Michael blinked suddenly as if grit had entered his eye.
‘Whatever happened,’ she said, her hand dropping off Michael’s sleeve and onto his cold skin, ‘I know you thought about it first, and very carefully. Whatever you might have done, I know you did it for the best. Because you are a good and honourable man. A man not frightened to make difficult decisions. A man not afraid to practise what his brother Nigel preaches.’
She was squeezing his fingers tightly, crushing them onto his wedding ring.
‘It’s a question of right and wrong now,’ she said, with whispering inevitability. ‘It’s a question of what ought to be done. We’re a messed-up family, Michael. I wish we weren’t but we are. I’d like things to have been different. But there’s a limit to what we can accept. And it is not right that a boy live under the same roof as the man who never loved his mother. It’s … unnatural. Something has to be done. You can’t look in the opposite direction for ever. You’ve got to get off your knees, come down off your pedestal and look at the future.’
Emma suddenly let the matter drop. Not even waiting for a reply, she stormed out of the church as if they’d had a blazing row, her hard shoes punching the stone flooring.
Michael found her at the cylindrical bell tower, an unusual construction in that it stood independent of the church itself. Ancient gravestones leaned right and left like a congregation of simple folk flummoxed by a difficult sermon. The dead had come out in droves to learn what the preacher was really getting at. Emma was chewing her bottom lip. Her face was stained with tears. She was shivering, though her hand had felt hot.
‘If you can do it for your country, you can do it for your grandson.’
That had been the end of the matter. Michael and Emma had planned Peter’s assassination in a church. It was as unreal as Father Doyle setting up Néall Ó Mórdha … only the Northern Ireland situation had turned out to be slightly different in the end. There’d been that last-minute hitch. Which was why, this time, Michael wanted to be absolutely sure of his ground: well rehearsed to handle the nerves; well prepared to handle any lingering doubts. He drove away from Bramfield along tight lanes, between amber trees and beneath a sky that had been written upon with lines of fading chalk. The world really was a paradise, if it wasn’t for the snags on the ground.
‘Behold, I come as a thief,’ he said. ‘The certain and merciful friend.’
31
Anselm was shocked. The unshaven man in the grey overcoat, collar turned up, appeared to have been ravaged by alcohol and years of sleeping outdoors in winter. It was the only comparison Anselm could make. He’d seen the ragged figures of shattered humanity limping around Waterloo and Blackfriars and Peter Henderson had found a place in their number. His brown eyes were deep and bleeding. The bags of dark blue skin beneath the lids seemed to have been stretched by the weight of sleepless nights. The black hair was all that remained of the well-known commentator and intellectual. It was still tangled and professorial, evidence of someone who always woke up thinking and dragged a hand over his head with intellectual dismay.
‘I read of you with interest, Father,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘The line that struck me most came towards the end. It was a summary of your work. Of what you do that makes you different: “… justice had been done in places beyond the reach of the law”. That is quite an achievement.’
Anselm took the firm grip with a cautious nod of acknowledgement. Peter Henderson didn’t appear to be joking. He was too broken for levity, even at his own expense. His voice was strangely dark, as if his larynx had been soaked in Carlsberg Special Brew. Not the sound Anselm had heard on the radio and television. The man had been radically changed.
‘The author says you’re more interested in mercy than justice,’ continued Peter Henderson, with a note of query. He’d started walking along the beach, drawing Anselm after him. Mitch kept a short distance behind as if he were a guard outside a mobile confessional. ‘When I put the paper down, I wondered if you’d ever considered that certain … intricate situations … require neither mercy nor justice. Just a blind eye. Not because it’s expedient. But because neither mercy nor justice can reach the true depths of what actually happened. When all we can do is turn away and look in the other direction.’
‘Yes, I have considered the possibility,’ replied Anselm, judiciously. ‘And I’m inclined to think that turning away is the first step towards barbarism. Because it would be the ultimate concession that we cannot regulate human affairs.’
‘Perhaps we can’t.’
‘We have to give it our best shot.’
