Requiem

by Clare Francis

  ‘For the moment,’ Hillyard said, somewhat piqued at the lack of reaction. ‘I thought it sounded quite promising.’

  ‘Well, keep me informed.’ The interest, Hillyard noted, was not exactly overwhelming.

  ‘I can’t say when I’ll have anything. The Field girl’s due back in the morning. There’ll be the usual delay.’ Hillyard added peevishly: ‘It’s not easy having one hand tied behind one’s back.’

  There was a silence. This was an old argument and not, apparently, one Hillyard was going to be allowed to go into just at the moment. ‘And the other matter, the one you dealt with today?’ came the voice.

  ‘All on schedule,’ Hillyard replied. ‘The main event was yesterday afternoon. She’s decided to go to the Seychelles with a friend. I’ll see her off myself.’

  ‘No problems then?’

  ‘No, all paid up.’ Unable to let things lie, Hillyard returned to the old argument. ‘You know, it’s crazy to leave that office uncovered.’

  ‘You know the policy. Too risky.’

  ‘There’d be no risk, not with the new technology. I told you, no one’d ever know they were there.’

  A pause. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘You talk about risk, but personal visits are ten times riskier.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ He was sounding edgy. He didn’t like being pushed.

  ‘What about the boyfriend’s place then?’ Hillyard suggested. ‘I could fix that up, no trouble – ’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But she spends quite a bit of time there.’

  ‘No.’

  Hillyard gave a biting little sigh of annoyance. ‘Right-ho, you’re the boss. But don’t blame me if I miss something.’

  Hillyard replaced the receiver a little too hard so that it jumped out of its cradle and he had to replace it. The dog was still at his feet. He bent down and grabbed its head. ‘No imagination, these people, eh, Beji?’ he hissed into its ear. ‘No imagination.’

  The dog looked up at him, its eyes bulging beseechingly, and gave a little whimper. Hillyard pushed its head playfully from side to side, gripping the fluffy ears tighter as it tried to struggle free. ‘None at all.’

  Releasing the dog, he pushed it aside with his foot.

  Daisy thought: Now how did I manage this?

  She was standing in the main hall of the Greyhound depot at the Port Authority building, on her own, with a hundred and fifty-three dollars in her pocket, an empty folder of travellers’ cheques, and a gaping ignorance of New York. Her homeward flight had left Washington two hours ago, making her return air ticket, which had been a cheap no-swap deal, worth nothing at all. Worse, she wouldn’t have time to find a hotel, not if she was going to get to Madison Square Garden by seven thirty.

  She looked for some bench space, no easy matter when the little available seating was taken up by sprawling family groups, back-packers, and sinister men with lizard eyes and large bellies. Taking her case to a corner, she laid it on the floor and sorted her way through underwear, a change of T-shirt and a toothbrush. A passing security guard paused to stare.

  Pushing the bundle into her voluminous shoulder bag, she lugged her case towards a uniformed official. It took a moment to establish that it was not a left-luggage office that she wanted but a parcel check.

  The depository was on the lower level, and cost two dollars. Which left a hundred and fifty-one dollars for a non-available ticket for a concert that may or may not happen, and a hotel room she may or may not find.

  Outside, the heat was oppressive, and a thin clammy rain was falling, almost as warm and sticky as the air itself. The traffic was heavy and the cabs all taken, and it wasn’t until Daisy leapt across the street at a run, yelling at the top of her voice, that she managed to capture a cab offloading a passenger.

  The traffic was at a crawl and the ten or so blocks to Madison Square Garden took ten minutes. The cab driver, who spoke almost no English, did not understand her questions about cheap but decent hotels, although she noticed that his English improved dramatically when it came to spelling out the fare.

  The Garden was a massive circular building covering two blocks. The entrances were choked with people. When Daisy finally managed to get inside there was no misreading the signs above the ticket windows. Sold Out. No Returns.

  Back outside, the touts were asking upwards of a hundred dollars and weren’t about to haggle. One laughed derisively when Daisy volunteered an English cheque.

