‘Stopped snowing. ’Bout ruddy time.’
And the boy was gurgling with delight. While Goodfellowe’s attention had been distracted the child had been ransacking his jacket pocket, and when his fist reappeared it had found a trophy.
He was clutching the prayer beads.
‘Thank you,’ the child said to Goodfellowe. His first words. And he meant them, holding Goodfellowe’s gaze for far longer than might be expected from a two-year-old. Then the boy placed the prayer beads around his own neck and burst into laughter.
The second earthquake hit with more devastating effect. Around Lhasa, many of the buildings that before had been shaken and cracked began to fall. People ran in terror through the streets and a huge shroud of dust hung over the capital. Above the dust, the people looked to the Potala Palace, the ancestral winter home of the Dalai Lamas which, according to legend, had risen overnight from the bare rock. Many ordinary Tibetans prostrated themselves in prayer that the Palace might be saved, some writing mantras to Padmasambhava on its walls. When the tremors had ceased and the dust dispersed, a meticulous inspection was mounted of the Palace. They found not a single crack.
And it was astonishing that the only buildings in Lhasa to collapse were new buildings, those made for the forces of occupation, such as government offices and bars. The old buildings, those built by Tibetans, all survived.
Afterwards some explained this away by suggesting that the old Tibetan buildings had better, broader-based footings than the new Chinese structures, that the old mud-brick-and-stone walls moved and breathed while the cheap concrete simply stood stiff and crumbled. There were all sorts of technical reasons to explain the devastation of the Chinese community and the survival of the Tibetan, if one needed an explanation. But most Tibetans didn’t. They believed. That was explanation enough.
To the north, in Drapchi, Prison Number One, the tremors hit with particularly appalling effect. Accommodation blocks housing the security staff were flattened like a row of dominoes. The walls of the prison echoed to the cries of those who were trapped and injured – at least, those walls that were left standing. Because, along with the accommodation blocks, most of the outside walls had also crumbled. Chinese troops ran everywhere, abandoning their posts, trying to find loved ones, using their bare hands to dig through the debris and dust.
Neither did the cells escape unscathed. Their walls bent and buckled and bowed. But the jammed cell doors were made of metal, most robustly built, giving the walls that vital extra strength, and not until after the doors had burst open did the walls finally fall. But by that time those within had scrambled out. The prisoners were free. Drapchi was no more.
As Goodfellowe was paying off the taxi and disentangling his bike, the boy was already marching up the stairs to the apartment above the dry-cleaners, one foot stamping firmly after the other, like the sound of a drum being beaten to announce his arrival. Nobody else made that sound and already his mother was at the door in tears of overwhelming joy. As she smothered him with love, the child chuckled merrily. Then his eyes fell on Kunga. The monk had not left the apartment from the moment he’d first arrived and introduced himself. Now he stood in the corner, staring. The child stared back, his head held first to one side, then the other, examining the monk from every angle, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. Gradually his features began to glow with a sharp light which spread, and in a moment his whole face was on fire. With a cry of joy he rushed across the room and threw himself into Kunga’s outstretched arms. The monk held him high, filled with an elation more profound than anything he had ever felt. And when at last he relinquished his grip and the boy wriggled away, he looked down at his hand in astonishment.
The scar had disappeared. Completely.
There were fewer technical explanations available for the disappearance of the scar than for the distinctive and discriminatory effects of the earthquake in Lhasa, but in this instance, too, Kunga didn’t need an explanation. So far as he was concerned he already had one. He had been holding it in his arms.
* * *
Baader was sitting in the window seat of the Pugin Room looking out across the river when Goodfellowe found him.
‘Tom!’ Baader waved heartily to him. ‘I’m waiting for the wife to arrive to take her to dinner. Rare treat. Come join me for a drink.’
‘Make mine a stiff Scotch. Very stiff. Make yours the same.’
Baader eyed him curiously. ‘Fair enough.’ The orders were given and Baader’s attention was back on his colleague. ‘So tell me. How goes it with the search for the child? Any news?’
‘The best. As of this afternoon I’m glad to say he’s safely tucked away in our hands.’
‘But I thought …’ Too late Baader reined back his surprise.
‘You thought others might have him.’
‘Others?’ he protested, awash with innocence.
‘The Chinese.’
‘What do I know?’ He tried to blow away the fog of confusion he felt gathering around him.
‘Far too bloody much.’
‘Look, Tom, I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but if the matter is settled then I’m delighted. A problem solved. So it’s back to business as normal. British interests. Not getting caught up with a bunch of squabbling immigrants who frankly no one understands and nobody wants.’ The drinks arrived, Baader raised his glass. ‘Confusion to the enemy.’
Goodfellowe drained his whisky in one. Baader looked on in a mixture of awe and anxiety. ‘Er, another one?’
‘I don’t think that would be appropriate.’
‘Why?’
‘Because suddenly I find I’ve taken an intense and very personal dislike to you, Paddy.’
‘You serious?’
‘Bet your last red box on it.’
A pause for reflection. Baader looked around anxiously in search of his wife and his voice sank to the table top. ‘You know about Mickey.’
