The Talisman (90 page)

Alex blew his nose and wiped his eyes. ‘I love him, Eddie, I love him, and you know something? He’s just as stubborn a bastard as you always were. But he is my boy, and it wasn’t until he clung to me, held me, that it meant so much. He needs me, and . . . I need him.’

Edward flopped back on to the bed, the springs creaking ominously. ‘Look, I’ll agree to anything, but will you stop calling me Eddie . . .? Now then, I have a contact in the Foreign Office, and I shall have to spread a lot of jam. Maybe I can swing it, get it down to a couple of years . . .? I’m not making promises . . .’

Alex drew himself up to sit facing his brother. His blue eyes were troubled, his face twisted as he dredged up his past. ‘Not good enough, Eddie, because you do that and I can tell you exactly what’s going to happen to him. Believe me, I know – it doesn’t matter if it’s here in France or in England. Behind bars men all act the same way – he’s a good-looking kid, they won’t leave him alone.’

He reached for his case – the one with the Gucci monogram – and took out a bottle of duty-free Scotch. Unscrewing the cap he drank, and slowly, piece by piece, Edward learnt what Alex had been put through as a boy even younger than Evelyn. The bottle was half-empty by the time he had finished, and he had not once passed it to his brother. Holding it carefully by the neck he stood it on the table between the beds. Edward looked up at him, bereft of words, swamped by a terrible helplessness at his inability to ease his brother’s anguish, so long kept hidden beneath the surface – so much pain. He reached up, offering his brother his hand in a gesture of submission, of understanding. If Alex did not take his hand, Edward did not know what he would do with himself.

Slowly, Alex reached out, threaded his fingers through his brother’s. He spoke so softly Edward had to strain to hear him. ‘Oh, Eddie, how I hated you . . . and it went on and on, it never ended. Barbara, Evelyn – everything I had you took from me. You know where I’ve been all these weeks? With Skye Duval . . . Yeah, you’re surprised?’

Alex released his brother’s hand, began to walk around the room. ‘Eddie, I have letters back in England – that doctor I sent you to, when you were ill, remember? Well, there are other letters, and newspaper clippings, proving you are a drunkard and incapable of running the Barkley empire. I wanted it, I wanted all of it, and just in case you tried to fight the board, I got proof of your illegal transactions in South Africa. Plus your part in the murder of a woman called . . .?’

Edward said the name quietly, ‘Julia.’

‘Right . . . and the hit and run, the “accident” that killed Richard Van der Burge.’

Edward smiled, shaking his head, and then laughed. ‘You son of a bitch, you son of a bitch, I’ll take you on, Alex, any day, any time.’

Alex stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked the end of his brother’s bed. ‘No, you won’t, because when it comes down to it I don’t think I could see it through. Oh, I’d like to think I could, but . . . you’ve always beaten me. In a way I’m just like that poor bastard Skye Duval. You pull his strings, just as you pull mine – we’re your puppets.’

Edward picked up his heavy overcoat and walked to the door. He paused a moment, his back to Alex, then said, ‘You know, you dumb bastard, you’re wrong. From the moment I looked into your cradle – I was just tall enough to see over the edge – Ma said, “Come and see him, Edward, come and see Alex”; and there you were, smiling up at me with those big blue eyes. There was no jealousy, no envy, because I wanted to protect you, look out for you. You had me by the balls, my old son, even then. We’re brothers, Alex, we got each other so tight by the nuts we’re not much cop without each other. I love you, Alex, and I’ll get our boy off, and maybe you’ll be free of me for good. Everything I’ve got is yours. I guess it always was . . . Now get some rest, I’ll be back.’

He walked out without another word, without waiting for a reply, without turning round.

Outside, a janitor watched the big, overweight man leaning against a dirty brick wall. He was punching the wall with his fists, hitting it time and time again until his knuckles bled. The janitor did not dare approach him – the man was too big, too crazy . . . He clanked his bucket and mop in his haste to get out of sight. He didn’t see the massive frame hunch up, didn’t see Edward press his face against the dirty brick wall, nor did he hear the strange, strangled moan . . .

Edward did not return for two weeks, during which time Alex spent every possible moment with Evelyn. Somehow the relief of telling his brother everything had made it easier to cope with the prison.

