by Sam Millar
The letter for him is extremely important and I would appreciate it if you could see that he receives it. It will clear so many things up for him, things that perhaps should be left behind in the past, yet need to be told in the present. I had neither the courage nor inclination to tell him face to face while I lived, and like the coward I am (was) have left it all to paper and ink.
Ask Biddy to pardon the unpleasantness I left for her. I’m sure it was a shock for the old dear finding me sprawled out that way. I’m certain she fainted. I did it in the kitchen knowing it would be a lot easier to clean up, afterwards. Don’t say I wasn’t considerate to her. Or you …
Philip
Ps: Destroy the item you stole from my cabinet. I should have destroyed it a long time ago …
Catherine had wanted to kill Kennedy herself, once she heard what he had done, over at the abattoir, acting the hero, dying for strangers, refusing to live for her. Then she wanted to kill him again, reading the letter, damning him for wanting to commit suicide because of her. Had he hated her that much? Despised her the way she had despised him?
“Mrs Kennedy? Can I bring you up some soup,” asked Biddy, timidly entering the bedroom. “Mrs Kennedy?”
“What? Oh … no, you go on home, Biddy. Perhaps you’ll be good enough to call in tomorrow. I must get better now. So many things to do …” whispered Cathleen, calculatingly low, as if she were on her deathbed.
“Don’t you worry about nothing, Mrs Kennedy. I’ll be at your side for as long as you need me. It would be my pleasure,” lied Biddy, smiling a perfect melancholy smile.
“Thank you, Biddy. It’s great to know there is still someone I can depend on,” said Cathleen, sighing, returning the smile and the lie. “Just make sure you slam the front door downstairs. That new lock makes me nervous. I don’t trust it …”
Cathleen waited until an almost ideal silence returned to the room, quieted along with the curtains fluttering at the window. The only sounds that penetrated seemed far away and insignificant: the soft hum of traffic could be heard, but other than that, an almost perfect nothing, a negative hum that swallowed the sounds it made.
In the dark she lit a cig, refusing to break the chain.
A small evening breeze teased her hair while she studied the unopened letter resting on the table, almost admiring the two perfectly formed words on the envelope’s paleness: Paul Goodman.
She tapped her fingernails against it, debating, wrestling with the curiosity of a cat, desperately trying – half-heartily – to convince herself not to do what she knew was inevitable.
Slowly, expertly, she eased the envelope’s lip apart, careful not to tear; extra careful to leave no traces of forced entry.
Teasing the pages out, she rested them on top of the table, before making herself comfortable with the goose-feathered pillows firmly against her back.
There was a feeling coursing throughout her entire body, a feeling she hadn’t experience in a very long time, the feeling of power held within while some one else’s secrets were about to be exposed.
Dryness covered her lips and she licked them before commencing. She hoped this letter was longer the note she received. She hoped it would last all night …
Paul
Hopefully this letter will find its way to you, unopened and unread, though something tells me it probably will have been consumed by someone else’s preying eyes before reaching its destination.
“Bastard,” mumbled Cathleen.
Only one thing will be certain: once you have read the letter’s contents, your perception of me will have changed, utterly and forever, for the worse.
It is said that in the dead of night that man is prey to his truths, when guilty secrets begin to emerge from their unpleasant retreat, torturing. I have found that to be totally true.
In a lifetime, people develop certain beliefs that they cling to, even at their peril. Often these beliefs are defective, but they are felt as truths until something happens in life to bring about a realization that, perhaps, they have been wrong. No one likes to admit a mistake, but what if that mistake lasted a lifetime? Think how difficult that acknowledgment would be?
I was your father’s executioner; murdering him for a crime he did not committee. At the time, the ‘evidence’ against him for being a police informer seemed overwhelming. I had no qualms carrying out my duty. Three good men had died because of the information your father allegedly fed to the enemy. In those days of guerrilla-warfare, madness reigned supreme. Normal, decent men committed inhuman and cruel acts. No side was blameless …
It wasn’t until two years after the terrible deed of killing your father, was it learned that the real informer, a highly respected member of our organisation, had set him up. To add insult to injury, this creature was permitted to die peacefully in his bed (he died two years ago in Italy) because no one was prepared to acknowledge the devastation caused by such a senior figure.
