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AFTER I WAS RESCUED, they flew me to London and kept me under medical surveillance in a sealed room for four months. Men and women in suits and lab coats questioned me from behind a Perspex screen.
They told me they’d found Dr Tomlinson’s diaries and for a few weeks they questioned me intensively about them. Since I’d read them from cover to cover, I was able to supply a reasonable amount of detail, but only from a layman’s perspective. The biological data escaped me, but I knew he’d included it. When they kept on asking the same questions, I began to suspect that they hadn’t actually found them at all. Maybe Mason had destroyed them along with his notebooks. Maybe they thought I’d hide things if I was given the impression they were no longer available.
But I wouldn’t. I wanted to get to the bottom of everything as much as they did. Insofar as I had the power, I cooperated fully. Every man has his breaking point, however, and one day I reached mine. Two middle-aged men in lounge suits had been interrogating me from behind the Perspex for the best part of thirty minutes, asking me questions I’d already answered twice, maybe three times.
“Why don’t you just read the diaries yourself?” I said. “They’re perfectly clear.”
The first man grinned. “You haven’t actually seen them, have you, son? Be honest.”
“What? Yes, I have. Of course I have.”
“Last chance then.”
He picked up his briefcase and took out a set of books tied with string. I recognised them immediately.
“Perhaps you could read us a little section,” he said sarcastically, passing them through the sanitary access.
I unpicked the string and opened the top one. And drew a sharp breath. I don’t know how else to put this. They were no longer in English. Or even English script.
“But they weren’t ... remotely like this the last time I looked at them,” I said, turning page after page.
“Really.”
“Honestly!”
“Because ‘honestly’, son, we’ve had some of the world’s best cryptologists working flat out on them. And the only thing that still puzzles us is what the hell you think you can gain from lying. That’s all we want to discover.”
They never did decipher them. I know because I’d have been among the first to find out.
Nevertheless, they took my condition very seriously. They admitted they had no idea exactly what they were dealing with or where it had come from. Something was very wrong with me – on that they were unanimous – but diagnosis and prognosis were equally elusive. Crucially, although it was generally agreed that I had a dormant version of whatever it was, there was no way of knowing if or when it might ‘turn’, and what consequences that might have for the human race.
About two weeks after I arrived, my parents came to see me. I’d asked for them from the outset, but I think my survival was a closely guarded secret and I guess the security checks took time. My mother looked grief-stricken. She’d had her hair cut so her ears showed and she wore the pearls I’d given her for her last birthday. My father looked much older. There were flecks of white in his hair for which I couldn’t help feeling responsible.
They were very emotional but obviously delighted to see me. They completely threw me, however, by revealing that they knew all about my marriage to Ashanta. They’d been in contact with her parents, they said. Her parents had received a long letter from her, written in the Falklands, announcing our marriage and explaining the reasons why we’d decided not to wait.
It flummoxed me because I knew for certain Ashanta hadn’t written to her parents in the Falklands. Apart from anything else, she’d have had to have access to paper, a pen, an envelope, a stamp, a post box. I’d have had no objection to her writing. I just knew she hadn’t. She’d have told me. And we’d been together all the time. I mean really together. We’d hardly been near a post box.
Odd, but I was left with the crazy feeling there was more than one Ashanta and Hugo. Somehow the ‘us’ who belonged on this planet had disappeared too. And God knows where I’d come from ... or even who I was.
After my parents left, I received a visit from the Managing Director of C&B, a quiet, unassuming man, hardly the sort to preside over an evil empire. He apologised abjectly for everything that had happened. The company was cooperating fully with the police investigation, he said. Meanwhile, the bottom had dropped out of its share price, so it didn’t expect to survive the quarter. I felt horribly sorry for him.
Stranger by far however, was the discovery of Derek Goulding, alive and well and living in Huddersfield. They brought him to visit, but he had no recollection of ever having met me. Yes, he said, he wrote books on nautical subjects, no he’d never set foot on the Aurora. I hadn’t the slightest doubt he was in earnest. Nor that it was actually him. I’m sure that if the authorities had tried hard enough, they could have located Colin Wiles, Rita Patel, Paul Endersby and I don’t know who else. Or rather, their doubles, subtly different.
