‘But an abortion…’ Johanne ran her finger across the table and repeated: ‘An abortion! Wouldn’t that have been disastrous for your campaign if it got out? And couldn’t it still make life very uncomfortable for you? The abortion issue creates a great and virulent divide in the States, to put it mildly…’
‘I actually don’t think it does,’ Helen Bentley said firmly. ‘And in any case, I’ve always been prepared for it. Everyone knows that I’m pro-choice. It’s true that my position did almost cost me the election…’
‘That’s the understatement of the day,’ Johanne said. ‘Bush did what he could to knock you on that one.’
‘Yes, it’s true. But it all turned out well, mainly because I managed to win lots of votes from women who are… how should I put it, less fortunate. Surveys show that in fact I had support from an impressive number of women who weren’t even registered as voters before. And I made a point of the fact that I’m strongly against late abortions, which made it more palatable for even the anti-abortionists. But I was always quite clear that there was a possibility that my own abortion would become public knowledge. It was a risk I had to take. I’m not ashamed of it. I was far too young to have a child. I was in my second year at college. I didn’t love the father. The abortion was carried out legally; I was seven weeks pregnant and I went to New York. I was and am a supporter of a woman’s right to have an abortion within the first trimester, and can stand up for what I did.’
She took a deep breath, and Johanne noticed a tiny tremble in Helen Bentley’s voice as she continued.
‘But I paid a high price. It made me sterile. As you know, my daughter Billie is adopted. There’s no discrepancy here between words and reality, and at the end of the day, that’s what counts for us politicians.’
‘But I’m sure there are some people who would think it was dynamite,’ Johanne said.
‘Definitely,’ Helen Bentley agreed. ‘Plenty, I’m sure. As you said, abortion is something that splits the US in two, and it’s an incredibly sensitive issue that will never be resolved. If it did become known that I’d had an abortion, I would certainly have to work for my money. Like I said, I-’
‘Who knows about it?’
‘Who…’
She thought about it, furrowed her brow.
‘No one,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Well, Christopher, of course. I told him before we got married. And my best friend at the time, Karen, she knew. She was fantastic and a great support. She died a year later in a car accident. When I was in Vietnam and… I can’t imagine that Karen would have told anyone. She was…’
‘What about the hospital? There must be records somewhere.’
‘The hospital burnt down in 1972 or ’73. Pro-life activists went a bit far during a demonstration. It was before the technology revolution, so I assume…’
‘The records aren’t there,’ Johanne said. ‘Your friend’s no longer here.’
She ticked them off on her fingers and paused before daring to ask her next question. ‘What about the father? Did he know?’
‘Yes, of course. He…’
She broke off. There was an unfamiliar gentleness about her, a softness to her mouth, and her eyes narrowed, making all her wrinkles disappear. She looked years younger.
‘He wanted to get married,’ she said. ‘He really wanted to have the child. But when he realised that I was serious, he supported me in every way. He came with me to New York.’
She looked up. The tears spilled over. She made no attempt to dry her eyes.
‘I didn’t love him. I don’t even think I was in love. But he was the kindest… I think he is the kindest man I have ever met. Thoughtful. Wise. He promised me that he would never tell anyone. I can’t imagine that he would ever break his promise. And if he has, he must have changed radically.’
‘It does happen,’ Johanne whispered.
‘Not with him,’ Helen Bentley said. ‘He was a man of honour, if ever I met one. I’d known him for nearly two years before I got pregnant.’
‘It’s thirty-four years ago,’ Hanne said. ‘A lot can happen to a person in that time.’
‘Not him,’ Helen Bentley repeated and shook her head.
‘What was he called?’ Hanne asked. ‘Can you remember?’
‘Ali Shaeed Muffasa,’ Helen Bentley said. ‘I think he changed his name later. To a more… English-sounding one. But to me, he was just Ali, the kindest boy in the world.’
IX
At last, it was half past seven in the morning. Luckily it was a Thursday and both girls had to be at school early. Louise was going to play chess before her classes started and Catherine was going to do circuit training. They asked after their uncle, but believed it when their father hinted that he had had a bit too much to drink the night before and was sleeping it off.
The house in Rural Route # 4 in Farmington, Maine, was never quiet. The woodwork creaked. Most of the doors were warped. Some of them were difficult to open, whereas others hung loose in their frames and bumped and slammed in the continual draught from the windows that were not properly insulated. The great maple trees at the back were planted so close to the house that the branches tapped on the roof with the slightest hint of wind. It was as if the house was alive.
Al Muffet didn’t need to tiptoe around any more. He knew that no one would turn up before the postman came by on his round. And that wasn’t normally until two. After taking the girls to school, Al had dropped by the office. He told his secretary that he wasn’t feeling well. Sore throat and slight temperature, so they would unfortunately have to cancel today’s appointments. She had looked at him with sad eyes and great sympathy, and told him to get better.
He had picked up what he needed, coughed a goodbye and gone home.
‘Are you comfortable?’
Al Muffet looked over at his brother. His arms were fastened to the head of the bed with masking tape around each wrist. His feet were tied together with a rope that was then coiled around one of the posts at the foot of the bed, and tightened into great knots. Al had put a piece of grey sticky tape over his brother’s mouth.
‘Mmffmm,’ his brother said, shaking his head frenetically. The sound was muffled by the face cloth that was held in place by the tape.
Al Muffet opened the curtains and the morning light poured in. The dust in the guest room danced over the worn wooden floor. He smiled and turned towards his brother on the bed.
‘You’re fine. You barely woke up when I injected a sedative into your butt last night. You were so easy to overpower that I almost didn’t recognise you, Fayed. Once upon a time it was you who was the fighter. Not me.’
‘Mmmfff!’
There was a wooden chair by the window. It was old and rickety, and the seat had been worn by a century of use. It had come with the house. When Al Muffet bought the house, it had been full of old, beautiful things that had helped the family to settle in faster than could have been hoped.
He pulled the chair over to the bed and sat down.
‘This,’ he said, calmly, holding a syringe in front of his brother’s eyes, which stared back at him, wide with disbelief, ‘this is a lot more dangerous than what I gave you last night. This, you see…’
He pushed the plunger down slowly until a couple of fine drops came out of the thin needle.
‘This is ketobemidone, an effective and strong opioid preparation. Very effective, in fact. And here I’ve got…’ he squinted and held the syringe up to the light, ‘one hundred and fifty milligrams. In other words, a lethal dose.’
Fayed rolled his eyes and tried unsuccessfully to pull free his hands.
‘And this,’ Al continued, unperturbed, holding up another syringe from the bag he had put down on the floor beside him, ‘is Naloxone, the antidote.’