them.’
‘That’s about it,’ I said. ‘But it has taken a few bad beatings for them to find it out. Times I would rather not remember.’
‘But someone beating
‘Yes.’
‘Because that’s what was said to me by my attacker?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what makes you think that I don’t want the same protection? If you stop now because some vicious thug punches me a couple of times in the face, then every time anyone wants you to quit it will be “punch Marina” time.’
‘She’s right, you know,’ said Charles. ‘The same goes for me. If it’s not “punch Marina” it may be “punch Charles”. Neither of us want that burden. Neither of us want our love for you, yes, our love for you, to be a cause for us loving you less. Does that make sense?’
I couldn’t speak.
‘So let’s have no more of this nonsense about not asking questions about the deaths of your friends.’ Charles was in ‘order giving’ mode. ‘They, or rather their families, they need you. So get on with it.’
‘And,’ added Marina, ‘if I get beaten up again then all the more reason for carrying on. Let me have the reputation, too.’
‘And me,’ said Charles. ‘Come on, let’s have a toast.’ He raised his glass of claret. ‘Fuck the lot of them!’
I laughed. We all laughed. I’d never heard Charles use such ‘below decks’ language and certainly never in front of a lady. ‘Fuck the lot of them,’ we echoed.
I slept the sleep of the reprieved. Deep, dreamless, refreshing sleep.
We had all gone fairly early to bed but not before some further conversation over coffee for us all, plus a brandy for Charles.
‘So what will you do now?’ he had asked, with his nose deep in his balloon glass drawing up the alcoholic vapours into his lungs.
‘As the controllers of my life, what do you two suggest?’ I had asked with a grin.
‘Well,’ Marina had said, ‘if the decision is to not heed the warnings about keeping quiet about the deaths, I suggest that you get yourself a bell, go and stand on street corners and shout about them. No point in doing things by halves. Go out there and make a fuss. Show the bastards who’s the boss.’
‘Good idea,’ Charles had agreed with her.
‘I’ll sleep on it,’ I’d said.
So I had.
I positively leapt out of bed the next morning with renewed vigour. The sun had even come back to echo my mood of optimism and I stood by the window looking out at the rolling Oxfordshire countryside, bright with a new day.
I had been brought up by my single mother in Liverpool as a city boy, playing football in the street outside our council flat and going to school at the end of the road. I remembered seeing my first cow when I was aged about twelve and being astonished by the bulbous shape and the enormous size of its udder. For me, milk came out of bottles, not cows. And apples materialised from cardboard boxes in the greengrocers, not from trees, and the very idea that pork chops had once been walking, oinking pigs would have sent me into giggles.
Then, during my race-riding years, I had lived first in Newmarket where I had been an apprentice jockey, and then near Lambourn, when my weight had increased beyond that for the ‘flat’ and I had converted to the ‘jumps’. I had grown to enjoy the rural lifestyle but, after my hand disaster, I had soon moved back to the urban life in London, somehow needing a return to my childhood comfort of being surrounded by concrete, tarmac and brick.
Now, with Marina, I would look again for a change. Back to this calmer, less stressful environment of hills and trees and meandering streams. Back to where a chaffinch may sing from an orchard bough, or a pear tree may blossom in a hedge. ‘Oh, to be in England now that April’s there’. Browning certainly knew what he was talking about.
Marina was still sound asleep and I decided to leave her that way. When the body is healing, sleep is the best medicine.
I quietly dressed, attached my arm, replaced its exhausted battery pack with one freshly charged, and slipped out and down the stairs. I wanted some time to think, and a wander through the village was just what I needed to energise my brain cells.
Mrs Cross was already in the kitchen busying herself with clearing up last night’s dinner and making preparations for breakfast.
‘Morning, Mrs Cross,’ I said cheerfully.
‘Good morning, Mr Halley,’ she replied. ‘And it is a lovely morning, too.’
‘I know, I’ve seen. I’m going for a walk around the village. Back in about half an hour.’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll have your breakfast ready on your return.’
‘Thank you.’ I unlatched the back door. ‘Oh, Mrs Cross, Marina and I will be leaving right after lunch today.’
Before the ex-Mrs Halley arrives, I thought, but didn’t say so.
‘Right you are, sir,’ she said.
‘I wish you’d call me Sid.’
‘I’ll try, sir.’ She would never change and I realised that I liked her all the more for that.
Aynsford was a peaceful west Oxfordshire village where the march of the metropolis had still to reach. The south of England was all too quickly becoming one joined-up housing estate with thousands and thousands of box- like town houses with postage-stamp gardens springing up around every town. The green belt was doing its best to hold in the expansion of the urban stomach but, at the present rate, the belt would soon run out of holes and burst open altogether.
But, for now, Aynsford remained as it had been for decades, with stone cottages nestling around the Norman church, while the large and imposing old vicarage reflected the power and wealth that the clergy once wielded. Nowadays, the vicar was more likely to live in a small bungalow in a different village, such was the decline in the influence of the Church of England, the fall-off of congregations and the uniting of parishes. I saw from the church notice board that services were on alternate Sundays. It could be worse.
It took me only five minutes to walk to the far end of the village so I continued on down the lane between the high hedge-rows to the little humpback bridge over the canal. I sat on the parapet and threw stones into the still, brown water.
Where do I go from here? I thought.
Could I really disregard what had happened to Marina? She had been adamant that I should go on. But we had been lucky. A couple of nasty blows to the face could so easily have been a knife between the ribs. Would I be able to live with myself if anything dreadful were to happen to Marina, or to Charles, as a result of my investigations? Conversely, would I be able to live with myself if I did nothing and stood idly by?
What would happen, I asked myself, if I did nothing more? The inquest on Huw Walker would eventually conclude that he had been murdered by person or persons unknown. That on Bill Burton would say that he had taken his own life while the balance of his mind was disturbed. It would be implied that his mind was disturbed due to the fact that his wife had left him, coupled with his overpowering guilt at having murdered her lover, his jockey. And that would be that, end of investigation, end of story. A miscarriage of justice.
I knew as well as I knew anything that Bill had not killed Huw. In my opinion, it just wasn’t possible. So if I did nothing more, then the real killer of Huw, and of Bill, would literally get away with murder and the name of Bill Burton would forever be unfairly tarnished. Was I really considering leaving Bill’s family that legacy?
In my heart, I knew that I would continue to search for the truth, but I didn’t want to be too hasty. I needed to be comfortable with the decision; at ease, if not exactly relaxed, about the possible consequences. I promised myself that I would be less reckless in the future. That is, if I remembered.
*