On the other hand, I knew Ashanta had disappeared, because the men in suits told me and my parents confirmed it. Ditto Captain Mason, although it was the Director of C&B who confirmed that. Somehow we three were fixed points across possible worlds, in a way that at least some of the others apparently weren’t. Something locked us in a triptych of subsistence, and, try as I might, I couldn’t think what. Occasionally I dreamed we were no more than figures on Celia Soper’s Tarot cards. Ashanta and I were of course The Lovers, but oddly, Mason always figured as The Magician. Or I dreamed that everything was being played out in a sort of eternal recurrence, the universe’s dark centre spewing out an infinity of Hugos and exiling them, transfiguring an infinity of Ashantas and inflicting God knows what degradations on an infinity of Masons.
I didn’t know what to make of it all and when I thought too hard, the adrenalin would start pumping and I’d career towards a panic-attack.
Maybe nothing in our lives makes sense. Maybe we’re biologically programmed to discount anomalies and impose coherence on chaos, I don’t know. Maybe all of life is like that. Everyone’s.
After about three months, I realised the authorities had no idea what to do with me. Clearly I had to be quarantined indefinitely, but where or how were open questions. One day, I guess they simply tired of prevaricating. They decided to ask me.
By now, I’d considered the question myself, so when I was approached by a civil servant with a view to resolving it permanently, my answer wasn’t wholly spontaneous. Quite the contrary.
“The Falkland Islands,” I said.
He looked taken aback, but also quietly pleased, as if he wished he’d thought of it. He wrote it down, clapped his notebook shut and returned a week later with a big smile.
“Of course, you couldn’t live on any of the settled islands,” he said. “But that still leaves plenty of options. We’d bring you regular provisions, obviously. Whatever you ask for, within reason. You’d be very well looked after.”
I signed on the dotted line and two days later they took me in a sealed van to RAF Brize Norton, and thence to Ascension Island. From there, they ferried me to my own private island, complete with a newly-built cottage and a herd of sheep. That evening, I went for a walk. It took me thirty minutes to walk all the way round. I watched the sun go down from my front window.
After that, I prayed daily to my dormant disease, asking it never to desert me but to keep me in readiness to reunite with my wife. God strike me down, I said, the day I’m ever cured. I’ll have nothing else to live for.
I watched my flock, ate what I was brought, drank the malt whisky I was given – a single every evening - and watched the stars. I received two letters from my parents once a month and wrote back just as frequently. Occasionally, in moments of weakness, I mulled over events on the Aurora, wondering if they’d ever really happened.
Then one day, when I was forty-three and sitting on the grass looking out to sea, I noticed a bump in the earth. Having little else to do that afternoon, I scratched away at it and uncovered two bits of jewellery. The rings Ashanta and I had buried all those years ago. My God, this was the self-same island.
I hardly noticed the furrows that appeared in my face, turning my forehead into a griddle and scoring the space between the tips of my lips and the ends of my eyes. My ears and nostrils grew hair that I had to prune hard once a week, even as my head became as bare and mottled and shrunken as a sparrow’s egg. My legs, arms and fingers slowed down. Most days, I ached somewhere. My parents died within four months of each other, and a day came when there seemed very little left to hope for.
Then, exactly one week ago, a miracle. At ten to four in the morning, I awoke from a dreamless sleep with the conviction that they were quite near. After all these years I still recognised the feeling. I pulled on my jeans, thrust my feet into my patent-leather boots, grabbed my walking stick and stumbled over the threshold into the open air. It took me five minutes to cross the heathery field to the broad expanse of shingle fronting the waves, from where I could see the whole bay. There was a full moon. Standing there shivering, I saw the water flash - faintly, without any accompanying sound – sorry, I don’t know the precise adjective – purple? And still, that feeling!