Strangely, I had read an interview by Kim Philby, a few weeks prior to the terrible event. You’re too young to know who Philby was, but he worked as a double agent for the Russians during the Cold War, setting up his comrades to be killed for his own dirty deeds. His words in the interview were chilling and quite prophetic: to betray, you must first belong …
If only I had thought about those words, a bit more cautiously. Your father was a low ranking member of our organisation. He never would have had access to the high level information given to the enemy.
Initially, I justified my act by simply claiming it was done under orders, in a terrible time, when terrible things were done. Little comfort to you, but they say conscience is the ultimate guide, even while men deceive it, trying to transform it into something acceptable. I can honestly say my conscience has tortured me all these long years, my own nightmares consuming me to the bone. The dead, I discovered, can talk volumes …
These last few months, I have been overwhelmed by those events and memories I’d thought long since erased from my consciousness. As the years gain momentum, the memory becomes more and more suspect and open to error, but your arrival at the shop was the beginning of the end for me. Many times I wanted to scream in your face what I had done, wanting you to find a weapon to kill me. Kiliing for a living.
For more than fourteen years I have held a stretch of sand in my mind. There is, on the south bank of Greenwood Beach, a tiny cottage, long gone to rot. A few times I struggled with myself to approach it, search where the old well used to be. Only three weeks ago, I walked along the beach, seeing the ruin in the distance, telling myself to do the right thing by digging and searching until I found your father’s body. But no. It wasn’t to be.
I know nothing can be done to rectify this terrible tragedy. All I can offer is remorse. But is remorse enough to gain absolution? Only you can answer that, Paul. Always remember, there is no revenge so complete as forgiveness …
Philip
Engrossed, Cathleen only noticed her surroundings when she managed to drag her eyes from the letter, her gaze falling aimlessly into the distance. She had been sucked into the very fabric of the letter, mesmerised by the words.
She read it twice – as was her fashion with other people’s mail – and it struck her deeper than the actual contents of the letter left to her by Kennedy. She closed her eyes and thought of him briefly. She could hear the murmur of his voice oozing from the page; picture him sitting downstairs, beneath his books, writing this terrible, devastating letter.
For a brief, secret moment, Cathleen was overcome with a regret rarely acknowledged, but this feeling quickly filtered from her, replaced by the wasting anger of dead years.
She replaced the letter in its enclosure, and with damp tongue, sealed it for its rightful owner, never truly believing she would ever meet him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A MEETING OF BATTERED SOULS
“What wound did ever heal but by degrees?”
Shakespeare
“Widow. The word consumes itself.�
�
Sylvia Plath
“THERE IS A young man and woman looking to speak to you, Mrs Kennedy. Should I show them up?” asked Biddy.
“Are they selling something? Tell them we’re not –”
“No. They’re not selling. They want to speak to you about Mister Kennedy’s death.” Biddy crossed herself, before continuing. “The young man says his name is Paul –”
“Goodman,” intercepted Cathleen. She smiled a nervous smile; a smile of acceptance and anticipation.
“Shall I show them up?” asked Biddy.
Cathleen seemed in a trance. “Yes – no, wait. Tell them to come back within the hour. It’ll give you time to freshen the room up. Speaking of which, the bedpan needs emptying.”
“I’ll be back in a tick, Mrs Kennedy. I’ll let the young people know what you said,” replied Biddy, turning to go back down the stairs.
“And some nice scones for our visitors, Biddy. Plenty of raisins in them. I’ve grown quite partial to raisins. Not as runny as the prunes …”
Biddy waited until she had left the room before mouthing secretively, “Not as runny as your stinking arse, Mrs Partial Prune.”