The lawyers began to prepare their case. Through Edward, they had secured a total press blackout on the proceedings. The trial was to be held at the main court in Paris, Les Assises.

Evelyn’s time in prison proved to be a period of growth for him. In some ways Edward had been right, solitary confinement gave him peace to review his life and come to terms with it. He realized what he had wasted, what he had abused, and he was ashamed. He discovered in Alex a loving tenderness that he had never hoped to find. The visits drew them closer together, and they talked about everything that had harmed their relationship and kept them apart.

Alex brought Evelyn many books to fill the time in his cell, and he read avidly. He was a model prisoner and took notice when Alex told him that at any cost he must keep himself segregated. Any trouble he got into would go against him. Alex was able to make him understand what confinement does to a man, the homosexual practices of which he could become the victim. He found his son’s sense of humour touching when he said he had come across enough of that in school to be able to cope with it. Alex even worked out a fitness programme for him, so that he could keep his body strong. He showed Evelyn a couple of exercises, getting down on the visiting room floor to demonstrate. Whereas his visits used to cause him such mental anguish, now it was the partings that became more and more difficult. Their time was so precious, precious because looming over them both was the forthcoming trial. Just as freedom seemed so sweet, the possibility of not being granted it played on Evelyn’s mind.

Edward started with the men and women arrested at the farmhouse with Evelyn. He had already paid handsomely for having his messages carried into the jail via the lawyers, offering vast sums of money, money their families would benefit from, if not themselves. One by one they altered their statements, claiming that Evelyn was just a rich young boy they had manipulated. Kurt Spanier was the most difficult to persuade, as he stood to be charged with kidnapping and holding Evelyn against his will. But money can bend minds, and Spanier negotiated for a deal.

Alex listened as Edward outlined the second part of his compaign. He began to work on the press, arranging interviews, and bought witnesses prepared to swear on oath that Evelyn Barkley was held against his will at the farmhouse. Edward even had sworn affidavits from the frères at St Martin’s. Alex could only guess at the cost of what his brother was doing, he knew it would have to be astronomical. But he obeyed his instructions and queried nothing. The days sped by, the trial drawing closing and closer.

‘I’m going to have to see him, Alex, he’s got to give a performance, and he’s going to need me to tell him exactly what to say . . . I want no one else there, no lawyers, not even you, and I give you my word I’ll be there for exactly what I’ve told you, nothing more. Can you arrange it? Within the next two days?’

Alex agreed, and after discussion with the prison authorities Edward was given permission to visit Evelyn. Alex had a difficult assignment himself – he was to give a full press interview as the distraught father. That would not require any acting ability, but it was vitally important that he give a display of total support for his son’s innocence.

The two brothers shook hands. Edward knew he must make himself very scarce – no one must associate him with Alex or connect the two with any behind-the-scenes manipulation. There had been no violence, no threats – just the temptation of money.

Judge Grégoire Maréchal was the last man Edward had arranged to meet, the last link in his chain.

Edward was body-searched, then left waiting for more than two hours. The room smelt of stale body odour and tobacco.

At last he heard footsteps on the tiled floor, and a warder gestured for him to follow. He was shown into a small, stiflingly hot room. A thick glass barrier ran the length of the room, and a telephone hung on the wall. After a further ten minutes the door behind the barrier opened. The guards removed Evelyn’s handcuffs and he sat down, rubbing his wrists.

It was a moment before Evelyn realized who Edward was. Edward started sweating – he licked his lips and reached for the telephone. Evelyn did the same.

‘There’s nothing wrong with Dad, is there? He’s all right?’

Edward hesitated, finding the telephone system confusing. He wanted to be face to face with Evelyn, but he couldn’t be heard unless he spoke directly into the telephone.

‘Your father’s fine. I’m here for the lawyers, I am with the law firm that’s taking your case, do you understand?’

‘I didn’t recognize you at first, you look different.’

‘Yep, we all change . . . You all right?’

Edward found it unnerving looking into the boy’s face, seeing his dark eyes, his fine features, his beauty. The slender neck emerging from the rough prison shirt, the long tapering fingers as he held the phone. Even his voice sounded distorted through the receiver, almost surreal.

‘Is this how Alex has to speak to you?’

