Eating Air

by Pauline Melville

  ‘I chose this pub because they do Blanche de Bruges. My favourite. Can’t often find it.’

  Alex fetched himself a Glenmorangie from the bar.

  Buckley was in a jovial mood.

  ‘How’s Vera?’

  ‘She’s in good form. Demonstrating about something or other as we speak.’

  ‘Beware bohemians with guns,’ Buckley chuckled. ‘Well, she has her causes. Having a great enemy is almost as good as having a great friend. Mmmmn. Giving your life for an ideal? I think we are all too sensible, too pragmatic for that these days. That notion has been tidied away for good. You must understand, Alex, that every revolution finally capitulates to the suffocating intrusion of comfort.’ He waved his hand in the air. ‘Explain that to Vera, if you would. In the end people succumb to the temptations of law and order and the cosiness it can bring.’ He looked down again at the menu.

  Alex laughed.

  ‘You’ve probably got a point. How are things?’

  Buckley pulled a face.

  ‘I’ve had to spend the morning trawling round private schools for my son.’ A waitress came round from behind the bar and took their order. Buckley took a sip of his beer.

  ‘You knew Hector Rossi, didn’t you?’ Buckley enquired out of the blue, dabbing the froth from his mouth with a napkin. ‘His name came up on the radar at GCHQ the other day which was a bit of a surprise. In connection with a Palestinian activist. He wouldn’t remember me but I cut my interrogator’s baby teeth on him thirty-odd years ago. I was young and undercover at the British embassy at the time, attached to the consulate in Milan. He thought I was a diplomat representing his interests. They called me in to help with one of his interrogations. Frankly, I rather admired him. He was full of all that hope you have when you’re young. Torture and hope create a furious tension. But he was very honourable. Tried not to give anyone’s name unless the evidence was waved under his nose.’

  Alex was disconcerted that Buckley should bring up an area of subject matter that he himself had been about to raise. Buckley looked directly at Alex and continued:

  ‘Well at least he believed in something. More than anyone does nowadays. I quite miss the Trots, communists and anarchists who wanted to overthrow the state. They were at least secular.’ Buckley put the menu down and looked around for a waitress. ‘Ironic, really. Everything we feared from communism is being brought about by capitalism: bland uniformity, cloned cities, secret prisoners, omnipresent surveillance. Perhaps fate has a sense of humour after all.’ He raised his white eyebrows and shot a rueful look at Alex.

  For a few seconds Alex wondered if Buckley might not be more radical than he let on, a possible Philby or Burgess or Maclean.

  ‘I do know Hector Rossi, yes. Haven’t seen him for a long time.’ Alex put his whisky down on the table. ‘That’s all very old hat isn’t it? Nobody could still be looking for any of that crowd, surely? They’re more or less pensioned off.’ He decided against mentioning Mark Scobie’s name. He liked Buckley but needed to remember that the sharp-eyed, cordial man at the table was a practised interrogator, smooth, friendly and fatal. Buckley beckoned to the waitress for another beer and placed his order.

  ‘No, Hector Rossi is of no interest really. It was only the Palestinian connection. I agree with you. His sort are the dying embers of a conflagration. Of course, it’s impossible to know whether they’ve been extinguished for good or whether some breeze will whip up the flames again – the past attempting to be reborn. We try to keep an eye open for any resurrection of the terrorist left but on the whole I think their time is over.’ Buckley sighed. ‘They used to say that communism was the last manifestation of Christianity in the western world.’

  ‘I’d forgotten your father was a minister,’ said Alex. ‘You sound quite wistful.’ He paused. ‘Are you saying you miss the Cold War?’

  ‘In a way, yes. I was used to what the two sides stood for. The American kind of power is to do with wealth, display. The Russian idea was of power for its own sake. Almost mystical. Purer. Much more dangerous. It works against the desire for money and what money can buy. That’s why the Americans never understood it and were so frightened by it. Orientals understand it. The English have never gone for the big idea. It’s the Russians who love a big idea. Just now their big idea is kleptocracy.’

