by Thorne Moore
‘Keeping company,’ I said. My jaw was frozen.
‘Have you seen Michael?’
‘Yes. Yes, I was with him. He’s dead.’
I felt Al’s body stop. The brusque warming caresses, the natural shift and stirring of life all stopped. He froze. Only his heartbeat continued, faster. ‘Are you certain?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Dead.’
‘Yes.’
He’d recovered from his shock, concentrating once more on the crisis that was Kate Lawrence. ‘Explain later. I’m taking you home.’
Very manly, I thought, as he lifted me up like a child. Romantic novel hero. Rough trade, mystic quester, murder suspect, company director, yurt maker to the Queen, OBE. Alistair Taverner, poseur. No posing now as he strode down the slope. I watched his Adam’s apple constrict, and felt his anxiety.
Somewhere inside me, some motor coughed back into life. I felt my blood flowing, the shivering, the aches. ‘Stop,’ I said. ‘Put me down.’
‘Kate, you’re in no—’
‘I’m all right. I’ll be all right. Really.’ I pushed his chest, forcing him to set me down. I shook my hair and stood straight, to convince him I was capable. ‘I need to take you to him. It was what I was waiting for, I think. I couldn’t manage on my own. Come.’
I set off along the slope, skirting boulders, tussocks, mud and dips, as instinct carried me over all the pitfalls. It was Al who stumbled, racing to keep up with me.
The trees showered us as we passed under them, brushing our way through, down to the chapel gloom of the pit.
Michael was as I had left him, still propped against the tree, stiff, cold, lifeless. I’d held his hand as he died, just as I’d held my father’s hand all those years ago, in childish innocence, but this time I knew death when it came. I recognised the moment when the guilt and despair found their final release and it was no longer Michael that I held.
Afterwards I’d crawled up to the stones. Up to the silent stillness that devoured and forgave everything.
The dell, in daylight, was an empty place. Al and I were lumbering intruders, but we had to be there. Things had to be done.
Al pulled me back, interposing himself between me and death, as if I were too delicate for such a concept. I, of all people.
He felt for Michael’s pulse. Too late by hours. He drew back, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Then he steadied himself. ‘Come on. Let me take you down to the camp. There’s nothing we can do for him here.’
‘Yes there is.’ I pulled free from his touch. ‘We can carry him down.’
‘I don’t know. Should we move him? The police will have to—‘
‘The police aren’t going to dictate what happens to Michael!’ Anger growled within me. ‘No!’ I knelt, lifting an ice-cold hand, aware of my own physical weakness. I didn’t want him dragged like a sack of coal. ‘Can you fetch the others?’
Al hesitated for a moment, then gave in. ‘Okay.’
As he ran, I faced that dark place. No horrors now. Michael’s death had imprinted nothing on the overhanging rocks. His quiet resignation had gone with him. There was nothing left.
Nothing but that last thing, the emotion I couldn’t name, but it was here still, a faint whisper at first, a flicker, a shadow of a shadow, and in the silence and the waiting it grew, until it echoed from the rocks, seethed from the green waters, hissed among the trees. What it was, I didn’t know, but it was at war with this scene, with Michael lying dead. We were being rejected, Michael and I. I could almost feel a force expelling us.
‘Kate?’ Al was back, with a sombre cortège; Thor, Baggy, Padrig. Jo slipped her arm around me. ‘Come on, love. We’ll look after him. Come down and get yourself dry before you catch pneumonia.’
Molly was waiting to usher me into the yurt. I was guided like an invalid into a cane chair heaped with embroidered cushions, while she peeled off my clammy clothes. She tucked a quilt round me and put a mug of steaming tisane in my hands. There was an occasional sob from a white-faced Kim, but no one spoke. I’d never heard the camp so silent. It was as if the trees themselves were in shock.
Then we heard them coming with Michael; speechless tramping. I stood up, belting up the baggy velvet pants, the tie-dye top and the shawl Molly had pulled on me. A clown. Comedy and tragedy in one. ‘Will you keep him here?’ I asked. ‘Just for quarter of an hour or so? I must go down to tell Sylvia. Give me a moment with her.’
