by Alan Goodwin
‘When will she come out of the coma?’
She stopped, straightened and looked at me. She was used to giving bad news, to seeing faces crumble as she gave it straight. ‘The doctors aren’t sure she ever will.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Her parents have been here all day, in fact they left just before you came.’ She was about to gossip. This has happened to me many times before: it’s as though my life on planet fame makes me special enough to hear other people’s secrets. I’m like a cosmic agony aunt. Perhaps people think I have some redemptive quality and that telling me is like taking a cure. ‘The doctors have talked to them about her chances of improvement and they’ve gone to make their decision.’ She rolled her eyes in sympathy.
‘I see.’ Nothing more needed to be said. I’d met Jo’s parents once briefly at school after a play in which Jo had done an admirable job at playing an eighteenth-century wench complete with heaving bosom. Her father had lost a leg in a motorbike accident ten years before and walked with an awful exaggerated limp as though the artificial limb were too long. When he spoke, his voice was so loud I thought he was still competing to be heard above the throaty engine and coughing exhaust of a Triumph. Jo’s mother was tiny, with a badly bent back. I never felt any sympathy for Jo when we were young, but remembering her parents filled me with a sudden understanding of how embarrassed she must have been as a teenager and why her parents were so rarely seen. Now this poor couple had to make the decision that would kill their daughter.
The nurse came round to my side of the bed. She didn’t need to—the sheets were as smooth as on the other side—but she wanted to be seen, wanted to be noticed. It was the first time I’d seen her legs. Her calves, even in the thick tights, were well sculptured and quite alluring.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Evelyn.’
‘How long have you been in New Zealand?’
‘Eight years.’
‘The Scottish always seem to take the longest to lose their accents.’
She hummed her agreement.
‘Who do you prefer, John Lennon or Paul McCartney?’ Surely I couldn’t be thinking of this now.
She stopped her chores and turned back to look at me, ironing the front of her uniform flat with the palms of her hand. ‘I’m not sure I like either better. I like them both.’
‘Everyone likes one better than the other. Think about one of their songs you like the best and just say who you think wrote it, even if you have no idea.’
She thought for a while. ‘Paul McCartney, yes, McCartney.’
‘Thought so.’
Evelyn gave me a quizzical look, saw I didn’t want to engage in any more conversation and left the room. As the door clicked I saw something from the corner of my eye and turned back as quickly as possible to look at Jo. I was sure I’d seen the bedcover twitch. ‘Jo,’ I said, leaning over the bed to look at her face for added signs of life. Nothing. I willed some movement, a sign that there was some chance for Jo, some hope for her parents. Even though I didn’t know them, the thought of their sadness overwhelmed me. I wanted them saved from this terrible day. They’d coped with enough. They should be spared the awful finality of the thrown switch and inevitable flat line. It would only take a couple of words, just a whisper that I’d seen her move and it was done. It was that simple to raise their hopes and gain Jo a stay of execution, more time for a miracle to happen. For a few more days the curse of death would be lifted. It might seem false hope, but I could do with some false hope at the moment. I might have given her the shit that tipped her over the edge. Of course I wanted her to move a fucking leg. If her parents flicked that switch and turned out Jo’s lights, where did that leave me? With a fucking death on my hands, that’s where. Please dear God, please make her move her leg.
There was nothing more, if there had ever been anything in the first place. I sat back in the chair, realising how hot I was and how uncomfortable the seat had become. The door behind opened again.
‘Hello, Jack.’
‘Mary?’
‘How is she?’
The shock of seeing Mary sent me rocking out of the chair and I gulped for a breath of air to clear my head. ‘She’s as good as dead.’
‘Nice turn of phrase.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You don’t have to be sorry to me, Jack.’
‘There doesn’t seem much hope for her…I thought I saw her leg move before, but there’s been nothing since. Perhaps I just imagined it, just hoped to see it move.’