  Alex tried to steer the conversation back to the British radicals. He wanted to find out more specifically about any arrest warrant for Mark Scobie. Having decided to say no more about Hector he suddenly found these words slipping from his lips:

  ‘I can certainly find out what Hector Rossi is doing these days. He lives not far from here in Kent, you know.’

  ‘So I gather,’ said Buckley.

  An odd spurt of professional rivalry flared up between the two men as to who knew most about Hector Rossi. Alex could not resist saying, ‘He’s probably still in touch with the Brigate Rosse. They’re beginning to be released now. And the remnants of the Baader-Meinhof.’

  Buckley patted the head of a dog that wandered past.

  ‘Oh it was only the Middle East contact that alerted us. I’m sure you can imagine there’s been a mad focus on the Muslim world lately. It’s been a helluva scramble. Now we’re running all over British universities trying to recruit Arabic speakers. We’ve even had to dig up some of the old Foreign Office Arabists. Do you happen to know if Hector Rossi speaks Arabic? He spent some time in the Middle East.’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. I can easily find out if you want. I know where to find him.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll take you up on that if necessary.’

  Buckley was looking around for the waitress to see what had happened to his order. He pushed the condiments across the table to make room for his food. Then he chortled.

  ‘I remember how our director-general loathed those seventies left-wingers. He saw them as some sort of political herpes: small, painful, untimely eruptions which were difficult to control. The only thing that would be of interest to us these days is to know whether any of those people link up with the Islamists. That’s why we keep an eye on them. If they made common cause in some way or other then we would need to know about it.’

  ‘Hardly likely, is it? Utterly different politics. It’s more likely they’d be at each other’s throats. I can’t think of any reason on earth why they would work together.’

  ‘Never rely on reason.’ Buckley looked hopefully towards the waitress. ‘It’s reason that enables us to misunderstand the world with such shrewdness and sophistication.’

  The barmaid arrived with Alex’s salmon steak and an apology for Buckley:

  ‘Your steak and kidney will be along in a moment, sir.’

  Buckley went on:

  ‘Since Iraq the Intelligence Services have lost credibility. We have to claw it back somehow. We need long-term infiltration of Muslim groups as we did in the old days with the miners’ unions, but unfortunately that takes time. The president of the miners’ union in the sixties was one of ours, you know.’ In the midst of the man’s affability and irrepressible good humour, Alex caught a glimpse of a cold and planetary mind. He understood that Buckley saw his department as the engine of the ship of state, running smoothly under his stewardship, below decks and out of sight. As far as he was concerned, governments could come and go, and he resented any interference from what he regarded as an ever-changing passenger list of parliamentarians. Buckley’s food arrived.

  ‘Do you want wine?’ Buckley asked. ‘I think I’m going to stick with my beer.’ He flicked his napkin open, put it on his lap and looked down at his plate.

  ‘Damn it. I thought it said steak and kidney pudding on the blackboard. I’ve got steak and kidney pie. I prefer the pudding. It absorbs the gravy better. Makes it nice and soggy. The pastry seems just to repel the gravy and get unpleasantly wet.’ He pulled a childish face of despair and looked over to where the bar staff busied themselves behind the counter. He decided against complaining and tucked into his food.

&nb
sp; ‘Mind you, parliament has been on our side recently – for once. Given us the new terrorism laws and so on.’

  Alex tried stepping up on to the moral high ground.

  ‘Why do you people always want more powers?’

  ‘Oh, nothing sinister. It just makes life easier. Makes people happier. Governments are supposed to aim for the happiness of the common man aren’t they?’ He looked around the pub. ‘My god this music is awful. What is it?’

  ‘Abba. Doesn’t it make us slide nearer to being a police state?’