Jo laid a hand on my arm. ‘We’ll take care of him.’
*
Sylvia was in the lane, arms clasped round herself. She watched my approach as if she already knew.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
I’d been wondering how to say it but she made it horribly simple. ‘Yes.’
Sylvia looked at me, blankly. ‘Why?’
I shook my head.
‘I shouldn’t have gone to sleep. I should have waited for him.’
‘No, Sylvia, it wouldn’t have—’
‘Yes!’ She screamed. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ She sobbed and I held her to me. ‘Why?’ she wailed. ‘Why did he leave me? Why couldn’t he have talked to me? We always talked. We told each other everything.’
How could I explain that that was what had killed him? He could never tell her the one thing that he needed to confess: that he had killed her son. That was something she should never know, so we hugged each other without words, sobbing into each other’s hair.
‘Where is he?’ she asked at last. ‘I want him here.’
‘’They’re bringing him down, Sylvia. They’re bringing him home.’ I turned her back, towards the house, feeling her weight slump against me, grief and disbelief consuming her.
Tamsin was at the kitchen door, anticipating the worst. ‘Mum? Mum, oh Mum.’ While mother and daughter hugged each other, I thought, now, enough of this self-indulgence, Kate Lawrence. You’re the practical one. Be practical.
*
When a doctor arrived to confirm Michael’s death and attend to Sylvia, I had a moment to retreat to my own room and change out of my clown outfit. Molly had brought down my sodden clothes, and as I pulled them from their canvas bag, I felt again the crumpled letter, still in the pocket. I drew it out, ripped open the soggy envelope and unfolded the paper. The ink had run and blotted in places, but it was still legible.
‘I, Michael Bradley, am solely responsible for the death of Christian Callister. I was not prompted or encouraged by any other person…’ All that followed was a chemistry dissertation, pure and simple. There was no message of love or excuse, no quest for absolution, just a full explanation of means and methods. He hadn’t been interested in justifying himself, but solely in ensuring that no one else would be blamed.
Only now that it was too late, did I appreciate the extent to which I had been drinking in Michael’s emotions over the past weeks, from the moment when Christian had killed the dog and that fatal thought had crept into Michael’s mind: if only he were dead and she were free. Michael’s thoughts, my thoughts. Perhaps it was because they were so similar that I’d failed to understand I was reading his soul, sharing his shocked perception of hell and damnation, the knowledge that in a moment of impulsive fury, he had crossed beyond excuses, into the abyss.
He’d sunk ever deeper, until Hannah was found alive and all the desperate little excuses finally petered out. Sylvia was steeling herself to sort out the disaster that was her son, and Michael, in that momentary, black determination to set her free, had robbed her of the hope of ever doing so.
I had sat beside him, whispering that he was not to blame, that he was forgiven, but who was I, racked with my own guilt and worries, to offer him absolution? The monstrous penalty for murder that killed him was that sense of damnation, the unbreakable taboo broken, trust betrayed, love ruined. The only judgement that Michael cared about was his own.
I folded the letter back into its envelope, and hid it in the depths of my underwear drawer. If and when Christian was found, if and when some innoce
nt person stood accused of killing him, then it would be the moment to bring it out. Until then, no need for anyone to know.
*
‘He used to suffer from terrible depression,’ Sylvia explained, rocking herself on the sofa, drowsy with sedatives. ‘When Annette was dying. His children never understood that. Oh God, his children. Someone’s got to tell them. I know they never bothered with him, but I ought—’
‘Shsh,’ I reassured her. ‘I’ve made sure they’re being told.’
‘They thought he should have helped their mother kill herself, you know. But he couldn’t.’ She sobbed, despite the drugs. ‘He couldn’t kill her, but now he’s killed himself. Why didn’t he talk to me? Why wouldn’t he let me help him? I knew the depression was back, he was so low.’