Mary walked into my silence and sat on the seat I’d recently vacated. She had her back to me and I could see the twirl of her crown. Her hair was thick and sleek, a much deeper colour than when we were together. I stood awkwardly, unsure if she expected me to leave or stay.
‘I hear the show went well.’
‘It was good.’ At last I felt confident enough to step into her view and went to the second chair.
‘Sorry I didn’t catch it, but then I doubt if I’d have understood it if I had gone.’
‘Please, Mary, there’s no need for that, not here, not at a time like this.’
‘You’re right.’
‘It’s a shame we didn’t get the chance to talk the other night. How are things for you?’
‘Fine.’
‘Still teaching?’
She nodded.
‘Boyfriend or partner?’
‘It’s funny, you know, I never really liked Jo. I mean I had no time for her at school and when she was after you back in the old days I resented her. Since then we’ve met at the occasional thing and we’ve talked and kept our silence about the past, but now I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt.’ For the first time she looked at me. ‘Not that I have anything to feel guilty about, not like some, but I find I have to be here. Perhaps it’s more for me than her, a guilt that I never made the effort with her and if she dies that chance will be lost for ever.’
‘What do you mean, not like some?’
‘Last time I saw Jo she was staggering off into the sunset, or should I say moonset…with you. Two days later she’s found in the Hilton in a coma.’ She turned back to Jo and straightened the sheet that had attracted so much attention over the past few minutes. ‘Aren’t you staying at the Hilton?’
‘Are you trying to say something?’
‘The facts speak for themselves. Have the police talked to you yet?’
There are times in life when words truly lose their meaning. You fail to hear them individually, but their total effect is so overwhelming that the body jolts in physical reaction. ‘What?’
‘The police, they’re investigating what happened. Jo’s in a coma from a drugs overdose and they’re ruling out any form of suicide attempt. They think someone gave her the drugs.’
‘I’m not sure I understand exactly what it is you’re trying to say. Are you accusing me of something? Is that why you’re here, to watch my downfall—all those years of waiting and now you have your chance? Are you trying to frighten me, Mary?’ I stood and paced the room, my shoes making a solid sound on the lino floor. At the end of the bed I crossed to Mary’s side; this was the closest I’d been to her since Caroline’s funeral. The lines around her eyes and from her nose to the corners of her mouth were deeper than I remembered but despite the years she still looked beautiful. In another time and place the moment would have taken my breath away.
‘Why should you be frightened of what I’m saying?’
‘It sounded more like a threat than the sharing of a casual conversation.’
‘There was no threat, Jack. I was stating the truth.’
‘I suppose you’ve already spoken to the police. I bet you enjoyed that opportunity to articulate all your juicy speculation.’ These words were mere bravado. Inside I felt the largest possible sense of fear. I might already be a hunted man. Inspector Plod might be sitting with Bebe in a long silence waiting for me to return. How good was Bebe’s cover-up? And Claudia, was she gone or was
she primed for a flawless entry at the end of the scene? Newspaper headlines scurried through my thoughts as did the company meetings and memos in which everyone severed their connections. No one would want to be tainted with my name. ‘Jack Mitchell? No, never had anything to do with bringing him on board. In fact I told my manager I thought it was a bad idea…’ Oh yes, the rats would be running. Goodbye, planet fame, it’s been nice knowing you.
‘Did you see that?’ Mary was on her feet now, gazing first at the bed, then at me, all her hostility melted away. ‘I think you might have been right, I’m sure I saw something move.’
‘Good, good. That is good, isn’t it?’
‘I guess so, yes.’
We both waited a while, but nothing more happened. The room started to darken as the afternoon faded. I was due to leave Auckland later in the evening, but how could I just walk out? Any move and Mary might draw a conclusion I didn’t want her to draw. Fortunately my dilemma was solved by the appearance of Jo’s hapless parents. Mary introduced me, her voice the softest it had been all afternoon. They were impressed that I’d taken the time to visit their daughter. I felt a fraud, but I don’t think they noticed. They expressed their gratitude again and again. Their admiration left me in no doubt that they hoped I might lay hands on their daughter and make her well. They didn’t know I’d already laid hands on their daughter and made her sick.
