The Slow Death of Maxwell Carrick

by Jan Harvey

  ‘Carrick, old man, let’s have a talk, we can sort something out, let you in on it.’ I had paid no attention to Trevise, so his voice trespassed on my thoughts.

  ‘On what?’ I replied without regarding him, my eyes were fixed on her.

  ‘The money of course.’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘The sale of the house, of Lapston. We have it, in cash.’ It was her speaking but it was as if her voice was a fading echo from a time long gone.

  They say a red mist descends when a person is angry and I saw it, like gauze, before my eyes as I comprehended the words she had just spoken. The two of them stood to each side of me, Trevise with a pistol in his pocket I was certain of it, but all I could think was that they were ghouls.

  ‘So it was all planned?’ I said evenly, trying to act as calmly as I could. ‘All of it.’

  I was staring at Cécile but she could no longer look at me, instead she focussed her attention on Trevise as if she was willing him to speak. He threw the stub of his cigarette into the river where it floated for a second, a red spark lying impossibly on the surface of the water, before it was extinguished.

  ‘We didn’t bank on you,’ said Trevise. ‘Or your tenacity. We thought you would give up on it, go and live elsewhere, make life easy for us.’

  ‘And I almost did. I nearly got out of your hair, didn’t I?’

  Trevise had a steely look about him. ‘You made life very difficult for us.’

  ‘No, it was she who made life difficult,’ I asserted, raising my voice. ‘She has ruined everything.’ I was pointing at her, but still she couldn’t look at me. ‘What did you do to George? How did you prise Lapston from him?’

  ‘Don’t tell him, he doesn’t need to know,’ Trevise said sharply. ‘He can’t do anything now.’

  I pulled out my revolver, holding it at waist height. I had it levelled at her as I said, ‘You will tell me.’ The thing that surprised me was their mutual lack of reaction to my gun, they looked completely unmoved.

  ‘Very well,’ she said taking a step towards me, ‘but put down the gun.’

  ‘No, stay where you are,’ I said, ‘and start talking.’

  Her unwavering eyes were fixed on me above those perfect red lips, the fox stole, a rich burnt sienna, was caught in the dim light of the gas lamp. The details are still so sharp in my mind, every last second enhanced.

  ‘It was Alec’s idea. He told me about Henri and I made our meeting happen.’

  ‘You only knew him a few days.’

  ‘I did, but we did become friends in those few days.’

  ‘Not lovers.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And when he was arrested? You saw your chance, knowing the Gestapo would carry out the job of getting rid of him.’

  She nodded.

  ‘But they didn’t finish the job because the Americans arrived.’

  A barge slipped past us, a dim light at its prow, the slap of the waves against the riverbank alerting us to its proximity, the engine was all but a gentle hum.

  ‘So you were dicing with death, Henry’s death, yet you suddenly realised that he could still have been alive, you heard rumours, didn’t you? You were fearful of his return and what would you do then? It would have caused your filthy plot to fail, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘The war office had declared him missing in action,’ Trevise said coldly. ‘No one could say any different… I had reported it in.’

  It felt as if the ground had shifted underneath me, I swayed on my feet. This was deceit of the highest order, one comrade against another.

  ‘You bastard.’

  I fingered the trigger, the metal cold on my skin.

  ‘Fog of war, Carrick. You of all men know that.’

  As the words settled between us I felt the churn deep in my belly, Collins. I tried to keep focussed. ‘And George?’

  ‘George was the easiest part,’ said Cécile, there was a chill in her voice. ‘Easy to charm, malleable, stupid, and craving an heir for his failing estate.’

  ‘But he loved you,’ I said.

  ‘Everyone does,’ she replied icily. ‘It’s how everything happens. Trevise here knows that, you know it. I make sure it happens that way. And, make no mistake, I could have chosen you, Carrick, after all you’re the most attractive of them all. You have striking good looks and a guaranteed income with an inheritance to boot, but who wants a man who is so pitifully damaged? Who wants a madman to father a child, a man who collapses like a bent reed every time he feels troubled? Not me. I went for the easiest target, I always do.’

