CHAPTER TWENTY
Why me? It was a question that crept in whenever more urgent ones subsided, as they fleetingly did. I mean, seriously, why did it have to be me who was landed with all this? What had I done to deserve it? I certainly hadn’t sought it. Trying to lead an obscure and feckless life isn’t normally considered a way of volunteering to tackle the consequences of the highest of high crimes and misdemeanours. Talk about the wrong place at the wrong time (not to mention the wrong choice – the disastrous choice – of friend). I don’t normally tend to self-pity. But I was embracing it now in a big way. As Les had once said to me when I’d failed yet again to draw a placed horse in the Wheatsheaf Grand National sweepstake, ‘Some people get all the luck, Lance. Which means some people never get any.’
Swapping bar-rail wisdom with Les would have suited me rather well that night. Instead, I spent it closeted in damp and chilly Penfrith, trying to hold the nerves of Win, Mil and Howard together (as well as mine) while we waited for what I was only marginally better equipped than they were to anticipate.
Win alone of the three had a clear grasp of the situation we were in. She listened in silence as I explained why putting our trust in Ventress made sense – why, in fact, there was nothing else we could do. ‘The police can’t protect you from a man like Townley, Win. Only a man like Ventress can. He knows what he’s doing. He really is our best hope.’
‘We can’t leave here,’ she said when I’d finished, as if proclaiming an axiom of their existence. ‘If trouble must come in Rupert’s wake, then we must meet it, though I can hardly believe Townley means to kill us all.’
‘I can hardly believe otherwise.’
‘You know the man. You must be right.’
‘I’m sorry, Win. I really am.’
‘You’ve no need to be. It’s our wrongs you’re caught up in, not us in yours. Townley killed Rupert, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why wouldn’t I harbour the man who promises to kill Townley? The Old Testament records the ways of our hearts in this, Lancelot. An eye for an eye is a fine balance. I shall speak to Mil and make Howard understand that he’s to keep to his room. Then you can bring Mr Ventress in.’
Howard, then, was despatched to his bedroom and told to stay upstairs. Mil consented to whatever Win thought best, as was her habit, even when – as now – she probably didn’t really understand what her consent encompassed. She was still numb with the shock of learning that Rupe, her secret son, was dead. These new events scarcely registered. She looked at me, blinking rapidly, and muttered, ‘These are dark days, Lance.’ (Which was as acute an assessment as any.) She didn’t speak to Ventress when he came in, acknowledging his courteous ‘Evening, ma’am,’ with a nod. Then, after fetching some blankets for the pair of us – we were destined to sleep as best we could in the sitting room – she took herself off to bed.
‘You’ll not have to mind her, Mr Ventress,’ said Win. ‘We’re unused to visitors.’
‘Especially visitors of my colour and calling, ma’am, hey? Don’t worry. I’ll cause you no more bother than I have to.’
‘You have a gun?’ The directness of the question took me for one aback.
‘I do.’
‘And you’re expert in its use?’
‘I’ve brought no testimonials with me, ma’am. But my services are much in demand. That’s because those services are efficient and reliable.’
‘Good. What do you want us to do?’
‘Nothing. Stay in the house. Upstairs as much as possible. Wait. I’ll do the rest.’
‘How long will it be?’
‘Not as long as it’ll seem. Are you a patient person?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your brother and sister?’
‘Less so. But I can manage them.’
‘And I can manage Townley. OK?’
Win thought for a moment. The word wasn’t a normal component of her vocabulary, but she eventually decided that nothing else would do. ‘OK,’ she emphatically announced.
Win made us cocoa (the supposedly soothing effects of which seemed strangely absent). Then she went to bed, leaving Ventress and me to the fusty delights of the sitting room. My cocoa was reinforced by then with a slug of Johnnie Walker. I offered Ventress some, but he declined on professional grounds.
‘I don’t touch the juice when I’m working, Lance. A steady hand and a clear head are my sword and shield.’
‘I thought you said he wouldn’t come tonight.’
‘He won’t. But I’m already in training for when he does.’
‘And we just stay put until then?’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘My parents live within walking distance. Do you think—’
‘No.’
