He reached the door. He’d stood before it many times before, and each time he’d not wanted to enter. That much hadn’t changed. He was still reluctant to place a hand on the doorknob, to push it open, to step inside. So he licked dry lips and tried to swallow, his throat parched, body stiffening and preparing. Closing his eyes he twisted the brass doorknob and eased the door wide.
At first he didn’t see them, and thought the room was empty, at which point his heart raced and he felt desperation ripping at his stomach. But as he stepped into the room he caught sight of him. He was hunched, apparently motionless over a desk, shoved somewhat tightly into a dark corner of the room. There was no sign that he’d heard Miller enter, and Miller hadn’t expected one from the man.
The head remained focused on the piece of paper upon which he was writing feverishly. A thin wisp of grey hair fell from his pink, balding head and waved faintly in front of his face, but he didn’t notice or was irritated by it. His attention was consumed fully by his scribbling, the pen scratching noisily.
Miller stepped slowly over to him and stood before the desk, looking over the tired old man. A small pool of spittle had collected on the varnished surface and soaked into the edge of a piece of paper, a drop of saliva poised to fall on his trembling lips that worked over silent words. Satisfied with his work, the man slid the paper across to a growing pile of paper, nipped another blank sheet between forefinger and thumb from a ream on the desk and set about writing again. Not a glimpse at Miller. He might well not have existed.
“Hello, Max,” Miller said.
But there was no response, not even the flicker of an eyelash.
* * * *
39
Maxwell Stone
“Collie!”
Miller turned. Coming out of another adjoining room and carrying a small holdall, heavy and obviously fully packed, she appeared surprised to see him. But as always her composure was never long in tatters. She smiled sweetly, the smile she’d often used on him and to which he found himself so easily succumbing time and time again.
“Connie,” he said, “I have to speak with you.”
“Max is better today. Don’t you think? Look at him. He’s improving all the time. I was so worried the last time. So very worried. But now he’s moving again, he’s writing, and that’s got to be a good sign. What say you?” She looked skittish. She flung the holdall onto the armchair.
“I’ve not been able to contact you for days.” He said.
“Oh, I’ve been busy, darling. Always busy.” She went to a set of drawers and took out a few items of folded clothing. “When I saw him like that I was so devastated, Collie. But what an improvement! Look at him! Just look at him!”
“Connie,” he said, firmer, so that she stopped momentarily, glanced at him. “Carl knows.”
“Carl knows what?”
“He knows about everything – you, me, Max, the book – everything.”
He expected her to show some alarm, but she displayed only a blank expression. “Don’t worry about him, Collie, that sad little man.”
“Didn’t you here what I said, Connie? He knows. I’m ruined, I tell you, if this ever gets out.”
She walked past him, opened a cupboard and took out a pair of men’s shoes. “Don’t be silly, Collie!” she chided. “You always did get overexcited.”
He grabbed her by the arm as she carried the shoes back to the holdall and turned her round to face him. He was angry, afraid, anxious, and she didn’t appear to care less. “You’re not listening to me! Did you hear what I said? This is important, Connie.” He let her go, ran hands through his hair. “Why did I ever let you persuade me, Connie? Why? It had to be one of the most stupid things I ever did.”
“It wasn’t stupid. We helped you, Collie.” She looked hurt.
“Don’t give me that bullshit, Connie! You saw an opportunity, that’s all.”
“That’s a perfectly horrible thing to say, Collie.” She flung the shoes at the bag. “I never thought you’d think that, never! I tried to help you that’s all. You were struggling, going nowhere with your writing, you said as much yourself. Here, Collie, I said, take this manuscript and if it’s any good to you then use it, that’s all I said.”
“And the dumbest thing I ever did was use it. Oh yeah, I altered it slightly, enough to feel at least some of it was mine, but that’s just it, the book was never mine. It was his!” he pointed savagely to the old man. “It was Max’s!”
