The Dinner Guest

by B P Walter

  The steady poisonous flow of anxiety was seeping through my body. That horrible, paranoid feeling you get when the walls are closing around you. They all know something, I thought to myself. Titus, Matthew, the Ashtons, even my mother. After everything I’d been through with Matthew, all the secrets that had been brought to the surface, there was still a vital ingredient I wasn’t quite seeing.

  ‘Charles, darling? Are you still there?’

  I took a left without indicating, causing a hoot of outrage from another driver. ‘I’m coming to yours now,’ I said.

  ‘No, Charles, really…’

  I cut the call. I’d see her in less than a minute, anyway.

  I managed to dial down my reckless driving as I came out onto the stately surroundings of Belgrave Square – too many Met police vans around for Fast and Furious antics – and before long I was slowing down as I arrived outside the pleasingly curved stretch of houses on Wilton Crescent. The door to my mother’s house opened before I’d even parked. She had her arms folded and although she didn’t look angry, exactly, she was evidently troubled in her controlled, fuss-free sort of way.

  ‘Charles, please do as I ask and go back home.’

  I stared at her. ‘How can you ask me that when Titus is inside, smashed out of his mind?’

  ‘He is not smashed out of his mind,’ she said, cutting me off. ‘He is a little upset at the moment, a tad worse for wear, but he’ll be fine before long and I request you give him the chance to be upset without becoming a meddlesome parent and making things worse. Even with the best of intentions.’

  Rage ignited the worry within me. ‘Meddlesome parent?’ I snapped. ‘Is that what you think I am? At least I’m there for him, living under the same roof. At least I haven’t swanned off to Belgravia and splashed out on some Regency palace all for myself.’

  I knew as soon as I’d finished that I had gone too far. Hurt flashed across my mother’s face, followed by a tightening that I had come to associate with her infrequent bursts of anger. She stepped onto the pavement so she was closer to me and said, ‘Charles, please pay me the compliment of presuming I know what I’m doing. Go home, go to work, just keep yourself occupied until I’ve had time to get things sorted. And stop shouting in the street, or you’ll disturb everyone at the High Commission of Singapore.’ She nodded to the house on her left. Then she turned on her heel and walked back inside and closed the front door.

  I stood motionless on the pavement for almost a full minute, then got back into the car. Every movement felt like a mountain of effort, as if my body had taken on rigor mortis. With fingers that felt numb and brittle, I switched on the engine and slowly turned out onto the road towards Piccadilly. If I’d known that the worst of that day was yet to come, I may not have even managed that.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Charlie

  The day before the murder

  The final part of that cold, unseasonably autumnal day in August would become one of the worst times in my life. Not the worst day of my life. That would follow on soon after.

  It began with me driving to The Ritz to get drunk. This was something I used to do during my later teens and early twenties; if life got too bothersome, I’d reach for the brandy or vodka, or if I was really desperate, whatever beer there was to hand. I had my car parked for me, settled myself in a corner of the Rizzoli Bar, and was sinking into a pit of rumination when my phone buzzed with an email. It was to my personal account, not my work account, otherwise I wouldn’t have paid it any notice. And the preview on the notification made my stomach lurch.

  FROM: Rupert Ashton, SUBJECT: Something important

  I unlocked the phone at once and accessed the message, almost knocking over my glass of brandy in my haste.

  I read Rupert’s words through once. Then again. It was a long email, and it took me a long time to allow the words to fully sink in. Then, afterwards, things started to get … well, to get dark.

  Dearest Charlie,

  * * *

  This is a very difficult email to write. In fact, it may well be one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. These past couple of years have tested me. I’ve truly started to appreciate what the words ‘stress’ and ‘anxiety’ actually mean after a lifetime of using the terms casually and without thought.

  * * *

  So. Where to begin? I should start where this whole situation began for me, and that was at the Old Bailey two years ago during the trial of Ernest Kellman, James Knight, and Peter Catton. I had spent the afternoon giving evidence about our time at Oxford. I won’t go into the details of that, as I’m sure you’re very familiar with the case and my connection to those involved. That in itself has caused me many a sleepless night, wondering if I should have realised something sooner, acted sooner, told someone of my suspicions. But I was weak. I ignored signs. I buried my head in the sand. And I promised myself I would never do that again. Which is one of the reasons why I can’t stay quiet any longer and why I’m writing you this email. My mother would advise me to keep out of business that doesn’t concern me, but because of our shared history, I feel this business does concern me. We’re all tied up in this. We’re all culpable. Except you. You’re the most innocent one out of all of us.

  * * *

  So, to come to the point: your husband and my sister, Elena, are having an affair. And I am so sorry to have to tell you this. On my day of giving evidence in court, I dropped in on her at her Knightsbridge flat. I had been very nervous about my court appearance and didn’t want to return to the Chester Square house alone. Elena was there, and so was Matthew. They were having sex in the dining room; I could see them as soon as I walked down the hallway. There was music playing – Vivaldi’s ‘Cessate, omai cessate’ – and they hadn’t heard me come in. I was about to leave the house immediately, since it’s rather awkward finding one’s sister having sex with her husband, but of course the man wasn’t her husband. When I saw Matthew’s face, I can’t describe to you the shock – although I fancy it must be a mere atom of the shock you must be feeling now, reading this. That is, of course, presuming you don’t know? In some ways, I’ve always thought ignorance is bliss. I know you, Charlie. I know you’re far from stupid. Even if you are not aware of what has been happening between Matthew and Elena, I expect you have been suspicious. Certain signs must have set off warning bells. I tried to tell you all this when I saw you at the weekend, but I didn’t get a chance.

