Tom made his way through the tables, passing Joan as he did so. She nodded at him as he passed, then turned her attention back to the gramophone on the stage.
Tom pulled up a chair beside Bobby and sat down.
Bobby pushed a glass towards him.
'Got you something warm,' he said. He looked around and grinned. 'I have to hand it to you, I've lived here for five years and I didn't even know this place existed. You always could find some crazy shit. I missed that.'
'Bobby,' Tom said. 'I think we should leave.'
Bobby laughed. It sounded too loud, too big.
'Are you kidding? We've only just got here.'
'I'm serious. We should just go.' Tom looked up, searching the folds in the moulded plaster ceiling where a camera might be hidden. 'This place…' But he trailed off; he didn't know what he was feeling. He couldn't imagine the words that would make Bobby understand.
The music from the gramophone warbled on, a jaunty, lightweight tune. It sounded so fey and inappropriate. Remorseless, it picked at Tom's nerves.
'So you've met this guy?' Bobby said after a while.
'Just the once.'
'And he's going to sing here this evening?'
'I don't know.'
Restless, Tom turned in his chair and looked back at the entrance, gauging an escape route. He remembered how difficult it had been for him to leave before, it had felt as though the room had a gravitational weight that needed to be overcome.
Beside him, Bobby whistled. 'If this record is anything to go by,' he said, 'this guy has the most extraordinary voice. Honestly, Tom, I've really never heard anything like it.'
His tone was wistful; it yearned for something Tom had no way of understanding. And it was that, more than the fact there was no voice on the recording which made Tom turn back to him, afraid of what he might see.
Bobby was staring at the empty stage, his expression a stiffened mask of rapt attention.
'Bobby,' Tom said again. 'Please can we go? It'll be hard, they won't want us to leave, but we can. I did it before and I can show you how. Bobby, please.'
A moment passed before Bobby turned back to him. But when he did, Tom saw how his eyes were wide and wild, greedy with anticipation.
'I don't want to go yet,' he said.
He turned his attention back to the stage, but he reached out his hand blindly and Tom caught and held it. It felt dry and warm, already fragile to the touch.
I don't hear anything, Tom wanted to say, but he remained silent and stared obediently at the gramophone player on the stage. The injustice of it brought him close to tears, and he heard Bobby make a shushing noise beside him. An idle, sympathetic tone like a busy parent might make to an impatient child.
'You know, I never really had any time for nostalgia,' Bobby said, 'and that alone puts you on the back foot in this country. The present is built on the ruins of the past, and my God, are they some flaky foundations to work with. Tea with the vicar, bobbies on bicycles, cricket on the green and the village clock striking the hour? Was that really the best it's ever been?'
He sighed.
'We get a lot of stag parties in York,' he said. 'I've got double glazing, but you still hear them out there screaming at each other. You know what I hear most? “Two world wars and one world cup.” And they're still talking about the fucking Empire, like that was ever a good idea. But that's all we've got in the world now. We're this little island rotting into itself, feeding off our sordid little past, lying to ourselves that it was something to be proud of. I see it in the classroom too. All these bright young kids with their lives ahead of them… all distracted, all looking the wrong way…'
He fell silent for a moment, his eyes closed.
'But then you hear something like this and somehow… Somehow it all makes more sense. Like it's an anchor, a safety line. Something beautiful to hold on to. A promise that if the world could have been this good once, there's hope for us yet. My God, would you listen to it, Tommy? Are you listening to this? Tell me you're listening to this?'
'Bobby, please,' Tom said, but beside him, Bobby shook his head without turning around.
'I want to see what it does,' he said. 'I want to see what happens.'
Sometimes it only takes a single word to make the temperature fall. Sometimes it only takes a moment of clarity to reframe the world.
It was all Tom needed to leave. Even sparing a final glance at Bobby, it alarmed him how much easier it was than he expected. He realised then that he didn't want to hear whatever it was Bobby heard, the thought of it repulsed him, and his haste was driven by a sudden paranoia that if he were to stay much longer, then he too might fall under its spell.
He let go of Bobby's hand and it fell from him, as good as lifeless. He didn't even hear it strike the table. He kicked his own chair away so he could stand. It skittered off across the floor behind him but he ignored the chaos of it as he fled for the curtains.
This time, he felt no resistance. He didn't feel drunk, the floor didn't pitch and the music didn't reach out for him as he could have sworn it had done before. He wasn't wanted anymore, and he had no problem with that at all.
In the corridor, he saw the antechamber door was open a little, and in the long, dark gap it exposed, the figure of Max McConnell stood, bathed in a thin blue light. Max was watching him, but the expression he wore was a desperate one, a plea for patience, for understanding, for help.
Tom didn't stop, he didn't even slow down. He walked down the corridor, he walked down the road, he walked as far away as he could. It was so easy this time, and when he understood why, it was so obvious he laughed loud enough to surprise himself, then laughed again because he had caught himself so thoroughly off-guard.
Ahead of him, the horizon was beautiful, vivid with dancing ribbons of red and gold. He felt giddy, he felt free. He spread his arms wide and bellowed into the dark.
