The Dark Return of Time

by R. B. Russell

  She paused again and then asked, ‘Would you mind going out and buying some wine?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m not going to be able to tell you any more unless I’m very pissed.’

  The door to Candy’s building was shut when I returned. There was no bell or buzzer to contact her, and though I knocked loudly, several times, nobody came to answer it. From across the narrow street I looked up, but there was no sign of Candy at what I guessed were her windows. Frustrated, I shouted. My voice was loud in the cul-de-sac, but there was no response. A man in uniform came out of the hotel and stared at me, but didn’t say anything.

  I waited on Candy’s doorstep for a half hour, two bottles of wine on the pavement next to me. I knocked occasionally, but she still didn’t answer. Exasperated, I finally walked out of the rue Andre Gill, and on the rue des Martyrs was nearly run into by a man on a bicycle freewheeling down the pavement. He shouted something at me which I didn’t try to understand, partly because I was surprised at the size of the large dog sitting in the basket on the front of his bike.

  In my own apartment I managed to drink one of the bottles of wine while watching a film on television, and I went into the bookshop the next day with a hangover. I wanted to tell my father how frustrated I was by Candy, but as I arrived he was leaving to view an auction in Saint-Quentin. I was meant to be reorganising a shelf of poetry books, and I was irritated that the first customer to arrive, not five minutes later, was Hopper.

  ‘The Horse’s Mouth,’ he said, launching into discussion in a friendly manner. ‘I got quite carried away with the style. Are Cary’s other books the same?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but I’ve not read them,’ I said. ‘There’s a series, all told from the other main characters’ points of view.’

  ‘Ah, but not by Gimson?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, in that case, what do you recommend I read next?’

  He was leaning on his cane and I couldn’t stop myself from echoing my father’s suggestion. ‘Why not read the Sherlock Holmes stories?’ I said. ‘I saw you had a set.’

  ‘I’ll read them next,’ he said, and asked, ‘How well do you know Candy Smith?’

  ‘I don’t, not really. Why?’

  ‘Well, she called-in her report this morning and, among the other information she passed on, was that she’d been talking to you again.’

  ‘She’d been following me.’

  ‘But you went back to her apartment. She didn’t follow you there.’

  I stopped working, ‘No. I walked her back to her apartment because she was unwell. Why?’

  ‘I’m just interested. Tell me, what do you think of her?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘Do you find her attractive?’

  ‘No.’ I tried not to sound annoyed.

  ‘You’re not sweethearts, then?’

  The man was becoming impossible. I looked him in the eye, ready to tell him to go to hell. I think he sensed this.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a wide smile. ‘I’m not meaning to tease you. I just wondered if something had happened; whether you’d argued.’

  ‘No, nothing happened. Look, I’m really not comfortable with all of this stupidity.’

  ‘It is actually quite serious.’

  ‘You’re the one playing games.’

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘Did she really tell you I’d been to her apartment?’

  ‘No, actually. The information didn’t come from Candy.’

  I considered this for a second.

  ‘Bloody hell! Then you’ve got somebody else spying on the person you pay to spy on you? That’s ludicrous. Either that, or you’re spying on me as well.’

  ‘Did you talk to her?’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with you!’

  ‘Did she tell you that she once tried to kill me?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll understand now why I keep an eye on her. But you did draw attention to yourselves. All that hammering on her door and shouting in the street.’

  ‘This is unfair.’

  ‘In what way? Unfair to you or Candy?’

  ‘To her.’

  ‘What else should I do? Call the police and tell them she’s stalking me?’

  ‘But you’re paying her to stalk you!’

  ‘I’m only paying her for what she’d be doing anyway. Did she tell you that by being here in France she’s broken the terms of her parole? If the police knew, then she’d be extradited. She’d most likely end up back in prison.’

  ‘Maybe that would be a good thing? Then at least she might get some help; some counselling.’

  ‘I’m not sure if she’s willing to see reason, even with the best medical help.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think my father and I can do business with you.’

  He was shocked: ‘Really? That would be a shame. After all, if I enjoy those Sherlock Holmes stories I’ll want the first editions.’

  ‘You’re paying for our silence?’

  ‘Of course not! But are they expensive, the first editions of the Sherlock Holmes stories?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, not knowing whether he knew that already.

  ‘Well, I’ll read them, and I’ll tell you what I think. But for now I’ll let you get on with your work. Mind you, I expect you’ll receive another visitor once I’ve left. Candy was up and about early this morning. Perhaps she’ll come by and ask what we were discussing. Then you can continue your talk from yesterday evening.’

  I was fuming, but I made myself resume re-shelving the books. A few minutes later I heard the door open again and I dreaded that Hopper’s prediction would be correct. But the customer was not Candy. In fact, it was not until I had reopened the shop just after lunch that she arrived. She came inside hesitantly, looking around.

  ‘Can we talk?’ she asked.

  ‘What, about Hopper?’

  ‘Is there anybody else here?’

  ‘No, just us.’

  ‘I’m, I’m frightened.’

  She appeared tired and dishevelled; she was wearing the same clothes as the day before and I wondered if she had changed them. At least she didn’t seem to be drunk.