‘I could persuade them to go and stay with my sister in Cardiff.’
‘Could you really?’ (It was more doubtful than Ventress might have imagined. If I told my father what was going on – what was really going on – he’d be likelier to call the police than take refuge with Diane and Brian.) ‘Townley’s not interested in them, Lance. They’re in no danger. But telling them they might be could put us at a real disadvantage. If Townley smelled a rat, we’ll find ourselves in the sewer. Everything, but everything, has to appear totally normal. The Alders keeping themselves to themselves fits the bill. That’s why I can spring this trap on him. But it requires them and you to lie low and quiet. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Try to relax.’
‘Easy for you to say.’
‘Trust me. I know what I’m doing.’
‘So does Townley.’
‘He’s old. And rusty. I have the edge on him, believe me. Thirty-seven years ago it would have been different. But this isn’t thirty-seven years ago.’
‘How much do you know about what happened then?’
‘Only what I’ve told you.’
‘But it was a conspiracy.’
‘If that’s what you want to call it. You push too far in a certain direction in American politics, you get pushed back. It happened before – McCarthyism was all about sidelining advocates of withdrawal from Korea. It’s happened since – Watergate pulled the plug on Nixon just after he started cosying up to Brezhnev and Chairman Mao. As for Kennedy, well, we know for a fact he was planning to pull out of Vietnam. And we know for another fact that the plan got reversed before he was cold in his grave. Conspiracy – or the system? Take your pick. But remember: even if Townley had given in to Rupe’s demands and gone public, the shutters would still have come down on the story at some point. There’s always a cut-off. You can never shine a light to the centre of power. That isn’t how it works.’
‘How does it work?’
‘Like you see, Lance. Just like you see. What happens here changes nothing. Except for you and me and the Alders. And Townley. We’ll have closure, one way or the other. But out there, in the world, it’ll never happen. The conspiracy theorists will go on analysing the Zapruder film frame by frame by frame, looking ever closer, until all they see is a blur. The denial merchants will go on arguing that all the coincidences and contradictions and flat-out impossibilities add up to zero. Nothing will change. Not a goddam thing. Nothing will ever change.’
‘Rupe thought he could change things.’
‘Yuh. And where’s he now?’
‘You don’t have a very optimistic world view, do you, Gus?’
‘I sure do.’ He grinned. ‘It’s called the survivalist world view. And I’ll bet it’ll be yours too – when this is over.’
Ventress took the armchair, assuring me he’d catnap through the night and be roused by any suspicious noises. ‘I sleep light, Lance, and hear like an owl. Which means you can sleep easy. And hear nothing till morning.’
The doors were locked, the windows fastened and I was happy to take Ventress’s razor-sharp reactions on trust. But still his restful prognosis didn’t quite do the trick. The lumpiness of the Alders’ sofa wasn’t really the problem (though in its own right it was a problem). I was simply too anxious, my thoughts too crowded with wishes and maybes, for a good night’s sleep to be a realistic option.
I must have nodded off at some point, though, because I found myself back in the Wheatsheaf, where only a dream could take me. I was standing at the bar, drinking in companionable silence while Les polished the pumps and whistled ‘Oh What a Beautiful Morning’ out of tune, when a figure suddenly appeared next to me. It was Rupe. ‘I’m looking for Lance Bradley,’ he said to Les. ‘Have you seen him?’ ‘No,’ Les replied. ‘He never comes in any more.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ I said. ‘I’m standing right here.’ But neither of them heard me. Neither of them saw me. To them, I didn’t exist. ‘It’s me,’ I shouted. ‘For God’s sake—’
‘Nightmare?’ enquired Ventress from the other side of the darkened room as I jolted awake. ‘It sure sounded like one.’
‘Christ, yes. Sorry. Was I talking in my sleep?’
‘Not to make any sense of.’
‘That’s something, then. What time is it?’
‘Just gone five. It’ll start getting light in a couple of hours.’
‘What happens then?’
‘We have breakfast, Lance.’
