Why Men Lie (29 page)

“Have you heard from him?”

“I had a letter the other day. He actually told me in April, right afterwards, that he regarded the stay as a technicality—postponing the inevitable, I think he said.”

“What will you do?”

“Whatever he wants me to do.”

“Yes,” she said. “But can I ask one question?”

“Fire away.”

“Why?”

It was a long pause, but she knew that he was still there. Finally he said, “I want to see if dignity can survive impotence.”

“Dear man,” she said. “You, of all people, don’t have to worry about impotence—or dignity.”

“We all have to worry about impotence,” he said.

The campus was subdued in June. There were summer students, but they seemed older, more dedicated to their studies. Effie had always enjoyed the post-graduation serenity of the place, the anticlimactic lull that follows the spasmodic intensity of finals, marks and the infectious ecstasy of students in the moment of relief that they can pretend briefly to be a permanent condition of their lives. The place was almost deserted as she walked away toward home.

She would remember June of 1999 as a blur of drink and food and talk. At first it was his narrative: romances that became relationships and died from distance or disinterest; exotic travel in a bubble of American and media entitlement; awful conflicts sparsely told. He described the final burnout, and she listened carefully for evidence of Molly’s truthfulness.

Her own disclosures became more structured through his gentle questioning.

“Why don’t you just start at the beginning?” he began. “Your mum died. It was just you and Duncan and your father.”

“There’s just so much I don’t remember,” she said. “And a lot of the things I do remember seem like bad dreams. Don’t you have the same problem? Separating the real from the nightmares? You must.”

“No,” he said.

“Lucky you,” she said miserably. “But you, of all people, must know that it isn’t useful and it isn’t fair to speak of things as fact when you aren’t sure, when dreams and fantasies pollute your memory. Conor never trusted memory.”

“Why don’t you work back? Tell me how you got involved with this guy Conor.”

“He just materialized at the right time. I felt betrayed by Sextus. I was alone in a strange place. I had a little girl. I had no job, no prospects. He was kind.”

“Kindness is an asset, but …”

“Kindness is better than nothing.”

“Okay. You needed kindness. What did he need from you?”

“I don’t know. He had his cause. He didn’t need a lot from me.”

“That sounds hellish. Maybe you were window dressing. Part of his disguise.”

She turned away. He caught her shoulder. She shook free. “Conor made me what I am.”

“You made you what you are.”

“Conor taught me that the most effective form of therapy is self-improvement. He nagged me into a master’s program, then a Ph.D. He left me well off, materially. Years after he was gone, the head of Celtic at the university called out of the blue and offered me a contract. He’d been a friend of Conor’s.”

“And how much did you tell this fellow, the mysterious Conor?”

She shrugged.

“And did you feel better after that?”

“Not really.”

He put an arm around her shoulder. “Whenever you feel up to it, maybe you can have a go at it again.”

She nodded.

“That knife,” Conor said. “Can you describe it now?” His voice was soft, his eyes intense
.

“It was just a knife.”

“What did it look like?”

“It was long. It looked sharp.”

“And where did he keep it? When he’d bring it out, where would he take it from?”

“From in his pants, I think.”

“From his pants?”

“Or it was in his boot. Why does it matter?”

“How old were you when you first felt threatened?”

“I think I was about thirteen. I don’t remember exactly.”

“Can you describe the knife?”

“Sort of. Maybe like a hunting knife.”

“A huntin’ knife?”

“Something like that.”

“Can you tell me how he held the knife?”

“What do you mean, how he held it?”

“Did he hold it in a fist? Or maybe like this? Like you would a small knife?” He held up a hand, thumb and forefinger together
.

“I don’t remember, really. He held it in front of him.”

“In front of him? Where in front of him?”

“Christ, how am I supposed to remember where in front of him? I mostly just remember the knife being there, in his hand.”

Conor sighed. “It’s all right, love.”

“I remember getting sick.”

“You got sick?”

“I threw up afterwards.”

His arms were around her then. “They’re all gone now. The whole lot of them, poor bastards.”

“Yes,” she said. “All gone.”