‘Suppose there is no best shot?’
‘Then our worst will have to do. Because the most intricate situation of them all is protecting the weak against the strong. We can’t give up on that one. It’s what makes us civilised.’
Peter Henderson blinked as if Anselm were Jack Bauer making one of those monstrous threats: he’d kill your own child if you didn’t tell him who’d stolen the nuclear rods. He had a gun in his hand and he was screaming in the daring thinker’s ear. Peter Henderson spoke quietly as if his life depended on his reply.
‘What’s wrong with a little barbarism?’
‘Sorry?’
He’d made it sound like salt, necessary in small quantities but dangerous for your health if you weren’t careful. He developed his theme with a subdued insistence: ‘Barbarism. What’s the problem … if it’s contained? Understood as a narrow area without the usual standards, but hedged in by commandments … all the golden rules that more or less work to order? Isn’t it … humble to accept that we can’t pin Right or Wrong on the back of every event? That certain decisions and actions simply … happen, because of the circumstances? By turning away, we’re just accepting that this is one of those situations best left to those who thought and acted for the best.’
Anselm came to a halt. Mitch kept back. The monk and the scholar faced each other. There was no doubting it: Peter Henderson was like a man on the rack, pleading for Anselm to stop pulling on the levers.
‘I agree,’ said Anselm, trying to see into the great man’s troubled mind. Peter Henderson was asking him to drop the matter. He’d made an intellectual plea and was waiting now for Anselm’s final answer. ‘It would be nice for all of us if we could have a little area in our lives that belonged just to us, where moral systems and the law would leave us alone. But that’s not possible. Take away the rules from intricate situations and – for reasons I don’t quite understand – you end up with violence. An “up and under”. And other quieter acts of domestic terrorism.’
Peter Henderson’s unshaven chin sank to his chest, his profile hidden now by the upturned collar. They moved off once more, their feet sinking into the shingle as the sea made a sigh. All the others have failed, Anselm reminded himself. None had made him crack. Peter Henderson had been questioned by every kind of interrogator. Save a monk. Speak like one, then, thought Anselm, wondering what a monk would say.
‘You know, Peter,’ he began, ‘when people look in the wrong direction, they tend to walk into a lamppost. Or a bread shop window. The psychologist said that, I’m sure.’
‘She did.’
‘And I’m sure she urged you to look in the right direction. To face yourself. Well, I agree with you. I think she’s wrong. She doesn’t understand the intricacies of the situation.’
Peter Henderson kept his head lowered, his shoulders hunched. The breeze off the sea had a sharp nip; it brought salt to the lips.
‘For now, I think you should avoid both mirrors and windows,’ advised Anselm. ‘Anything that brings you up front against your own reflection. I suggest you look slightly downwards … about the angle you’ve got now. That way you wouldn’t see yourself at all. All you’d see is Timothy.’
Peter Henderson wavered and came to a stop once more. He averted his gaze inland, over the low, bare horizon. The breeze roughed his hair.
‘You cracked in Manchester,’ said Anselm, quiet
ly; so quietly the soft collapse of the sea seemed loud. ‘You cracked because of the noise inside in your mind. Speaking as a monk who broadly left the clamour of the world behind, I can guarantee you that this inner noise … this awful, accusing uproar … is not going to go away. I’m not giving you advice; I’m simply telling you what I learned after I’d made a run for it. You can shut your ears for only so long. You can try living outside rather than inside. You can try arguing back. But ultimately, there will come another moment of crisis. Because, in truth, this is not an argument you can win. It’s about listening to what you do not want to hear. It’s about recognising what you already know to be true.’
Peter Henderson spoke with his back to Anselm.
‘You won’t stop, will you?’
‘No, Peter, I won’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you look away from yourself, you’ll see Timothy. He needs you healed, not broken.’
Peter Henderson started walking towards four upturned rowing boats. They’d been laid on the beach in front of a white cottage. Rough grass had crept along the stony beach like so many hands wanting to pull them back onto dry land.
