The Green Flash

by Winston Graham

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘No,’ I said, turning to stare her down. ‘ You tell me!’

  She smiled a bit crookedly. ‘ Everyone else in that room knew where they stood. So they saw the joke. You didn’t. Quod erat, as they used to say at school.’

  ‘This is the last time we ever need meet,’ I said, ‘so finish what you want to say.’

  ‘Why? Why slink out? What are you afraid of, David?’

  ‘Strangling you,’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘ Take me to bed. Prove what you can prove. My neck’s waiting for you.’

  A sudden lurch of desire came on me for this slut of a woman. But there was so much anger in it I drew back.

  ‘Erica,’ I said wearily. ‘It’s finished. Go away. Let me leave in peace.’

  She said: ‘To think I stood them up to come back and see you. Well, well … God, I need a drink!’

  It was the last thing she needed in my opinion, but anything to get her away from the door. She went out, and as I finished my packing, I heard the kitchen table being moved and thought, what’s she up to now?

  I glowered around the room. Find a permanent place, then send someone over for what’s left. Leave the case with the broken clasp: you can’t go migrating round London at this time of night with more suitcases than you can carry. For that matter Erica can burn the lot.

  Two ways out of my bedroom: one through hers and one through my bathroom, which had a second door leading into the kitchen. Not sure which way the cat would be likely to jump, so chose the kitchen.

  She was there.

  There in the opposite doorway. Quick as light, she’d got out of her evening clothes and into her fencing array. Black mask, tight trousers, white padded tunic, gym shoes, the one fighting hand gloved. In her hand was her sword. When I stopped in the doorway she pointed her sword at the table. On it were my fencing clothes and my weapon.

  ‘On guard,’ she said.

  Bags in hand, I took a deep breath and looked at her. I said: ‘Go and jump in the Serpentine. It will cool you off.’ ‘Your kit’s there,’ she said. ‘Put it on. Spare a spar for an old

  scrub.’

  ‘Take your jokes elsewhere.’

  ‘No joke, boy. I’ll pin you to that wall.’

  She came forward a yard or so and made a lunge in my direction.

  She was deliberately short, but the point seemed not too far from

  my face. It continued to flicker in the bright neon light, in and out,

  up and down. I noticed her footwork was good; champagne hadn’t

  impeded that.

  I said: ‘I’ll send round for the rest of my stuff tomorrow.’

  ‘Scared to try me?’ she said. ‘I’ll bet you a hundred pounds I

  score ten hits to your one.’

  I took another step forward and she gave me a prick on the

  arm.

  ‘Old times’ sake,’ she said. ‘Fight me and we’ll go to bed together.’

  ‘You fool!’ I shouted. ‘Take no for an answer!’

  She pricked me on the neck. ‘ You can’t dérober. It’s too late.’

  I put the cases down. ‘ What are you trying to do, Erica, patch

  up a broken bottle? There’s nothing left!’

  She jabbed me in the other arm. In temper I swung round and

  picked up ray sword from the table, made a fierce hacking sweep

  at her with the blade. She danced easily out of reach, I pointed

  my épée at her and the two swords clashed.

  ‘Put your things on,’ she said, ‘ otherwise I might hurt you.’

  I said: ‘Get out of the way!’

  The swords dashed again. I made a lunge at her and she took

  the point on hers, sidestepping and executing the perfect parry.

  ‘Aah!’ she shouted, as her point made a small rip in my coat.

  I was almost at the door but she counter-attacked swiftly, and

  I had to stop in my tracks and back away from a series of sharp

  probing jabs that came near to my sword arm.

  ‘First blood!’ she said. ‘ Put your things on! I can’t fight you like

  this!’

  There was a trickle of something coming down to my wrist. She

  was laughing.

  ‘Armistice!’ she declared, lowering her weapon. ‘ I give you two minutes to put your things on.’

  I grabbed one suitcase, but instantly she was in fencing position again. I flung the bag aside, grabbed my mask and put it on. We squared up again.