  Seven twenty-three. A passer-by directed her to a late-opening bank in a nearby shopping plaza. At the bank she discovered that money was easy to get, but only if you were a paid-up card carrier. Gold card, dispenser card, charge card: the automatic dispensing machine wasn’t too fussy. But if you were a non-plastic-carrying foreigner with scruples about easy credit the place was a fortress. Sometimes, Daisy reflected, pursuing one’s principles was a pain.

  It was after seven thirty. The rain was thin but penetrating. She ran back to the Garden along an uneven and slippery sidewalk. A few latecomers were still rushing for the entrances, but otherwise the street was empty. Even the touts had evaporated.

  She walked round the curve of the building until she found the employees’ entrance, a dark doorway hidden under an overhang. It was well-defended, a veritable Alamo, with rows of hefty security guards glaring out over metal barricades, looking for hostile forces.

  She approached the nearest guard, who was staring at a point somewhere above her head. ‘I’ve come to see someone in the show.’

  His eyelids flickered. ‘Passes only.’ She noticed he spoke without moving his lips.

  She nodded slowly. ‘Suppose I said that I was expected, but I’d lost my pass – ’

  The guard swivelled his eyes in her direction. ‘Look, lady, no one gets through without a pass, okay?’ This time his lips gave the slightest quiver, as if he were exhaling sharply.

  ‘I see,’ she conceded. ‘Could I at least leave a message?’

  His mouth hardened.

  ‘All I’m asking is to write it inside and come straight out.’

  ‘Lady – it’s no pass, no pass, okay?’

  ‘Let’s try it another way,’ she said. ‘Suppose I write the note out here and then hand it to you to leave inside the stage door.’

  The guard blinked impassively. ‘Lady, you can write an entire book so long as you don’t pass this point, okay?’

  She eyed him, this fountain of assistance, then smiled to show that she had no trouble in moving her lips.

  She retreated. A note – what would a note do? She felt a sudden gloom, a loss of energy. A note probably wouldn’t even get through.

  In the shelter of the overhang she extracted one of her cards and scribbled a few words on the back. I’m here in New York. I have some news. I wondered if we could meet … The next moment she groaned aloud as the absurdity of the exercise struck her, as she remembered that she had no number to leave, no contact point. She leant her head against the wall. What madness is this, Daisy? Not thinking straight. Not thinking at all. Ever since the meeting with Alan Breck she had been overcome by a driving compulsion to act; and now it had lost her the last of her judgement.

  Dropping the business card back into her bag, she crossed the street to a phone and rooted around for a number Paul Erlinger had given her. It was a friend of his; someone environmental in Greenwich Village. The friend had been out that morning when Paul had called, and now as the line picked up Daisy heard the unmistakable click and blip of an answering machine. Curious sounds came singing down the line, a gentle twittering. At first she thought it was a bad connection but then she realized it was birdsong, a dawn chorus. After a few seconds, a voice came winging over the symphony. ‘Hi, this is Thomas H. Raffety, working towards an integrated environment. I can’t take your call right now, but I’ll get back to you as soon as …’

  Rain came shafting against Daisy’s face. She twisted away from it, and, out of the corner of her eye, saw a figure emerge from the
barricades around the employees’ entrance.

  Tom H. Raffety’s machine bleeped in her ear, awaiting an answer. She gave her name absently, her attention fixed on the briskly walking figure who was crossing the street towards her. He was a young man in jeans, pale sneakers and a bomber-jacket with the collar turned up against the rain. As he drew closer she saw Amazon emblazoned across the front.

  Tom H. Raffety’s tape was turning patiently, the bird population silent. She muttered, ‘Call you later,’ and replacing the handset, hurried to intercept the striding figure.

  ‘Excuse me – are you with the show?’

  He cast her a sidelong glance but didn’t break step.

  ‘I’m a friend of Nick Mackenzie’s. I’m in town unexpectedly.’ She was almost running to keep up. ‘You wouldn’t be able to get a note through for me, would you? I couldn’t get past the apes on the gate.’

