Authors: R J Gould
Bridget drove while Roland cursorily flicked through the
guide book. He looked thoroughly miserable. “Where the hell are we heading?” he
asked after they had been travelling for a little under half an hour.
“I’ve got a rough idea though it hardly matters, it’s all
so beautiful.” And it was – the scenery was stunning. A blue sky illuminated
the patches of snow that remained in the dips below the rugged peaks; they were
dazzlingly bright. Waterfalls tumbled then crashed against the rock faces. Lower
down the bare grey-brown rocks gave way to meadows of purple and yellow
flowers.
It was still well outside the mainstream tourist season
and even the major roads were traffic free. When they turned onto smaller roads
the scenery was theirs alone to savour. Finally they went along little more
than a track and reached a harsh rocky terrain facing out towards the distant
sea. They got out.
“Ready?” Bridget asked, her smile and light tone
attempting to illicit less resistance from Roland.
“If we must,” he uttered, avoiding eye contact.
Roland strode off, head down, lost in his own dark
thoughts. Bridget trailed behind, crossing the uneven ground with care. Her
husband kept going, not once turning back to check on her wellbeing. No attempt
to wait for her, no conversation, no interest.
“It’s over,” Bridget muttered, “it really is over.”
She stopped to investigate the discomfort on her left foot.
Sitting on a large smooth rock she took off her boot and sock to see the
damage. There was a painful blister on the protruding joint of her big toe. She
looked back towards their starting point, admiring the rugged beauty of the
cliffs behind her. Then she heard Roland call out and she turned back towards
the sea.
“Look at this,” she could make out against the roar of
the water. The tide was coming in, she noticed. He was smiling as he came
running towards her.
“Careful Roland, it’s slippery.”
He kept going and she saw what he was holding up in his
right hand, a giant crab. That smile was well known to her. Malicious.
“Catch this,” he called out when he was still some
distance away. He leant back, swung his arm and hurled the crab towards
Bridget. It landed with a crunch on a rock a few paces in front of her, its
shell crushed to pieces, its pincers twisted. The noise of the crab’s landing
was followed by a much heavier thud as Roland toppled from the rock he had been
perched on, dropping down onto the jagged terrain below.
Bridget remained seated for a few seconds, her wish for
calm silence disturbed by the breaking of waves and the shrieking of gulls.
“Roland? Are you OK?” Bridget called out as she replaced
her sock and boot. With little urgency she walked towards her husband and saw
him lying quite still on the edge of a rock pool. He was out cold and blood was
running from a gash at the side of his head, turning the water pink and sending
a group of tiny crabs scurrying for safety. The left side of his face was
resting in the water.
Bridget considered options as she gently shook Roland,
trying to rouse him. “Wake up will you.” And one option was so easy she
couldn’t resist it. She turned his head a fraction so that his face was angled downwards.
Next she moved him sideways just a tiny bit until his nose and mouth were fully
immersed under water. She watched as the pool reddened further and air bubbles
escaped, marking Roland’s last breath.
Bridget took out a cheese sandwich from her backpack. She
looked up. The tide was advancing quickly so she’d have to get a bit of a move
on or else the sea might trap her. She removed the cling film from the sandwich
and took a first bite as she headed back to seek the help that she knew was
already too late.
~
“Much of the rest of what happened is what I told you
first time round, except for what was going on in my head. Instead of any panic
that I had to find help, there was relief that I didn’t need to. I strolled
back to the car, though not too slowly in case someone saw me. Then I drove
towards the small cluster of cottages that we’d passed on the way there. In all
it took about an hour and a half before I was banging on the door of one that
had smoke coming out its chimney. An old lady greeted me. ‘My husband’s out
there,’ I said, pointing behind me. ‘He fell over, he’s injured and out cold.’ She
phoned the emergency services then made me a strong cup of tea with loads of
sugar and a tot of whisky. I acted as if I was panic stricken, which wasn’t
such an act because I was getting paranoid about the chance of being found out.