As it turned out, we never did have breakfast. I lapsed back into an anxious doze, until Ventress woke me with the weight of his hand on my shoulder. Grey twilight was seeping through the curtains behind him, but a tension in his stance immediately told me that he hadn’t come over to ask whether I wanted tea or coffee to start the day.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing major. It’s the loony brother. He came down to the kitchen a couple of minutes ago. He hasn’t gone back.’
‘Win told him to stay upstairs.’
‘Seems he’s not so obedient as she thinks. He’s probably just raiding the refrigerator. Why don’t you go check? He’s likely to take serious fright if I creep up on him.’
‘OK.’ I struggled up, put my shoes on and headed out into the hall. The kitchen door was closed. There was no light shining around it. As I approached, I heard a squeaking, rattling noise from the other side. What the hell was Howard up to? I grabbed the knob and pushed the door open.
Just in time to see him scrambling out through the open lower half of the window next to the range. The back door was locked, the key lodged in the sitting room. But that obviously hadn’t stopped him. He was leaving, bound for God knows where – and God knows why. ‘Howard,’ I shouted. ‘Wait.’
He glanced back at me, but it was too dark to see the expression on his face. And wait he did not. He crouched for a fraction of a second on the sill, then jumped out onto the path skirting the house.
I ran to the window and leaned out. ‘Howard?’ I called. His shadowy figure moved to my left. As I twisted round it disappeared from view beyond the corner of the house. Guessing that he was heading for the lane, I doubled back to the sitting room, reckoning it would be quicker to get the key and open the front door than go through the window after him.
Ventress had already made the same calculation. He was unlocking the front door as I entered the hall. ‘We need to cut him off, Lance,’ he said. ‘Solitary dawn excursions aren’t in the game plan.’ He pulled the door open. ‘I’ll cover you.’
With the ambiguous implications of that last phrase swirling in my thoughts, I rushed out onto the doorstep. The rhododendrons rustled ahead of me. A block of shadows moved. There he was, pushing something towards the lane. Then I heard the chain-wheel of a bicycle revolving and realized what he was pushing. ‘Stop, Howard. I have to talk to you.’
Too late. He was on the bike, pedalling hard, when I reached the lane. I ran after him and started to gain, then the gearing kicked in and he sped ahead, vanishing into the dark overhang of the trees further along the lane. I stopped, panting for breath, and noticed for the first time how hard it was raining. I was already drenched. I listened for a moment, but Howard was out of hearing as well as sight by now. I turned and hurried back to the house.
The front door opened as I approached. Ventress stood back to let me enter, then closed it behind me. The landing light was on and by its stark gleam I saw Win standing at the foot of the stairs. ‘Did he take his bike, Lancelot?’ she said at once.
‘Yeh.’
‘He keeps it in the lean-to, next to the logs. I ought to have brought it indoors.’
‘Are you saying you anticipated this, ma’am?’ There was a hint of irritation in Ventress’s voice.
‘No. But perhaps I should have done. I didn’t tell him Rupert was dead, but if he eavesdropped on us last night . . .’
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘I can’t tell. He cycles all around when the mood takes him. He has his favourites, of course, but—’
‘What are his favourites, Win?’ I put in.
‘Oh . . . well, there’s . . . Ashcott Heath.’
‘Wilderness Farm way, you mean?’
Win’s head drooped. ‘Yes.’
‘We need to pick him up, Lance,’ said Ventress. ‘Take the car and bring him back. Any way you have to.’
‘I should go with you,’ said Win. ‘He’ll listen to me.’
Ventress sighed. ‘Of all the cockamamie . . .’
‘We have time on our side, Gus,’ I reasoned. ‘You said so yourself.’
‘All right. Take her along. But don’t be all morning about it. And try not to attract any attention.’
‘It’s pouring with rain and barely light. There’ll be nobody out to pay us any attention.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right.’ He took the car keys out of his pocket and tossed them to me. ‘Now, get moving.’
Howard had ridden west along Hopper Lane, which was certainly consistent with Wilderness Farm being his destination. I was confident we’d be able to overhaul him in the car before he even got as far as the Bridgwater road, though Win clearly didn’t share my confidence. ‘He knows all sorts of short cuts and back tracks. You won’t be able to drive the route he’ll take.’