That was the eventual verdict. Depression. Jo played up the police harassment, his wronged reputation and the barbarous destruction of his craftsmanship. All she got from them was a grudging expression of regret, but she had provided the explanation. Michael had a history of mental illness: he had, after all, thrown away a lucrative career to whittle wood in a Welsh backwater, and that couldn’t be the action of a sane man. No suicide note was found, but the distresses of his last few days surely explained it all.
Everyone was sympathetic. There was genuine sorrow. I shielded Sylvia until the sedatives and the hysteria wore off and she subsided into numbing grief. By then she didn’t care what she or other people said or did. She would never have harmed herself deliberately, but Tamsin stayed with her, day and night, holding her hand, making tea, crying with her while I did all the rest, answered the phone, made the arrangements.
And all the while there was no news of Christian. But no one was looking for him anymore.
*
‘You’d have thought he would have come,’ said Sylvia. ‘For this.’ It was the day of the funeral, that awful ritual of British restraint and dignity, before the state of limbo could end. We’d waited an eternity, with the inquest and so many complications to resolve. Vicious battles politely fought.
‘I know they didn’t get on,’ she said, ‘but surely Christian could have forgiven him now. No.’ She sighed, as I squeezed her hand. ‘I should know better. But I can’t help hoping. A mother never lets go, you know.’
‘I know.’
Sarah, Sylvia’s elder daughter, an American trip cut short, kissed her mother and gave me a helpless smile. ‘It must have been awful for you,’ she said, as I relinquished Sylvia to Tamsin’s care, and took brief charge of baby Liam. ‘I don’t know how Mum has coped. Poor Mike, such a lovely man. And you’ve had ghastly troubles of your own. I mean, I don’t know of course, but I heard, sort of—’
‘What? Oh, yes, Peter’s back with Gabrielle and preparing for fatherhood.’
‘Oh, poor Kate.’ She looked at me guiltily as I bounced her baby on my arm. Innocent blue eyes – just like Christian’s.
‘We won’t begrudge Peter his babakins, will we, Liam?’
Liam blew a raspberry in reply.
‘Quite so.’ I smiled at Sarah. ‘No call for taking sides. I’m not expecting you to draw swords against Peter. He’s still Phil’s friend. It really wasn’t an acrimonious parting. I wish him well.’
Sarah, a younger version of her mother, grimaced sympathetically. ‘Good for you. But it’s such a mess.’
The drawing room was crowded. We could have used the Great Hall, but even though Al had made an expert job of repairing and replacing the splintered panelling, it still remained a monument to the futility of Michael’s life.
Our party might have been even more cramped, but Michael’s children, chill and disapproving in their elegant black, had announced, after the short secular service at the crematorium, that there would be sherry and refreshments at a Tenby hotel for any of Michael’s old friends who chose to attend. Some of his former colleagues from industry felt obliged to go. His later friends, from the bohemian world of galleries and crafts, followed us back to Llys y Garn.
Dewi Hughes was there, in his chapel suit. ‘He was a good man,’ he said. At least he’d forgiven us for the sin of Murk, though the repercussions rolled on; they’d told me at the post office that Dewi was going to live with a sister in Lampeter. His heart was no longer in the farm, now that he was all alone, so Hendre Hywel was up for auction.
Ronnie came. The summer school had been wound up, but the professor told me he hoped to publish their interesting findings. He didn’t mention the bog body which was, in the circumstances, very wise.
Al and his team were there. Annwfyn was dismantled, only the round house remaining, abandoned to the badgers and foxes. They were moving on, Molly told me, to a New Age community in Scotland, but they would stay for the funeral.
Al came across to join me. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine, really. Thanks for coming.’
He gave me a quaint look.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Of course you came. I’m just in a groove of polite nothings. It saves having to think.’
‘Funerals can be numbing.’
‘Yes. But this one shouldn’t be, should it? Michael deserves a bit better. I feel I should have arranged a fanfare or something.’
‘You’ve done just fine,’ said Al. Sylvia had joined us and he gave her a kiss. ‘Keep the faith, sister.’
She laughed, then cried, and he hugged her.
‘I wish they could have…,’ She sniffed, waving her hands vaguely. ‘I wanted to scatter his ashes among the standing stones, but they want them buried with their mother’s. I suppose that’s right, but I wish—I wanted to say goodbye. I don’t feel I’ve said goodbye. It doesn’t feel right, any of this.’
