by Ben Elton
But it was too late. The Bug had foiled Jack’s plan, providing Polly with a tiny window of opportunity in which to defend her life. For as Jack turned back towards her Polly was already reaching up to the head of her bed; her finger was already on the panic button. Instantly as she pushed it the room was filled with the noise of jangling bells and outside the open door the stairwell began to glow a jarring intermittent red as the alarm light installed there began to flash.
Jack met Polly’s eye, a surprised look upon his face.
“It’s connected to the police station!” Polly shouted, having to raise her voice in order to make herself heard above the jangling of the bells. “They’ll be here in two minutes at this time of night.”
Jack stood, gun in hand, and for the first time that night he seemed at a loss.
“Go, Jack!” Polly shouted. “Run, get out now!”
But it was too late to run. Jack had killed a man; the bloodied corpse lay at his feet and the forces of the law were almost upon him. Even now he could hear a faint siren amidst the shrieking of the bells. They would be in the street in moments. There was no escape. Yes, he had killed Peter in self-defence, but there would still have to be a police investigation. Even if Polly stood by him, and there was no reason why she should, even if she kept his terrible threat to her life to herself, the whole story of their past must eventually come out. Then would come the suspicions and the whisperings. Why had he been in her flat that night? Why had he been carrying a gun? Despite what Jack had said to Polly, it was not common practice for American soldiers to go about London armed. At the very best, Jack’s career would end in pathetic and contemptible disgrace, and at worst he would be imprisoned for manslaughter. What a mess.
Downstairs, a shrill woman’s voice joined the chorus of complaint now ringing round the building. The whole house had been aroused.
“Run, Jack!” Polly repeated desperately. “Get out! Get out now!”
He loved her more in that moment than he had ever loved her. He had tried to kill her and yet still she cared for him. Such was the power of love, love which he had denied all his life, love which he had tried that night to murder. But he had failed and it was love not him that would survive.
The police were at the front door now. In a moment they would be in the house.
“I love you, Polly,” said Jack, “but I don’t deserve you and I do not deserve the trust of my country. I have failed in my duty and brought disgrace and dishonour upon everything I care for.”
Then, like a Roman general of old, Jack fell upon his sword. He raised his gun to his head and pulled the trigger. As his body fell towards her Polly tried to scream but found that she had no voice. All that she could do as he came to rest on the floor before her was silently mouth his name.
57
Nibs and her husband had made an uneasy peace. She would stand by him, even lie for him, and in return he had promised that this sordid little affair would be his last. He tried to kiss her to say thank you but she was not yet ready for that.
They had just ordered coffee when a knock came at the door.
“I said we weren’t to be disturbed,” Nibs’ husband said as his principal private secretary entered the room.
“I’m extremely sorry, Mr President, but the State Department felt that you should know this. I’m afraid that we have bad news from London. General Jack Kent seems to have shot himself. It looks like some kind of sex thing. He was in the apartment of an Englishwoman. Another man is dead also. We have no further details at present.”
The president and the first lady were horrified. They had both known Jack quite well. Nibs in particular knew Courtney Kent and could only imagine how she was feeling.
“I’ll call Courtney,” she said and left the president with his aides.
“Jack Kent of all people,” the great commander said. “We were going to propose him for chairman of the joint chiefs.”
The president was truly sorry to hear the news, but he was a politician and already he could see that from a personal point of view there was an upside to this tragedy. Jack’s suicide would be enormously newsworthy, particularly if it did turn out that there was a sexual angle to the case. Anything that diverted attention from the president’s own problems was to be welcomed.
“In the meantime there are practical considerations,” the president added. “This is going to hit the army hard. We need to fill this gap and quickly, and, for Christ’s sake, can we please try to find a clean pair of hands.”
A few days later, to his utter shock and abject terror, General Schultz, Jack’s blundering, indecisive colleague, whose anonymous career had shadowed Jack’s for so many years, was appointed chairman of the joint chiefs. He had turned out to be the only senior officer in the armed forces who had never done anything that anybody considered suspect. The reason for this being, of course, that General Schultz had never done anything.
Two years later Schultz’s name would be spoken of as a potential presidential candidate for exactly the same reason.
“It isn’t a case of who’s most qualified these days,” the Washington powerbrokers had wearily to admit. “It’s a case of who’s least likely to be disqualified.”
