Hope to Die

Epilogue

21 October 2018, 9.35 p.m.

Gantry Manor, Wytham

The TV is on loud. Louder than his wife would prefer, but she knows he doesn’t hear as well as he used to, and it’s not as if they’d be disturbing the neighbours. One reason – among many – they like living this far out of town.

‘That was the doorbell,’ she says.

Swann grunts something non-committal; he didn’t hear anything.

A moment later she tries again. ‘Dick, that was the doorbell.’

He looks across at her. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’ He turns back to the television. ‘And in any case, it won’t be anyone. Just some religious nut. Or the Liberal Democrats.’

She gets up and goes to the window and squints down. ‘I can’t see anyone.’

The bell rings again. Insistently. Even he hears it this time.

She turns towards him, her hand still gripping the curtain. Her face has gone pale. ‘It’s a man. He’s going round the back.’

Now that he is absolutely not going to tolerate. It’s bloody trespassing, for a start. He reaches for his dressing gown and starts to shuffle on his slippers. ‘I’ll go. You stay here. No need to be alarmed. He’s probably just seen the light on and assumed there’s someone in.’

He knots his gown and goes out on to the landing, flipping the light on as he goes. The bulb hums and plinks into life, throwing a pallid glow down the stairs. When he gets to the bottom and pushes open the kitchen door he can see through the window that there’s someone outside. A young man, all in black, some sort of backpack over one shoulder. He looks for all the world like a burglar; only burglars don’t ring the doorbell. Probably one of those ex-cons trying to sell dishcloths. It would account for the persistence. He goes over to the glass. The man is mouthing something. He makes a ‘Go away’ gesture, but the man – boy – takes no notice.

He hesitates. A tiny moment, upon which – as he will later bitterly reflect – a whole life will hinge. And not just his own. There’s no chain on the back door, but the lad doesn’t look threatening. A little impatient, maybe, but not actually dangerous. He just needs to be told, firmly, to sling his hook.

He unlocks the door. ‘I don’t care what it is you’re selling, we don’t want it.’

‘I’m not selling anything.’

An American accent. Now that does throw him for a loop. His grip on the door loosens a little.

‘Look, it’s late and I don’t know who you are –’

‘I’m sorry about the time – the train was late. And you do know who I am – well, in a way –’

This isn’t making any sense. Swann starts to close the door, but the man sticks his foot in it. ‘Please, just hear me out. You owe me that at least. Both of you do. But especially you.’

‘What on earth –’

But it’s too late, the man’s pushed past, he’s in the kitchen, rounded on him, his eyes flashing now. This is all going horribly, frighteningly wrong.

‘Look, lad, I don’t know what it is you want –’

‘I want an explanation – I want the truth –’

Swann’s starting to wonder if this chap’s all there – if he might be Care in the Community or whatever the bleeding hearts call it now –

‘Don’t you think you owe me that?’

‘I don’t think I owe you anything at all, sonny. You’re trespassing and I’d like you to leave. And if you don’t, I’ll call the police.’

The young man laughs. ‘Sonny? Is that what you Brits call irony? And, frankly, I reckon the cops are the last people you’re gonna want pitching up right now. You will not wanna let them hear what I’ve got to say. Because I know – you hear me, Grandad? I know what you did to her – your own daughter – you sick fuck –’

The old man is gaping at him. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about –’

There’s a movement, suddenly, in the shadows behind the young man, and Swann feels his heart jolt. His wife. At the kitchen door. Holding his gun. Her hands are trembling and she can barely keep it straight, but he taught her, years ago. She knows how to shoot.

‘Peggy, put that down, love – I’m sure we can sort this out –’

The lad’s swung round, he’s staring at the old woman as if he can’t quite believe it. ‘Whoa – no need for that –’

Peggy comes slowly towards him. Her face is gaunt in the yellowish light, two spots of high colour in her cheeks and that frantic look in her eyes that Swann had hoped he’d never see again.

‘Peggy,’ he says, stepping forward, so close to the young man now that their shoulders are almost touching. ‘There’s no need to be alarmed, love – the young man is just leaving –’

‘No, I’m not,’ he says, ‘I’ve come a long way and I’m not leaving until –’

‘Until we pay you?’ she retorts, too shrill. ‘You think you can get money out of us – like all those other crooks? Showing up here, making threats –’

‘Peggy,’ says her husband quickly, inching round to her side, his hand outstretched, ‘just let me have that thing before someone gets hurt –’

But she’s pushing forward, forcing the young man back towards the wall.

‘I’m not making threats,’ he says, glancing at the old man and then back at her. ‘I don’t want your damn money –’

‘Yes you do,’ she spits, edging closer, the heavy gun slipping in her hands. ‘You all do – you vicious little shits –’

‘Now hang on,’ he says, facing up to her now, standing his ground, his anger kindling. ‘Don’t you call me that – I just came here to talk –’

But there are no more words, not ever. Everything speeds up and slows down and collides as Swann reaches for the barrel and the old woman tries to jerk it away and in a detonation of noise and heat and shock and impossibility and blood –

the gun

goes

off