by Jane Anstey
He went out into the farmyard and looked into the two big barns adjoining the house. In one, a small group of calves looked back at him with interest across the hurdles that kept them in their own space, while a cow with a sore-looking udder lowed at him from a stall. The other barn contained sacks of agricultural feedstuff and fertiliser, piled high on one side, while the farm tractor together with its implements stood on the other. George was nowhere to be seen.
Telling himself that too much imagination was a handicap in a clergyman, Jeremy tried to believe there was no occasion for alarm. George had no doubt phoned him on some unimportant matter and finding him unavailable had simply resolved to phone him later, then gone off on to the farm to do some work. The Land Rover was parked in a corner of the yard with the small buggy beside it, so wherever George had gone, it must have been on foot.
He remembered the shot he had heard and his thought that George must have gone out after a fox. He decided he would check the nearest field, in case the farmer was on his way back to the house, and if not, he would give up and go home to see whether the pre-schoolers had gone. He might be able to persuade Liz to have a cup of tea with him and then he could help her clear up. They hadn’t had much time together this last week or so, and he missed her straightforward common-sense approach to things. George would no doubt phone again.
He looked over the farm gate into the field. The grass was short and well-cropped. George had clearly used this field for cattle grazing recently. The grass looked tired and rather over-grazed, in need of a little spring warmth to encourage the new growth.
Suddenly his long-sighted eyes spotted a rough mound covered in what looked like a black tarpaulin. There was something odd about it, somehow. It didn’t look like an animal, and it didn’t move, but just the same, it had the look of something that ought to be alive. The anxiety that he had banished came rushing back with a vengeance, and he opened the gate and ran across to the inert mound, worry growing with every stride as he saw that it was, in fact, the curled-up figure of a man in an old waterproof jacket. It had to be George.
Twenty-three
When he reached the body, he saw that a gun lay beside it, not the big shotgun George usually used but something smaller. Frantically, he felt inside the farmer’s jacket for a heartbeat. He pulled George over on to his back gently and found the telltale hole in his sweater just to the left of the breastbone. Not much blood had flowed from it, just enough to stain his hand as it passed the small bullet puncture. The man’s skin was still warm, but becoming cooler and clammier by the minute.
Jeremy groaned and then felt wildly in his pocket for his phone.
“Oh, George,” he muttered, as he dialled the emergency services. “Why did you do it, my friend? And for God’s sake, why wasn’t I here to stop you?”
He asked for an ambulance to be sent, though he couldn’t see any signs of life and feared it was too late. Even if he had known how to resuscitate someone, what could you do with a heart stopped by a bullet? He remembered admitting to DI Harding, back in November when they were discussing Brian’s death and identifying possible suspects, that George was a good shot and thought bitterly that his assessment had been all too accurate.
He sat beside George disconsolately for several minutes, speaking the prayers for the dying, asking for God’s mercy on a soul that had committed the ultimate sin of despair. He felt numb with grief, not only for the man himself, whom he had liked and respected, but also for his own personal failure. If I had only taken notice of that feeling I had as I passed the farm drive earlier, I could have prevented this. George must have been phoning me then. He must have been thinking about this, hoping I could help him. And I just ignored it and went home, thinking about my own discontent, my own needs. God, I’m so sorry!
The ambulance arrived; the paramedics ran fleet-foot across the field, medical bags in their hands. They examined George quickly and fitted an oxygen mask over his face, while one of them massaged his chest with powerful hands.
Jeremy watched them dubiously. “Isn’t it too late for that?”
One of the paramedics looked up at him. “Not much pulse,” he agreed. “But he’s alive, and while there’s life there’s hope, as they say.”
Jeremy’s eyes widened. “I thought he was dead,” he said.
“The bullet’s probably done a lot of damage inside,” the paramedic said. “But the surgeons may be able to save him if we can keep him going now. How did it happen?”