‘I do.’
‘For God’s sake, isn’t it a little pathetic for you to try to elect yourself the moral guardian of a twenty-six-year-old?’ His tone had grown derisive. ‘Or are you simply jealous?’
Goodfellowe paused to consider the point, as though tasting a good malt. ‘Perhaps I am a little jealous. How could I not be? Not a particularly noble sentiment, I’ll admit.’ He shrugged. ‘But you’re still going to have to resign.’
‘Piss off, Tom. I don’t know what’s got into you but if you think you can blackmail me because I’ve been screwing around with your secretary, you’re wrong. It’s not illegal. She’s not pregnant. And you are totally out of order.’
There seemed nothing more to say. Baader began fussing with the sleeve of his jacket as though trying to brush away some unpleasant piece of dirt, and avoided Goodfellowe’s eye.
‘That’s a fine jacket, Paddy. Beautifully cut suit. I think you’re one of the few Ministers I know who has actually flourished in office. Improved themselves, know what I mean? Puts my rags to shame.’
‘A plastic bin liner would put your rags to shame, Goodfellowe, and what the hell are you prattling on about?’ Exasperation flooded his voice. He was still casting around nervously for the arrival of his wife.
‘Let me be explicit. You are one of the few Ministers I know who has been on the make during his term of office. Even more explicitly, you’re the only one I can prove has been on the make.’
Baader slumped in the window seat, his head almost striking the leaded window. Then he started laughing. ‘They always said you were unsound, Tom. I thought they were talking about your judgement. Seems they were talking about your mind.’
‘When you resign, Paddy—’
‘Me resign? Never!’
‘When you resign I want you to be clear about why it is you’re going. Not because you’ve slept with my secretary. It’s because you have lined your carefully tailored pockets with money. Unethical profits from share deals using inside information.’
Baader glared defiantl
y at his colleague, his eyes hardened by contempt. ‘I deny it.’
‘But you’ve done it.’
‘Then prove it.’
‘A savings account number F3-stroke-843921 in the Zurich branch of the Société de Banque Suisse – where the last transaction was depositing the profits you made in your wife’s name from the Shanghai Harbour contract. Then there were the 48,513 Swiss francs you paid in a few months ago after the aero-engine order was announced. I congratulate you, Paddy. Your wife has proved to be a pretty shrewd investor. Some might say almost inspired. It might be coincidence, of course, her picking all these winners, but I think we’ve already agreed that most observers prefer conspiracy to coincidence. Ours is such a cynical world.’
As Goodfellowe spoke, Baader’s face had become like chalk, as if the bones of his skull were about to burst through the skin. His voice made a sound that might have been strained through catacombs, full of dust and death. ‘You cannot have proof.’
‘Not the original documents, but excellent photocopies.’ It was a lie, of course. All he had was Mickey’s scribbled notes, not proof of anything. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Baader believed him. Which clearly he did. The shadow of the gibbet had already fallen across his soul.
‘And I shall, of course, be sending the papers to the Parliamentary Commissioner and the Committee on Standards and Privileges in due course,’ Goodfellowe continued. ‘Should make for an entertaining session or two.’ He rubbed his finger around the rim of his empty glass, setting up a sound of complaint that grated on the nerves. ‘They’ll mince you, then fry what’s left in public. It’s convenient that your name’s short enough to fit across one line of the Sun. Should make it easy for the headline writers. Trouble is, I feel sorry for your wife. I suspect you’ve used her, just like you use most women.’
And just like Goodfellowe had used Mickey. His conscience kicked him. He should stop moralizing and get on with it.
‘So you see, you’ll have to resign. But I’m a reasonable man. I’ll give you a choice.’
‘What choice? Jump or be pushed?’ The voice was choked, the noose already tightening around his neck.
‘Better than that. Get your doctor to give you a sick note or something. Exhaustion in the service of the nation, or some such balls. You resign, and I’ll keep quiet about the share deals and the Swiss bank accounts. No public disgrace. No ritual humiliation by your colleagues.’
A flush of colour returned to Baader’s cheeks. ‘But why? Why would you spare me?’
‘Not because I like you, Paddy. Fact is, I loathe you. I wouldn’t piss in your ear if your brains were on fire. But I prefer to use you rather than destroy you. We’re going to move the child somewhere safe, and at the same time lay down a false trail for the Chinese Government. You can help with that. Concoct some diplomatic telegram that the Chinese will be bound to intercept saying that the true incarnation is in Texas or Timbuktu. So long as the boy remains out of harm’s way, I have an interest in ensuring you Stay on the payroll. I’ll tell you what to do. Then I’ll tell you when you’re going to resign.’
Baader’s breathing had grown laboured, his eyes fixed on some distant, fading destiny. ‘Suppose I always knew it would come to this. Eventually. But not yet. And not because of a child. I thought a girl, perhaps. Any number of ’em. But never a child.’ He blinked and came back to the room. ‘I don’t seem to have much alternative.’
‘None at all, I hope.’
