The Long Room

by Francesca Kay

  He was right, and he was lucky. The first time he walked up the street past the entrance there was no one there at all. At the far end of the street he stopped and, for the benefit of anyone who might be spying on him from a window, pretended to consult the A-Z. His umbrella would afford him some protection from busybodies twitching their lace curtains. He turned back down the street and as he was approaching it on the opposite side he saw that the main door of the mansion block was opening.

  Three people emerged and walked down the shallow flight of steps together. One was the lovely woman in the pale coat; the other two were men. A man of average height in a hooded yellow waterproof; a much taller man in a green waxed jacket, bare-headed, his thick hair almost black. Stephen knew him instantly as the man who shared a room with Rollo Buckingham, and the shock of that recognition stopped his breath.

  It was more than ever crucial now that he should not be seen. He couldn’t stand there on the pavement staring, but neither could he swivel on his heel and stride off in the opposite direction. There was nothing for it but to tilt his umbrella at an angle like a shield and march right past the three of them, with his head bent and his face averted. When he reached the corner of the street he dared a backwards glance; both men were unlocking bicycles that had been chained to the railings by the flats. Helen was standing near them, struggling to put up a red umbrella. Dangerous though he knew it was, Stephen was desperate for a closer look. He ducked into the portal of the next block, where it could seem that he was ringing a doorbell.

  It was an inspired move. Raised above the level of the street, sheltered by the roofed portal and in a feigned attitude of waiting, Stephen could observe all three as they reached the corner. The two men were wheeling their bikes. At the corner Helen gave a little wave, crossed the main road and went towards the gate into the park. One or other of the men called after her but a passing lorry drowned their voices out. Both then swung their legs over their crossbars and rode off side-by-side in the direction of Albert Bridge.

  Stephen watched Helen walk away from him. He was in no condition to follow her or anybody else through the wintry park. The thunderbolt was having a serious effect, now that the immediate risk of being caught was past. He needed to wait a while until his nerves were steady.

  How could he have failed to identify PHOENIX weeks ago? He must have seen him in that room a dozen times or more. It is true that he only delivers reports by hand when they may be urgent and that when he does, he often finds Rollo there alone, but even so, how could he have been so blinkered and obtuse?

  Could he be going mad? The horror of that thought is an icy tidal wave crashing down upon him. But no, of course he’s not, he is as sane as he has ever been, and in full possession of his wits. The wave recedes a little. And then it dawns on Stephen that he has never heard the dark man speak. Or, if he has, then nothing more than a few clipped and muttered words. In all these weeks he has been silent to the point of rudeness, rarely acknowledging Stephen with anything more forthcoming than a nod.

  But that does not explain the other staggering fact. Rollo Buckingham is conducting an investigation in the very room he shares with that investigation’s target. Can that actually be true? It seems absurdly cavalier. And yet, now that Stephen comes to think of it, nothing is ever said in that room or in any other that would give away the game. Generalities are permissible; specifics are forbidden; no names, no pack drill; we are all too well aware that careless talk costs lives. He recalls Rollo’s furious expression when he thought that Stephen was about to blurt out some details. No wonder then that Rollo is so insistent on the Cube. Christ almighty, this is a stroke of genius on Rollo’s part. What better way to hide this most delicate investigation and to lull the suspect into a false sense of safety than by investigating him under his own nose? Not in a million years would Jamie Greenwood dream that Rollo had any idea what he was up to.

  The sleet had thickened once again to snow. An old man with a dog was walking towards the doorway in which Stephen was sheltering; it was time to go. Feeling a bit safer now, he decided to take a closer look at the entrance to Helen’s block: it could be that there were names beside the doorbells on their polished plaque of brass. He’d like to know which flat is hers and in fact may need to, if he is ever to tail PHOENIX or carry out any other investigations of his own.

