Hammond Innes: The Doomed Oasis

Across the road a curtain moved; hidden eyes watching, something to gossip about. I knew the black saloon parked at the kerb. It was Dr Harvey’s. But if there was death in the house then the curtains would have been drawn. My hand was reaching out to the bell-push again when the latch of the door clicked and voices sounded:’ … nothing else I could have done, Mrs Thomas. A case for the police … you understand, I hope. And the ambulance will be here any minute now.’ The door was flung open and Dr Harvey bustled out, almost cannoning into me. ‘Oh, it’s you, Grant.’ He checked in mid-flight, black bag gripped in his hand, no overcoat as usual, a young, fair-haired, very serious man in a perpetual hurry. ‘Well, I suppose you’ll be able to make some sort of a case out of it in court. The boy’s certainly going to need legal advice.’ There was no love lost between us. We’d tangled over medical evidence before. ‘Got to deliver a baby now. Can’t do anything more for that chap.’ And he almost ran out to his car.

‘Mr Grant?’ The woman was staring at me uncertainly.

I nodded. ‘Of Evans, Jones amp; Evans, solicitors. You telephoned me a little while back.’

‘Yes, of course.’ She held the door open for me, a small neat-looking person of between forty and fifty with deep-set, shadowed eyes. Her hair was greying, swept straight back from the forehead, the face dead white against the dark background of the passage.’ Will you come in, please.’ She shut the door behind me. ‘Dafydd didn’t want me to call you. But I thought you wouldn’t mind as your firm it is that handles that little allowance for me.’

It was the first I knew we acted for her in any way. I thought she’d phoned me because I’m willing in certain circumstances to take a case without a fee. ‘What’s the trouble, Mrs Thomas?’ I asked her, for she was standing motionless as though unwilling to let me go further into the house.

She hesitated, and then almost in a whisper, ‘Well, it’s Dafydd really, you see. He came back — and then…. Oh dear, it’s all so difficult to explain.’ Now that she had shut the street door, I could see no more than the outline of her face, but her voice, trembling to a stop, told me she was having to fight to keep control of herself. She was frightened, too. ‘I don’t know what he’ll do,’ she whispered. ‘And Sue not here. Sue could always manage him when I couldn’t.’

‘Sue is your daughter, is she?’ I knew it would steady her if I asked questions.

‘Yes, that’s right. She works at the Infirmary, but I didn’t phone her because she’d never get back here in time.’

‘And David — that’s your husband?’

‘No, Dafydd’s my son. He and Sue are twins. She understands him somehow.’

‘I see, and he’s in some sort of trouble?’

‘Yes.’ And then she added hastily, ‘He’s not a bad boy, not really.’ She drew in her breath quickly as though gathering herself together. ‘If I hadn’t written to him like I did, it wouldn’t have happened. But I’d had about all I could stand, you see, and then he came home and there was a bit of a row and Mr Thomas, he said things, you see, that he shouldn’t have done, and suddenly they were hitting out at each other. It wasn’t Dafydd’s fault. He’d had a terrible shock, poor boy. And Mr Thomas, he’d had a few beers, and then-’ She sucked in her breath again as though gulping for air. ‘Well, then he had this stroke, you see, and I called Dr Harvey right away and then I telephoned you because I knew if meant trouble for Dafydd.’ It had all come out in a rush as though she couldn’t contain it any longer. ‘My husband looked so bad, you see,’ she added lamely, ‘and I didn’t know what would happen. I just didn’t know what to do, Mr Grant — not for the best, as you might say. And then Dr Harvey came and he said there wasn’t much hope for him and he phoned the police so it’s glad I am that I called you now. You’ll know what to do and what Dafydd should say to them. He’s not a bad boy,’ she repeated in a voice that was suddenly on the defensive. ‘Just a bit wild you know.’ And she added quickly, ‘Mr Thomas hit me you see.’

There was a family row, in other words?’

‘Yes. Yes, you could call it that. But I wouldn’t like you to think that because Mr Thomas was a bit of a drinker there was anything wrong between us. He’s good at heart, you know.’

‘And he’s had a stroke you say?’

‘Yes, that’s right. That’s what Dr Harvey called it.’ She seemed to have got a grip of herself. ‘Come in now won’t you, Mr Grant. He’s lying on the couch in the parlour. And Dafydd’s there too. I expect you’d like a word with him. But don’t try and rush him, please,’ she added in a whisper, and I got the impression she was afraid of her son. ‘He needs a bit of handling, you see. And he’s had a shock as I say — a dreadful shock.’ She pushed open the door and stood back for me to enter. This is Mr Grant, Dafydd — Mr Grant the lawyer.’

The room was lit from the ceiling, a stark, glaring light without compromise. It showed me a couch with the body of a man lying on it. He was in his shirt sleeves, the brass gleam of a stud showing where his shirtband had been loosened. His eyes were closed and he was breathing with difficulty, his rather heavy, florid features fallen away so that the bone showed through the flesh. The nose had the veined look of a heavy drinker. Close against the gas fire, one elbow on the mantelpiece, leaned a youth of about twenty. He was rather over-dressed in a jacket with a lot of elaborate pockets and tucks and a pair of tight-fitting trousers. His face was as white as his mother’s; the same features, too, except that the nose was more beaky, the jaw stronger. He didn’t shift his position as I entered the room, didn’t even look up. He was staring down at the gas fire and his immobility was oddly disconcerting.

Close by his feet was a litter of broken glass from the smashed front of one of those over-pretentious china cupboards. The mahogany beading as well as the glass had been broken in the struggle and the bric-a-brac with which the cabinet had been filled, mostly white china souvenirs from seaside towns, lay in confusion on the worn carpet. A vase, too, lay where it had fallen from the table by the window. It was unbroken, and beside it lay a much-thumbed photograph album spilling press cuttings. There was something a little macabre about the whole room; nothing cleared up after the struggle and the father lying there half-dead on the couch with a blanket tucked round him; and the mother and son standing, facing each other, absolutely still.

I could feel the tension between them. It wasn’t hate, but it was something just as strong, an emotion so violent that the man on the couch, myself, the state of the room didn’t exist for them.

‘Well, now.’ I addressed the boy, my tone as matter-of-fact as I could make it in that sort of atmosphere. ‘Suppose you tell me what happened.’ But it was like talking to a brick wall. He had a sullen, withdrawn look.

‘I’ve told you what happened,’ his mother said in a whisper.

‘Quite so, Mrs Thomas, but I’d like to hear it from your son.’ She looked deathly tired. I turned to the boy again. ‘You’ve had a shock,’ I said gently. ‘It’s natural you should be a bit dazed by what’s happened…. ‘ But even as I said it I knew the boy wasn’t dazed. The knuckles of the hand that gripped the mantelpiece were white with pressure and there was a muscle working at the back of the jaw. He was holding himself in like a boiler under pressure and I wasn’t sure how best to handle him. His gaze had shifted now and he was staring at his mother. I felt sorry for the woman. ‘Listen to me, young man,’ I said. ‘I understand Dr Harvey has called the police. They’ll be here any minute now. If you want me to act for you, then you’d better start talking now, before they arrive.’