Almost one hour later, Paul and Geordie were shown into Cathleen’s bedroom. Windows were partially opened, allowing the faintest of breezes in.
“Well?” asked Catherine. “What is it you want to see me about?”
Paul’s face retained dying scars, their paleness resembling tiny strips of paper. He forced a smile and the tiny strips whitened. Remnants of stitches still hung ghoulishly from his busted lips.
“My name is Paul Goodman, Mrs Kennedy. This is my fiancée, Geordie –”
“Yes yes. Get on with it. What do you want? I haven’t all day,” interjected Catherine.
Geordie’s eyes narrowed slightly. She stood holding her newly acquired clutches. Paul had the terrible vision of Geordie cracking Catherine over the head with them.
“We’ve come to offer our condolences, Mrs Kennedy and to tell you how Mister Kennedy died, saving our lives,” said Paul.
Cathleen’s eyes locked onto Geordie.
“What is wrong that you need crutches?” asked Cathleen, impertinently, continuing her stare, ignoring Paul. “Have you broken your leg, also?”
“No,” replied Geordie. “A childhood ailment. I need crutches when climbing stairs, now.” Paul had warned her about this old woman, but for the sake of Kennedy’s memory, she had agreed to restrain herself.
“And you navigated the treacherous stairs just to visit me?” If Cathleen was appreciative of Geordie’s Herculean effort, she showed no indication. If anything, her look was one of contempt.
“To offer my condolences, actually,” corrected Geordie.
“A bit reckless and stupid. Don’t you think?” replied Cathleen, smiling like a cobra.
“The stairs? I’ve conquered bigger obstacles, in my time. The bigger the better. I enjoy being reckless,” replied Geordie, a mongoose preparing to strike.
Paul sensed things were turning nasty and quickly cut in. “You don’t need me to tell you how your husband was a hero, Mrs Kennedy. He saved my life, as well as Geordie’s.”
Catherine snorted. “A hero, eh? Perhaps if he hadn’t acted out his fantasies, he’d still be here in the real world, helping to run this shop, help pay the bills – most of which were caused by his generosity.” She looked away from Paul, and stared directly into Geordie’s eyes. “It was your father and sister, wasn’t it? The police told me. It was you who came to the shop, that night, banging and banging. Wasn’t it?”
Geordie nodded. “Mister Kennedy was the only person I knew. I didn’t want him to go to the abattoir. I thought he would get help from somewhere.”
“Help? Ha! Pathetic Philip could hardly help himself.” The statement was full of brutality, void of mercy.
“We must be speaking about a different person,” said Geordie, defensively. “The man who was with me that night, was more than capable of defending himself. He was more than a match for Shank. I never saw anyone stand up to Shank the way he did, that night.”
“You knew him for how long? An hour? A day? And you’ve become an expert on Philip Kennedy?” sneered Catherine. “Did you know he was ready to blow his brains out – what little brains he had – all over my kitchen? Oh, did I shock you? I thought you already knew that, you being such an expert.”
Paul and Geordie stood there, numb, disbelieving.
Geordie’s mouth made a movement, as if to contradict, but nothing materialised from it.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” continued Catherine, unabated. “You probably prevented him from committing suicide here, only to bring him to his death, over at the abattoir.”
Like an angel sent from heaven, Biddy pushed open the door, steam rising lovingly from a teapot. A tiny squad of scones encamped themselves beside it.
Biddy placed the tray down and spoke directly to Geordie. “Now young lady, sit you over here, beside Mrs Kennedy. What are you doing standing, anyway?” she smiled, friendly. “If you’re waiting for Mrs Kennedy to ask you to sit, then I’m afraid you’ll be standing the entire visit. Isn’t that right, Mrs Kennedy?”
Cathleen glared at Biddy. “Why don’t you make me up a nice prune juice for later on, Biddy? Make it an extra large glass, please.” The last four words came out like a hiss from a leaky radiator.
Biddy mumbled something before disappearing out the door.
An awkward silence had now settled into the room. Only the sound of Paul slurping his tea could be heard. Geordie’s tea and scone remained untouched.
