The dark side of my soul (17 page)

Two hands gripped my ankles and a female voice from behind me yelled “Got him.”

A second later the young man was next to me with his head and shoulders over the precipice. He seemed to be strong and fit and appeared unafraid of the drop before him. Leaning out and with one arm reaching down he gripped David’s left elbow.

“Two of us have got you. You’re going to be okay.” In spite of his youth he spoke in a strong authoritative voice as though he had dealt with similar situations before and such was his confidence that I wondered if he may have been a member of the fire service or a mountain rescue team. I could still feel the woman’s hands on my ankles, holding them so tightly that she was almost hurting me but I was immensely grateful for the pain.

The man started speaking again, “Right, what we have to do is……..”

He never finished his instruction because at that moment, that very second when I felt we were saved, fate intervened and the fracture in the cliff, the handhold which David and I had been clinging onto gave way.

The white cliffs of Dover have been suffering from erosion for many years. Exceedingly wet weather, followed by long dry spells have caused slippage and chalk falls to become a common occurrence. Over recent years the instability of the famous landmark has caused a serious problem for the local council and the National Trust, borne out by the large chunks of chalk that reside at the bottom on the beach and in the sea.

That day to add to the erosion, the weight of two men, one of them very heavy, caused a massive lump of the chalk to break away. The ledge on which we had been relying and the chalk below it shifted with a sort of slow agonising movement, accompanied by a brittle cracking noise. Almost in slow motion it fell away and went tumbling down the cliff causing both David and myself to flounder. The loss of the chalk ledge meant that David lost his foothold and the next thing I knew was that he was dangling on my and our gallant would be rescuer’s arms.

The pain was almost beyond belief. It felt as though my shoulder was going to be pulled from its socket as I lurched forward with David swinging wildly below me. I could feel the woman behind me straining to hold onto my ankles as I clenched my friend’s wrist with every ounce of strength but still my grip, little by little slipped along his arm and over the back of his hand until only our fingers were in contact. The stranger was almost being pulled over as he too fought to keep hold of David’s arm but the weight was too much and after an agonising few seconds he slid from both our grasps.

David yelled out as he fell, an awful blood curdling inhuman scream that echoed and reverberated along the cliffs. He went twenty or thirty feet before he hit the first outcrop of chalk with a bone crunching thud that spun his body viciously around and around until he hit the cliff face again. There was one more horrifying collision and then he dropped straight down to the shingle beach below. His body seemed to explode as it landed and I had to close my eyes for even though he was several hundred feet away the sight was sickening.

The two good Samaritans pulled me away from the brink and when I looked up the young man was already calling the coastguards and other emergency services on his mobile phone. They were a handsome couple and the young woman, who I guessed was in her early twenties came and sat by me and put her arm around my shoulder.

“You tried,” she said, “You did your best to save him.”

My initial thought was that I owed this pair my life but then another selfish thought came to mind. Not only had they saved me but they had also provided me with undeniable proof that no foul play was involved with the fall. They could testify that I had made every effort to save David’s life and as I was already under suspicion of murder, their statement would prove invaluable.

Another thought occurred to me, one that I am ashamed to admit but it has to be said. In those last moments on the cliff face I had briefly but clearly told David the truth. He had learned of my recent murderous past, and knowing his religious convictions I am sure he would have turned me in. In one way his death meant that I was still a free man.

Fifteen

I was famous. I was in the papers, on the internet and my picture was on TV. I was described as a hero, the man who risked his own life to try to save a friend.

I tried to play it down, tried to explain that I had failed to save David and that it was the young couple who had come to our aid who were the real heroes but the journalists would have none of it. Notoriety was the last thing I needed but the more I tried to avoid the limelight the more the people from the Press seemed to play on it, with headlines like ‘Folkestone’s modest hero’.

After three or four days the furore died down. Other new stories came along and mine was thankfully forgotten and consigned to the realms of history and we were able to return to a semblance of normality.

Through the hype and tension of those few days, one fact bothered me above all else. David, on the cliff edge, had said that Julie had told him that I knew her father was Terry Bovey. That could not be right. In the heat of the moment I must have misheard him but it kept playing on my mind. How could Julie suspect that I knew Terry was her father? It was impossible, it didn’t make any sense. Terry himself had told me that he had not been in touch with her for some while. It was a conundrum that I couldn’t figure and in the end I let it go, telling myself that it didn’t really matter.

The funeral was nine days after David died. It was to be held at Hawkinge crematorium at two thirty in the afternoon and Julie had asked if Sandra and I would follow the hearse with her and David’s brother in one of the funeral cars, a request that I had politely but firmly refused.

I pointed out that I thought that the official cortege should just be for the closest relatives but there was also an ulterior motive in my rejection and that was simply that I did not want to be with Julie and Sandra in the same car. They did not get on, in fact they hated each other and I could see little point in courting trouble, especially on such an occasion, so I said that we would make our own way to the service.