  * * *

  I wish I could make the blow easier by telling you it was just the one time, one moment of madness for which Matthew must have suffered hours of guilt. But it wasn’t just the one time. It’s been going on for a while now, and, well, it’s happening now. Matthew is at Ashton Manor as we speak. I saw his car parked in one of the more secluded areas, where we keep the motors we don’t often use. I only went via the house to pick up some suits I left there at the weekend. I don’t know where you think he currently is, but it’s likely he’s lied to you.

  * * *

  Honesty was always at the heart of our relationship. It didn’t fall apart due to dishonesty, but instead because we could only ever be honest with each other. That may well be the better way to be, but it didn’t mitigate the pain of losing you. I’ve always liked Matthew and have always been happy that you’ve been happy. But I know how much you value the truth and the clarity it brings to a situation, and if I carried on keeping this secret, I fear it would stain the friendship we’ve managed to sustain over these years.

  * * *

  You probably get the sense that I’m tiptoeing around saying something here, so I’ll just come out and say it: I love you, Charlie. I always have and always will. I suspect difficult times may lie ahead for you, and I wanted to make it clear that whatever support you need, whether that be friendly advice, a shoulder to cry on, someone to whisk you away or simply help you forget about the pains of the day, I am here for you. I’d better stop there, because I fear this letter is teetering dangerously on the verge of becoming
poetry – or worse, song lyrics. But I mean what I say. Please consider it. Whatever you need, I am here.

  * * *

  With much love, always,

  * * *

  Rupert.

  I suppose one could say this moment was that important tipping point. The moment when a course of action is decided that will affect the lives of many for years to come. Was it at that point I decided to do what I did? I can’t be quite sure. When did I know I was capable of it? Was it when I got that email, basically giving me both a motive and a happy ever after? Although of course, if that were the case, wouldn’t it have been easier to divorce Matthew and walk off into the sunset with Rupert without the threat of prison hanging over me?

  Of course, it isn’t that clear cut.

  A perfect storm had to be created in order to get me to that point, and I was already being battered around by it while sitting in The Ritz, getting drunk on expensive glass after glass. But no, I didn’t pre-plan it, not in scrupulous detail or with any degree of criminal ingenuity. I just sat there and imagined it. Imagined all the ways I could hurt Matthew the way he had hurt me. It wasn’t that the love I had felt for him over the years had vanished; if anything that fuelled the violence of my imagination. After all, they say love and hate are closely related. And, by God, they are.

  It was Archie I ended up calling. There are some moments when you realise your best mate from school knows you better than anyone – even those you’re supposed to love. I slurred my words down the line, telling him that it was all over with Matthew. He drove down to The Ritz and was there within half an hour, not that time meant much to me by that point. He helped me stagger out of the bar, bundled me into his car, and drove me off to his house in Park Crescent.

  I woke up in a state of dizzy disorientation the next morning in one of his guest rooms amidst the cool, new-feeling sheets, and wearing a pair of Ralph Lauren Polo Sport tracksuit bottoms that weren’t mine. My brain was filled with hangover fog, and with a mounting sense of horror I remembered the revelations of the previous day. Rupert’s email, the rise in anger and hatred towards Matthew. My sense of hurt and betrayal was still raw within me, as if I’d just discovered a physical gaping wound on my body.

  I padded across the landing, barefoot and feeling a little chilly. I heard some noise coming from downstairs and before I could get to the final step I heard Archie’s voice.

  ‘That you, Charles?’ he called out.

  I went down into the hallway and found Archie sitting in the kitchen. ‘How are you?’ he said, looking uncertainly at me over the rim of his coffee. Without waiting for a response, he got up and poured me a cup from the machine. I took it from his outstretched hand and sat down at the table.

  ‘I’m … not sure.’ I took a sip of the warm, dark liquid, not properly tasting it.

  ‘Well, considering how out of it you were last night, I’d say that’s not as bad as things could be.’ He was still watching me intently, as if I might start shouting or crying.

  ‘You should look at your phone,’ he said, and got up and walked over to the kitchen counter.

  ‘My phone?’ I replied, puzzled.

  ‘Your clothes are being washed. You were sick on them. I put your phone on charge down here.’ He went to the end of the kitchen countertop and unplugged my iPhone. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t normally read your messages, but I couldn’t help notice one that popped up on the screen this morning.’

  With an unreadable expression, he passed me the phone, the movement causing the screen to light up. And I saw what he meant instantly.

  I’m coming home. Should be there by 7pm. We could have food in and talk about things? I could pick up some Ottolenghi? I love you.