'I'm Tommy Kavanagh,' he shouted. 'I'm little fucking Tommy, and it's my time now!'
Such a stupid, shallow thing to say, but the night ignored him. It always had been polite in its way.
Tom grinned so wide his cheeks ached. Unafraid, he walked onwards into the burning red. The trick of it was not to look back.
The Last Meal He Ate Before She Killed Him
At eight o'clock sharp, three men from the Company arrived for a meal in the room where the widow had murdered the General.
Neat and prim in the northern suburbs of the City, the house looked much the same as any of the others on the terrace. It must have looked homely to those ignorant of its history but the guards on the doorstep were a clue to the contrary, as was the constant parade of visitors: tourists, pilgrims, closet revolutionaries who choked the street six times a day.
Inside, changes had been made since the night of the murder, but they were mostly cosmetic. The wallpaper was no longer authentic, but the pictures mounted on it were as they used to be. Here were the widow's sons, here the widow's husband, once a loyal military man himself, frozen at a point twelve years earlier; a silent reminder the future was on hold.
The portrait of The Autocrat, proud and dominant on the far wall, was new. It looked too big for the room, which was appropriate because it was well understood the character of The Autocrat was expansive and would not be contained.
*
It was such a small room for so big a crime, Dominik thought as one of the house staff took his hat and his overcoat and pointed him through the door, which was flanked with a pair of government guards.
The dense, rich smell of the lounge struck him first. Too warm and close to be comfortable; it was sweet and airless.
The stained carpet was frayed at the edges and, with the heavy curtains drawn tight, the room looked like one which had been forced to brightness like an overexposed photograph.
It reminded Dominik of the set of a stage play which Maria had insisted on seeing when they had only been in the City for a few weeks. A cramped tableau framed a domestic melodrama. Domini
k had watched, bored and unengaged whilst Maria was rapt. In the crowded theatre, the little gasps which greeted each turn in the story were hers alone. During the interval, he had warned her that people might have considered them unsophisticated, provincial. She watched the second act in silence, and when the play had finished, she did not join the applause.
*
Behind him, Administrator Zeitler blustered with amused impatience.
'Come come,' he said, 'there will be others waiting.'
He steered Dominik into the lounge and Lukas followed. A year or two younger than Dominik's twenty-three years, Lukas was also the more confident of the two clerks. His slim frame at ease in his light summer suit, while Dominik felt clumsy and ape-like by comparison.
On Lukas' first day in the office, Dominik had been tasked to show him how the filing racks were ordered. He'd watched as Lukas worked the files, long-fingered and agile, as though he were playing a piano concerto. Dominik had looked at his own hands with their square palms and stubby fingers, then folded them out of sight behind his back.
'Farmer's hands,' his father would describe them, with a degree of pride which Dominik had never understood. He remembered witnessing the farms to the south of the village being repossessed by the State. What need had The Autocrat of people with farmer's hands, he had thought as he watched the buses of grey, sad faces being swept towards the City.
*
In the middle of the lounge, a pair of square Formica dining tables had been arranged, each covered in clear plastic and surrounded by four kitchen chairs. The table settings were basic: stocky tumblers, paper napkins, cutlery embossed with the insignia of The Autocrat.
Zeitler settled himself between the arms of the chair at the far end of the room. He invited the younger men to occupy the places on either side.
'Usually when I come here,' he said, 'I try and bring seven colleagues so we can have the whole place to ourselves, but I'm afraid this evening, we shall have company. Non-Company company.'
He smirked and Lukas laughed too easy in response.
Administrator Zeitler was a big man, both in size and temperament. His face was bunched close in the middle of a head which seemed to have outgrown it, and a thick comb of a moustache served to compensate for his polished pate. His eccentric devotion to The Widow's House was a source of amusement amongst Dominik's peers at the Company. The Wall of Heroes in the Civic Square and the Long Gallery in the Law Courts were more colourful diversions but when his invitation had arrived, Dominik had been moved because he was sure it was the first time the Administrator had noticed him at all.
Zeitler stuck a finger under his collar to loosen his tie, then sneezed abruptly.
Both Dominik and Lukas rushed to provide him with a handkerchief.
'At ease,' Zeitler said, producing one of his own. 'Tail end of a head cold. My apologies. Never taken a day off in my life and I'm not going to start now.'
He blew his nose then folded the handkerchief away.
'Where were we?' he said. 'You, Dominik is it? How long have you been with the Company?'
'Two years, sir, but only as a filing clerk.'
'There's no such thing as being only a filing clerk,' Zeitler said. 'Be proud of your role. The Company certainly is and that, my friends, is why they permit me to indulge our staff every now and then.'
Dominik inclined his head.
'Thank you, Administrator.'
'Don't thank me, thank the benevolence of the State.' Zeitler sat back in his chair and rolled his shoulders as though he could extricate a knot from them. 'The Government prefers civilians to take an interest in their country.'
Lukas cleared his throat.
'I have known about the Company's reputation since I was very young,' he said. 'It is an honour to have an opportunity to work there.'
Zeitler beamed at him.
'I understand your uncle is Julian Gortat?' he said. 'A formidable man.'
