Buddy Bowes, microphone in hand, filled the foreground of the screen with, slightly out of focus in the distance behind him, woodland and activity and a rear view of a white car.
‘This is a sad ending,’ Buddy Bowes said, appearing at least to show genuine regret, ‘to a fairytale life. Ellis Quint, thirty-eight, who gave pleasure to millions with his appearances on television, will also be remembered as the dashing champion amateur steeplechase jockey whose courage and gallantry inspired a whole generation to get out there and achieve. In recent months he has been troubled by accusations of cruelty to animals from his long-time colleague and supposed friend, Sid Halley, ex-professional top jockey. Quint was due to appear in court yesterday to refute those charges…’
There was a montage of Ellis winning races, striding about in macho riding boots, wowing a chat-show audience, looking glowingly alive and handsome.
‘Ellis will be mourned by millions,’ Buddy Bowes finished. ‘And now back to the studio…’
The nurse indignantly switched off the set. ‘They didn’t say anything about your being shot.’
‘Never mind.’
She went away crossly. The reputation Ellis had manufactured for me couldn’t be reversed in a night, whatever The Pump might now say. Slowly perhaps. Perhaps never.
Ellis was dead.
I sat in the quiet white room.
Ellis was dead.
An hour later a hospital porter brought me a letter that he said had been left by hand on the counter of the hospital’s main reception desk and overlooked until now.
‘Overlooked since when?’
Since yesterday, he thought.
When he’d gone I held the envelope in the pincer fingers and tore it open with my teeth.
The two-page letter was from Ellis, his handwriting strong with life.
It said:
Sid, I know where you are. I followed the ambulance. If you are reading this, you are alive and I am dead. I didn’t think you would catch me. I should have known you would.
If you’re wondering why I cut off those feet, don’t you ever want to break out? I was tired of goody-goody. I wanted the dark side. I wanted to smash. To explode. To mutilate. I wanted to laugh at the fools who fawned on me. I hugged myself. I mocked the proles.
And that scrunch.
I did that old pony to make a good program. The kid had leukemia. Sob-stuff story, terrific. I needed a good one. My ratings were slipping.
Then I lusted to do it again. The danger. The risk, the difficulty. And that scrunch. I can’t describe it. It gives me an ecstasy like nothing else. Cocaine is for kids. Sex is nothing. I’ve had every woman I ever wanted. The scrunch of bones is a million-volt orgasm.
And then there’s you. The only one I’ve ever envied. I wanted to corrupt you, too. No one should be unbendable.
I know all you fear is helplessness. I know you. I wanted to make you helpless in Owen Yorkshire’s office but all you did was sit there watching your hand turn blue. I could feel you willing me to be my real self but my real self wanted to hear your wrist bones crunch to dust. I wanted to prove that no one was good. I wanted you to crumble. To be like me.
And then, you’ll think I’m crazy, I was suddenly glad you weren’t sobbing and whining and I was proud of you that you really were how you are, and I felt happy and higher than a kite. And I didn’t want you to die, not like that, not for nothing. Not because of me.
I see now what I’ve done. What infinite damage.
My father did that last colt. I talked him into it.
It’s cost my mother’s life. If my father lives they’ll lock him up for trying to kill you. They should have let me hang, back in June, when I tried with my tie.
They say people want to be caught. They go on and on sinning until someone stops them.
The letter ended there except for three words much lower down the page:
‘You win, Sid.’
The two sheets of paper lay on the white bedclothes. No one else would see them, I thought.
I remembered Rachel saying how odd it would be to be dead. To be a space.
The whole white room was a space.
Good and evil, he had been my friend. An enemy: but finally a friend.
The sour, cruel underside of him receded.
I had the win, but there was no one standing in the stirrups to share it with.
Regret, loss, acceptance and relief; I felt them all.
I grieved for Ellis Quint.