The Stars' Tennis Balls

by Stephen Fry

  Floyd frowned and bit his lip. ‘Let’s forget about the drugs, shall we? Tell me what “Interior, interior, interior” means to you.’

  Ned looked at him helplessly. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Not a difficult question is it? Interior, interior, interior. Tell me about it.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Ned felt as though he was drowning. ‘Please, I want to ring my father.’

  ‘Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Name?’

  ‘Do be quiet, there’s a good fellow.’

  Ned and the Detective Sergeant turned together. A neatly dressed man in his mid-twenties was standing in the doorway, a gentle smile on his face.

  ‘And just who the hell might you be?’ said Floyd, outraged.

  ‘A word, Sergeant,’ said the young man, beckoning with his finger.

  Floyd opened his mouth to speak, but something in the young man’s bland expression made him change his mind.

  The door closed on Ned once more. He could hear Detective Sergeant Floyd’s voice raised in barely controlled anger in the corridor outside. ‘With respect, sir, I do not see the need . . .’

  ‘With respect, that’s the ticket, Floyd. Respect. Just what’s needed. Now I’ll take those if you please. Thank you . . . paperwork will follow.’

  The door opened again and the young man popped his head in, smiling. ‘Would you like to come with me, old chap?’

  Ned jumped to his feet and followed the young man along a passageway, past an angry Detective Sergeant Floyd.

  ‘Can I use the telephone?’ Ned asked.

  ‘Ridiculous of them,’ said the young man, as if he hadn’t heard, ‘to strip you like that. Ah, here’s Mr Gaine!’ He indicated a broad-shouldered man in a denim jacket who was leaning against a fire door at the end of the passage bearing in his arms a pile of clothes, neatly folded with the shoes lying upside-down on top.

  ‘Those are mine!’ said Ned.

  ‘That’s right. We shan’t have time to put them on just now, I’m afraid, we must be off. All set, Mr Gaine?’

  The broad-shouldered man nodded and pushed against the bars of the door. The young man escorted Ned down some steps into a courtyard and towards a green Rover parked in the corner, where the sunlight beat down on its roof.

  ‘You just hop in the back with me. We’ll let Mr Gaine drive shall we?’

  Ned winced when his bare thighs touched the upholstery.

  ‘Scorched you a bit? Sorry about that,’ said the young man cheerfully. ‘Should’ve thought to park in the shade, shouldn’t we, Mr Gaine? All righty, then, cabin doors to automatic. Let’s not hang about.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Ned asked, adjusting the blanket around himself to protect his legs and his modesty.

  ‘My name’s Delft,’ was the reply. ‘Like those ghastly blue and white tiles. Oliver Delft.’ He put out a hand for Ned to shake. ‘And you are . . . ?’

  ‘Edward Maddstone.’

  ‘Edward? They do call you Edward, do they? Or are you an Ed, Eddie, Ted or Teddy?’

  ‘Ned, usually.’

  ‘Ned. Fair enough. I’ll call you Ned then, and you can call me Oliver.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Well, there’s lots to talk about, isn’t there? I thought perhaps we might go somewhere nice and quiet.’

  ‘Only, my girlfriend, you see . . . she doesn’t know where I am. And my father . . .’

  ‘We’ve a fair drive ahead of us, I’m afraid. I’d try and get a bit of shut-eye if I were you. I know I shall.’ Delft settled against the headrest.

  ‘She’ll be worried . . .’

  But Delft, apparently asleep in an instant, said nothing.

  Since the sleepless night of his watch on the Orphana and the anxious day that followed it, Ned had lain awake on a bumpy train from Glasgow to London. The next day, today – could that really be today? – he had travelled out to the airport and then back again to Catherine Street. There he did, it was true, spend time in bed, but he had not slept. Portia had dozed a little, but Ned had been too happy to think of sleep.

  But now, in spite of the strangeness of his circumstances, he found himself starting to yawn. The last thing he saw before he fell asleep was the rearview mirror and Mr Gaine’s cold eyes watching him.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive my brutal way with an egg,’ said Oliver Delft. ‘It started life as an omelette aux fines herbes but now I’m afraid it’s just scrambled eggs speckled with green. Non-stick! It’s just a phrase if you ask me.’ He pushed a plate towards Ned and smiled.

