’d hate both her and himself for it.
***
26
By appointment, Sansom returned at the end of the week to see Crouch. The civil servant received the now ex-soldier with genuine warmth and interest in his welfare. He was pleased to see that Sansom did not appear to be allowing alcohol to ruin his mornings on a regular basis. Sansom looked healthy, rested and presentable. They shook hands. Crouch offered a drink. Sansom accepted coffee.
When both were comfortable in the office chairs, Crouch said, ‘First things first. Here is your official document signed by the Home Secretary, as per your wishes. I hope you’ll be happy with the wording. I’ve read it and it seems to absolve you comprehensively from any wrong-doing.’
‘Thanks.’ Sansom tucked it away safely in his jacket.
‘Well, Acer, how are things feeling now the dust has settled?’
Sansom had to assume that Crouch new nothing about his latest personal loss and that was how he preferred it. ‘A little strange, if I’m honest. I’ve been living on my wits and my nerves for so long that walking to the local shop for a paper in the morning is still something of a novelty. And it’s not every day one gets the chance to eat chips off one’s own face staring out of the wrapping.’
Crouch smiled. ‘Understandable and true. I take it our finance department sorted things out quickly enough for you? I understand that it wasn’t easy for them to resurrect a dead man.’
‘Yes. Thank you. I mean that. You’ve kept your word on everything. I appreciate it.’
‘And the house?’
‘My solicitor assures me that things will be finalised any day now.’
‘Seems a strange choice, if you don’t mind me saying so?’
‘I don’t mind. It seems a bit strange to me too sometimes but I’ve got some good reasons for being there and it’s keeping me busy.’
Crouch seemed satisfied. ‘Smith has vanished. We think that he’s probably out of the country. We’ll find him. I imagine you’ve seen about Bishop in the press?’
The media had been filled with revelations surrounding the apparent attempted suicide of the former government Minister whose name had eventually been revealed. The frenzy was fuelled by his chosen location and, although nothing explicit had been risked in print by editors, some had hinted at speculation of his involvement in certain recent unsavoury events.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s all true. Brain damage. There’s nothing to be gained from punishing him. I doubt that he’d be aware of any of it in any case. They say he can’t even remember the days of the week.’
There was a suitable pause while both sipped their drinks before Crouch said, ‘Thought any more about my offer?’