“It started you on your way,” Connie said, her voice beginning to break, the sign of a tear in her eye. “Because of it, because of Max, you’ve been able to have the life he’s been denied all these years. Look at him, Collie, just look at him. This is no life.”
He waved her argument away. “And what I’ve lived isn’t a damn life either. I’ve been shackled to that damn character for decades, and all I’ve ever had is how bloody brilliant the first book was and how I’ve never been able to come up with the goods since. But the ironic thing is they won’t let me write anything else. They don’t want to know about anything new. All they want is more Stephen de Bailleul till I’m fucking sick to death of hearing about him, writing about him, living with him! He haunts me, Connie, that’s what he does. And because of that Max haunts me.”
“I saw you, Collie, saw you so frustrated and depressed with all the rejections. You were writing for years and getting those horrid rejections, remember? Or have you forgotten how painful it was? Forgotten what it felt like to be stuck in that dead-end job in that DIY store and trying to escape? I felt our pain like you were my own son, and all I saw was an opportunity to help a very special close friend. I didn’t think it would become so successful like it did. I never once expected the book to be accepted; I thought it was a kind gesture, the only way I could think of to help you. We were so close, Collie. Or at least I thought we were.”
“I wish I could believe that, I really do.” He paced the room, staring at the grounds beyond the window. “But I can’t help thinking you were hedging your bets a little. Max was already desperately ill, and you more than anyone could see he was going to get worse. He was going to need help. You needed money to help look after him. By giving me the book he’d written – “
She turned on him, her eyes afire now, the hurt having melted into anger. “What? What did I intend?”
“All this, Connie, look at it.” He gestured with wide-open arms. “This is luxury. How else could Max have been housed in a place like this without someone like me to pay for it all? You didn’t want to see him in one of those state-run mental hospitals, but you knew eventually it would come to that one day. You’re too devoted to him, Connie, always have been. It wasn’t something you’d like to contemplate, so you thought you’d try another avenue, right? OK, so it’s a long shot, but we both knew how good Max was at writing, how everyone was astonished by such a talent in one so young.
“But Max was already very ill, his mind on the verge of total meltdown, and even if you did manage to get his novel published there’d be no more to follow, would there? But – and it’s a big but – what if good old Collie manages to get it published under his own name? He’s so desperate he’ll accept anything. And yeah, you did enough to convince me the book would eventually be mine, if I worked on it a little, tidied it up and so on; but we both knew it needed very little work. Max was too good. I might have altered the odd-paragraph, but it was largely perfunctory. In the end I just submitted it to agents. They knew a good thing when they saw it, just like I did. And it all came together for you. Max gets Overton Hall, eventually, but not before a little manipulation on your part. You know how deeply I’m tied to you both. And just to keep reminding me you insist we have these annual jaunts to jolly old Overton Hall to see your bloody son drooling over a pile of paper. Don’t give me any shit about closeness, Connie!”
She turned away from him, her shoulders jerking. He heard her crying and he could do nothing but stare guiltily at his feet. Max continued to write, starti
ng on another fresh piece of paper. Miller eyed the old man. There was precious little left of the strikingly handsome youth he knew and admired. And feared. He was now a sordid symbol of all that had gone wrong, Miller thought.
“That’s so, so callous, Collie!” she burst, grabbing the holdall and shoving the shoes inside. She tried to zip it up but it was so full she had to give up. She went to Max, took a tissue from her pocket and wiped him tenderly across the mouth, taking the loose strands of hair and pushing them back into place on his head. Max ignored her or wasn’t aware of her. She ran her soft hands across his cheek. “Poor, poor Max,” she whispered. Facing Miller, she said, “I gave you a valuable piece of my son. I gave you something that he had worked upon for ages, in spite of all the things that had gone wrong for him. Handing over that manuscript was like giving away a part of him. But I did it for you, Collie, and because you two had been close friends. If he could have done it himself, he would have given it to you. Max loved you too, as much as me if not more.”