Dominik stared at the surface of the table. How had he not known that before? In the main lobby of the Company, a portrait of Chief Administrator Gortat filled the wall opposite the grand front doors. Painted in dark, portentous oils, 'formidable' was too benign a word to describe the eyes which Dominik sometimes felt on him when he was still streets away.
He looked up to see Lukas' smile was a thin one.
'He is,' Lukas said. 'But I must stress again, that I am here strictly on my own merits.'
'I should hope so.' Zeitler sounded amused. 'My current assistant has just accepted the role of Deputy Head Administrator for the Department of Information. He has assured me – assured me – that the fact his wife's father works there has absolutely nothing to do with it.'
Was that a joke, Dominik wondered? Would he look better to Administrator Zeitler if he laughed?
Instead, it was Lukas who spoke up.
'If you'll forgive me asking,' he said, 'does this mean you will soon be recruiting for the role of Assistant Administrator?'
Zeitler laughed, delighted at the younger man's audacity. Dominik felt a pit open somewhere inside of him. He cursed himself for not speaking first.
'Well, of course we shall have to see,' Zeitler said. 'If we are, I'm sure we shall consider all avenues. Fathers, mothers, daughters, sons.'
He looked thoughtful, then glanced at Dominik.
'Did I hear you have children?'
'Next month,' Dominik said. 'God willing.'
He sensed Zeitler was trying to change the subject and wished he had more to say. In their apartment in the City, Maria was alone except for the child that grew inside her, and although she talked and sang to it as though it were born already, Dominik knew fine well it was no company at all.
Zeitler unfolded the paper napkin, flapping it open like a bullfighter with a cape.
'You have my sympathies and my congratulations,' he said, tucking the napkin under his collar. 'I have two girls and a boy. And when the first of them was born, it was as though the world I had once known had been held to a ransom I am still unable to pay.'
He looked rueful.
'But they are precious things, children. You fill them up with your hopes and fears and you send them out into the world as though such thoughts will sustain them. But they are their own souls and ours is but one influence upon them. It is sobering indeed to see how willing they are to open themselves to others.'
He was interrupted by the arrival of a pair of elderly women, arm-in-arm. They wore expensive silk scarves and felt hats. They had the same amusement in their eyes as they nodded and smiled at the three men from the Company. They took seats at the other table then each unfolded a fan and talked quietly as they waited.
A short while later a young couple entered the room and, with bashful smiles to the room at large, took seats at the women's table. Both were dressed smartly and spoke quietly, leaning in close to murmur in the other's ear.
Zeitler checked his watch.
'The Widow's House is always full,' he said. 'I have been here more than most, and I have never seen an empty seat. Have either of you been before?'
Dominik shook his head. 'No sir,' he said.
Lukas looked uncomfortable.
'My father thought it unnecessary to bring me,' he said. He was about to say more, when the door opened one more time and an older gentleman came in.
The man picked his way to the table where Dominik, Lukas and Zeitler were sitting. The pencil line of ribbons along the top pocket of his jacket confirmed the military status his bearing implied.
'Good evening,' he said, nodding to the room.
'Good evening, Colonel.' Zeitler's voice boomed. He stood with a swiftness Dominik found surprising. 'It is an honour.'
The other diners hurried to their feet, none wishing to be the last to stand, but the Colonel waved them down.
'Please,' he said. 'I am here only to observe the formalities of this terrible place. I am here as you are, no more.'
Dominik sat back on the chair with relief. The uncomforta
ble heat made him itch. Already he had sweated through the seat of his trousers, and his woollen waistcoat felt unpleasant and tight around his chest and armpits. He eyed the carafe of water on the table and wondered when it would be considered acceptable to pour himself a glass.
*
When the widow stepped into the room, the low level of conversation snapped to an expectant stillness.
Dominik had seen her picture before of course, the photograph taken before her trial; a stark, unsparing portrait, head and shoulders against a white-tiled wall. The picture was black and white, the contrast so high, the shadows around her cheekbones pooled into voids which made her look wasted and skeletal.
The woman who entered the room was dressed as she had been the day, twelve years ago, when she had murdered the General. A tarnished silver locket hung on a chain and nestled at her breast. She must have been well into her fifties, but she wore her age with a grace that Dominik could not help but find admirable.
She tilted her head slowly so she was looking first at the strangers in her lounge, and then through them. Twelve years of defiance and regret concentrated and etched like cracks and shadows around her eyes.
'Welcome to my house, General Subosky,' she said. 'You honour me with your company.'
Her voice was clear but her inflection was lifeless.
The diners murmured their own responses:
'Murderer.'
'Whore.'
Unsure what he should add, Dominik was thankful his vague, indecisive murmur was eclipsed by the sharp voice of one of the elderly women, who spoke with such venom that spittle flecked across the room like punctuation.
'Traitorous bitch,' she said.
The widow lowered her eyes again and turned back through the kitchen door. She returned with a pair of large decanters – one square, one round – both filled with a colourless spirit. Working from the sideboard at the back of the room, she poured eight glasses and passed them amongst the diners without hurry.
Once she had returned to the kitchen, the Colonel pushed himself to his feet and lifted his glass.
You Will Grow Into Them Page 20
