The Gardens of the Dead (14 page)

Anselm
took refuge beneath the first bus shelter and read the letter from Elizabeth.
The Prior had been right. She had carefully drawn them both into a daring
purpose.

9

Elizabeth’s taxi came
along the cobbles chased by kids. George was at Lawton’s perimeter fence when
he heard the racket. He stopped, one leg through the wire, and watched. These
grubby vagabonds crawled all over the docks. They challenged intruders great or
small. George had already seen them in action against a fire engine and had
kept out of sight ever since. When the taxi pulled up, they danced around it
clapping and shouting. The driver sped off, leaving Elizabeth in the street.
Unabashed, she walked towards George, followed by a chanting crowd.., well,
there were only five or six of them, but they took over the place… and yet he
didn’t dwell on their antics. Elizabeth was jubilant.

They
went through the fence and picked their way towards the wharf. A couple of kids
tailed them, but then vanished.

‘We’ve
done it,’ said Elizabeth. A trial had taken her out of London, so they hadn’t
met for three weeks. She sat on the remnant of wall, glad to be back, her
heels tapping like a dancer’s. ‘He appears to be doing one thing, but hidden
within the numbers is another animal. He keeps it right under Nancy’s nose.’

‘Would
you write that down, please?’ George reached for his notebook.

‘In due
course.’ Elizabeth fished in her bag for the whisky and the beakers. ‘There’s
more to say, more that’s worth keeping; but now we celebrate.’ Out of a carrier
bag she produced beef and horseradish sandwiches, and a tub of cherry tomatoes.
The surface of the Thames ran upon itself with ripples. On the far bank empty
barges hovered in a mist.

‘George,
there’s something you need to remember… to dwell on, as I have. The stone you
throw is small, picked from his own garden, but it will take away something he
values above all else, and behind which he hides: a good character: the gift
bestowed by the law upon the righteous, as well as the man who is never found
out.’

George
frowned. ‘Have you got a pen?’

Elizabeth
laughed. She put a tomato in her mouth and took the notebook.

‘And
lay off the stones and gardens stuff. I’d like it in black and white.’

‘I’ll
give you both.’

When
she’d finished, Elizabeth fetched out some Greek yoghurt with honey George was
reading the label when an envelope wrapped in plastic blocked his vision.

‘Put
this in a safe place,’ she said. ‘Inside is a detailed explanation of Riley’s
scheme. It’s complicated and by no means obvious.’

‘What
am I to do with it?’

‘For
now, nothing. Tomorrow he’ll be at Mile End Park for an early Christmas fair.
In all we have done, I’ve reserved for myself a small part: to see him face to
face once more, and to accuse him.’

And
what’s mine?’ He looked at the yoghurt pot. Nino had said the stuff was bad for
the arteries.

‘You
will deliver the explanation to Inspector Cartwright. It is the material upon
which Riley’s conviction will stand. That belongs to you.

George
shifted with importance and pride. The moment had become solemn. He felt he
should stand up and make a brief speech.

‘Have
you got a spoon?’ he said.

Elizabeth
grimaced. ‘I completely forgot.’

Elizabeth stayed late that
evening. As night fell, lights appeared upon the river, shuddering.

George
said, ‘You asked me, once, if I’d ever thought of evil… whether it could be
undone. I wrote it down, but I’ve been unable to forget the idea. It’s
impossible. It’s greater than anything I can imagine.’

Elizabeth
was writing in George’s notebook (recording what would happen in the morning,
and where they’d meet). Without looking up, she said, ‘Many years ago, a
wonderful monk told me we could only undo evil to the extent that it has
touched us. I can’t do it for you; you can’t do it for me. It’s a wholly
personal quest.’

George
thought there should be a manual for this sort of thing — instructions with
diagrams and a page at the back for troubleshooting. It would make life a hell
of a lot easier.

‘I was
told it’s more deadly than vengeance,’ she said, narrow-eyed, as if aiming.

‘What
is?’

‘The
forgiveness of the victim,’ she muttered, making a precise full stop. ‘It goes
right to the heart.’

George
wasn’t especially impressed. He’d expected a revelation, something to make you
sit up.

‘I’m
told it’s the only way evil can be undone,’ she said, closing the book.
Becoming practical, she added sternly ‘Whatever happens, wait at Trespass
Place.’

From beyond the bed of
broken brick, outside the fence, a horn beeped three times. Elizabeth stood and
faced George. She gave him fifty pounds, and checked that he had understood all
that would happen tomorrow, confirming that they would meet in the afternoon at
Trespass Place.

‘George,’
she said, with a sigh, ‘even tonight will you not stay inside? How about the Bonnington?’

He
refused and she smiled fondly, placing a hand on each of his shoulders. As far
as he could recall, she kissed him for the first time. Her hands remained
there, heavy and reassuring. Perhaps it was the openness of her face that made
George say what he hadn’t planned. It seemed to devastate her, on this the
night of celebration.

‘John’s
death had nothing to do with you. You didn’t bring Riley into court, I did.’

‘Yes, I
know’ She spoke as if she were haunted; as if she didn’t mean what she said.
Her arms dropped and she walked carefully along the edge of the wharf. At the
far end she stopped and stared for an age into the black water. It chopped
around the timber supports like a clock gone wrong, ticking in spasms.

Three
times more the taxi beeped its horn.

10

The smooth running of
great schemes relies upon the small details. Elizabeth’s directions to Trespass
Place were rather vague, so Anselm ran to a newsagent, where he checked an A to
Z. The fact that Mr Bradshaw was waiting — and had been for over ten days —
raised a spirit of urgency that made Anselm fumble and swear. He hurried to the
Underground while the wind clutched at the umbrella as if to hold him back.

