The High Flyer

by Susan Howatch

“Any chance of seeing you?”

  “It’s a bit difficult right now.”

  “I’m sure it is. You’ll let me know, won’t you, if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Of course. Thanks, Tucker,” I said, and hung up before I could start to cry.

  VI

  “I’ve made you a chocolate mousse to tempt you to eat,” said Alice. “There’s something so comforting about chocolate, I always think, and the mousse will slip down so easily you’ll hardly be aware that you’re eating. Do give it a try!”

  I managed three spoonfuls. “Alice, you do think Mrs. Mayfield killed Kim, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Would you like a spot of cream to help the mousse along?”

  “No thanks. Alice, she did kill him, didn’t she?”

  “Definitely. And it was easier for her, wasn’t it, because he wasn’t mentally strong. He mightn’t have been the type to commit suicide when he was well, but that day must have been so stressful for a man who was still sick—why, the confession alone must have been such a strain, particularly since he so much wanted the marriage to come right—”

  I abandoned the mousse and bolted.

  VII

  After those interviews I decided to think no more about the manner of Kim’s death. Obviously it was less upsetting to let other people work out how and why he had died, and as soon as I reached this conclusion I felt much better. I also realised I was now free to detach myself emotionally from the mess and embark on a familiar exercise: reducing the chaos to order with professional efficiency.

  In the immediate aftermath of the death the police continued to be kind to me, but Tucker and I were interrogated for a long time about the events at Oakshott. By mutual consent we never mentioned the ghost; when I said that Kim had caught up with me in the gallery I did not explain that I had been brought up short by the sight of Sophie in the hall, and when Tucker told the police about his decision to enter the house he merely said he had been unable to endure the suspense of waiting a second longer. The police were painstaking in their pursuit of detail not only because they needed to close their file on the blackmailer’s murder but because they were toying with the idea that Kim had been responsible for other unsolved homosexual murders committed in London over the past few years. However, the links with these murders were never proved, and I myself did not believe they existed. Kim’s “hobby” had been dangerous enough; I could not imagine him choosing to make it still more dangerous by committing murders which were unnecessary to his survival.

  The media got the wrong end of the stick once again and decided I had called in the police to stop Kim committing suicide. Various theories for the suicide then circulated: he was the victim of an exorcism which had gone wrong, he was a drug addict who had despaired of kicking the habit, he had leaped from the balcony while under the influence of LSD. (The coroner later panned all these theories but no journalist seemed to take much notice.) Meanwhile the police, anxious to pursue their investigations in peace, said nothing about the information which Tucker and I had given them, and neither Tucker nor I had the slightest intention of giving a press conference. The media yammered away both after the death and at the time of the inquest, but fortunately on each occasion the news moved on swiftly and so did the reporters.

  The inquest itself, neatly choreographed by the coroner, produced the inevitable verdict that Kim had committed suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed. As soon as evidence was given that he had been spending time in a mental hospital, the verdict was a foregone conclusion, although his doctors insisted heatedly that there had been no reason to regard him as a suicide risk.

  Long before this the lawyers had carted away all the papers in Kim’s junk-room in order to explore every aspect of his finances, and I had discovered that under his will I had inherited all his real and personal estate—which included not only the house at Oakshott but the Swiss stash, numerous stocks and shares, and a substantial bank balance. Whatever problems I had to face in the immediate future, money was not going to be one of them.

  Tucker phoned regularly, and I saw him at the inquest, but I found I was still unable to face meeting him on my own. Fear of intimacy, fear of making another catastrophic mistake in my private life, hung over me like a pall, but although I was aware of this additional legacy from Kim I recoiled from dwelling on it. It was easier just to toil on with the task of reducing the chaos to order, so although I told Tucker there would be a time later for socialising, I did not say when “later” would be and he took care never to pressure me by asking.

  Then finally, after the interviews with the police, after the media blitzes, after the sessions with Kim’s lawyers, accountants, colleagues and bankers, after the inquest had delivered the formal verdict on the death, Kim’s body was released by the authorities and I found my next task was to organise the funeral. That was when my emotions crawled off the ice, where I had dumped them, and began to defrost. That was when I realised that the role of the efficient businesswoman could no longer be sustained. And that was when I knew I was face to face at last with the ordeal of trying to come to terms with what had happened.

  VIII

  “A cremation, of course,” I said to Lewis, “and no religious service.”

  I was still feeling grateful to Lewis for supporting my belief that Mrs. Mayfield had killed Kim, but my gratitude quickly faded as he failed to approve this proposal about the funeral. He merely smoothed the skirt of his cassock and remained silent for a moment.

  We were in the vestry of the church. Lewis did have an office in the Healing Centre but he spent much of his working day in the main part of the church as he attended to stray callers, the organisation of the services and the numerous other items of ecclesiastical business which Nicholas was too busy to deal with. The vestry desk was crowded; Lewis was, as usual, smoking a cigarette; in the distance the organist was practising, and the music provided comforting evidence of the church’s stable weekday routines.