  ‘Thanks.’ Ned began to shovel the eggs into his mouth, amazed at how hungry he was. ‘Very good.’

  ‘You honour me. While you eat, we can talk.’

  ‘Is this your house?’

  ‘It’s a place I come to sometimes,’ said Delft. He was leaning against the Aga rail, a glass of wine in his hand.

  ‘Are you a policeman?’

  ‘A policeman? No, no. Nothing as thrilling as that, I’m afraid. Just a humble toiler in the lower realms of government. All very dull. Here to get to the bottom of one or two things.’

  ‘If it’s about the drugs the police found, I swear to you I don’t know anything about them.’

  Delft smiled again. The smile was an effort. Inside, he was very bored and extremely annoyed to be there. The pleasurable long weekend he had been looking forward to for ages had already been ruined.

  Five minutes . . . five blasted minutes were all that had come between Oliver and freedom. He had already locked his desk and had been in the very act of signing the duty log when Maureen had bustled in, twittering about a flash from West End Central.

  ‘Isn’t Stapleton here yet? I’m about to go off watch.’

  ‘No, Mr Delft. Captain Stapleton hasn’t signed in. There’s no one else.’

  ‘Bugger,’ Oliver had said, meaning it. ‘All right then, let’s have a look.’

  He had taken Maureen’s typed slip and read it through carefully. ‘Hum. Who’s in the Heavy Pool?’

  ‘Mr Gaine, sir.’

  ‘Get him to warm the car up. I’ll be out in three.’

  That had been something at least. Mr Gaine was Oliver’s man and could be trusted not to make life more difficult by ruffling feathers and stamping on sensibilities.

  Whatever Oliver had expected when he arrived at Savile Row police station, it certainly hadn’t been a worried schoolboy. The whole thing seemed ripely absurd. Undoubtedly a mistake, he had said to himself the moment he laid eyes on the floppy haired teenager jiggling his knee up and down under the interview-room table, a forlorn and bewildered look on his face. Delft may have been only twenty-six himself, but he had seen enough to be sure that Ned Maddstone was as innocent as a day-old chick. A day-old carrier pigeon chick, he thought to himself. He was pleased with the image and made a note to include it in his report. His masters were old-fashioned enough to enjoy a pert turn of phrase.

  He looked across at the child now.

  Ned was sitting at the kitchen table, still jogging his leg on the ball of his foot, with an earnest pleading look on his innocent face.

  ‘Honestly,’ he was saying. ‘I absolutely swear. On the Holy Bible!’

  ‘Calm down,’ said Oliver. ‘I really don’t think a Bible will be necessary. Not that we’d be able to find one in a place of sin like this,’ he added, looking round the room as if it were less a country kitchen and more a Louisiana brothel. ‘You can swear on Marguerite Patten’s Cookery in Colour if it gives you pleasure, but there’s no need.’

  ‘You do believe me then?’

  ‘Well, of course I believe you, you daft young onion. All some silly mistake. Still, as we’re here, you might as well tell me what the words “Interior, interior, interior” mean.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ said Ned. ‘The policeman asked me the same thing, but I’ve never heard them. I mean, I’ve heard the word “interior” before, obviously, but . . .’

  ‘You see, this is what we
have to try and understand,’ said Oliver. ‘And when we’ve got to the bottom of it we can let you go and you can get on with your life and I can get on with mine, which I’m sure we’d both like.’

  Ned nodded vigorously. ‘Absolutely! But . . .’

  ‘All right then. Now let’s have a look at this shall we?’

  Oliver came forward and laid on the table a single sheet of paper.

  Ned stared at it mystified. It was a typed list of names and addresses. He recognised at once the names of the Home Secretary, the Lord Chancellor, the Secretary of State for Defence followed by others, vaguely familiar to Ned. Last of all came his father’s name, Sir Charles Maddstone. At the bottom, in handwritten large black block capitals were the words –

  INTERIOR INTERIOR INTERIOR

  ‘What does it mean?’ he asked.

  ‘It belongs to you,’ said Oliver. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘My piece of paper? But I’ve never seen it before.’