Hawkinge cemetery and crematorium is a depressing place at the best of times and the day of David’s funeral certainly wasn’t the best of times. The main building of the crematorium is situated next to a large graveyard in which many of the headstones are tarnished or damaged, or through age or neglect have fallen into serious disrepair. Even on a bright day there is an icy wind that penetrates the bones and although the small gardens around the buildings are well kept, they do not lighten the feeling of despair and deprivation that infuses the cemetery.

To be fair to Hawkinge though, I suppose any sanctuary where you say your final goodbyes to friends and loved ones is not exactly going to be the best place to visit and as always seems to be the case on these sombre occasions the weather on the appointed day was awful.

The sunny spell that we had been experiencing had broken the previous night and the day of the funeral was rainy and overcast with a leaden grey sky. The morning’s heavy rain had stopped around noon but had left the roads wet and shiny with puddles the size of miniature lakes in the gutters.

As pre-arranged, Sandra and I went to Hawkinge in our Ford, arriving early at just before two o’clock. Although I may be a slovenly, tardy, unscrupulous person, with few morals I have always considered it rude and disrespectful to be late for such an event but as usual with me there was an ulterior motive. The parking near the chapel of rest was very limited and I wanted to be sure of getting a space so that we did not have to walk miles in the inclement weather.

Being early ensured us a spot and I was able to park only a short walk from our destination. I reversed into the space and switched off the engine as the mourners from the previous funeral were coming out. These days it seems even death is big business. Each service was less than one hour from the previous one throughout the day, a conveyor belt of sadness and misery. No sooner than one mournful group left the premises than others were arriving for the next cremation or burial.

What struck me about those leaving the chapel this time was how few they were in number. I counted only seven of them. A lifetime remembered by so few people was sad. They were all elderly and I guessed that the person who had passed on must have been of the same age group.

It made me think. How many folks would attend my own funeral? I didn’t exactly have wide social connections. I worked at home alone most of the time and dealt with clients mostly by email or telephone. Few of those would attend. I did not take part in local politics or give my time to charity work. These days I rarely went to parties and when I did I always made a good job of alienating the other male guests. For the first time I realised that I was something of a social outcast, a bit of a loner.

Hopefully a few friends at the golf club might come along to see me off and maybe even some neighbours and casual acquaintances but most of them I guessed would only attend for the booze at the wake.

My train of thought put me into a melancholy mood which was exacerbated by the rows of gravestones spreading out in all directions around me. The nature of the day did not help either, as the dark bulbous overhanging clouds descended like the corrosive breath of a demon on the cemetery, causing the sky to darken further and introduce a false twilight that gave the tombstones an eerie, horror movie quality. Just the day for a funeral I thought as the few attending the previous service got in their vehicles and left, their cars splashing through the muddy puddles in the uneven surface on their way out.

They had not been gone long before the new mourners began to arrive. Still seated in our Ford Fiesta we watched the first three cars pull into the recently vacated spaces and both Sandra and I sat up in surprise. A brand new Rolls Royce was followed by two Bentleys. Seconds later a line of other expensive top of the range vehicles pulled into the parking lot, Porches, Mercedes, another Roller and a Lamborghini.

“Jesus,” Sandra said. “Who are these people?”

“It’s like the bloody motor show,” I added. “These must be some of his old banking colleagues. He must have had a really top job.”

“There is some serious money here,” Sandra mouthed, as the line of very expensive motors continued to roll into the parking area.

“He always told me he was just a banker.” I was amazed at not only the quality but at the number that was arriving.

“I don’t think he was just a cashier,” Sandra muttered.

“We’d better get out. At this rate there are going to be too many people to fit into that small chapel.” I said.

After exiting our car I automatically pressed the key fob to lock it and smiled to myself. It was a pointless exercise. Who was going to steal a Ford Fiesta when they had the choice of so many other super cars?

Sandra and I took the short walk along the curving tree lined approach to the doors of the chapel. The doors were firmly closed and groups of people, mainly dressed in very expensive black suits, were gathering in the outside space under the cover of the roof that provided shelter for the waiting congregation. Wreaths and floral tributes that had been delivered earlier, lined the sides of the area and somewhere in amongst the extravagant array our own paltry contribution must have nestled. The soft murmur of voices, a quiet drone of various conversations, could be heard as the visitors chatted quietly.

“Do you know any of these people?” Sandra whispered.

“No, I don’t know any of them,” I replied quietly, looking around at the various groups. “David must have had a far more prestigious job than he ever let on,” I murmured as I continued to search the crowd for a familiar face.

“Yeah, which means he must have been bloody rich. He must have had more money than we could dream of.” Sandra was also searching for anyone she knew.

