“Christ, how am I supposed to remember where in front of him? I mostly just remember the knife being there, in his hand.”
Conor sighed. “It’s all right, love.”
“I remember getting sick.”
“You got sick?”
“I threw up afterwards.”
His arms were around her then. “They’re all gone now. The whole lot of them, poor bastards.”
“Yes,” she said. “All gone.”
It was a Friday night, July 2, 1999. They were at JC’s kitchen table, the cat, Sorley, curled up on his lap. They were discussing a plan to revisit Cape Breton that summer, perhaps recover some of the magic of the year before and, in the process, exorcise some demons.
“You said something in the cemetery, the day we visited the graves last summer. It stayed with me.”
He frowned. “I don’t remember.”
“You said that people aren’t bad, they just do bad things sometimes.”
“Okay.”
“You really think that?”
“It’s what got me through a lot of pretty depressing stuff.”
“But do you think it’s really true?”
“Yes,” he said. “I believe it’s true. It’s the closest thing I have to a religious belief. If I thought for a moment that people are as wicked as the things they do, I’d be living in … Bornish.”
She laughed. “You’d be the only one there.”
“Exactly.”
“I think I did a wicked thing once,” she said. He waited, watching her face.
She was racing through the field toward the Gillis place. The ground was rough, but it was quicker than the road. Through weeds and brambles, across a barbed wire fence, through a brook.
Sandy Gillis ran to meet her. “What’s the matter with you?” His eyes were wild.
“I want Mrs. Gillis.”
“She went to town. What’s the matter?”
She backed away. “Nothing.”
“Is he still there?”
“No.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll find him.”
“Please, no … don’t hurt him. Please.”
“And when exactly was this?”
“It was just before Remembrance Day, 1963.”
“So, go on.”
She shook her head. “Another time. There’s something else I need to talk about.”
“Oh?” His smile was thinly spread.
“This guy … the stalker who keeps calling me—I want to tell you how he got my phone number. I did something stupid.”
The telephone rang. “I should get it,” he said.
She watched him as he listened intently. Then he said, “Keep an eye on her. Try to keep her there.” He was silent for about thirty more seconds. “Sorry to hear that. I suppose you knew him pretty well.”
He put the phone down. “That was Duncan.”
“I see,” she said.
“I have to go out,” he said.
“That Tammy?” She felt a combination of fatigue, relief, despair.
“Duncan said she’s hanging around in a crowd in front of the shelter. I’m going to grab a cab and go down.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No. I want you to stay here. I’ll be back shortly. I have to hear the rest.”
“She’s already brushed you off more than once …”
“Duncan says she seems to be with a black guy.”
At the door he turned. “I almost forgot. Duncan says he has to go to Nova Scotia for a funeral tomorrow. His bishop died. He says he might be gone for a few days. Maybe visit people. Said to tell you that.”
JC was gone all night. Day was breaking when she finally went home. The city traffic was moving quickly, flowing on the caffeinated urgency of early risers. She was worried, but whatever apprehension she might have felt during the long night was ragged now.
At home she undressed slowly, showered, lay in her bed and waited. He would call and explain.
She had fallen into a deep sleep, and for a moment the ringing of the telephone seemed to be part of a dream that she would never, afterwards, be able to recall.
She sat up quickly, fumbled for the phone. It was ten o’clock.
“My God, you had me worried,” she said.
But it was Molly she was talking to. “We have to meet.”
“What about?”
“Dooney’s,” she said. “Be there in twenty minutes.”
“What’s happened?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
Molly’s producer had called her at home and asked her to come to the office as soon as possible. It was supposed to be her day off. She was not to be disturbed by anything less urgent than, say, final settlement of the Palestinian—Israeli conflict. That or World War Three.
When she’d arrived at the boss’s office, there were two strangers waiting for her, both in suits. They were policemen. They wanted to know when she had last seen JC Campbell.
“Yesterday,” she told them.
Had he been in touch the night before?
“No,” she said.
They would appreciate her discretion, they told her. And obviously anything discussed would be strictly off the record. Had Mr. Campbell ever spoken of a Robert Borden?
Molly answered no. She’d never heard the name. Well, other than the former prime minister.
Effie was staring at her. Prime minister? “That’s the look I got from the cops,” said Molly.
The cops had informed Molly that the Robert they were interested in was no prime minister. He was a well-known street hustler, into dope and the sex trade. His body had been found in a dumpster off Gerrard Street just after midnight. No big loss, really. But murder, clearly.
“So what’s your relationship with Mr. Campbell?” one man had asked, notebook now in hand.
“We work together,” Molly had told him tersely.
They wanted to know for how long, and what she thought of JC Campbell’s character, his temperament, and that was when she lost it. “Now what the hell would JC have to do with some dead drug dealer?” she asked.
