by Brian Martin
Glaziers had already been at work on the windows of the Royal Society in Carlton House Terrace and of the Athenaeum. Some of the tall windows on the upper floors of the club were still being replaced. A few of the parking places where the car had exploded were taped off. No debris or body parts remained.
The politicians had obviously ordered an immediate clear-up. Get things back to normal as soon as possible. There must be no disruption. The inconvenience is but as the sting of a gnat, the bite of a flea. The giant of the state must brush away his minor annoyance and take his coat to be invisibly mended. It was all no more than a pinprick. It all struck me as being singularly impressive, an exercise in effortless superiority.
I went up the steps into the club, under the portico that supported a statue of the goddess of wisdom, and pushed through the swing door into the vestibule and entrance hall. The evening porter, a green liveried middle-aged woman with glasses, a pleasant and reliably cheerful soul, greeted me.
‘Good evening, Mr Rigby. Nice to see you. Will you be staying for dinner?’
‘I don’t think so, Maggie. I’ll decide while I’m having a drink and let you know if I want a table. Thanks anyway.’
The grand staircase ascended to the next floor and divided as it turned halfway up. The benign countenance of Frederick of Prussia by Johan Francke of Potsdam looked mischievously down from a portrait painting. The landing presented to the visitor at the first-floor drawing room a volume of photographs or drawings of the club’s Nobel prize-winners.
For the moment I avoided the stairs, turned right into the bar, and ordered my usual whisky and soda. Seated in a corner was Willy. In another was a purple-breasted clergyman, some bishop or other I did not recognise. Their presence summed up the club. Its membership was largely made up of members of the established church and various spooks, although latterly the medical profession had gained a secure foothold. In addition there was a scattering of civil servants, MPs, lawyers and writers, one or two actors, and one famous counter-tenor; but most members were either guardians of our temporal affairs or of our souls.
I took my whisky, spiked a couple of black olives on a pick, and went over to Willy.
‘Have you got room for a poor waif here?’ I asked him.
He looked up, smiled and said, ‘Good to se you, Pelham. Come and sit down.’
‘I’ve just been looking at the damage outside, Willy. It’s been sorted out pretty quickly.’
‘Yes, well, we don’t want to give comfort to our enemies. Tidy up and get on as though nothing had happened. That’s the policy; and quite right, too.’
‘Whose was it? What’s the mutter in the marketplace?’
‘We’re not quite sure. Al-Qaeda perhaps? It could be the IRA, but some of their hallmarks are missing. Mind you, they could have been doing the job with someone else. We’re not sure. The device was different from their usual type. And why here, in Waterloo Place? That’s a mystery. Outside a gentlemen’s club. Were they trying to get at us?’
Willy took a sip of what I thought was his gin and tonic. It turned out to be just tonic water. He held his glass up and said, ‘I have to keep a clear head for later this evening. I’ve a debriefing meeting at ten o’clock. Someone’s flying in from the old Soviet empire, from the Baltic states.’
‘Anyone I know, or shouldn’t I ask? What’s that all about?’
Willy looked round. There was only the purple-breasted bishop present in the room, perched now on the arm of a chair, and he was deep in the Spectator.
‘I’m not sure you do know him,’ Willy said. ‘It’s something to do with a destabilisation plot here. Erode the fabric of state. Collapse institutions. Make people jumpy about their own security. You know the sort of thing; but it doesn’t usually happen here. Anyway, this chap’s got wind of something. Who knows? Perhaps this bomb outside is part of it. It wasn’t just the usual Provo stuff, that’s for certain.’