The first signs of senility? Maybe. I spent the following day in a pit of depression. There’s no point in battling the inevitable, of course, but it’s human nature to try. A whole host of thoughts assailed me. I considered the anguish as it became clear I could no longer remember the basics. But then, perhaps after a certain point, dementia’s worse for the carers. Luckily, I didn’t have anyone who cared for me. The authorities would probably put me in some sort of home once they were satisfied I wasn’t play-acting. Maybe I shouldn’t be too depressed. I’d always thought maybe the relationship between mind and brain might be like foot and shoe. A shoe might shrivel and it might twist and it might well cause the foot a lot of pain, but ultimately, it can be discarded.
Or could it have been a meteorite hitting the ocean? Or the reflection of a plane? The day after, I got some perspective. There had to be a middle way. Between senility and simple mistakenness lies wishful thinking. And they do say that when you get very old, your memory engorges; you remember events from your childhood and youth as if they occurred yesterday. Which was probably all it was. Not the feeling itself, but the memory of the feeling, suddenly and mysteriously enlivened. Nice while it lasted, not so nice afterwards. Quite nice being able to recognise it for what it was.
But then the doubts returned with a vengeance. Was I going senile? In a feeble attempt at falsification, I went down to the shingle every night. But I saw nothing. The stars wheeled slowly above me as I watched and waited and tried to screen myself from the sour-smelling breezes. Ursa Major is only visible in the northern hemisphere, but obviously I knew it was out there, and I couldn’t help the weird feeling that the sensation was reciprocated. The truth is, by the third night I’d almost reached rock bottom, Bunyan’s deep Slough of Despond.
Thankfully, though, that’s when the phone rang. I was told to expect Mr Hornby, my ‘liaison officer’, in the helicopter.
So this morning I sat outside in a canvas chair under my porch roof, watching the ewes with one eye and gazing at the inlet with the other. The weather had been calm for a few days but this morning there was a wind.
Hornby and I had only met a handful of times before, always at moments of crisis. The first was twenty years ago, when somehow thanks to an MI5 leak in London, the world’s press became aware of my existence. Hornby arrived in a Westland Sea King to inform me that, for my own safety, security around the island was being stepped up. Amnesty International were calling for my release, apparently, and a few people were willing to chance their arm at direct action.
I laughed. I didn’t want to be released, although I was touched by the sentiment. I was flown out to a hastily convened press conference in Port Stanley where I reiterated the fact, and that was that. Or at least so I assumed.
Then the same helicopter appeared again, five years ago. This time, someone had begun legal proceedings in New York to compel the British authorities to release me. The gist was that, since the scientific community had now unanimously agreed that my condition wasn’t contagious, that it was unique and wholly devoid of ramifications for the rest of the human race, my continued detention contravened international human rights directives. I didn’t get invited to Port Stanley this time. I guess I’d made myself sufficiently clear already and my personal feelings were no longer considered relevant.
I spent much of my time afterwards praying the case wouldn’t succeed. After all, I was seventy-six. I’d have no idea how to cope in the world outside. I just wanted to be left alone.
I knew what this third appearance meant, though. It meant the judges had finally stopped dragging their feet and the do-gooders had won. So farewell to Eden for me. I’m ashamed to say it, but suddenly I was terrified. I might not even be guaranteed of a care home now.
The helicopter landed, as usual, on the flat beyond the garden and Mr Hornby and a man I didn’t recognise made their way together to my front door, bending slightly under the gust from the rotor-blades.
Hornby was about forty-five: portly, in a suit with square-rimmed glasses and a blunt edged tie. The man with him was about his age, but tall and thin with a bald head, a stoop and a wad of documents. They held on to their jackets to stop them flapping in the wind.
For some reason I hadn’t thought to make them tea and in any case, I was feeling more like a double whisky. I poured myself one and drank it, then I put them side by side on the sofa and poured them a glass each. They sat facing away from each other slightly, with all their body language focussed on me like a power drill. They didn’t look like they were friends. I trembled.
“This is Mr Nicholls,” Hornby said quietly. “A representative from the UN. He’s here to witness our conversation. I hope that’s all right.”
“You’re not going to be forced to do anything you don’t want to, Mr Ellis,” Nicholls said. “I’m simply here to make sure you’re apprised of all the relevant facts.”
