by M J Johnson
Monday morning, she drove Gil to the train station to see him off.
"Thanks for coming, it really meant a lot to me. I've had a lovely time."
"Me too. See you in a few weeks."
"Take care," she called, blowing a kiss at him and stepping quickly along the platform to keep up with the train that had begun to move off.
"You too," he shouted back.
5
It was nearly 4 pm when he reached Sevenoaks. His first port of call was the dealership to pick up his new car. It was already dark by the time he drove away from the showroom. The original plan to go for a spin in the new Skoda was postponed until the morning. It felt strangely disorientating to be home again, especially with Spike still away.
He remedied this by calling Megan after supper.
"You're back! Enjoy yourself?" she asked.
"Very much."
"How was the opera?"
"Fabulous!" replied Gil.
"And how was Sally?"
"Tired, overworked, but in good spirits."
"When did you get back?"
"A few hours ago. I picked up my new car on the way home."
"And?" she asked excitedly. Megan truly adored cars.
"Great," he replied, trying not to sound too phlegmatic. For Gil Harper, a car was only ever going to be a car, "Your recommendation of course … I knew it would suit me," he tried to enthuse.
Megan chuckled to herself, he was a hopeless case. "Shall I come tomorrow? Any danger of us starting work again?"
"It is rumoured there's a chance."
"What shall I do about my house-guest?"
"I think it's time for the King to return!" announced Gil.
6
The next morning, Spike was back from exile. He breezed in, head held high, self-confident, assured of his place in the world. However, the recent intrusive activities of the Kent Police provided the diminutive canine with a stack of information to decipher. As self-appointed guardian of the house it was Spike's duty to sniff out wherever these interlopers had been. This demanded a thorough investigation of the premises, requiring an in-depth olfactory review of every surface below knee level. By late morning the poor chap was staggering under the burden of responsibility. He had to be woken up when the time came for his walk.
As for Gil, a return to routine brought a focus back to his life. The sense of foreboding had not entirely dissipated, and there were still moments whilst out and about that caused him to think he was being followed. However, each time this occurred, his assumed pursuer had blithely veered off on some innocuous course. Megan, conscious of this, suggested they continue to exercise their dogs together, which lent a feeling of some solidarity at least.
On Wednesday morning Gil rang the Blatts. The phone was picked up by Kate, who was her usual chirpy self.
"We were glad to hear from Megan that you'd gone to Manchester."
"I was going a bit stir crazy," replied Gil.
"How is Sally?" Kate asked in her gently-spoken way.
"She's great. The opening night was a big success. The reviews have been good. Her costume designs looked fantastic."
"Did you manage to get some time together?"
"We went to Blackpool on Sunday," he said.
"Felix and I love Blackpool."
"Really? I thought it was bloody awful."
"Well come on Harp, the seaside, in February?"
"I have a feeling I'd probably dislike the place even more in August."
"Perhaps it's a generational thing," she said. "When Felix and I first went there it was the very early sixties … before flower-power or psychedelia … the country was still recovering from World War Two. Everything was grey and dull, but Blackpool was alive … garish, brash, vulgar, but unlike the rest of Britain, in Technicolor."
"Technicolor?" questioned Gil, adopting a sarcastic tone, "Wasn't that around at the same time as steam locomotives?"
"You're being a digital snob," laughed Kate.
"No matter what names you call me, you'll never get me to say I liked the place. The seafront at Hastings will in future seem like St Tropez after visiting Blackpool."
"The lord and master will be shocked when I tell him how badly we've underestimated your taste and judgement all these years, Harp," she joked.
"Is he around?" enquired Gil.
"'Fraid not, gone for his constitutional."
"Bit late for him, isn't it?" said Gil, consulting his watch.
"He's been a bit troubled with a bad chest since getting shot of that cold. The doctor gave him some antibiotics, but he's not right yet. And the antibiotics only seem to make him tetchy. You know how he is, he hates to take anything."
"I suppose he refuses to take it easy?" proffered Gil.
"I get accused of nagging!"
"Sounds like I'm going to have to come round and take you both out for lunch," said Gil.
They arranged to do this on Friday.
"I'll get Megan to book us in somewhere nice," he said.
"Will you be bringing Megan along too?"
Gil replied hesitantly, "I thought I would. Is that okay?"
"More than okay," answered Kate, "I'll be desperate for some female company by Friday!"
7
Sally rang Gil each evening at 10.30 pm. On performance nights this was twenty minutes after the curtain came down. When the phone rang on Thursday evening just five minutes before this appointed time, Gil picked up in happy anticipation.
"Hi, darling," he said.
There was a momentary pause.
"Am I talking to Gil Harper?" asked the man at the other end of the line.
"Oh … yes … I'm sorry … "
"Mr Harper, my name is Martin Harrison. I'm the emergency doctor for the East Peckham area."
"Felix!" exclaimed Gil automatically.
"Yes. I'm sorry to say Mr Blatt has been taken ill. He's been taken to Maidstone Hospital. He's suffered a suspected heart attack."
"Is he going to be alright?"