“I don’t know,” said Jeremy. “I heard the shot, but I didn’t think much of it––I was across the road at the time on my way down to see him.” He gestured vaguely towards the farmhouse, where the ambulance, blue light flashing, stood waiting. “I found him lying here with the gun beside him. I’m pretty sure he must have shot himself. There wasn’t anyone else around.”
“The police are on their way,” said the paramedic. “Don’t touch anything, just in case.”
God! thought Jeremy again, without hint of irreverence. Please, not another violent death so soon.
“We’ll be on our way,” the paramedic said, as they unpacked a stretcher and lifted George carefully onto it. “I doubt he’ll make it, to be honest. But you can never tell. The surgeons will operate and try to repair the damage the bullet’s done, especially to his heart. It doesn’t look good to me, but he survived the first few minutes without help––that’s certainly a plus. Maybe he still has a will to live, deep down.”
He grinned cheerfully and he and his colleague trudged off across the field, bearing their burden carefully between them. A minute or two later, Jeremy heard the rumble of the diesel engine as the big vehicle crawled out of the farmyard onto the road, then the wail of the ambulance siren as they sped off towards Winchester and the Accident and Emergency department at the main hospital.
Jeremy only had time for a very quick prayer that George would, after all, not be among the dying, before another siren announced the arrival of the police. He recognised the constable as one of the scene-of-crime officers he had met at Brian’s shallow grave, but the sergeant was new to him, a bulky man of about forty with a world-weary face.
They listened to him carefully as he explained what had happened. It was clear quite quickly that they already knew they weren’t yet investigating a death, only a case of injury, accidental or otherwise. Presumably the ambulance had reported in and the message had been passed on.
“This the gun?” asked the sergeant.
“I assume so,” said Jeremy with some irony. “It’s the only one I can see.”
The officer shot a quick look at him, and then bent to examine the ground. “No sign of anyone else around except yourself?” he enquired.
Jeremy shook his head, hoping they wouldn’t decide to accuse him of trying to murder George. It didn’t seem very likely, but he felt if that happened, it would be the last straw.
“I came out to see George because he’d phoned me,” he added. It was easiest to explain straight away, for they would be sure to ask him sooner or later. “I was out in the village, and I got back to find he’d phoned the rectory. I don’t know what he wanted, because he didn’t leave a message, but he’s been depressed lately so I was concerned about him and I came straight over. The house was empty but the door was wide open. I thought that a bit odd, so I had a look in the field, and here he was. I heard a shot as I came across from the rectory, but I don’t know whether that was the one that nearly killed him.”
“What time would that have been?” the sergeant asked.
Jeremy shrugged. “I don’t know. About twenty minutes ago––maybe half an hour. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here. I called for help as soon as I found him, but I’ve lost track of the time.”
“The original phone call was logged at two thirty-four p.m.,” the sergeant told him.
“Well, I think I heard the shot about two fifteen, then. I spent a bit of time looking in the house, and in the barns, before I came over here. Leaving the door
open like that, I thought he must be in the yard somewhere.”
“Do you know anything about this gun, sir?” asked the sergeant.
Jeremy shook his head. “He took a shotgun out sometimes, after vermin––I expect he had a licence for that––but I’ve never seen him with a handgun. He was a good shot,” he added sadly. “Maybe if I’d reached him before he pulled the trigger I might have been able to stop him.”
“Only if he didn’t really want to do it, sir,” the sergeant said. “If they really mean it, they tend to find a way to do it properly another time, when no one’s there. You must know that as well as I do, in your job.”
There was a moment’s silence while both men thought about the efforts being made to save the farmer. Were they in vain?
“But he phoned me,” said Jeremy at last. “He must have wanted to ask my help.”
The sergeant shrugged. “You came as soon as you could,” he said. The implication of the shrug was that suicides were a law unto themselves. Other folk were peripheral to their thinking at the best of times. Perhaps it was true, thought Jeremy, though the idea brought no comfort.
