As property owner and host of this gathering, he felt a duty to stay until all guests depart or take to their tents. But it’s dark now, and Margaret, Stefan, Solara, and Ulysses have long gone home, and now it comes to him that he’s suddenly alone, and he doesn’t have a flashlight.
The sky is clear but moonless and the sole source of light is a bonfire, but it sizzles out as a dark, ghostly form douses it from a pail of water. Jeremiah, a final visitation, putting out the last light . . .
Arthur senses the form advancing on him. Its silence feels menacing. “Hello? Who goes there?” A strained effort at humour: “Friend or foe?”
A husky, familiar voice at his ear. “Friend,” Taba says. “Your best friend. Your friend in need.”
Chapter 27: Rivie
1
Monday, October 14
The bad news on this day of Thanksgiving, Dear Journal, is that you are reaching the end, you will be stumbling over the finish line as soon as I type the magic numerals 3 and 0. The good news is I have an agent — she has interest and is batting numbers around. Much editing will have to be done, of course, and much lawyering, because some people may think their reputations were slighted.
I have to thank the Deputy Warden here at GVI for her encouragement of my literary endeavours. I’m supposed to be working in the library, placing books in the stacks, that sort of thing, but they gave me a nook of an office and an old computer with LibreOffice and no internet.
And I’d like to thank my housemate in the next room, Miki Upshaw, for putting up with my constant bitching and scritching and scratching on my notepad. In return I don’t complain about her off-key renditions of hillbilly love songs. We along with six others share a cottage, as they call it — it’s more like a cheap motel with kitchen facilities. But there’s a workshop and a garden and there are courses to take and friends to make. My Indigenous sisters have a firepit and a sweat lodge into which I have been welcomed.
I have got through four months of my two years. Egotistically, it’s been tolerable, because I get to enjoy a reputation as a martyr. But to be frank, it’s a drag: the uniformity, the routines, the counts, the sense of being constantly watched, the sadness, the crying, the fascism of it all. Nancy Faulk’s office has been bombarding the federal parole office about getting me out early. They’re collecting affidavits.
And though I’m eager to split from GVI, I needed the downtime — I accomplished a lot by not going out to meetings and demonstrations and not getting shithouse with Lucy. Also, I’ve been admitted to law school at Queen’s, and I’ve already missed over a month. When it became known around here that I nailed my LSAT, I got enlisted as a jailhouse lawyer. I’ve helped draft so many complaints and affidavits you’d think this joint would want to get rid of me.
Meanwhile, Dear Journal, let me update your prospective readers as to the various hanging threads. Chemican’s SLAPP suit against us has gone moribund, and it looks like the whole damn company is on the rims. Nancy’s class-action on behalf of the victims of Dover-Wilson Syndrome proceeds apace — she’s hoping for a settlement fast, before they go bankrupt.
Nancy visits often. Her thing with Doc was just that: a thing, a fling. Apparently he caught some kind of virus from her, and that did it. Anyway, he moved back to Montreal. But he’s twice been in to see me, and dropped off a copy of his enviro-political book, which is getting attention on reviews pages.
Arthur writes me long, funny letters, and I write him long, funny letters. Margaret Blake writes softer, thoughtful letters. Why is this smart, heroic leader retiring?
Who does not write is Chase D’Amato, so I’ve been literally written off. But it was never going to work. We’re tuned to different vibrations. I crave the city, the human theatre, the games, the struggle and bustle. He craves none of that. He craves the wild. According to Nancy he’s no longer at risk: the cops can’t make him, all they’ve got are useless fingerprints. I wonder if he knows . . .
Not a whisper from Howie Griffin, my alternate candidate for male lead. I’ve decided he’s just a bullshit artist.
One day my prince will come.
The gang often visit, separately and in clumps, Lucy most often. Occasionally with Ray, who has finally got off meditation and is back to medication, his normal drugged state.
Mom and Dad have been down twice. They were lovely, and proud of their daughter, but I forbade them from coming more often — it’s not sustainable, too many hours to Kitchener, too many miles. I will be in Golden Valley in due course.
Dr. Ariana Van Doorn came to see me when she was in Guelph to give a speech. That was nice. Constable Louella popped in a couple of times when she was here on business, interviewing prisoners, following up leads. She has written a support letter for my early parole.
