The Killing Hand
Authors: Andrew Bishop
Surname / TITLE / 1
THE KILLING HAND
andrew bishop
Text copyright
© 2014 Andrew Bishop
All Rights Reserved
"How did he die?" were the last words I had expected to speak upon my return to London. Yet, as I
stood in the broken remnants of what was once my Father’s living room, I found there to be little in which I had expected to return to at all. The house I once knew was in ruins. The walls and floors torn, paintings and ornaments wrecked. My home was devoid of life. As much as I had tried to contain it, the thoughts were unrelenting. Curiosity had got the better of me and I had to ask.
I had met old friends on the way from the station - James and Francis - who had both accompanied me home. They both now perched on the edge of the settee, exchanging worried glances for an instant. Their fleeting gaze broke as they each realised that there was neither solitude nor cold comfort to be found in one another. James was the mature one; a short, comfortable man with a strong nose and receding hairline. Disciplined, reasoned, an officer of the law by profession; and yet even he was on edge. He sat clutching his knees and looking uncomfortable. He paused before looking up at me. "He was murdered."
The pain in my heart advanced to something far greater. A dull incurable ac
he rumbled from somewhere within my body, unreachable by doctors and an enigma to the passer by. The whole thing was intangible. To what incentive would a man wreck such horror against this family? Was it a crime of circumstance? It seemed preposterous to me that such a thing could even happen.
Next to James sat Francis, a man of slender frame who stared at the floor unable to make eye contact with me, despite his best
of efforts. He was a self-made man of charm and wit, both of which appeared to have failed him in this circumstance. These were dear, close friends, estranged due to my business overseas. We had grown up together, attended university and shared in the dilemmas of life. Regardless, the presence of my two friends did little to alleviate this sudden tragedy in my life.
Francis finally spoke, his voice croaking. "
My condolences Eric, your Father was a brilliant man." His reassurance echoed distantly. Their comforts were unable to reach me as I sunk into a bleak world; a world which would engulf me if I were not careful.
Unburdening myself of my sodden cloak, I draped it over the coat
-rack, unable to respond. What should one say to the death of their Father? He had made this home a great comfort to me, but it was now tarnished by the thoughts of the events that had transpired under this roof. The grand portrait of my illustrious family still hung proud on the wall, albeit worn. It gave the deception that they were present. As if they were somewhere unreachable, yet close, as if through a pane of glass. It only made it worse to go on imagining such a thing. I stared at the painting in the crooked frame, although it brought no warmth to my heart. My father stood proud with my late mother by his side and my older sister, Lilly, between them.
The worry in
my mind turned to my poor sister who was absent. "What of Lilly? Is she safe?"
James responded, "Do not worry Eric, Lilly is safe. I will inform her of your arrival too, she could do with some good news."
I nodded in acknowledgement and felt my heart lighten for the first time since arriving. I was pleased that Lilly at least had not been caught up in this tragedy. Still, the loss of my father was a fresh wound and I found it hard to even muster a smile.
James rose from his seat, urged on by the grave ex
pression I continued to wear. "Listen, Eric. I still have the best officers on the case. We will apprehend those responsible and bring them to justice."
James
would have been content with such a simple outcome: the perpetrators sent to the gallows, the punishment dealt and unerring retribution, everything even; universal balance restored. James' idea of justice involved flogging the killers until dead. But this differed from my own values. No matter how severe the sentence, my Father was gone and the loss would remain. There was no punishment to alleviate my wounds. What had been taken from me could never be returned. A part of me restrained from telling James that his sense of justice was too proud, but I feared that to remain silent would seem as if I were in agreement with him. "More death would be inconsequential. He is gone, and nothing can be done to bring him back."
Understanding the argument to be a lost cause, James let out a resigned sigh. I needed time. He knew that to console me, to be compa
ssionate, would be meaningless. "It pains me that you feel this way, Eric. I see that you need to work through your own problems. I understand that I can be of little help, but know that I will help when you need me, you need only ask." He slipped on his coat and nodded to Francis as he took his leave.
James' departure illustrated the silence between Francis and I to the point that it soon grew palpable. Francis stood to address me, immediately appearing unsure, realising he had no idea what to say; the
situation beyond his capabilities. After briefly mumbling to himself he finally managed to form a coherent sentence. "I am sincerely sorry you returned to such tragedy."
"When did it happen?"
"Two months ago. We had no choice but to have the funeral in your absence."
I drew back the curtains from the window. For the first time in two months the room lost its sepulchral demeanour, seeming to recoil in pain as the light bathed over the memories that lay out before me. It had been a year since I had seen the house. It was different, yet the same, almost as if it were a display in a museum; a tribute to what once was. The furniture, the decoration, everything appeared more weathered than the images of my mind had portrayed. The home was bathed in a thin layer of dust, save for the fresh footprints from where we had entered. The baggage, dropped in the hallway, cluttered the otherwise barren home.
My lack of response seemed to trouble Francis, who, pressing on, tried to continue the conversation. "I spent months worrying about you, Eric. What was it you were doing?"
I was not foolish enough to believe that this question would never be asked. One cannot simply disappear without arousing the intere
st of others. I had expected the question, but there was no part of me willing to answer.
