Guilty Parties Page 13

  The three of them partook and were soon moving to the beat of music they hated.

  Then Steve came over. ‘Nice batting, mate.’ He grinned belligerently. ‘What does your old lady get up to when you’re on the cricket pitch?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Only I saw her round the back of the garages with one of Ben’s mates a few minutes ago.’

  Pete looked towards the tables and saw Daisy holding Christina.

  ‘Is that kid even yours?’ Steve asked.

  ‘Steady—’ Luke said.

  Pete laughed. ‘Course it isn’t. You think I fuck my wife when yours is available?’

  Steve threw a punch, but Pete swayed backwards, further than he meant to. Then Steve was on him, pummelling his sides after they went into a clinch.

  ‘Nick!’ Al shouted. ‘Over here, now!’

  But it was too late. Pete smashed his forehead against Steve’s nose, then slipped free. He grabbed the bigger man by the shoulders and drove his head into the base of the statue five times. It was only when he stepped back that he realised it was a life-size figure of Daisy, standing on one leg like an ancient goddess in flight.

  ‘Nemesis,’ he said, as Nick pushed him out of the way and kneeled by Steve’s motionless body.

  Results: Pete was jailed for Steve’s murder, the prosecution successfully proving that he intended to inflict grievous bodily harm. Silke went back to Huddersfield with her daughter and was soon living with another man. Nick never had another birthday party.

  PARTY OF TWO

  Ragnar Jónasson

  Ragnar Jónasson was born in Reykjavik, where he still lives, and is a lawyer. He currently teaches copyright law at Reykjavik University and has previously worked on radio and television, including as a TV news reporter for the Icelandic National Broadcasting Service. His novels include the Dark Iceland series.

  ‘Can I take your plate?’ I asked, perhaps too quietly.

  I thought I’d cooked the salmon almost to perfection, but he didn’t seem to have brought his appetite, which I do think is rather rude. This was a dinner invitation, after all, but in all honesty I think we both knew that it was about more than that. He had a score to settle, of course. The elephant in the room. Neither of us had spoken about it, not yet. Actually, neither of us had ventured into the perilous territory of the past.

  ‘How long has it been?’ I finally asked, before removing the plate to take it out into the kitchen. Eventually either one of us would have to open that part of the discussion, and it might as well be me.

  How long has it been? Such a silly question, as I knew the answer all too well. Sixty years. We had been friends, best friends, from the age of five. At eleven we went our separate ways and now sixty years had passed.

  I probably should have invited him over for dinner a long time ago, but there are things that one tends to keep postponing, knowing they will be difficult.

  Did he remember the house, I wondered. My grandmother’s old house, a small but cosy cottage perching precariously on the slopes of a mountain on the south-eastern shore of Iceland, shielded – or perhaps threatened – by the terrifying rocks; overlooking the most magnificent ocean views you would ever see. The sea was sometimes so calm and quiet, like my grandmother, but sometimes more treacherous, perhaps a little bit like me.

  My grandmother taught me to make pancakes. The dough was always made from scratch, cooked gently on her old pan, just long enough to make them savory, but not too long, of course. Nobody likes a burnt pancake. And then some sugar sprinkled on top before each pancake is carefully rolled up.

  My grandmother tried to teach me a lot after she took me on, but this is really one of the few things that stuck. Probably because I’ve always had such a weak spot for good pancakes.

  She did do her best, I believe. It wasn’t easy for her. I never knew my father. My mom, well, she drank too much, as they said. Or as they didn’t say, I guess. One didn’t really speak of such things at the time, but she did actually drink herself to death. There is no way of sugarcoating that. I was just a baby when she died, so I was sent to live with my grandmother – to live in the middle of nowhere.

  The next house to my grandmother’s was a couple of miles away, and that’s where he grew up. That’s how we became best friends.

  ‘I made us some pancakes for dessert,’ I said upon returning from the kitchen, holding a plate of some delicious looking specimens. I placed the plate on the table. ‘Do you remember the ones that my grandma used to make? It’s the same recipe, but only a poor imitation, of course.’

