Chapter 7 Harmless bureaucrats
The man from HM Revenue and Customs was waiting at the corner of Christopher's road the following morning, a Saturday, but as Christopher approached he jumped in the black shiny car and drove off. Coincidence, thought Christopher - or was it? He wasn't going to become paranoid about this. The man must have far bigger fish to fry than Christopher. Whether Amaryllis was a big fish or not was open to question - the only way to find out, presumably, was to reel her in. Since he had no idea how to do this, Christopher decided he wasn't interested in the answer.
He walked on down the hill towards the harbour. The route was a lot less scary in daylight - no dark shapes lurking in even darker shadows, no mysterious thuds down dark side streets. No imagined pursuit by faceless bureaucrats. No sightings of Amaryllis. He hadn't come down here expecting to see her, but for a healthy bracing walk along by the harbour, and a chance to think about things clearly without the constant background noise in the house from Caroline, the television, and Faisal’s computer games.
He thought about whether he could cope with the kind of things that seemed to be happening in his life now - the changes to his former routine, the possibility of still more change, the presence of Amaryllis, Steve Paxman and the fair man in grey in his circle of acquaintances. He thought about Amaryllis, the litheness of her stride, the air she had of being ready to spring into action. She was so different from him that until he had met her he might not have thought it possible for her to exist in the same universe as him. Certainly not in the same little local organisation - for Christopher harboured no illusions about the importance of PLIF.
He thought about his older acquaintances, a few of whom had perhaps now qualified as friends, though he wasn't absolutely sure of that; it would depend on how broad your definition of friends was. Jock McLean was probably the most similar to him; then again, he would never share those schoolroom memories and manners with Jock. There was a special quality about those who were or had been teachers: some sort of fatalism, perhaps. In the case of Big Dave, they were on friendly terms but Christopher didn't think Big Dave really needed friends: he could take people or leave them, without turning a hair. Young Dave - Christopher actually paused his steps here to think - he didn't want to stigmatise Young Dave just because of his day job, but as a lawyer he probably only hung out with people he could use and not necessarily with those he liked.
'Hi!' called Young Dave just at that moment from the other side of the road. He was jogging. He waved a friendly hand as he passed. 'See you at the Queen of Scots tonight?' he added as he passed. Was that friendship? Christopher pondered - or was there something particular that Young Dave wanted? It must be very difficult for lawyers to make friends: that was quite likely why they almost always congregated with their own kind, clogging up certain wine bars in the New Town in Edinburgh, annoying people with their uniformity and the way they sucked in wealth like leeches feasting on blood. Some people would have taken the figure of speech further, but Christopher felt it was already quite unfair enough.
A shiny black car drew up a few metres further along the harbour front. Christopher was suddenly on edge again, his contemplative walk ruined. He pictured himself being kidnapped, dragged into the car in broad daylight, watched by the morning dog walkers, joggers, and people fishing along the harbour wall: it had happened before to other innocent men and women, perhaps not in this precise spot but somewhere. He could be taken away and murdered in a field at the back of beyond, his body thrown down an old mine-working or left in undergrowth for a Labrador to sniff out in the distant future, when he could only be identified by dental records and everyone had forgotten what had happened to him. 'What happened to old Christopher?' one of the Daves would say. 'One minute he was there, chairing the PLIF meeting, the next minute he was gone. Never did leave a forwarding address. Must have wanted to get away from Caroline and the kids.'
The irony was that at times when he had been at the end of his tether with Caroline he had spent quite a number of sleepless nights trying to work out a foolproof plan to disappear without trace. It was always the national insurance number that was the tricky part. You couldn't get work, or a pension, or benefits, without it. He had tried to imagine the life he would lead on the streets, begging for small change to buy fries at Macdonald's, sleeping under a bridge or at a disgusting hostel. Somehow these fantasies were always set in London, though he had no doubt there were people living like that much nearer home. It was the fact that London was so big and anonymous that made it the right place for these flights of fancy - surely it must be the best place to lose yourself in.
He didn't care for the kidnap option as a way of disappearing. He wished Young Dave had actually stopped to chat for a while instead of jogging on past. He wouldn't have minded talking to Mr Revenue and Customs about what his problem was, if Young Dave had been with him. Whoever was in the car couldn't, surely, have kidnapped both of them at the same time. And with Young Dave's grasp of legal and bureaucratic jargon they might have been able to straighten out the whole thing - whatever it was.
Christopher tried to work out what he might have done to attract the attention of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. What had he brought back with him from the long weekend in Brussels he had managed to snatch before Caroline had clamped down on his foreign travel? He couldn't imagine he had been over the limit for going through the green channel at Customs. Even if he had, it wouldn't have justified the presence of a shiny black car. He had the impression they were reserved for pursuing big time crooks.