  ‘You’re still at risk!’ she said, and ‘Aah!’ as her blade found my shoulder. ‘Two up and eight to go. Hundred pounds if you score more than one to my ten! Come on, husband, be a man, if you can be. Otherwise I shall go back to my nancy boys!’

  Thereafter we fought in earnest. She scored twice more almost at once, pricks made with enormous ease and skill. Anger gripping my bowels, I tried the flèche, which I can only describe to the uninitiated as a swiff run forward, point directly at opponent, depending for its success largely on surprise. It was fatal against someone as good as Erica. She stop-hit it with ease and cut at my gloved hand as I recovered my position.

  ‘Aah!’ she shouted again. ‘Five.’

  We sparred around and I kicked my other bag out of the way. She scored again, a nasty little nick below the ribs – my own damned fault, of course; the padded jacket lay on the table. But pride and anger were too stiff.

  For a change she decided to attack, and for her that was equally a mistake. A normal skilful opponent will riposte or parry and give ground in a normal way. I wasn’t a normal opponent I knew what it was like to fight a man with a torch and a pair of fists and knock him down and bash him about the head: I knew the pleasure of it, I knew the thrill of it; and there was blood on my wrist and blood on my neck.

  She came at me. God knows what she was attempting: I imagine a lunge followed by a redoublement, which is more or less a renewal of a preliminary lunge if the opponent fails to parry or riposte. I totally failed to do any such thing. I held my sword stiffly at her as she came forward, and her own sword jarred and slid off my mask. Mine sank in.

  ‘Aah!’ she cried in triumph, but as it faded away it changed into a gurgle.

  I tried to withdraw my épée. It came, but Erica came with it. Then the sword came free and was a crimson colour. Erica stood upright, probably staring at me, but I couldn’t tell for the mask. I half raised my weapon again expecting some new attack on her part. Instead there was a terrible retching sound. She staggered and dropped her own sword, went down on one knee, then got up again, clinging to the table. She was coughing. Blood was dripping from the mask. She walked round the table like a blind woman looking for a way out.

  ‘Erica!’ I said. ‘What the hell! …’

  She tried to get the mask off. It might have been glued to her face. I dropped my own sword and went to help her. As I took the mask off, her face and head fell away from it towards the floor. There was a sound like sawing wood as she tried to breathe.

  II

  I don’t know what I said to the Dial 999 girl or what she said to me but it seemed to take longer than it should.

  When I’d banged the telephone down, I stumbled back into the kitchen. I’d fetched a pillow and tried to unbutton and unlace her jacket. She was lying quite still, her eyes half open – you could see their blueness – I’d pressed a flannel against the wound in her neck. There’d been a lot of blood to begin but now not so much. I spoke to her a couple of times but she didn’t answer. I tried to feel her pulse and thought it was there, very faint, or that I was imagining it I wiped the blood off my own wrist as the front doorbell rang.

  Well, they’ve been quick. Or maybe time, more time has passed than I think. I get to my feet – should have left the door ajar. Out into the passage and to the front door. Not the fire brigade, not the ambulance, not the police. Shona.

  ‘I’m sorry, David. I thought – my God, what is
the matter? …’

  I say: ‘I think I’ve just killed Erica.’

  She comes in. Her face goes grey and patched. She takes me by the arm and pulls me round again. ‘What are you saying, David? What is this you are talking about?’

  ‘In the kitchen,’ I say. ‘She’s there in the kitchen. Just go and see.’

  She hesitates, staring into my face, then goes off. When I get to the kitchen door she is kneeling beside my wife, lifting the flannel gently, putting practised fingers to her heart. In old Mother Russia, of course, she learned first aid. Like she’d shown that time at the motor accident.

  ‘Get a doctor!’

  ‘An ambulance. I dialled. I thought you were it. Is she …?’

  ‘I do not know. Oh, my God, what has happened?’

  ‘We were fencing.’

  ‘Fencing? In heaven’s name, man! You told me she was at the Dorchester and you were leaving her! You sounded so upset I thought I would come round.’