‘Do you know the story of Captain Oates?’ began Peter Henderson.
He’d sat down on one of the boats, a blue fibreglass thing. Something modern out of a mould. Anselm had followed and joined him. They were looking ahead along the shingle, the sea to the left, the empty house to the right. Mitch remained standing to one side, hands deep in his sheepskin pockets. Peter Henderson was unnervingly still, like a man who’d found resolution in the face of disaster. A man who knew he was going to die and might as well speak up. Bauer was going to pull the trigger anyway.
‘The story goes he went out into the snowstorm. All he’d said was “I am just going outside and may be some time.” He was choosing death so that the others might live. But the situation was a little bit more complicated than that. We’re always told about the old war wound and the frostbite to his feet. But what of his hands? Could he still use them … for an intricate task like opening the toggles on the tent door?’
Peter Henderson narrowed his eyes and licked his lips.
‘I think someone helped Captain Oates stand up. I think someone else opened the flap to let him out and then closed it again after he’d gone. Maybe they all helped. They’d have worked quickly, too, because of the blizzard. Do we condemn the man who gave a helping hand? No. The man who took his gloves off to fiddle with the toggles on the flap? No. Was Captain Oates any less heroic? No. Why? Because the rules weren’t crafted for a crisis in the Antarctic.’
Anselm nodded ponderously and then said, ‘Yes, they were, if someone twisted his arm and gave him a shove. Which, of course, they didn’t.’
Peter Henderson laughed bitterly.
‘You really won’t give up, will you?’
‘No.’
Peter Henderson came laboriously to his feet. Somehow the gesture made Anselm a subordinate. He was expected to remain seated like a student attending a tutorial.
‘I brought Jenny’s mask when she asked for it,’ he confessed, evenly. ‘I fitted the bag onto her forehead. I turned on the gas. We said goodbye. When she knitted her fingers, I pulled it down … she didn’t want to do that part. She couldn’t.’
Anselm glared at the dark shape against the windswept sky.
‘Leave Vincent Cooper out of the reckoning,’ ordered Peter Henderson, harshly. ‘We’ll say I made the mask. And as for Bryan, Doctor Ingleby, he was like a father to Jenny. He knew nothing about the plan or her intentions, not towards the end. He thought she was fine. She wasn’t. I turned to him because I thought he might understand Jenny’s situation … and respect her choices. But then the cancer came. That changed everything. When Bryan arrived … afterwards … he just assumed the illness had taken Jenny away. If you’ve got any doubts, just let them go. Not everyone has to die on the homeward journey. Let these two survive the storm, will you? They were brave enough to risk everything for someone else.’
Peter Henderson walked briskly away, towards Mitch and then, abruptly, he came back, aggression in his crunching stride, his arms swinging wide.
‘I don’t want you talking to Timothy, do you understand?’
‘Okay.’
‘You leave him alone. This is a family matter.’
‘Sure.’
‘Speak to Nigel,’ he growled. ‘And let Nigel speak to Timothy. And when that’s done, go to the police. A detective inspector can speak to Jenny’s parents. Nothing would give them greater pleasure.’
Peter Henderson strode over to Mitch.
‘C’mon. Take me back,’ he said. ‘I’ve got another class waiting. They don’t understand a damned thing either.’
Anselm remained seated on the upturned boat, drawing with his foot on the beach. Meaningless shapes, doodling. An attempt to make sense of the panic that had settled upon his mind. Peter Henderson had made a full and frank confession. But there was something amiss. The voluntary element. It was as though he’d been battered with an iron bar and finally spilled out what he thought the monk had wanted to hear.
32
Michael drove south to the coastal village of Aldeburgh. This was the next place on his list – the special locations charged with memories of Jenny, Emma and now Timothy. Places where important conversations had occurred. So important that Michael wanted to revisit each setting to evoke once more the full impact of what had transpired there. He was following them in order, adding up the significance like a man counting beads on an abacus. The result would be the death of Peter Henderson. And of all the exchanges that had made him sure – if confirmation was needed – that Peter had to die, it was the brief and sickening discussion that had taken place two weeks after Michael had seen the marble body of Elizabeth Coke and her daughter.
