I knew some split had occurred. A ravine had opened. I knew that for me the real world must stay in a new and vivid focus. The separate automatic part of my existence was the one in which I would have to function. In the next few days I must inhabit this part of me totally. The other area must lie dormant to be lived in later, possibly for ever.
Fear gripped me. Start now, start now, in this dimension. Stare at cars. Hear sounds. Focus on the milk van. Look! It has jerked suddenly to a stop outside.
Ingrid came from the bathroom. Transformed. Her chignon was again shaped to its pleated symmety. Her face from which the swelling had subsided through the night had the masklike immobility of a perfect discreet maquillage. She walked into the room, cloaked in the artificial perfection with which already beautiful women arm themselves against the world. She was also naked.
The intimacy of marriage had never dulled the sharpness of that image. She stood in front of me and said, ‘What a pity that we ever met.’
‘What of Sally? There is still Sally.’
‘Yes. Yes. Sally. But you know, Martyn was the one for me. There is always just one person really. Anna, I suppose, for you?’
I sighed.
‘How lucky for you, she’s not dead. Is she? Anna is … Anna … to use the vernacular … is a survivor, is she not? Were you ever in love with me?’
‘Yes. It seemed so right,’ I said.
‘And this.’ She motioned towards her body. ‘And this?’
‘You are extraordinarily beautiful.’
‘I know that. My God! Do you think I don’t know that?’ She turned towards the full-length mirror. ‘I have,’ she said, ‘a beautiful face, look at it. Look at my body. My breasts are small but still lovely. My waist and hips are slender.’ She drew a line with her hands down towards her genitals. ‘And what about this? This part of me at the top of my elegant, elegant legs. Tell me about all this beauty? Not enough, was it? Not enough! Its failure has cost me Martyn.’
She turned to me. Now, reflected in the full-length mirror, were the slender lines of her back and the incongruous, frightening perfection of her chignon. ‘You should have died,’ she said quietly. ‘You should have died. My God, you never really seemed alive anyway.’
‘You are absolutely right on both counts. I should have died. But I didn’t think of it. I never was really alive to anything until Anna.’
‘Perhaps, after all, you are an evil man. Well you’ve worked your horror in my life. For a second, just a second you understand, I thought of making love to you.’
I looked startled. She laughed. A short, bitter, brittle laugh. ‘Looking at you I can see how totally irrelevant I have become. I will take considerable strength from that.’ She opened a drawer and slipped into her underwear. Then she put on a black dress of such stark simplicity that she seemed an icon of useless beauty, form without power.
I heard Edward arrive. Ingrid ran down to him. Edward held his daughter tight to him. The devastation in his face was terrible. ‘Oh, my Ingrid,’ he whispered, ‘my dearest, darling, darling Ingrid, my poor child.’
‘Oh, Daddy.’
I stood paralysed for a second. It was not Ingrid who called to Edward, but Sally to me.
Standing at the door of the room she whispered, ‘Oh, Daddy.’
I moved towards her. But suddenly she said, ‘No! No,’ and turned and went down the stairs, as though just to look at me had hurt her.
I followed slowly.
‘Sally, you were wonderful last night.’ Edward spoke. ‘It must have been very hard for you. Sally told me, you know.’ He nodded towards me. ‘Very hard on the girl … very hard.’
‘Sally’s very brave. Good morning, sir.’ Jonathan was in the hall. ‘I’m desperately sorry …’ his voice trailed off.
‘Can we talk … privately?’ We went into the study. ‘I’m going to take charge of ringing the registry office and the hotel,’ he said. ‘Everyone, except Anna’s parents. Lucky it was just family … Oh God, that sounds awful … you know what I mean.’
‘I’ll ring Anna’s mother. Wilbur has just had a mild heart attack. It is vital he is handled properly. Her father is at the Savoy, I believe. I’ll ring him too.’
‘Sir, I’ll work from Sally’s room, if that’s all right?’