Maybe nothing, the second policeman said. And that was when they told her they’d picked up Mr. Campbell near his home at three a.m., hoping he could be of some assistance in their investigation. “Would you have any idea where he might have been coming from?”
“I have no idea. What’s he telling you?”
At this point they became cautious. They could only say that there was credible information that Mr. Campbell had been tracking Borden for quite some time, that his interest was not professional, that it was something personal.
“Then,” said Molly, “they asked about you. Dr. Gillis. They seemed to be reading your name from one of your business cards. You can expect a call.”
Effie, speechless, shrugged and looked away.
“For Christ’s sake, Effie. Do you know anything about this?”
But Effie didn’t really hear the question. The roar of the city and the clatter of the mid-morning coffee shop were merging in her head, shattering the words, reducing thought to mental spasms.
four
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
T.S. ELIOT, “BURNT NORTON,”
FOUR QUARTETS
16
For a millisecond she considered lying. The cop was asking when she had last seen him. Her impulse was to say two thirty that morning, to tell him that JC Campbell had been at her place until then and that he’d been on his way home from there when they picked him up. But a viable lie has to be at least close to the truth, and the truth was that she had been at his place until dawn.
“It was about nine o’clock,” she said.
“Last night?”
“Yes.”
The policeman made a note, then probed his ear with the sharp end of
his ballpoint, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“That’s dangerous,” she said.
“What is?”
“The only thing you can safely put in your ear is your elbow.” She smiled, disarmingly she hoped.
He flicked something from the end of the ballpoint. “Do you have any idea where he was going when he left you?”
“I know where he was going.”
“Oh?”
“I assume he told you where he was going.”
“You tell me.”
“He was going to see my brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes. My brother is a priest.”
“Your brother is a priest.”
“He is.”
He nodded and wrote something in the notebook.
“What parish, your brother?”
“He doesn’t have a parish. He works with the homeless.”
“I assume he has a home.”
“He lives at a shelter for homeless young people.”
“The one on Sherbourne, near Dundas?”
“I think so.”
“That’s interesting,” he said.
“Why is it interesting?”
“Our victim was in a dumpster just about a block away from there, in an alley off Gerrard.”
“What happened to him?”
The policeman stared, rolling the pen between his thumb and forefinger.
“I doubt if that’s significant, where you found him,” she said. “In any case, I’d bet my life that JC doesn’t know anything about it. What’s he telling you?”
“Not much, actually.”
“I’m sure he told you about Duncan.”
“Who’s Duncan?”
“My brother.”
“The priest.”
“Yes.”
“What’s your brother’s other name?”
“MacAskill. Father Duncan MacAskill.”
“Spell that.”
“M-a-c-capital A-s-k-i-l-l.”
“Do you have a phone number for your brother?”
“Yes, but he isn’t there right now. He went away this morning.”
“Went away where?”
“To Nova Scotia. His bishop died. Today is the funeral.”
“Too bad.”
“He was old. JC told you nothing about this?”
“I mean, too bad your brother isn’t here. I don’t think your friend understands how serious this is. I think he’s playing games.”
“How serious is it?”
“There’s a witness.”
“A witness?”
“There’s a witness.”
It was like a dream sequence. The surreal conversation with the cop had ended, but she knew it had only been the start of a longer dialogue. Then, as if by some magical transition, she was walking along College Street, approaching University. It was one p.m. when she left the police station. It was hot. There was a haze of moisture, heated gases and microscopic particles trapped beneath the pale blue dome of sky, the air as exhausted as the empty city faces blurring by her. They had declined to let her speak to him.
They had called her at eleven. Would she be good enough to come to the offices at College and Bay? Or they could send an officer around to take her statement. She said she’d go to them. She was there at eleven thirty. She’d somehow anticipated a reception commensurate with the gravity of the situation. But she was met at the front desk by a thin middle-aged man in jeans and a cheap sports jacket. He seemed tired. She noted he was overdue for a haircut.
They sat in a small room furnished with a table and two chairs. He fumbled for a pen, patting all his pockets before finally locating one pinned inside the pages of his notebook. The thickness of the notebook suggested to her that this was but one of many small atrocities competing for his time, neither crime nor victim of particular significance to him. The thought was reassuring, in a way. He asked for some personal details. Full name, date of birth, address, where she worked, relationship to Mr. Campbell.
As the interview progressed, she became more cautious. She remembered, from a television show, that affability and diffidence from the police are often calculated to disarm, that a conversation is more likely to be rich with unintended disclosure than an interview tightened by fear and paranoia. Stories of police misconduct came back to her, and the voices of the wrongfully accused and the wrongfully convicted. She’d heard somewhere that a police investigation was essentially an exercise in speculation. The larger questions of truth and innocence and guilt would be decided elsewhere, by people at a higher pay grade.
But the officer seemed decent, too hot and tired for guile. When she was leaving, he apologized for taking up her time, shook her hand, studied her with what she thought was masculine appraisal.
