Heartbreaker (55 page)

I

I first heard something had gone wrong with Gavin in the summer of 1993. I had survived my wedding (unexpectedly enjoyable), my honeymoon (well up to expectations) and the initial weeks of married life (not much different from unmarried life as Eric was on a creative binge and spending most of his time at the studio). I had also survived the trial. What I was having trouble surviving was the last lap of the St. Benet’s Appeal. We needed another fifty thousand to cope with rising costs and unforeseen extras, but I was suffering from fundraising fatigue and felt exhausted by the thought of this extra mountain to climb. On the morning Gavin became ill I was sagging in my office swivel chair and wondering again how I could restart my campaign. Having done almost no work during the trial I was feeling oppressed by guilt, and the buzz of the Rectory intercom came as a welcome diversion.

“Susanne’s just phoned,” said Alice upstairs. “Gavin’s had some sort of collapse. Nicholas and Val are on their way out to him.”

I was stunned because this was the last thing I would have predicted. At the onset of the trial Gavin had become a peculiarly sanitised version of his old self: charming, confident and extroverted but with his language cleaned up and his hypersexual aggressiveness tuned out. I had assumed he was finally on the mend and that the trial would be as much a catharsis for him as it was for me.

I had wanted to be at the Old Bailey every day, and through the Crown Prosecution Service team I had managed to arrange that two seats were reserved for me in the public gallery. Realising how traumatic it would be for me to see Mrs. Mayfield again, Nicholas had insisted that someone should always come with me, and in fact he himself was at my side at the end. When Mrs. Mayfield stood in the dock for sentencing, he reached out and took my hand.

I saw judgement passed upon her for her crimes.

Her smooth, surgically altered face was eerily expressionless, but she looked up at the public gallery and stared not at me but at Nicholas. He stared back, and she was the first to look away. Then she glanced at me but her time in the dock had run out and she was taken away, taken out of my life for ever. When Gavin and I met up afterwards we flew into each other’s arms and wept, like the survivors of some huge disaster.

Yet now he had collapsed. As Alice told me this latest news I began to realise that although I was home and dry at last after my long ordeal, Gavin’s ordeal had merely moved into a different phase.

“What exactly happened?” I demanded.

“I’m not sure. Susanne didn’t say much, just asked Nicholas to come over as soon as possible.”

I called the house in Docklands.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Susanne, sounding neither friendly nor unfriendly but merely businesslike, as if she were making one of Gavin’s appointments. “He’s not available, he’s gone unsociable again. Sorry.”

“Alice tells me that Nicholas—”

“He just left. All that praying stuff’s weird—imagine talking to God as if it’s a person! It’s almost as creepy as Gavin talking about that Jesus thing-y as if he lived just down the street.”

“
Does he?
I mean, does Gavin—”

“Yeah, mental . . .”

Since the traumatic events surrounding Kim’s death I had actually thought long and hard about Jesus Christ, although of course I had never said so. One hardly wanted to be mistaken for some fanatical born-again, and anyway I had always felt that actions spoke louder than words; embarking on a totally new life had, for me, said all there was to say. But now I wondered if my reticence was further evidence of my spiritual inadequacy. If even Gavin could chat away about—

“. . . so Val wants to get him to a hospital . . .”

Abruptly I tuned in again to the rasping in my ear.

“. . . but Gav says he won’t go, he’s afraid of being zombified and his head rearranged without his permission.”

“For God’s sake! How did all this come about?”

Susanne’s willingness to explain probably indicated how rattled she still was. “I’d taken another day off so that we could get settled back at the house,” she began, “and we were in the supermarket doing a big shop when suddenly some bloke bumps into him by accident, nothing major, just a short brush-past, but the next moment Gav’s white as frigging snow and starting to pant. Off he runs, and when I follow I find he’s flung himself into the car and he’s doubled up in the passenger seat with his hands over his face and he’s sobbing and shaking like he’s totally lost it. Which he has. Course I could see it coming a mile off. He was so hyped up fighting evil and seeing justice was done that now the trial’s over he’s crashed.”

“But this is a catastrophe!”

“No, it’s a nervous breakdown, I know, I had one. They take between six to nine months usually, maybe even a year. Then you’re okay.”

“Yes, but—”

“In the meantime Val’s given him some tranx—good ones, not head-shredders, and—”

“But he must see Robin and have therapy!”

“Nah, forget it. Gavin says he can only see men who are ultra-straight and even then they mustn’t be allowed to touch him. All the gays have done his head in, poor bastard, and now he can’t bear to think of anything connected with the Life—the reaction’s hit him with a mega-thwack and he’s zapped.”

I was so appalled that I could only mumble how sorry I was. But although later I wrote to Gavin to send sympathy and offer support, he was apparently too ill to reply.

II

He was ill all that summer, unable to leave his house, unable to socialise, unable to do anything except watch television in his bedroom with the blinds drawn. Val found him a good local doctor, a woman who, like Val herself, at first recommended a short period of hospitalisation so that his case could be assessed and a more sophisticated drug therapy prescribed, but Gavin remained determined not to leave his house and as he was non-violent and non-suicidal there was no question of compelling him.