“We’ll go and have a look in the house,” said the sergeant, and pointed the constable in that direction.
They’ll look to see if there’s a note, thought Jeremy. But could this be anything but a suicide attempt? There seemed very little doubt.
“Will you be all right, sir?” the constable asked, looking back at him as he moved towards the house.
“I’m okay,” Jeremy said wearily.
“Bit of a shock to you, finding him like this.” The constable seemed a more sympathetic character, who realised that discovering someone you knew in such circumstances and thinking him already dead by his own hand was not a particularly pleasant experience.
“Do you need me any longer, Officer?” Jeremy asked, feeling a sudden longing for Liz’s support. “I’d like to go home now, if I may.” He could see a small crowd gathering at the top of the driveway, being discouraged by the police tape stretched across the entrance, but hungry for news just the same.
The sergeant nodded his permission. “Don’t say anything to that mob,” he said. “We know where to find you if we need to ask any more questions. Open and shut case, this, I think, even if he dies. But the forensic boys will have to check.”
Jeremy nodded. Head down, he plodded up the drive, stepped over the police tape and pushed through the crowd, whose questions clamoured at him.
“What’s happened, Remy?”
“Has George been arrested after all?”
“Was someone hurt? We saw the ambulance going along Church Lane.”
He shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything,” he said. “Except that George is in hospital. There was an accident. The police are looking into it. You’ll hear soon enough.”
It was so unusual for him to be anything but helpful and courteous that his brusqueness made an impact. The crowd parted to let him through and then closed behind him again, waiting for the police car to emerge. He doubted they would get much from the two scene-of-crime officers, but that was up to them. He trudged across the lane and up the rectory drive.
Liz was on the doorstep. “Is everything all right, Remy?” she asked anxiously. “One of the pre-school mums said there was a police car and an ambulance at Church End Farm. I couldn’t come down myself because one or two of the children haven’t been collected yet.”
His shoulders slumped. “George tried to commit suicide,” he said. “He shot himself. I heard the shot as I went over there, and I didn’t arrive in time to stop him. They’ve taken him to hospital, but I don’t think there’s all that much hope.”
Liz shut the door and put her arms round him. “What a dreadful thing, Remy,” she said, adding gently: “But you mustn’t blame yourself.”
“I do, though. I knew something was wrong as I walked along there on the way back from the shop, and I just ignored it. I didn’t want to make the effort. I was tired and discouraged, and I gave up on my clear duty. And this is the result.”
“That’s pride, Remy,” Liz told him firmly. “It’s not your fault. You’re not a telepath. I know you sometimes feel something, sense something, but it isn’t an exact science. You can’t always get it right. You went to save Robert, after all, when Lucinda would have killed him.”
“But it didn’t matter, then,” Jeremy pointed out. “Simon was there. Simon saved him. I couldn’t have done what he did. Simon would have been more use this afternoon, too,” he added bitterly.
“But Remy, George chose to do this––poor George,” she added more compassionately. “I guess it was too much for him, all that’s happened recently.”
They stood together for a few moments, Jeremy soaking up his wife’s strength and sympathy as she held him. Then she took his hand and led him into the drawing room. The two remaining pre-school children were sitting on the floor crayoning busily. Jeremy sat in the nearest armchair and watched them, vaguely comforted by their quiet happiness as they scrawled coloured lines across the paper.
“I ought to go to the hospital and see George,” he said.
“No, you oughtn’t. We’ll ring in half an hour or so and see what the news is. He’ll be in theatre by now, if he’s still alive. You wouldn’t be able to do anything even if you were there. If he needs you with him, time enough to go later. Meanwhile, I’ll make you some tea.”
When the tea came, Liz had laced it with sugar and a touch of brandy. “The brandy will do you good,” she said stoutly when he protested. “I haven’t put much in––you’ll still be legal to drive.”