  ‘Oh that’s a bit melodramatic. What we do affects very few people directly but it lets things run smoothly. It’s the Jeremy Bentham idea – a society constructed on the model of a prison. The perfect prison is structured so that people believe they are being watched at all times.’ Buckley paused and toyed with his fork before continuing. ‘To maintain order in a liberal society the population needs to believe that any person could be under surveillance at any time, subject to ID checks, DNA databases and so on. People internalise this and police themselves. Look at the way people slow down when they see speed cameras. I’m all for a quiet life although I suppose it could all lead to a police state.’

  ‘I thought you were a cheery optimist. You’re confusing me.’ Alex laughed. Buckley smiled back at him.

  ‘Confusion is not a bad thing. It’s not doubt that makes a man mad. It’s certainty.’

  As he spoke there was a clattering crash and conversation in the pub came to a halt as everyone looked towards the flustered and red-faced waitress who had dropped her tray. Buckley turned back to Alex.

  ‘So – enough of the world of spooks. Tell me what you and Vera have been up to. Give me some news from the world of glamour.’

  ‘Vera is about to start work on a new play by someone called Victor Skynnard. A political pal of hers.’ Alex had another stab at gaining information. ‘You don’t seriously think there’s still any interest in Hector Rossi or any of his pals do you? If there is I might think of doing an interview with him – comparing today’s terrorism with his or something. Would there be any warrants or anything still outstanding on any of them?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. Special Branch deals with all that. We don’t get our hands dirty.’ He glanced at the clock behind the bar. ‘I must be going. I want to catch the next train from Ashford if it hasn’t been cancelled.’ He groaned and put down his napkin. ‘Tragedy lies in the fact that we are not entirely masters of our own destiny. It’s the transport system that will probably do us all in in the end rather than fundamentalist Islam.’

  Alex stood up. ‘I’ll get this.’

  ‘Thanks. They keep on at us these days about our expenses.’

  ‘Are you going back to the office?’

  ‘No. As a matter of fact I have a meeting at MI6.’

  ‘I always think of their building as the “Graham Greene building”. It looks like a secret service hangout.’

  Buckley gave a humorous snort:

  ‘Most people say that those tinted green windows look like a tart’s sunglasses.’

  Alex watched the silver Saab scrunch its way over the gravel out of the car park and on to the road. As he walked over to his own car he felt an unexpected twinge of envy at Hector Rossi’s history. Hector had fought for something he believed in. Hector had been tested in a way which felt more admirable than his own journalism. He only ever watched and commented from the sidelines without putting himself at real risk. Buckley clearly knew about Hector’s recent movements. They must be watching him. Alex got in his car and sat in the driving-seat for a while with the door open and one foot on the ground. He considered alerting Hector, then, in a spirit of meanness, decided against it.

  When he reached home he found that Vera had already come back and gone out again.

  *

  ‘This is typical English countryside.’

  Vera tried to appear calm. She had arranged to take her Uzbek guests for a drive through Kent but was so distracted by the news that Mark was back in England that she was hardly aware of where she was going and became lost down some minor roads near Lympne. She pulled up in woodland and the Uzbeks piled out of the four-wheel-drive looking disgruntled. Vera climbed down from the driver’s seat.

  ‘I was brought up in this part of England. The great English actress Ellen Terry used to have a house nearby. I’ll take you there.’

  Vera swept her hair back and pinned up some stray ends, looking round to try and ascertain where she was. The woodland next to the road was fenced off. Her brown and white Borzoi dog pranced behind her. It was a skinny dog and behaved nervously as it bounced towards the high metal fence and away again. Despite her radical politics she had bought the animal through sentimentality because of the Borzoi’s association with the old Russian aristocracy. Like them it turned out to be highly strung, impossible to train and a terrible scavenger. She called it back as it tried to eat the unpleasant remains of something in a ditch.

  Vera was unaware that the wire-fenced border marked the end of a wildlife safari park. Just then a rhinoceros thundered past on the other side of the fencing. Short-sighted Vera peered in the direction of the fence and mistook the creature for a horse. She let out a light nostalgic laugh and turned to the Uzbeks.

  ‘I spent half my childhood riding those.’

  The Uzbeks looked confused.