After what felt an appropriate time I left. Mary followed.
‘By the way, I’ve spoken to the police, but I haven’t told them anything. They do know, though, that you left with Jo. When they asked if I saw you leave, I said I must have been in the loo. I don’t know who told them, but there were plenty of people who would have seen you leave together.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong, Mary.’ I crossed my fingers.
‘I hope not.’
‘She’ll pull through.’
Mary leant against the corridor wall. ‘I know you want her to live, because I don’t think you want the death of two women on your conscience.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘First Caroline, now Jo—two deaths, Jack.’
‘I didn’t kill Caroline, you know that, Mary.’
‘I didn’t say you did. I just said you wouldn’t want a second death on your hands. Causing one is careless—two is irresponsible.’
‘Caroline killed herself and Jo took an overdose. I’m not responsible for either.’
‘I’m sure that’s how it is for you, Jack, but is that right? At some time you just have to stop the ride and ask whether it’s right.’
I watched her walk away and after a couple of minutes followed, head down as I negotiated the corridors. In the car I sat huddled against the door. I thought of nothing.
TWELVE
The simplest way of dealing with Bebe was to lie. I could have said I’d been to see Dad, or gone shopping, but it never entered my head to deceive him. I never lied to Bebe for two reasons. First, when someone knows everything about the worst of your nature, what’s left to hide? Second, I accept that he will always find out. I learnt at the very beginning of our relationship that he possessed an unsurpassed nose for detecting bullshit. In his present state of heightened anxiety there was no question he would debrief my driver, so, with a drop of the head, like a boy whose father has found condoms in his sock drawer, I confessed to Bebe that I had visited Jo in hospital.
Bebe passed quickly through the anger barrier and soared to rage. He lectured me on every conceivable reason why I should have stayed clear of the hospital but he saved the best for last. The police, in the shape of Detective Ryan, had already visited Bebe and wanted to interview me before I left Auckland for the Wellington show. The piece of news lanced Bebe’s rage boil and I watched him deflate in the same way an imperfectly tied balloon loses air on a party wall until he finally sank to the nearest chair. His chest heaved with the emotion of the moment. We sat in silence for ten minutes in almost total darkness. I wanted to draw Bebe out of his despair, but I knew deep down that if I sank he’d go down with me, so I let him be until he was ready to resurface. And ready he had to be, because like all the greatest conspiracies it wasn’t the crime that sent you down, it was the cover-up and that was where Bebe was in the shit up to his neck. Oh yes, it’s always the lie that gets you—that’s the lesson of Watergate, of Clinton. The moment they lied they were dead meat: the public can tolerate weakness; what they can’t stomach is lying. Bebe knew this simple rule, and that’s why he was so angry.
We spent thirty minutes going through the story. It was of vital importance, Bebe said, that I understood completely what needed to be said at the coming police interview. I learnt my script and then we left.
Detective Ryan met us at the front desk and we followed him down polished corridors to an interview room where I was asked to wait while he showed Bebe to another room. There had been a discussion about a lawyer, but Bebe and I had agreed to refuse one because nothing could be added to what needed to be said. This was confirmed to Ryan, who accepted the information politely and chatted to me as he set up for the interview. There was an odd institutional smell in the room, the smell of old plaster and damp metal. The only furniture was a table with two chairs on each side and a tape machine. A second officer entered and sat next to Ryan, who meticulously peeled cellophane from the tape case and precisely placed it in the second deck. I liked Ryan. He’d been polite, courteous and apologetic throughout the whole process. I felt he was on my side, that he was rooting for me and that he knew what an imposition this was. Normally they wouldn’t tape a conversation like this, he told me, but because I was leaving Auckland and then New Zealand they wanted to ensure they covered everything. He smiled as he spoke. The second detective, whose name was Orton, was less forthcoming, but I sensed no hostility from him either.