All those TV dramas I’d watched about the police uncovering what the
perpetrators had thought was the perfect crime.
“Eventually two policemen arrived. The older one, he must
have been very close to retirement, was very kind. He explained that the tide
had advanced well beyond the point where I’d left Roland, by now it would have
reached the cliff edge. I knew that would be the case, but I had a good go at
gasping in shock. He then told me that a rescue team had already set off by
boat. I carried on with my show of grief, sobbing ‘I’ve killed my husband.’ As
soon as I said it I wished I hadn’t because while the one policemen was
consoling me with ‘there’s a good chance the boat will have got to him’ the
other one kept quiet and frowned with what looked like recognition of over
acting and as a result, suspicion.”
Bridget went on to describe calling her parents. Her
father travelled up to Scotland to support her while her mother consoled the
children. He arrived at the cottage two days after the incident, on the same
day Roland’s body was washed ashore. Bridget was in the middle of telling him
what happened when there was a knock on the door and the policeman who had
appeared suspicious came in to break the news. Throughout her whole time there
Bridget only saw the two who had first arrived on the scene; it was that small
a place.
“Can I have a word with you alone please, officer?”
Bridget’s father requested and the two men went into the kitchen and closed the
door behind them. Bridget heard unclear murmurings. When they came back into
the sitting room her father announced he would be the one to identify the body.
She questioned why and he came straight to the point. “Because I’m afraid it’s
nothing more than the remains of a body, it’s best if you keep away.”
Bridget had burst out crying, an unexpectedly genuine
feeling of sadness for Roland’s state. Later her father explained he had
deliberately elicited grief to allay any distrust the policeman might have
ahead of the regulatory autopsy.
Her father was a forensic scientist and knew what was
needed to prevent the coroner’s suspicion. He made a point of befriending him
ahead of the session, reminiscing about past gruesome cases and the substantial
differences between working in Oxford and rural Scotland. Bridget was briefed
on how to act during the post-mortem, in particular to describe everything as
accurately as possible until the point when she had moved Roland’s head into
the water and held him down. If asked about their relationship she was to avoid
indicating all was fine, even admit to difficulties if pushed, in case a
decision was made to call outside witnesses.
Accidental death by drowning was recorded and a relieved
Bridget followed her father back to Inverness where they deposited their hire
cars and flew back to London together.
~
“What do you think of all that, David?” Bridget asked.
“I’m a murderer.”
“Hardly. Even if you’d done nothing more than leave him
there, he would still have drowned. It’s not as if you would have been able to
carry him to safety.”
“Maybe not, but I made sure, didn’t I? And the whole
thing still hangs over me.”
David moved closer and put an arm around her. “I can
understand that, but in case you’re worried, it doesn’t affect how I feel towards
you.”
Bridget smiled her first smile of the New Year.
How things had changed from the pleasant simplicity of a
couple of weeks ago. The unfulfilled night with Bridget, but with the certainty
that it was only a matter of time before they were in a relationship. A
tyrannical boss making the case for leaving the local authority clear cut. His
increased confidence in being able to cope to all effects and purposes as a single
parent.
Bridget topped the pressure list. She had asked him to
leave as soon as she had recounted the events around the death of Roland.
‘Death’ was his choice of word, she continued to use ‘murder’. She was adamant
he should have time to think about the impact of knowing this. He declared there
no need – that the death didn’t influence his feelings towards her. She
wouldn’t have it so he relented and agreed to call her the next evening. On the
drive home he switched on the radio to dismiss his emerging feeling that
perhaps there was an issue after all.
