Tom slowed the Periwinkle as the narrowboat entered the twelve-foot-wide trough. The towpath was on the left with a fence between the path and the abyss. Tom gently steered the boat to the right side of the aqueduct and all Nia could see off the side of the Periwinkle was sky and space.
“Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “It feels like we’re flying. But really, really slowly.”
Tom smiled. “You want to take the tiller?”
“You must be nuts.”
“Not really,” Tom said. “This is really easy. Just keep it straight. Even without someone at the tiller, the boat would continue to move forward like a slot car on a toy racing track, although the boat would continue to bounce off the canal sides.”
Nia nervously took the tiller, her face etched with concentration.
“Has anyone ever steered a boat off the aqueduct?” Nia asked.
“No,” Tom said definitively. “You can’t. There’s enough of a lip on the trough to keep the boat in the canal.”
Nia visibly relaxed and smiled. “I love this, Tom. It’s brilliant.”
Later that morning, with the Periwinkle moored up Tom, Nia and Jack settled into the narrowboat’s front cabin to watch a DVD of one of Nia’s early films. Twenty odd years previously, Nia had had a supporting role in a low budget mock Hammer comedy horror film, the double entendre named Vampire Moon. It was one of those films that had lots of fake blood, ear splitting screams, lots of fake breasts and a few real ones, including Nia’s. Nia’s character was an over-sexed village girl who, although warned not to stay out late, does, and runs into a handsome young stranger. In the throes of lovemaking, the stranger’s love bites turn real and Nia’s village girl, amongst blood and nudity, is transformed into a vampire. The film just made its production costs back at the time and was instantly forgettable; but had now earned cult status and was now going to be shown at a British Film Institute Brit horror movie retrospective. Nia had been invited to attend the BFI event and she had asked Tom to join her. It would be an evening gown and black-tie type of event. She wanted to watch the film with Tom before the public viewing.
Nia, from the corner of her eye, watched Tom as he watched the movie. He laughed at the appropriate parts, showed shock at the clichéd gotcha moments, and appeared to appreciate her acting ability. He mouthed “Wow” and raised an eyebrow during Nia’s pivotal nude scene. As Tom watched the film, he felt a sudden melancholy, not for anything he viewed on screen but from a sense of loss for not being with Nia in the past. It was a ridiculous, unrealistic feeling, and he knew that, but the ache was there like a regret.
Later, Nia noticed Tom was quiet as they walked hand in hand down the towpath. He had promised her a late lunch in a canal-side pub. Jack ran on in front.
Tom’s pace slowed.
“What?” Nia asked.
“Oh nothing.”
“No, there’s something,” she said. “Was it the film? Oh my God, was it my nude scene?”
“No, it’s odd. It’s just that I feel like I spent an hour with the you when you were twenty or so.”
“Silly,” she said. “That wasn’t me. You know, I’m not really a nympho vampire.” And then added with a dramatic flourish, “That’s acting darling.”
“I know,” Tom said smiling. “It’s just that I would have liked to have been with you then.”
Nia stopped walking.
“No Tom, I don’t think you would have liked me then at all. I was difficult. I was a little bit damaged and didn’t realise it.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Tom began.
“No, look, I know. You would have hated me, and I would have hated that you were in the army for a start. More so after the wars began. Forgive me, but I couldn’t help blame the military as well as the dicks in Whitehall. I was out protesting those damn wars. I was a member of ‘Stop the War’. I hated all the ‘Queen and Country’ bullshit the media and generals were spouting.”
“Nia,” Tom said quietly. “That’s fine. I wasn’t a massive fan of those damn wars myself.”
“Yes, but you fought in them, didn’t you?” Nia said as more of an accusation. “For the feckless stupid government.”
“Yes,” Tom said resignedly. “It was my duty. It was what I had signed up for, it was my bloody job after all.”
Tom was surprised at the conversation’s turn. As was Nia.
