The Slow Death of Maxwell Carrick

by Jan Harvey

  I looked into his eyes, there was no deceit that I could see in them, he seemed honest enough. He was working on hearsay, her words. Her lies.

  ‘You say they had known each other for only a few days?’

  ‘Yes, sir, she had another man, English too.’

  ‘Trevise?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. I never met him.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where she is now?’

  ‘Yes, she’s living with a friend who is ill, in Saint-Michel, just along from here.’

  83

  Steve had forgiven me. We promised we would never talk about it again, even though I had things I would have liked to have said. If he thought I was going to broach the subject, he would find something to occupy himself or suddenly take Inca for a walk, even if it was bucketing down.

  I felt absolutely lost, as if I was in uncharted waters and I simply didn’t know where I was from one day to the next. Worst of all, I no longer felt safe, as if the ground might open and swallow me up at any moment.

  Then came the day of the summer fête. The village green was alive with sound and music. Small children were running around, faces adorned with ice cream moustaches and amid the noise and colours, there were people dressed up as animals. A giraffe was moving amongst the crowd, its long neck was sticking up comically above the mass of people. Camilla Crocket was running the tombola and the dog walker, the one I saw back in the spring, was buying tickets. Her Pomeranian was tugging away from her, trying to reach a discarded hamburger. Angela was serving cakes and next to her was Simon chatting and laughing with people as he took the money.

  ‘Martha, darlin’!’ Angela had caught sight of me and was motioning for me to come over to her stall. ‘How are you?’ Simon saw me but looked away, the turn of the shoulder obvious, cold. ‘You do know I missed you at our meetings, don’t you?’ Angela continued. ‘You brought a lot of kudos to our project. I didn’t want to drop you, you know that, don’t you?’ I nodded and mumbled something in reply. ‘Only I was out-voted. Maybe you could come for coffee some day. I’d like to get to know you a little better.’

  I was about to say how nice it would be to see her when Steve tapped my elbow. ‘There’s no need to buy any cake,’ he said humourlessly. ‘I think you’ve had enough of that lately.’ He nodded towards my stomach.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ I stepped back and stared him down, horrified by what he’d said, and in front of Angela. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He turned away and began rifling through a box of graphic novels on the bookstand.

  ‘Ooh, that was sharp,’ said Angela. ‘Are you okay honey?’

  I was dreadfully embarrassed. What had he meant? I looked down at my tummy. I wasn’t overweight. It was so completely out of character for Steve to say something so cutting that I was having trouble taking it in. I tugged on his sleeve, as he fingered the spines of old books set out in large crates.

  ‘What did that mean?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That jibe about me not needing cake.’

  ‘Oh that. It was just a joke.’ He didn’t even look at me as he spoke. But it wasn’t a joke, it was a barbed comment, something that was happening more and more often. They were insidious, none too subtle digs at me and I had just chosen to ignore them and not react.

  I waited for him to move around to the other side of the bookstall and then I turned away and walked towards the church and the quiet refuge it offered, but why I imagined it would be empty, I do not know. In fact, it was full and busy with people looking at the cascading flower arrangements designed by a famous florist who had recently moved into the village. People were gazing in awe at a massive display in reds and blues that dominated the chancel.

  A small group of people were singing godly songs, shaking tambourines and clapping, whilst an earnest bespectacled man accompanied them on guitar. Other people were dotted around the pews, some of them munching their way through tea and cake.

  I saw that the small doorway to the secret room was open and a handwritten sign said: “Open Today Only, Careful Steep Steps.” I slipped inside to perch on the cold stone treads, which meant I was out of sight behind the tapestry. When the shadow fell across the doorway I thought it was Steve, but instead it was Simon.

  ‘Are you all right, Martha?’ He was using his kindly voice, the tea and scones voice.

  ‘No,’ I said bitterly. ‘I’m not, Simon, and frankly it’s all thanks to you.’

