Murder Most Fab (38 page)

But he
doesn’t love me! I retorted silently.

That
doesn’t mean you should kill him.

He’s
going to destroy my career.

Let
him. Find something else to do if it all ends. But don’t destroy yourself with
this terrible act. You’ve killed enough.

I was
shaking with a strange energy. Catherine had given me some cheap Australian
speed on top of the cocaine so that I would have the rush I needed to fulfil my
task.

‘You’ll
do anything on this stuff,’ she’d said. ‘I once let a dirty-minded East End
gangster bring his highly excitable Doberman into the bedroom.’

‘You
didn’t … do anything, did you?’ I’d asked, horrified.

‘No.
Bloody dog couldn’t get a hard-on. What a waste of videotape that was.’

My
teeth were grinding together, but I still didn’t think she’d given me enough.
Or perhaps there wasn’t enough speed in the world to make this easy.

Each
man kills the thing he loves, I told the voice of my conscience, or whatever it
was.

No,
he doesn’t. You’re not Macbeth —you’re not so steeped in blood that going on is
easier than turning back. You’ve still got a chance to make things better. You
love Tim. Let love win the day. Let him live.

I
thought about indulging in a good, cleansing cry. What on earth was I doing
here? How had I got into this situation? I seemed to hear Catherine hissing at
me, ‘Do it! Kill him! Do it!’ and the voice of my conscience replying, ‘No.
Don’t succumb to this madness . Save yourself while there’s still time.‘

I
wavered between the two. Could I stand up to Catherine and disobey her for the
first time in my life? I wasn’t sure I had the strength.

Then my
hours with Tim fluttered before my eyes like falling leaves — I saw the two of
us gasping with pleasure, crying out with ecstasy, kissing passionately in the
grip of fierce delight and softly in the luxurious aftermath. I saw us talking,
laughing, bathing together. I knew that I would never — could never — kill him,
no matter what. I lifted up the sock with the brick inside. I would take it out
and leave it here beside his door as a token of what might have happened. It
would puzzle him but that didn’t matter. Maybe he’d use it as a novelty
doorstop, never knowing its significance.

As I
lowered my makeshift cosh, I heard a sound: heavy footsteps coming closer and
closer. When I turned, a big, burly man in a black overcoat and leather gloves
was charging towards me. In his right hand he carried either a sodden rag or a
wad of cotton wool. I felt him grab me with incredible strength. Then he
clapped something over my face. Darkness overcame me.

My head was throbbing and
my mouth was dry, but the first pain I became aware of was in my wrists. I
couldn’t move them or feel my hands, and when I managed to open my eyes it
became apparent that I was bound, wrists and ankles, to a wooden dining-room
chair. Although it was light outside, the curtains were drawn. Silhouetted against
the window, facing me, I saw a vaguely familiar shape.

‘I’m
sorry if Big Boy was a little heavy-handed. Bulgarian, you know. That’s half
the attraction.’

‘Sammy?’
I croaked. My throat was dry and I was desperately thirsty.

‘Yes.
You’re in my fiat in Hampstead. Welcome.’ He moved towards me and wiped my
mouth with a tissue. ‘Drink of water? I hear chloroform can leave you with a
raging thirst. And Big Boy tells me you were sick in the boot of the car.’ He
leant forward and sniffed. ‘Your breath isn’t as sweet as it once was.’

‘Sammy …
what’s going on?’

‘Well.
What was I supposed to do? Everything seemed to be coming full circle. I felt
it my duty to intervene.’

‘Intervene?
I don’t understand.’

‘Come
on, JD. I’m not stupid. Let’s treat each other with a little respect, shall we?
I’ll give you that glass of water — though you’ll have to let me hold this
straw to your mouth as I’m not going to untie you quite yet — and you’re to
stop pretending. You were intending to kill Timothy Thornchurch, weren’t you? And
I saw it as my duty to stop you. Or, at least, to send Big Boy to restrain
you.’

He held
the glass to my mouth and I sipped gratefully through the straw. When my thirst
was somewhat slaked, I said, ‘You can untie me now. There’s really no need for
these ropes. I feel as if I’m in some cheap, made-for-TV thriller.’