Hornby looked at the carpet. “The truth is, Hugo, His Majesty’s Government hasn’t been entirely open with you lately. We’ve, er, never actually lied but ...”
“But you have withheld vital information,” Nicholls said brusquely. “And a variety of non-governmental organisations have had to go to court at the very highest levels to force you to release it. Please continue.”
Hornby reached into his briefcase. He took out a phial of milky liquid and a syringe and put them side by side on the table. “We’ve found a cure for your condition.”
I laughed. I held the glass tube up to the light and tried to imagine how Dr Tomlinson’s face might have looked had he been here. I couldn’t. To my sorrow, it was too long ago.
“You needn’t have bothered,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”
The two men sat stony-faced. They exchanged looks. Hornby reached into his briefcase again.
“And – and we’ve also developed something that’ll activate it. Turn it from latent to overt.”
He placed a small opaque polystyrene jar on the table.
For a moment, I thought I’d misheard. I picked it up. My hand shook. “What – so – what do I do with it?” I asked.
“You drink it,” Nicholls said. “Two hours after that, you can expect to suffer a seizure. Then we have to get you to seawater as quickly as possible.”
We sat in silence. Nicholls cleared his throat.
“There is something else the British government has to disclose before it’s discharged its legal obligations,” he said drily.
“Yes, indeed,” Hornby said.
I wasn’t really listening any more. Nearly half a century had passed. Would Ashanta still be alive? Even if she was, what if she wasn’t Ashanta any more? She probably wouldn’t be. Could I ever find any of them? Even assuming everything had happened on this same planet, the sea covered three quarters of the Earth – it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Even if I did find them, how would they receive me? I’d have transformed artificially –
And then I remembered. The feeling. The purple flash. But even so -
“The truth is,” Hornby said, “You’ve been steadily degenerating for some time. It’s likely your body will activate the disease soon anyway, even without the liquid. But of course, with the cure - ”
“I don’t want the cure,” I said.
I stood up, suddenly elated. You’ve been steadily degenerating for some time. I’d finally been judged worthy. With or without the activator, I was fit to be received. I suddenly felt a blob of water run from my left eye and down my face.
“I’d strongly advise you to wait before choosing,” Nicholls said. “However, it’s your human right to know you do have a choice, and now that right has been restored to you.”
“Thank you,” I said emotionally.
I persuaded both men to stay with me because of course I’d already made up my mind, and I didn’t want either to think the other had influenced me in his absence. I wrote letters of thanks to all the organisations who’d sought justice on my behalf and gave them to Nicholls to despatch. I didn’t trust Hornby any more and I think he knew it. I think he was slightly ashamed.
I drank the liquid at six that evening because I wanted to transform as the sun set, I don’t know why.
Two hours later and my body is covered in grey patches, just like those I remember from the Aurora, and I feel the change approach. Nicholls and Hornby are on hand, behind me, to make sure nothing goes wrong.
And I know nothing will. I know I’ll find her. Because as an ancient friend of hers once said, there are three things that last for ever: faith, hope and love. And the greatest of them all is love.
If you have enjoyed this book, you might like The House of Charles Swinter, which you can find here.
It begins like this:
The House of Charles Swinter
CHAPTER ONE: THE CRYING Woman
In all other respects it was a typical funeral. A large Victorian church, a large indifferent congregation. George had conducted ten others just like it in the last two years. What happened was people sat huddled together and looked glum and mouthed hymns. Occasionally, someone wept. But not like this.
It was The Lord’s My Shepherd that set her off, that bit about goodness and mercy following her all her life. She had blonde hair, she looked to be in her mid to late twenties – about eight or nine years younger than him - and she wore a black sleeveless dress. When she blew her nose, which she did loudly every two minutes, she looked attractive, even with a beetroot face. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking that.
Everyone else ignored her, or tried to. Vivienne had been eighty-three, after all, and she’d died in her sleep. Charles, the estranged widower, cast the occasional irritated glance to one side. The two women behind him, presumably his daughter and granddaughter, looked sour and rolled their eyes. There was a five person gap between her and the next mourner.