  Lewis said at last: “Kim was not uninterested in religion. I would definitely classify him as a seeker.”

  “He conned you. At the end he was so anti-Christian that he tore the cross from my neck.”

  “That was certainly significant. However—”

  “He was depraved. Obscene. Evil.”

  “True. But—”

  “He was a murderer!”

  “Yes, but immediately after his death, wasn’t it very important to you that Mrs. Mayfield’s part in his destruction should be underlined?”

  I stared, sensing he was trying to throw me a lifeline. After a moment I said: “Go on.”

  “I think that despite all that had happened your first instinct was to try to hold on to your memory of the Kim you had loved—the real Kim—by keeping him separate from the other Kim, the demonic Kim, the man who terrified you at Oakshott and who (you now clearly feel) deserved all that was coming to him. And I think the only way you found you could do this was by pushing the idea that Kim—the real Kim— had been destroyed by Mrs. Mayfield. You’ll remember I supported this theory. I supported it even though we don’t know for certain whether or not she was willing him to kill himself; all we do know is that in his weakened mental state he became obsessed with the lethal image of the balcony.”

  I made a huge effort to grasp what he was saying. “You mean you supported me because—”

  “—because it was your way of saying there were two Kims, and I believed this to be a genuine insight into what was going on. Let’s take the incident when he tore the cross from your neck. Was that the real Kim, who (as he told you) was disillusioned with Gnosticism and who (as he told me) was beginning to feel Christianity might have something to say to him? Or was it another Kim altogether? Was the man who tore off the cross a manifestation of Kim’s true personality, or was he manifesting the subpersonality which Mrs. Mayfield fostered and controlled, the subpersonality which expanded to such a size during those final scenes that it crushed the true personality to p
ieces?”

  There was a long silence.

  “If you want no religious service,” said Lewis at last, “then of course your wish should be respected. You’re the widow. But who is it who deserves no religious service? Mrs. Mayfield’s ‘Jake’? Or the real Kim who saw you as symbolising the escape which he wanted to make from her world?”

  All I could manage to say was: “You’re splitting hairs.”

  “No. Just pursuing the unvarnished truth.”

  I fought hard to maintain my equilibrium. “You knew him,” I said when I was sure I could keep my voice level. “What do you think he would have wanted?”

  “Well, we know what he wanted when he left hospital, don’t we? He wanted forgiveness. He loved you and was willing to embark on a very difficult confession because he wanted the marriage to go on.”

  “But he didn’t love me! He radically misunderstood the kind of person I really was!”

  “That’s true. But nevertheless he experienced a love which he believed was genuine, and this love made him long for forgiveness and reconciliation.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Love is the most powerful integrating and healing force on earth,” pursued Lewis, “and Kim believed not only that he loved you but that this love would prove the pathway to salvation. His beliefs were misdirected, but nevertheless he was still involved with a certain spiritual dynamic, and this was why he was so receptive to my visits. The dynamic—the spiritual cycle—consists of sin, repentance, forgiveness, redemption, resurrection and renewal. That’s the Christian pattern, and that was the pattern he was reaching for.”

  After several seconds spent groping for a reply I muttered: “But he still wasn’t a Christian.”

  “No, but real Christianity is about counting people in, not drawing a line to keep people out—as the Gnostics do when they declare their special saving knowledge is only available to a few. Carter, I’m not denying Kim had committed himself to a corrupt form of Gnosticism which had been designed by evil people for evil purposes. All I’m saying is that in the end he wanted to reject that and start again because after he met you what he wanted to believe in was the primacy of love and the need for forgiveness. Those two things point to a very different path to salvation—and when I say ‘salvation’ I mean integration and healing.”

  I tried to process this information, tried to make sense of it, tried not to feel that I was being led into a minefield where one false step might blow me to pieces.

  “Kim was on a journey,” said Lewis at last. “He was derailed in the end because the Powers were still in possession of a major section of his personality, and in the crunch he wasn’t integrated enough to withstand their overwhelming pressure to fragment, but I believe he was finally on his way from darkness into light. I’m not suggesting that there should be a full Christian burial service, but I think a brief acknowledgement of his spiritual struggle for a new life might not be entirely misguided.”

  I was unable to speak.

  “An opening sentence,” said Lewis. “A reading. The Lord’s Prayer. A silence of perhaps thirty seconds for private prayer. A blessing. The whole thing need take no more than five minutes.”

  I had a sudden picture of Kim. But it was not of the barracuda who had terrified and revolted me at Oakshott. It was of the playful dolphin who had been so happy with me on our honeymoon.

  Tears filled my eyes as Lewis said: “It would symbolise that the Powers never have the final word—and symbols are so important, always pointing beyond themselves to truths which aren’t easily expressed in words . . . What do you think, Carter? Could this perhaps be a more appropriate way forward?”

  I nodded and stumbled away.

