Chapter XXII Martin #2
‘Jarvis,’ Ben said. ‘He was the only other person who knew everything, who knew where all the bodies were buried. He knew about the payments, what happened with Vicky …’ At the mention of her name, Ben’s voice slurred.
‘All of it. And because he had so much fucking money, and I was so in debt to him, I had to keep him onside. I hushed up what he did to Fliss … my own sister, LS! That’s what he made me do.
He told me it was consensual. Said she came on to him: “She called me, mate, out of the blue” – you know what he’s like … ’
I nodded. He does a rather good impression of Jarvis.
‘Said if I didn’t help him out, then he’d stop funding the campaign and he’d tell everyone what we did to cover up the truth about Vicky.
Said I needed him, that he’d been a true friend to me and that this was the one thing he had ever asked of me.
And I believed it all, LS. All of it. He’s a monster.
A fucking monster! He even slept with my wife! ’
Ah. So that particular penny has dropped.
‘He betrayed me in every single way he could. I see it now. I feel sick when I think about it. Sick. What he did to Fliss … I can’t even …’
He covered his mouth, as if trying to keep the words stuffed inside.
‘I just thought I could trust him,’ he said, his tone pleading. ‘I thought he was my friend.’
I focused on a spray of reeds about 2 metres in front of me, paying careful attention to their outline, the detail of their brown-green shading.
I couldn’t bring myself to speak in case I said something that gave me away.
Every word that Ben uttered was simply too glorious, too perfect to allow myself to believe in fully.
Could this really be happening? I hadn’t even planned it this way, but it all felt so right. It felt just.
‘Well,’ Ben said. ‘He’s dead to me now.’
A leaping in my heart, like the flicker of a trout swimming through lake water.
Jarvis! The person who had once outwitted me, the pernicious school bully who’d blundered his way into the heart of the establishment, the Fitzmaurice confidante I had always desperately wanted to be, admitted without question into the family’s inner sanctum.
The sainted Andrew Jarvis, canonised by his own money, insulated from retribution because of what other people owed him.
At last. He was dead to Ben. His reign was over.
‘But,’ I ventured, ‘how can you be so sure it was him?’
Ben gave a short, sharp stab of laughter.
‘He’s buggered off. Flown to his house in France, I heard.
That’s about as close to an admission of guilt as you can get.
And he’s the one who’s got off scot-free, isn’t he?
While I’m the one with an ankle tag, probably going to prison.
He was in cahoots with Dick Take from the beginning.
Don’t get me wrong, Dick Take is a stupid bastard, but Jarvis?
Well, he’s the worst kind. He’s an evil bastard. I hate him.’
I hung my head to hide my smile. Oh, me too, Ben, I whispered to myself silently, me too.
‘You tried to tell me, LS. You tried to warn me literally decades ago. I’m so sorry I didn’t listen then. But I’ve understood it now. Finally. Much too late, but finally. I understand.’
He gripped my arm.
‘Thank you,’ he said. His sincerity moved an unknown part of me, dislodging it like a stone pushed from the entrance of a tomb.
‘You don’t need to thank me,’ I replied. ‘It’s what friends do.’
I meant it, too.
Now, at dinner, I am riding a wave of unexpected sentimentality.
Perhaps it’s the wine – I’ve had at least four glasses – or perhaps it’s the pressure of Alexander’s thigh against mine, the way he’s addressing me with great solicitousness and an undercurrent of flirtation, or perhaps it’s the warmth of Ben and Serena’s gratitude settling around my shoulders like a coat to be drawn close against the coolness of the outside world.
For whatever reason, I find myself experiencing heightened jags of unfamiliar emotion.
When Ben starts tapping a butter knife against his wine glass and then pushes back his chair and stands to give a speech, I remember the first time I saw him: a schoolboy with curly brown hair who defended me when I was being teased.
All that has happened in the intervening years folds in on itself and it’s just the two of us again; me and Ben, Ben and Martin.
Little Shadow and his best friend. The real one, the one who has been there all along.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence,’ Ben says, ‘but I’d like to say a few words.’ On the wall behind him hangs another oil painting of a pale-faced ancestor in full regimental uniform, standing in the grounds of Denby Hall, hand lightly resting on the scabbard of his sword.
‘The last few weeks and months have shown me the value of true friendship,’ Ben says.
‘I appreciate your presence around this table more than I can possibly say. I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know one thing for sure: your loyalty will never be forgotten.
’ He looks at Serena. ‘By either of us.’
Serena squeezes my hand tightly. When she removes it, there is a studded mark left by her jewelled ring.
‘The older I get, the more I realise the thing that matters – the only thing, really – is the quality of our relationships.’
At the other end of the room, someone says ‘hear, hear’ and bangs the table.
‘And although I’ve lost many things …’ There’s an uncomfortable shuffle of throats being cleared and cutlery being fiddled with.
‘Many, many things.’ An uneasy laugh. ‘The one blessing I have been left with is this’ – he gestures grandly around the dining room – ‘the company of loved ones. Especially you, Serena.’ His words are quavering.
‘Thank you for continuing to love me, even when I make it so difficult.’
Serena smiles and blows him a kiss, bracelets jangling.
‘I believe it was Joseph Conrad who said, “You shall judge a man by his foes as well as his friends.”’
Knowing laughter.
‘Well,’ Ben says, ruefully. ‘Bit of an understatement for me to say I think that holds true.’
The laughter gets louder and less apologetic.
‘In all seriousness,’ he continues, gravitas flooding back, ‘I believe the only meaningful success is the one we find in fellowship with others, and if I am judged by the friends I have around this table then, Christ …’ He gestures to us all. ‘I really have succeeded, haven’t I?’
God, he’s a good speaker. Always has been. So charming, so sincere. Does he really believe what he’s saying? Well, I don’t think it matters, does it? It’s the performance that’s the thing. I think he even convinces himself.
Next to me, Alexander starts clapping and the ripple of it spreads and soon all of us are applauding, taking to our feet and cheering as if we’ve just witnessed an extraordinary theatrical performance or the act of history being written.
We are high on the adrenalised buzz of being the chosen ones, the ones whose loyalty has been proven in a sacred oath we didn’t know we were taking.
And then Ben raises his glass, thrusts it into the centre of the table and shouts, ‘To friendship!’ and we all do the same, with such gusto that wine sloshes over the crystal rims and onto the white tablecloth and droplets of Chateau Lafite leak across the linen like blood.