I glanced over at the smiling bishop. Was he an ardent follower of the rich little Greek boy, Taki, or was he enjoying the bluff good humour of the editor? I envied his episcopal ease and contentment. At the same time I was thinking how much I should have liked to sit in on Willy’s debriefing session, but that was not my privilege in the newspaper world. I worked on my own in the field. The official debriefings, the sorting and analysis of intelligence was in the hands of people like Willy. On a few very rare occasions someone like Mark or myself would be called in to such important meetings, and then it was just because our particular expertise was required. Mark, with his financial knowledge, his familiarity with the institutions of the City and the trading world, was required more often than me. When I say often, he had been called in twice in the last three years, whereas I had been summoned once. In my case, they had trawled in a stringer for the Guardian who had passed on some information about an East African regime that, on the face of it, sounded dubious. I had to assess the guy’s credibility and judge his sources. I listened to the questions and his answers. I was allowed to ask a few of my own questions for a couple of minutes, and that was it. I had a short verbal meeting with the lead interrogator afterwards and then had to write a report to be handed in within the hour. It had all been unsatisfactorily bureaucratic.
‘If there’s anything you can let me know about it after you’ve done with him, give me a ring tomorrow morning and I’ll call in to see you. Money and the state of the state are what I’m interested in at the moment, as you know.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll let you know if anything’s relevant. By the way, how was Seville and Roxanne? A beautiful girl. How can you bear to turn up there, see her again, no doubt take up from where you left off, and then leave her?’
‘We’re both resigned to the nature of our situation. The flame burns bright and briefly, dies down, then is lit again. We are old friends, lovers. We have no illusions.’
I did not want to talk about Roxanne, and certainly not to Willy. I might have known him for many years but he was not my confidant in the affairs of love.
We finished our drinks and I decided to make my way back to what passed for a home. I had invested a year or two before in a small house behind Olympia going a little way north towards Shepherd’s Bush. It was convenient and small. It was next door to a pub run by a group of young Australians who had leased out food arrangements to some very hard-working Thais. The cooking was excellent and compensated for the noise on a Saturday night when a couple of DJs played until two in the morning. Most of the houses in the area are suburban chic, lived in by the fashionable professional class. Mine was pokier than most but just managed to elbow its way into the list of acceptable, desirable residences even though it possessed virtually no garden. The pub had crowded in over the years and appropriated most of my space. Anyway, it served; and most Saturday nights, I either put up with the noise or contrived to be away. There were two bedrooms that were big enough and a much smaller one that doubled for my study. Off the landing was a modern, functional bathroom. On the ground floor was a kitchen and a large living room made out of two rooms knocked into one. A dining table stood at the kitchen end, and three armchairs and a low table at the other. I was happy with that situation: it was close to a Central Line station, and it was on the way out westwards of London. Heathrow was thirty minutes away on a good day.
I said goodbye to Willy, who was staying at the club for dinner, then going back to work, and made for Piccadilly Circus. The journey was quick and easy. I thought about Roxanne and regretted that she was not in London. She had told me that her husband would be coming to London later that month and that she would undoubtedly accompany him. I looked forward to that. An involuntary thrill went through my body. It was a definite physical response to the thought of Roxanne and what she promised. As I sat on the underground train I imagined the contours of her face but, as so often with those you love, I could no longer summon up a clear picture of her. I could not catch the exact details of her looks. She had become elusive in more senses than one. After
a while I gave up trying and turned my attention to the evening newspaper. I noticed and read with interest an article on the government of Estonia. Its seventy-three-year-old president had just entertained to dinner in Tallinn a prince of the British royal family who was on a goodwill tour of the three Baltic States. The writer explained that the president was virtually an unreformed old-guard communist. He spoke no English whereas most Estonians spoke fluent English. It was yet another of those old Soviet bloc countries where every school child had been taught Russian and English. As adults, everyone refused to speak any Russian but all perfected their spoken and written English. The old president was a stooge, a puppet. He had been put in place by progressive, pro-European politicians, and everything happened around him. More than half the time he did not understand what was going on because everyone spoke in English. If you were to believe the report, his interpreter edited both what he was told and what he said. The arrangement suited both parties. He was happy with his lifestyle. The politicians were able to get on with the purpose of their work unhindered by an obstructive president. I wondered if Willy’s Baltic source would corroborate this story. It struck me as entirely credible of the new wave of young politicians in places like Estonia, Hungary, Bulgaria. There were many young thrusters with MBAs from Harvard or Stockholm, economics doctorates from the LSE, or MAs from the School of Advanced International Studies in Washington DC. These young political intellectuals ran rings round the old monolithic Stalinists. They were the new internationalists and their lingua franca was, and is, English.