‘Yes. Put your hand against the glass, I’ll show you how we touch.’

Evelyn pressed his palm against the glass partition, and Edward slowly lifted his own hand and pressed it against the glass on his own side. They ‘touched’ . . . after a moment the glass began to warm . . . Edward became more adept with the telephone, and he was now able to speak to Evelyn and remain looking at him. Evelyn lifted his hand from the glass.

‘No, no . . . don’t take your hand away, please . . .’

Evelyn complied, left his hand pressed close to Edward’s. He found his uncle disturbing. The black eyes held him and he could see the huge man’s body was shaking. But there was no tremor in the deep, husky voice. ‘Keep looking at me, don’t take your eyes off my face, Evelyn, and listen . . . It’s very important for you to understand, take in everything I say.’

Edward kept his left hand pressed against the glass, against his son’s. His voice was calm as he told Evelyn slowly that being kidnapped must have been a dreadful experience, to be dragged from the school gates . . .

Evelyn made to withdraw his hand, and Edward almost shouted, ‘Keep your eyes on me, you must remember every word, understand me, every word.’

The minutes ticked by while the two of them sat with phones pressed to their ears, hands against the glass. Edward gave Evelyn dates, times, details, and he could tell by the expression on the boy’s face that he was taking it all in.

When the bell rang, Edward kept talking, but Evelyn banged on the glass, shaking his head. The phone had been disconnected.

Edward dropped the receiver and put both hands against the glass. Evelyn pressed his face to the glass, mouthed ‘thank you’ as the door behind him opened.

It was over so fast – the handcuffs replaced, the two guards gripping Evelyn’s elbows as they led him away. He looked back to see his uncle, his hands still raised to the window as if in contact with Evelyn’s, his huge frame filling the entire soundproof cubicle. He was banging on the glass, shouting at his son, words Evelyn couldn’t hear . . . and then the door was locked behind him.

Alone in his cell, Evelyn lay on his bunk. He had felt such power, such strength from the big man. He had been drawn close, just as if he were still the child who had run to him all those years ago. He recalled exactly what Edward had said when he had found the little boy crying at the big dining table, crying because he didn’t want to leave the manor. Edward had whispered, ‘We are blood to blood, put your hand on my heart, feel it, feel me . . . I am always here, don’t ever be afraid.’

Evelyn placed his hand across his own heart. It had all gone so wrong and he had no one to blame but himself. He remembered not just the words but also what it had felt like all those years ago, slipping his tiny hand inside his uncle’s jacket, pressing his palm against the big man’s heart. In that brief moment he had felt an overwhelming and powerful bond, and he had felt it again today, even though he had been unable to touch him. He wasn’t afraid any more – he knew he would be able to take whatever punishment was handed out to him, and he vowed that he would make it up to everyone, especially Alex. Calmly, he drifted into a deep sleep. It was strange because since his arrest he had been unable to, but now, as if another heart beat in rhythm with his own, he felt at peace.

There was nothing more Edward could do. He didn’t even say goodbye to Alex, just threw his old case in the boot of his hired Citroën.

Driving out of Paris he felt, as ever, the desire to overtake every other vehicle on the road. Edward knew that Evelyn would more than likely be acquitted – a few months in jail, perhaps, and then he would be free.

Of late Edward had been drawn back into moments of his past, flashes of total recall. Now, as the sun broke through the clouds, he heard his father’s voice. That soft, gentle voice as he sat Alex on his knee and explained to him about life and death. Edward had never sat on his father’s knee, not that he could remember, it had always been Alex. What was it Freedom had said? Ahhhh, yes now he remembered – he had said, ‘If you love something, set it free. If it comes back it is yours, if it doesn’t then it never was.’ Edward had promised his son to Alex, he would never again try to take him away. It would be the one promise in his life that he would keep. He would set them both free . . . He put his foot down harder on the accelerator, pushing it to the floor, and the car quickly picked up speed. He sang at the top of his voice, ‘Can you rokka Romany, can you play the bosh . . .’

Driving at over a hundred miles an hour, he passed a police car. They switched on their siren and gave chase . . . Edward roared with laughter, and sang even louder, ‘Can you jal adrey the staripen, can you chin the cosh . . .’