  I saw Trevise flinch. He looked uneasy, he was uncertain of her I could tell and now I could see his hand was in his coat pocket, resting on his gun, but I cared not. I neither cared if I lived or died, all I wanted was the truth from them.

  ‘What did you do to him?’

  ‘I saw his weakness, his Achilles’ heel. He was in love with someone else, tortured by it, living a complete lie.’

  That threw me. I was at a loss.

  ‘Who?’ I could think of no one, a stupid idea passed through my mind about Fillie and whilst I was still trying to make my scrambling mind make sense of it, Cécile said the name I least expected, or ever could have expected.

  87

  The problem was I couldn’t give him an answer, not reflexively. I was just staring at him and he had his eyes fixed on mine. I knew he could not bear it, I could see the glistening of wet tears in the corner of his eyes. He looked so old sitting there and so completely wounded.

  I remembered a documentary I’d seen years before about wolves and the devastating close up of the pack leader wounded in a fight. He had fought the young usurper valiantly but he had been defeated, tooth and claw and had limped away, stricken with pain. The commentator, probably Attenborough, told us he would go away to die. That’s how Steve looked.

  ‘Come here,’ I said, holding out my arms to him, and he knelt down beside me, pressing himself into my body. I rested my chin on the top of his head and held him tightly.

  ‘I thought I’d lost you, I told Sarah I thought we were finished, and as I said the words I found the thought unbearable.’ He was pressed against me, supported by my body. ‘And I know I’m not a good husband,’ he said sitting back against the sofa, on the floor. ‘I’m not exciting and I’m grumpy and I don’t send you bloody flowers, not even from the dog, but Martha, I do love you so much.’

  I put my arms around his neck and hugged his head to mine.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know.’

  88

  ‘Grant.’

  I swallowed hard.

  ‘Grant.’ Cécile repeated with a snide curl of her lip.

  ‘I…’

  ‘You never knew,’ she said with a self-satisfied smile, a victorious challenging sneer that said, “I win.” ‘Grant and George were lovers for years, no one knew about it, but I found out.’ She nodded towards Trevise. ‘He knew about George, didn’t you?’

  Trevise looked down at his feet, ashamed.

  I felt my heart race. Images raced through my mind, but not one element of them, not one smile or gesture or furtive look had given anything away to me. I realised I had let the gun drop to my side. The images of George and Grant were swimming in my mind, blending together then tearing apart like ripped paper, then I remembered London and that sordid little man in that dirty shop, a front. Grant had gone in there. I felt sick.

  ‘A man is easy to bribe when you find his weakness,’ she continued. ‘Lord of the Manor, a member of parliament in the making and a queer, it only takes a short time of being acquainted with a man to find the weakness, if you search hard enough.’

  I felt the bile rise in me, the nasty bitter taste of it in my gullet. I was sickened by all of it, but I needed an advantage at that point. I would not let George down.

 
‘There was another man, in Oxford.’ As I spoke, she was steadfastly holding my gaze, but Trevise turned from looking at me to her. ‘Or did I imagine it, Cécile?’

  ‘A man?’ Trevise’s face betrayed his surprise. He was a sap, like the rest of us; she had used him just as much as me, or George.

  ‘Oh yes, Trevise, another link in her chain of deceit. You haven’t been as clever as you think.’ I took out the note from my pocket and handed it to him. My eyes never left hers as we spoke. ‘The poor fool who works for Lewis, wasn’t it, Cécile? Your escort and organised by you, Trevise. Was he called Ducas?’

  She shook her head. I was showing her my hand, what I had found out, and she knew I had been in her apartment.

  ‘You all have your uses,’ she said flatly. ‘It is how women have survived the war, it takes nerve and cunning.’