As I entered the house, the thought of Roxanne came back to me. What was I doing? Where was she? Why was I not with her? My life was ridiculous. I was lonely most of the time: I hated living on my own. Why did I not do something about it? I thought of her intimacies, her knowledge of how to please, delight me. She did that merely by her presence, but she knew physically how to relax me and make me feel happy. I missed that and particularly at that time. Rationally, I knew that anything to do with her was not a permanent proposition. Our relationship could only exist in the way that it did. I had tried to make Willy understand that. Her husband was too dangerous, too powerful, to allow any different arrangement. The stark facts did not alleviate my suffering and in my own personal privacy I longed for another way of life. Within the enclosure of those town-house walls my mind ran towards what would have been ideal and I grieved deeply because it could not be. I knew that the only way to escape my mood was to find company and talk. Otherwise I would sink into depression. Mark was the obvious companion, but I had said that we might meet tomorrow. This was an emergency. I rang him and he answered.
‘Have you had supper?’ I asked. ‘I’m a bit low. I need someone to talk to. But you’re probably busy or tired. The last thing you’d want is to talk to a miserable fool.’
‘I have eaten but no matter. Let’s meet. I’ll drink and you can drink and eat. Come on, cheer up. Are you missing the magic, calming caress of Roxanne’s tender touch?’
‘Bloody hell, Mark I’m in no mood for your poetic flights. My soul is aching.’
We arranged to meet almost equidistant from our respective houses at a riverside pub. It served reasonable food, but it did not really matter since my appetite had dissipated. The walk in the open air with the noise of traffic and bustle of city nightlife brightened my spirit a little, and by the time I reached the river and entered the bar, I was in a better state of mind. The sight of Mark grinning at me was a tonic in itself. Whatever I said to him was safe. He understood me and I knew would keep my soul secrets. No confidences would be betrayed: he would not laugh at me. I loved him for his loyalty to me.
I ordered some rather superior fish cakes, a tomato and basil salad, and chips. Mark was drinking a glass of Chilean red wine. He had already ordered a bottle and I shared it with him.
‘I’ve got to do something about the way I live,’ I complained. ‘Otherwise I shall just turn into a miserable old sod.’
‘Oh come on, you’re just down for a moment. Look at your pluses. Your house is an advantageous investment: you don’t have to live there forever. The way Roxanne’s husband is going on, he’ll probably have a heart attack. That would leave just you and Roxanne. Or, you’ll suddenly find an assignment that takes you somewhere, Oz, California, who knows, and you’ll find the light of your life.’
I knew he was right. I was in a good position and in reality nothing for me was desperate. I should look forward. Yet it is always necessary in those bleak moods to have someone to remind you to do just that. Dear Mark was my reassuring mentor and for his presence and his services in that respect, I was surely grateful.
Our conversation drifted from my predicament and concerns to other matters. Inevitably we returned to discussing City money and the suspected destabilisation plot. We concluded that there was definitely something pretty big going on. The likelihood was that all national institutions including newspapers would be preoccupied with security over the next few weeks. The editors were worried about what had happened so far, but more important was the concern of their political masters. The politicians wanted the mystery solved. The populace was beginning to be nervous. Fewer people than usual were travelling by air flights anywhere. The number of passengers who used the Eurostar trains through the Channel Tunnel had decreased dramatically: no one could understand why some terrorist organisation had not blown up the Tunnel. What the government wanted was confidence restored. The papers reported a drop in passengers using the underground trains in the metropolis. What all this added up to was that it was bad for business, the nation’s business. The total effect was to eat away at British business interests and therefore the commercial and industrial health of the country. Mark and I wondered if all these factors were not connected since they all went towards weakening morale, making institutions fail, and destroying the financial basis of all successful enterprises.
