48

Roger sped up The Manor House drive to find that the old Morris Minor was already parked up. Bugger! He would have to firmly deflect the old pest, but the black-frocked figure was rushing towards him, his arms waving, his cassock wet from the thighs down and his old feet splaying beneath weak knees. What in God’s name was the silly old fart doing? He approached Roger, gulping and shouting long before there was any chance that he’d be heard. When he reached him he sobbed, clutched his head and rocked it from side to side.

‘He’s in the lake! Tim’s in the lake! Nothing I could do. Help, Mr Fuller. You’re stronger than I am. We must pull him out. I’ve called an ambulance.’

Roger fled down the lawn, the old man puffing behind him, gasping his story. ‘I rang and rang the doorbell but I got no answer. You weren’t here, were you? Oh, Mr Fuller, you said you wouldn’t leave him alone. I went around the side of the house and the drawing room doors were wide open. There were some leather mules on the terrace and a black garment in the middle of the lawn, and in the distance I could see a head bobbing on the water. I couldn’t believe anyone would take a swim… Not in this rain.’ He repeated every word of the story again, and twice more. Roger wasn’t listening. His legs were charging down the squelchy skid of the grass, his body jerking with an electric shock of pain that shot down his calves.

Timothy’s body was floating, face down, in the centre of the lake, but as Roger started to wade out there was a rearing of strong, white wings.

‘The weed pole, Father Joseph,’ he shouted. ‘Quick. Hand me the weed pole.’

Roger grabbed the pole and swung it like a Samurai sword at the threatening creature, while Father Joseph threw pebbles and made pathetic shooing noises. In fear, the swan took flight, accompanied by its mate. Roger then waded out to grab the floating shoulders, and towed hard towards the bank. ‘Help me, Father Joseph. You must take an arm.’ Together they tugged and heaved the inanimate, naked body face down onto the grass.

‘Is he alive?’ Father Joseph shouted. ‘Oh, Mr Fuller! Please let him be alive!’

‘He’s not alive, Father Joseph.’

‘A chance. A chance. The ambulance is here.’ The old priest ran up the lawn again, flapping his arms. ‘Drive down to the lake,’ he shouted at the paramedics. ‘Quickly. The kiss of life may save him.’

Roger knelt over Timothy’s body and pulled him over. His dead face was blueish-grey and covered with small red wounds. His eyes were closed and his expression was one of peace. Green weed lay like shanks of embroidery silk on his head, and thick, muddy slime trickled from his hair. He knew he should yell and shout. That he should throw himself over Tim’s corpse and howl his grief, take his poor dead face in his hands and talk to him, and kiss him and rave with hideous wailing, and ask why. Why? Why, for God’s sake? Tim, you had recovered. Fully recovered. You were completely back to normal. But Roger showed no loss of control. No shouting or histrionics. Only the repression and holding in of grief; the reaction an observer would translate as intrinsic to an ex-Guards officer, but which only Roger knew as the mask of cowardice.

The paramedics flew from their vehicle, pushed Roger aside and rushed to work. The pulse felt for, a stethoscope placed on the heart and energetic bearing down on the chest. Electric defibrillators were grabbed from the ambulance and three attempts at resuscitation made. But after several minutes of frenetic activity, they stopped. ‘I’m afraid there’s no point carrying on, sir. Who’s his GP?

‘Andrew Gibson, at the Health Centre on Stonor Road.’

‘I’ll get our control to bleep him. The body has to be officially declared dead at the scene by a doctor before we can take him away. The police will have to be called as well. Sudden death. Just routine.’

Roger rose, walked around to the other side of the lake and vomited into the bulrushes. He knelt down behind a wall of gunnera, feeling as if he were teetering on the edge of the world, looking down into two craters separated by a million miles, knowing he would fall into one of them, and also knowing that he had the power to choose which would claim him. One had wide, winding steps that led down to a green, flower-filled garden. The walls on either side were painted a sunny yellow and below he saw a running video of familiarity. The spread russet ribbons of Sally’s hair on the pillow, the jade mirrors of her eyes and the intimate, comely feel of her body. Sun-dappled Sundays on The Dower House lawn. Lying on a blanket and staring up at her freckled profile while she read a novel in a deck chair. One especially bad winter, both of them with shovels, intent on clearing snow from the drive, but ditching them at the first opportunity to pelt each other with snowballs. Louise joining in and taking Sally’s side. Both of them overpowering him until, totally conquered, he lay laughing on his back to allow their game of burying him alive.

