A3 was a nice room with two big windows looking out over Somerset House. The carpet was soft and the books on the shelves quite convincing; the Telex was as good as his own, but had a seldom-used appearance; the poster was not of the Taj Mahal, but of an Oxfam child in a Calcutta slum; and the signed photograph was of Mrs. Gandhi. The journalists arrived at half-hourly intervals, allowing him a five-minute gap during which he could study the dossier on the next. The details were sparse and easily learnt, so he had spare time to play with the computer, coding all the personal information on each interviewer that he could glean from reading and observation. While he was doing this he discovered that the coding manual for this room was much more elaborate and detailed than his own, and covered quite a useful number of instructions for arranging and altering the work-priorities governed by the supervisor section of the big machine in the basement. This was trove! He put the manual on the desk and learnt off bits of it while his interviewers were making notes.
The man from the Telegraph had lived thirty years in India and spent much of his time asking after Maharajas and Test cricketers. The lady from The Guardian was prettyish but obsessed with polygamy and the subservience of Indian women. As soon as the man from The Times had settled his sharp-creased trousers to his satisfaction the door opened and a white-jacketed Celt carried in a silver tray holding sandwiches, a jug of fresh orange and half a bottle of champagne. The man from the Mail got coffee—this was a sad figure who as almost his first assignment in Fleet Street had been detailed by a live-wire editor to dye himself green and see what the life was like; the dye had worn off but left him typecast as a specialist on Celtic affairs, which he was, a well of bored expertise. One of the men from the Sun spent twenty-three minutes taking a photograph, which left his literary colleague two minutes to scrape together enough facts for a caption. The man from the Express asked loaded questions about the hereditability of Celtic genes in the Royal Family. The rest, one way or another, asked Humayan what all the fuss was about, so he told them what they wanted to hear and they wrote it down, asking him how to spell the longer words. When the last one had gone he sat at the Telex and set it to print out his results. Mr. Mann came in while the machine was still chickering, and tossed a folded rectangle of paper on the desk.
“What are you up to?” he said.
Humayan studied the print-out. Even in this statistically negligible sample he found certain salient oddities.
“Those journalists,” he said, “have had an average of 2.53 divorces and 6.9 jobs in the last ten years; 9.0909 per cent of them (that was the second man from the Sun) had any idea what I was talking about. A hundred per cent of them had dirty fingernails.”
Mr. Mann’s genial laugh pullulated through the room as Humayan stood up, locked the Telex and put the key in his pocket.
“We could have got you all that,” he said. “It’s in store already. And quite a bit more dirt than what’s under their nails. There’s not many of them we couldn’t bring to heel pretty damned smart if we chose.”
“I wouldn’t have thought Mr. Leary …”
“Frank’s different. Now, what do you think of this, huh?”
He flicked the paper with his forefinger. Humayan picked it up and found it was a telegram offering him a Doctorate in Anthropology at the University of East Anglia.
“That is very gratifying,” he said stiffly. “Have you already replied in my name, too?”
“Well, I thought we might sit on it for a day. East Anglia’s sound, and we’ve got half the dons there working on projects for us, but the faculty are getting a bit of a reputation for being blind whiteys. The way I look at it is this—you’re the real thing. Anybody would be glad to have you, so we might as well keep East Anglia for a guy we’ve really got to unload. I’ve got Tarquin working on Cardiff—now, that would carry real weight if they gave something to you, huh?”
“I have in fact corresponded with Professor Evan Evans …”
“Now, he’s a useful man. Knows which side his bread is buttered. Got that, Tarquin?” he shouted suddenly at the ceiling. “Old waffling Evans!”
“You needn’t bellow,” complained the child in the Oxfam poster. “This thing’s supposed to pick up a whisper. My poor ear-drums!”
“OK,” said Mr. Mann. “Now, Pete, your trouble with this servant-girl—I’ve fixed that.”
“It will not involve any awkwardness between me and the Glisters?”