  ‘What did I do?’

  I studied his face for a moment, the thinning hair, his pale brown eyes looked perplexed, but he was faking it.

  ‘Making comments to my husband; being judgmental. You could have just kept yourself to yourself and stayed out of my business.’

  Simon looked bruised and his expression clouded over, as if I’d really hurt him. ‘I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out.’ The tambourines were getting louder and louder and the audience, scant as it was on the front pews, sang along and then clapped in time to the music. ‘Go up a minute, I’ll explain where it’s a bit quieter.’ He nodded towards the monk’s room.

  ‘No, it makes me feel claustrophobic.’

  ‘I want to show you something, something I found that will help you.’

  I took a deep breath and went up the two or three remaining steps. I was bristling for a fight and I was determined to warn him off, to tell him to stay out of my way. The room was airless, the window closed tight shut. Someone had laid a monk’s habit and a bible on the bed as props for visitors to see.

  ‘What is it you want to show me? What do you want to say?’

  ‘You know, Martha,’ he said as he reached the top of the staircase behind me. ‘I actually did you a favour… well, more your husband if the truth be told.’

  I was incredulous. ‘What on earth–?’

  ‘I know you aren’t a churchgoer, but for all your lack of belief you cannot deny that it really is a sin to commit adultery.’ He levelled an accusing look at me, a cold expression framing his face. ‘This is the problem, you people have no moral compass.’

  ‘We people?’ My mouth fell open.

  He picked up the bible. ‘You’ll find it in various parts of the good book and, of course, it is one of the Ten Commandments.’

  ‘Simon, I–’ I moved carefully towards the steps because as he reached for the bible he left a space for me to squeeze past him to the door. He flipped open the book, the gold-edged pages reminding me fleetingly of Carrick’s journal.

  ‘Here for example, Leviticus 20:10. “And the man that commits adultery with another man’s wife, even he that commits adultery with his neighbour’s wife, the adulterer and the adulteress shall surely be put to death.”’ Simon turned his eyes to me, the whites showing beneath the auburn pupils. ‘So, you see, much as it behoves me to ignore what you did from, shall we say a more modern social standpoint, from a biblical perspective, that’s another story.’

  ‘I really think–’ I moved to go past him and down the stairs. I could hear songs being sung in rounds: ‘In my heart there rings a melody… In my heart there rings…’ I began to feel the constriction in my throat, a rise of heat in my neck.

  ‘I just wanted you to know that God is there for you. You only need to knock and he shall answer… ’

  ‘Simon, I’d like to go now, please let me pass.’ I felt the air thinning around us. I needed to go back downstairs.

  ‘If you ever want to talk, do come and see me, won’t you? That’s what I wanted to say and that goes for your husband too. It’s him I feel for.’

  I half pushed, half squeezed past him, I felt my breast press against his arm and his smile, by return, was deeply unsettling, but he gave no quarter.

  ‘My wife was an adulterer, Martha. She left me to pick up the pieces.’

  I could feel his breath hot and salty on my cheek. I placed my
foot on the top tread of the stairs with its solid reassuring stone, but it was only half the depth of a normal staircase.

  As I began to descend, my head dizzy and my heart thumping against my rib cage, I felt Simon move behind me and then there was a sudden sharp jolt in the small of my back and I fell straight down the steps.

  My ankle, the one that was still lightly strapped up, buckled beneath me as I hit the floor.

  84

  I was on the Rue Danton, close to the Fontaine Saint-Michel. I had positioned myself diagonally across the street and was observing a very fine Haussmann building. I was hidden from view under the awning of a closed down shop and in front of a fading ghost sign that advertised Cinzano. A tower of discarded crates gave me the cover I needed, but already the strength in me was sapped.

  I had been standing for what seemed like hours and the tension in my body was making me feel rigid with cold. There was also a hunger growling in the pit of my belly and the ever present darkened corners of my mind were weakening me, but I had resolve. I would bring this to an end and it would be today.

