Requiem

by Clare Francis

  He stopped. He felt crushed and dizzy.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m all right.’ But he wasn’t. He found a wall and leant against it. Closing his eyes was a mistake; his head spun faster and when he opened his eyes again he had to grip his temples to prevent lift-off. After a time he was aware of Daisy taking his arm and coaxing him into a cab and getting him back to the hotel.

  It was midday when he awoke, in need of the bathroom. He was lying on the bed fully clothed except for his shoes. A bed-cover was spread over him and the curtains were closed. There was a glass of water beside him and he remembered that she had made him drink tons of it before she’d let him sleep.

  When he finally got up and showered and took his hangover for a stumble through the suite he found a note on the sitting-room table.

  I took the cheque, but won’t do anything with it until I’ve spoken to you. To say I’d be heartbroken if you changed your mind is an understatement … A line had been crossed out. He tried to make out what it was. Something like: ‘I’d shoot myself’, followed by several exclamation marks. But I’d understand, she went on. In the meantime, think again about staying in touch. We need you. Yours gratefully, Daisy.

  He dropped the note back on the table and forgot about it until later, when it was time to move out. Then he scooped it up and, crushing it into a small ball, threw it in the bin.

  Three days later, sitting in a rented flat in London, he called his accountant and told him to expect the cheque. Then he called Catch and left a message with the girl there to say it was all right for Daisy to cash it.

  When he put the phone down, he felt, against all expectations, as if the shadows were lifting.

  Chapter 24

  SCHENKER HAD BEEN given a side table for the second time in a week. After three years in the wilderness of the Savoy Grill’s centre tables, did this mean he had finally crossed the invisible divide and won the accolade of guaranteed occupancy? One could never be sure. Had Schenker’s secretary told them he was going to be lunching with a cabinet minister? That might have decided the issue, of course, though Schenker preferred not to think so.

  The minister, when he arrived, strode in at the politician’s trot, energetic and fired with purpose, smiling broadly, greeting the head waiter like a valued colleague, acknowledging acquaintances with a regal nod as he motored across the floor.

  It was five months since the election, and three months since Schenker had seen Driscoll, though not for lack of invitations. The minister had been too busy for Ascot, Wimbledon, Henley and Glyndebourne. Too busy or, it occurred to Schenker, too intent on quietly distancing himself from old affiliations.

  The minister ordered mineral water, a wild mushroom and scallop salad followed by a plain grilled Dover sole. ‘My waistline,’ he laughed. But he said it with pride, patting his stomach to draw attention to a considerable weight-loss which had left him, if not quite slim, then certainly looking a great deal fitter. Power obviously suited him. He had the air of a man taking his responsibilities seriously but with huge enjoyment.

  Schenker commented on how well he was looking.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And how’s Susan?’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ But it was said with a certain crispness and Schenker got the impression that the conversation was not going to be allowed to drift into more personal realms.

  The first course arrived and they talked their way through the economy, the latest food scare and an opinion poll on irradiated food. Schenker would have liked to leave the business of the day a little longer, but he sensed that Driscoll was going to make his escape as soon as decently possible.

  ‘You’ll have guessed why I wanted a chat,’ Schenker began as soon as the waiter had cleared the plates. ‘This extraordinary business about Silveron.’

  Driscoll gave a rapid nod. ‘My staff have been keeping me informed.’

  His staff would have been alerted two weeks ago, Schenker guessed, when items had appeared in The Times and Independent. Neither story had been more than a couple of column-inches long, but that had been quite sufficient to put the wind up the Morton-Kreiger shareholders. ‘The point is,’ he said, ‘there’s absolutely not a shred of evidence to back these claims. Not a shred. This is pure scaremongering of the worst kind. An alarmist campaign dreamed up by the American pressure groups.’

  ‘We realize that,’ Driscoll reassured him.

  Schenker proceeded delicately. ‘So the ministry will back us on this?’

  ‘In what way do you mean?’ He sounded guarded.

  ‘Announce that the stories are absolutely groundless.’

  ‘The ministry can’t make those sort of statements, Ronald, you know that.’ Driscoll’s voice seemed to have altered, to have become plummier and more melodious than Schenker remembered, as if he’d been taking voice lessons.

  Schenker tried another tack. ‘But I can understand, can I, that your people privately condemn this campaign?’

  ‘We always frown on pressure-group hysteria, you know that. Unless there’s some basis in fact, of course.’ He nodded to some new arrival across the room, his face breaking into a fleeting smile before resuming an appropriate seriousness. ‘We certainly have no intention of responding to pressure, otherwise we’d spend all our time reacting, and not doing what the people elected us to do, which is to get on with implementing the government’s election programme. No, I understand that my people are in contact with your people over this, and that we’re all in contact with the Americans. I’ve no doubt the experts will sort it out. They usually do.’

  Was he being deliberately unhelpful? Schenker couldn’t decide.