He had been walking very slowly towards the car all this time, and when he drew level with it, the man in grey got out at the passenger side and blocked his way. Oh, my God, it's all coming true, thought Christopher. He sensed his feet, now apparently beyond his control, stopping in their tracks. He heard his voice, thin and croaky, saying, 'Excuse me, please'. But the fair man didn't move out of his way.
'Mr Wilson? Christopher Wilson?'
'Yes. I'm Christopher Wilson.'
'May I have a word with you, sir?' The man produced a plastic-coated id card which he flashed in front of Christopher's eyes. 'Simon Fairfax. HM Revenue and Customs.'
Don't get in the car; don't get in the car, said Christopher to himself.
'Would you like to get in the car, sir? It's a bit chilly standing out here.'
'Thanks,' said Christopher, and was about to get in when he remembered all his self-talk and added, 'But I don't think I'll get in the car. I suffer from claustrophobia, you see.'
It wasn't strictly true unless you defined claustrophobia as a phobia about getting in cars in which you were likely to be driven towards death and oblivion in an abandoned mineshaft miles from anywhere.
'That's fine, sir, I just thought you might be more comfortable sitting inside. Could we walk on the harbour wall instead?'
The harbour wall! screeched Christopher's inner wimp. Are you mad? He could easily push you off and say it was an accident - and then you'd be having lunch with the fishes for all eternity.
'OK, fine,' he said, sternly telling the inner wimp to shut up. After all, there were other people about, and he was probably over-reacting to the whole situation anyway.
They crossed the road and set off along the harbour wall. There were white horses beyond it, and even inside the shelter of the harbour the little boats were rising and falling on the waves in a way that reminded Christopher uneasily of his trip across the Bay of Biscay as a teenager. He had never really been keen on leaving the country since then.
'So,' said Simon Fairfax, striding out easily on the cobblestones. 'You're chair of a community group, aren't you?'
'PLIF, yes,' said Christopher. 'I mean – Pitkirtly Local Improvement Forum.'
'Yes. And I understand a new member has joined the group recently.'
'Yes.'
'Amaryllis Peebles?' prompted Simon after a pause during which he obviously expected Christopher to produce the name.
'Yes
. She isn't strictly speaking a steering group member, but we have co-opted her to assist with a particular project.'
Christopher found it amazing how easy it was to slip back into this kind of phraseology even after a while away from the workplace. Perhaps he could set up in business himself teaching people meaningless phrases for all work situations, with an advanced module on combining the phrases into sentences.
'Do you know anything about her background?' said Simon Fairfax, turning side-on to Christopher and flaunting a classical profile.
'Background? We don't usually look into people's backgrounds. It isn't necessary on our steering group. It isn't as if there are child protection issues involved, or....'
'So you're not aware if she has - for instance - a police record?'
'What sort of police record are you talking about?'
'Well, let's just say she isn't all she seems.'
'No, let's not say that,' said Christopher, who was developing more and more of a dislike of the other man as the conversation continued. 'Let's say that if you want me to believe you, you'll have to give me chapter and verse. Evidence.'
'Of course, I should have realised that as a former archivist you'd be a stickler for evidence,' murmured Simon. He sighed. 'Well, let's just say the evidence concerns a matter of national security.'
'Ha!' said Christopher, summoning up reserves of scepticism of which he had previously been unaware. 'That's what they always say!'
'They?' queried Simon. He and Christopher had reached the end of the harbour wall. They stood there staring down into the river. The air was clear and they could see across to the other side of the Forth, where the big chimneys of the oil refinery at Grangemouth puffed smoke and occasionally fire up into the atmosphere. Christopher wondered if anyone at that side of the river was engaged in a conversation as futile as his.
'Yes, the government and the faceless bureaucrats and the police, whenever they're too embarrassed to admit they've made huge blundering errors,' said Christopher. 'They just slap an order on it and the evidence moulders away at the back of a drawer for a hundred years until everybody's forgotten about it and doesn't realise its significance.'
'Until some nosey journalist comes along and excavates the whole story, that is,' said Simon bitterly.
'Journalists! Ha!' said Christopher. They stood for one moment in harmony and mutual understanding before returning to the fray.
'So - you're expecting me to believe that Amaryllis Peebles has an unspecified record as a - what? - a criminal? a spy? a terrorist? But you can't produce the evidence because of national security? How do I know you're not just a psychotic stalker who's been following her around?'
'Because you can contact HM Revenue and Customs to confirm my identity if you want,' said Simon.
'But how do I know you're not just some psychotic stalker who happens to be a customs officer as well?' said Christopher, who was on a roll by now, and quite enjoying this conversation.
Simon sighed again, and turned his footsteps back towards land. Maybe this was the kind of conversation you could only have out on the harbour wall, where land meets sea, a place of transit and uncertainty. Maybe once they got back on solid ground it would either become more logical or Simon would drag Christopher into the shiny black car and take him away to the disused mineshaft.
'All I wanted to say,' said Simon, 'was this: please be careful of Amaryllis Peebles - she isn't all she seems - and let me know if anything suspicious happens.'