  ‘Then what was it doing in the inside pocket of your jacket?’

  ‘In the . . . oh!’ The truth began to dawn. ‘Was it . . . was it originally in an envelope?’

  ‘It was in an envelope!’ said Oliver. ‘You’re absolutely right! It was in this envelope!’ He held up a white envelope, an envelope that to his annoyance the police had torn open without a single thought. Oliver had immediately spotted a tiny hair behind the flap, a little security measure sealed there to warn the recipient of any tampering. It might be possible to find a duplicate envelope and put the letter back in play, but one never knew what other safeguards the police might have blundered through. Not really their fault of course, he conceded. The search had been routine. They had imagined they were dealing with nothing more than a spoilt kid’s drug stash.

  ‘But why is it important?’ Ned asked. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Well now, you’ve just admitted that it’s yours, so I should’ve thought you’d be the one to tell me.’

  Ned shifted uncomfortably. ‘But you see I was . . . I was given it.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I’m going to need a bit more than that.’

  ‘By a man.’

  ‘Well that eliminates two billion or so, but it’s still not quite enough, is it? We’re going to have to narrow it down a little more than that.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘A dead man gave it to you.’

  ‘He only died yesterday.’

  ‘Don’t arse around with me, Ned, there’s a good fellow. Who was he and how did he come to give it to you?’

  Tell me the thing in your life that you hold most holy.

  Ned could have wept with frustration. He was desperate to do the right thing. He wanted to please this nice man, but he wanted to keep his word too. Would it bring him the most terrible luck to break so mighty an oath?

  What is the thing that matters to you most in all the world?

  What would Portia want him to do?

  ‘Is it very important that I tell you? Important enough to make me break a solemn oath?’

  ‘Well now, young scout,’ said Oliver. ‘I’ll tell you a thing. A thing you shouldn’t know, but that I trust you to keep to yourself. Glass of wine?’

  ‘Do you have any milk?’

  ‘Milk? Let me see.’ Oliver went over to the fridge and peered suspiciously inside as if it were the first fridge he had ever inspected. ‘Milk, milk, milk . . . ah yes. Now my job, Ned, such as it is,’ he went on, ‘involves, amongst other things, doing my best to stop people letting off bombs in this country. Only UHT I’m afraid – semi-skimmed. Do you mind?’

  ‘That’s perfect, thank you.’

  ‘Can’t bear the stuff myself. Makes me snotty. Letting off bombs, Ned, is a thing some scallywags do, as you must have read in the papers. They’ll do it in pubs, clubs, offices, railway stations and shops, killing and crippling ordinary people who have no quarrel with anyone but their bank managers, bosses and spouses. Drink it from the carton, there’s a lamb. Now, some of these bombers, they like to call up a police station or a newspaper office to claim the credit, if credit is the right word, or – if they’ve a spark of humanity and it’s only property they want to destroy – to warn the police to evacuate the area. Making sense so far?’

  Ned nodded, wiping a white moustache from his lips with the back of his hand.

  ‘Well then. To prevent any old deranged freak from calling up and leaving hoax warnings or taking credit just for fun, a more or less workable arrangement has been arrived at between us – the government, and them – the bona fide terrorists. When a bomber calls up a newspaper or a police station he gives a code word, to show that he is the real thing. Not going too fast for you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Well now, it so happens that the Provisional IRA’s latest coded warning for a bomb, just a few days old, is the word “Interior” repeated three times.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘So perhaps now you can see why Detective Sergeant Floyd, whom God preserve, got a little excited when he found this piece of paper in your jacket. And perhaps now you can see why he gave my department a call and why I am asking you now to tell me how you got hold of it. The man who gave you that envelope was an IRA terrorist, Ned. The worst and darkest kind of man. The kind of man whose idea of political protest is to blow the arms and legs off young children. Whatever oath of secrecy he may have sworn you to is meaningless. So let’s have his name.’

  ‘Paddy Leclare,’ said Ned. ‘His name was Paddy Leclare. He was a sailing instructor. We were at sea and he suddenly became terribly ill. He gave it to me just before he died.’

  ‘Well now you see. There we have it,’ Oliver said, patting Ned on the back. ‘That wasn’t so difficult, was it?’