58
Despite the dreadful memories of that violent night, Polly decided to stay on in her flat. At first she had intended to move. The image of the Bug’s corpse bleeding on her floor was not a pleasant one, but in the end she decided that the Bug had not managed to drive her out while he was alive and she was not going to let him do so now that he was dead. Besides, there was the memory of Jack to consider. He had died in that flat, and despite the awfulness of what he had planned Polly wanted to be the keeper of that memory.
Over the weeks that followed the night of Jack’s return Polly tried to come to terms with what had happened to her. It was not an easy thing to do. Three men had died, and although she knew that none of their deaths was her fault she could not help but feel in some way responsible. The milkman weighed particularly upon Polly’s mind. He had died at the hands of a man who was obsessed with her. Even now Polly was the classic stalker’s victim, feeling guilty, taking the blame. Polly was in truth no more connected to or responsible for Peter’s madness than had been the poor milkman, but she felt that she was. She wrote to the milkman’s family saying how sorry she felt for what had happened and they wrote a polite but unfriendly letter back. She also wrote to the Bug’s mother, expressing her sympathy and thanking her for alerting the police when she did. Peter’s mother did not reply.
Then there was Jack, for whose memory there was to be no private grieving. His death and his past with Polly were now public property. What had remained so intensely private for so many years was now worldwide news. Both the American and British media bore down upon Stoke Newington like an invading army. The British were particularly excited; it is not often that a story comes along that is front-page in the US but has a genuine British connection. Polly could have made a fortune but instead she resolutely turned down every request for an interview. It all came out anyway. The press even tracked down Ziggy, who was living in a teepee in Anglesey. He told them what little he could remember in exchange for seven pints of cider and an ounce of rolling tobacco. In the end, of course, the furore died down, and the ringing and knocking at Polly’s door became less and less frequent until finally it stopped altogether and Polly was left alone.
Not surprisingly, Polly did not recover easily from the horror of that night. She often found herself weeping. Though fine at work, when she got home at night the sadness returned and she would lie on her bed and cry. Of course, she knew that in one spectacular way her life was better than it had been for years: the Bug was dead and he would never harm her again. But Jack was also dead and before he had died he had killed their love. The memory of his betrayal, which had haunted her for so long, was now made tiny by his second and more terrible rejection. He had tried to sacrifice her for his ambition and when he had failed he had sacrificed himself. P
olly’s love for him and his love for Polly had not been enough to save him and now she was truly alone.
She was alone on the evening when the phone rang.
Polly never picked up the phone directly. Despite the fact that she no longer felt in any danger she always let the answerphone stand as a barrier between her and callers. If nothing else it shielded her from having conversations with Telecom sales staff about their various incomprehensible discount schemes.
“Hello,” said Polly’s voice. “There’s no one here to take your call at the moment, but please leave a message after the tone. Thank you.”
Then Polly heard Jack.
She had been midway through a slice of toast, but her jaw froze in horror as those soft mellow American tones emanated from the machine.
“Hullo, this is a message for Polly. Polly Slade.”
Except it wasn’t Jack. It was only nearly Jack. This voice was a little deeper, sleepier, almost.
“Look, you don’t know me, Polly, but I know you, a little, at least I think I do. My name’s Harry, Harry Kent. I’m Jack’s brother. I found your number among his effects …”
Harry was not in London when he called, he was in his little home and workshop in Iowa, alone, like Polly. They talked for a very long time, and when the time came to hang up they found that they both had more that they wished to say. Harry asked if Polly felt it would be appropriate for him to come and visit her in London when he had finished the kitchen dresser on which he was currently working. Polly said that she felt it would be.
A week or so after that Polly was sitting alone in her flat, wondering why she felt so nervous, when the expected buzz came. Harry was at the door. She let him in and waited for him to climb the stairs. She was wearing her nicest dress.
Even through the little spyhole in her door Polly recognized Harry immediately. He was like Jack but different, thinner, she thought, leaner, and his hair was longer. Polly opened the door. The eyes were just the same; that same sardonic twinkle. He smiled. She knew that smile also. It was not the same as Jack’s, but similar. Perhaps Polly was fooling herself, but it seemed to her that it was kinder. She stepped back into her flat and let him in.
THE END
About the Author
Ben Elton is one of Britain’s most popular and successful comedians. In addition to his stand-up work, his television credits include The Young Ones, Blackadder and The Thin Blue Line. He has written three West End plays – Gasping, Silly Cow and Popcorn – and four previous bestselling novels – Stark, Gridlock, This Other Eden and Popcorn. Ben Elton is married and lives in London.