“Nia, it’s odd to think, but as soldiers we serve the government, the people, but when the shit hits the fan, most of that serving stuff goes out the window and we end up fighting for each other and not for the prevailing political authority. And, the shit hit the fan pretty bloody quickly. It got really bad out there… really quickly. My job simply became just trying to keep my soldiers and myself alive.”
“I’m sorry,” Nia said. “I can’t imagine. It’s crazy to think at that time I was worried about dying on stage and you were worried about actually dying.” She smiled but it was thin. “But the soldier stuff has got nothing to do with it. Actually, it would have been the whole nice guy thing.”
Tom opened his mouth to respond, but Nia put up her hand.
“It’s true Tom,” she continued. “It’s so fucking true,” she smiled, wistfully. “I ate nice, kind guys up or threw ‘em away or both. I just didn’t find them interesting. It was bad boys for me. I didn’t know it then but my sense of normality was messed up. I had been abused by my family and I was kind of being abused by the industry, with all its focus on beauty and body, and the boyfriends. Everybody lying to everyone all the time. There were plenty ‘me too’ moments before they were called ‘me too’. I was responding badly. I was too self-absorbed; everyone I was with was too self-absorbed. And there were drugs. Self-absorbed people, booze and drugs, a potent mix. A bad mix.”
Tom didn’t know what to say, “Wow, well I know I can’t compete with your past.”
It was Nia’s turn to be surprised.
“You don’t have to, idiot,” she said. “Two husbands, a slight coke problem, and a series of meaningless relationships is not a lot to be proud of. And, no one is asking you to compete,” she continued. “The past is past, a foreign country, right? I was different then.”
“So, you find this,” he nodded down the towpath, to the Periwinkle, and then he touched his chest, “To be exciting and interesting enough now?”
“Aye, silly, I do.”
She grabbed his face in both of her hands and stared deeply into his eyes, unblinking. “I do now. It’s taken a lifetime to find you and we’re different people than we were in our twenties and thirties.”
He reached for her hands and pulled them gently down, rotating them so he held them lovingly.
She turned away and looked down at their interlinked hands.
“I love you,” she said. “Madly. Like I have never loved anybody before.”
She pulled their clasped hands to her breast, over her heart.
“I have a few regrets from that time, for sure,” she said. “Quite a lot of regret actually,” she smiled wistfully to herself. “We all have them I’m sure. Like you joining the army?”
“No, Nia” he said. “Sorry, I loved the army. I don’t regret that.” Why was she back to this conversation, he thought?
“But the whole reason for it, the violence, the killing on all sides?” Nia continued.
“I saw it as service to the country, protecting people like you.”
“But its whole bloody purpose is to ultimately fight, right?”
Tom was ready to respond, but Nia continued.
“That job made you kill people, didn’t it?”
Ah, there it was. He stopped; time slowed as he looked across the canal to the meadow that lay beyond. Tom noticed a pheasant strutting amongst stubble crop, while a small tractor was engaged in tilling the hard soil. His breath condensed.
He looked at her and saw the earnestness etched on her face. Normally, he would ignore the question, or deflect it, laugh, or walk away but he knew that he needed to open this part
of himself for Nia.
“Yes,” he sighed. “I did, but you know what was worse? Having men and women killed around me. Knowing it was my sworn duty to try to protect them as much as I could, with my own life if it came to that.”
She waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.
“And you don’t regret it?” she asked.
“Why are you asking?”
“I don’t really know,” she answered. “But I need to grasp a sense of who you were, to understand who you are. Does that make sense?”
“Not really,” Tom said. They stood looking at each other. Tom felt constrained by the silence, then said, “I regret the loss, the lives taken too soon, but not the whole experience.”
“Even though it broke you?” Nia asked.
He was shocked for a moment. So, that’s why she was pushing this line of conversation, he thought, and then with a dismayed realisation, was he broken?
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Nia began, and Tom noticed the fear in her eyes. “Oh God, Tom. That just came out. I don’t think you’re broken.”