There was a discussion about deceit and infidelity on Radio
4 which allowed him to switch his thoughts to Mary. While there had been no
infidelity in this case, maybe not telling Bridget about Mary’s involvement
during the evening of the concert could be defined as deceitful. He had no idea
what to expect tomorrow, the first day back at work after the Christmas break. On
arrival he’d go straight to Jabulani. He was undecided whether to raise the topic
of Mary, but he’d certainly find out more about the drugs raid. At least then
he’d have a topic of conversation with Mary to distract her from talking about
the ‘other thing’. He wasn’t convinced that all the flirting had come from her,
perhaps he had contributed. It was all down to their tongues meeting during
that last kiss. If her tongue had journeyed into his mouth then she was solely to
blame and there would be nothing to tell Bridget. If he had extended his to
meet hers half way then it was a shared responsibility. He still wouldn’t tell
Bridget, but he would be being deceitful.
Tomorrow was also the start of the new school term for
the children, Rachel’s return following her drunken escapade. After the visit
to his mother she had spent the rest of the holiday revising for forthcoming
examinations, refusing to answer any questions about her personal life. David heard
earnest whispered conversations when he passed her bedroom. He assumed they
were with her boyfriend. With school starting they would be together again and
there was nothing David could do to stop it. Though why should he? Sixteen year
olds date. But what was this boyfriend like and how well did he treat his Rachel?
And then there was Jane. It was the week when they had
agreed to sign the financial settlement papers ahead of completing their
divorce. This thought generated a bizarre cocktail of relief, remorse, regret,
joy and failure for David.
Unable to sleep, he sat in the lounge drinking wine. Putting
the women issues aside he focused on the café. For a man usually risk averse, quickly
he made a bold decision. The way he saw it, the choice was between sitting at a
desk surrounded by spreadsheets for the rest of his working life or setting up
a coffee bar offering music, films and poetry. It had to be the coffee bar.
Even if the end result was to be remembered as the man at the council who helped
citizens to get funding to care for elderly relatives at a time of economic
austerity, or the man who set up a coffee bar with great vision but
insufficient customers for it to be a success – he’d still opt for the café. He
wanted to make something of his life and this was the opportunity. With the
decision made the detailed planning needed to begin.
He finished his third generous glass of Merlot and got
ready for bed, hoping the wine would ease him into restful sleep. But as soon
as he lay down he thought of Bridget. This was a common pastime in bed for
David, but tonight’s line of thought was somewhat different to usual. From
their first meeting at the reunion onwards he’d been enchanted by a woman who
seemed to possess unlimited serenity and kindness. This perception had been challenged
by Bridget owning up to murder. Mind you, it was only slightly a murder –
Roland would have died anyway. But the concept of ‘slight murder’ didn’t make any
sense and it certainly wouldn’t to the police, a lawyer, judge or jury.
David moved on to contemplating the meaning of ‘Justice’.
Surely Roland deserved what he got? But despite an internal struggle to make
the case, he couldn’t accept that cruelty merited death.
David then considered ‘Truth’, or perhaps more to the
point, lying. Bridget had lied to him when she’d first told him the story of
Roland’s death. The way she’d described it second time round could be equally
untrue. Perhaps she had a compulsion to lie and a third version would be
forthcoming. He dismissed this as unlikely – anyone would be reluctant to tell
a virtual stranger she had murdered her husband.
There was no reason not to start a relationship. Or was
there? Was ‘Morality’ at stake?Did he have a moral duty to turn her in?
And what about ‘Fear’? Should he be concerned that she might murder again?
Murder him.
Justice. Truth. Morality. Fear. Concepts philosophers
dedicated their lives to considering. He’d done so when half-asleep in a matter
of minutes and had reached a conclusion. He’d call Bridget tomorrow after work
to put her mind at rest and arrange to meet. Just the two of them, no children
around.
With decisions about Bridget and the café sorted and with
the signing of the papers with Jane a formality, that only left Mary and Rachel
to deal with. Enough for one night – he could sleep peacefully.
~
The next morning, a cold and grey January day, a weary
David journeyed to work. He barely had time to sit at his desk when his phone
rang and the name flashed up on the display. “Good morning, Mary.”