“Awkwardness!”
Mr. Mann stared at him. Humayan shrugged humbly.
“Hell, no,” said Mr. Mann suddenly. “Everything’s going to be fine. You can forget all that. What time are you going home?”
“Oh, very soon, I think. I cannot start any useful work now.”
“Hey!” said the child in the poster. “There’s a flash just in—they got those jokers who did Harrods last week.”
“Great!” said Mr. Mann.
“Hang on, boss,” said the child. “It wasn’t them trying to knock the store out, it was an inter-green thing. It was the ICS cleaning out a CSI cell.”
“Yeah,” said Mr. Mann. “Knitting codes into the Fair Isle jerseys.”
The child laughed.
“I’ll be right up,” said Mr. Mann. “Boy is that big machine beginning to pay off! So long, Pete.”
A doctorate at Cardiff! From sheer euphoria Humayan celebrated by taking a taxi home, thinking as he did so about the day’s dealings. In a curious way the most gratifying thing of all was the jug of orange that had come in with the champagne for the man from The Times; that they were prepared to consider his habits! This thought recurred to him several times on the journey, last time as the taxi slid down the long avenue whose pavement he usually trudged. He watched the familiar landmarks flash by and came to an unfamiliar one; a group of green workmen had the pavement up on the corner turning towards Horseman’s Yard, and were at that moment arguing vehemently with the lanky street-sweeper. Perhaps it was this jarring note that echoed in his mind and raised sudden doubts: how had they known about the orange juice in the first place? Known that he was now calling himself Pete? Why did Moirag have an alias? Every mathematician knows the moment when a complex calculation diverges from what has hitherto seemed its natural course, the sense of wrongness which, long before the calculating layers of his mind have any real grounds for suspicion, makes him go back and check. This was such a moment. But the taxi swung into the kerb and he put his hand into his pocket for coins and brought out with them an intrusive key. The key to his own Telex was on his key-ring: this must be the one for the Telex in A3. Somehow his unease crystallised away from its real cause and on to this scrap of metal. He was still cross about his own absentmindedness when he walked in through the door of Number Six.
Doctor Glister was in ambush again in the hallway.
“Hi!” he said. “Come in and have a gossip. We’ve been reading all about you. I’m kicking myself for not having done a piece on you for Prism.”
Humayan smiled with wary politeness and followed him into the living room. Mrs. Glister was there, smilingly reading Mr. Leary’s article; she had untuned her tension one whole twist, and looked almost welcoming. Kate flopped across a chair, so succulent that Humayan was afraid he might have to visit Selina that evening, tired though he was and though he had not budgeted to afford her services more than once a week. Glenda was hunched against the wall like a suspicious foetus, as if she thought someone was trying to steal her new familiar from her.
“You’re looking a bit beat-up, Pete,” said Kate, as though that were the finest thing in the world. “Catherine!” said Mrs. Glister.
“I have had a tiring day,” said Humayan. “It is difficult to explain my sort of work to laymen, though they put me into a fine office to do so and gave the journalists champagne.”
“Did they?” said Doctor Glister. “Then I must certainly do a piece on you.”
&nb
sp; “Apparently it depends on whether your journal is on List Five.”
“I doubt if it’s on list ninety-nine—we’re not all that popular. What will you drink now?”
“Oran—” began Humayan, then remembered who would be squeezing the fruit. Glenda scrambled gawkily to her feet.
“I’ll get it,” she said. “I told you about Moirag, Dad. He’s got to be careful. I hope you asked Mum to tell her to lay off.”
“I can’t do anything with her,” said Mrs. Glister with a sigh. “But I promise you she’s very loyal, Mr. Humayan. They never really mean it.”
“How’s Dick?” said Doctor Custer.
“Mr. Mann? Ah, he is very friendly and helpful. I have met nothing but kindness from the English.”
