A Suitable Vengeance

He heard her movement on the stairs before he saw her. Across his bed he’d spread out every document that pertained to the case, and he was studying them all, deciding which of them could be used to exonerate not only his sister but Peter Lynley and John Penellin as well. A flash at his doorway stirred him from his contemplation of these items. It was Deborah’s white shirt against the shadows in the hall. She was holding the photographs.

He smiled. “Have them finished?”

“Yes. It took a bit longer than I thought. I wasn’t used to the enlarger. Because it’s new and…well, you know that, don’t you? How silly.”

He thought she might give the photographs to him, but she didn’t do so. Instead, she came to stand at the foot of his bed. One hand held the photographs pressed against her side, the other curved round the bed’s tall, fluted poster.

“I need to talk to you, Simon.”

Something in her face reminded him instantly of a bottle of ink spilled on a dining room chair and a scuffy-shoed ten-year-old’s quavering confession. Something in her voice, however, told him that, for Deborah, a moment of accounting had arrived, and as a result he felt that sudden draining of strength that comes with an onslaught of dread.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“The photograph. I knew that you’d see it one day or another, and I wanted you to see it. It was my dearest wish. I wanted you to know that I sleep with Tommy. I wanted you to know because then I might hurt you. And I wanted to hurt you, Simon. I was desperate to punish you. I wanted you to think of us making love together. I wanted you to be jealous. I wanted you to care. And I…Simon, I despise myself for having done that to you.”

Her words were so unexpected that the very surprise of them buffeted him into a form of shock. For one ridiculous moment, he talked himself into misunderstanding the direction she was heading in, allowing himself to assume that she was speaking of the Cambrey pictures and making references to them that he simply couldn’t comprehend. In that instantaneous way that minds have of working, he made a quick decision to direct the conversation along those lines. What are you talking about? Jealous of Tommy? What photograph, Deborah? I don’t understand. Or better yet, laughing it off, indifferent. Just a practical joke that didn’t work out. But even as he gathered the resources to respond, she continued, making her meaning quite clear.

“I wanted you so much when I left for America. I loved you so much, and I was sure you loved me. Not as a brother or an uncle or a sort of second father. But as a man, an equal. You know what I mean.” Her words were so gentle, her voice so quiet. He felt compelled to keep watching her face. He stood immobilised, unable to go to her even as every sinew in his body insisted he do so. “I don’t know if I can even explain what it was like for me, Simon. So confident when I left, so sure of what you and I had together. And then waiting for you to answer my letters. At first not understanding, even believing something had happened to the post. Phoning you after two months and hearing how distant you were. Your career was making such demands on you, you said. Responsibilities were piling up. Conferences and seminars and papers to write. You’d answer my letters when you could. And how is school, Deborah? Are you getting on? Are you making friends? I’m sure you’ll do well. You’ve the talent. You’ve the gift. You’ve nothing but a brilliant future ahead of you.”

He said the only thing he could manage. “I remember.”

“I judged myself.” Her fleeting smile was a fragile thing. “Not pretty enough for you, not clever enough, not amusing, not compassionate, not loving, not desirable…not enough.”

“That wasn’t the truth. That isn’t the truth.”

“Most mornings I woke and despaired of the fact that I was still alive. And that became part of my loathing as well. I wasn’t even enough of a person to take my own life. Worthless, I thought. Totally without value. Stupid and ugly and utterly useless.”

Each word was more difficult to bear than the last.

“I wanted to die. I prayed to die. But I didn’t. I just went on. Which is what most people do.”

“They do go on. They heal. They forget. I understand.” He hoped those four statements would be enough to stop her. But he saw that she was determined to carry their conversation through to an end of her own devising.