A single, loud report startled him and he sat forward in his chair in a moment of fright and confusion before he realised what it was. He rose and crossed slowly to the still open door through which the old man had passed a few minutes earlier. He found himself looking into a small ante-room. Lord Armsdale lay face down on the floor, a few feet away from an old oak cabinet. A huge pool of blood had spread outwards and soaked into the carpet. Bannerman could see brain tissue spattered across the floor and the lower drawers of the cabinet. The top half of the old man’s head was almost blown away and the revolver lay a few inches from his white, clenched hand.
He turned away and wanted to throw up, a hand against the wall to steady him. No matter how often you saw death you never got used to it.
The door from the hall flew open and the white-haired man ran in. He stopped as he saw Bannerman and then rushed across to the door and looked in. He spun round on Bannerman and the thought that Bannerman had done it was in his eyes, before he realised the truth. There was a strange choking noise in his throat and he turned suddenly and ran from the room.
Bannerman stood a minute longer before crossing the room and out into the hall. There were footsteps on the stair and he looked up to see the white-haired man coming down with a shotgun clutched tightly across his chest. He stopped when he saw that Bannerman had seen him. There was a madness in his eyes. ‘You killed him.’ His voice was taut and quiet. ‘Even if you didn’t pull the trigger you killed him. I... I’ve been with him longer than you’ve been alive. I loved that old man. I really loved him. I’ll kill you for it.’ He raised the shotgun.
‘Then you would be denying him his sacrifice,’ Bannerman said. His voice sounded strange to him and he felt the fear crawl across his skin. ‘He made a mistake. A grave mistake, and he has taken the only honourable way out he can. Just as he had men killed to save his Party, so he has killed himself in his final sacrifice. His own words.’ The seconds seemed to drag forever. The other man stood tense, the gun still raised. ‘You’d better call the police,’ Bannerman said. It was now or never. He turned his back slowly and walked towards the door, all the time waiting for his body to be torn apart by the blast. His hand trembled on the cold metal handle.
And then it was over. He was outside, with the cold wind in his face and the door shut behind him. He let out a long breath and stood for a moment watching the dark swaying shapes of the trees. His feet crunched on the asphalt as he walked to the car.
III
Bannerman stood under a pool of lamplight on Preston station platform. It was almost deserted. One or two shadowy figures stood further down, staring out across the tracks. The sense of loneliness that had descended on him was crushing. Beyond the lights of the glass-roofed platforms, red and amber signal lights shone distantly in the darkness to the north, and to the west there was the far-off twinkling of street lamps. The world was shut up tight behind closed doors and drawn curtains except for a few weary travellers and the night workers.
From the south he heard the sound of the Glasgow train crossing the junctions where the lines divided, past the crumbling, blackened remains of industrial dereliction. The light from its window came brightly out of the darkness and the express ground to a clattering halt down the length of the platform. Other doors opened as Bannerman stepped forward and pulled open the nearest. He climbed up into the First Class corridor and walked down until he found an empty compartment. He threw his things into the rack and slumped into a seat facing north.
The train stood for only a minute before it began pulling silently away from the platform and gathering speed. Bannerman looked out across the empty receding platforms. Waiting rooms dark and locked up, the shutters pulled down on the news stand. A billboard poster flapped in the rush of air. Tonight’s headlines. The top half of the bill was obscured, but he saw the words, GIRL DIES, caught in a brief flash of light as they passed. The muscles of his chest seemed to contract for a moment, the pain of it forcing tears to his eyes, and when it had passed he was left only with the thought that he had not even phoned to see how she had been. She had died alone, and no-one cared.
The door of his compartment slid open, but he was only half aware of it. It was not until he became conscious of the figure still standing in the doorway that he turned to look. Sally smiled nervously. ‘Neil,’ she almost whispered. ‘I saw you on the platform...’ He stared at her blankly. His mind swam. He wanted to stand up, to take her and hold her. But it was as though he had lost all power of movement. Perhaps it was all a dream.
‘She’s dead,’ he heard himself say.
‘Who?’ Sally frowned.
‘Tania. I saw it on a billboard just a few minutes ago.’
Sally stood still for a moment then opened her shoulder bag and pulled out a rumpled copy of a London evening paper. ‘You’re wrong,’ she said. She held out the paper and Bannerman saw its headline. SEX ATTACK GIRL DIES. ‘It’s some London story,’ Sally said. ‘Tania’s going to be all right. I was with the police inspector, du Maurier, when they phoned from the hospital. The doctors said she was going to be okay.’
It was as though a dam had burst and all the poison was running out of him. He felt the return of hope and light and love so sweetly. He rose and held her hands and kissed her, and then he pulled her to him and held her so tightly it must have hurt her. But she didn’t mind. ‘I’m so sorry about everything,’ she whispered. ‘I had to come back. I... I had to give it a try.’
He stopped her. ‘Don’t be sorry. It’s a bad way to start.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, I’m so glad.’ He kissed her again and then lifted her bag in and slid the door shut. She sat on the edge of her seat and looked up at him. ‘And did you get your story?’
Bannerman smiled wryly. ‘Oh, yes. I always get the story, don’t I?’ He hesitated and walked to the window and saw his own reflection staring back at him. ‘But it’s funny how it seems so unimportant now. Beside the life of a child, beside the chance to love again. After all,’ it was the last of his bitterness coming out, ‘it will only bring down a Government.’
He reached into his pocket for a pack of cigars and as he brought it out he saw that a small scrap of paper had floated to the floor, a scrap of paper that had remained undiscovered since it had been slipped into his pocket by a small, loving hand. He stooped to pick it up. It was folded over twice. He opened it out and saw three clumsily constructed words. LOVE YOU NEIL.