"I travelled," was my eventual response.
Francis cocked his head.
"Francis, I was confined. My job was arduous and demoralising. I would chase up contracts and meet men who had little interest in me; their apathy towards my person led me to surrender my appointments. I went to see the world for the first time. No longer confined and shut off from the life that I wanted to lead."
The sudden outburst of speech surprised even me, not to mention Francis, whose mouth shut at the mere tone of my voice that broke the silence. He took a while to compose himself before responding. "I hope your experience was worth the cost."
"I will not quarrel with you," I retorted, knowing full well of the impending argument and having no interest to sit through it. "Had I been here when he had died my self-loathing would be far greater. I feel no remorse for my actions. I did as I needed."
Francis' face appeared to lose some
of its youthful vigour as he let out a defeated sigh. Perhaps it was my year old memory of him finally succumbing to the reality before me. Maybe Francis had always been as such. Regardless, it was unnecessary to compare Francis from a year previous. I was entirely new in myself. We all change and it was something that I would have to accept.
Francis said, "I will avoid further mention of this issue. I must say, it is splendid to see you again, even under such circumstance. As the months passed I began to question your return. I was convinced that you had left London forever."
"I was in good company, you can rest assured."
"I would wager." For the first time a knowing, mischievous smile spread across Francis' face. "Now that you are back, what are your intentions?"
"I have not considered my future. There is no surprise in a planned future and I very much like surprises. What of my Father’s business?"
"I can assure you that his business has been preserved. You have control of a great estate by the means of Godwin & Co. Your position is there for you - joint ownership of the company and estate in its entirety."
Francis smiled as he delivered this news, but I felt a chill all over my body. It brought no joy
to hear of the inheritance. My Fathers' business, although impressive, was not a career I had wished to pursue. He had offered me a position within the company upon finishing university. This was something I soundly declined. Management was of no interest to me. Instead, it was he who had sent me to Europe on an errand. It was there I realised, under the pretence of business, that I could finally inhabit my own corner of the world. Get out from under the boot and spread my wings.
"I had not intended to take over my Fathers' business."
Francis let out a chuckle of disbelief. "Whatever do you mean? Your Father left his half of the business to you. Your inheritance, your means, it was his life' work."
"His life, not mine. I care not for the business. Who managed the dealings during my absence? I presume Gilbert kept up with affairs."
"Gilbert manages the daily running of the business on his own. Or so I believe."
One could hope, at least. Gilbert had been my Father's business partner; a most unpleasant man. Our relationship was acrimonious at best. He had worked well with my Father, but he had nothing but discontent for me.
"Gilbert is a far better candidate for the position than I."
"Would you not consider a joint venture? It is a business your family founded after all. Gilbert could assist you, just as he did your Father."
The thought of mutual labour by Gilbert's side was enough to put me off work for the rest of my life. If we held joint ownership of the company Gilbert would hardly let me procure funds from the business without first working. However, to say no would be to hand the entirety of my Father's business into his hands. A move Gilbert would welcome with open arms.
This was not something I wished to deal with right now. "I thank you for your concern Francis. However, I must confess I am not interested. I will consider the matter and resolve the situation by myself. You need not worry yourself."
The disappointment swept over Francis. Being a self-made man, running a business such as his own that he had started when he left university, work meant a great deal to him. It was beyond his capabilities to understand the desire to not want to spend your days slaving away. I did not want to work in a company for the honour of others – not at least when Gilbert was there to run things in my absence.
The talk of business was tiring and it was not what I wished to hear at that present time. "Of which other events am I uninformed?"
"Too many to tell in all honestly," Francis replied, trying to remember the events of the previous year. "Have you met anyone else since your return?"
On returning to London I had made my way directly to my Father's house. By chance I had encountered James and Francis in the street. The two of them were deep in conversation when I happened to glance upon them. They had escorted me home while delivering the news of my Father. I had not even had time to think about anyone else. I shook my head. "I cannot think of anyone else I would wish to meet with, other than my dear sister."
Francis nodded, but said nothing more.
I began to realise a great tiredness had begun to cloud my mind due to my lack of sleep during the voyage and the emotional turmoil of the day’s news. "I must thank you for your support here today, but I must say I think I need to be alone now."
Francis smiled and nodded in understanding. "If you should need anything, you know where I am."
Francis let himself out and, with him, all the joy of the room. Standing alone in the dust covered remains of my Father’s home, I realised that the yearning to escape from London was back greater than ever before. With my overseas travel complete I was no longer free from the cage of an oppressive homeland. This was never really my home. My family were torn apart, but then again, we were never really together. My old life was gone and I found myself asking if I was really living at all anymore.
The silence of the house was the only response I received.
There were memories hiding in between the cracks of a distant echo of the times when I had lived there, memories muffled by the events that had made this house into a murder scene; the tread of booted feet, the crumble of debris, torn loose as they had chipped away at my shell. I wondered what I would find if I began to search the house, searching through my distant past in which memories were twined amongst the latticework, shifting in the darkness and muttering amongst themselves as if I were a stranger. It seemed I had done my work too well for even the house did not remember me.