‘I
expect you’re right,’ said Sammy, dabbing my forehead with the tissue. ‘It’s
just a precaution on my part. I wouldn’t want you to lash out.’

‘I
wasn’t going to kill Tim,’ I said, desperate for him to understand the
situation. ‘I know it looked as if I was, but—’

‘Please,
JD,’ interrupted Sammy. ‘This moment isn’t about you for a change. Allow me to
speak.’ And there, in the semi-darkness, Sammy began to talk.

‘I
require you to listen to what I have to say now. Much like yourself, JD, I fell
in love as a teenager, also with a Thornchurch. David Thornchurch, Timothy’s
father. Isn’t that a strange coincidence? We’re more alike than we ever
realized, you and I. We’ve both been enthralled by the gentlemen of Thornchurch
House. We were at boarding-school together, David and I. Westminster. You can
imagine. We used to meet in the gymnasium after lights-out. Terribly daring.
Then we went to Cambridge, to the same college. I read English and he read Greats.
There was no secrecy about it —we were a couple. David and Sammy. Everyone
knew. We held hands in the refectory, we shared rooms. No one batted an eyelid.

‘When
we graduated, that changed. University life had been a strange yet beautiful
hiatus in both of our lives, it seemed. Reality intervened. We had to part. I
pursued my academic career while David became a farmer, businessman and
politician. But our love didn’t die. Being products of our time, we understood
that we couldn’t have it all — couldn’t have each other. We made do. We made a
pledge to each other that we would always be there. And we were, in our hearts
at least.

‘Soon
David found the woman he would marry. Hilary was a beautiful débutante, a
well-connected virgin who would blossom, in the fullness of time, into a
Bible-bashing over-possessive partner. David went through the motions of
pretending to love her, but we both knew our lives wouldn’t be complete without
each other. Nevertheless we made a decision. We would not see each other again.
We had our final night together a week before his wedding, and that was the
last time I was truly happy. I crystallized that moment and kept it locked in
my mind for ever, like a price-less gem. We both suffered, I dare say, but I
felt I suffered most. ‘He looked at me bitterly and said, ‘After that, ours was
a chaste love. Hard for you to imagine, no doubt.’ He stopped to give me some
more water.

Shocked
as I was by his story, I hadn’t yet decided how to react, and kept my face
inscrutable, even in the shadows. After a brief stroll round the room, Sammy
settled himself in the chair opposite me, by the curtains. I could hear traffic
and rain outside.

He
continued softly, ‘I have seen David only twice in forty years. That’s all.
Once, seven years after he got married, I came face to face with him as I
turned into Victoria Station. It was one morning, rush hour. We literally
crashed into each other, briefcases and brollies flying.’ He chuckled. ‘We
apologized profusely, in that very English way, before we realized quite who we
were looking at. Then we just stood and stared, too aghast to speak. Eventually
he raised his hat to me and walked on. I turned for another glimpse of him but
he’d disappeared into the crowd. Just from looking into his eyes for those few
seconds I knew he still loved me and I him.

‘That
was it for six years. Never a day went by when I didn’t think of or long for
him. Then, in the summer of 1979, Georgie and I went on holiday to Barcelona.
At that time — what were we? Late forties — we livened ourselves up with dirty
weekends away in Amsterdam, Madrid or wherever — the sex capitals of Europe, I
guess. We felt so liberated, away from home, out of sight of prying eyes. We
could have some naughty fun without causing a scandal.

‘We
went one afternoon to a gay sauna called Romeo’s. Georgie and I took a shower
and proceeded to wander around the labyrinth of corridors in our towels,
through the crowded steam rooms and cabins, waiting for some man or other to
catch our eye. These matters were never very prolonged for Georgie, bless her.
She soon disappeared into a cabin with a dusky gentleman — carrying a manbag,
doubtless, full of poppers and lubricants and who knows what else?

