Acid Song (17 page)

This time it was a question on the economy, and again Richard was outwitted. He had come prepared, with the key facts and figures summarised in note form, but he had to look down to refer to them and on television this served only to make him look shifty. Again he was caught out by time; there was too much data and the message was lost amongst the detail.

Against this Brendan Ward made promises. Lavish, reassuring, unaffordable promises. Fuel plants being completed, international trade systems being reformed, a new era of easy wealth where the people would live comfortably and untroubled.

It was clear from Richard’s face he was not prepared for the sheer scale of the lies his opponent was happy to tell. At one point Amanda saw him open his mouth to interrupt, but Brendan Ward anticipated it and spat out a pre-emptive question.

‘If your view of the economy is so pessimistic, Sir, and you are so troubled by the deficit, then is it not true that your party, which doesn’t believe in growing its way towards prosperity, will be forced to cut spending?’

On this question at least Richard must have been schooled, but still there was a moment’s hesitation as he sought to take care with
the party’s official answer. Hesitation that played out as fabrication. Again Brendan Ward exploited the unminded gap.

‘Or has your party instructed you not to comment on this issue?’

‘We do not believe that all of this government’s spending is quality spending, and in many cases the distorted signals being sent …’

Another jab, another interruption.

‘At least have the courage, Sir, to tell us which spending you intend to cut. Who will be missing out, Mr Bradley? I think the voters deserve to be told.’

‘It’s not about identifying individuals…’

An awful mistake. Acknowledgement had been given. He had as good as said it. Spending would be cut. Ward leapt upon the admission and Richard visibly recoiled, looking weak and uncertain.

Amanda was reminded of a nature documentary Simon had made her sit through. The majestic elephant, enemy of none, brought down by a marauding pack of lions who in their hunger had grown desperately brave. The crumbling of the natural order, the startling conquest of the thickest hide; mighty bones and ligaments snapped as easily as any other. She remembered the tears that had risen to her eyes as the proud elephant stumbled; immobilised, unable to continue yet hopelessly unprepared for such humiliating defeat. Refusing to go down. And she imagined she saw in that creature’s eyes, as its pack deserted it, something like bewilderment. Amanda felt the same tears now.

There was another ten minutes left to run, but Amanda had seen all she needed. The realisation of defeat was already written on his face; not just defeat, but public defeat. Richard Bradley, failed politician. In that single moment Amanda thought she understood him, his evasiveness, his grumpiness and despite the protestations, his transparent desire to add to the archive. As if this new film might be burnt over the old, and he could allow himself to believe that people had forgotten.

‘Turn it off.’

‘But the last bit’s the best. The little guy destroys him,’ Paddy reported. ‘Some people say you can see him starting to cry right at the end. I don’t know. I don’t think you can, but it’s hard to tell. I can fast forward if you …’

There was a note to Paddy’s voice that reminded Amanda of the boys she had known at school, that joyous celebration of destruction, born in the end of a kind of jealousy. Suspicious of ideas, frightened by the clever. Some said it all changed with Lange, that Richard’s timing was simply poor. Amanda had never believed it.

‘Don’t.’

EVEN TO RICHARD, who every year watched his students become more childlike, the officer appeared improbably young.

‘Ah yes, come in, come in. Good of you to come.’

The child-in-uniform hesitated.

‘Elizabeth! The police are here, well – one of them at least.’

Richard turned back to the officer and smiled. ‘It’ll be easier if you deal with her directly. She makes more sense.’

Richard led the young man through into the lounge. Elizabeth looked up from her newspaper and smiled. She was good with strangers.

‘Elizabeth Bradley. He’s quite right, I make far more sense.’ She offered her hand. ‘Can I get you something to drink? Tea, coffee?’

‘No, ah, I’m fine thank you, I just …’ the boy held his hat in his
hands, fingering its rim nervously, looking not like a policeman but a poor actor auditioning for the part.

‘No, you must be busy. I’m surprised they sent anyone at all.’

‘I suppose these must be the sorts of jobs they give to juniors, eh?’ Richard felt sorry for the lad who was clearly floundering. ‘Politeness and paperwork. How long have you been in the force?’

‘I’ve tidied I’m afraid,’ Elizabeth added. ‘On the phone they said it would be okay, but I think I can remember how everything was if … We haven’t done a list yet. It was my birthday last night you see, and this morning we were voting, Richard doesn’t like to vote at the local booths, it’s a long story, but … I could write something now, if you like. Richard get me a pen, you can show him around while I write the list.’

‘He doesn’t want to be shown around. He would have said, if … Do you?’

The officer’s face grew smaller and finally Richard made sense of the scene. He waited for the policeman to speak, but he too was weighing the silence. Richard’s stomach grew heavy, his mouth dry. He looked to Elizabeth. Time turned slow and sticky.

‘You’re not here about the burglary are you?’

The smallest shake of the head, a warning tremor.

‘Professor Richard Bradley?’ The officer’s voice was surprisingly deep and calm.

‘Yes, that’s me.’

Carrie. It had to be Carrie. Julia was in London, she’d rung for Elizabeth’s birthday. She’d sounded fine. David had sent a card, and David was indestructible. They hadn’t heard from Carrie. It wasn’t unusual. Carrie was less organised. She would remember later, and her apologies would be effusive, her gift overcompensating… Elizabeth sank into the nearest chair, diminished: the news-to-come already wrapping itself around her, squeezing her dry of being. The hand, raised over her mouth to stifle a silent cry, betrayed her years.
Richard saw in her eyes his own confusion. Thought and feeling compressed to the point where details are lost and there is only weight. He wanted to hold her, but first the word that needed to be spoken. Carrie?

