Where You Belong

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‘I understand,’ I answered, ‘and I realize now is not the right time to talk, since we’re rushing through an airport like maniacs, trying to make a plane. But we should sit down and chat, Jake. We need to understand about Tony and Fiona. Whenever you want, but we really must do it,’ I insisted.

When he made no response whatsoever, I eyed him worriedly, and pressed, ‘At the lunch you said we’d talk later, remember? We have to make sense out of Tony’s behaviour, you know.’

‘I guess we do,’ he muttered, and his face became closed, his mouth grimly set. He plunged ahead, making for the gate, deftly handling our luggage.

I sighed under my breath. So much for that illuminating conversation, I muttered to myself, and ran after him to board the plane to Paris.

II

The flight across the English Channel was short, just over an hour, and I spent most of that time wondering why Jake was still so silent, wrapped up in his own thoughts. I’d tried to make small talk with him to no avail. He barely responded, seemed reluctant to say anything at all. And when he did reply to the odd question or comment of mine, his answers were brief and to the point.

If I didn’t know better I would have said he was being sulky, but that wasn’t his nature. Jake was not a moody man, nor was he temperamental, and like me he was usually on an even keel. Quite aside from that, I always thought of him as being straightforward, honest and dependable. The salt of the earth: and my best friend, the one I relied on.

His quietness, his unexpected reserve, puzzled me a bit, and I wondered if something else was bothering him, other than Tony Hampton. But perhaps not.

Now I stole a look at him. His head was thrown back against the plane seat and his eyes were closed, but even in repose his expression was troubled. His mouth had relaxed, but there was a tautness in his face, a tenseness in his body, even though he dozed. Poor Jake, I thought, I’ve put him through hell these past few weeks since Tony’s death. I suddenly felt very guilty about that. We had both loved Tony in our different ways, and losing him had traumatized us. We had tried to help each other along, commiserating with each other, while continuing to miss him.

But as of today we had a different Tony Hampton to contemplate and contend with, a Tony much less noble, a man without honour, as far as I was concerned.

I asked myself why I had never realized that, never spotted this flaw in him? I prided myself on my integrity, and I found it hard to relate to those who lacked this quality. My grandfather had always held integrity very dear, and he had drilled its importance into me, reminding me about the value of honour, honesty, trustworthiness and decency. I have tried to live by Grandfather’s rules and standards and I believe I have succeeded.

Once, long ago, my little slug of a brother Donald had told me that my standards were too high, that I expected too much from people, that no one could live up to my highfalutin expectations, going on to inform me that the world was full of rotten people. ‘And most people are rotten, whatever you think Val Denning,’ he had exploded, his rage spilling over. ‘They stink. They cheat, they steal, they lie. They commit adultery, and murder, and they’re shit! Yes, the whole world is full of shitty people, and the sooner you realize that the better off you’ll be.’

I had gaped at him in astonishment at the time, wondering what rock he had crawled out from under, and then I had turned away in disgust. Over the years I had constantly endeavoured to avoid these confrontations with my brother as best I could, but I hadn’t always succeeded. Ever since childhood I had loathed getting embroiled with him because he was so opinionated, and he never ever listened. I can’t remember now what had set Donald off that particular day, but whenever he started to rant I usually did a disappearing act.

I suddenly remembered that Tony had also once said my standards were too high, and like Donald he had pointed out that very few people could live up to my expectations of them. I wondered now if he’d been thinking of himself that day. Of course I would never know; and the enigma of Tony would puzzle me for the rest of my life.

III

Jake suddenly awakened, stretched and turned to me. ‘Well, I’ve not been much company, have I, Val?’ He made a face. ‘Sorry about that, honey, but I felt bushed when we got on the plane. I just had to grab a bit of sleep.’

I nodded my understanding. ‘Do you feel better?’

Jake grimaced. ‘Not really. London’s been a tough trip, especially for you, and we will talk about Tony and Fiona, I promise. But later, okay? I’m just not up to it tonight.’

‘Whenever you can, Jake, because it’s important to me.’

‘I’m aware of that. It’s just as important to me, in more ways than you can imagine.’ He reached over, took hold of my hand and squeezed it. ‘I’ll drop you off at your apartment, and I’ll call you tomorrow, Val.’

‘All right,’ I murmured, feeling disappointed. I’d hoped to have dinner with him tonight, so that I could discuss Tony. But apparently that wasn’t to be. Never mind, I could bide my time until he was ready.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_8167a299-1572-5c10-beab-d2f5aa1d4516)

I

PARIS, SEPTEMBER

The persona Tony Hampton had presented to the world had been dazzling. Intrepid war photographer, one of the most brilliant photojournalists of this decade, courageous, charismatic, a handsome and divine ladies’ man, raconteur par excellence, bon vivant, and most generous host.

But there had been another side to him. He had been a liar and a cheat and he had undoubtedly led a double life. This is what I now truly believed even though I had only my own intuition to go on.