  ‘You were never married you two, were you?’ I said it not knowing if it were true or not. I fully suspected that it was a smoke screen and ill conceived lie to put me off the scent, to make Trevise look innocent. Neither of them replied. He was staring at the piece of paper in disbelief. I turned away. I was looking down on the water, a ragged line of debris was being dragged down the river’s edge, a child’s toy, a doll was lying amongst it faded, dirty, grey.

  George and Grant it was unthinkable.

  A click of heels and Cécile was suddenly standing beside me, her lips at my ear, her scent overwhelming me. ‘You can still have me,’ she whispered. ‘You and I. Alec is of no importance to me, he simply made things happen. Think of it, you and I, with the money from Lapston. Just my half is enough to make something of ourselves, it would improve your health; there is a life after all of this!’ Her lips were almost brushing my cheek. ‘We can go to Italy, India, South Africa, Cape Town. Carrick, think of the jacaranda trees, purple flowers, we can see them together. You and I, you have nothing to lose.’

  The mist before my eyes had thickened into a wall of fog, and the water in the Seine took on another life, a swirling scarlet like a river of blood. Henry’s blood, Alice’s blood, George’s blood. I turned sharply and thrust my gun into her belly.

  There was a tremendous bang, a reverberation in my head, and the feeling that the world was suddenly a tunnel swallowing me up. She looked shocked, then her eyes bulged. She was there for only a second and then she was gone, her neck spattered in blood; was it my blood? Collins. I didn’t know.

  She fell away from me, backwards into the Seine. A surge of colourless water closed over her and the swirling mass of it engulfed her. It seemed to happen in slow motion, her fox fur dragged behind staying on the surface for a moment, and the glassy eyes of the animal in its wretched face were the last thing I saw. Then it was gone.

  Trevise had shot her. My finger was still curled around the trigger at the point of firing, but he had beaten me too it.

  ‘Best that way, old chap,’ he said matter-of-factly as he slotted his gun into his belt. ‘You would be committing murder whereas, for me, it’s all part of the job.’

  I was incredulous. ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘Simply that I was meeting her for this very reason, to end matters.’

  I glanced at the river and then back at her murderer. ‘Why? I…’

  ‘We never found out for certain but we think she betrayed our side, some suggested she had lured Henry to her apartment, set a trap, but we can’t be sure. Either way, this morning I woke up to the fact that I can’t trust the woman.’

  ‘But her plan, you assisted her, you reported his death. The money…’

  ‘Outcomes, dear boy, outcomes. War changes everything, everybody. Before I met Cécile I had nothing, now I have something, a future. A word here, a detail there was all it took and…’

  ‘And making sure Henry was dead and stayed dead.’

  ‘It was highly unlikely he was alive, you had to know what they did to them. The fact he was found elsewhere was purely timing, fate. His death opened up an opportunity that’s all, you can’t blame a chap for seizing the day.’

  ‘You sold yourself to the devil,’ I told him through gritted teeth.

  ‘You may see it that way, old man, but I see it differently. I have given everything to this bloody fight. My very existence has been erased along with my scruples and my ability to feel pain, real or emotional. I have another plan for my life, my new French self, I’m going to live a long way away and try, with every fibre of my being, to forget that these.’ He held up his hands as if in supplication, ‘that these can snap a human neck in seconds.’

  With that, and with a last look into my eyes, he turned away from me and walked along the quay. I knew he half expected me to shoot him, but I was past the stage where I could. As I watched, the shock and horror of it all taking root in me, he vanished into the night.

  89

  Carrick was in a small lounge, sitting in an uncomfortable looking armchair, a fire safety label dangling from the headrest. There was patterned rug at his feet and a glass-fronted bookcase next to him with no key in the lock. It occurred to me that hundreds of lives had passed through this small lounge with its fire-regulated furniture and unopened bookcases, and not one had left a trace of personality. It was little more than a soulless waiting room.

  The French doors opened onto a faded lawn and beyond a squabble of blue tits was flying backwards and forwards to a birdfeeder, tiny wings thrumming.