It was pretty soon obvious that she was right. There was no sign of him along Brooks Road, or out on the A39, where early workday traffic was steadily building. If Howard had taken to field paths and secret ways, all we could do was drive to Wilderness and wait for him to turn up.
‘They farm pigs there now,’ said Win as we pressed on through the rain and slowly thinning murk. ‘It’s not a bit like it was.’
‘Why does Howard go there, then?’
‘Changed or not, the past is all he has.’
Some of the roadside fields were under water. There were ponds forming on others and the rhynes were brimming. We headed north from Ashcott along the Meare road, past sodden orchards and peat diggings and the invisible waymarkers of Howard’s childhood (and of Rupe’s, and of mine). We crossed the South Drain and the abandoned route of the S and D. To our right had once stood the platform where Howard took his unsuspecting snapshot of Stephen Townley. There was a sense in my mind of that single, trivial event only now coming full circle, only now revealing what its consequences were bound to be.
I pulled over at the end of the lane that led to Wilderness Farm. The farm buildings I recalled and the piggeries I didn’t were visible beyond the straggling hedge. The rain sheeted down from a bruised, sulking sky. It was no morning to be out – certainly not on a bike.
‘How much does Howard understand, Win?’ I asked. ‘I mean, is it that he simply can’t communicate? Or is there nothing to communicate in the first place? I never was sure about that.’
‘Howard can’t take in new events – or remember new people. But his memories before the accident are clear. So, he knows you as Rupert’s friend. And he knows this as the place where Peter Dalton died.’
‘Does that mean he’d recognize Stephen Townley?’
‘He’d know who Townley was. Whether he’d recognize him I can’t say. How much has Townley changed?’
‘As much as people do, in thirty-seven years.’
‘It’s doubtful, then. But if Howard heard us talking about Townley . . .’
‘He’d have known who we were referring to?’
Win nodded. ‘Oh yes. I think so.’
Twenty minutes slowly passed. The sky grudgingly lightened. But the rain didn’t. And there was still no sign of Howard.
I was about to peer for the umpteenth time into the rain-swept distance, when Win suddenly grasped my arm. ‘Something’s happened,’ she said.
I turned to look at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Something’s happened to Howard. I can feel it.’
‘Feel it? like you did with Rupe?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, where? Where has it happened?’
‘I don’t know. I only know it has.’
‘Where else could he have gone?’
‘I don’t know.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I’m sure it would be somewhere connected with what’s happened.’
‘And where might that be?’
‘Well, if he was listening to us, he’ll have heard us speak of Peter and Mil . . . and Mother . . . and Father.’ Win’s eyes widened with alarm. ‘He might have gone to Cow Bridge. Where he found Father.’
I started the car.
‘That was a November day too.’
I drove north to Meare, then south-east along the B road to Glastonbury. The traffic was heavier now and in Glastonbury the local version of the rush hour was in progress. The bypass looked to be pretty snarled, so I dodged through the side-streets and took the back way round the Abbey to the Butleigh road.
It was less than half a mile from the edge of town to Cow Bridge. I could see its humped span ahead as I accelerated along the straight, flat road. Then Win gasped. ‘There’s his bike.’ She pointed, and I saw it too, propped against the right-hand parapet. It was a bike, certainly, and I was ready to back Win’s judgement as to whose it was.
I pulled over just short of the bridge and started to get out, only to recoil smartly as a lorry sped by. Win had already jumped out on her side. I watched as she dodged between the traffic in her haste to reach the bike.
By the time I caught up with her, she was leaning on the parapet scanning the brown, swollen course of the Brue as it swept westwards towards Clyce Hole and Pomparles Bridge, where the A39 crossed the river.
‘He’s gone,’ she said, without looking round at me.
‘What?’
‘The river’s taken him. As it took Father.’
‘You can’t know that.’ Couldn’t she? Win knew Howard better than I did. And if she was right there’d be nothing to see of him. The Brue, normally so placid, was a surging torrent. ‘He’s probably just gone for a walk.’