“It’s a nice place, I always say,” said Mrs. Glister. Kate snorted and looked as though she were about to gather herself for some sort of flouncing onslaught on her homeland’s niceness, which she so well exemplified, even to her compassion for all human suffering whose alleviation would not seriously affect her standard of living. Doctor Glister sucked a warning note on his pipe as Glenda slid into the room slopping orange juice down the sides of a tumbler.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I’ve drunk some myself, and I’m not dead.”
“I’m getting tired of that particular joke, Glenny,” said Doctor Glister. “You’ll be putting ideas into Moirag’s head.”
“Dick Mann?” said Mrs. Glister. “Is that the nice boy you used to play cricket with? In that Home Office Team?”
“Same name, different lad,” said Doctor Glister dismissively. Glenda must have sensed that he wished to change the conversation for she deliberately kept it going.
“You didn’t know Dad was a mighty batsman, did you, Pete? We’ve got snaps of him knocking up centuries for teams all over the world. Would you like to see some?”
“Not now, Glenny,” said Doctor Glister. “I want Pete to tell me how his work’s getting on. Sit down, Pete.”
Inwardly Humayan sighed—and then for the first time that day he found himself undergoing a close and intelligent inquisition about the progress and prospects of his work. Doctor Glister had evidently been doing some background reading—Humayan could recognise two of the books which had provided many of the questions—but he had also thought about the subject for himself. The difference between his approach and that of the other journalists (except possibly Mr. Leary) was that he seemed to think the subject mattered, apart from filling a few inches of next day’s paper. In fact his approach was more like Mr. Mann’s than anyone’s, informed but wholly pragmatic. Perhaps it was no coincidence that in the course of his questioning he revealed a thorough knowledge of the inner structure and functioning of the RRB. Mrs. Glister too seemed to know the names of many of the people there, asking after ancient ailments or afflictions (including wives) from which they all seemed to have suffered in the old days when the world was young and did not realise its lack of innocence.
Occasionally Kate tried to intrude with belligerent remarks on the viciousness of the whole structure, but Doctor Glister brushed her aside with a wave of his pipe; Humayan considered this a very wholesome way to treat one’s daughters, and began to wonder whether Doctor Glister would be kind enough to dissuade Glenda from practising her witchcraft on his tenant. Glenda herself said nothing at all.
Nearly an hour later the door cracked open; Moirag was in no mood to use the handle. Humayan cringed from her green, Bedlam figure but she seemed hardly to notice him, swaying in the doorway, a warrior queen, chained and captive but dreaming of mad triumphs.
“Supper’s on the table,” she shouted, gave the room a lopsided curtsey and smashed the door shut.
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Glister, “she’s not usually drunk as early as this.”
“That’s not drink,” said Glenda. “She’s up to something.”
Humayan rose nervously, anxious to get to his room and lock himself safely in before Moirag had finished serving. The Glisters let him go. As he crept upstairs he wondered what on earth Mr. Mann had meant by saying it was all fixed.
For high summer it seemed a lowering evening, though it was long still until dusk. Humayan cooked savourlessly out of tins, then sat staring at the gymnasium wall, watching the colour seep from its yellow, mottled bricks. He tried to run through the previous day’s calculations in his head, to acquire the momentum for a fresh bout of thought; but fear of the virago in the kitchen made the effort useless. After a while he heard the expected movement outside his door, and a soft knock.
“Who is it?” he called.
“Me, Glenda.”
“Where’s Moirag?”
“Washing up.”
He opened the door a crack.
“It’s the Miss World contest on TV, Pete. We thought you might like to come and watch it. Miss India’s very pretty.”
“No thank you. I am working,” he lied.