‘Do you know a William Harding?’ The policeman looked down to his notes to check the name. ‘Yes, a Professor William Harding … Sir? Perhaps you would like to sit down?’

‘No, ah, I’m fine.’ As quickly as the tragedy had settled it broke up; pieces again, possibility. Impossibility. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just I have, we have three …’ He shrugged apologetically. Elizabeth frowned, seeing something he did not see. ‘Yes, I mean to say, William is a friend. I saw him yesterday afternoon, well evening, rather. He’d been beaten. Protesters. Young thugs, more like. I told him he should lay a complaint. I’m glad he listened. There’s evidence you see, a documentary team, I’m sure I’ve got a number if you’d like to …

‘Richard.’ Elizabeth cut in on the officer’s behalf.

‘Oh, I see. I’m sorry. I should be quiet. I should let you …’

The smallest of breaths, in preparation.

‘William Harding was found dead this morning in his office. He hanged himself.’

The words were spoken gently, the younger man holding Richard’s gaze, as he had been trained to do. A tiny ‘oh’ escaped into the silence, Elizabeth’s hand too slow to catch it. Richard turned away from his relief, embarrassed by it.

‘Oh, I see. I’m sorry. I …’ he stopped, with no one to whom he could apologise. The officer let the silence expand until the pressure equalised. Richard felt he should be speaking.

‘I, ah, I’m sorry, we were friends, and colleagues, but I don’t quite see why you’re … I mean to say, I’m glad you came, it’s very good of you, but …’

Damnably difficult now. He looked to Elizabeth to save him. She offered nothing.

‘Is there something we can do for you, Officer? Do you need our help? I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.’ He reached out, offered his hand. ‘Richard.’

‘Blake. Constable Blake. Perhaps we could …’

‘Of course.’

Both men sat, like a father and his daughter’s new boyfriend, one on either end of a couch that now felt too small. Constable Blake produced an envelope. On it was written Richard’s name.

‘We found this, on his desk. It appears he may have left it there, deliberately. The detective heading the enquiry, Detective Olliver, asked that I let you read it first. We will need it you see, as evidence, but it seemed proper, in the circumstances…’

The envelope was passed solemnly between the men. Richard stared down at the blue ink, the careful deliberate lettering of his name. Prof. Richard Bradley. Why bother with the title? Some sort of joke?

‘Can I, would it be possible to take this somewhere private?’

‘Um, I’ve been asked to vouch for the integrity of the contents.’

‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Richard snapped. ‘I’m not going to do anything with it am I?’

‘No, I don’t imagine you are,’ the constable replied. But he showed no sign of moving.

‘Just read it,’ Elizabeth told him, her voice beginning to break.

‘What, out loud you mean?’

‘No, of course not out loud.’

‘I’m sorry. I just …’

Richard watched his shaking hands rip at the envelope, the fingers comically large for the task. There was a single sheet, the crammed writing white-knuckled into the paper in the manner of a child. Richard tried to read but tears blurred his eyes. The simple unjoined letters, written slowly, carefully … He imagined his friend leaning over the table, his breath still warmed by the whisky they had shared.
He imagined William thinking of him, needing to write it down. (Next time just call, you stupid prick.)

He heard someone say ‘There’s no hurry.’ And there wasn’t. Not now.

Richard folded the paper carefully and put it back in the envelope before handing it to the constable. Elizabeth leaned forward in her seat, as if straining to make out some sound in the silence.

The constable stood and gave a small cough.

‘Ah, well thank you. Detective Olliver is likely to call. We might need you to come down to the office later, if you were there last evening. Just to help us establish the details …’

‘Of course. I’ll be here. Just ring.’ Richard stood.

‘No, it’s all right. I can show myself out.’

‘Thank you.’

The police officer nodded and left the room, his footsteps careful and muted. Elizabeth walked to Richard and buried her head in his chest. The sound of her warm breathing filled his head. He knew what she would be thinking. If only there had been something she could have done. She was always the generous one. He thought: Arsehole. Selfish, stubborn, cowardly arsehole.
Give my love to Elizabeth.
Tell her yourself. He watched a tear fall from his cheek and land warm on Elizabeth’s scalp. She pulled him closer. Richard looked down at the parting of her hair; grey strands made dark by the pale skin beneath. The frail skin beneath. Pale, frail, brief. Pain without dimension spasmed through him and loosened tears. Arsehole.

‘RICHARD.’ A SMALL nod of acknowledgement and the man moved on, head down as if to show what a hurry he was in. Lance Harvey, a visiting cladist from California. They’d sat together once at an airport cafeteria, eating overheated, overpriced fare and bitching about university administrations. Now when they bumped into one another they stopped just long enough to add another item each to the list of complaints. They didn’t like each other much, or at least Richard assumed Lance felt the same as he did. Certainly neither had made the mistake of inviting the other out for a drink. Occasional conversations in the corridors were all that politeness required.

Not this afternoon. It wasn’t, Richard knew, rudeness on Lance’s part. Just awkwardness, a not-knowing-what-to-say in circumstances where not saying was inappropriate. Unless you did not stop. Unless you were too busy. There were police cars at the bottom of the block and the campus community was small enough for the message to have got around. There was hardly a person on staff who hadn’t expressed an opinion on William’s research. A single opinion, which now made things difficult for all concerned. Richard was one of the few who had not gone on the record, much to the disappointment of his colleagues. But they understood. William and Richard were friends, there were issues of loyalty. It must have been hard: more than one person had said this to him, offering their small condolences
at the initial stumbling of a friend. Now, well not talking to Richard would be easier, at least for a little while. A good time to be busy.