George filled up with compassion. There was the rest of the Order of Service for Burial to be got through, that couldn’t be helped. Afterwards, he’d make it his first priority to find her. Charles and his family could fend for themselves. He would put his brother and his brother’s best friend on hold too, even though he hadn’t seen them for six months. Where were they?
They were standing behind a pillar, right where they couldn’t see her. But they could definitely hear her. Everyone could. Why were they looking bored? What right had anyone to look bored with that going on? Why weren’t they helping her? Why wasn’t anyone? Why wasn’t he?
His hand shook. He took out his copy of The Prophet and his sermon notes and climbed into the pulpit and went to autopilot.
As he heard himself speak the words he’d rehearsed on the train, it suddenly hit him. She wasn’t family, the family was sitting together. She probably wasn’t a friend either. No one he’d spoken to about Vivienne mentioned a twenty-something. And no one was comforting her. She was utterly alone.
Suddenly she was as mysterious as she was pitiful.
Beyond the doors, the sun held the clouds apart. A breeze brushed the cow-parsley at the edge of the churchyard. After reciting the dismissal, George crossed himself and followed the pallbearers. Charles was already at the graveside. His fingertips were interlaced, his brogues together. In the adjacent field, the sheep bleated.
George recited the committal. One of the funeral directors handed Charles some soil and retired. It hit the coffin lid with a bang.
The crying woman was standing behind the crowd on the opposite side of the grave, her shoulders jerking. George said the Collect and the Grace and everyone Amen-ed. The crowd and the silence dissolved and she shuffled away.
George stepped past the knot around Charles. An elderly woman appeared, as straight as a knitting-needle, wearing a greatcoat with the top button snapped in half. Too late they made eye-contact. She trembled.
“I was Vivienne’s housekeeper. I wouldn’t normally come to this sort of thing but she would have wanted it. I can’t believe she’s dead. She had such a ... presence. It doesn’t seem possible, even though she was eighty-odd. It’s not like me at all.”
George took her hand. “Give it a while. It’ll pass, believe me.”
“I can’t help - ”
Suddenly, the space between them was invaded by the two women who had been standing behind Charles. His daughter and granddaughter.
“That would have been a good service,” the daughter said, “but it was ruined by the crying.”
“Totally ruined by that girl’s crying,” the granddaughter said. “I couldn’t hear you at all.” They looked about fifty and thirty otherwise they were almost identical –the same winter coats, pill-box hats and leather gloves. Behind them, the gravediggers filled in the hole.
“It was supposed to be a funeral service,” George said, looking past them. “People cry.” He was walking away backwards.
“Yes, yes, I know,” the daughter said, “but Vivienne was old, for God’s sake. People do die. Especially at her age.”
“Talk about a drama queen,” the granddaughter said. “Too late to do anything about it now, though. Far too late.”
He didn’t have time for an argument. She’d probably reached the lych-gate by now. He turned to follow her. But Charles stepped out offering a handshake.
“Excellent sermon, vicar.”
“Er, yes, thank you.”
“Not a word of truth in it, though. You made Vivienne sound quite reasonable. Townswomen’s Guild, donations to Christian Aid, kind to children and animals, all that guff. Not the woman I knew.”
“I understand you’d been separated for some time.”
“We had contact though. We were always in touch.”
“I asked her friends about her.”
Charles laughed. “I notice you didn’t put in what I told you, though. Mind you, I don’t fall into that category. Thank God.”
“It’s conventional to concentrate on the positives.”
“Calm down, old fellow. I’m not suggesting I care, quite the contrary. You’re a nice chap, she’s stone dead, what’s it matter? Coming over for a drink and a few sandwiches in a minute? You’re very welcome. Everyone is.”
He looked up. She was gone.
He excused himself and jogged down the path to the road. But she was nowhere to be seen.
It wasn’t his church. He’d only been asked to do the funeral because his younger brother was Charles’s friend. After everyone left for the reception, he spoke to the vicar and helped her clear away.