  ‘Somebody came to my apartment yesterday evening,’ she said nervously, picking up a book and then putting it back down. ‘They were banging on my door, demanding to be let in.’

  ‘That was me! You sent me out to get some wine and when I got back the door was shut.’

  ‘And were you there doing the same thing this morning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t know who it was, then. While they were banging on the front door, I went out the back. There’s a yard for the bins....’ she said trailing off, distracted. She drummed her fingers on the counter nervously. ‘I came straight here. I think they’re after me.’

  She asked if I’d shut the shop so that we wouldn’t be disturbed.

  ‘Only if you tell me everything.’

  I turned the sign over and locked the door. In the office I made us both coffee while she sat and leafed through a book of Arthur Rackham’s drawings, although she didn’t really look at them. I noticed that her mascara was only a residual mess around her eyes and the false lashes had gone.

  ‘Why aren’t you more annoyed with me?’ she asked.

  ‘I am annoyed, but you remind me of an old girlfriend,’ I said, fully intending the reply to be ungallant.

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Corrina.’

  ‘Didn’t it work out?’

  ‘She died. There was a car accident, on an icy morning. It was nobody’s fault.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said gently.

  ‘So am I,’ I said, regretting having said anything. ‘Last night you were telling me about Hopper. You saw him kill your father…’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and looked down at her hands and picked at her cuticles. Eventually she continued, ‘It was only my anger
that stopped the grief from overwhelming me. Hopper was claiming to have nothing to do with my father’s death. And there’d been a robbery; I told you about that?’

  ‘You think Hopper’s been laundering gold here in Paris.’

  She nodded.

  ‘They said my father took part in the robbery, and that Hopper had nothing to do with it. They couldn’t pin anything on him. He ran a small club in London and posed as a respectable businessman. He didn’t even have a criminal record.’

  Candy started tapping her fingers against each other.

  ‘It was hard enough coming to terms with my father’s death. Accusing him of Robbery was unbelievable, but then they accused him of having killed a security man! I didn’t believe them; I couldn’t. The only person I knew who was capable of murder was Hopper!

  ‘I probably didn’t make much sense to the police at first. I was confused and in shock. They tried getting me medical help for my delusions. For a while I refused to believe my father had been involved in anything, but then I discovered his gun. The police hadn’t found it, but I’d known where to search.

  ‘Having a gun didn’t mean that he’d killed anyone, did it? It certainly didn’t diminish what Hopper had done; what I’d seen him do....

  ‘I was so angry and so frustrated that I went to Hopper’s club one afternoon. The front door was open and unattended. I walked straight in to where he was sitting, talking with a couple of other men. They were at a table on a slightly raised platform. It was dark inside and they didn’t notice me until I was standing there. I was able to put my arm out and the barrel of the gun up under Hopper’s chin.’

  Candy was shaking as she spoke. I hadn’t been looking at her face, but down at her ever-moving hands. She picked up her cup and I could see the surface of her coffee moving. Then the spoon on her saucer started to rattle. I put my hand on her arm to try to calm her. She smiled at me weakly.

  ‘Have you ever fired a gun?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It hurts.’

  ‘The recoil?’

  ‘I was probably holding it at a stupid angle. When it went off it hurt my hand, and my wrist. I was looking at him as I pulled the trigger and the gun jumped out of my hand. The other men ran and I did the same. I didn’t cover my tracks. I didn’t think about anything like that. And I’d shot him in front of witnesses. They caught me easily enough. I didn’t try to hide.’

  I took my hand away. For a moment I had felt protective of Candy, but what she had done scared me.

  ‘You got eighteen years for attempted murder?’

  ‘It was a confusing trial. They didn’t believe why I’d shot him. There was no proof that Hopper had murdered my father. I was easy to convict, though. I tried to plead guilty on the understanding that I’d had good reason, but it doesn’t work like that. My counsel wanted to say it was “diminished responsibility”, but I wouldn’t let him. I ended up talking to psychiatrists who said there was nothing wrong with me. The Judge refused to make any “allowances”.’

  ‘Hopper was never tried?’ I asked.

  ‘A year later there was a hearing, of a sort, in front of a judge. Hopper had been in hospital, recuperating. Apparently his survival was a miracle; it was in all the newspapers. He didn’t testify on his own behalf at the hearing; he said he couldn’t plead guilty or not guilty because he knew nothing about anything before the shooting. Everyone thought this was wonderful of him. As if he had a choice, if he was telling the truth!’

  Candy’s hands were still trembling, but they had stopped moving. She was looking at them herself.

  ‘Apparently there was no proof of his involvement in the death of my father, or the theft of the gold and the killing of the security man. The evidence was all circumstantial. I was asked to give a statement, but it was discredited because of what I’d done. I really believe that the Judge at the hearing let him go because he was said by all the doctors to be, in effect, a different person.’

  ‘You served your sentence, though.’

  ‘Half of it, because of good behaviour, cooperation, psychiatric reports.... To start off with I protested, but then I realised that telling them I must’ve been mistaken, and that I was sorry, would get me out sooner. It stuck in my throat to say those things, but it’s a game you have to play. And it makes them feel better.’