  I could have knocked on the front door of the building and forced my way inside, but I didn’t know who else was in there and the waiter had told me that someone in there was unwell.

  It was just after eight o’clock when the door opened and above her, at that moment, a shutter was unfastened and it caught my attention. A small hand, possibly that of a child, fiddled with the catch then withdrew inside. When I looked back at Cécile, she had turned in my direction and was walking straight towards me. I leaned back, aware that the slats in the crates allowed for her to see movement, but her eyes were fixed resolutely ahead. She was so close I could smell the soft scent of her perfume as, heels clicking on the pavement, she passed by, heading for the river. She was wearing the smart blue suit and the fox stole. A man passing on a bicycle gave her a surreptitious glance; they were all of them moths to her flame.

  When she was a safe distance away, I followed, moving in and out of shadowed doorways or blending with other pedestrians whenever possible. She never once looked over her shoulder. At the bridge she stopped to light a cigarette and taking a long drag on it she exhaled a curl of blue-grey smoke into the evening sky.

  A majestic sunset had spread wide across the horizon and the windows of the elegant buildings on the opposite bank reflected the sun in brightest gold, a Tintoretto backdrop to enhance her singular beauty.

  I observed her for some five minutes, taking cover behind an advertising kiosk like a spy. Throwing the stub of the cigarette to the pavement, she ground it under her shoe then, after rummaging in her handbag, opened her compact. She applied lipstick, a harsh red, and then smoothed down her hair. In the peach glow of the sunset, she looked exquisite. Then she walked a few yards before turning sharp right, down some steps, to the quayside.

  I followed. It was difficult to see over the wide parapet, but I saw her make her way under the bridge where she stopped, and I got the impression that she was talking to someone who was not visible from my position. She had her back to the deep cold waters of the river as the first vestiges of dusk were lying thick upon the air, the heavy mottled light that deceives the eye.

  As I watched a man’s hand held out a cigarette, but she was refusing it. I saw the sparks of a struck match light up her face, making her seem ethereal and phantom-like, and then I strained, on my toes, to see more and in doing so, caught her eye.

  I pulled back immediately and walked away knowing that, in the dimming light and at that distance, it would have been hard to make out my identity. I stopped at a pillar and waited a few moments, then walked back, retracing my steps and onto the bridge itself. From there I could see her, and from my new position, I could see him too: Trevise.

  85

  I was sitting on the couch, my leg resting on the arm, elevated, as the doctor had advised me. The whole thing had been embarrassing, a church full of people saw me fall and then everyone was fussing and talking about calling an ambulance. When I had tried to stand up the person whose hand was under my elbow, taking the weight, was Simon.

  ‘Let us through, I’m afraid Martha here has taken a tumble.’

  ‘I’ve always said that those steps are dangerous,’ said a small beady-eyed woman.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Pratly. We’ll see to this.’ A tall, mop haired man with a deep voice had taken over. ‘Thank you, Simon, I’m the first-aider here. I’ll take care of this.’

  Simon was squeezing my elbow, maintaining contact with me, controlling things.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure, Gordon, only it was rather a nasty fall and Martha hurt her ankle recently, that’s probably why it gave way so easily.’ He left his hand on my back – a little too long – as Gordon took over, leading me to a nearby pew.

  ‘Thanks, Simon. Someone’s gone for Dr Braun, could everyone move along please, give this lady some space.’ I could see Simon hovering at the edge of the crowd, a sea of eyes were watching me, and the beady-eyed lady was holding my hand with warm fingers.

  ‘There there, dear,’ she said. ‘Does it hurt?’

  I nodded as I watched Simon head towards the door of the church. My throat was still constricted, my head dizzy but I saw him clearly as he slipped through the archway. He glanced over his shoulder, stopped for the briefest moment, and smiled.