Once the system was set, Ryan opened a folder he’d brought with him. He was a big man in his mid-forties. Once his frame would have been impressive, definitely a rugby player, a flanker probably, given his height. The athleticism of his younger days had lost the battle with age, though, as muscle had turned to fat and he looked as if much of his body had slipped from its frame. His face was marked with a large birthmark on his left cheek. Red spider veins spread from either side of his nose like small river tributaries as seen from space.
‘This is Detective Ryan, with me is Detective Orton, we are interviewing Mr Jack Mitchell. He has declined a lawyer. Mr Mitchell, I would like to ask you some questions about an incident concerning Jo Thompson last night at the Hilton Hotel. Can you confirm whether you know Ms Thompson?’
‘Yes, I know her.’
‘How do you know her, Mr Mitchell?’
‘We went to school together.’
‘Did you see her the night before last?’
‘Yes, yes I did. After the show I was doing at the Aotea Centre I returned to the Hilton Hotel where I’m staying. There was an end of show party being held there and Jo came along.’
‘How did she know about the party?’
‘The night before I’d been to a school reunion dinner. I met Jo there and I invited her to come along to the Hilton party.’
‘This dinner would have been at a restaurant in Mission Bay, would it?’
‘That’s right, yes.’
‘Did you leave the dinner with Ms Thompson?’
‘We did leave together.’
‘And can you tell us what happened?’
‘My assistant, Bebe, and my driver collected us from outside the restaurant and we dropped her off in the middle of town, by Borders bookshop.’ Did Ryan detect the shake of my voice as I told the first lie? I couldn’t help but think of the driver as we talked. Bebe would be rock solid with this if asked, but the driver? ‘You can ask Bebe and the driver if you want to check.’
‘We’ve been told you two looked…close when you left the restaurant. Why did you drop her off? Why didn’t you go on somewhere?’
‘Go on somewhere? Look, it was never like
that, Detective Ryan. Sure, we were having a laugh, but there was never any question of sex or anything like that if that’s what you’re suggesting. We were just old friends. She had something to go on to and so I dropped her off. Then I went back to the hotel.’
‘Where was she going?’
‘A club, she said, but I don’t think she said which one, she just asked to be dropped off.’
‘What time did you drop her off?’
‘Midnight.’ I felt a trickle of sweat on my back. Every question was deepening the lie and now I was lying to every question.
‘And the next night she came to the party?’
‘Yes.’ I felt the warm relief of being able to answer truthfully.
‘At what time?’
‘Look, I really don’t know. There were a hundred plus people there and I had to talk to all of them—that’s what I have to do at those bloody things.’ Ryan nodded as though he spent many of his free evenings at celebrity parties. ‘I’d been talking to this Russian woman and when I turned back to the party I saw Jo already there and that’s the first time I saw her, I mean noticed her.’
Ryan paused and flicked through some notes in the folder. He glanced at Orton. They didn’t speak, but there was a hidden conversation between them. ‘And this Russian, do you know her name?’
Until now the interview had gone as anticipated by Bebe and I’d run to script, but for the first time I sensed a loss of control. Keep to the story, I heard Bebe say, whatever they throw at you, just keep to the story, don’t deviate for any reason. ‘Sorry, I really don’t think I asked her name.’ I kicked myself—a simple no would have done. Keep to the script.
‘Really?’
‘I meet hundreds of people at these parties. I can’t remember their names so I make no attempt to know them.’
‘Could it have been Claudia?’
‘I really don’t know.’
‘That’s her professional name—her real name is Olga Petrova, though I doubt she introduced herself to you that way.’
The shift of control was becoming a slide. How did they know her name? My God, we’d never reckoned on this. ‘It may have been, but like I said I never asked and I don’t think she ever told me.’