As to the rest of the supporting cast: Sooky-Sue is now Mrs. Dewilliger-James the Second. She and Dick Two got married over the objections of Dick One, who had checked her out. His wedding gift was a pink slip to his son and a one-way passage for two to the Turks and Caicos to manage his property down there. This is according to Lucy.
Abbie Lee-Yeung apparently had a full-blown breakdown, though according to her parents she has merely taken a holiday out of the country. My heart is with her wherever she is. Obsession can be a terrible thing.
It can also be sick and dangerous. Ask Donald Stumpit, my personal terrorizer. He’s doing both hands.
Who else? Those seem all the characters who were important to this memoir. So, okay, that’s the way I’m writing it. I’m being called away, so this is a final word from your unreliable narrator. Save. Back up. Close.
2
Monday, October 14
“Visitor, Rivie!” the corrections official (i.e., guard) yells from the library doorway. Odd — I wasn’t expecting anyone. She takes me not to the regular visiting area but to a private interview room, the kind probation officers use.
Setting down his coffee mug, rising to welcome me, wearing a September tan, about fifteen kilos lighter than when last seen, is my arresting officer, Jake Maguire.
I go, “I’m not saying anything until I see my lawyer.”
He looks confused at first, then grunts out a laugh, remembering my mantra from our interview. A little over a year ago. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Same.”
“They treating you okay?”
“Like royalty.”
“Seriously. I know the warden real good. Off the record, okay?”
“Sure, totally. They treat me fine. I’m regarded as a high-value inmate. It helps that I’m white and college educated and therefore privileged.”
“Right. Nobody can figure out what a nice girl like you is doing in a place like this.” He thrusts a coffee mug at me, pours from his Thermos. “Ground the beans myself. Top shelf, but I don’t know if they’re ethical enough for you.”
“How’s retirement, Jake? Must be working wonders, you look great.”
“Sonia has put me on a low-carb diet. I owe everything to her.”
“Including your life.” The kiss that returned him from the brink.
He seems to need to contemplate that moment awhile. Then shrugs. “You’re supposed to be in law school, aren’t you?”
I sip at the coffee. “Tons better than the local dishwater. Yeah, I’m doing what I can by correspondence until I get paroled.”
“Let’s talk about that. Off the record, Rivie, you got a raw deal. Somebody had to take a dive so the state could save face. You were the diver. Anyway, the game is a little changed now. Azra is going to withdraw his notices of appeal. That’ll get you out faster.”
I resist hugging this good news bear because that would embarrass him. “Is that what brings you here?”
“Yeah, I’m here to interview you. And then I’m going to testify before the parole board so we can get your ass up to Kingston, to your classes. Though God knows
we don’t need another smartass lawyer gumming up the system. Anyway, I got friends on the board from when I was on duty. Sharing-drinks-and-laughs friends. They got a temporary absence program, I’ll take a shot at that first. Sixty days max, and then we can apply for another sixty, and by then early parole should kick in.”
“This is great, Jake.” Also puzzling. “Why are you doing it?”
“I’m doing it because the people you got supporting you — I’ve seen their affidavits — are a bunch of socialists and greenies and liberal hacks. You need me for balance. In the course of this interview you got to tell me Sarnia was a one-off and won’t ever happen again. I don’t ask you to say you regret it, because that would be too much.”
“Okay, I have no intention of committing any future criminal acts.”
“Don’t grin. Just say it with a straight face. Give me leverage to help you.”
I repeat my line with credible emphasis, then ask, “What’s the real reason you’re doing this, Jake?”
“I told you. You had it rough. It was sickening how the trolls crawled after you like sewer rats. You went through shit with that Stumpit.”
“Did you ever start wondering if we were right? About neonics? The insect extinction? Our extinction?”
“I think you sold Gaylene. I shifted your way a bit when I learned neonics were nicotine-based. It’s a thing I have. But that has nothing to do with why I’m here.”
There’s something else driving this big gesture. I stare him down. He splays his hands, as if finally allowing himself to open up. “You dames, you and Lucy Wales, you could’ve made my life a shitstorm in hell. You could’ve smeared me with the kind of shit that never washes off. You could’ve broken Sonia’s heart. You did an honourable thing.” He takes a deep breath. “Never mind, let’s talk about how we get you out of here.”