  His face grimaced, he rolled his eyes wearily heavenward. ‘Come on, luv, I’ve ’eard it all before!’

  She laughed: his accent was pure East End. And resuscitating the full ear-splitting beauty of her half-forgotten south London accent, she gave her best performance yet; she was the environmental campaigner over on a conference, she’d come to the show because Nick had invited her, but she’d failed to let him know in time, hence the lack of contact. After the long day and the succession of disappointments, the little embellishments came easily.

  His name was Les and he was a roadie and he wasn’t totally convinced. But he had at least come to a halt and was standing in the rain, listening. The campaigner bit seemed to hold him; he was impressed by the sight of her card. He also took in the fact that she’d had meetings with Nick, that they’d worked on an investigation together. She could see from his face that he’d already worked out which investigation that must have been.

  He dithered for a while, his expression swinging between caution and suspicion, then with a decisive grunt he jerked his head towards the barricades and led the way back to the Alamo. After a few minutes he came out with a pass that got her as far as the stage door. As she passed through the barricade Iron Lips, impassive to the end, made a point of looking away.

  Tearing a page out of her address book, Daisy scribbled: I’m here in New York. Wanted to see the show but you’re too popular. Have you a moment later? Or tomorrow? Something’s come up – extraordinary and important news. Daisy Field (from the Campaign Against Toxic Chemicals). PS Please leave a message at the stage door with a number where I can reach you.

  ‘It’ll be all right to pick up a message here?’ she asked. ‘I’ve no contact number, you see.’

  Les shot her a doubtful glance, then, looking at his watch, issued a sigh of inconvenience. ‘Wait a mo,’ he said abruptly and before she could ask him where he was going he’d disappeared into the backstage area.

  At the barricades the guards lounged at their posts. Old Iron Lips slid her a knowing look, as if he’d had her number all along. Beyond the canopy, the rain fell steadily. Above the hiss of wet tyres on the street, she thought she could make out the twang of amplified music from inside the hall.

  Les was back in five minutes. He had an envelope in his hand. It was unsealed and lying inside it was a ticket.

  Daisy laughed with surprise and pleasure. ‘How on earth did you manage that? Thank you.’

  He was half-way out of the door, resuming his interrupted errand. ‘Don’t fank me, luv,’ he said. ‘Fank the boss.’

  The sound didn’t hang in the air, politely waiting to be heard, it resonated through your body until your bones vibrated and your ears drummed and your brain felt as if it contained a billion megawatts of sound. And just in case that wasn’t enough to pulverize you into submission, there were the special effects. Strobes, lasers, kaleidoscopes of garish lights, and a stark fantastical set of girders and reflective metal revolves.

  It had been so long since Daisy had been to a live concert that she found herself jerked sharply back in time, landing somewhere between school and student days, surprised at the vividness of her memories yet unable to relate to them.

  The auditorium, a vast amphitheatre, was packed. There were ageing fans in Gucci shoes and designer jeans, jiggling around in their seats like fifteen-year-olds, having no trouble in recapturing the good old days. There were real kids too, who had ten years on Daisy, if not a great deal more, and for perhaps the first time in her life it occurred to her that, to some people at least, she was middle-aged.

  From the stage, one number followed another. The band was in two sections: towards the rear a shadowy six-piece backing group, and to the front and bathed in ever-changing light, Amazon – or rather two-thirds of them. Nick Mackenzie had not yet appeared.

  On first seeing this, she’d decided that it was part of the act, an old theatrical trick to build up the tension. Though it occurred to her that, in view of the press stories, the suspense might not be of the sort the producers had had in mind.

  After a time it seemed to her that the audience was starting to get restive, although this might simply have resulted from the monotony of the music, the sort of tuneless rock that had fuelled a hundred forgettable bands. It was certainly not Nick Mackenzie’s sort of music. This was all rhythm and amplification, while Nick’s songs had striking melodies and words that you actually listened to, songs about issues, songs about the environment, songs that had been written before most people knew that Brazil had a rain forest. His biggest hits, though, had been love songs. Yet they too were different – sharp and funny, or, when they were sad, seriously sad, so that you didn’t play them when you were feeling down.