Lewis eventually took over from Nicholas as Gavin’s primary carer from St. Benet’s. Nicholas was overwhelmed that summer by his private life; his ex-wife was pestering him for help because their elder son had fallen in love with a lap-dancer while the younger one had dropped out of a legal training in order to start up an alternative comedy magazine called
Bog.
Eric said soothingly to Nicholas that this was very normal behaviour for two well-brought-up males who were under twentyfive, but I could hardly blame Nicholas for looking harassed. Alice, who was still not pregnant, confided to me that she thought Nicholas ought to change jobs and move well away from London before he too had a nervous breakdown, and I found he was heaving nostalgic sighs at the thought of his family manor house in the south-west. But I couldn’t see him stepping down from St. Benet’s when he was still in his prime.

Meanwhile, as Nicholas floundered around with his family, overworked as usual at the Healing Centre and indulged in escapist dreams of his old home, Lewis had the time, the freedom and the single-minded dedication to attend to Gavin. He started to visit the Docklands house twice a week, and soon after this visiting pattern had been established he reported that Gavin wanted to see me.

This was fortunate as I now had a special reason for wanting to see him.

I had just had an extraordinary interview with Sir Colin Broune.

III

The return of Sir Colin Broune to the St. Benet’s scene began with a phone call from his secretary.

“The St. Benet’s Appeal office,” I droned as I sat slumped at my desk in front of the morning’s post, but before I could go on to identify myself, an acid-voiced contralto was enquiring if I were Carta Graham.

I confirmed that I was. My new marriage had not altered my decision to retain my maiden name at work.

“Sir Colin Broune will see you at five o’clock today at his office at number sixty-three, Old Jewry.”

“Excuse me?”

The sentence was repeated with a robotic precision which left no room for argument. I agreed to present myself, hung up and raced over to the Healing Centre.

“He must be thinking again of a donation,” I said feverishly after grabbing Nicholas between appointments, “and we can take the money now, can’t we? I mean, at this stage we know Gavin can’t be pressuring him.”

“Right!” Nicholas was as enthralled as I was, but he added: “I’m surprised he asked to see you and not me. Remember how he prefers to deal with men if he has the choice?”

“Maybe he’s mellowed!” I was enraptured by the possibility that Sir Colin might end my anxiety about the final stretch of the Appeal, and in fact I even wondered if he would donate the whole fifty thousand pounds outstanding. “In your dreams!” I muttered to myself as I returned to the office, but the vision of a monster cheque refused to go away.

Having arrived at RCPP’s towering headquarters at two minutes before five I was directed to a lift which rocketed me straight to the top floor. Here I spent a restful ten minutes while I watched the acid-voiced contralto toying with her latest computer behind a wraparound desk suitable for controlling the universe.

At last I was escorted to the chairman’s office, the ultimate corporate status symbol. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced the dense architectural jungle of the City where modern skyscrapers crowded around the elderly fortress of the Bank of England. Classical paintings, all no doubt of breathtaking value, clung glumly to the walls. An oak desk, huge, plain and square like its owner, stood marooned amidst an ocean of pale gold carpet. The top of the desk was bare, signalling that the chairman was so perfectly in control of his empire that clutter was something which could only happen in the offices of other people, far away on a distant floor.

“Good afternoon, Miss Graham,” said Gavin’s former client, drawing a veil over the memory of that weekend at his country house when we had addressed each other informally.

“Good afternoon, Sir Colin,” I said, taking care to look respectful but not intimidated.

He mangled my hand and invited me to sit down but I was not offered any refreshment. Nor did he indulge in small-talk. When we were seated, I in a wing chair uncomfortable for anyone under six feet tall, he in a swivel chair which plainly hoped to be a throne when it grew up, he simply said: “The events of the trial reminded me of that famous saying attributed to Edmund Burke: ‘All that is required for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.’ I did nothing after that weekend house party, even though I realised Asherton was pushing views that should be opposed by all right-thinking men no matter whether they believe in God or not. But in the weeks since the trial I’ve been thinking about what I can do to put right my omission.”

He paused. I thought: my God, this is it, he’s going to give.

“While meditating on the situation,” pursued Sir Colin, “it occurred to me that at the trial Gavin Blake showed a great deal of courage. It also occurred to me that in the end it was the people of St. Benet’s who helped him, while I merely washed my hands and moved on. There’s a message for me there, I feel, Miss Graham, and I trust I’m not so deficient in honesty that I’m unable to read it.”

As he opened a drawer of his desk and took out an envelope, my heart banged so loudly that I was sure he must have heard it. The numbers five and zero were trying to mate in my brain, a triumph of hope over cynicism.

“You were a personal friend of Gavin’s, I remember,” he said abruptly. “You met him through Richard Slaney, who was one of your fellow partners at Curtis, Towers.”

I somehow achieved a nod.

“That’s why I asked to see you and not Darrow. As a personal friend of Gavin’s you will, I hope, agree to deliver this letter to him—and don’t put it in the post, it’s too important, I want to make sure it’s delivered into his hands. If you could do this for me, Miss Graham, at the earliest opportunity, I’d be extremely grateful.”