“I’m all ears.”
But he’s hung up on this issue, his good name was stained. “Gaylene and me weren’t doing anything, she fell asleep on me.”
“Hey, breaking news, your wife knows that. They were laughing about it.”
Still, he looks morose. “Azra still thinks we did. You believe me, don’t you?”
“Always, Jake. Always believe.”
Acknowledgements
Dr. Mark Winston, professor of biological science at Simon Fraser University (known to his many admirers as the bee guru), tirelessly vetted the manuscript at various stages before finally giving me a passing grade — after I weeded through hundreds of studies and articles about the pesticides that are ravaging this planet’s pollinators. Recommended reading: Bee Time: Lessons from the Hive, which won Mark a Governor General’s Literary Award for non-fiction.
It has been decades since I practised criminal law, and I cannot find words enough to express thanks to Peter Copeland, a highly regarded Toronto trial lawyer, for updating me on current criminal law and the practice of it in the Ontario courts. Despite my ineffective protests, he regularly sent me limping back to my computer to restructure my courtroom scenes: pretrial issues, trial tactics, questions of law. He also provided many insights into the psyche of Toronto, its history, its places, its people.
My granddaughter, Rachel Woroner, a talented Toronto filmmaker, also helped me with the streets, neighbourhoods, and eccentricities of her city of birth. As well, she picked up some stray sexisms and culturally inappropriate usages which, she counselled, are not in the vocabulary of progressive millennials.
I shared several creative highs with my pal of forty years, Brian Brett — poet, activist, raconteur, bestselling author of Tuco and Trauma Farm. He was the fomenter of several comedic riffs and twists, and helped sculpt a couple of oddball characters. Rockin’ Ray Wozniak is especially grateful for his efforts.
My beloved life companion, Jan Kirkby, professional biologist and dedicated conservationist, blue-pencilled her way through many, various drafts in her role as my editor-in-chief. The very existence of this work is due to her urgings that I compose a novel that takes on the agrochemical giants’ wilfully blind efforts to poison our ecosphere.
I am hugely indebted to my longtime friend Jay Clarke, who authors hair-raising thrillers under the nom de guerre of Michael Slade, for his steely-eyed focus in copy-editing the final draft. He spotted an embarrassing abundance of typos and time-and-date errata that had escaped less vigilant eyes. My publisher’s editorial staff refers to him, with awe, as the Wizard of Flaws.
Peggy Gwillim, recently retired from Toronto’s Superior Court Registry, kindly escorted me into Court 6-1, while empty, so I could take photographs as an aide-mémoire.
Pender Island’s Judy Walker, a dear friend and a talented artist, gave liberally of her time to conceptualize ideas for the cover illustration.
About the Author
After careers as a journalist, criminal lawyer, and political activist, William Deverell turned to fiction and on his first effort won the $50,000 Seal First Novel Award. Since then, he has earned multiple prizes for his 20 published novels, including the Dashiell Hammett Prize for literary excellence in crime writing in North America, two Crime Writers of Canada Awards (formerly the Arthur Ellis Award)for best Canadian novel, and two runners-up for the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour. He holds two honorary Doctor of Letters degrees. He lives in Pender Island, B.C.
Copyright
Copyright © William Deverell, 2020
Published by ECW Press
665 Gerrard Street East
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4M 1Y2
416-694-3348 / [email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Cover design: David A. Gee
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Stung : an Arthur Beauchamp novel / William Deverell.
Names: Deverell, William, 1937- author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200382446
Canadiana (ebook) 20200382497
ISBN 978-1-77041-595-9 (Hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-77305-712-5 (PDF)
ISBN 978-177305-711-8 (ePub)
ISBN 978-1-77305-713-2 (Kindle)
Classification: LCC PS8557.E8775 S78 2021 DDC C813/.54—dc23
The publication of Stung has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts and is funded in part by the Government of Canada. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. Ce livre est financé en partie par le gouvernement du Canada. We acknowledge the support of the Ontario Arts Council (OAC), an agency of the Government of Ontario, which last year funded 1,965 individual artists and 1,152 organizations in 197 communities across Ontario for a total of $51.9 million. We also acknowledge the the support of the Government of Ontario through Ontario Creates.
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