23

As darkness fell, Roger had stood alone in The Dower House kitchen staring out of the window, recalling the events of the afternoon as a blur of farce. He’d knelt on the side of the village green cupping Finnegan’s limp, bloodied head, and one of the policemen, a fellow member of the Monks Bottom cricket team, had laid a firm understanding hand on his shoulder. ‘Carry on, Rog,’ he said, ‘the motorbike thing can wait.’ But just as they were about to lift up the lifeless carcass, the other policeman rushed out with Timothy over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift.

‘Bloke’s collapsed,’ he shouted. ‘Asthma attack. He needs casualty. No time for an ambulance. We’ll have to take him.’ Clearly it was an emergency, and with Roger being given no further explanation or consultation they loaded Timothy up and shuttled him away. Roger knew he should have followed on, but his immediate duty was to deal with the remains of his adored, capricious Wolfhound. The dog’s dead weight was too much to carry, so in a state of sheer exhaustion and something that could only be described as a zombie-like state, he’d been reduced to dragging him up the drive by his collar and into the back garden. He found a spade and, with a weird feeling of revenge, began to dig a hole in the centre of the charred mess of the bonfire. With the hole dug he carefully laid him to rest; his sad grave loudly announced by a hump of bright brown soil that contrasted loudly with a perimeter of black and grey ashes. Roger felt as if he should be crying, but his stiff upper lip resolve would only concede a firm salute and a silent farewell.

‘Goodbye, old friend. You’re better off out of this fucking mess anyway.’

An hour later, the cricketing policeman returned alone. ‘Your mate’s been admitted for observation,’ he said.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Roger. ‘I rang the hospital. Diagnosis of panic attack. No visitors allowed. I’ve got to ring in the morning for an update.’

‘He was in a right old state, but A and E did the business and he calmed down. I didn’t realise he was Timothy Proudfoot. Haven’t seen him for donkey’s years. I heard through the tomtoms that Lady P just passed away, so I gave them the info. Might have been relevant. I put you down as first point of contact. Hope that’s OK?’

‘No probs. I’m an old family friend. Look, do you fancy a drink?’

‘Sorry, Rog. I’ve got to be a copper now. You can drink the barrel dry after you’ve breathed into this bag for me.’

‘Come off it, Colin. I haven’t had a smidge.’ Despite Roger’s protestations the bag was passed over and he reluctantly huffed and puffed.

‘Well, no smidge actually amounts to more than a smidge over the limit,’ the bobby said, ‘but I’ll turn a blind eye. You’ve had enough bad news, what with your poor dog copping it. It’s not enough for me to make a case out of anyway. I’ll be back in the morning to get a formal statement.’

‘I’m completely innocent. That bloody bike was going far too fast.’

‘It’s an official complaint, mate, so I’ve got to see it through. Sorry.’

Roger now stood in the kitchen as dusk fell. Wife-less, dog-less, clothes-less and lover-less, feeling as lonely and abandoned as his nine-year-old self on his first day at prep school. That day, nearly forty years ago, but recalled with the clarity of yesterday. His father’s insincere words of the chin-up variety, and making loud, jokey small talk with the other parents. His mother fussing about his trunk and pennies for the phone box, and instructions to clean his teeth and eat up his vegetables. Promising to send him The Beano and The Dandy, and a giant bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut every week. Kissing him on the cheek and taking great care not to display too much affection, knowing his father would bombard her in private with vitriolic reprimands for ‘turning the boy into a pansy.’ The feeling of being unloved and abandoned had never left him.

He sighed deeply. What in God’s name was up with Tim? He thought their new life was going to be so easy. A confident statement of, ‘Well, here we are. Tim and Roger, bursting with gay pride. We’re in love and have been for years, actually. Unbelievable, isn’t it?’ But was it really – really – now the crunch had come, what he wanted? Wouldn’t his life become just a tad dull? What if he wanted to buzz off for a little fling occasionally? The compass point in his head swung towards a new life with Tim, and eventual retirement from Sandridge Fuller; a gentle day-in-day-out sameness and a slow, green-wellied plod into old age together. Then it changed its mind and pointed back to the cut and thrust of publishing life. The fast moving between trains and taxis, the long lunches, casual office affairs with an endless line of up-for-it career girls and faceless gay bar pick-ups. A cynical definition of ‘wanting your cake, pigging out on it and going back for seconds.’

He looked at his watch. A long, lonely evening loomed ahead, with none of the familiarities of a Dower House evening-in. No Saturday evening menu of a classic Delia digesting nicely, no log fire roaring in the inglenook and no DVD of an old movie. But hang on! Sod the curfew! He looked at his watch. Only eight o’clock. Getting up to town at this time of night was a breeze, especially… Yes! Especially behind the wheel of the bitch-mother’s fabulous DB5. He just felt like getting his right foot down and feeling some g-force in his guts. There was even private parking round the back of his office in The Haymarket. Bollocks. Why not? A valedictory farewell to his old life called.

Just after nine-thirty, Roger found himself wandering up and down Jermyn Street, wondering what to do and where to go. The classy venues like The Camp David Club and The Cockatoo Bar were always good for guaranteed action, but things didn’t get going properly until after midnight. There was also the various (so-called) health and sauna clubs, where twenty-four-seven decadence was guaranteed, but he didn’t really have enough energy for marathon athletics. To his great surprise he found himself being drawn to the Argonaut Hotel. He entered and perched on a barstool.

‘Good evening, Danny. A large whisky and American dry, please.’ He passed over a twenty-pound note, with a practiced nod and an instruction to keep the change.

Ten minutes later an elegant young woman, as regal and well groomed as royalty, slipped gracefully onto the next stool. Roger smiled. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ They moved to a small table where his requirements, and a price, were quickly agreed. He would have gladly paid extra to talk to her, but it was obvious that the Polish Princess’s command of English extended no further than was necessary for business.

Thirty minutes later, after a bland, condomned missionary, he was back at the barstool with another scotch in his hand, wondering why he felt even more depressed.