William Brodrick: The Gardens of the Dead

Anselm regarded her with compassion and said, ‘Why did you change your mind?’

‘Because,’ said Mrs Dixon defiantly proudly ‘I have met my grandson, Nicholas. And I do not want his life to rest on a lie -on a false understanding of who he is and where he comes from – as Graham’s did. One day he might learn the truth about his family I do not think he would thank his mother for the story she dreamed up in its place. It is, of course, what she wanted, what she’d asked of me. I didn’t appreciate why until I saw Nicholas… He looks just like Walter.’

Anselm took Mrs Dixon’s arm, and they walked slowly like mother and son, along the lanes of Bunhill Fields. In their shared quiet, he thought of Riley’s early life, and of murder, undetected and forgotten, and what it might do to a man. And he thought of Bunyan, whose youth had been marred by four chief sins: dancing, ringing the bells of the parish church, playing tipcat and reading the history of Sir Bevis of Southampton.

For the fourth day in a row, George ordered a full English breakfast (with Cumberland sausage). Nancy opted for the kipper (from Craster), explaining, ‘You only live once,’ which was very true. They sat in a bay window of the Royal Guesthouse, looking at the waves trimmed with foam. Far off, daft gulls dipped and rose like kites. It would be another windy wonderful day.

The entries in George’s notebook would have told him that Nancy had withdrawn thirty-six thousand, four hundred and twenty pounds and fifty-two pence from the Riley bank account; that facing rooms had been booked in Brighton for a week (meals included); that she had bought a two-for-the-price-of-one packet of envelopes from Woolworths. However, he didn’t need to remind himself of their comical project, any more than he needed to be told of Nancy’s horror and guilt over all that Riley had done, or of her remorse for the murder of John. It was, as they say written on her face. She was not to blame, by any stretch of the imagination. And yet, on their first night, over Hereford beef with Yorkshire pudding, Nancy had said, ‘I share the fault, because I share the disgrace’ – a stinging phrase which revealed that Nancy accused herself because she’d known what her husband was like, and she’d turned away.

When breakfast was over they prepared some envelopes, put on their coats and set about the business of the day. They strolled along the esplanade towards the Palace of Fun.

‘How about that one?’ asked Nancy.

George nodded.

Coming towards them was a young girl, pushing a pram against the grain of the wind. Her knuckles were blue. Judging by the noise, the child was not happy.

‘Excuse me,’ said George, ‘we represent a secret society whose object is the benefit of humanity.’

The girl’s eyes flicked from George to Nancy and back to George again. She said, ‘Sorry, I don’t need anything.’

‘I’m afraid the steering committee does not agree,’ said George severely ‘Here’s a thousand pounds.’

Nancy pulled an envelope from her handbag, and held it out. The young mother stared, as if it were a warrant from the bailiff.

‘The only condition is this,’ said George, suddenly kind, ‘under no circumstances are you to spend it wisely. We wish you a very good day’

And with that, the delegates crossed the main road, heading towards the forecourt of Brighton Pier. Near the entrance, a Salvation Army brass band was playing carols. The cornets and trombones glittered in a semi-circle, pointing down slightly Nancy approached them respectfully walking round the arc of bonnets, caps and polished shoes.

‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’… the words rode on the back of the hymn, melancholy and joyful.

George mumbled the rest of the verse, gazing at the turrets of a dome and two flags fluttering against a clean blue sky Suddenly Nancy was at his side. Ceremonially they walked onto the long quay as if it were a nave, as though the world itself were a cathedral of unutterable magnificence.

George’s spirit soared higher and higher with the brazen gulls. There were no clouds, no shadows, just the harsh seaside light. The wind carried the smell of sand and bladderwrack, shells and salt.

‘Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled.’ Nancy handed out ten-pound notes as they walked along, as if they were flyers for Unimaginable Warehouse Bargains. People stopped and stared. An old woman in black with bowed legs waddled towards them, head down like a bull, her hair harnessed by a net.

‘Excuse me,’ said George, ‘here’s five hundred pounds for your trouble.’

‘Are you mad?’ she replied, straining to get her neck upright.

‘I was, but am no more.’

She glanced around warily ‘Is this Candid Camera?’

‘Indeed not, madam,’ said George, like a magician. ‘This is real life.’

‘Thank you, but no.’ Her head went down and off she went, burrowing through the wind to the town.

At his side Nancy was laughing. She pulled off her yellow hat with its black spots, and forced a hand through her hair. Breathing deeply she closed her eyes and threw back her head. Her nose was bright red at the end.

‘Let it be known,’ cried George, raising his arms like Charlton Heston, ‘that for one week a kind of justice ruled on Brighton Pier.’

‘Joyful all ye nations rise, join the triumph of the skies’… the sound was fading. As they walked on distributing their leaflets, George glanced over his shoulder: he could still see the caps, the bonnets and the glitter of instruments.

‘… Glory to the new-born King.’

In the Palace of Fun, Nancy bought tickets for the dodgem cars. The till was wrapped in tinsel and a Christmas tree was chained to a bracket. A girl in the booth wore a Santa hat and she called the management when George gave her two hundred pounds. The police turned up and particulars were taken. When everyone in a suit or uniform was happy – actually not so happy – George and Nancy climbed into a rather small Rolls-Royce. With a crackling of sparks, the music started and they were off.

Driving always made George thoughtful, and present circumstances proved no exception. Nancy had pushed her husband into Limehouse Cut; George had witnessed the fall, and made a note of the details that night on the train (first class). With a glass of champagne in one hand, and a pen in the other, Nancy added an important postscript to explain that Riley’s point of entry had been adjacent to a boat, moored by the canal wall. George, however, was still troubled on his friend’s account: what would she do when all the money was gone?

‘Where will you go, Nancy when this is all over?’ he asked.

‘I haven’t a clue.’ Her hands were folded on her bag and her knees were squashed against the dashboard. ‘What about you?’

‘No idea,’ said George. He turned to Nancy wanting to thank her for their time together, for this brief, shining…

George thwacked a yellow Lamborghini. It was his fault. He hadn’t been looking. The jolt was so severe that stars twinkled behind his eyes. When he could see straight, he saw a police officer – the same one as last time – talking to his radio and summoning George with a gloved hand. Thinking the world had turned upside down (leaving aside his and Nancy’s efforts in this regard), he drove to the rubber kerb. Ten minutes later they were taken in a squad car to the station. George was left in the waiting room and Nancy was taken to an office with a panel of frosted glass in the door.

Twenty minutes later George and Nancy had been released. For a long time Nancy did not speak.

‘George,’ she said evenly ‘when they checked us out for giving money away my name caused a stir on the computer. ‘She sat down on the low wall of someone’s garden. ‘I was reported missing two days ago, and yesterday Inspector Cartwright charged Riley with the murder of his stepfather. Without being asked, he confessed to the murder of your son and to everything that happened at Quilling Road. He’ll be going to prison for a long time.’