Robert Goddard - Borrowed Time

“But it didn’t see, did it? It never does. It never wants to. It has to be forced to open its eyes. The righting of wrongs is a deeply uncomfortable experience. Admitting to a mistake is much more difficult than concealing it. And usually there are so many ways to dodge the issue. To avoid the admission. But not this time. Not now. Because I intend to be seen and heard. I intend to set the record straight. And to face the consequences. Along with everyone else.”

Listening to Paul Bryant’s confession made me realize how little I’d really known about the Paxton family and the events of July 1990. I’d mistaken glimpses of the truth for insight and understanding. I’d constructed a whole version of reality from the constituents of my limited knowledge. And now, suddenly, I saw it for the travesty it had always been. The past was as fluid and uncertain as the future.

I was too shocked at first to react to what Paul had said. So much was altered by it, so much thrown into disarray. Louise hadn’t been what I or others had thought she was. She hadn’t been prepared to be what we wanted her to be, even in death. Everything we’d believed about her had been a lie. And the one thing said about her that we were sure was a lie turned out to be true. Naylor wasn’t guilty. But almost everyone else was. Of deceiving others. Or of deceiving themselves. It hardly mattered which.

Except in Paul’s case, of course. He’d lived the grossest lie of all. He’d murdered two people and let an innocent man go to prison in his place. I should have felt angry. And so, eventually, I did. But not because of the hideous crime he was at long last owning up to. Oh no. What really angered me was the revelation of so much falsehood, so much shared credulity. It had just been too pat and convenient to resist, I suppose. Naylor locked away. And our doubts with him. But now he-and they-were going to be released. The villain of the piece was going to be revealed as the ultimate victim. History was about to be rewritten. And everyone who’d subscribed to the version I knew now to be false would be exposed as at best a fool, at worst several different kinds of scoundrel.

I suppose the unavoidable acknowledgement of my own gullibility explains the muted dismay with which I finally responded. I was horrified, of course. But horror loses its edge at three years’ remove from the deed. The satisfaction with which I’d greeted Naylor’s twenty-year sentence could never be renewed. Paul’s guilt was somehow diminished by the injustice I’d participated in. And by the shame I felt at its realization. There was a moment when I was tempted to urge silence on him, to whisper some weaselly platitude about letting sleeping dogs lie. Then I faced down the thought. There had to be an end of evasion and collusion. And this was it.

“What you did, Paul-what you freely admit you did-was terrible. Awful. Unpardonable. I believe murderers should be executed. Hanged by the neck until dead. You understand me? Done away with.”

“I understand you, Robin. I hear what you’re saying. I actually agree with you. A life should be repaid with a life. But the law says otherwise. So…”

“What will you do now? Go to the police?”

“Not directly. I’ve an appointment with Naylor’s solicitor in Worcester tomorrow morning. I’ll tell him exactly what I’ve told you. Then it’ll be up to him to decide what to do. I’ll be glad when it is, to be honest. Grateful to let him set the wheels in motion. Besides, going to him avoids any possibility of the police turning a deaf ear.”

“You think they’d try to?”

“Who knows? This way, they won’t have the option, will they?”

“And Sarah? When will you tell her?”

He sighed. “I’m not sure I can face her with it. Confessing to you or Naylor’s solicitor or the police or whoever is one thing. But standing in front of Sarah and explaining what I did-when and why-to her own mother… her own flesh and blood…” He shook his head. “That’s too much.”

“She has to be told.”

“Of course. Otherwise the first she’ll know of it will be when the police come to her for corroboration of my statement. That’s partly why…” I sensed him staring at me in the darkness. “I came to you.”

“You want me to tell her?”

“If you will. If you can. As a favour, perhaps.”

I hesitated, torn between the wish to refuse and the knowledge that it would be better for her to hear it from me first. In the end, it wasn’t a difficult choice to make, however hard it was likely to be to act on. “Very well. I’ll tell Sarah. But I’ll do it as a favour to her , Paul. Not to you.”

A few minutes passed in silence, during which he may have reflected on the many rejections and condemnations he’d soon be laying himself open to. Then he said simply: “Thank you.”

“Why did you do it?” I asked, the wish that he would suddenly say no, it was all a joke really, buried beneath the question. “I mean, in God’s name, why?”

“I don’t know, Robin. I remember the actions, not the reasons. She cast a spell on me that was only broken by her death. And now it seems as inexplicable to me as it does to you.”

“All those lies you told. How could you sustain them?”

“Necessity. Fear. Practice. And a morsel of pride, I suppose, at not being found out. They were enough. Until Rowena took their place. But now she’s gone, there’s nothing. No reason. No purpose. No point to the deception. I’ve been going to church these past few weeks, you know. Praying for guidance. Preparing to confess, I suppose you could say. In one of the readings, there was a verse from St. John’s Gospel that stuck in my mind. Six words that gave me more courage than all the rest put together. And just enough for me to be able to do this. ‘The truth will make you free.’ I’ve thought of it a lot. The hope, I mean. It’s easy to say. Not so easy to believe. But I’ve started to believe it. I really have. Just in the time I’ve been talking to you. I haven’t felt free since the night I killed her. But now there’s a chance. That the truth will make me free. At last. All over again. Truly free.”

If anyone had told me I’d one day entertain Louise Paxton’s murderer as an overnight guest in my home, I’d have thought them mad. But Paul Bryant did spend that night at Greenhayes. When it came to the point, there was really nowhere else for him to go. He admitted he’d be grateful for company on the road to Worcester next morning and I suppose part of me wanted to be certain he meant to go through with his confession before I started throwing pebbles into the same pond.

We set out at dawn, Paul looking as if he’d slept considerably better than me. Perhaps the longed for freedom was already making itself felt. He said little as we drove north, leaning back in the seat with his eyes closed, an expression close to contentment on his face. He smiled occasionally and muttered to himself. But whenever I asked him what he’d said, he only replied, “It’s not important.” Nothing was , I suppose, compared with the story he had to tell. Nothing counted at all-except his fierce determination to set the record straight.

We reached Worcester in good time for his ten o’clock appointment. Cordwainer, Murray & Co. occupied modest first-floor premises near Foregate Street railway station. I dropped him at the door and watched him go in before driving away. He didn’t look back as he entered. He didn’t even hesitate. It seemed as much as he could do not to break into a run as he took the irrevocable step.

I was in a hurry too, knowing delay would only breed prevarication. There was no easy way to tell Sarah all her worst fears about her mother were justified. But there was no way to avoid it either. I drove straight down the motorway to Bristol and made for Caledonia Place.