‘No. I sensed the same with Rupert. It was true then and it’s true now. Howard’s lost to us.’
‘We can drive round to Pomparles and see if he’s walking that way.’ It didn’t sound convincing even to me. There was more water than grass visible on the riverside fields. He’d be wading, not walking. Unless, of course, he’d already drowned. From where he’d left the bike, directly above the middle of the stream, it would have been a short jump into a long hereafter for any but the strongest of swimmers. And as far as I knew Howard couldn’t swim at all. ‘Win—’
‘I must go back to Penfrith and tell Mil.’ She turned away from the river and I saw the frozen certainty on her face. ‘There’s just the two of us left now.’
There was no reasoning with Win in her present mood. She was convinced beyond the reach of argument that her brother was dead. We went back to the car and drove towards Street. What would happen when we reached Penfrith I couldn’t summon the strength of mind to imagine. We could hardly continue to lie low in such circumstances. But what else were we to do? Ventress’s trap would be sprung before it was properly set if we contacted the police. And the police were the last people I wanted to see. Yet I couldn’t just abandon Howard to whatever fate – watery or otherwise – had overtaken him. I had to do something.
What that something should be only came to me when we drove back into Street past Crispin School (where Rupe and I had spent a sizeable chunk of our teens together) and headed down the Somerton road. ‘Why are you stopping?’ challenged Win as I pulled into the lay-by next to the call-box a few hundred yards further on. I didn’t bother to answer.
I dialled 999 and asked for the police. ‘I think a man may have fallen into the Brue near Cow Bridge, on the Butleigh road south of Glastonbury. The river’s in spate and—’
‘We know the state of the river, sir.’
‘Right. Well, you need to search the banks west of the bridge in case—’
‘Could I have your name, sir?’
‘My name doesn’t matter. This man could be drowning.’
‘Did you actually see him fall in, sir?’
‘Just look for him, will you? He’s a bit soft in the head. Accident-prone. He needs help.’
‘You know him, then, do you, sir?’
‘Just do something, for God’s sake.’
‘Where are you—’
‘It’s no good,’ said Win when I got back into the car. ‘Howard’s beyond saving.’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘I do. It’s plain to me now. When he realized Rupert was dead, he decided to go to Cow Bridge and end it. Like I told you, his memories of those days are clear.’ (Were clear, she should have said, by her own logic, but I didn’t point that out.) ‘He knows what he did – and what it led to. There, most of all.’
‘There?’
‘At Cow Bridge. Where Father died. Howard won’t have forgotten his guilt.’
‘Howard’s guilt? What are you talking about?’
‘Not Just his. Mil’s too. And mine, for letting the lie stand. But Howard felt it worst.’ Her words came slowly, almost dreamily. ‘He felt everything worst.’ (And now the past tense had crept in.)
‘What do you mean, Win?’
‘I should have told Rupert the truth long ago. Then none of this would have happened. Now Howard’s gone too, it can’t hurt either of them. Rupert was his son, Lancelot. Howard’s son, by his own sister.’
At first, I couldn’t grasp what she’d said. Then, when I did, I couldn’t believe it. And my disbelief must have been clear for her to see.
‘Mil set her cap at Peter Dalton, but he didn’t look twice at her. Howard was jealous even so. And not straight in his thoughts from childhood. His feelings ran away with him. He forced himself on her. Mil told me how it had been when she admitted to me that she was carrying his child. But what was she to do? Brand her brother the worst of monsters, when he was only really a butter-brained booby who couldn’t control himself? She told Mother and Father Peter had got her with child because Peter was dead by then and couldn’t deny it. She bought the china cat she claimed he’d given her from a gewgaw stall at Glastonbury market. She only said he’d brought it back from Japan because his mother had once told her he’d been over there and the cat had Japanese writing on its base. It seemed to me at the time that it was better to blame Peter than have the truth destroy our family. But I was wrong. There was to be destruction enough anyway. After Mother had taken Mil away to Bournemouth, Howard grew anxious and remorseful. Eventually, he confessed what he’d done to Father. I could never tell Father a direct lie. When he asked me what I knew, I told him. I never spoke to him again. That was the night before he drowned. Thirty-seven years ago, almost to the day.’