Black Gables was two miles away. He wasn’t eager to arrive. He’d put in an appearance, say hello to his brother and Thanongsak and go. From what he’d heard, it was to be a thinly disguised celebration of Vivienne’s being finally out of the way: lots of people with no connection to the family drafted in to provide a carnival atmosphere. He didn’t expect to see the crying woman. What he remembered about her now, insanely, was her beauty. And yet he hadn’t even seen her properly.
The walk took him half an hour. Black Gables was a Tudor mansion, rebuilt by the Georgians in ashlar. Its ornamental lawn was dotted with ancient trees and rockeries. Charles had hired a catering firm to provide drinks and sandwiches. There were nearly two hundred mourners, most, by the look of it, having a wonderful time.
Edward and Thanongsak sat at a table on the lawn with three pints of beer in between them, looking sombre. Edward’s dark curly hair, straight jaw-line and brown eyes reminded George of looking in the mirror. People always said they were like twins, though five years separated them. Thanongsak’s perfectly styled grey and black hair surrounding a bald spot, his bespoke suit and brogues suggested he’d closed the restaurant to groom himself. Charles must have commanded them both to be here, judging by the expressions on their faces.
“We thought you weren’t coming,” Edward said when George sat down.
“Would you like another beer?” Thanongsak asked. “That’ll be flat.”
“You both look very dapper,” George said. “No, that’s fine. You don’t know who that woman was, in the service, do you?”
Thanongsak smiled. “The woman?”
“I hope someone cries like that at my funeral,” Edward said.
“We couldn’t see her from where we were sitting. What did she look like?”
“I couldn’t see much,” George replied. “Quite young, about twenty-five I think, blonde hair. On her own.”
Edward shrugged.
“It has to be someone Charles has lined up,” Thanongsak said. “We think he’ll remarry now. Someone much younger to show his virility, scotch the rumours about him being gay. He’s of a generation that still sees that as a stigma.”
“She fulfils the cliché by the sounds of her,” Edward said. “They’re always young blondes.”
“You’ll probably see her on his arm if you hang round long enough, George.”
“Assuming her cunning plan was successful.”
“Why did he have to wait till Vivienne was dead?” George said.
“They hated each other,” Edward said, “but couldn’t do without each other.”
“Is he gay?” George asked.
Thanongsak laughed. “He’s never made a move on either of us two. And since we’re both unmarried and superbly alluring, the answer’s probably no.”
“I think it’s academic in an eighty year-old,” Edward said.
George shook his head. “Is Charles really eighty? He doesn’t look a day over fifty.”
“Dorian Gray syndrome,” Thanongsak replied. “No one knows how he does it. You’re not the first to remark on it.”
“Anyway,” Edward said, “it’s nice to see you in one piece for a change.”
“I heal quickly,” George replied, raising the arm that had been in plaster last time they met.
Edward shook his head despairingly. They looked out to the lawn. There were children playing and couples walking arm in arm. Youths laughed and horsed around. There was nothing to suggest someone had just been buried. George just wanted to get away.
To create a seemly interval he talked to Thanongsak about his restaurant and to Edward about his research. Mostly, they were too taciturn for his liking. Left to them, seemly intervals tended to shade into years and decades. He looked at his watch, downed his ale and stood up.
“Not staying for another?” Edward said.
“I have to get back to London.”
“See you in six months time,” Thanongsak said.
Edward looked around and made a play of lowering his voice. “For another meeting of the Secret Bachelor Society ...”
“Maybe George will be married by then,” Thanongsak said. “We’ll have to find someone else to hang out and look sad with. I don’t get it, George. You’re surrounded by women all day long. Someone must take your fancy occasionally?”
George smiled. “That would be abusing my position.”
“I’d probably play it by ear if I were you,” Thanongsak replied. “It’s not like there are any hard and fast rules. This is the twenty-first century, remember?”
“He may be right, George,” Edward said.
“I’m more or less the only man in the refuge. A lot of women there have lost all faith in men. My role is to help restore it.”
Thanongsak smiled. “Your depriving some poor abused woman of a fantastic husband probably isn’t as noble as you think. Anyway, have a good trip.”
“Salut, George,” Edward said.