“Geordie’s gonna have a baby,” said Paul, unexpectedly, his face flushed with pride. “If we have a boy, we’re going to name him Philip, in Mister Kennedy’s honour.”
If Paul thought Catherine would be happy at that little titbit, he had miscalculated.
“Isn’t that nice? I’m sure he’ll be well pleased – wherever he is,” replied Catherine. “To be frank with you, I don’t approve of babies having babies. I don’t approve of babies, at all. Thank God I never had the urge to have any.”
Paul glanced at Geordie. A storm was building in her face. Any second now, she would release it. He shouldn’t have opened his mouth.
“I think it’s time we went,” said Geordie. “I’m sure Mrs Kennedy needs her rest.”
“You’re beginning to sound like my doctor, little missy. And if there is one thing I do not need, it’s another doctor,” said Cathleen, scornfully. “Doctors? Doctators, is what I call them. Little doctators. I’ve had my fill of them and their damn pills, their expensive advice …”
“At least we have something in common,” replied Geordie, positioning the crutched under her arms, ready to go.
“And that is?”
“Our healthy disrespect of doctors. Mine told me it was unwise to have a baby, spoke to me as if I were some sort of strange creature from another planet, void of all human emotions. Told me – ordered me – to have an abortion. Advised it wouldn’t be sensible to have another disabled being on this earth. I wasn’t too long in letting him know what he could do with his advice.”
“I’m sure you did,” said Catherine. “Yes, I’m sure you did …”
Had a slice of respected crept into Catherine’s tone? Paul thought he detected it while setting down his cup, placing it on the table beside the window.
Cathleen’s eyes instinctively caught the movement. The letter, address to Paul Goodman, rested on top of the tablecloth, face down, just beside the lamp. It had sat there, all this time, as if waiting for its rightful owner to return and claim it.
The red flush entering Catherine’s face, when Paul’s fingers accidentally knocked the letter to the floor, did not go unobserved by Geordie.
He bent and picked it up. “I’m sorry about that, Mrs Kennedy. Guess I’m not used to being invited to tea,” smiled Paul, sheepishly, extending the letter towards Cathleen.
Catherine said nothing, staring intently at the outs
tretched hand, and the letter in its grasp.
“Mrs Kennedy? Mrs Kennedy?” asked Paul, startled by the dead look on Catherine’s face. “Are you okay? Should I call your maid?”
“It’s addressed to you,” said Catherine, her voice a whisper.
“To me?”
“It’s from your hero.”
“My …? From Mister Kennedy?” asked Paul, puzzled.
“Yes …”
“I don’t understand.”
“Not now, perhaps,” said Catherine. “But you will.”
Open it. Discover the real Philip Kennedy. Tell me if you still think he’s a hero. Go on. Open it now. Read it aloud. Let me see your devastated, hero-worshipping face …
“Let’s go, Paul,” said Geordie, her voice recognising something not quite right with the scene unfolding before her.
“Oh. I almost forgot,” said Catherine, hurriedly stretching over to reach for the drawer. But the suddenness of her movement, coupled with weeks of inactivity strained her withered muscles. With a determined grunt, she overcame the stitches of pain in her rib cage and eased open the drawer. “You might be interested in this, also. Funny thing is, Philip Kennedy thought he had lost it. Searched high and low for it, he did, with no success. All the time it was down the side of my bed. Can you believe that for a coincidence? Perhaps if he had looked there …”
“What is it?” asked Paul, taking the item from Catherine’s hand.
“Some sort of tape, I believe. Probably some of his favourite songs on it. I’m sure you’ll find his taste of music … interesting.”
Paul glanced at the tape before putting it in his pocket.
“Thank you, Mrs Kennedy. I’ll always treasure it.”
“Good for you,” said Catherine, her voice hollow and faraway, no longer directed at any one in the room. “Good for you …”
EPILOGUE
“The thoughts of a prisoner – they’re not free either. They keep returning to the same things.”