The Last Testament. Sam Bourne

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СКАЧАТЬ old times, she thought to herself with a smile. After all, this was what she was used to. Negotiating a divorce between people who couldn't stand the sight of each other, who were tearing each other's throats out. An image flashed into her mind, which she quickly pushed out.

      But it helped. It gave her an idea, or rather it made her see something she had not realized until that moment.

      ‘OK, Brett and Kathy, I've made a decision. These sessions have become useless. They're a waste of time, yours and mine. We're going to end it here.’ Maggie snapped shut the file on her lap.

      The two people on the couch opposite suddenly turned their attention away from each other and stared at her. She could feel their eyes on her, but she ignored them, busying herself with her papers instead.

      ‘You don't need to worry about the paperwork. I'll get all that to the Virginia authorities tomorrow. You've both got lawyers, haven't you? Course you have. Well, they'll take it from here.’ She stood up, as if to usher them out.

      Brett seemed fixed to the spot; Kathy's mouth hung wide open. At last, Brett forced himself to speak. ‘You can't, you can't do this.’

      ‘Do what, exactly?’ Maggie had her back to him, as she put the file back on the shelf behind her.

      ‘You can't just abandon us!’

      Now Kathy joined in. ‘We need you, Maggie. There is no way we can get through this without you.’

      ‘Oh, don't you worry about that. The lawyers will get it sorted.’ Maggie kept moving around the room, avoiding eye contact. Outside she heard the buzzer go again, and the sound of another person or people moving in and out of the apartment. What was going on?

      ‘They'll kill us,’ said Brett. ‘They'll take all our money and make this whole thing even more of a nightmare than it already is!’

      This was working.

      ‘Look,’ he said. ‘We'll sort this out, we promise. Don't we, Kathy?’

      ‘We do.’

      ‘OK? We're promising. We'll get this done. Right here.’

      ‘I think it's too late for that. We set aside a period of time to resolve everything—’

      ‘Oh, please don't say that, Maggie.’ It was Kathy, now imploring. ‘There's not such a lot of work to do here. You heard those red lines. We're not so far apart.’

      Maggie turned around. ‘I'll give you ten minutes.’

      In fact it took fifteen. But when they left Maggie's office and walked into the sunshine of a Washington September morning, Kathy and Brett George had resolved to share the costs of child support proportionate to their income, Brett paying more because he earned more, Kathy's financial contribution shrinking to zero if she gave up paid work to look after the kids. From now on, he would pay his way even if she carried on working, though she would have a genuine incentive to stay home. The children would live in their own house with their mother, except for alternate weekends and whenever either the kids or their father fancied seeing each other. The rule would be no hard and fast rules. Before they left they hugged Maggie and, to their surprise as much as hers, each other.

      Maggie fell into a chair, allowing herself a small smile of satisfaction. Was this how she would make up for what she had done more than a year ago? Bit by bit, one couple at a time, reducing the amount of pain in the world? The thought was comforting for a moment or two – until she contemplated how long it would take. To balance all the lives lost because of her and that damned, damned mistake, she would be here, in this room, for all eternity. And still it wouldn't be enough.

      She looked at her watch. She should be getting on. Edward would be waiting for her outside, ready to hit the full range of Washington's domestic retail outlets in a bid to equip their not-quite-marital home.

      She opened the door to a surprise. Flicking through one of Maggie's back numbers of Vogue, in the tiny area that served as Maggie's waiting room, was a man who oozed Washington. Like Edward, he had the full DC garb: button-down shirt, blue blazer, loafers, even now, on a Sunday. Maggie didn't recognize him, which didn't mean she hadn't met him. One of the troubles with these Washington men: they all looked the same.

      ‘Hello? Do you have an appointment?’

      ‘I don't. It's kind of an emergency. It won't take long.’

      An emergency? What the hell was this? She headed down the corridor, opening the door onto the kitchen. There she saw Edward, signing on one of those electronic devices held out by a man wearing delivery overalls.

      ‘Edward, what's going on?’

      He seemed to pale. ‘Ah, honey. I can explain. They just had to go. They were taking up too much space, they messed up the whole place. So I've done it. They've gone.’

      ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

      ‘Those boxes which you've had sitting in the study for nearly a year. You said you would unpack them, but you never did. So this kind gentleman has loaded them onto his truck and now they're going to the trash.’

      Maggie looked at the man in overalls, who stared at his feet. Now she understood what had happened. But she could not believe it. She stormed past Edward, flung open the door to the study and, sure enough, the space in the corner was now empty, the carpet on which those two cartons had once sat more compacted, a different shade from the rest. She flew back to the kitchen.

      ‘You bastard! Those boxes had my, my … letters and photographs and, and … whole fucking life and you just THREW THEM OUT?’

      Maggie rushed to the front door. But, doubtless sensing trouble, the trash guy had made his getaway. Swearing, she pressed the lift button again and again. ‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered, tensing her jaw. When the lift came, she willed it down faster. As soon as it arrived on the ground floor and the door opened a crack, she squeezed through it, running through the main doors of the building and out onto the street. She looked left and right and left again before she saw it, a green truck pulling out. She ran hard to catch up, coming within a few yards. She was waving wildly, like someone flagging down traffic after a road accident. But it was too late. The van picked up speed and vanished. All she had was half a phone number and what she thought was the name: National Removals.

      She rushed back upstairs, frantically grabbing the telephone, her fingers trembling over the butons. She called directory information, asking for a number. They found it and offered to put her through. Three rings, then four, then five. A recorded message: We're sorry, but all our offices are closed on Sunday. Our regular opening hours are Monday to Friday … If she waited till tomorrow it would be too late: they would have destroyed the boxes and everything they contained.

      She went back into the kitchen to find Edward standing, defiant. She began quietly. ‘You just threw them out.’

      ‘You're damn right I threw them out. They made this place look like a student shithole. All that junk, all that sentimental crap. You need to drop it, Maggie. You need to move on.’

      ‘But, but …’ Maggie wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the ground, trying to digest what had just happened. Not just the letters from her parents, the photographs from Ireland, but the notes she had taken during crucial negotiations, private, scribbled memos from rebel leaders and UN officials. Those boxes contained СКАЧАТЬ