“Then how…?”
“Last night, he was here. I was trying to stop him from coming in.”
“He forced his way into the house, that’s what you’re saying?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Suppose?”
“Well, yes, then. Yes.”
“And forced himself upon you?”
I turned my head away.
“He raped you.”
“No.”
“Then what else would you call it?”
I had begun to shake.
‘‘I’ll kill him, so help me, I will.”
“Harry, don’t, please. Don’t say that.”
“Just tell me where I can find him.”
“Harry, no.”
“You want this to happen again? Keep happening?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then tell me. And I’ll put a stop to it once and for all.”
I didn’t tell him, not then. Not right away. The last thing I wanted was for him to go off angry and emotional, acting impulsively, without properly thinking it through. That he could kill a man, I had little doubt; he had killed men before, after all; men he didn’t know, men at close range, men he couldn’t – didn’t – see. It was what he’d been trained to do. He could kill a man, I was sure, with his bare hands. Those hands.
“The Concord,” I said. “You know, that place out towards the estuary. That’s where he spends a lot of time. Victor. If you still did want to see him. Talk to him. He’d listen to you.”
It was the next evening, the two of us propped up on pillows after making love; Harry’s head resting on my shoulder, my fingers combing through his hair.
“What if he doesn’t?” Harry said.
“Hmm?”
“What if he doesn’t listen?”
I reached down and kissed the palm of his hand. “Maybe the club’s not the best place to talk. Somewhere quieter might be better. Where he’s less likely to make a fuss. The park, perhaps. Up river. Where they’re filling in the old gravel pit. Somewhere like that.”
“He’d never come.”
“He might if he thought I was going to be there.”
I didn’t say anything more about it; neither did he. Several more days passed. A week. Then…
“I’m meeting him this evening. Later. Where you said.”
“You’re sure?”
His arms slid around me and I pressed my face against his chest.
“Don’t trust him,” I said. “Don’t turn your back.”
I didn’t see him again that night, nor for several nights after. I texted him to make sure he was all right and he was. Just busy. See you soon as I can.
When he did come round there was some bruising I noticed, now fading, to the back of his hand; his knuckles were grazed. An accident, I thought, while working, a chisel that had slipped, a length of timber that had leaped back at his face.
“You saw him?”
“Yes, I saw him.”
He didn’t tell me what had happened, what had been said. The only time I asked, weeks later, he said, “You just don’t want to know.”
Victor Sedalis had disappeared again, into thin air. Nobody asked questions, bothered to report him missing. After all, he’d done it before. Cyprus, this time, that was the story. Limassol, somewhere. Gambling debts he couldn’t pay, the interest rising, compounding day by day.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said the barman at the Concord, “if this time he’s gone for good.”
I continued to see a little of Harry, but after that it was never quite the same. The last I heard, he’d upped sticks and started a little boatbuilding business down near Southampton. One of his sons lives near there while he’s studying for his doctorate. Biotechnology? Something like that?
At first there was the odd postcard or two, but Harry’s not much of a one for writing and, I suppose, neither am I.
I did think about moving myself, got as far as putting the house on the market, but in the end I stayed. Too late to dig myself up, perhaps, too much effort, transplanting myself, at this stage of my life. And, besides, I like it here. Where I know. It suits me. My little lunches with Marie. The tennis club. I can just about hold my end up at doubles, much to my surprise. And on a sunny day like today, I’ll sometimes take a stroll down along the river to the country park. A few dog walkers, kids kicking a ball; quite often, weekdays, I’ve got the place to myself. Not that I mind. I feel safe there, secure. The ground, fresh and firm beneath my feet.
My thanks to Amy Rigby and Bill Demain, whose song, ‘Keep It To Yourself’, as sung by Amy, provided the initial idea for this story.
http://amyrigby.com/
THE INVISIBLE GUNMAN by Keith McCarthy
IT WAS 7.50 on a warm May evening in 1976 and Max and I were running late. Dad had invited us for a meal at 7.30 and he did not normally like to be kept waiting. The reasons we were late were many and varied; firstly, I had been kept at the surgery by the mother of a small boy who had stuck a wodge of masticated chewing gum up his nose that would not come back down (when I inserted a pair of forceps so far up there, I fully expected to see his eyes being pulled back into his sockets), and Max – a vet by trade – had been overrun by an outbreak of diarrhoea and vomiting in a local kennels; then the car had refused to start for ten minutes because I managed to flood the engine.
Dad had told us to come round the back because he was planning a barbecue. I had feigned enthusiasm for this idea but had suggested that he should avoid doing pork or chicken. I thought I’d done this tactfully but clearly not for he had asked at once and rather sharply, “Why not?”
I groped for the correct form of words. “Because chicken and pork don’t barbecue particularly well.” Actually, on Dad’s barbecue, no meats did particularly well, but at least you were relatively safe with lamb or beef that had fourth-degree burns on the surface yet still, miraculously, a beating heart within. Similar cooking conditions when applied to chicken or pork were apt to lead to terminal food poisoning.
“I’ve never found that,” he pointed out.
“How about sticking to beefburgers?”
“Horrible, pre-digested pap. Wouldn’t feed them to my dog.”
I tried the last gambit in my arsenal. “I know that Max likes lamb…”
A pause. “Does she?”
“Loves it.”
“Oh, well…I’ll see what I can do, then.” In the eyes of Lance Elliot Senior, retired general practitioner, Max Christy could do no wrong. Accordingly, I was hoping for an evening meal that, if not destined for gastronomic legend, would not at least see Max and me spending the next forty-eight hours threatening to overwhelm the sewers of Thornton Heath.
I hurriedly opened the wooden door by the side of the garage that led down a narrow pathway to the back garden. I would judge that I had the door open about six inches when it happened. There was a heavy thud, and simultaneously the door was pushed violently back into a closed position while I found my right eye about two inches from the metal-tipped point of an arrow that protruded through a small explosion of splinters from the door. I jumped back, colliding with Max who squealed then fell over.
I said, “Bloody hell!” while Max said, “Ow!”
As I turned around to help her back up, the garden door opened and the heavily beard-encrusted face of my father looked out. “What’s all the fuss?”
It took a moment to straighten Max out, who also had a few questions to ask me – like why I had decided to assault her – so it was not immediately that I turned to my aged parent. In this interlude he had pulled the arrow out of the door and was examining it. “What in the name of all that’s good and holy are you doing?” I demanded.
I knew his expression well. It was a perfect blend of innocence and reproach, and it asked me where I had learned to speak to my elder and better in such a way, because it certainly hadn’t been from him. “Practising.”