  He examined the building from the street. At its west gable there was a high wooden gate in the wall, which must lead to a yard or narrow garden. Opposite the block was the brick slab of the next; behind both blocks were ordinary terraced houses. The street was not very long. Like others in this part of London, its name echoed an imperialist past: Soudan, Khartoum, Kandahar and Khyber; shades of Englishmen fresh off the playing fields of Eton, ruling single-handed over tracts of land that were a hundred times the size of their home counties; imposing their own codes on alien frontiers. What were those late Victorian builders dreaming of, when they gave their new streets those exotic names? Peshawar? Maybe, Stephen thought, through the fog of his fear and his thumping headache, these were actually the sites of battles. Dead men then, those young Etonians, in their foreign fields that are no longer England? Street names like war memorials, in a city that is not the one the young men knew, in a country that has no idea where it’s going and is caught like a dog with its head in railings, railings just like the ones that fence off the park before him, a bulldog facing backwards, sick with sentiment and nostalgia. If Jamie Greenwood had been born half a century earlier he’d have been one of those young rulers. And what are they doing now, these men, the Buckinghams and Greenwoods who were born too late? They’re still fighting their tribal wars against the VULCANS and the ODINs, the trade unionists, the miners, the Irish and the foreigners, the whole mishmash whose voices, aspirations and lost causes fill Stephen’s waking hours.

  To Stephen’s disappointment there were no names against any of the doorbells. He carefully inspected the side elevation of the building to see if he could tell how the flats were laid out but, as it was evident from the doorbells that a few were subdivided, it was not possible to ascertain which windows belonged where on any floor. He could hear the passing traffic from the Greenwoods’, which must mean their sitting room faced the main road and the park. That was good to know. He was right to think of Helen gazing out at grass and trees, green thoughts in a green shade, oasis in the city. Whenever she opened her windows she would scent the salt breath of the distant river. There were seventeen flats in this section of the block, including subdivisions. There was an entry phone. As no one had ever mentioned a lift or many stairs, it was a reasonable assumption that Helen’s flat was on the first or second floor. Stephen knew that it couldn’t be on the ground floor or in the basement because, if it were, there’d be a different quality of sound.

  The main door did not yield when Stephen pushed it, and its large brass knob was purely ornamental. That came as no surprise; he’d seen that Helen used a key. He crouched down to the level of the letterbox plate, and pushed it open to peer inside. It was dark in there, and hard to make out anything but the foot of a flight of stairs. And the lower half of someone running down them.

  Stephen dropped the letterbox plate quickly and stepped backwards but there was no time to retreat; the person on the other side was already opening the door. It was a young woman with short brown hair, wearing a navy quilted jacket and green wellington boots. Seeing Stephen hovering on the doorstep, she nodded to him politely and stood aside, holding the door open. ‘Er, thanks,’ Stephen mumbled, sidling past her, his wet umbrella still unfurled. Now he was inside, and the door was swinging shut behind him.

  How could that silly girl be sure he was neither a burglar nor a rapist? Were all of Helen’s neighbours so careless of her safety? The sooner he could get her away from here the better. Meanwhile it was deeply thrilling to be in the place where Helen lived. For the time being he shut his mind to the carnal reality of PHOENIX and to the disturbing solidity that gave to images that before we
re clouded. That reality would have to be confronted – the man is Helen’s lover, Helen’s husband – but Stephen had not the strength to face it now.

  The entrance hall was clean and tidy. There were the doors to flats 38 and 39, numbered pigeonholes, and an old-fashioned lift of the kind with double folding grilles. The stairs were carpeted, the hall floor made of patterned tiles. For the moment it was quiet.

  Stephen quickly checked the contents of the pigeonholes. There must be a porter or a caretaker in this mansion block: in other buildings that Stephen had seen old letters and bills and unwanted papers piled up in dusty drifts, but here the mail had all been sorted. Nothing bore the Greenwood name. Their mail, of course, must have been read before it got to them, thought Stephen, recalling his one training visit to that branch of Technical where two women sat with their trays of letters and a steaming kettle.

  He dragged open the sliding metal gate into the lift. Six floors. It did not go to a basement. It was exactly like a cage. He closed it again; if anyone should summon it, he would have more than enough warning from the creak of metal. He’d take the stairs and make his way up slowly.