Miller shook his head, flopping down loosely into an armchair. He’d said things that had been circulating like bad air inside him for so long. He never wanted to hurt her. And if he admitted it he went along with caring for Max because he cared for her far more deeply than she’d ever know. But everything had gotten out of hand. “Why?” he said. “Why give me the pseudonym of a past lover?”
She blinked hard. “How do you know that?”
He laughed hollowly. “I remember it well. How we shared our excitement when I found out the book had been accepted for publication. But we both felt I needed a pseudonym. I can’t recall exactly how we came to that conclusion, but you suggested Gavin Miller, remember?” She nodded in reply. “Yeah, I said, that sounds like a writer. I’ll be Gavin Miller. I always thought it was something you’d pulled from fresh air, and I chose it just to please you, as a thank you to you. You never once told me about the real Gavin Miller.”
“How could you know about him?” she said nervously.
Miller indicated Max. “He’s been busy. See, he’s at it again. He just can’t stop writing, moves from one thing to another without a break in between. As if he’s trapped in this writer’s limbo and can’t forget that’s what he wanted to do before his madness finally ate his mind. Some jottings are plain gobbledegook. Well certain things he writes make more sense than you can ever imagine, Connie. It’s as if, up here…”he said, pointing to his temple “…he’s pretty much all right, lucid, able to piece things together, to put them down onto paper. He’s written an autobiography, of sorts.”
The old woman’s face that held within it an echo of the Connie he grew up with stared at her hands, her fingers picking at her nails. “I loved him, Collie. I loved Gavin. He was good to Max.”
“I know,” he said.
“And is that so wrong, to suggest the name of a man who was kind and good? You are kind and good. I thought it fitting.”
He shook his head. “No, it isn’t wrong,” he admitted quietly.
“Where is this autobiography?” she looked suddenly excited, the tears in her eyes now sparking brightly.
“I’ve destroyed it.”
Her face fell. “No!” she said. “How could you? I wanted to see it! It belonged to my son!”
“It wasn’t what you think, Connie. Look at him. What do you suppose is going through his mind right now?” The old man was oblivious to them as they both gazed at his hunched figure. “I tell you, Connie, it’s all mixed up in there, in that head of his. He still thinks he’s me. The autobiography was mine, not his; and yet not mine and all his. It’s crazy.”
“It’s not true, Collie. He’s still Max, still my boy. Even though he can’t express anything like he used to, in his soul he’s Max.” She stroked the old man’s head and he actually reacted to it, stopping his writing and nuzzling his head into her hand like a cat would. “You love your mother, don’t you, Max? And your mother will always love you, no matter what.”
“He thinks he’s me, Philip Calder; he’s not here in Overton Hall, but he believes he’s a prisoner in some exotic castle-like house on an island called Eilean Mor. In his eyes you are already dead, and Max is someone who is completely evil and twisted. That’s what he thinks is going on.”
“How horrid of you!” she said, arms flailing passionately. “You’re lying to me. Max would never think me dead, would you, Max?” her fingers touched his flaccid cheeks again, but this time he continued with his writing unmoved. “He knows I’m here. He knows I love him.”
Miller sighed heavily, rising from his seat and walking over to the pictures on the wall. He studied the thick impasto. “All this is a waste of time. He sees nothing of what’s in his room. He only sees what’s going on in his head.” When he turned to her, Connie was helping Max out of his chair, but he was reluctant to leave his writing, and though he was now standing he still had his pen and was scraping at the paper. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“We’re leaving,” she said curtly.
“Connie, there’s a reason why he chose to be me, why he wanted to see Max as someone else completely outside himself. Carl realised it, and now so do I.”
“Come on, Max,” she said softly. “Want a walk? A little walk? You like walking, don’t you? This way – that’s right, that’s good!”
“This is important, Connie!” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “I think Max is a murderer.”