The doctor paused, "I'm afraid the only reassurance I can give you at present is that he's in the best place and his condition is stable."
"Would it be alright to go there, to be with him?"
"Mr Harper, I was ringing to ask a favour of you. I'm afraid Mrs Blatt became a little overwrought when Mr Blatt was taken ill …"
"The sight of Felix having a heart attack must have really disturbed her," said Gil who had never known Kate remain anything other than calm under pressure. "Poor Kate!" he added.
"I've given her a mild sedative to help her settle down. She suggested I ring and ask you if you'd mind driving over here to be with her?"
"I'll come at once," said Gil.
"And perhaps later on you'd be good enough to take her to the hospital?"
"Yes, yes of course."
"I'll let Mrs Blatt know you're on your way."
8
Later on, apart from his sense of urgency about getting there and frustration at not yet being fully acquainted with his new car, Gil remembered only the scantest details about the journey that night.
He remembered being filled with an almost overwhelming sense of powerlessness. He, of course, knew and accepted that at nearly eighty, Felix must be drawing ever closer to the inevitable; yet the unexpected suddenness with which his friend had been taken ill still shocked him.
A bitter snap of icy weather had been superseded by mild damp days and nights. The incessant drizzle left a residue on the windscreen, it lay on the glass like thin, unappetising, broth. Although he drove right up to the speed limit, he felt he was travelling at an excruciatingly slow pace. Gil actually made it to East Peckham in eighteen minutes, a time well below his average.
The lights appeared to be turned on in every room of the Blatts' house. He pulled up sharply across the drive and rushed from the car. As usual he didn't knock and predictably the door wasn't locked.
"Hello?" he called out. He waited for a response but none came. Before trying
again he reconsidered and thought better of it. If the doctor had given Kate a sedative she might have dropped off to sleep. The bedroom doors on the ground floor were open, but there was no sign of her. He quickly ascended and searched the two floors above but found no trace here either.
He returned to the ground floor and took the door that led to the garden and Felix's workshop. It made a curious kind of sense to him that Kate might be waiting in the room where Felix had done most of his creative work over the last forty years.
When he reached the workshop, its door was slightly ajar. That was the first thing that struck him as odd; despite the mildness of the night it was still winter. Perhaps it was a kind of prescience that caused him to hesitate before pushing forward the door.
His uncertainty was justified. The door opened onto an unimaginably appalling scene.
His great, beloved friend, Felix Blatt, was dead.
At just one glance, there was no disputing it. Felix was sitting on his sofa in a pose far too unlikely for someone still alive. The head had lolled back with eyes staring, clouded and unfocused. Felix's mouth hung wide open in an ugly, unfamiliar expression, his features drawn and blank, as inanimate as the objects in the room.
There was a disturbingly large amount of blood; it would be a forgivable exaggeration to describe Felix's workroom as awash in it.
Gil somehow found whatever strength was needed to propel himself forward until he was now standing before Felix. He saw there was a deep wound on the left side of his late friend's head. The blood from here had flowed over his clothes, drenched the sofa and created a small pool about his feet, all beginning to coagulate.
Gil was by now far too shocked to think with any clarity. He didn't immediately notice the trail of blood leading off diagonally across the room. It was only when his confused eyes followed its course, just a few feet or so from Felix's corpse to the farthest corner of the workroom that he became aware of Kate. The reason why she had been dragging herself away from the man she was so thoroughly devoted to was not immediately clear.
Gil rushed over to her, crying out, "Kate. Oh God! Oh, no!"
She was laying face down and completely still. Gil assumed there was no life here either.
Then, in response to the sound of his familiar voice, there came an enormous heave from Kate's ribcage and a rattling gasp for breath. It was totally unexpected, and it seemed impossible that she could be alive after the loss of so much blood. Gil recoiled in horror at first; before he remembered that this was still Kate. He gained control of himself and kneeled beside her.
"I'm here … it's Gil … don't try to move …" he said gently, trying his best to sound calm.
Kate appeared not to hear his words, or if she did, didn't heed them. She drew herself up onto her elbows and propelled herself over onto her back. Gil winced at the sound as the back of her head struck the polished floorboards upon landing. Then reaching forward with a hand he began to stroke her face. He wasn't at all conscious of the tears that now filled his eyes.
Kate reached out her blood-drenched hand towards him. This hand, tightly clenched into a fist, had been stemming the blood that seeped from the wound in her chest. The hand clutched something. It took a moment before Gil realised that she was holding the disconnected end of a telephone cable. Her journey across the room had been an attempt to reconnect it with its socket in the corner. This had been Kate Blatt's final effort to save the man she had adored for half a century.
He took her hand in his, sticky and slippery with blood.
Kate's anguished eyes focused on his face, "Gil … Gil …" she feebly whispered, attempting at the same time to lever herself up again but to no avail.
"Don't move, try and keep still," he said, drawing himself in closer to her.
"Gil … help … help Felix…" she groaned.
She hadn't realised that Felix was already dead.
Gil could never be certain, but he wondered afterwards if his eyes might have communicated this fact to her. It would not have surprised him; Kate Blatt had always shown unerring accuracy when it came to interpreting his face and body language. Why should this ability be lost in the final moments of her life?