  On the first landing there were three flats: 40a and 40b, and 41. There was a window that looked out over the side-street and across to the opposite block. The pattern was the same on every floor, except that on some there were the two original flats, and at the top of the building there were four. All of them had identical front doors. Ordinary wooden doors, unremarkable, except that one belonged to Helen. He rubbed his fingers over every handle as he passed, hedging his bets; her fingers would have been on one. From behind a door on the third floor he heard a baby crying and stopped to listen: is it a visiting baby or a new one? Had he heard a child here before? A dog, yes; there was a dog that barked sometimes but it was making no noise now. Was there the scent of Helen? On each landing he sniffed the air but it was difficult to tell, in a place where there were smells of breakfasts – coffee, bacon – and the smell of snow. But least he knew that he was stepping where she stepped, his hand was on the banisters that her hand touched every day, he was breathing where she breathed. Oh Helen.

  In the time that he was there, he saw no one else. Could he have stayed there on the stairs and waited? But waited for what? Imagine if Helen were to come back home and find him sitting on the second flight, barring the way to her front door … No, this was not the right time yet. He wouldn’t know what to say to her; not yet. If he made a move too soon, he would scare her off. He’d rather sever his right hand than cause her to be frightened. When the time comes he will approach her gently, as he would a shy, wild creature – a kitten or a fawn – step by slow and careful step, holding out a coaxing hand until he gains her trust. That time will surely not be long; not now that he is making such good progress; he must enforce patience on himself.

  But what instead should he do now? It’s Saturday; it’s snowing; his mother will be expecting him to take her to the shops. Helen will still be at the carol service – perhaps he might slip in at the back, seeming like a father who is late? Except he doesn’t know exactly where it’s being held. What is PHOENIX doing now? It’s surprising that he left the flat so early when he doesn’t have to be at Harvey Nicks until about eleven. Maybe even eleven-thirty. Who was the other man? A neighbour? Wouldn’t the service be followed by coffee or something? Mince pies. Harvey Nicks. It took him a moment to work out what Helen meant when she said that. It’s funny, the familiar terms that people use, almost a sort of code. Outsiders try to adopt them but often get them wrong – like Alberic, with his quaint use of words. Stephen squirms when Charlotte chatters on about H. A. Rods, but for all he knows that’s what everyone who’s in the know calls it. He can’t take the risk of being seen this morning in Harvey Nichols himself, now that he has recognised Jamie Greenwood. He really must stay hidden from now on. So anyway. There’s nothing he can do here any more; he might as well go home and get the car and drive to Didcot where his mother waits.

  *

  Coralie is thanking heavens for the cold. Who would have thought it: snow so thick it was settling in and there still a week to go till Christmas? It means that the blessed turkey – which, to be on the safe side, really must be bought today – will live quite happily in the boot of the car all week. And the Brussels sprouts. Unless there is a sudden thaw? But she’ll cross that bridge when she gets to it – there’s no point fretting over things that might not happen when there’s quite enough already to occupy one’s thoughts. She’d like to get her watch mended this afternoon if possible; it stopped working on Wednesday and it’s hard to do without. There’s a little man in that arcade off Duke Street. In the supermarket car park she is checking through her list. ‘Sausagemeat,’ she reads. ‘Parsnips. Tin-foil. The milkman will bring the extra butter. Icing sugar. Mistletoe. It used to grow in plenty in the apple trees in the garden when I was a girl. No one would have dreamt you’d have to buy it.’

  Each year the sad unberried twig tied with green ribbon to the hanging lampshade in the hall. ‘Perhaps this time you needn’t bother,’ Stephen says.

  ‘Oh well, you never know. Have you done your shopping, Ste?’

  Shopping. He hasn’t thought about it really. Now he does. ‘I’ll do it in London,’ he says. ‘At Harvey Nicks.’

  ‘At where? Who’ve you got to buy for then?’