I nodded. The request was a courtesy, all the more appreciated.
‘You love Sally?’
‘Very much.’
‘I’m very glad. I’d like to say, I’m glad it’s you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
I rang Anna’s mother.
‘I was about to ring you,’ she said. ‘There was nothing I could say or do last night. I’ve waited since dawn to ring you.’
‘You know?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Anna?’
‘Yes. She came to see Wilbur. Once outside in the corridor she told me. Then she left. You know what I felt?’
‘No.’
‘I felt suddenly very old. I felt very old. The French call it a coup de vieux. I look very old today. I should be comforting you, I suppose. But you don’t deserve it really, do you? You and Anna match each other well. You cause agony in others’ lives. She’s always had that talent. Clearly you’ve just discovered it. Your wife deserves sympathy, endless, endless sympathy. But from what I have seen of her, she won’t take well to sympathy. I think she won’t like pity.’
There was a silence. She spoke again.
‘Am I different from how you remembered me?’
‘Yes — very.’
‘All that silliness, did you think it real? It’s helped me through the years. Wilbur always saw through it. Why I married him, really.’
‘How is Wilbur?’
‘He will recover.’
‘Don’t tell him.’
‘He knows.’
‘Anna?’
‘No, not Anna. Me. He can read tragedy in my face. He said, “I warned him. I warned him.” Did he do that?’
‘Yes. Yes, he did.’
‘You should have listened to Wilbur. He knows everything. I’d like to attend the funeral. Will you let me know when and where?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m very, very sure. Your son was important to me. In my own way I tried to warn him that night. But I was too subtle. Anna knew, of course. She knew what I was trying to do with my talk of Peter, and of Aston.’
‘She’s gone to Peter, you know,’
‘Yes, I know. She always does. She thinks I don’t know what happened the night Aston died. My God, she thinks I don’t understand why Aston died. I always pretended. Trying to keep a connection to her, I suppose. Useless. Everything I ever did was useless. I wish she’d had another mother. I suppose she does too. Ah, I’m tired. Goodbye … Goodbye.’
I wanted to ask if Anna had told her father. But the conversation was over. I rang him immediately. I didn’t want to think of what Elizabeth had said about her daughter, not now. I knew that looming ahead of me were years of emptiness. I would fill them with every word spoken about Anna, from the day I first heard of her existence.
‘Charles?’
‘It’s kind of you to ring. I’ve written to you … and to your wife. Separately. I don’t wish to talk to you. My wife and I are returning immediately to Devon. There’s really nothing useful I can say, or do. I have a little knowledge of what you’re going through, though of course your situation is much more terrible. That’s why I know everything is useless. Everything.’ He sighed, and he almost whispered, ‘And everybody.’ Then the phone went dead.
I had two other calls to make, calls of honour. I rang my agent. Into his early morning life I poured my sad tale. So few words are needed to tell a terrible story. ‘My son is dead.’
‘Oh, my God! What happened?’
‘There has been a most terrible accident. It will have a difficult and shocking aftermath, John. I must tell you with profound sadness that I am resigning. We’ve known each other for a very long time, John. You kn
ow me well enough to accept without question that this is an irreversible decision.’
‘What in God’s name has happened? You can’t possibly ring me up at this hour with no explanation.’ He almost sobbed, ‘Oh my dear, dear man. What can I do to help?’
‘You can be the friend to me that I most need now. Accept what I am telling you. It will be clearer in the next day or so. But please respect my wishes. My career is over. You will shortly receive calls from the press and you can make a statement to the effect that I have resigned. John, I’m really sorry. I’m really very sorry.’ I put the phone down.
I rang my Minister at home. In a short conversation I brought my future to an end. I told him no more than I had my agent. He was a man whose career was his life. He believed the same of me. He knew therefore that only a catastrophe would have led me to such a decision. Having expressed his sympathy, he said he would inform the Prime Minister on receipt of my letter of resignation.
‘I will prepare it immediately. You shall have it within the hour.’