  ‘When you got out you weren’t able to forget it, move on and start a new life?’

  ‘No. I’m not sure I ever intended to. When I was released I was approached by a reporter called Dobson who was trying to dig stuff up on Hopper. It was him who told me that Hopper had moved to Paris and was finding it very easy to set up businesses and make money. The bullion had never been found and this reporter was convinced, but couldn’t prove, that it was being laundered by Hopper.

  ‘I came over here with him, just for a week, and after only a couple of days he disappeared. I’ve been here ever since, on my own.’

  ‘What can I say?’ I needed time to turn her story over in my mind.

  ‘Will you help me?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know how to.’

  When I reflect upon what happened next I am ashamed. I decided that I wanted to help Candy, but there was nothing I could do to change what had happened in her past. I didn’t know if I completely believed her story, but I was convinced that she was sincere.

  I hugged her. When I tried to pull away she was unwilling to let me go. I brushed the hair from her face and kissed her lightly on the lips. I thought of Corrina and I suppose that my longing for her was a physical thing. I kissed her, and we continued to kiss until I noticed the tears running down her cheeks.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m crying, she said, and started to laugh. She still held me tight and when I tried to wipe away the tears she laughed all the more. She wouldn’t let me go, though, and then she kissed me with more passion than before.

  I responded willingly. Her body felt warm and hard against mine. My hands were inside her coat, under her shirt, as we continued to kiss and I ignored the sound of somebody trying to open the shop door. A few moments later we heard the key unlocking it; my father had returned.

  Candy looked around rather wildly and insisted on leaving.

  ‘Goodbye, Corrina,’ said my father.

  ‘Candy!’ I insisted.

  He flushed red, and corrected himself. Then he noted, ‘The shop was shut…. I won’t ask. Anyway, you’ll never guess what I found at the auction at Brignole’s.... a copy of The Dark Return of Time! It’s in an assorted lot of crime and non-fiction.’

  ‘So maybe it’s not that rare after all?’

  ‘Perhaps, but it’s in a deplorable condition. I hardly dare tell Hopper. I don’t know how desperate he is for a copy.’

  ‘Pretty desperate.’

  ‘But it’s seriously tatty, torn and stained. It gives the impression of having been soaked in some horrible brown liquid and left outside. The other books in the lot aren’t in great condition either.’

  ‘How much can you charge him?’

  ‘Even if he wants it, not a lot; not in that condition. But no matter; I think that charging him exactly what we have to pay is the best course.’

  ‘He was in here earlier. I said I wasn’t sure if we wanted his business.’

  ‘Because of that bedraggled girl? Well, I want his business and this is my shop. I hate to pull rank....’

  ‘It’s just that there’s some stupid game going on, and I think she’s the victim.’

  I explained what I had heard from both Hopper and Candy.

  ‘And you’re inclined to support her, are you?’ my father asked. ‘She’s obviously unstable. She’s admitted to trying to kill him, and is presumably here in France illegally. Whereas he’s never been convicted of anything, and the only accusations come from her....’

  ‘I realise how it looks.’

  ‘Well, as long as you understand, and as long as you don’t lose me a good customer.’

  ‘Hopper asked what he sho
uld read next.’

  ‘As I’m doing him a great favour, I hope you suggested something expensive?’

  ‘I took your advice and sent him in the direction of the Great Detective.’

  ‘Good lad!’

  ‘Well, as I say, I’m not so sure I want anything to do with the man. And neither should you.’

  ‘The funny thing with regard to Hopper’s book,’ my father said. ‘Is that it has no author’s name and no publisher’s imprint. I reckon it’s a vanity production.’

  ‘Did you get to read any of it?’

  ‘To be quite honest, I didn’t like handling it. But of course I had a quick look. He’s right; it is some kind of biography. The subject’s name isn’t actually given, but I didn’t much like what I read.’

  My father phoned Hopper, and a half an hour later he came through the door in an obviously serious mood. He made certain that there were no customers, and turned the sign to fermé.

  ‘To business,’ he said. ‘You’re sure it’s the right book?’

  ‘It’s possible there’s another with the same title,’ my father told him.

  ‘But unlikely?’

  ‘You really need to go to Brignole’s yourself. If you get there before ten tomorrow you’ll have a chance to inspect it before the sale.’

  ‘I shouldn’t risk drawing attention to the book. Did you have a chance to read any of it?’

  ‘No,’ my father lied.

  Hopper rubbed his chin in that irritating way he had, while my father sat back and folded his arms. Not admitting that he had read any of the book made me wonder if my accusations and suspicions weren’t worrying him after all. I was happy to cause trouble:

  ‘You suggested before that you thought it was a biography?’

  ‘Perhaps, yes.’

  ‘Your biography?’

  ‘For all I know, maybe it is.’

  ‘You don’t remember your own past, apparently,’ I said.

  Hopper looked at me: ‘The actions of your friend Candy Smith saw to that.’

  ‘The main reason a biography might be anonymous,’ I said, thinking that I was being clever, ‘is because the author knew the subject would be unhappy with what they’d written.’