  ‘I had . . . I had absolutely no idea. I mean he was employed by the school and everything. If I’d thought for a minute . . .’

  ‘Of course not, you daft young kipper.’

  ‘Do you think it was because of my father?’

  ‘Your father? Why should . . . oh, you’re that kind of a Maddstone, are you? As in Sir Charles? What, he’s your granddad is he?’

  ‘He’s my father,’ said Ned defensively. ‘I was a . . . a late arrival.’

  ‘I had rooms in Maddstone Quad during my second year at St Mark’s,’ said Oliver. ‘I had a perfect view from my window of a great big stone statue of John Maddstone, the founder of the college. You don’t look a bit like him. We used to paint it dark blue during Eights Week, you know. Well, well. I expect it gave your friend Paddy Leclare quite a kick entrusting his letter to you. Sort of thing that appeals to his kind.’

  ‘He wasn’t my friend!’ said Ned indignantly. ‘He was just the school’s sailing instructor.’

  ‘Forgive me.’

  Ned looked down at the piece of paper. ‘So these are all people that the IRA wants to kill?’

  ‘That’s how things look on the face of it, certainly,’ Oliver conceded. ‘But how things are and how things look aren’t always the same.’

  Ned examined the list of names. ‘I don’t see what else it could mean,’ he said. ‘These are all politicians and generals and things, aren’t they?’

  ‘Well, maybe we are supposed to think that they’re targets. Maybe your friend Leclare believed that you would open the letter out of curiosity, get suspicious and show it to your father. Maybe the whole idea is to make us run around wasting a lot of time, effort and manpower laying on extra protection while their real targets lie elsewhere. Or maybe the envelope has been impregnated with some deadly bug and the plan was for you to pass the infection on to your father who in turn would pass it on to the entire cabinet. Maybe that’s why Leclare fell ill and died – maybe he’d been a bit careless with the old microbes.’

  ‘Oh my God! But . . .’

  ‘Or there’s another maybe. Maybe they planted that cannabis on you and then tipped off the police just in order to winkle me out and follow us here. Maybe they’re in a van outside now with a morta
r trained on this very room. Maybe a thousand things. We don’t know. There are as many maybes as there are seconds in a century. But this one thing I can tell you for certain,’ Oliver said, drawing up a chair opposite Ned. ‘We won’t know anything until you’ve told me the whole story from start to finish. I hope you can agree with that?’

  ‘Of course. Absolutely.’

  ‘Good. I have been very frank with you and now you can repay the compliment. You give me everything you’ve got, and before you know it, Mr Gaine will be driving us back to London. You’ll be home and in the bosom of your family before the News at Ten, that’s a promise. You don’t mind a tape-recorder, I suppose?’

  ‘No,’ said Ned. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Excellent. Sit you there and drink your milk. Be back in a tick.’

  Hoo-bloody-rah. Oliver’s mind raced ahead as he went through into the sitting-room. If he got back to town, sketched out a preliminary report and left Stapleton to make the security calls, he could be heading out to the country by midnight. Maybe his weekend could be salvaged after all.

  ‘As you were, Gaine. Where’s the Revox?’

  ‘Cupboard under the bookshelf, sir. I’ll fetch it.’

  Oliver picked up the Evening Standard Quick Crossword against which Mr Gaine had been pitting his mighty wits.

  ‘There’s your problem. Eft.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Four across, “Newt”. You’ve put Rat, should be Eft.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Why Rat, incidentally?’

  ‘Well, Mr Delft, sir,’ said Mr Gaine, handing Oliver the tape-recorder. ‘Pissed as a rat, pissed as a newt.’

  ‘How silly of me,’ said Oliver, marvelling once more at Gaine’s unusual thought processes. ‘Well, we shouldn’t be much more than an hour. Oh, be a hero and fill the Rover up with petrol, will you? There should be some jerrycans in the garage.’

  ‘Have done, sir.’

  ‘Good man. Oh and Gaine?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’re sure we weren’t tailed on the way up?’

  ‘Sir!’ Mr Gaine was deeply reproachful.

  ‘Thought not. Just checking.’

  *

  ‘So. To begin at the beginning. When did you first meet this Paddy Leclare?’