Trial of Passion by William Deverell Read Free Book Online Page B

They patch the roof, too, though in a fashion they assure me is temporary, much plywood, and plastic sheeting. The house begins to look like something a hillbilly might inhabit, Ozarkian, ungainly. I suffer a temptation to have the place torn down and a new house built by a reputable city contractor.But I cannot bear the thought of having to confront my current crew with layoff notices . . . and Mrs. Blake lurks down the lane.
    On an afternoon as I watch my veranda rise Sistine-like from the rubble, I am visited by the local media, one Nelson Forbish representing the
Island Echo.
A man of impressive girth, he emerges awkwardly from his compact car, armed with notebook and camera. He is about thirty-five, his cherubic face sheltered by a felt porkpie hat, the brim turned down in front.
    â€œMr. Bochamp, I’ve been waiting till you settled in to call. Like to do an interview.” He has a high, whining voice, a nasal dentist’s drill.
    â€œBeecham is how it’s pronounced. The name became corrupted after my ancestors raped and pillaged Anglo-Saxon England.”
    Nelson Forbish seems to have some difficulty absorbing this concept. “Would a good time be now?”
    â€œAs you see, the house is in disarray, so shall we just sit outside here? It’s a splendid day. Would you care for a refreshment?”
    â€œSomething to eat, if you got.”
    I bring out a bowl of fruit and some slightly burnt homemade biscuits, and lead Forbish to my dock, where I have set a table and a plastic chair. I have been fishing, offering fat worms from my newly spaded garden.
    â€œCaught two very tasty perch the other day. Possibly that could be your headline, Mr. Forbish.”
    The reporter peels a banana and lowers it down his throat as if into a food blender.
    â€œI’ve been reading your newspaper, Mr. Forbish, and I was wondering — if it’s not subject to journalistic privilege — about Mr. George Rimbold, who tried to jump through a window at the local bar dressed as a frog.”
    â€œThat was at Halloween. He’s a bit of a tank.”
    â€œAh, I see.”
    As he wolfs down a biscuit, he takes a photo of me, thenproduces some clippings from various Vancouver journals.
    â€œSays here you’ve won fourteen straight murders in a row.”
    I hear echoes of his idiosyncrasies of composition in the
Island Echo.
Fourteen straight in a row.
    â€œI have had my losses.”
    â€œThis here magazine article says you left your office for a couple of years to work with bums on skid row.”
    Two years dimly remembered, two years of bibulous fog when Annabelle had separated from me.
    â€œIt was an interesting time.”
    â€œAnd the article goes on to say you’re really colourful in court.” He is on his second banana now, and eyeing an apple. “Much exaggerated.”
    â€œYou used to keep a pitcher of vodka on your table when you were on a trial. The judges all thought it was water.”
    I ponder his odd interview technique — he has yet to ask a question. “An utter lie. It was a pitcher of Beefeater gin. Nor did the judges suspect it was anything else.”
    â€œSo there was also this time when apparently you were drunk in the middle of a trial, and you began reciting the Ruby . . .” Nelson is studying an obscure word in the magazine article.
    Was I also drunk when being interviewed for that piece of literary embarrassment?
In vino veritas.
No, it was later — newly admitted to the Trial Lawyers’ Chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous, I tended in those days to indulge in frenzies of truth and openness.
    â€
The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. ‘
Fill the cup that clears today of past regrets and future fears.’ I once sought escape in such a cup. I am an alcoholic, Nelson.”
    â€œSo what are you doing here on this island?”
    â€œMaking peace with God and nature. I am retired.”
    â€œSo, for our readers, why did