  ‘The thing is, Tony,’ he said, ‘this sort of thing can have repercussions out of all proportion – if matters are allowed to get out of hand, that is. If people panic.’

  ‘Panic? We’re certainly not going to be panicked into anything.’ Driscoll spoke with vague condescension, as if he’d been a minister for years and knew the ropes backwards. ‘Nothing’s getting out of hand at our end.’

  Schenker, bristling slightly, made the effort to smile. ‘At your end, no, of course not. I didn’t mean to suggest it was.’ The next course arrived, and they waited while the waiter took the sole off the bone and arranged the fillets on Driscoll’s plate. Schenker had ordered salmon, but was no longer hungry.

  The waiter finally left. ‘But there’s still a small problem from our point of view, Tony,’ Schenker said, forcing intimacy into his voice. ‘I was hoping you might be able to put my mind at rest. Concerning a disturbing bit of news I heard, something to do with a possible delay in Silveron’s full licence. And’ – he gave an incredulous laugh – ‘I even heard that the ACP might be reviewing the existing licence. It seemed so improbable I couldn’t believe it.’

  Driscoll took his time finishing his mouthful. ‘You know very well that the ACP go their own way, Ronald. The Advisory Committee on Pesticides. And that’s just what they are – advisory. They’re the experts and I rely utterly on their judgement. They’re my ears to the world of science.’ He obviously liked the sound of the phrase because he paused to let it reverberate a little.

  ‘But it’s an extraordinary step to take on no evidence – ’

  ‘Well, not exactly no evidence, old boy,’ Driscoll said reprovingly. Schenker noticed the old boy, a new addition to Driscoll’s vocabulary. ‘That’s the point, isn’t it?’ Driscoll said. ‘All these sick workers at your plant in Chicago – ’

  ‘Three people, Tony. Maybe only two. And even if it had – ’

  ‘I thought it was eight or more?’ Driscoll cut in.

  ‘Three,’ Schenker persisted. ‘And there’s strong evidence to show that Silveron is completely innocent. We can show that at least four workers who thought their illnesses were chemical-related are suffering from diseases that have absolutely nothing to do with – ’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Driscoll waved a hand. ‘I’m sure your people have
done their homework. They ran a second batch of trials, didn’t they, and the product looked fine? I know all that, Ronald. But the fact remains that some people are sick, and the thing has to be looked into. Don’t forget the unions, Ronald. I’ve got them breathing down my neck all the time. They’re never happy about these things until matters are properly investigated. And you won’t need reminding, I’m sure, that they can do you far more damage than anyone else in the long run, with boycotts and that sort of thing. Far more damage.’

  ‘I respect their anxiety. I do, sincerely,’ Schenker said. ‘But in this instance it is very seriously misplaced, Tony. Very seriously misplaced.’ Driscoll had the blank look of someone who was rapidly losing interest.

  Doggedly, Schenker pressed on. ‘The Silveron licence, Tony. What I’d like to know is what possible reason the ACP have for taking another look at it?’

  Driscoll gave a laugh, the sort people use to skirt around questions they have no intention of answering. ‘Ronald, what can I say? As far as the ACP is concerned, my hands are tied. Utterly tied. It’s a question of the due processes running their course, and being seen to run their course.’

  Was this obduracy just a ploy? Schenker wondered. Was Driscoll taking a tough stand merely to make a future concession look doubly generous?

  Driscoll pointed a knife at Schenker’s plate. ‘You haven’t touched your salmon. I wonder if it’s farmed. We export twelve thousand tons of salmon a year, you know. Amazing.’

  Picking up a fork, Schenker began to pull half-heartedly at the fish.

  ‘On second thoughts, probably wild,’ Driscoll murmured reflectively. ‘The Savoy, you know. Still caters for purists.’

  Schenker put his fork down without eating. ‘Tony, I don’t need to tell you what this uncertainty means to us. A licence review would result in a serious loss of confidence. We’ve invested a hell of a lot in this product, Tony, one hell of a lot.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Then where’s the faith in our expertise? Where’s the back-up? Where’s the support? Delays and uncertainties will cost jobs, Tony. We’ll have to lay people off – hundreds, maybe thousands.’

  ‘I’d never let it get that far, Ronald, you know that.’

  ‘But these things can happen overnight!’

  Driscoll smiled benevolently and, folding his napkin into a neat square, leaned confidentially across the table. ‘Listen, this is what I’ll do.’ Ah, here comes the concession, Schenker thought; here comes the sweetener. ‘I can’t make firm promises,’ Driscoll began like a true politician, ‘but what I can do is to press the committee to consider the matter with all possible speed, and remind them of the inadvisability of proceeding any further without hard evidence.’ He sat back looking pleased with himself. ‘I think that should do the trick, don’t you?’ Reading Schenker’s face, he spread his palms. ‘More, sadly, I cannot do.’