An hour and a half later, with my spirits restored, we left. We walked about a quarter of a mile along the riverbank before we went our separate ways back home. I walked with Mark completely at ease. There was no need to speak. We each knew what the other felt. After the turmoil my mind had been in, it was a state of spiritual peace. When we parted, he hugged me and kissed my cheek.
‘Take care. Don’t worry. Keep calm. Dream of Roxanne. Let’s meet for the film tomorrow. About five at the Rostoff Bar. I guarantee nothing much will happen tomorrow.’
‘OK. Thanks, Mark. See you then.’
I often wondered why we did not share a house together. In my state I could have done with the companionship. Yet reality demanded our individual investments in the property markets and an intuitive necessity to keep some parts of our private lives to ourselves.
I sometimes wondered if Mark worked secretly for the intelligence service. You have to remember that Greville Wynne’s wife never knew that he was a spy. He kept the knowledge from her. He was a fanatical extremist but, to an extent I suppose, we all have to be a little like him towards those whom we hold most dear.
6
The following day, in order to set us up for the film, we followed the Raymond Chandler recipe of having a gimlet each at Rostoff’s. Two-thirds gin, one-third Rose’s lime juice were the required proportions, and the barman knew the form. The cocktail brought us to life, raised our blood sugar levels, and, so we believed, sharpened our critical faculties. It also helped to settle me. I had been feeling uneasy all day. The cause was impossible to determine but I simply felt on edge, uncertain. It was as though there were an awful foreboding descending on me. Something was going to happen. There was going to be change. I did not know what it might be or how it could happen. The conviction settled in my mind and was all the time present as a rather unpleasant form of consciousness. Paradoxically, in view of its name, the drink succeeded in pushing the feeling back into the shadows of my mind.
The film proved a potent distraction. It was realistic, moving, gruesome, a black comedy in which easily recognisable types featur
ed. It possessed that necessity for universality, credence in the characters. You might have met them. They might have lived next door. At the same time, they did not live that monotonous suburban life that is so mind-numbingly paralysing for the commuter class who, no doubt, were to make up the bulk of the audience for that film. The direction of the film was brilliant: the camera work, by a famous old practitioner who had been in the business for more than forty years, was outstandingly successful in detail and imaginative sweep.
Afterwards we talked about it for more than an hour. The discussion kept us going while we walked from the Notting Hill cinema down to Queensway where we decided to eat at a Chinese restaurant: it lasted while we ordered and until the dishes were delivered to our table. By the time our conversation about the film was exhausted, the uneasiness I had felt earlier began to return. I told Mark how I felt.
‘Don’t worry. There’s nothing you have to fret about. You’re just a bit down at the moment. Look forward. Don’t forget, short views. Sydney Smith, wasn’t it? Until tea-time, no further.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Of course, he was right. It is a good remedy; but this is beginning to gnaw away at me.’ I paused. ‘Anyway, I’m sure it will pass.’
We parted. It was about eleven. Mark gave me a hug: he knew I needed it. He was right. I wanted all the encouragement, inspiration, reinforcement, reassurance, I could get.
There were still people in the pub next door to my house. As I passed, a West Indian came out speaking into a mobile telephone. He looked me straight in the eye and, to my acute surprise, winked. It was not sinister: it was as though we had met before and it was a familiar gesture. I could not, and did not, place him. Maybe we had met, but there was no etch of him on my memory. I nodded, and as I did so a black Mercedes came to a standstill in front of him. He saluted the driver, opened a rear passenger door and got in. The car accelerated rapidly away. Who was he? Some drug-dealer? A debt-collector? I had no idea. There was something about him and the way in which he was picked up that made me resolve to ask the young Australians about him.