He thought he saw her expression of anxiety waver before fading into resignation.
A second later and Kate's eyes, like her life partner's, had glazed over in the opaque vacancy of death.
Gil began to shake uncontrollably.
9
Friday 20 February
00.35 am - It was thrilling to speak with you tonight.
Our first contact! After everything that's happened, isn't that incredible?
I suppose it was a bit naughty, misleading you like that. Making you think you were talking to the nice woodcutter, not nasty Mr Wolf!
I recorded our conversation. I've played it over again and again.
Alright, a bit sad I suppose!
You know, Gil Harper, sometimes I wish we could have been friends. You are loyal, faithful and rarely have a bad word for anyone. It's refreshing to find someone like you who is largely uncontaminated by jealousy. There is so much about you that is admirable. I even find your self-doubts quite attractive.
(No, please, not in a gay way!)
Personally, I've always found people fickle and untrustworthy. Once, when young and naïve, I deluded myself into believing that someone I'd met was different. Unusually for me, I felt driven to open up. My unguarded honesty, the depth of my character and the strength of my convictions were met by an awkward silence, uncertainty and vacuousness.
I've learned better since then. I don't do relationships. What is to be gained by consorting with inferior types?
'Don't cast pearls before swine,' a rare piece of worthwhile advice from that collection of lies and fairy tales, The Bible.
So, joking aside, I can say in all sincerity: I wish we could have been friends.
Please, don't imagine I'm unable to empathise with how much pain you must be suffering right now. I can picture your grief very well. Coming upon your friends, butchered like that. It must have caused you terrible distress.
Sometimes, it feels like you and I are mythological heroes, opposing each other, driven by the wiles and whims of the Gods. I've been set upon a course to wreck your life and nothing will stop me.
When I arrived at the Blatts' oast-house, as anticipated, your friend Felix was in his workshop. I must congratulate you, your diaries were very accurate when it came to planning my timings. They not only detail your own sad existence but comprehensively timetabled your friend's life too:
'Felix always likes to unwind by spending the last few hours at the end of each day in his workshop/study, either working in wood or quietly editing the work he's produced in the morning. He's generally at one or other of these activities from 9 pm till at least midnight. Felix doesn't get the concept of 'taking an early night'.'
So generous and thoughtful of you to help me out like this.
I opened the door cautiously. Blatt was fast asleep on the sofa. I crept in until I was standing directly in front of him. He remained sleeping. His head had fallen back against the headrest, his mouth was hanging loose and he was snoring. The old are even less attractive when asleep than when they're awake. Nasty!
I was carrying a knife in a leather holster attached to a utility belt around my waist. But it suddenly struck me as far too simple to draw the knife and slit his throat, him resting there, presenting his neck like a sacrificial lamb (except this lamb was mutton!).
I'll take any opportunity to be more creative!
I crept past the comatose old fool and went into the carpentry area of his study. I quickly chose and removed a club hammer from the place where it was neatly organised amongst a range of other kinds of hammers. Then I returned.
I expected I'd need to wake him up with a good prod or something. But this wasn't necessary. He was already stirring. I don't know why, perhaps the draught from the door as I entered, or possibly my movement into the other room an
d back had disturbed his sleep. Anyway, he was showing signs of waking.
Tee hee! I wish you could have seen that look in his eyes when he saw me!
It was priceless! Blatt just sitting there in stunned bewilderment, a dumbfounded look of utter stupidity on his face. I can't help but smile to think of it.
I'm certain he thought he'd died and gone to heaven!
He was probably trying to work out why St Peter was wearing a surgical mask and gloves, wellington boots and a white bio-suit.
I raised the club hammer. I'm not ashamed to admit that I felt a thrill run through me. Blatt's eyes widened and for the first time I saw terror grip them. He suddenly realised his mistake: instead of reaching the gates of heaven, God's mobile abattoir had come a'callin'! Hallelujah!
I swung. Strange, he made no attempt to avoid it.
It didn't land with conclusive force, but it was powerful enough to cause a dull crunch as it connected with the bones of his temple. He swayed where he sat but didn't really move much. A trickle of blood started to flow from his ear. I was surprised, almost impressed, that the blow didn't send him flying. An odd, disconnected groaning sound began to come out of his mouth, quite weird and a bit macabre. It didn't sound quite human. The look in his eyes was like a stunned animal.
At the risk of sounding sadistic, I must admit, I found his facial expression mildly comic. Had it not been for his wife's intrusion, I daresay I'd have savoured the moment a little longer. Fortunately she'd telegraphed her arrival by calling "Felix" as she crossed between the oast and workshop.
At the moment she entered I was delivering the fatal blow. This time I didn't hold back. With a loud crack like the sound of a nutshell breaking, Blatt's head hurtled back onto a pile of cushions. His body started to twitch, accompanied by a rattling noise from his lungs. Fascinating!
Unfortunately, Kate Blatt was not dispatched anything like as easily as her husband. She'd entered holding a tray with what looked and smelt like two mugs of hot chocolate. She looked up, saw me and screamed.