Now that she was on the street, one question kept repeating in her mind. It was one asked early and answered quickly, almost glibly: “How long have you known James Charles Campbell?”
“Practically all my life. Since the early seventies. I can safely say I know him as well as I know myself.”
The policeman made no comment. He wrote slowly, face elastic, brow wrinkled and lips pursed in what might have been the effort of transcription or the suppression of a smile. The expression was, she realized, provocative. It was the kind of look that, in social circumstances, might have made her blurt out, “What? What, what, what?”
How long have you known James Charles Campbell? Truthfully.
There was sweat under her arms and on her back. Her clothing felt tight. Her body felt balloonish, bloated. How well do I know anybody? How well does anyone know me?
She showered, but the effort of drying herself only produced more perspiration. She donned a gauzy shift, considered wearing underwear but, remembering the depressing tension at her waistline, opted not to. She turned on an air conditioner even though she hated the noise and artificial chill. At three o’clock she poured a glass of Chardonnay.
It was a struggle to keep doubt at bay, and the awareness that her loyalty, her faith in him, was shaken brought on a distressing sense of emptiness. She thought, This must be what depression feels like, an invasive presence that is autonomous and deaf to reason. She sipped the wine and realized time had halted somewhere.
The policeman had said they would probably allow him to leave by dinnertime, and that they’d be attempting to track down Father Duncan. This detail was important, he had told her by way of reassurance. And by the end of the interview, it seemed to her that he was trying to be kind. And she was tempted to respond with courtesy. Then Conor’s voice reminded her, Don’t be fooled by friendliness; they aren’t your friends.
But who was Conor? Really? She’d believed everything he told her, even though he’d cautioned her that truth is sometimes shifty, sometimes circumstantial. He didn’t lie, he said. But he’d confessed to what he called benevolent deceptions. She’d loved him, she was sure of that. But had she known him?
And Sextus. Once she’d thought there was no one in this life she knew better than Alexander Sextus Gillis. And yet she never understood what motivated his behaviour. So was it accurate to say she knew him? To truly know someone is to never be surprised. Shouldn’t that be the ideal? Then she remembered his manuscript. What had he called it? Why Men Lie. Ironic. It was in a drawer somewhere, buried in a confusion of underwear and socks and pantyhose. More lies, perhaps. Or the truth revealed. And were lies so bad? Duncan had a line, a quote from the dead bishop: morality resides in motivation. A well-motivated lie, by that standard, can be okay, maybe even good.
She turned off the air conditioner. She welcomed the sudden silence, found comfort in the instant warmth. Men are all the same. That’s what Mrs. Gillis used to say. They’re all driven by the same imperatives. Though Mary Gillis would have used another word: “things.” They’re all driven by the same things. And based on Effie’s own personal experience, there was something crudely truthful in that observation. They were all the same. And, if JC’s theo
ry was correct, they never change. They pose as individuals, flaunt originality, but were all beset by similar anxieties, the same essential urges, almost all originating in the gut, the palate or the testicles.
The phone rang.
“You’re there,” he said.
“Yes. Where are you?”
She could hear the sound of traffic, people talking. “I’m on College. Can I come by?”
“Please do.”
She dressed. Panties, bra, a pale green blouse, buttoned to the throat. A long, slimming skirt, sandals. She considered makeup, then decided there was a certain eloquence in the strain and fatigue around her eyes and mouth. Lies. “I love you”—the biggest lie in the book. She gathered up her hair and clamped it high. How often had she heard those words, said them, meant them? She tried to remember the first time. She could recall the car, a memorable car, a Meteor. Its name appropriately fast and furious, consumed by its own brilliance. “You aren’t like any of the others.” That was his first lie. What was his name? She had no idea, and realized it didn’t matter.
Once she asked Mrs. Gillis, “How do you know when a boy is telling a lie?”
“When there’s a sound coming out of the mouth of one of them, that’ll be a sign,” she said.
“I’ve never known anybody like you,” the nameless boy had whispered. “I love you.” And she’d believed it. And the possibility inflamed her—if he loved her, maybe she was someone better than she knew. And so she let him love her. But afterwards she felt a mild embarrassment, as if a stranger had observed her in a toilet, and the boy seemed suddenly morose and distant. She told herself it was because he was so serious, contemplating life. Love changes everything, she thought. He was deep, worth the love she had invested in him. He’d used a condom. He had it hidden somewhere in the car seat. Then she realized it could have been for anyone. But it was too late then.
“How do you know if someone really loves someone?” she’d asked Mrs. Gillis.
“They have to know you,” she’d replied. “If he doesn’t know you and he says it, he’s a liar.”
And, of course, that boy was a liar.
Who was next? John Gillis. He’d known her from childhood, neighbourhood, school. They were like siblings. When John said he loved her, she believed it—and it was probably true, for a while at least, until she realized that she didn’t know him any more than he knew her, and neither knew the darkness in the other.
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