Jeremy sat and drank his tea while Liz helped the pre-schoolers with their miniature coats and tiny shoes and took them out into the hallway to be collected by their mothers. When she came back, she told him she had phoned the hospital.
“George is still alive,” she said, “and they’re operating on his chest. They wouldn’t say much, though––we’re not relations.”
“I don’t think he’s got any,” said Jeremy. “Except Eamonn, and I don’t suppose he’ll care. Should we let Lucinda know, do you think?”
“No,” said Liz. “Lucinda won’t care either, Remy, I’m afraid. George is on his own now.”
Jeremy nodded dejectedly. I seem to have failed most of my parishioners, one way or another, these last few months, he thought wearily. I wasn’t there for George this afternoon, and I could have been if I hadn’t been so self-absorbed. I didn’t help Rose enough, and she’s lost her faith. I couldn’t make friends with Simon as I wanted, and so I haven’t been able to reach him either. Most of the congregation think me either frivolous or happy-clappy or both. What good have I ever done here?
Twenty-four
From the desk in his study, where he had retreated to wallow in negative thoughts, Jeremy found himself listening to the sounds of family life going on around him. He heard the twins come home from school and run up the stairs to the playroom. Lorna came in, and he heard Liz intercepting her to tell her something of what had happened to George. His daughter’s brisk school-shod feet passed the study door and marched up the stairs in their turn. He would have been glad to see her cheerful young face, but perhaps her mother had warned her off, thinking he would rather be alone. Or perhaps she had not known what to say to him. Mike came in shortly afterwards and went into the kitchen. He wanted a snack, probably. Mike was always hungry. Jeremy wondered whether Mike had got over his obsession with that book. They hadn’t spoken of it recently, but he remembered Liz had been worried about the boy’s intense interest in it. Jeremy hadn’t taken much notice, and thought she was making too much of it. Perhaps he wasn’t much use as a father, either.
The household went on with its various late-afternoon activities without reference to him. Normally at this time, even on a Monday, he was busy with something to do with one of the parishes or parishioners, either in his study or out in the village. He rarely just sat and listened to the rectory buzzing gently around him
, a family house with a multiple agenda. It made him realise that, although his vocation dictated their lifestyle, although his work was the centre around which the family’s existence as a whole revolved, yet its members each had their own priorities, their own concerns, to which his calling was peripheral. Perhaps, after all, that calling wasn’t as important as he’d thought in the wider scheme of things: important to him, but not essential to them. It was a new and not altogether welcome thought. But while it hurt his amour propre, it was also reassuring. Even if he felt he had failed in his mission to the parish, to the wider church, to God, the family would still survive. And they needed him as a father and husband, not as a priest.
After a while, Liz looked in on him. “I phoned the hospital again. George is in intensive care. They’ve removed the bullet, but he’s in a coma. As a result of anoxia, I think they said. I got a less security-conscious nurse this time on the ward.”
“Anoxia? That’s interrupted oxygen supply to the brain, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Did his heart stop at any point, do you think?”
“I thought it had stopped permanently when I first got to him,” said Jeremy. “I couldn’t feel it beating at all. The paramedics found some kind of pulse, obviously, but I suppose their equipment is pretty sensitive.”
“I see. That’s not so good.”
“So even if he lives, he might not have much quality of life.”
“Well,” said Liz carefully, “I suppose you could say he didn’t have much in any case, in a different sense. At least this way he isn’t going to know much about it.”
“Oh, Liz, how can we tell? What can we know about what’s going on inside a coma victim?”
“Nothing much is going on at all, usually,” Liz retorted. “Ask any doctor.”
“But I mean spiritually. The spirit operates independently of the mind sometimes. It feels things, knows things the mind can’t rationalise.”
Liz looked at him with exasperation. His sense of the non-material, which was strong, did not often clash with her practical and physical view of the world, but in this case she felt he was straying into fantasy.