  ‘Christophine,’ he says, ‘and …’

  Coralie isn’t listening. Her mind is on her own uncompleted tasks and slowly, painfully, she is manoeuvring herself out of the passenger seat of her son’s car. ‘That’s an unusual name,’ is all she says.

  Coralie believes that it is rude to ask intrusive questions. If Stephen wants to tell her something, let him. They’ve never poked about in each other’s lives; she has respected her son’s privacy from the time that he was little. ‘What did you do at school today?’ ‘Nothing.’ It doesn’t do to badger a child; you can tell by looking at his face whether or not he’s happy. But, was he? Well, what’s the use of asking that sort of question now?

  Later, after The Two Ronnies, Coralie and Stephen watch the news. ‘Terrible shame,’ she says, seeing the pictures of the wrecked pub, the twisted bits of things that must have been furniture, the stains at which it is better not to look. ‘I’m glad you didn’t choose the Army.’

  ‘Was that ever on the cards?’

  ‘Well, you did use to be in the cadets. Although of course you didn’t have a choice. Compulsory it was for all of you, I seem to recall, except the orchestra. Have I got that right?’

  It is not until he sees the pictures that Stephen comprehends the scale of the devastation caused by last night’s bomb. There will be pandemonium at the Institute. Perhaps he should have reported for work today; the Group II listeners will need all the reinforcements they can get. He can feel their sense of shock and fear from here. The hours they spent last week searching for leads, for evidence; now look at what has happened, and nobody was warned. It makes you wonder why you do the job. Come to think of it, the telephone in his flat was ringing again this morning, after he went in to get his car keys. He could hear it from where he was, outside. It could have been Louise. No one knows where he is now; they’ll not be able to reach him here in Didcot. But then a sudden thought: why not go in to the office tomorrow, using the emergency as pretext? He’s not keeping pace with Helen; he’s falling behind. It worries him that he doesn’t know what she is doing tonight. On second thoughts, he probably wouldn’t be able to get hold of the new tapes on a Sunday – although you never know, and the crisis could be quite exciting, so he might as well be there. At the very least it would please Charlotte and Louise.

  Thursday’s tapes had not been helpful: whatever Greenwood had been saying about Saturday was lost in the moment of change-over and by the time the new tape was running there was nothing to hear but the ordinary sounds of washing up and going to bed. There had been nothing significant on Thursday either. Nothing significant in the context of the case, that is
, although for Stephen there had been a world of difference between listening to Helen that evening and listening to her the day before. Then he had seen her only in his mind’s eye but from Thursday on he knew her in the living flesh. He had actually watched her walk to her front door that afternoon and so, when he listened to her the next day, he could visualise her entering her flat, taking off that pale coat, hanging it on its hook and easing off her long black boots. Slender legs in silken stockings; those perfect narrow feet, which one day he would kiss. Later she told Greenwood she had been caught in the rain and was frozen to the bone. He turned the heating up. Stephen screwed his eyes shut to keep that picture out. Charles Ryder wished the woman he loved a broken heart and in uniform prayed in the chapel of Brideshead, the sanctuary lamp still burning. Helen and her husband went to bed when the programme ended.

  ‘I couldn’t have borne that,’ his mother is saying. ‘I still could not.’

  He looks across at her, where she is sitting in her armchair. He has been paying no attention to her monologue, his mind exclusively on Helen; he’s at a loss to know exactly what it is she couldn’t bear. She’s so much smaller than she used to be. How is it possible that a grown person can shrink so suddenly by several inches? She’s stooped; her arthritic hands are twisted, the fingers knobbled and bent like roots of ginger, the skin stretched thinly over her joints is shiny red. Her feet are afflicted too. For the time being she can get about alone – she takes a taxi into town once a week to get her hair done and to pick up a little shopping – but soon she’s going to find it hard to walk. ‘What are you on about, Mum?’ he asks. But she’s moved on: the news is of the miners’ vote to strike and her mind is on more imminent things. ‘Do you suppose we should have got more sprouts, in case?’ she asks.