‘Was going to resign soon anyway. Coming to the end of my useful life as a Minister. Time for a few directorships, maybe.’ Already he was trying to rewrite events, his lone more defiant.
‘Just keep your mind anchored to one point, Paddy. The papers I have will destroy you at any time, whether you are a Minister of the Crown or a monkey on a stick. Now or in years to come. You’ll never be free from this one.’
‘You’re a ruthless bastard.’
‘Second time today,’ Goodfellowe mused. ‘It’s almost a consensus. Anyway, I see your wife approaching. Time for me to disappear and for you to tell her the good news.’
‘The good news?’
Goodfellowe leaned across and tightened Baader’s silk tie, a shade too fiercely. ‘That you’re going to have so much more time to spend with your investments.’ He gave the tie a further, totally superfluous twist. ‘And you know something, old chum? By the look on Madame Lin’s face when I left her, I think you’re going to need it.’
POSTSCRIPT
The cold front had passed and left behind a wondrously clear early summer’s evening. This was one of the views of London that Goodfellowe never failed to find inspiring, across the river to the City where the dark-suited dome of St Paul’s stood like a conductor before a vast orchestra of lights in the financial centre behind. It was an irresistible panorama of bridges and mirrors and ancient spires, cathedrals and temples of commerce, God and Mammon side by side, a marriage of artifice and aspiration that had lasted for a thousand years. Ambition shone through every window. ‘Give me your soul!’ they shouted. ‘Or give me your savings!’ Straightforward and so refreshingly sincere. And so unlike that other city on the river, his city, Westminster, where ambition was found loitering in dark Gothic corners like a playground bully.
On the occasions when he grew weary with the game of politics and had lost both his meaning and his motivation, he would come and soak up these awesome sights along the river bank. So much history gathered together in one spot reminded him that like all men he was but a small link in an endless and infinite chain, one that would soon stretch way beyond him. There was so much he wanted to do, so little time to do it. Yet on this spot he knew, too, that it was possible to make a difference. The view in front of him proved it.
Except that it was his usual practice to admire the scene from the vantage point of the walkway of Hungerford Bridge, a location which although often windswept was entirely free of charge. Unlike the restaurant in the Oxo Tower. Ouch. Sam had insisted on a victory celebration, and Mickey deserved one. This was going to hurt, and perhaps the bill would prove to be the smallest of the evening’s troubles.
‘Come on, Dad, don’t be such a sad haddock. Look as if you’re enjoying yourself.’
Goodfellowe dragged his thoughts back to the balcony overlooking the busy river and tried to shake the heaviness from his heart. So he’d won, a great victory, but already he’d lost the mood for celebration. Something mattered more. This was the evening he had set aside for his showdown with Sam, because showdown he had reluctantly decided there must be. Her pregnancy could wait no longer.
‘To an extraordinary boss,’ Mickey raised her glass in salute. ‘Even if at times you bear a close resemblance to a horse’s arse.’ And meant it. But she was talking. It meant she was healing.
‘Thanks. I think.’
‘And to the women who spur you on,’ Sam offered in her turn.
They raised glasses and Goodfellowe cursed. In his distraction he’d not only emptied his glass but also knocked over the bottle. He watched helplessly as eighteen quid’s worth of Ninth Island Chardonnay spilled across the metal table top.
‘I’ve never seen you waste even a drop before,’ Mickey observed. ‘You cracking up, Goodfellowe?’
‘Yeah, what’s wrong, Goodfellowe?’ Sam repeated. ‘Why aren’t you enjoying yourself ? Has it got anything to do with this mysterious personal problem you wanted to talk about? You been arrested or something?’
His face didn’t flicker.
‘Ah, is this a moment where my Jewish insight tells me I should suddenly become invisible?’ Mickey enquired. ‘Not that I do invisible very well,’ she added, moistening her lips, ‘but there’s a couple of wicked-looking fellows over by the bar. I could come back in a week or two.’
‘No!’ insisted Sam, who wanted to party.
‘No,’ concurred Goodfellowe, more cautiously. This was a family matter, and Mickey was practically part of it. Anyway, he felt that Sam might soon be in need
of her support. The waiter finished mopping up and brought another bottle.
‘Sam, you know I’m not a moralizer,’ he began diffidently.
‘You’ve got precious little to moralize about,’ Mickey muttered.
He flinched. ‘Precisely. But I’ve been struggling for weeks to find the right way and the right words for this, and still I know I’m going to make a mess of it.’
‘Like my A-levels.’
He took a deep breath, as though about to dive deep underwater. ‘Sam, I know. About the pregnancy clinic. About your treatment. I know it’s been going on for a long time. Too long, Sam.’ His voice carried an edge of relief. At last it was out in the open. ‘I know.’
‘Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry.’
He closed his eyes. The whole of London had suddenly ceased to move. And through the silence he became aware of a noise. Like a window shattering, the fragments sounding like bells falling chaotically around him. Except it wasn’t glass. It was laughter.
Sam was laughing at him.
‘Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry.’ She bit her lip, struggling to control herself, almost embarrassed at her own reaction. ‘It’s not funny, but …’
The Buddha of Brewer Street Page 28