It was a Friday night, July 2, 1999. They were at JC’s kitchen table, the cat, Sorley, curled up on his lap. They were discussing a plan to revisit Cape Breton that summer, perhaps recover some of the magic of the year before and, in the process, exorcise some demons.

“You said something in the cemetery, the day we visited the graves last summer. It stayed with me.”

He frowned. “I don’t remember.”

“You said that people aren’t bad, they just do bad things sometimes.”

“Okay.”

“You really think that?”

“It’s what got me through a lot of pretty depressing stuff.”

“But do you think it’s really true?”

“Yes,” he said. “I believe it’s true. It’s the closest thing I have to a religious belief. If I thought for a moment that people are as wicked as the things they do, I’d be living in … Bornish.”

She laughed. “You’d be the only one there.”

“Exactly.”

“I think I did a wicked thing once,” she said. He waited, watching her face.

She was racing through the field toward the Gillis place. The ground was rough, but it was quicker than the road. Through weeds and brambles, across a barbed wire fence, through a brook
.

Sandy Gillis ran to meet her. “What’s the matter with you?” His eyes were wild
.

“I want Mrs. Gillis.”

“She went to town. What’s the matter?”

She backed away. “Nothing.”

“Is he still there?”

“No.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll find him.”

“Please, no … don’t hurt him. Please.”

“And when exactly was this?”

“It was just before Remembrance Day, 1963.”

“So, go on.”

She shook her head. “Another time. There’s something else I need to talk about.”

“Oh?” His smile was thinly spread.

“This guy … the stalker who keeps calling me—I want to tell you how he got my phone number. I did something stupid.”

The telephone rang. “I should get it,” he said.

She watched him as he listened intently. Then he said, “Keep
an eye on her. Try to keep her there.” He was silent for about thirty more seconds. “Sorry to hear that. I suppose you knew him pretty well.”

He put the phone down. “That was Duncan.”

“I see,” she said.

“I have to go out,” he said.

“That Tammy?” She felt a combination of fatigue, relief, despair.

“Duncan said she’s hanging around in a crowd in front of the shelter. I’m going to grab a cab and go down.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No. I want you to stay here. I’ll be back shortly. I have to hear the rest.”

“She’s already brushed you off more than once …”

“Duncan says she seems to be with a black guy.”

At the door he turned. “I almost forgot. Duncan says he has to go to Nova Scotia for a funeral tomorrow. His bishop died. He says he might be gone for a few days. Maybe visit people. Said to tell you that.”

JC was gone all night. Day was breaking when she finally went home. The city traffic was moving quickly, flowing on the caffeinated urgency of early risers. She was worried, but whatever apprehension she might have felt during the long night was ragged now.

At home she undressed slowly, showered, lay in her bed and waited. He would call and explain.

She had fallen into a deep sleep, and for a moment the ringing of the telephone seemed to be part of a dream that she would never, afterwards, be able to recall.

She sat up quickly, fumbled for the phone. It was ten o’clock.

“My God, you had me worried,” she said.

But it was Molly she was talking to. “We have to meet.”

“What about?”

“Dooney’s,” she said. “Be there in twenty minutes.”

“What’s happened?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you.”

Molly’s producer had called her at home and asked her to come to the office as soon as possible. It was supposed to be her day off. She was not to be disturbed by anything less urgent than, say, final settlement of the Palestinian—Israeli conflict. That or World War Three.

When she’d arrived at the boss’s office, there were two strangers waiting for her, both in suits. They were policemen. They wanted to know when she had last seen JC Campbell.

“Yesterday,” she told them.

Had he been in touch the night before?

“No,” she said.

They would appreciate her discretion, they told her. And obviously anything discussed would be strictly off the record. Had Mr. Campbell ever spoken of a Robert Borden?

Molly answered no. She’d never heard the name. Well, other than the former prime minister.

Effie was staring at her. Prime minister? “That’s the look I got from the cops,” said Molly.

The cops had informed Molly that the Robert they were interested in was no prime minister. He was a well-known street hustler, into dope and the sex trade. His body had been found in a dumpster off Gerrard Street just after midnight. No big loss, really. But murder, clearly.

“So what’s your relationship with Mr. Campbell?” one man had asked, notebook now in hand.