But there were also boxes hanging on the walls. Not window boxes filled with flowers but locked boxes, created by his infidelities and lies and addictions. Each holding a secret, known only to himself. There was also the huge, closet-size box of which Sally was well aware. Dearest Sal. The sweet guardian of his weakness who’d never exposed him, loyally keeping him warm and fed and housed whilst shouldering his rejection. She was standing at the bottom of the steps, wearing her wedding dress and looking up as Rossetti’s The Beloved Bride. Innocent. Trusting. Loving. Passionate. Now she herself had fallen in love with another. Soon to be carried off and owned by a stranger.

He pulled back his gaze and looked down into the other chasm. It was a view down a long, dark tunnel into a telescoped landscape – a barren, treeless field of ploughed brown. No birds, no sounds, no leaves, no flowers. No music, no laughter, no friends. Only the turned, rejecting backs of heterosexuals marching away from him. He was compelled to draw back a thick, black curtain. Behind it was a huge football crowd of men, seemingly happy, laughing and joking with each other, but hiding the sad fact that most of their alliances were of faceless ships that passed in the night. Smiling salaciously, the massed throng waited to be picked up in the gay lending libraries of bathhouses and tawdry basement clubs. On the sidelines its saddest victims. Lonely, desperate, shuffling old men (such as he must inevitably become), offering the riches of Croesus to the greedy, the faithless and the diseased. In the hard grey sky above him white swirling lines of plane trails were forming words. Faggot. Queer. Poofter.

‘I’m sorry, Tim,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, my love. My Tim. I’m so sorry.’

He composed himself and walked back, his eyes smarting, but his back ramrod straight.

‘You all right, sir?’ one of the paramedics asked.

‘Sorry. The shock hit me. Had to puke.’

‘Are you a relation?’

‘No. Roger Fuller. An old family friend.’

Andrew Gibson was then seen walking briskly down to the scene, accompanied by the wet and bedraggled Father Joseph, again telling his story with much gesticulation. Nodding to Roger and swatting off the priest, Andrew attended to his duty. Five minutes later Timothy’s body was shrouded and transferred to the ambulance.

‘I’ll accompany him,’ said Father Joseph. ‘It’s the least I can do. Poor Tim. Poor, dear boy. Please can you apologise to Father Ewan for my absence?’

As the ambulance drove slowly away up the long lawn, Roger and Andrew stood in respectful contemplation.

‘What on earth can have happened?’ Andrew said, shaking his head. ‘I can only relate my involvement today. Mrs Feather called me out on an emergency visit around ten. She was in a right old state. She’d found him delusional and incoherent, but there was nothing to indicate I should be worried for his safety, per se. Medically, I had two choices. Arrange to admit him or sedate him. I chose sedation. I thought it better to play it by ear until he talked to that priest chap. I’d heard nothing more, so I assumed he was being manageable, but I was going to pop in later for an update. What time did you get back this morning, Roger?’

‘It must have been around eleven-thirty.’

‘How did you find the situation?’

‘I had a major bust-up with Mrs Feather and she flounced out. Tim was sound asleep, and Father Joseph can confirm that, as he turned up not long afterwards. Tim eventually woke up around two. He was a bit stroppy for a bit, but then he bucked up completely. What amounted to a full recovery. I mean absolutely back to normal. I popped home for less than half an hour to meet up with Sally and left him in very high spirits. He was going to have a shave and get dressed. That’s the God’s honest truth.’

Andrew exhaled loudly and dropped his shoulders. ‘His condition was very precarious and very complex. What you saw was probably a manic phase that gave all indications of normality. You weren’t to know. I can only guess that his thought processes flipped back again after you left. Did he leave a suicide note?’

‘I’ve no idea. I’ve not been back in the house yet. Actually, I must go in now and get into some dry clothes.’

‘Best I accompany you, and we can have a look round together. The police will be here soon and they’ll need our corroboration. I shall firmly assure them that his mental state could have been conducive to suicide, but there were no obvious indications. No point them nosing around and suspecting foul play.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Just gone four-thirty. Father Ewan’s due to turn up at six, isn’t he? Can you stay on?’

‘I’d rather I got over to the mortuary to be with Tim.’

Andrew patted him on the shoulder. ‘I understand, Roger. I mean, I really understand, but someone needs to be here.’

‘Sally’s back home now,’ Roger said, brightly. ‘I’m sure she’ll come over in the circumstances.