William Brodrick - The Gardens of the Dead

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.

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.

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.

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.