I stared at the rainwater coursing down the windscreen. And then I laughed. It was funny, in its way, though God knows I didn’t feel amused. In looking for his father’s murderer, Rupe had got the wrong man. Not the wrong murderer, of course, but the wrong father.
‘There’s nothing to laugh at, Lancelot.’
‘Isn’t there? Would you prefer me to go in for a spot of wailing and gnashing of teeth? Let me just check this with you, Win. Your mother told Rupe that Peter Dalton was his father because she thought he had a right to know. But what she told him was actually a lie cooked up by you and Mil to protect Howard.’
‘To protect all of us.’
‘You didn’t do a very good job, then, did you? Your father drowned himself and now you seem to think Howard’s done the same. Rupe’s dead as well. And you and Mil – along with me, incidentally – are running scared from a ruthless killer. Do you know why? I mean, really why? Because the fall guy for Mil’s pregnancy just happened to be the partner in crime of someone who just happened to be planning to assassinate the President of the United States of America. And get away with it. Let’s not forget that last point. Because he means to go on getting away with it. Which means doing away with you and Mil and me. Isn’t that great? Isn’t that wonderful? Doesn’t that just make your heart sing?’
Win stared at me with a mixture of horror and distaste. Since I’d not previously specified the secret of secrets Townley was trying to keep the lid on, this was, I suppose, the moment when she finally understood the enormity of that little lie she and Mil had decided to tell, back in the summer of 1963, before Rupe and I had even been born. But she said nothing. Not a word. Perhaps, after all, there was nothing left for her to say.
I started the car and pulled out into the traffic.
Quite what I was going to say to Ventress – quite what I was going to suggest we do about Howard’s disappearance – I still had no idea when I parked the car in Hopper Lane, on the same patch of verge I’d driven it away from an hour or so earlier. The rain was still sheeting down, but neither Win nor I hurried as we made our way along to Penfrith, despite the urgency we ought to have been gripped by. For me, the fear and the wondering were all gone. In their place a fatalistic lethargy had settled on my thoughts. I was only moving in the direction I was because, so far, nothing had stopped me. As for Win, I couldn’t even summon the curiosity to consider what she was thinking.
I opened the front door and she followed me in. I’d vaguely expected Ventress to be waiting for us in the hall, but he wasn’t there. Nor was Mil. ‘Gus?’ I called. There was no answer. ‘Mil?’ Still none. I walked along to the kitchen and pushed the door open.
And there was Ventress, spreadeagled on the floor, with a slack look of surprise on his face and a neat, round bullet-hole in the dead centre of his forehead. There was blood on the flagged floor beneath his head and a pool of what looked like black coffee, spilt from a smashed cup that lay next to his left hand, his index finger still crooked in the handle. There was no sign of his gun. Then I noticed the cracks radiating from a hole in one of the panes of the window next to the range, at about his standing height. The unhelpful thought came into my mind that he might as well have had a nip of Johnnie Walker in his cocoa after all.
Win was at my shoulder, staring like me at Ventress’s corpse. ‘Where’s Mil?’ she murmured, close to my ear.
‘Upstairs.’
The voice had come from behind us. We turned to see Stephen Townley standing in the hall, halfway between us and the front door, with the door to the sitting room open to his right. He was wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket. The jacket was still beaded with rainwater. There were a couple of drops on the barrel of the gun he was pointing at us as well. His blue eyes sparkled. He looked younger than when I’d met him in London – sleek and fulfilled. He was back in harness. And he was enjoying the sensation.
‘I wondered when you’d get back. I’m glad I didn’t have to wait too long.’
‘What have you done to my sister?’ said Win, strangely uncowed by the experience of having a gun trained on her.
‘You can go up and see her, Miss Alder. I don’t mind. Lance and I have a couple of things to discuss. But they needn’t concern you. Go ahead.’ He stepped to one side.
With a fleeting glance in my direction, Win moved forward and past him, then started slowly up the stairs.