“No, you’re right. I was a bit broken,” he said quietly. He was worried that Nia would be scared off, but he determined to be open with this woman he had fallen irretrievably in love with. “Yeah, you’re right,” he continued. “I was deeply changed by my experiences. It all eventually got too much. It made me retreat into myself. You see, I was subsumed by all the pain and sadness that surrounded me. I couldn’t shake it, it consumed me. It was too much. But you ask about regret, I don’t regret it, because, you know, in a strange, rather fucked-up way, it has brought me to you. So, you see, I can’t regret any part of that journey.” He held her hand and pulled her in front of him, he smiled. “I was broken but you’ve made me whole again.”
Nia smiled and her eyes were wet. Tears ran down her cheeks. She pulled him close and lay her head into his chest. She found his combination of strength and vulnerability authentic and, importantly, rather sexy. She smiled as she looked up at him and kissed him.
“You big sweet, sensitive lug,” she said. “Let’s find the pub and grab a drink.” She released him from the hug and, still holding his hand, they made their way off the towpath, over a brick, humpbacked bridge that crossed the canal, up a slight rise and into the local pub.
Nia was sitting by a log fire when Tom returned from the bar with their drinks; wine for her, cider for him. Her cheeks were still damp and chapped red from cold wind and emotion. Jack stretched out in front of the pub’s fireplace. She smiled up at Tom as he approached. He thought she looked so beautiful at that moment.
“I love you,” Tom said. “I want to spend the rest of my time with you.”
Nia smiled as her eyes floated in tears again.
“I so love you too. You, know, I was broken too,” she said after taking a first sip of wine. “Broken for a long time. I just didn’t realise it until I met you. You made me aware of how lonely I was,” she said. “I felt like I was on some kind of autopilot. I was going through my life trying to avoid the mistakes of my past. You made me feel again, Tom.”
She wanted to tell him why she felt robbed of her happiness, but it still felt too raw and what she felt for Tom was too new.
***
The next morning was another cold one. Tom’s breath condensed as he went through the routine of checking and starting the engine. A low winter sun was bright while a thin layer of mist clung to the surface of the canal. It was quiet on the cut as the Periwinkle meandered through the soft countryside. A few cows dotted a field, a few sheep in another. Nia joined Tom at the tiller with two steaming mugs of coffee in hand. Tom pointed out some heavy ewes grazing their way towards spring lambing. They saw no other boat through the morning hours and were only kept company by the occasional duck couple or, as Nia pointed out, a ducky threesome, a thruple, she called it. Such an
arrangement was not uncommon in the acting world, she noted to Tom, and she named the additional hen ‘Orla’.
At lunchtime, they moored opposite a field of sheep and one large, proud ancient oak tree. Nia made a quick lunch as Tom tied up the boat. They both liked these moments of routine domesticity. Nia had dressed warmly in boots, wool trousers, jumper, gilet, Tom’s beloved waxed jacket and her red hat, gloves, and scarf and took the tiller during the early afternoon trip as the canal meandered lazily around the slow gentle contours of the countryside. Tom was impressed with her ability. The logic behind steering a narrowboat was simple, move the tiller right to turn left, move it left to turn right and use the control lever to increase or decrease speed. The combination of tiller and throttle would turn a fifty-foot-long boat through sharp corners or through a tunnel or a bridge opening only six inches wider than the actual boat with surprising ease. It usually took some time to be a decent helmsman, but Nia was a quick study. They chatted companionably on the stern with Tom pointing to interesting landforms and the occasional glimpse of interesting wildlife. Nia, genuinely interested, asked about the history of canals and the people that used to work on them.
Tom took the tiller as they passed an informal marina of weathered and battered boats, live-aboards, owned by people at the margins of society. These were not the well-maintained luxuriously appointed narrowboats of the well to do, those occasional cruising bankers, lawyers and doctors. Nia thought the rusting, fading boats, in what she called the bargee town, looked like something dystopian like Mad Max on the canals. Good people, Tom noted, people just trying to get by.
Nia took the tiller again and pushed the throttle control to increase the engine’s revs and the Periwinkle sped up, but almost imperceptibly.