  I was feeling very sick. ‘She came back, didn’t want me to leave – challenged me to fence. I told her, go to the devil. She wouldn’t let me get out. So I fenced with her.’

  ‘Was she wearing her mask?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! What a thing! My poor Erica! My poor David!’

  I begin to talk, suddenly the words spill out as if they’re blood from a punctured vein. I say: ‘This has all happened before, hasn’t it? I killed my father, much this way, half accident, half purpose; he didn’t fall, bang his head on the stove, you know; I hit him with the iron bar; it was all hushed up; my mother and her boyfriend, Kenneth Kingsley, they made up this story to deceive the police. I was eleven. Now I’m thirty-seven. History has this habit of repeating itself. Criminal tendencies will out, that’s how the police work and –’

  Shona has got up and taken me by the shoulders. ‘Listen to me, David, listen. Are you listening? Can you attend to what I say?’

  ‘What? I tell you he didn’t bang his head –’

  ‘David, whatever you think happened to your father, this could only have been an accident! This gear, this mask, this protective jacket should be proof against anything! Don’t you understand? Even if you’d wanted to wound her you shouldn’t have been able to. It was the purest accident. Don’t tell me people do not rush at each other on the fencing piste! Sometimes they are like wild beasts, charging: you have seen enough to know the truth of that! So this was an accident. Understand, an accident. Do not be a fool and say you stabbed your wife deliberately or it will be misunderstood. You should not have been able to do so. Can you hear me?’

  ‘They’re at the door now,’ I say. ‘Let them in.’

  III

  I don’t remember much about the next half-hour. I vomited for a while and was then in shock, as they call it. I suppose I was entitled to be a bit off centre, taking everything into account. A man, even one like me, doesn’t knock off his wife every day of the week.

  I was told afterwards the police came first in a Panda car. A detective constable and a policewoman. They went right in and the policewoman tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and then the policeman came out and a couple of minutes later the ambulance and a doctor arrived.

  I was in the living-room by this time but I just couldn’t concentrate to answer questions. It’s a funny feeling, this policeman has come out of the kitchen and asks you something and your tongue bulks up and you as near as hell keel over again. You’d have thought good old David was better on his mental pins than that.

  What’s slightly worse is that you can quite clearly hear Shona talking. She’s in a grey worsted frock, I remember, and a yellow scarf and her hair has grown longer again and she doesn’t look well, and you wonder if she’s been ill while you’ve been having it off with the beautiful Alison in Ullapool. But what she’s saying is outrageous. Outrageous.

  While people are walking in and out and a stretcher comes in and, after a bit, goes out again, she’s saying to this detective constable and the policewoman that she has been here all the time. She’s saying that she called to see the Abdens about ten, as Sir David has been away for some weeks and there is a company flotation looming in which Sir David is to play a central part. And she’s saying she arrived just after Sir David returned from a dinner at the Dorchester and was followed by Lady Abden a few minutes later. And she’s saying that Lady Abden – who is of course a distinguished international fencer – suggested that they should spar for a few minutes in the kitchen, which has been their habit and custom every evening since they married eighteen months ago. And Sir David was reluctant and wished to talk business with Mme Shona, but Lady Abden pressed him to take a turn with her as a joke.

  And she is saying – the bitch Shona is saying – that she was a witness to the whole contest, which, like many others she has seen, was conducted in perfect propriety, with masks and protective clothing, and the accident, which is quite inexplicable to her, occurred in the course of this normal, conventional and totally orthodox bout. And she is saying that she thinks the point of the sword must have broken.

  You bloody bitch, I feel like shouting, you’re covering up for me, just the way my bloody bitch of a mother covered up for me once before. My husband seemed to overbalance and turned as he did so, catching his head on the rail of the Aga as he fell. Not true. I hit him across the head with the heavy iron handle that you use to empty an Aga, and the blood gushed down his face and he fell over backwards, clutching the rail of the stove as he fell. But he wasn’t dead; he crawled across the kitchen like a half-crushed beetle and my mother rushed to help him up. But he never got up; he just got half up and pulled a chair over with him, and half got up again, twitching while he did so, and clutched at my mother, and slowly sank down and twitched a good bit more before he died in her arms. It was almost as good as Mercutio.

