CHAPTER ONE
It is early evening, and I am exhausted. Taking off my Jacket, I throw it over the backrest of a dining room chair. I hear a dull metallic thud, as something strikes the chair leg. The cell phone in my left side pocket. Checking there is no damage to the phone or chair, I emptied all the pockets, removing the phone, car and house keys. In the lounge, I drop them into the drawer of the table at the side of my old armchair. I didn’t need them again. What I needed was a drink after today’s gathering.
Funerals, Graveyards and Crematoriums, are not places to be at the best of times. I know because, in my line of work, I’ve been to many. I’m a politician. A member of parliament. First elected to the House of Commons, then elevated to the peerage, and the House of Lords. Shaking hands, kissing babies, attending funerals and social events. Anything to gain voter approval. It was part of the job. Most of it carried out without emotion, or feeling and disingenuous. My face a mask worn to support the occasion. One that disappears the moment it’s over and out of public view. It is a practiced and well-performed act. It took me time to understand, learn and play the roles. The acting required didn’t come naturally. The agent on my first election campaign taught me the basics and rehearsed me, until I could perform the perfect expression and pose, on command.
Today’s performance wasn’t an act. I was not playing a part in the tragedy of someone else’s life. It wasn’t a pose or a mask of desolation and despair. Today was real and my heart was breaking. A pain so deep, I couldn’t think straight or breathe. A hurt affecting every nerve in my body like I’ve never felt before. My heart beating so fast it ached, and a screaming in my head that tore at my eardrums. The love of my life, my reason for living, gone. A dagger pushing through my heart and deep into my soul. Each movement a painful reminder it was my decisions and actions that caused today.
It was late November and bitterly cold. It heaped further misery onto an already depressive day. The freezing wind on my bones, reminding me I would never see or speak to Anne again. Hearing the words of remembrance, spoken by friends, intensify the feelings of guilt, deceit, weakness and betrayal. I couldn’t take anymore and come home to hide my shame.
Unlocking the drinks cabinet, I grasped a full bottle of a twelve-year-old Glenlivet malt whiskey, picked up a cut-glass tumbler and set them on the small table at the side of my armchair. I intended to drink myself into oblivion. Sinking into the chairs cushion, the large arms enveloped me, holding me secure. I stared into the flames of the log fire. The day had been long, intense and emotional. I needed the support of my armchair. It was an old friend and comforted me through many a crisis in the past. More than ever today, I needed its support. I’d watched the only woman I’d loved, buried alongside my friend Rupert and I caused their deaths.
Sitting in front of the fire, watching the flames flicker and dance brought back many memories. Recalling events that overwhelmed me and gripped my heart like a vice. My head thumped to the drumbeat of words I should have said and actions I should have taken. Emotions I kept locked deep inside, surfing on the waves of guilt coursing through my system and through it all the realisation that events and actions I left unfinished caused this terrible day. Everything that happened avoidable if I had acted better. I set-in-place the chain of events that led to this wretched day. It was all my fault, and everyone at the funeral, knew it.
Wallowing in a deep black hole of self-pity, remorse and grief, I admitted the truth. I was to blame for Anne’s death. I killed the woman I loved. The woman I should have taken care of and protected. Now, the truth of it flashed in front of my eyes.
The times I should have handled things differently. Each occasion coming back at the speed of light and accusing me of disgrace, betrayal and murder. At the end of this miserable day, I faced reality. I could never rectify what had happened. Consumed with guilt and remorse, I’d let my best friend, Rupert, take the blame. The green bile of hate, disgust and alcohol hit the back of my throat in admission and understanding at what I had done.
Rupert could no longer defend himself as they buried him next to his mother Margaret, alongside Anne. All three of them dying because of my actions. Throughout the day, I kept quiet, and not had the courage or decency to admit, it was all my fault. Staring into the fire, what was destroying me was the certainty, that Anne and Rupert would never know how I felt. Words I should have said that would have changed events, had I shared them.
A flash of lightning interrupted my thoughts and lit up the darkened room. Followed by a massive crash of thunder that made the short hairs on the back of my neck rise. The house trembled and groaned from the after-shock. There was a storm building over the nearby Malvern Hills. The weather, dark and dismal like my mood, and blaming me for this dreadful day.
I reached for the bottle of Glenlivet and topped up my glass. Two hours passed since I opened it, and it was half empty. I wondered why I thought the bottle half empty and not half full. Was it the alcohol having the desired effect? My reactions and thoughts, slowing down and numbing the pain.
My mind drifted again, and I wondered why I’d let things get this far. The insecurities of the past floated into my head, reminding me of the poor choices I made. Words I should have said that would have changed this day. The things I could have done.
I was no longer chained and shackled as poor Jack Turner from a working-class family. I had risen from working class to privilege, from poverty to wealth. A man who believed in himself, and that duty should be with honour. A nobleman, as Lord Turner of Evesham. Friend of prime ministers and members of the royal family. A Peer respected for my beliefs and opinions, whose counsel was sought.
In my depressed and alcoholic state, I knew the lie, because I had compromised my beliefs. Brought up to hide my true feelings and keep a stiff upper lip, as we British say. To be honourable and selfless at all times, even if, in carrying out my duty, it put me at a disadvantage and denied me personal happiness. What I had done betrayed everything I held close and respected. My decisions and actions were out of fear and cowardice. I may have fooled everyone, but I knew the truth. I was the one responsible.
I took a large swig of whiskey, trying to make sense of it all and find some justification for all that had happened. In a drunken state of self-pity and remorse, I heard the muffled sound of my cell phone ringing in the drawer and wondered who the hell was calling me at this time of night and on this of all days.