She halted and Max tottered uncertainly. Connie regarded Miller with wide, uncomprehending eyes. “That’s silly!” she returned. “So, so silly!” Taking Max by the arm, she lead him gently to the door, picking up the holdall as she went. She struggled under the considerable bulk of both the bag and Max, who was leaning with most of his weight against her.
“He took on the guise of me to confess to what he’s done. All these years he’s harboured those terrible secrets, and the only way he could expunge them from his troubled mind was to write about them. Connie, I believe he killed both Mr Walton and Bernard.”
She laughed shrilly. “You can’t mean that. Mr Walton died in a house fire because he smoked in bed. And Bernard – well you know how depressed he was. Like you say, Max is ill; how can you trust what he writes?”
“Because I grew up with him. The autobiography might have been pretty far fetched at times, but at others it was uncannily accurate. It brought many things back to mind, things I’d forgotten. About Max and me. Things that bugged me at the time just fell into place on reading the manuscript. And not only me. Carl saw it too. I’m telling you, Connie, Max had something to do with their deaths. He admitted as much himself in the autobiography.”
She shook the idea away with a jerk of her head and continued with Max to the door. She opened it and stepped out into the corridor, guiding Max through the doorway. A female nurse passed, smiling and passing a greeting. Connie smiled in return. “Going for a walk, Max?” asked the nurse. She then looked at the holdall.
“Just a few of his belongings,” Connie explained. “He doesn’t need them. I’m taking them out of the way. They only clutter the place up.”
The nurse spoke once more to Max and then proceeded on her way. Miller went to Max’s side, holding his arm steady and helping Connie take the weight. “Where are you really taking him?” he said.
“Out of here. What’s it to do with you anyway? It’s what you want, isn’t it? We’ll take care of ourselves. We always have. I don’t need you or your horrible thoughts. Leave us alone.”
“But what if it’s really true? What if he did – “
“Shut up!” she hissed. “Max would never do that kind of thing. He’s a good boy.”
“Carl believes he did. And so do I. Look, Connie, we’re in trouble and we must sort this out. Carl knows about everything, and on top of it all I think he’s right about Max. Even if he isn’t don’t you see the trouble it’s going to cause us? He’s trying to blackmail me, Connie…”
“Forget that horrible man,” she said coldly. “
He’s not going to bother us.”
She hurried Max on his way, a little faster than his old, unsteady legs could manage. Miller marvelled at this old woman and the stamina she still had. He would never stop admiring her, he thought. Never.
They passed reception, the woman behind the desk nodding a fleeting greeting and then bending her head back to her paperwork. Once outside, Miller pressed Connie again. “Let’s stop and talk this over properly.”
“I’ve told you enough already; I don’t ever want to talk to you again. Max is a good boy. He’d never do anything like that. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“He had a grudge against both of them. He was already mentally unstable. Who knows what was going through his mind? I think he bided his time, and one day gained entry to Walton’s house. You used to clean for the old teacher, didn’t you? All Max had to do was use the keys you had. From then on it’s simple enough. The same with Bernard. Drunk, in the bath and helpless. It makes sense…”
“It’s evil of you to even consider it. How do you think I feel? I’m his mother?”
They proceeded at a slow pace to the back of the building. Here Miller saw her car, parked alone. “What’s going on, Connie?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you running away?”
“I’m not running away. Don’t be silly.”
“You know it’s true, don’t you? Tell me, Connie, did he murder those people?”
They reached the car and Connie unlocked the door, tossing the holdall onto the back seat. She guided Max into the passenger seat and fastened the seatbelt across his chest. He drooled onto his shirtfront and she wiped it away with a tissue. “There, that’s nice, isn’t it? Going to take you for a long drive. You used to like driving, didn’t you, Max?”
She ignored Miller, brushing brusquely past him and settling herself behind the wheel.
“Connie, I can’t let you go like this. What about me? What about Max? How will he be looked after?”
Blood Bonds: A psychological thriller Page 36