‘Back up, Lance,’ said Townley, nodding for me to retreat into the kitchen. ‘Be careful you don’t trip.’ I took six paces back until I felt the range-rail behind me. ‘Good enough.’ He moved into the doorway.
‘We have nothing to discuss,’ I said, surprised by how calm I felt now there really was nowhere else to run to. ‘Why don’t you just get on with it?’
‘There’s a case for that. But I’m ahead of schedule. Ahead of Ventress’s schedule, for sure. He obviously wasn’t expecting me so soon. As for Howard, well, who knows what he was expecting?’
‘What do you know about Howard?’
‘He made it easy for me, taking an early-morning stroll by a swollen river. Just one push was all it needed.’ (Win’s feelings had been right, then, but her conclusion wrong. Howard hadn’t gone quite like his father.) ‘Now, while Win says a few prayers over her departed sister – pending their early reunion – I want to know, Lance: what was this about? Why did Rupe come gunning for me?’
‘It was a mistake.’
‘A mistake?’
‘Yeh. He thought you’d killed his father.’
‘I never even knew his father.’
‘Like I say: a mistake.’
‘A pretty goddam far-reaching one.’
‘You said it. But talking of far-reaching, why don’t you tell me what was behind the thing in Dallas you helped to pull off? I mean, people always say they remember where they were and what they were doing when Kennedy was shot. Personally, I was busy getting born, just down the road from here. But what about you? What were you up to?’
‘As long as you don’t know, I still have the luxury of letting you live. And maybe I’ll do that if you co-operate. Where’s the photograph?’
‘Photograph?’
‘You know the one. Rupe’s snapshot of the picture Mayumi took of Miller Loudon and me at the Golden Rickshaw in the spring of ’fifty-eight.’
‘Of you and Miller Loudon and Lee Harvey Oswald, you mean?’
‘Where is it, Lance?’ (In my bag was the simple answer, but laying hands on that amidst the dusty gallimaufry of the Alders’ possessions had presumably given Townley a few problems.) ‘It’s a loose end I really do need to tie up.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’ll find it anyway.’
‘And you’ll kill me anyway too, won’t you? So, why should I do you any favours?’
‘Because there’s a difference between dying – and dying slow.’ The barrel of the gun dropped fractionally as he fired. There was a flash of heat and pain in my left knee. Then I was on the cold, flagged floor, my head resting against one of Ventress’s outstretched legs. A jolt of something way beyond the dictionary definition of agony hit my brain. I grabbed at my knee and felt a hot, liquid mess of smashed bone and torn flesh that I could hardly believe was part of me. Townley loomed into view. ‘Tell me where the photograph is and I’ll make it quick, Lance. That’s a solemn promise.’
I wanted to tell him then. I really did. But something stopped me – some low, lurking perversity that wouldn’t let me give him everything he wanted. If he left without the photograph, maybe somebody would be able to use it to make a case against him. (A frail hope, I admitted to myself, riding on a big if.) ‘A solemn promise, from you?’ I gasped. ‘Is that meant to be a . . . joke?’
‘There are more painful parts of the body than the knee, Lance. Do you want me to move on to one of them?’
‘How long . . . do I get to think about it?’
‘Have it your way.’ He aimed the gun. I closed my eyes. There was an echoing roar of noise. But the extra pain never came. I opened my eyes.
To see Townley’s toppling figure hit the range and slide down to rest against its base. The right rear side of his head was missing, as if some creature about the size of a Siberian tiger had bitten a chunk out of it – hair, skull and half a brain missing. There was a spray of blood on the wall behind where he’d been standing. And something wet that could also have been his blood on my face.
I looked across to the doorway and saw Win standing there, slowly lowering a rifle, the barrel smoking faintly. The weapon must originally have belonged to her father. I’d once seen her shooting rabbits with it. The memory only returned to me as I lay there, staring woozily up at her. Rupe and I had watched her from the top of Ivythorn Hill, bagging bunnies for the pot in a field below Teazle Wood. When would that have been? 1974 or ’75. Some time around then.
‘She’s a good shot, your sister, isn’t she?’ I’d said.
‘You bet,’ Rupe had replied, smiling. ‘Never misses.’