  Later, on the couch, as the clock in the living room struck six, the whole stupid thing seemed days away, yet it had been only hours. I was pretty certain that shock had taken me over and I couldn’t think straight and my ankle was throbbing mercilessly.

  As I went over and over it, I could see that horrible smile on Simon’s face and something else, had I felt the pressure of a push in my back? I was confused. Was it possible that he’d pushed me? Surely I imagined it. Did I tell Steve? Most of all I wanted to tell Rory; he would have sorted it out.

  ‘Here you go.’ Steve placed a tray of tea next to me and he’d arranged some biscuits on a plate too. It was okay for me to have biscuits, but no cake I thought to myself.

  ‘Thank you.’ I shifted my position, wincing as I did so. My foot was throbbing under the bag of frozen peas that were slowly defrosting, and thin rivulets of icy water were now running down my leg.

  ‘What were you doing up there?’ Steve sat back heavily in his armchair. ‘I mean you don’t even like tight spaces, do you.’

  ‘Simon asked me to go up, he said he wanted to show me something.’

  ‘Oh that old trick, mucky sod.’

  ‘Steve–’

  ‘What? He’s known for it, always trying it on with women.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘No, Gordon told me.’

  ‘Gordon who?’

  ‘The tall bloke, runs the fête, nice chap. He said Simon’s always skating on the thin ice between chatting women up and getting a bloody nose from their husbands.’

  ‘I think he’s a bit more dangerous than that,’ I said weakly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Steve looked incredulous.

  ‘He told me he doesn’t like women who commit…’ the word nearly stuck in my throat, ‘…adultery.’

  Steve snorted. ‘Who does?’ He was levelling a stare at me. ‘I feel very much the same.’

  I was snookered. I’d walked right into the trap. It had been set a week earlier, the empty snare, the conversation waiting to be had.

  ‘You’re never going to let it go, are you.’

  ‘Probably not.’ He reached across to the coffee table and opened the large book on National Trust properties that I had bought him for Christmas.

  ‘I’m never going to be forgiven, am I,’ I said and, all at once, I felt a rage rise inside me, a frustration, the feeling of being caught between two lives, the one I had now and the one I could have had.

  Steve slammed the book shut with a loud thud.

  ‘No, I don’t thi
nk you are, Martha,’ he snapped. ‘You see, what you don’t know is that I have questions going round my head all the time, every single bloody day: What would have happened if…; Why did she shag him?; What did I do to deserve that?’

  I closed my eyes and pressed my lips together. This was a raw unreal pain in me, something I had never experienced before, and my head seemed to go into lock down, everything inside it a thick fog. ‘I’m so sorry…’ I whispered. I was going to say more, but I couldn’t verbalise it.

  ‘And then there’s the question that gnaws away at my mind night and day.’ He leaned forward so that his eyes were level with mine.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  He closed his eyes, a tremor on his bottom lip, it was so unlike him.

  ‘I keep wondering which one of us you wanted to be drowned.’

  86

  ‘Carrick!’ She looked astonished as if I had caught her completely unawares, her eyebrows arched, eyes wide beneath them. ‘What a surprise.’

  Trevise stood in the darkness with his back to the wall, his red hair a soft grey in the light of the flickering gas lamp on the wall above us.

  ‘Cécile, how strange to find you here,’ I said calmly. ‘And with you, Alec. I thought you said she had, what were the words you used, “run off’.’’

  Neither of them reacted. Trevise drew on his cigarette and breathed out the thick smoke from his nose, a heavy cheap tobacco: Gauloise. She spoke first.

  ‘Carrick, I can–’

  ‘Can what? Explain? Oh Cécile, that’s exactly what you are going to do. I want to know everything, every sordid little detail of it.’

  She dipped her eyes and, for one tiny second, I felt that whatever she said I could forgive her, that haunting beauty, the pale skin, but I told myself that she was a dream, an image and no more. I realised right at that moment that most of who she was I had created in my mind.