  I don’t drink alcohol and I never have. To be fair, that is another thing my grandmother taught me – not to drink; although that does not require any great skill, not to do something. ‘You don’t want to end up like your poor mother, dear thing,’ she frequently said. And, no, I didn’t want to end up like her; I didn’t want to end up dead – so I never started drinking.

  I did however buy a bottle of some rather expensive white wine for my guest, as this was quite an occasion. Our first meeting in sixty years. He hadn’t started drinking when I last met him, but he was of course only eleven at the time. I had no idea if he had taken it up since then, but to play it safe I went to the nearest town to get a bottle, about thirty miles of driving for one bottle – and then it turned out that he didn’t touch it! Such a waste of time and money.

  I didn’t have to go into town for the salmon. That I got from an acquaintance of mine close by, freshly caught. And it did taste wonderful, I have to say. I should really cook more often.

  Living alone can make you quite lazy. I usually stock up on microwave food on my regular trips into town: pre-cooked chicken in some ill-defined sauce, frozen pizza, etc. This time, however, I took great care in preparing the meal, but still he did not seem to make an effort to try to enjoy it.

  Perhaps I should have taken him out to a restaurant instead. We even have a rather nice one just a short distance from here. That’s something my grandmother would never have imagined! Thanks to the tourists, who visit the area almost year round to see the glacier nearby, this isn’t the middle of nowhere anymore.

  Judging by his attitude it was almost as if he knew I had invited him over to ask for a favour. A huge favour, actually …

  It occurred to me whether reminiscing about the ‘good old days’ might do the trick. Talk about our summers out by the sea, up in the mountain hills, climbing cliffs so dangerous that venturing up there would only occur to a couple of know-it-all kids like ourselves. But we always made it down safely. Not that anyone cared, in my case. Not really.

  One memorable evening, in the mid-summer midnight sun, we had spent walking up the hill behind my grandmother’s small cottage, scaring away the sheep, listening to the birds, seeing all sorts of formations on the formidable cliffs above. At the stroke of midnight, or thereabouts, we were sitting on a big rock looking over our kingdom, our land and sea, talking about the future, in the way ten- or eleven-year-old boys do.

  I had a pancake, even though he didn’t. Perhaps not perfect host etiquette, but it was a bit odd that he wouldn’t try my dessert. Finally I brought some coffee. Nothing fancy, not an espresso or latte or whatever they call it nowadays, just old fashioned strong Icelandic coffee. The type my grandmother used to enjoy.

  He hadn’t said anything about the … the incident. Neither had I, as a matter of fact. I hadn’t asked the favour yet, either. And soon he would leave, so time was running out for both of us. It isn’t considered polite to stay for long after coffee has been served; although one can of course always ask for a refill. That wasn’t about to happen in his case though, as coffee did not seem to be his, well, his cup of tea.

  When our friendship came to an end, it was about a girl. Of course, what else? The most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I was only eleven but I knew I was in love. Again, the way an eleven-year-old boy thinks he knows. But at the time I felt it quite strongly, and I thought the feeling was mutual.

  W
e both knew her well, and when I found out the truth it was betrayal on an epic scale. They had been meeting behind my back.

  The salmon for dinner was a fitting choice, I think. We do have very tasty salmon in this part of the country, of course, but that isn’t the reason. No; the two of us had our own salmon fishing story, and that fact may have contributed to his lack of manners during the meal.

  Sixty years ago, a bright summer night, we snuck away to do some salmon fishing in a nearby glacial river, without permission from anyone of course.

  This was after I found out about the two of them – although he didn’t know that. I’m not sure what my exact plans were, my memory plays tricks on me. Selective memory, one might perhaps say …

  Neither of us caught anything that night, as far as I can recall. I do however remember him slipping on a rock and falling into the river.

  Or did I perhaps push him slightly?

  I forget.

  Selective memory, again.

  But I have to admit that I remember all too well holding his head under the cold water for a little while. Long enough, you know.