‘Come on,’ said Al. ‘Out of that black dress. Put on your brightest rags, Sylvia. This is a wake, a celebration. Michael wants you laughing. That’s what he loved in you.’
He was right. Everyone there felt he was right. Those who wouldn’t were sipping sherry in Tenby. So we had a wake for Michael; Kim played her violin, Padrig played the tin whistle and Molly had a bodhran. Drink appeared from nowhere. Everyone laughed and sang and danced, and we all got very tipsy. Michael’s sculptures were brought out of the woods to the lane, as a parade of honour, and because the Windhover, which had embodied Michael’s spirit, was wrecked beyond repair, we made a pyre of it. With the moon rising, we carried the ashes up to Bedd y Blaidd, to scatter them as Sylvia had wished.
‘She’s laughing.’ Tamsin took my arm. ‘I’m so glad. I thought she was never going to laugh again. It’s all been so shitty!’
‘Yes, it has.’
‘I’m thinking I might not go back to Bristol.’
‘Tammy, why not?’
‘I don’t like leaving Mum and I don’t want you to feel you have to take responsibility for it all.’
I looked at my niece. She’d grown up. Not the way I would have wanted it to happen, but we can’t always dictate our rites of passage. ‘What your mother wants, most of all, is for you to go back to university, spread your wings and prove you haven’t been irrevocably damaged by all this. Get your degree and then worry about her, if she needs it. Until then, she’s got me, and I’m not going anywhere.’
‘But it doesn’t seem fair on you to have to cope.’
‘It is fair,’ I insisted. Not that caring for Sylvia would be a punishment, but if it were, it would be no more that I deserved. Maybe the only sensible penance was to help others to pick up their pieces.
‘I’m glad we did this.’ Tamsin looked round at the drunken crooning crowd. ‘It seems right, doesn’t it?’
‘It does.’
‘And you know the best bit? My brother hasn’t turned up to spoil it all.’
He was there though. Haunting the proceedings. Haunting me, at least. I’d always claimed I didn’t see ghosts, but it hadn’t stopped me helping to create them.
‘You look as if you’re about to opt out of the party,’ said Al.
I forced a smile. ‘No. Thanks for helping with this. It wa
s exactly what we needed.’ We walked along the hilltop, looking down on the treetops, the dark hollow of the valley, the gleaming roof slates far below. ‘And thanks for getting the hall sorted out.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Your business, you mean.’ I thought wryly of the website I had belatedly discovered. Taverner Restorations. Screeds of technical details and endless photographs of Llys y Garn under ‘Recent Projects;’ new beams being pegged into place, Thor fitting the last stone into the oriel window, Nathan repairing intricate lead guttering. Plus a full page on the round house. ‘At least we provided you with good advertising. Alistair Taverner, OBE.’
He smiled. ‘It really was my pleasure. What will you do now?’
‘I don’t know. There seems to be endless tidying up. Michael didn’t leave a will, which means all his money and shares and suchlike go to his children, and I have a feeling they’ll want every last scrap that can be identified as his.’
‘What about the house?’
‘Mike and Sylvia were joint owners, so she gets it. Of course that is one of their little resentments.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m sorry about the round house. The planning department is adamant.’
‘Don’t worry about it. The squirrels were going to get it, anyway.’
‘Would you prefer to take it down, yourself?’
‘No, let them have the satisfaction. Small pleasures for small minds.’ He could shrug it off, now his experiment was over. Doubtless he had new projects lined up. He was probably on his way to rebuild Balmoral.
‘When are you leaving?’ I asked. This was after all the end of the summer. In every sense.
‘I’m off to London tomorrow. Business to see to; the Kent job to tidy up. Then it’s on to Denmark.’
‘Denmark?’
‘A major project. I really need to be there from the start.’
‘But Molly said you were all off to Scotland.’
Al smiled. ‘Molly, Pryderi and Kim. They’re the devotees. The rest of us are just honest labourers, going where the work takes us.’