Although George hadn’t said anything, he’d allowed himself ten minutes for a stroll round the grounds. The sun shone. The hawthorn flowers were turning from white to brown and the air smelt of cut grass and soil. Above the mourners a wood pigeon asserted life’s continuation.
But Charles’s ornamental garden wasn’t his main concern. He wanted another glimpse of the crying woman. He knew he wasn’t in a position to approach her any more - assuming she’d stayed, she was probably on Charles’s arm by now. He only hoped to discover she wasn’t so beautiful after all, not worth dreaming about in the lonely hours of the days, weeks and years ahead.
“Oh, there you are,” said a male voice from in front of him.
It was Charles, blocking the way, just as he’d done after the service. Still curious, George made an effort to discern the octogenarian in him. Charles’s hair was thick, short and brown, his skin pale but firm with only a few wrinkles round the eyes. Disturbingly, he wasn’t just youthful but quite handsome.
“Can I borrow you for a moment?” Charles said. “I’ll come straight to the point. Am I right in thinking you’re involved with a refuge for battered women? In London?”
George was so used to correcting the term he didn’t pause. “We don’t really call them ‘battered’ any more.”
Charles knitted his eyebrows.
“It puts all the emphasis on the physical,” George said. “It’s old fashioned. ‘Abused’ is better.”
“I see.” They started to walk the path surrounding the house. “Well, I want you to take a look at my granddaughter. She’s in a bit of a bad way. Possibly drugs. I know she ‘does’ drugs.”
There was another pause. George sat it out.
Charles chuckled. “In the past, she’s had ... ‘mental problems’? Is that how you describe them these days? She needs someone to talk to. Someone with experience. As far as I know, you’re the only person here who fits the bill. I can, of course, supply a donation for your refuge.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“But presumably it won’t go amiss. Don’t worry, I’ll get the address from Edward.”
“Where is your granddaughter?”
Charles smiled. “I should probably brief you first.”
“Oh?”
“I hardly have any contact with her nowadays. This is the first time we’ve been in close proximity in God knows how many years and that wasn’t by choice. She and her mother have always been Vivienne’s children, so to speak, and they have what can only be described as a ... loathing for me. It’s entirely mutual so I rarely let it bother me. The only reason they’re here today is because it’s Vivienne’s funeral and they’ve probably a ‘right’ to be. I wasn’t going to argue. Not for the sake of one day.”
“I think I met them both earlier.”
“Then you’ll know what you’re up against.”
“I admit they were a little ... overpowering.”
“That’s one word for them, yes.”
“So what exactly’s the matter with your granddaughter?”
Charles exhaled. “That’s what I’d like you to find out. If you would.”
“Of course, yes.”
“Be careful of her. Evil has a way of sucking you in.”
“We have a saying in Christianity. Love the sinner, hate the sin.”
“Of course you do. Which is why it’s such a decided advantage, you being a vicar. Let me tell you about the ‘sin’, though, just so we’re clear. Drugs, alcohol, absolute promiscuity. She’s probably riddled with STDs, I’m afraid. Cosmetic surgery by the bucketful ... It’s small wonder she’s got ‘mental health problems’.”
George took a sharp breath. “I must say, I wouldn’t have guessed any of that from my conversation with her earlier.”
“There’d be no point in my warning you if she wasn’t the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing. Her name’s Susan, by the way.”
“Susan.”
“I always say the end justifies the means. If you can stop her causing a scene, I don’t care how you do it. Only remember that turning the other cheek isn’t always the most effective policy.”
Charles stopped. He put his arm round George and turned him to face the lawn. He nodded towards a woman sitting on a rock, completely adrift from the other guests, her head bowed. She was so distant it was difficult to make out anything about her, except that she was dressed in black.
“Just sweet talk her back to reality,” Charles said. “Speak slowly and let her see your lips moving in case she’s high on whatever chemicals she favours this week. Call the police if you have to. Ideally, get her off the premises.”
George was about to plead for some shred of compassion in all this when he realised that Charles’s granddaughter – ‘Susan’ – wasn’t who he thought she was. She wasn’t either of the women who’d forced their views on him so vociferously after the service.
She was the crying woman.
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