  The set finished. The band took their bow. The lights faded. A shiver of expectation passed through the crowd.

  Was this it then? Or was this the big let-down? Had the others been covering for him? Would he fail to show?

  There was a pause.

  Then quite suddenly, without warning, he was there. No special effects, no drumroll. He simply slipped out of the shadows and stood there in the spotlight, centre stage.

  The crowd roared its welcome. He gave a small gesture of acknowledgement, a brief spread of the hands, and launched straight into his first song.

  The crowd fell silent. A charge seemed to fill the air, partly expectation, partly, it seemed to Daisy, something a little less comfortable, as if the crowd were daring him to live up to their expectations, to match up to the collective memories of a thousand middle-aged fans for whom, in their imaginations at least, time had stood still. Or maybe it was more sinister than that; maybe some had come in the hope of getting altogether more dramatic kicks by witnessing a spectacular and highly public personal disaster.

  Nick was dressed simply, in black jeans and open-necked shirt. His hair looked different – longer, fluffier – and his skin pale. Even from this distance she could glimpse the brilliant blue of his eyes. He wore no jewellery, no gold medallions or bracelets. In fact, there was nothing extraneous about him at all.

  The effect was powerful. There was something about the way he stood, self-contained and uncompromising, that made it impossible to drag your eyes away from him. And she didn’t try. For some reason she felt a proprietorial thrill, as if she had in some way helped to get him there.

  Amazon, finally complete, began with a rock ballad, a hit from over twenty years before. The strobes flashed, the lasers darted tongues of light, the crowd roared its approval. Yet for all the heightened atmosphere, for all Nick’s presence, it dawned on Daisy that, while the other two were squeezing every inch of attention from their performance, Nick was withholding something from his, something elemental.

  The memory of the courtroom strong in her mind, she watched his every movement, sensitive to the slightest suggestion of hesitation, wary of any step that might remotely resemble a lurch. But it wasn’t the drink or, if it was, he was hiding it very well. He moved easily, almost lazily, and she remembered his extraordinary grace, the beautiful hands, the long stride.

  More Amazon hits
followed, a rock number, a rock ballad: standard stuff from the Seventies. Then a conscience song, one of his early ones, famous for its biting words and powerful message. But now, for some reason, the force, the intensity had gone. The singing of the song seemed to be posing an immense trial for him; she could sense the effort he was making to get through to the end. And then quite suddenly she understood: his heart simply wasn’t in it. He was going through the motions all right, moving to the rhythms, creating the appropriate expressions, doing what was expected, but the effect was strained and contrived.

  It seemed to her that the crowd’s early excitement was also bleeding away. At the end of each successive song, the applause seemed to become less frenetic, more restrained. By the end of the set the air itself seemed cooler.

  She noticed that, when Nick stepped back to take a bow, he was frowning slightly.

  The applause died away. This was the moment for the opening chat with the audience, the ritual hi-there and how-wonderful-it-is-to-be-back, but the lights, instead of coming up, dimmed rapidly, leaving the stage in darkness. A single white spot grew at the front where Nick had been. It was empty. The silence drew out. The audience was very still, as if no one dared to imagine what might happen next.

  Was this another stage effect? If so, it was in danger of being overplayed. The suspense was being pulled out to breaking point. Then, just as the silence became unbearable, he stepped slowly back into the cold white pool of light and up to the microphone, with a guitar in his hands. For a long moment he stared at a point a yard or two in front of his feet, then, coolly, almost absentmindedly, started to play, very quietly, very slowly, and with rapt concentration. After a few bars he began to sing, so softly that his voice was barely audible above the instrument. A verse later and the band came in, muted and unobtrusive. He sang out a little then, but only enough to be heard. It was almost as if the audience didn’t exist for him, as if he were singing for no one but himself. The effect was extraordinarily intimate, and the crowd seemed to reach forward to meet him, to try and join him in the intensity of the experience.