  Matthew was coming home.

  Suddenly, the little safe-haven of Archie’s house felt under threat. The real world was going to come spilling in.

  ‘I don’t want to see him,’ I said.

  ‘So what are you going to do? Ignore the problem?’

  I noticed the breakfast pastries and fruit on the table and helped myself to a pear. I cut it up, thinking about my answer, trying to do a temperature test of my own feelings. You see, to some it may sound insane to say it, but even at that point I knew exactly what I needed to do. What I wanted to do was go back upstairs to Archie’s guest bedroom and spend the day pretending I didn’t have a husband, or an adopted teenage son who was acting out, or a mother who wasn’t being honest with me. But that was different to what I needed to do. And that, to me, was obvious.

  I was intelligent enough to know that most people wouldn’t be able to make such a mental leap. I also knew that it would be a mistake to tell Archie about my plan. Like so many others, he wouldn’t have appreciated the clear beauty in justice for betrayal. Corrective action for lies that have been told. I remember once Matthew looking through a copy of the Sunday Telegraph and remarking on a piece about a woman who had killed her cheating husband by driving off a cliff in a murder-suicide gone wrong. He died. She survived. And so did his lover, their mutual friend who was in the back of the car and able to tell the police about the argument that had unfolded and how the woman behind the wheel deliberately accelerated towards the cliff edge in an attempt to kill them all. Matthew had said that the woman who killed her husband can’t have truly loved him, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to inflict the risk of life-changing injuries or, as it turned out, death upon him. He could be so naïve sometimes. So I told him it was because she loved him so much that she was completely capable of doing so. Love was the vital ingredient. And when combined with betrayal, the resulting reaction can have the power of a nuclear bomb.

  ‘I won’t ignore him,’ I said, finally meeting Archie’s gaze.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked. His voice was still calm and free from fear or accusation. But there would be many times in the future when I would wonder if he knew then how all this would turn out. Because what he said next suggested he always had a good measure of me. And the type of person I was, or would one day become.

  ‘I would urge you, Charles, to pause before deciding to do anything substantial.’

  I frowned at him. ‘Substantial?’

  Archie held my gaze, then spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with great care. ‘I think we both know that you don’t react well to being betrayed. You don’t take kindly to being made a fool of. I wouldn’t want you, or your anger, to drive you to do something … irreversible.’

  We continued to look at each other, neither of us speaking for a long time.

  Then he said, ‘Charlie, I think we both know what I’m referring to.’

  I knew. Though I’d forgotten how well he knew me. How much I had let him see of me in the past, and how much that must be worrying him now. Archie was the only person I’d ever really spoken to about the thoughts I had when I was young. The thoughts I’d always had, if I’m honest. One night when we were both sixteen, he’d come over to spend the night in St George’s Square. I used to find the holidays without him rather tough. He was the best friend a guy could have at Eaton and we’d find every excuse to be in each other’s company when we weren’t at school – to the point where, when people heard that I was gay, they presumed Archie was my lover. This wasn’t true. There was nothing sexual at all about our close friendship, but there was a deep foundation of love that had never gone away. And because of this, that night in my bedroom when we were sixteen while my Dad was out at his club, no doubt blackmailing some government minister into creating another legal loophole to his benefit, I spoke to Archie candidly about my deepest secret. About how often my mind would turn to violent thoughts. A yearning for violence. For retribution to be meted out to those who wronged me.

  ‘When do you think about these things?’ he’d asked, turning to face me.

  ‘Every day,’ I replied. ‘When someone upsets me, when a teacher mocks me, when it’s clear someone I fancy doesn’t fancy me, when someone pushes past me rudely in the street…’ I remember his eyes l
ooking into mine as we lay together on my bed, a horror movie VHS playing in the background.

  ‘Tell me some of the things you think about,’ he said. He kept his tone calm and measured, but I could tell his interest had been piqued.

  ‘Just … hurting them. Kicking their teeth in. Stabbing them in the heart. Watching them bleed.’ His eyes widened just a jot at this but, credit to him, he didn’t even flinch.

  ‘Is this … a sex thing?’ Archie had asked, frowning a little. The suggestion of this hadn’t angered me – it just sort of baffled me.

  ‘No, not at all.’

  I could tell this slightly puzzled him. I think if it had been a ‘sex thing’ he’d have at least been able to chalk it up to sadism or a weird kink. But without that context, he wasn’t going to understand fully. I knew then and there that whilst I wouldn’t receive any judgement or criticism from Archie on the subject, I wasn’t going to get any answers. It was clear that he would never really appreciate the sense of completion, the sense of satisfying inevitability of imagining hurting people, and using this as a kind of weapon against others every day of my life. Although his next words had given me some inkling of a deeper disapproval: ‘Perhaps … don’t talk to anyone else about it though. Wouldn’t want them getting the wrong idea about you.’

  He gave me a small smile, but there was something else in his eyes that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Disappointment, perhaps? Or concern, maybe. I looked at his face for a few more seconds but there were no other clues, no other ticks of repulsion or fear, so I pulled my eyes away from him and turned back to the film we had been watching.