Maybe Jake wouldn’t entirely agree with me, but I felt quite certain there had been a much darker side to Tony. Being in the bosom of his family at the memorial service earlier today had convinced me of this. And I was now absolutely positive he had never been divorced from Fiona. From his family’s behaviour, and all that they had said, I placed him right in their midst until he left London in July. It was then he had come to Paris to pick us up, so that we could head out to Kosovo together. And he had been happily ensconced in their midst, from what I deduced.

I was sitting at the desk in my bedroom, and I reached out, picked up the photograph of Tony in its silver frame. I held it in both hands, staring at his face. He stood there on the deck of the sloop anchored off St Tropez last year, squinting in the summer sunshine. So dashing, so debonair…so enigmatic…

And I couldn’t help wondering about him, wondering about his complicated life, and what it had been all about in the end.

He would have been a psychiatrist’s dream, I thought. Put him on a couch for analysis and God knows what he would have spilled. Or would he? Psychotics didn’t always do that, did they?

Psychotic.

The word hung there. Silently, I repeated it in my head, considered it carefully, asking myself why it had popped into my mind. And yet it did seem appropriate, didn’t it? Tony was psychotic.

I put the photograph back in its given place on the desk, leaned back in my chair and stared off into space. In the far reaches of my mind, I’d had Tony Hampton under a mental microscope for a good part of the day, and I didn’t like what I’d seen; nor did my conclusions about him elate me.

He was not just a liar, telling small white lies – didn’t we all do that at times? – but a pathological liar telling real whoppers, lies that were dangerous because they could conceivably do damage to people, cause them great heartache, change their lives and not always for the best.

That deep-seated lying had probably become a way of life for him. He couldn’t stop because he couldn’t help himself. Then again, he had needed to lie for his own protection. He had spun a web of deceit he couldn’t crawl out of; he had entrapped himself with his complex machinations.

Then there was his adultery. It had been compulsive, excessive, a dominant force in his life, and it had obviously grown out of hand over the years. It became an addiction, I was sure.

I hadn’t needed Jake to inform me today about the many women Tony had been involved with before me. I was well aware of his countless affairs; after all, we’d worked together, travelled together on various assignments.

Naturally Tony had tried to keep these women under wraps, and a secret, because his private life was his private life. It was none of my business, in his opinion. Nor was it Jake’s business either, and so he had striven for privacy.

However, I could put two and two together, and come up with six, just like everyone else. Tony had always underestimated me and so had Jake. Just because I never discussed Tony’s international sexual dalliances didn’t mean that I didn’t know they existed. I did know, and I didn’t care. After all, I wasn’t in love with him then, not involved in that way. This knowledge hadn’t changed my opinion of him in those days. I thought he was a great guy, a good human being, and naturally I admired his talent as a photojournalist. It was more than that really; I considered it an honour to work alongside him.

But to think Jake believed I hadn’t known about Tony’s very busy love life…how ludicrous that was. I was much smarter than he imagined, than Tony imagined. I suddenly wanted to laugh out loud at the mere idea of it.

All those women…and one in particular whom I had known and disliked.

II

It was April 1996, and for once Tony and I were on assignment without Jake. He had gone to New York to deal with his divorce from Sue Ellen Jones, the famous model, and Tony and I had flown out to the Middle East for our respective news-photo agencies. We were in Lebanon to cover the new hostilities which had erupted between the Israelis and Hezbollah.

The long and fierce civil war was over by that time and things were beginning to mend, beginning to get back to normal, and then the skirmishing had unexpectedly started once more.

For the first time in fourteen years the Israelis had attacked Beirut directly, using laser-homing Hellfire missiles shot from four helicopter gunships off the coast.

The Israelis were not the aggressors, though. They were actually responding to Hezbollah’s recent bombing of their country. And that war of attrition had started up again because Hezbollah had then retaliated after the missile attack, sending forty rockets smack into the middle of Israel. And so it went…

One lovely spring day – late in the afternoon – Tony and I were sitting in the bar of the Marriott Hotel in the Hamra district of Beirut. I suppose I’ll never ever forget that day, because we had had such bad news about a colleague of ours, Bill Fitzgerald of C.N.S., one of the American cable television networks. He had disappeared several days earlier, and none of us knew what had happened to him. We were all a bit nervous and concerned, and afraid for Bill.

Two of his crew, who had been with him out on the streets, had seen him grabbed by three young men, who had hustled him into a waiting Mercedes and then driven off at breakneck speed. The two crew members had been alert, and at once they had jumped into their car and followed in furious pursuit. But the Mercedes had disappeared – into thin air. It was nowhere in sight and they hadn’t been able to find it.

Since then there had been no news about Bill, and none of the terrorist organizations had claimed his kidnapping. Who had snatched him, and for what purpose, we did not know.

But as we sat around in the bar that day, drinking with a group of international correspondents, all of us were offering theories and speculation was rampant…

III

‘Islamic Jihad,’ I had said all of a sudden, glancing around the table at my companions. ‘They’ve got him.’

‘But why would they have grabbed him?’ Tony had asked, ‘and if it is them, what have they got to gain