I had now one final call to make. ‘Andrew …’
‘I was waiting for you to call. There’s been an item in the news. I’m desperately sorry. It’s an appalling tragedy. What can I do to help you?’
‘I want to make a statement. Urgently. To the press. You will need to clear it with the police. Can I discuss it with you?’
‘Of course. The news item was very short. There were unanswered questions. What exactly happened?’ His solicitor’s tone was inquisitional.
‘I’m not on trial, Andrew. I have already resigned, not only from the department but also from Parliament. I want, as a private citizen, to protect my son’s memory. I want to protect my wife and daughter from the kind of speculation and innuendo which will do them further damage.’
‘You are, and always have been, the coolest man I know. Very well. Let’s work at this statement of yours. Do you want me to come round?’
‘No. It’s very short.’
‘You’ve already prepared it?’
‘No, not fully. Anyway, there are legal aspects of which I’m not certain.’
‘Let’s agree the basis of it. Then I can make some calls.’
Eventually we agreed that Andrew would, after legal enquiries, make the following statement on my behalf:
My son Martyn died last night in a tragic accident. Naturally a post-mortem will be carried out. Some of the events surrounding this tragedy are sadly controversial. I have therefore resigned from my department, and from Parliament. My resignation takes immediate effect. As a private citizen, which I will remain for the rest of my life, I would ask for privacy for my wife and for myself so that we can mourn the terrible loss of our son. And for our daughter, who has lost her most beloved brother. We will make no further comment, either now or at any time in the future.
‘I’ll do it. There will be lots of questions. They won’t let it slip away like this.’
‘No. But if it’s clear that we will make no further comment they might leave us alone. My resignation removes me from every public role.’
‘I doubt if it will be that easy. You should prepare yourself for some very unpleasant stuff in the tabloids.’
‘I never read them.’
‘Well then, that’s OK.’
‘Andrew, I’m holding on, just. I’m trying to save what I can for Ingrid and for Sally.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It is possible to resent your control. What about Anna?’
‘She’s in Paris.’
‘Uncontactable?’
‘I think so.’
‘The wedding aspect … they’ll make a lot of that.’
‘Yes. I’m sure they will.’
‘Do you want me to talk to the people in the block of flats — try to silence them?’
‘No. Those who are going to talk will do so. The post-mortem will require them to give evidence, so it’s pointless.’
‘That won’t be held for at least three months, maybe longer.’
‘The cause of death is very clear. Martyn died instantly as a result of breaking his neck in the fall. I believe we can hold a private funeral in the next couple of days. Andrew, nothing in life prepared me for this conversation. It is as incredible to me as it no doubt is to you. I am trying to stay in the world of arrangements and information and planning, because I must get Ingrid and Sally on to safe ground. Then, I can perhaps go mad. That is the right, the fitting response. But not now, Andrew, not now. I need your cold professional guidance. Please.’
‘You’ll get it. Rely on it.’
‘Thank you, thank you. Now I must go. I’m going to send Ingrid and Sally to Hartley with Edward. He said he would try to make arrangements for Martyn to be buried in the cemetery there.’
‘And you?’
‘Edward has said I can use his London flat. From there I’ll contact everyone who needs to keep in touch with me.’
‘How is Ingrid?’
‘What can I say to that?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Safe ground, Andrew. I’m trying to help them reach safe ground.’
‘And you?’
‘Oh me. My life is finished. But that’s irrelevant now. Andrew, I’m grateful. I’ll let you get on with it then.’
‘Yes. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Andrew.’
Though it may arrive with shocking suddenness, horror devours its prey slowly. Through hours of days and years, it spreads its sullen darkness into every corner of the being it has conquered. As hope drains like blood from a fatal wound, a heavy weakness descends. The victim slips into the underworld where he must search for new paths in what he now knows will be a permanent darkness. Horror claimed me. Ingrid and Sally would suffer terrible grief and pain. But I must keep horror from them. Then perhaps they would have a chance.