  And then I went back home to grandmother to tell her the news. Teary-eyed.

  He didn’t touch his coffee, so after I’d had a few sips of mine, I brought the cups back into the kitchen. It was still bright outside, like that night exactly sixty years ago. When I went back into the living room, the chair was empty.

  Gone without a word.

  And I didn’t get a chance to ask him the favour: ‘Please, please forgive me.’

  Author’s note: This story is a work of fiction. The setting is however based on an area in Iceland called Suðursveit, on the south-eastern shore, which in the past was one of the most isolated places in the country, cut off by glacial sands and rivers (and where the story was in fact written).

  READER, I BURIED THEM

  Peter Lovesey

  Peter Lovesey is the author of four crime series, starting with the Victorian mysteries about Sergeant Cribb, which were adapted for television. In recent years, he has focused mainly on books featuring either the Bath-based detective Peter Diamond, or Hen Mallin. His stand-alone novels include the award-winning The False Inspector Dew, and he is a former Chair of the CWA, as well as a recipient of the CWA Cartier Diamond Dagger. His latest book is The Stone Wife.

  Yes, I was the gravedigger, but my main job was overseeing the wildflower meadow. I’d better correct that. My main reason for being there was to worship the Lord and most of my hours were spent in prayer and study. However, we monks all had tasks that contributed to the running of the place and I was fortunate enough to have been chosen long ago to be the meadow man. If that sounds a soft number, I must tell you it isn’t. Wildflower meadows need as much care as any garden, and this was a famous meadow, being situated at the back of a Georgian crescent in the centre of London. The monastery had once been three private houses. The gardens had been combined to make the two acres people came from far and wide to admire. My meadow had been photographed, filmed and celebrated in magazines. Often they wanted to include me in their reports and I had to be cautious of self-aggrandisement. I had no desire for celebrity. It would have been counter to the vows I took when I joined the brotherhood.

  Closest to the monastery I grew rows of vegetables, but nobody except Brother Barry, the cook, was interested in them. My spectacular meadow stretched away beyond, dissected by a winding, mown-grass path. In the month of May we were treated to a medieval jousting tournament, the spring breezes sending the flagged wild irises towards the spikes of purple helmeted monkshood, cheered on by lilies of the valley and banks of primroses. Summer was the season of carnival, poppies in profusion, tufted vetch, ox-eye daisies, field scabious and foxgloves along the borders. Even as we approached September, the white campion, teazle, borage and wild carrot were still dancing for me. At the far end was the shed where my tools were kept and where, occasionally, I allowed myself a break from meadow management and did some contemplation instead. To the left of the shed was the apiary. If you have a wildflower meadow you really ought to keep bees as well. And to the right were the graves where I buried our brothers who had crossed the River Jordan. When their time had come I dug the graves and after our Father Superior had led us in prayer I filled them in and marked each one with a simple wooden cross. You couldn’t wish for a more peaceful place to be interred.

  And that was my way of glorifying God. The others all had their own tasks. Barry, I have mentioned, was our cook, and had only learned the skill after taking his vows. A straight-speaking man, easy to take offence (and therefore easy to tease), he had done some time in prison before seeing the light. Between ourselves, the meals he served were unadventurous, to put it mildly, heavily based on stew, sardines, baked beans and boiled potatoes, with curry once a week. Although my stomach complained, I got on better with Barry than any of the others.

  A far more scholarly and serious man, Brother Alfred was known as the procurer, ordering all our provisions by phone or the internet, including my seed and tools. Being computer-literate, he also communicated with the outside world when it became necessary.

  Brother Luke was the physician, having been in practice as a doctor before he took holy orders. A socialist by conviction, he combined this responsibility with humbly washing the dishes and sweeping the floors.

  Then there was Brother Vincent, a commercial artist in the secular life, who was painstakingly restoring a fourteenth-century psalter much damaged by the years. Between sessions with the quills and brushes, he also looked after the library.

  Our Father Superior was Ambrose, a remote, dignified man in his seventies who had been a senior civil servant before he received the call.