He locked the door as she went away, but even so the intrusion was disturbing. He enjoyed beauty contests, but knew that the added stimulus would make it impossible to refrain from a visit to Selina later, and that would mean a return journey through the shadowed streets of midnight. He dared not risk that, but sat in the dusk and fingered the little collar for comfort. After a while he became aware of a new noise, other than the twitter of commentators seeping up the stairs; this came from inside the house; it was slow and careful movements from the next-door bedroom—Kate’s. A bedspring muttered as it received weight. Now he could not hear anything and so was left to imagine the movements on the bed, the stealth that made each touch and caress tingle with an extra charge. He was tired. His morale was low. He wanted to see Selina but didn’t dare. Really, he told himself, it would be asking for the superhuman to expect restraint of him in such circumstances. Very quietly he opened the cupboard door and removed the hangers that held his suits. A yellow needle of light speared through the spy-hole. He was not surprised—with a girl of Kate’s beauty you would want to be able to see the flush of excited blood welling into those soft cheeks. He eased himself on to the Statistical Journals.
It was Moirag who lay on the bed, fully dressed. She was drunk. The bedside light shone full on her green contorted face.
No, even in drink her head could not be at such an angle, nor could the blotch of scarlet on the pillow be any sort of alcoholic tipple. She was dead. Slain.
He fell from the cupboard, gulping. The whole Yard had heard his quarrel with her. She had tried to poison him. He had told … These stupid, insular pigs of islanders would believe at once that brown men settle such matters with knives. He must … He must ring up the Indian High Commission, yes. That was first. But not from this house. Not from this cursed house.
A smell of fireworks was in his nose as he staggered down the stairs, wrenching at the buckle of the little collar; he had it off by the time he flung the living room door open and could see the whole Glister family staring at the stupid parade. He threw the collar across the room at Glenda. It hit the wall above her head.
“You have failed to protect me! You have failed to protect me!” he screamed. She was scrabbling to her feet with the collar in her hand as he rushed out of the room.
In the main road he stopped, shivering and panting, staring up and down under the plane trees and trying to remember in which direction he had seen a phone booth.
“Mister,” said a deep voice.
He shook his head. The street-sweeper was moving hugely towards him, round the unfinished hole left by the workmen.
“Got a light, mister?” said the man.
“No, no, go away,” said Humayan. But the man now blocked his way between the hole and the wall. Behind him he could hear a girl’s footsteps running on the pavement. He started to move back, to go round the other side of the hole.
An enormous light, a wall of warm air, a long, colossal boom.
The shock shoved him like a tidal wave across the pavement. He fell to his knees but raised his head to see whole fragments of building soaring through the still singing air, lit with orange from below, like leaves in the updraught from a bonfire. The green man had also fallen but was getting to his feet. A few feet further back a girl lay prone on the paving. He knew from her clothes it was Glenda. She held the little collar in her hand.
Over his gaping face a pungent darkness dosed, stinging his eyes. A huge weight hit his back. Gasping he breathed in the chloroform and swooned into dark.
So he was wholly unaware of being stuffed into the street-cleaner’s stinking cart. And the first neighbours to come running paid no attention to the familiar slave shoving his burden up the avenue, and barely more to Glenda’s body lying stunned on the pavement. There were much more shocking and amusing things for them to see in the shambles that had been Horseman’s Yard.
Part II
Greenside
VI
DUBLIN, THURSDAY. At a Press Conference here today Mr. Gareth Jones, Information Minister for the Welsh Government in exile, blamed the deaths of forty-three schoolchildren directly on the Saxon forces of occupation. He said it was deliberate London policy to paint school buses the same colour as vehicles used for the transport of troops.
This statement was immediately criticised by Mr. David Jones, Shadow Information Minister for the Welsh Opposition in exile. He said it was a typical piece of mealy-mouthed flannelling. The truth was that while the sacred sod of Wales groaned under the foreign foot the people of Wales had a holy duty to achieve maximum violence and disorder to symbolise their rejection of Saxon rule. The deaths of forty-three children was as good a symbol of this rejection as the deaths of an equivalent number of soldiers, and in some ways a better one. He was still speaking when a member of the audience fired three shots at him and immediately held an impromptu press conference to clarify the ideology of his action. Mr. Jones’s condition was later said to be as good as could be expected.
The Green Gene Page 11