  Inca pushed up against Carrick and nudged his hand, but he was in a deep sleep. I watched him as he snored softly, and noticed that the heavy grief in his face had receded and there were the traces of a younger man; a handsome face, high cheekbones, smooth skin.

  ‘Why did you give me your journals to read? Why did you say we were so much alike?’ I asked him. I wanted so much to know, but his was head tilted towards the crevice of his chest, he wasn’t hearing me.

  My thoughts were interrupted when a woman stepped through the doors from the garden. She was slim, with short dark hair and dressed sharply in expensive jeans and a crisp, white blouse. I guessed she was about my age, perhaps a bit younger.

  ‘Oh, hello, I didn’t see you there,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve just arrived,’ I replied as Inca left Carrick’s side and waggled over to her.

  ‘Hello there. You’re lovely, aren’t you?’ The lady squatted down to stroke Inca’s round head. ‘I do love labs.’

  ‘That’s Inca,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, now that make’s sense. If this is Inca, you’ll be the “nice lady” who owns her. I’ve heard a lot about Inca but not too much about you. I’m afraid I don’t even know your name!’

  I smiled. ‘Martha,’ I told her, extending my hand towards her.

  ‘Alice,’ she replied as we shook hands. Her touch was light but her eyes were warm, a smile in them.

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘Yes, Alice Carrick. This is my father.’

  ‘Oh.’ I was shocked because I had immediately assumed she was a health professional working at the home, I hadn’t imagined that Carrick had relatives. ‘I didn’t realise…’

  ‘He didn’t mention me?’

  ‘We have barely talked. It’s so nice to meet you, he didn’t write anything about his life after the war.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve read the journals…’ she said, spotting the one I was carrying in my left hand. ‘My parents separated and so it’s been a struggle to maintain a father-daughter relationship. Despite appearances, strictly speaking I’m Indian! I was born in Bombay. My father left England after the war and went to stay with his father, but that all went pear-shaped. He found a job and he met my mother working in the same office. She was what they call a “Deb” but she resented being paired off with an aristo, so she applied for a job with the Foreign Office. Anyway, they had me, but it didn’t last because of…’ she nodded towards the book, ‘because of his illness. You know all about it, it’s called Post
Traumatic Stress Disorder now but of course they didn’t know that then, they just called it shellshock.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He was put into therapy. They made him write those journals, the idea was to expunge everything and throw them away afterwards but, sneaky as he was, he managed to keep them. His doctors thought he made most of it up.’

  ‘Really?’ I was taken aback.

  ‘Yes, they didn’t believe all that espionage and that woman, Roussell. They said she was a figment of his imagination.’

  ‘But the house? She owned the house, she took it off George.’

  ‘That’s what his journals say, but you know sometimes it’s easier to cover your tracks with a fantasy version of history than face the actual truth. The family was on its knees, almost bankrupt. They probably lost the house that way, it would explain George’s… demise.’ Alice was looking at her father. ‘The war shattered that family, they were all killed by it in one way or another, and my father has suffered the most, but his has been a slow death.’

  Carrick moved and arched his back slightly then his eyes opened. He took a moment to gather his thoughts before he focussed on the dog.

  ‘Inca, my lovely girl!’ He was beaming. ‘My lovely girl.’ Inca bent almost in two, wagging. ‘Good girl,’ he said as she licked his gnarled hand.

  ‘Papa,’ Alice leaned forward. ‘Martha’s come to visit you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The nice lady, Inca’s mum.’

  When Carrick turned his head and saw me, his face visibly brightened. ‘Did you read it?’

  I reached over and touched his arm. ‘I did.’

  Alice was watching and she may have felt a little uncomfortable, I wasn’t sure, but I was invading her space and I was, after all, a complete stranger. ‘I am very grateful to you for sharing it with me.’

  ‘I’ll go and get us some coffees,’ Alice offered. ‘Leave you two to chat a while.’