The golden rule for all fundraisers is never offend a millionaire, not even when all you want to do is fling back your head and scream with disappointment.

“Yes, of course, Sir Colin,” I said smoothly. “I’ll go to his house as soon as I can.”

That closed the interview. Not only was there no stunning donation but there was not even a morale-boosting token gift. I was merely a convenient minion selected to deliver his special mail. Perhaps I could get a job as a post-person when I finally flaked out of fundraising.

Poker-faced I offered my hand for re-mangling and abandoned him to his empty desktop.

IV

It was on the evening after my interview with Sir Colin that Lewis rang to say Gavin had asked to see me, and when I mentioned Sir Colin’s letter Lewis suggested we should go together to the house in Docklands.

“If the letter were to upset Gavin it might be better if I was there,” he said, and we agreed to make the journey on the following afternoon.

I had not been to Gavin’s home before. It was one of twelve houses in a terrace which faced a narrow strip of water, and a few boats were already bobbing at their moorings. The area was bleak, but I could see the gulls wheeling over the nearby river, and not far away loomed the massive tower of Canary Wharf, symbolising the regeneration and transformation of this eastern swathe of the capital.

“It’s London,” I commented wryly, “but not as we know it,” and before Lewis could reply, Susanne was opening the front door.

“He’s only just got himself out of bed,” she said without wasting time on preliminaries. “You’ll have to wait.” I was reminded of Sir Colin’s contemptuous indifference to small-talk.

The house was larger than it looked from the outside, and the living-room with its dining-area, open-plan kitchen and view over the water had the potential to be attractive. The furniture looked as if it had been ordered from a Habitat catalogue: modern lines, primary colours, each piece simple and functional. A number of plants added splashes of greenery to the windowsills.

We sat down at the dining-table. Lewis had told me that he always conducted conversations with Gavin there so that the table could act as a protective barrier; Gavin was still deeply phobic about being touched by men.

“Gav!” yelled Susanne after she had made us tea. “You still alive?” She dumped our mugs in front of us, and as she did so Gavin came down the stairs.

He was rail-thin and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes. His hair was longer and shaggier, suggesting that being a barber would never be Susanne’s métier, but he had taken time to shave, and his sweatshirt and jeans both looked freshly laundered. I realised he had made a big effort to appear well for me.

“Gavin!” I exclaimed warmly, but found I was unsure what to do next. I knew that as a woman I was allowed to touch him, but clasping his hand in that context seemed too formal and hugging him might have been more than he wanted, particularly as Susanne was standing by.

“Hi,” he said with a fleeting smile. “Don’t get up. Hullo, Lewis.”

“Well, I’m off,” said Susanne, plonking a mug of tea in front of him as he sat down opposite me. “Back in an hour, Gav. Cheers.” She grabbed her bag and clip-clopped out. The door banged noisily.

My instant reaction was: how does he stand it? But I repressed that thought in order to concentrate on making the right moves. I felt I had fluffed the greeting by being too tentative. “How are you doing?” I said, trying to sound sympathetic without being oppressively caring.

“Still breathing.” He gave me another quick smile but said nothing else, and it was a relief when Lewis intervened.

“Carta’s brought a letter from Sir Colin Broune, Gavin,” he said, “and I think it must be important because he wanted it delivered by hand. Carta, tell Gavin what happened.”

I did my best but I was very conscious that Gavin was unable to look at me, and as I pushed the letter across the table towards him I was unnerved when he shrank back as if it were contaminated. To my distress I saw his eyes fill with tears.

“I’ll tell you what I could do,” said Lewis crisply, exuding both kindness and common sense. “I could read the letter aloud but slowly, so that you could easily interrupt if you wanted me to stop. The trouble is that if you don’t know what Sir Colin’s written, you might start to wonder about it later and that could make you anxious, particularly if you don’t want to read the letter yourself.”

Gavin hesitated, nervously revolving the mug of tea between his hands, but when he at last nodded, Lewis read with numerous pauses: “ ‘My dear Gavin, I regret the manner of our parting and I apologise for my anger. You were very brave during the trial. In fact your courage made me see not only how deeply I failed you but how all your clients should feel guilty about what happened. The truth is we colluded with Mrs. Delamere. The fact that I unwittingly became entangled with Asherton is, I feel, symbolic of how easy it is to allow evil to enter one’s life, and how hard it often is to recognise and reject it.

“ ‘I understand from various reports in the newspapers that you have now abandoned your occupation. Should this be true, and naturally I hope it is, you will be looking for a job. I write to say that a place could be found for you in one of the divisions of RCPP, and I can ask the head of personnel to assess you to decide where you would flourish best. Even if you later decide the job doesn’t suit you, it will at least be a beginning, a stepping-stone to a job you prefer. You and I need never meet again. My organisation is extremely large and I seldom see employees below a certain level, particularly if they are not employed at my headquarters in Old Jewry.

“ ‘I wish to say one thing more. You were kind to me when we first met. I hope that now you will allow me to be kind in return. Yours sincerely, COLIN.’ ”

Lewis stopped reading. Then after a long silence Gavin leaned forward and buried his face in his hands as he wept.