‘I was
always a lot more choosy. Classier, some might say. I stayed at the bar for a
few gins. Eventually I got bored and went walkabout. I found myself on the top
floor of the premises where a cinema was showing lurid gay porn. At the back,
through a greasy beaded curtain, there was a dark room. I watched the film for
a while then wandered casually into the pitch darkness. Just drifting, you
understand, like the
Mary Celeste.
I could hear low moans and agitated
breathing. Soon a hand reached out and lightly brushed my arm. Another stroked
my buttock. A couple of mouths, a few more hands and — well, I was away with
the fairies. Someone kissed me for the first time in years. Since David, in
fact. I gave myself up to the moment in all its sordid, hedonistic glory. I
felt alive again. Reborn. Once things had reached their inevitable conclusion I
tidied myself up and rearranged my towel. As I slid towards the grey light of
the beaded curtain I thought I heard his voice. I heard … David … quietly
calling my name. Twice. “Sammy … Sammy!” he said. Then there was nothing. I
called his name but he didn’t reply. I shouted, “David!”

‘“Callate,
puto histerico!”
hissed an angry Spanish voice.

‘I left
the dark room and stood outside for a while, waiting to see him emerge. But he
didn’t. I cannot explain it. Maybe it was David, maybe it wasn’t.’

There
was another long pause. Sammy was staring into the middle distance, lost in
thought. He gave a sigh.

‘Time
passed, everyone lived their lives. My dear friend Georgie and I became very
important to each other. Sisters, as we always said. We understood each other.
We shared our lives. As we grew older we enjoyed our sedate existence together
in Barnes. We got to that age when you discover what an appalling hoax life has
been. Just a bad joke, we both agreed. End-of-the-pier stuff. You’re born, you
fall in love, you suffer and then you die. We muddied on, a tad bitter but
squeezing some enjoyment out of our lives. In the last few years we were almost
approaching something called contentment.

Time
mellowed us, as it does everyone. We had each other, gin and whisky. Bowls. Bridge.

‘Then
you came along. Our indulgence, our folly. You were rather special. We both
noticed it. There was your charisma, your charm, your sexual capabilities: all
assets in a young man. But I knew you were hurt. Hardened,
you
liked to
think. I analysed and understood you more than you could have known. You were
our boy, after all. I was quite infatuated.

‘Then
one Monday evening a few years ago, I was leaving a posh gentlemen’s grooming
salon in Mayfair — I don’t know if you ever studied my feet, but I have a
pedicure every month. Immaculate, they are, especially the left one. I was
attempting to cross the road when I saw a taxi pull up and a smart,
silver-haired gentleman emerged. David Thornchurch — still breathtakingly handsome,
I thought, in a foxy sort of way. I stood rooted to the spot and watched him,
the man I hadn’t clapped eyes on in twenty-odd years, walk down Curzon Street.
I didn’t think about it, I just followed him, diving into doorways if ever he
glanced over his shoulder. I wasn’t sure what I intended to do. It was unlikely
that I’d summon the courage to speak to him. I wasn’t thinking straight, just
caught up in the thrill of the chase, studying his determined walk, inhaling
the air he had exhaled.

‘His
brisk walk led him to Claridges. He’d always had expensive tastes. I stood
outside, but the agony of losing sight of him was too much to bear. I covered
my face with a handkerchief and crept into the hotel foyer just in time to hear
the receptionist say, “Room 510, sir, enjoy your stay.” Then he was gone, up in
the lift. I went to the bar and ordered a large whisky. Part of me was hoping
he would reappear and whisk me up to his room, but that didn’t happen. I was on
my third whisky, trying to pluck up the courage to send a note to him, when I
spotted you arriving. You headed straight for the lifts, looking business-like
and gorgeous as always. The two of you in the hotel at the same time … It was
too much. I had to know what was going on. I waited another ten minutes or so
and caught the lift to the fifth floor. I stood outside the room and listened.
Such an angry flogging he was giving you! He was much gentler in my day.
Knowing your working routine, I waited downstairs and watched you leave exactly
an hour after you’d arrived. I was filled with wonder at my discovery.

‘I took
to following you after that, sure you would lead me back to David. You were the
key. Stalking you slowly became a sort of secret vice, a hobby. It gave me an
interest in life, I suppose. I enjoyed the cloak-and-dagger aspect of the game:
waving goodbye to you in my dressing-gown, then throwing my clothes on in
twenty seconds flat to follow you home on the bus. I loitered outside your flat
in Camden, waiting for you to go about your business. Quite in demand, weren’t
you?’