  You may be wondering why I’m using the past tense. I still live the spiritual life and manage a garden, but it is no longer at our beloved monastery in London. One morning after matins, Father Ambrose asked us all to remain in our pews (for your information, the chapel had been created out of two living rooms by knocking down a wall and installing an RSJ. Not everyone knew this was a rolled steel joist and we had fun telling Barry we were expecting a Religious Sister of St Joseph). ‘I want to speak to you about our situation,’ our Father Superior said. ‘It must be obvious to you all that our numbers have been declining in recent years. Three brothers were called to higher service last year and two the year before. I won’t say our little cemetery is becoming crowded, but the dead almost outnumber the living now. None of us are in the first flush of youth any more. Tasks that were manageable ten years ago are becoming harder now. I watched Jeffrey cropping the meadow at the end of last summer and it looked extremely demanding work.’

  As my name had been singled out, I felt I had a right to reply. ‘Father, I’m not complaining,’ I said, ‘but if I had a ride-on mower instead of the strimmer, it would ease the burden considerably.’

  ‘Jeffrey,’ he said, ‘I am discussing much more than your situation. I might just as well have used Barry and his catering as an example.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my cooking?’ Barry asked.

  ‘The curry,’ Luke muttered. ‘Oh, for an Indian takeout.’

  ‘Did you say something?’ Father Ambrose asked.

  ‘Trying to think what could be done, Father,’ Luke said.

  Ambrose moved on with his announcement. ‘In short, the Lord in His infinite wisdom has put the thought into my head that we should move to somewhere more in keeping with our numbers. This beautiful building and grounds can be used for another purpose.’

  He couldn’t have shocked us more if he had ripped off his habit and revealed he was wearing pink spandex knickers.

  ‘What purpose might that be?’ Luke asked eventually.

  ‘I know of a school in Notting Hill in unsuitable accommodation, much smaller than this, and in a poor state of repair.’

  ‘A school?’

  ‘A convent school.’

  ‘You’re suggesting they move here?’

  ‘It’s
not my suggestion, Luke. As I was at pains to explain, it came to me from a Higher Source.’

  ‘Our monastery converted into a school? How is that possible?’

  ‘It’s eminently possible. This chapel would double as the assembly hall. The spare dormitories would become classrooms, the refectory the canteen, and so on.’

  ‘What about my meadow?’ I asked.

  Ambrose spread his hands as if it was obvious. ‘The playing field.’

  I was too shocked to speak. I had this mental picture of a pack of shrieking schoolgirls with hockey sticks.

  ‘And my studio would become the art room, I suppose?’ Vincent said with an impatient sigh.

  ‘I see that you share the vision already,’ Ambrose said. ‘Isn’t it wonderfully in keeping with our vows of sacrifice and self-denial?’

  ‘Where would we go?’

  ‘I’m sure the Lord will provide.’

  ‘Do we have any say?’ Barry asked.

  ‘Say whatever you wish, but say it to Our Father in Heaven.’

  This is one of the difficulties with the monastic life. There isn’t a lot of consultation at shop floor level. Decisions tend to be announced and they have the authority of One who can’t be defied.

  We filed out of the pew dazed and shaken. If this was, indeed, the Lord’s will, we would have to come to terms with it.

  I returned to my beautiful meadow and tried to think about self-denial. Difficult. I vented my frustration on a patch of brambles that had begun invading the wild strawberries. After an hour of heavy work, I remembered I had recently put in an order for seed for next year’s vegetable crop. If Father Ambrose’s proposal became a reality, there wouldn’t be any need for vegetables. So I went to see Alfred, the procurer. He has a large storage room with racks to the ceiling for all our provisions. There’s a special section for all my gardening needs and beekeeping equipment.

  I said what was on my mind.

  ‘Good thinking,’ he said, looking up from his computer screen. Eye contact with Alfred was always disconcerting because he had one blue eye and one brown. ‘I’ll see if it isn’t too late to cancel the order.’