  Did I want to kill him? Who knows? I wanted to hit him and stop him and punish him, just as I wanted to hit and stop and punish Erica. Bloody murder, that’s what it is; don’t try to make excuses, you Russian bitch. I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it.

  And the policeman is on one knee beside me, because I’ve got my head in my hands, and he’s saying: ‘Your wife has been taken to hospital, Sir David. I’m sure they’ll do everything. they can. If you and this lady would like to follow, we can give you a lift in our car.’ And Shona is thanking them and saying we’ll go; and then at the last there’s a few minutes’ wait until two more policemen turn up to take charge of the flat. One of them is an inspector who has to be told part of it over again. And the detective constable has already taken notes of what I’ve said and what Shona has said, and his little notebook is back again buttoned up in his breast pocket, all proper as pie.

  Of course I know it’s no use going to the hospital: they have to try all the latest drugs to reactivate a corpse; but when someone has a hole in the jugular modern science doesn’t have much of a remedy.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I

  Shona has taken charge. She’s taken charge. She’s been helpful in her own way. I sleep in the spare bedroom in her flat for the first two days, clutching at pillows and wrestling and turning; but then I go back to Knightsbridge and see it through on my own. The maids come as usual, and then her mother and father come. They stay at the Hyde Park Hotel, thank God, but they see me and I try to tell them what has happened – he lumbering and dazed with grief, she looking at me with Erica’s eyes, damp with crying and puzzled, seeking something from me that I can’t give. She was their only one, on whom they’d lavished everything. Too much. They gave her too much too soon. But what have I given her? A sword-jab in the throat. That’s it, isn’t it?

  But lying by omission already – the first time in this affair. You can’t say outright to them, yes, I meant to kill off your daughter because she was a spoiled slut who irritated me beyond endurance and I wanted her out of the way. Because it’s not true. She drove me wild but I never mean
t to do that. Or did I? Not consciously. But in a split second does the subconscious take over? Like other times. There were too many other times.

  Shona had muttered in my ear so often and so much, talking to me, willing me, driving me – even saying that if I denied her story she’d be prosecuted for perjury. But in the end you don’t deliberately take on the role of stunned husband – it falls on you like a winter overcoat. It wouldn’t last. How could it last through the inquest?

  Edmond Gale walked with a polio limp, had big eyes and a careful manner. Shona had taken me unwillingly to see him. Well-known barrister. He would attend the inquest to look after my interests. I muttered that my interests were plain: I’d killed my wife in unfair fight and should be prepared to take the consequences.

  ‘In what way was the fight unfair?’ he asked.

  ‘Man against a woman.’

  ‘Even if the man was a novice and the woman one of the leading exponents in the country?’

  ‘Brute force,’ I said.

  Gale coughed into his fist. ‘I think, Sir David, this is a matter for the experts rather than for ourselves. Force on the point of a rapier is largely a matter of timing, and timing is a matter of high technique. With such technique I should suppose a woman is as capable of a lethal thrust as a man. You were practising, with her choice of weapons and at her request. You should leave it to the coroner – or his jury – to decide whether there was any measure of unfairness in the contest.’

  ‘Will there be a jury?’ asked Shona.

  ‘I don’t think so. But – er – there has been a slight complication. I believe the police have received one or two letters informing them of threats you made earlier that evening, at some party, as the result of some quarrel you had with Lady Abden …’

  ‘Yes.’

  He waited but I said no more. I sat and said nothing. All you had to do was wheel Dr Meiss on. Eventually Gale said: ‘It will be a matter of whether the coroner, in consultation with the police, decides to call a jury. He may well think that these are merely unsavoury rumours which often occur when there is a sudden death. Or he may take the view that a jury’s verdict will be more likely to clear the air.’