  IX

  I allowed Nicholas and Alice to come with me to hear Lewis conduct the brief service at the crematorium. I realised eventually that I needed Alice, who had such a comforting personality, and I felt I could hardly tell Nicholas to get lost when he volunteered to accompany her. The only other person whom I allowed to attend this very private funeral was Gilbert Tucker. He phoned to ask if he could be present, though he did not say whether he was representing his brother or whether he was merely signalling the concern he had felt for me ever since I had wound up at his vicarage on the night of the melt-down.

  I found I was glad to see him. He reminded me of my unseen companion who had steered me through the darkness, although when I saw Gil again he seemed just another priest in uniform, just another clerical carer with well-honed professional skills.

  There was no sign of my unseen companion as we gathered in the chapel, but during the opening sentence I knew he had somehow slipped in because light began to stream through the darkened neural pathways of my brain.

  Lewis said, quoting St. Paul: “ ‘For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God . . .’ ”

  A wave of emotion overwhelmed me as I finally started to grieve.

  X

  I have no clear memory of the rest of the service but afterwards I managed to say to Gilbert Tucker: “Please try to explain to your brother that I thought I understood everything but now I realise I understand almost nothing, and while I sort out the mess I don’t want to hear him slagging off Kim as he did that other time. That’ll only make me more ripe for a head transplant than ever.”

  Gil said: “He realises that now,” and when he had given my hands a comforting clasp he added as if we were discussing some exotic item of food which had to be kept at the right temperature in the refrigerator: “Don’t worry about Eric. He’ll keep.”

  “Tell him the phoenix will eventually rise from the ashes,” I said impulsively, but afterwards I wished this sentence had remained unspoken.

  I knew the thought of another relationship still terrified me.

  XI

  It was noon when we arrived back at the Rectory. Normally Alice would have gone to the kitchen to prepare the informal weekday lunch which the Healing Centre’s staff were welcome to attend, but on that day the task had been delegated and she came upstairs to the flat with me instead.

  After I had fixed myself a vodka martini and she had poured herself a glass of wine we sat down together on the sofa. “Thanks, Alice,” I heard myself say. “Thanks for everything.” Then I started to guzzle the martini.

  When I came up for air Alice said cautiously: “Do you feel awful, not so awful or really and truly frightful?”

  “I’ve no idea, I’m too banjaxed to know. All I do know is that unless I dig up some answers to all the unanswered questions soon, I’m going to go nuts.”

  “Questions about Kim?”

  “Questions about everything. Lewis did help me by suggesting the monster at Oakshott was reflecting a malign subpersonality which was eclipsing Kim’s real self; that made me see that a funeral service for the Kim I’d loved was still possible, and as the funeral service was obviously . . . obviously—”

  “Obviously right,” said Alice.

  “—obviously right, yes, Lewis must have hit on some sort of truth. But what exactly was this truth he hit on? I mean, how does one explain what happened to Kim in medical and scientific terms?”

  “Can’t one just say Kim had a nervous breakdown and leave it at that?”

  “But ‘nervous breakdown’ isn’t a scientific term. It’s a metaphor.”

  “I don’t really understand about metaphors,” said Alice, “but surely, from a common-sense point of view, it’s all quite simple?”

  “Is it? But how does one explain someone like Mrs. Mayfield? How does one explain evil? And if God exists, why doesn’t he just zap the Powers and—but no, I can’t cope with God. All I know is that I’ve somehow got to stop myself being so frightened of repeating the experience with Kim that I wind up a hermit chained to a rock, and unless I understand what’s happened how can I guarantee there won’t be a rerun?
”

  “Well, if you did wind up chained to a rock, I bet some gorgeous St. George would soon ride along and rescue you!”

  “Sister, forget St. George! I couldn’t cope—I’d cling to my rock and scream at him to go away!”

  Alice sighed, but probably not at the thought of a sexy St. George rescuing a woman from a dead-end situation; her loyalty to that ditherer Nicholas was indestructible. With sympathy she said: “Well, of course, I’m just an ordinary person, not intellectual or anything, but the way I see it is this: Kim was damaged in his childhood and couldn’t heal himself. Mrs. Mayfield damaged him further because she enjoyed having power over people and didn’t care whether they got damaged or not. Kim’s damage had already made him sick, and because Mrs. Mayfield made the sickness worse he eventually killed himself. Why do you have to translate all that into scientific language?”

  “Because I must have the basic facts interpreted by someone qualified to give an opinion! Supposing I bought a very expensive car and it broke down soon afterwards. I couldn’t just say: ‘Oh, it broke down because it’s a lemon!’ I’d want to take it back to the garage and stand alongside the mechanic when he looked at the engine—I’d want to be told by the appropriate expert, using the appropriate technical language, exactly what had gone wrong.”

  “Well, I know I’d never understand what the mechanic said,” responded Alice, “so I’d just ask for the car to be repaired under the warranty.”

  “I envy you. But would you never want an explanation for why things go profoundly wrong?”

  “For evil, you mean? But evil just is! It’s like an elephant—difficult to describe but we all know it when we see it and there’s no point in asking why it exists because it just does.”

  “But we don’t all know evil when we see it,” I said at once. “Lots of very nice people in the 1930s thought Hitler was wonderful. And how do you explain Hitler?”