‘Sally and Ingrid would like to go to the hospital before we go to Hartley.’ Edward had come into the study.
‘I’ll take them, Edward.’
‘Without you. I’m afraid Ingrid wants to go without you.’
‘I see. Edward, it’s very hard. I’m worried about them.’
‘A little late I think, don’t you?’
‘Nothing you can say has any effect, Edward. I’m beyond pain at the moment. I can help Ingrid through this ordeal.’
‘You will make it worse by being there.’
‘Have you asked her, Edward?’
‘No. But I am sure.’
I went to the sitting room.
‘Ingrid, I’m going to take you and Sally and Edward to the hospital mortuary.’
Ingrid was sitting straight and tall in her chair. Her feet looked awkward, as though they were planted in the carpet. Her back was hard against the chair-back. It was a body without slack, as if it knew that the slightest weakening of muscle or line would lead to total disintegration. Her face, from which the swelling had drained, was again delicate and pale, and held itself awkwardly on her neck.
Holding together a body, preserving a face, first steps on the road to survival. Grief trapped within the steel cage of the outer being is still grief trapped. Tearing at muscle and bone in a frenzy, and unable to escape, it inflicts its slow-acting wounds. Internal injuries taken to the grave, which no post-mortem can reveal. Slowly, grief tires and sleeps, but never dies. In time it grows used to its prison, and a relationship of respect develops between prisoner and jailer. I know that now, only now. Ingrid had borne me Martyn. And last night I had embraced his death and had borne it away from her. I would treasure it. And she was free of rage, and anger, and the guilt of the guiltless. Ingrid’s battle now was with grief. And though grief would finally win, she would have a life. That is no mean achievement.
‘I think it’s better if I take you.’ Edward spoke.
‘You too must come, Father. But I wish to go to see Martyn with his father.’
Edward sighed and turned away, weeping. He was an old man defeated at the end of his life. No chance for Edward. The wound
was mortal. He would not survive. I remembered an old Chinese proverb, ‘Call no man happy until he’s dead.’ Edward’s long stretch of time with only one wound — the death of his wife — had ended with this last brutality, and I saw life die in his eyes. The rest would follow.
London is no place for death. We drove through streets noisy with cars on their way to offices, cars on their way to school, buses unloading ribbons of people down grey corridors of buildings, past the violent colours of places to clothe the body, and places to feed the body. No fit route to a mortuary. There, all that remains of a life you have loved is a body you must bury.
Small emblems of respect remained from my old world. We were met discreetly. We were guided silently to what was to be our last vision of Martyn. Awe and silence are necessary in the face of death. For the tears and cries are not real — they are only echoes of a sorrow that began with the first death. And will cease with a sigh at the last.
We stood quietly, this woman and I, looking at the frozen beauty of our son. Noting how death almost became him. His pallor and his black hair, his chiselled features, were now like the marble head of a young god.
I do not know how long we stood there. Finally, Ingrid moved. Slowly, with dry eyes and lips, she kissed her son. She looked at me, and with her eyes gave me permission. But I would not. The Judas kiss is for the living. I would not defile my son further.
We did not go home again. Bags had been packed by Jonathan. Drivers had been contacted, and with the soft protective cloak of wealth wrapped around them, Ingrid, Sally, Jonathan and Edward sped to Hartley, and to the gentle blessing of the country. To a new life. Life after Martyn. The first lap of their journey had begun.
THIRTY-FIVE
I WENT TO EDWARD’S flat. Later my Minister visited me there. A private letter from the Prime Minister was handed to me. Decent kindnesses, humanitarian acts of distant sympathy. There was the slow realisation by discreet visitors from my lost world that the man before them, their old protegé or rival or colleague, was falling faster and faster away from them; falling through layers of power and success, through the membranes of decency and ordinariness into a labyrinth of horror. And in its paths lurked depravity, brutality, death. And most frightening of all — chaos.
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