‘Granddad, you once told me to speak to you if I was confused,’ said Timothy just as they stepped onto the shingle between Aldeburgh and Thorpeness. ‘Why did my dad throw a brick at that boy?’
The words whirled into Michael’s mind like a sandstorm. It was the gritty question that wouldn’t go away. The court had raised it, the national and local press had raised it, the neighbours had raised it. It had been joked about on Top Gear and Have I Got News for You. Timothy’s dad had been on the front cover of Private Eye, a bubble over his head saying, ‘Don’t answer back’. The family tragedy had been played out so publicly that ordinary sensibilities had been left behind. But what disturbed Michael now, on the beach, was that he’d already answered Timothy’s question. He’d told him his father hadn’t thrown a brick at anyone. He’d snapped, that’s all. His feelings about Jenny had got blocked in a drain. But Timothy wasn’t satisfied. He’d asked the question again because he was looking for a different answer. He was growing up.
‘He didn’t know what he was doing,’ said Michael, loyally. What else could he say? Instinctively – and before he could stop himself – he went on the offensive. ‘He bottled up his grief … is that really so confusing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why, Timothy?’
‘Because he told me Mum’s death was a release,’ he replied, edgily. ‘He told me she’d been spared a long drawn-out illness. You agreed. So did Grandma. She said that Mum had slipped out of the back door. So what’s there to bottle up? Why explode? It’s like he was hiding something. Like he felt guilty … like he had a secret and—’
‘Enough.’
Michael had barked. His breathing was out of control. He stammered an apology, reaching for Timothy’s arm, pulling him closer.
‘Talking about your mother’s death is difficult for me, too,’ he said, more quietly, wanting to harness his confusion and subdue the fire in his grandson. The boy’s face was bloodless. He stood hunched in a blue woollen mariner’s coat, a present from Brittany. His features, once so soft and enquiring, were hard with the anger he’d once denied was there.
‘I can assure you, your father doesn’t feel guilty,�
� insisted Michael, still reeling at the shock of Timothy’s declaration. ‘It’s only grief … you can be relieved that someone didn’t suffer and still mourn their passing. No one ever wants anyone to die.’
Timothy’s lips made a minute contraction and Michael felt that slight pressure in the throat that warns a traveller to reach for the paper bag. He’d felt the same thing in Donegal, just as the farm door opened … and when he’d got back to Belfast and Father Doyle had barged in with an old tape recorder and made him listen to Liam’s trembling voice. But he couldn’t bend over here and be sick while his grandson pondered over his father’s strange behaviour, wondering if guilt and secrecy were part of the explanation.
‘My dad wants to say something to me but he can’t,’ went on Timothy.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael, foolishly, scared instantly of the answer.
‘I could be wrong, but I think he’s all bottled up because of me.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.’
Timothy was inscrutable. But there was something about his questioning that was artificial. He was feeling his way, wanting his grandfather to reveal what he knew … as if he might be part of any guilt or secret. Michael cleared his throat. ‘You’re probably mistaken. He’s had a great deal on his mind and—’
‘No, I’m not,’ pressed Timothy. ‘Ever since Mum died he’s looked at me as if he’s let me down. It’s like there’s too much to say and he doesn’t know where to start. That he feels sorry for me. For two years he’s been sort of … hesitant with me … I can tell, he’s wanted to say something. Then he threw that brick in Manchester.’
Michael didn’t know if he could control the nausea that stirred in his guts. By his very public collapse, Peter had smudged the consolation they’d all given to Timothy – that Jenny had simply slipped out of the back door. Emma had landed on the phrase to calm his tears, but now the boy was dry-eyed and determined. He was sure that his father wanted to reveal something … a secret that was linked to guilt. This was horrific. Timothy was on the very edge of discovering that his mother’s death wasn’t … simple.
The Discourtesy of Death Page 19