“Pedal to the metal, baby,” Nia said.
Tom laughed.
Nia enjoyed her turn at the tiller. She slowed down to pass a moored boat and shouted a hearty ‘hullo’ to the boaters along with a customary wave. As the Periwinkle rounded one sharp corner and moved under an ancient masonry bridge, they heard the soft and muffled sounds of boys playing some kind of sport from across a number of fields. In the middle distance they could see a rugby game being played at an independent school. Snobs, Nia thought dismissively, thinking about Goldenboy’s privileged and entitled background. She wanted to tell Tom more about her past with Goldenboy, about the lost baby, the lost years but she still held back.
The winter sun changed to the soft, enveloping grey that almost felt like shade. They had timed the trip well and moored up at a small town’s two-hundred-year-old canal wharf. They changed into running gear and, with Jack along, took off down the towpath for a jog. Tom had altered his running schedule with Nia aboard knowing that after a day’s cruise the engine would have warmed water enough for two showers, with Nia’s shower being noticeably longer. They ran back down the towpath and out into the countryside, Jack running ahead or taking off through the hedgerows only to join them from the rear with a crazy catch-up sprint. Nia was a fluid runner; again, it was another of her professional skills, this one utilised to keep herself in shape. As they ran, Nia noticed how pronounced Tom’s limp was and how he occasionally grimaced through some discomfort. They reached a turnaround point. Tom held her by her waist and they kissed.
“I’m having a lovely time,” she said. “This,” she nodded to the canal and the fields that stretched around it, “Is bloody enchanting. I never knew it existed like this. I now see why you love it.”
“It’s so peaceful it’s restoring,” Tom replied. “Now, race you back to the boat.”
After showering, Nia volunteered to cook dinner and Tom headed into the little town to purchase a few more essentials and a bottle of wine. The wharf was still and silent as he returned. The canal black and smooth as slate. The Periwinkle was one of the few moored narrowboats that were lit. As he approached, he could see Nia through a window busy in the boat’s galley. He stopped and watched her. Her being in his boat still took his breath away, she exuded a happiness as she moved from sink, to counter, to cook top. Tom noticed she was either talking to Ja
ck, to a phone on speaker, or to herself. Or, he reconsidered, she was singing along to one of his playlists. He smiled. All that was important to him was here. At that moment, he was the happiest he had ever been.
Chapter Twelve
Russian Embassy, Kensington, December 20th
The Russian Embassy was quiet. Most employees were enjoying some extra flexibility around the Christmas festivities. Kamenev was almost alone as he worked late. He enjoyed the relative quiet of the embassy at night and it also enabled him to access the offices and computers of his embassy colleagues. Moscow Centre hadn’t
specifically ordered him to surveille his own compatriots, it was simply in his nature to do so. Aggressively personally and professionally ambitious, Kamenev was always attempting to find anything that could be used as leverage for himself or for the FSB in their struggle with the SVR for primacy. During especially quiet nights, he made sure a trusted FSB man monitored the embassy’s CCTV and internal security systems while another secured staircases or hallways allowing Kamenev to do his snooping. His few weeks in London had turned up little; an SVR surveillance specialist who had saved a stash of voyeur pornography acquired from the job, and some draft emails from the Rezident urging Moscow to cancel Kamenev’s mission. Both helpful pieces of information.
Kamenev poured a hot cup of tea from his samovar. The FSB’s file on Daria Kirov was open on his desk in front of him. Another traitor, he thought, an enemy of the state masquerading as a journalist. He examined some file photos of her although he already knew her face well. He felt that she was pretty; small, thin, short dark hair and even darker eyes set on high, sharp cheekbones. But he didn’t feel the stirrings of desire as he once did. The helicopter accident had damaged more than his face. He put his feet up on his desk and opened the SVR watcher’s porn file and clicked through a number of the photos. He felt nothing and returned to the Kirov file. Neutralising Kirov would be his third successful operation and would mean a promotion, perhaps his own Rezidentura. He licked his lips in anticipation.
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