More mourners were arriving to join the swelling groups and then at last I saw a face I recognised but it was one that sent a chilly shiver down my back. None other than Detective Inspector Armstrong was accompanying the young couple who had helped us on the cliff.

“Jesus Christ,” I said, perhaps a little too loudly. “What the hell is he doing here?”

A couple of tall arrogant looking gentlemen standing nearby gave me a forbidding glance and I turned away from them. “Look, Detective Armstrong,” I huffed and pointed him out to Sandra.

“I see him,” She replied calm and unruffled. “Don’t panic, perhaps he knew David. Maybe they both belonged to the Masons or some other secret society.”

The Detective was soon lost in the sea of other faces but I could not help but wonder what he was doing here.

A few more people arrived and then the crowd hushed as the hearse slowly approached. A lone, top hatted undertaker walked in front and a solitary car followed. The two vehicles were both bedecked in even more flowers and when they stopped the driver of the second car got out and opened the rear door for his passengers to alight. The first one out was a grey haired man in his sixties and I recognised him as being David’s older brother. He stood by the door and offered his hand to the next passenger.

You could almost hear the collective intake of breath from both men and women alike, as holding her escort’s hand she stepped out of the car. Julie looked gorgeous. Dressed in a short, black, figure hugging dress with five inch heels, long black gloves and a large brimmed, dark but jaunty looking hat, she could have been a model, or a celebrity attending a film premier rather than a grieving wife at her husband’s funeral.

“The bitch,” I heard Sandra say under her breath.

No one else was in the vehicle and the door was closed behind her. Julie and David’s brother waited in silence as the coffin was lifted out of the hearse, then the crowd parted to allow the casket, on the shoulders of six burley undertakers, followed by the bereaved couple, to pass into the chapel of rest whose doors were now wide open.

We filed in with the rest of the crowd and found a position in a pew at the back. The service, taken by a young man with unruly blond hair and a deep profound voice, was not unduly long and after the hymns, the Lord’s Prayer and a reading from the bible David’s brother gave the eulogy. Julie had arranged for the curtains to be drawn before the casket started its final journey towards the flames so we were spared that horrible sight.

When it was over Julie and David’s brother led everyone out to the sound of ‘imagine’ by John Lennon, a fact that I found amusing. David would have definitely preferred something classical. He hated popular music. At the exit two young men gave out small pieces of paper on which were printed invites to the wake which was being held at David’s home.

We were one of the last cars to leave the crematorium and consequently the last to arrive at the house. With the drive in front of the bungalow and the nearby road full of the parked luxury cars of the guests, I was forced to find a space some distance away and as we walked back to David’s home Sandra commented, “I’m amazed she’s having the wake here. I would have thought she would have hired a nearby hall. This many people are going to fill the place.”

I grunted without judgment, I didn’t want to be drawn into a discussion about the pros and cons of a suitable place to hold a wake.

“Did David have any other relative’s do you know?” Sandra asked.

“He never spoke of any. Like us, he and Margaret never had children. David was probably consumed with his career and Margaret was involved with so many projects when they were younger that children never came into the picture. I seem to remember David talking about another brother though, but I think he died young. I know his parents are dead so that only leaves the brother we saw today. I guess he must be David’s only surviving relative. Perhaps he had uncles and aunts or cousins and maybe some of them are here but I don’t know them and I don’t think they were very close. Why do you ask?”

“Isn’t it obvious? “ Sandra said with a wry smile. “If there’s no one else, Julie inherits the whole estate. She gets everything. Clever girl.”

I gave it some thought before replying. “Maybe not, David was no fool and if he was well up in banking, which it seems he was, he has probably tied his money up, put it in some sort of trust so that she only gets the income or part of it, or something like that.”

“No,” Sandra shook her head. “She’ll get the lot, the whole caboodle, you mark my words.”

We arrived at the bungalow to find a large notice on the front door directing all guests to go through the side gate to the garden. The six foot high wooden gate was jammed open with a colourful smiling concrete gnome at the bottom and we went through the entrance as instructed. There was a path along the side of the property which I knew very well. This pathway, with the brickwork of the bungalow on one side and a sturdy wooden fence on the other, brought you out to a large conservatory that was attached to the back of the building and then to a beautiful extensive lawn and garden. Today, however the lawn was totally covered in a huge marquee.

“A bloody marquee,” said Sandra.

“Well at least it stops the guests from trashing the house,” I added in Julie’s defence.

Positioned next to the large white canvass structure were two portable toilets, so that it was completely unnecessary for anyone to go inside the home. This end of the marquee was open so that you could see the people who had already arrived milling about inside and we made our way through the entrance.

Tables and chairs occupied both sides of the interior with a large open space in the centre. At the far end an enormous buffet had been laid out on attractively decorated tables and the floor of the whole area was covered in some sort of boarding.