  ‘Come with me. There should be a wonderful view of the county from the top of this hill. Kent is known as the garden of England, you know.’

  Vera beckoned them to follow her further up the road and climbed over a stile leading them along an upward-sloping footpath. She tried to concentrate on her visitors and ignore the anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

  The previous day she had sat drinking coffee in her sitting-room and asking the Uzbeks about the hardships endured by her fellow artists over there. She had been reading about conditions in a newspaper: there was the violinist who fell off his chair in the overture because he had not eaten for days; the actor suffering from paratyphoid who froze to death in his dressing room; the stage manager shot in the wings by the secret police; the pianist who had to stop because her fingers had frozen rigid during the concerto; the dresser in the costume department who died because of vermin in the clothes. Vera’s temperament was mercurial. When her heart was touched she responded immediately with great generosity. Without hesitation, on this occasion, Vera got up, went to her desk drawer and wrote an enormous cheque which she handed to the leader of the group.

  But now, with the wind blowing in her hair, she was preoccupied with thoughts of her son and wanted to be rid of the Uzbeks. Half-way along the public footpath and before they had come to the view she suddenly snapped: ‘Well, I think we’ve seen enough countryside. Let’s go back now.’ They all trailed back along the muddy pathway. ‘Another day I’ll take you to see Ellen Terry’s cottage.’

  The wild-eyed Borzoi was rolling ecstatically on the ground. His long hair was caked with mud as he scrambled into the driving-seat ahead of her.

  ‘You’re filthy. Get out!’ she screamed and pushed the dog into the back with the Uzbeks.

  As she walked up the front path to the house, with the Uzbeks traipsing behind her and the dog skulking alongside, she stopped to finger some of the dog roses in the hedge. A press photographer who had been waiting at the gate took a series of photographs.

  ‘I long to be an ordinary woman,’ she sighed. ‘But throughout my life it seems to have been impossible.’

  Chapter Six

  Hector was at home in the kitchen when he answered the call on his mobile. He did not immediately recognise the caller’s voice, but as soon as the caller identified himself Hector walked quickly out of the kitchen hoping that Barbara would not overhear him. His heart beat a little faster. After arranging to meet he switched off his mobile.

  ‘But you said you’d take Dawn to the doctor.’ Barbara stood up from bending over the washing machine. She looked exasperated. Hector had forgotten. He looked
up at the kitchen clock. There was just time to do both.

  ‘I’ll bring her back by half past ten,’ he said. ‘Oh and I’ve got to go into work for a couple of hours at some point this morning. I’ll do the weekend shopping before I come back.’

  *

  It had been over two hours since the phone call. Mark Scobie had asked him to find somewhere safe to stay. Hector drove along the road to Dungeness and parked the car by the Costcutter shop in Littlestone. From there he walked along until he came to a row of holiday-let homes. A narrow tarmac road separated the houses from the pebble beach. There was something desolate about the white-painted guest-houses which were all empty at this time of year. A long row of them in a muddle of different architectural styles stood on one side of the road facing the sea. Opposite them on the beach huddled a cluster of bleak beach huts. Two old fishing boats leaned sideways on metal winching tracks that led down to the sea.

  Hector stopped next to the endmost house. There was a paved patio in front of the house surrounded by a low concrete wall. The white-painted concrete felt damp. He walked down the front path and peered through the window. It looked empty. He went round to the back. Quickly, the old squatter’s skills came back to him. The lock on the back door was brittle with age and gave easily with a push. ‘Christ. I’m middle-aged. What am I doing?’ He thought of Barbara at home tending to Dawn and giving her tea with a piece of Battenburg cake.

  The damp chill of the empty house engulfed him. There were patches of moisture on the tiled kitchen floor. He walked through to the front to the sound of his own footsteps. Behind the glass-panelled porch stood two mildewed armchairs with wet patches visible on the red upholstery. A blustery wind outside rattled the window frames, so that despite the chill it felt strangely safe and sheltered inside. This place would have to do. He walked back down to Costcutters and waited.