He delved into his jacket pocket and instead of a gun, which Christopher still half-expected him to be carrying, produced a neat standardised business card with a logo purporting to be that of HMRC, giving his phone number and email address as well as a postal address, doubtless situated in one of the nondescript blocks which housed his kind of operation. He handed the card to Christopher.
'Here we are. Email usually catches me quickest. Let me know about anything - anything at all that worries you.'
At the moment Christopher was hard pressed to think of anything that could possibly worry him more than his experience of the previous evening involving the old village hall and the panel under the sink. But there was no harm in taking the business card and keeping it in his wallet just in case. His instincts told him that Amaryllis was on the side of good in the eternal war against the forces of evil, but he had learned in so many ways not to trust his instincts.
As Christopher paused to put the business card in a safe place, Simon strode off, reached the end of the harbour wall and crossed the road to his car. Christopher watched as without any further ado he got in and drove off swiftly along past the Elgin Arms and round the corner. There was no knowing whether he was aware of the existence of the smuggler's passage or the opening into the old village hall. He hadn't given very much away except his suspicions of Amaryllis, which Christopher strongly suspected him of making up on the spur of the moment for an underhand reason of his own.
Christopher no longer had the heart to carry on with his walk. He had meant to make his way further along the river front and return through the woods at the edge of the town, a circular tour - something he always felt was more satisfactory than going and coming back the same way. But now that was exactly what he did, turning left and progressing quite slowly and thoughtfully up the hill again. Passing the end of Merchantman Wynd he glanced along it, straining his ears in case of any unusual sounds, but he heard nothing but the complaints of the magpies in the big trees up on the hill behind the new apartments, the whoosh of water as people tended their cars in a Saturday ceremony, and the cacophony of Radio 3 emanating from a window nearby. He could almost believe the previous night's events hadn't happened at all, only he knew he wasn't the kind of person to get lost in his own dreams and fantasies. Sometimes he wished he could do just that.
‘Good morning, Christopher?’ said Maisie Sue, at his side suddenly.
He jumped; he had no idea where she had come from or how she had sneaked up on him without alerting any of his senses. Now that he came to think of it, the QELP contingent had turned out to be much quieter than he had at first expected, but because of the other events in his life they didn’t loom very large anyway, being a minor irritant and not a major problem. Not bees but mere midges.
She laughed at his surprise. He wasn’t an expert on hair-styles or even particularly interested in them, but he couldn’t help noticing that her glossy curls seemed to be arranged in exactly the same position as they had been that last time in the Queen of Scots. Either she kept her hair under very strict control using a female technique into which men couldn’t aspire to be initiated, or it was a wig. It looked as if it might feel synthetic to the touch, but this was a thought that gave him the creeps.
‘… thought I’d have a look-see for myself?’ she was saying with a gesture towards Merchantman Wynd.
‘At the hall?’ he said. ‘It isn’t in a very good state. I’m not sure that anything can be done with it.’
It was in an even worse state now that he had vandalised the panel in the kitchen, he didn’t add. She didn’t need to know about that.
‘It looks like there may have been vandals around,’ she agreed, nodding sympathetically. ‘We’ll have to get hold of all the help we can, I guess…. Have you guys thought of a barn-raising party?’
‘Um – no.’
Maisie Sue led the way along the cul-de-sac towards the old hall.
‘I guess you guys have no need to do any barn-raising when all your farm buildings have been standing there for centuries? – I just love that! – but what if we got everybody in this village to lend a hand one weekend and made a party of it…?’
Christopher didn’t want to challenge her assumption about local farm buildings – in any case, she probably wasn’t far wrong – and he didn’t like to dampen her enthusiasm with a cold dash of native scepticism, but his incredulity must somehow have shown in his body language. Maisie Sue added at once,
‘I don’t want to tell you guys what
to do. I know you have your own ways, and some of them go back hundreds of years? I was just thinking, well, we were kinda hoping to find a meeting-place for QELP real soon. And that kind of fund-raising takes an awful long time.’
She actually fluttered her eyelashes at him; unfortunately for her this emphasised not just the smallness but, in Christopher’s opinion, the pebble-hardness of her brown eyes. In consequence this didn’t melt his heart at all. For goodness’ sake, surely the woman could have got hold of blue contact lenses to make herself more appealing. If she had gone to the trouble of wearing a wig, you’d think contact lenses would only be a small step further.…
They stood and stared at the building. Christopher hoped that would be enough and she wouldn’t insist on going inside. He would feel bound to go with her, and that would be a complete waste of time, since he had already seen quite a bit more of the place than he wanted, one way and another.
Unfortunately she did insist on a guided tour, which he cut as short as he could. On the way back to the main road afterwards, he wondered if he was imagining the burst of mocking laughter that came from one of the balconies above them, round about the place where he thought Amaryllis lived. He had a feeling he wasn’t imagining it. He didn’t look up.
Crime in the Community Page 7