The
train was packed and damp. Wet coats pushed against him. He forced his way to a
corner and unfolded Elizabeth’s instructions.

Dear Anselm,

Ten years ago I
helped Graham Riley to leave the court as an innocent man. He was, I am sure,
guilty. I now require your help to bring him back again.

In the first place you needed to be reminded of the trial; to read
the letter and the cutting. This prepared you, I hope, for the meeting with Mrs
Bradshaw It was her place to reveal what happened after the Riley trial. It is
mine to explain what I have done about it.

Anselm read the first sentence
again, not quite believing that an officer of the court would behave in such a
way regardless of any crisis of conscience.

No evidence is
likely to emerge which would demonstrate how or why Riley killed John Bradshaw
Something can still be done. George and I have set about taking away from Riley
the one thing he does not deserve: a good name.

Anselm ducked beneath an
arm to check the name of a station. A territorial shove put him back in the
corner.

Riley has
remained criminally active. The details are set out in a document retained by
George. He keeps it in his inside left jacket pocket. His task is to deliver
this, the basis of a future conviction, to Inspector Cartwright. Yours is to
bring them together.

You will find him waiting beneath a fire escape in Trespass Place, a
courtyard off Blackfriars Road. On the street he is known as Blind George,
although he sees further than you or me (don’t be troubled by the welding
goggles). A senseless attack, however, has damaged his short-term memory He can
only retain events by writing them down.

Anselm
wriggled into a tight space nearer the doors. Legs and bodies stiffened around
him.

This project is
of the greatest importance to him. I hope that through its fulfilment he will
recover sufficient self-respect to start the journey home. You might elbow him
in that direction when you get the chance. He’ll need it.

Best wishes,

Elizabeth.

Anselm
folded the letter away His time at the Bar had taught him never to accept any
document at face value — you had to scratch between the commas, and, in the
final analysis, give the writer a going-over. That lost option was no longer
available, and was, in these circumstances, unnecessary The letter corroborated
everything Anselm had already concluded about Elizabeth: she had lost her
confidence in a system that, perhaps, she had never questioned with sufficient
vitality.

Anselm
sighed audibly — and not because someone had stamped on his foot. He’d felt an
idiot when he’d seen Nicholas Glendinning. Now, at last, he knew what to say —
well, sort of, only it was difficult to articulate with accuracy and nuance.
How would he explain to him that Elizabeth had been changed by her encounter
with Riley? Like a gift, Locard’s Principle came to mind. And Anselm, in the
secrecy of his soul, felt modestly satisfied with himself, and not a little
clever — an agreeable sensation instantly consumed by the recollection of Mrs
Bradshaw standing harrowed in a doorway and that awful phrase: nothing comes of
nothing.

The
train roared into Elephant and Castle and Anselm burrowed between steadfast
shoulders. He stood on the platform hot and wet but triumphant. Through a
window he saw a head pressed against the glass examining the handle of Mrs
Bradshaw’s umbrella.

11

Trespass Place normally
protected George from the elements. The fire escape was vast and constructed of
sheet metal. But there was a problem when a wind blew It whirled around the
tiny courtyard, throwing the water onto a horizontal plane. George had been
wiping his face for ten minutes when he decided to head for Carlo’s. He
clambered to his feet and grasped his two plastic bags.., and then he paused,
looking down.

In one
of them, beneath his rolled-up scarf, was an old carton of milk, a loaf of
greenish bread and some tins. This wasn’t his bag. He checked the other and
immediately understood. He’d picked up Nancy’s shopping, misled by the sight of
his scarf. He must have put it on top, not noticing. And that meant that he’d
left behind volumes one to twenty-two. With growing dread, George checked
number twenty-three, to locate himself in his own story. There was no doubt
about it. He’d left behind half his life: a childhood in Harrogate, hitching to
London in his teens and, of course, his tangled relations with Graham Riley.

The
wind moaned and wrested with the bins and sacks. George grabbed his sleeping
bag and the carrier that held the other half of his life. He ran to Marco’s and
took a seat in a far corner, beneath one of the heaters. Without his having to
ask or pay, a plate of toast presently appeared, alongside a mug of hot
chocolate.

12

Anselm had forgotten the
plan on the A to Z, so at Waterloo Station he went looking for another
newsagent. He studied the map, committing to memory the rights and lefts. Then
he nipped back into the rain.

Five
minutes later he surveyed Trespass Place: its towering walls; its back doors
without handles; its signs that read KEEP CLEAR. He walked towards a mammoth
fire escape at the far end. To thwart the burglar the bottom section was raised
on a cantilever — a measure defeated by the attachment of a long chain that
twirled slowly on its axis. Beneath this shelter stood a queue of green plastic
sacks with yellow ties. Cardboard was propped against the wall. A shopping bag
lay open. The milk was clotted and the bread was furry with mould. Anselm
checked the sell-by dates. This lot had been bought before Elizabeth died.
George Bradshaw hadn’t waited long at all. And who could blame him? Anselm
looked at the drainpipes, the tangled tape and the wheelie-bins. A client had
once told him that hell was Sunderland Magistrates Court. He was wrong. Anselm
moved under the raised steps and pulled back the cardboard. Upon the wall,
neatly scratched, was a block of short vertical lines.

Anselm
walked briskly out of the courtyard, his head bowed against the rain. Further
up the road he saw the bright lights of a café He ran and sheltered in the
doorway, wondering what to do next.