  Oh but you can, thought Schenker, his stomach twisting unpleasantly. In view of the favours you owe me, in view of the substantial donations Morton-Kreiger makes to party funds, you can. But Schenker wasn’t going to beg, cap in hand, for a few additional crumbs of comfort that a grateful Driscoll might throw his way. That wasn’t his style.

  ‘That won’t be enough,’ he said firmly.

  Driscoll looked surprised as well as cross at this lack of appreciation. ‘What do you mean, not enough?’

  ‘We need a firm statement, to reassure people.’

  ‘Ronald, Ronald.’ He gave a small pitying shake of the head and dabbed his mouth with the folded napkin. ‘What do you expect me to do? Stand over the scientists and tell them how to run their committee?’

  ‘I expect you to do whatever you have to do to save Morton-Kreiger from this totally undeserved and highly damaging attack – this victimization.’

  Driscoll pulled himself upright, looking ruffled. He was just beginning to realize that Schenker might be calling in a number of long-standing favours. He didn’t reply but buttoned his jacket, ready for a quick getaway.

  Schenker spelt it out. ‘I saved your bacon, Tony. Now I’m asking you to do the same for me.’

  Driscoll looked at him uncomprehendingly and said tersely: ‘I’ve said I’ll do all I reasonably can. And I will.’ Then, casting an eye around him, itching for escape, he added dismissively: ‘What do you mean anyway – saved my bacon?’

  Schenker made a show of reticence, as if wild horses wouldn’t drag such unnecessary details from his lips.

  ‘Saved my bacon!’ echoed the minister with a chortle. ‘Really, Ronald, that’s a little over the top, isn’t it?’

  He has no idea, Schenker realized, not even an inkling.

  He’d probably erased the girl from his memory. Looking suitably reluctant at having to mention it, Schenker helped his memory along a bit.

  ‘That unpleasant business.’

  ‘Unpleasant business?’ the minister retorted. ‘It’d help if I knew what the hell you were talking about.’ He was irritated, but also, Schenker sensed, curious.

  Schenker pitched his voice just above a whisper. ‘The business with Miss Kershaw.’

  Surprise flashed across his face, and he gave a slight twitch as if he’d been attacked by an insect. Recovering, he raised an admonitory finger. ‘Don’t talk to me about Miss Kershaw. She was one of your least clever ideas, Schenker.’

  ‘My idea?’ He shook his head very slowly. ‘I don’t think that’s quite accurate, Tony. Remember, I never even knew the girl until I met her with you.’ Gesturing to show that the matter was hardly worth arguing about, he went on rapidly: ‘But it was certainly my idea to settle her financially and make sure she kept out of your way.’

  Driscoll was very still, his mouth sagging, the lower lip full and damp, revealing back teeth gleaming with fillings. When he finally managed to speak, his voice was thin and breathless. ‘Settle her?’

  Schenker flicked a warning glance as the waiter approached. They ordered coffee.

  Driscoll’s eyes were fixed blackly on his, waiting for an answer.

  Schenker took his time. ‘She had – er, ideas. We thought that her ideas were the last thing you needed in your new job. We identified the problem and dealt with it. We also went to some lengths to ensure she would never trouble you again.’

  Driscoll’s mouth moved. He spluttered: ‘You – ’ But he never went on. He closed his eyes as if a lot of half-realized pieces were suddenly falling into place. Then he shot Schenker an agitated glance. ‘We, you said?’

  ‘Sorry – I. Me.’

  The coffee arrived. Schenker asked for the bill. Then he fixed his gaze on Driscoll. ‘I valued our friendship highly enough to go out on a limb for you, to save you unpleasantness which might have been highly inconvenient to your career. This Silveron business means a lot to my career, Tony. I’m asking you to go out on a limb for me.’

  Driscoll was recovering fast, the fight bouncing back into his face. He protested: ‘I didn’t ask you to interfere. In fact, it was a bloody liberty.’

  ‘You would have preferred the business to’ – Schenker rotated his fingers, as if plucking the right word out of the air – ‘to, er, progress, would you?’

  He got the meaning of that all right, and mashed his lips together. ‘It wouldn’t have got that far.’

  ‘No?’ Schenker was losing patience. ‘Well, whichever way it had turned out, it would have cost you a great deal of worry, not to mention cash. I would have thought you were only too pleased to have that little lot taken off your hands.’

  The bill arrived. Schenker signed it without reading it.

  ‘It was rank interference,’ Driscoll repeated bitterly.

  Schenker could see what the trouble was. It wasn’t that he had interfered – Driscoll could hardly be anything but grateful about that – it was injured pride, lost face, and the fact that the revelation had put Driscoll so completely in Schenker’s debt.

  ‘I acted as a friend,’ Schenker said lightly. ‘If I did wrong then I did it w
ith the best intentions.’

  That took the wind out of his sails, as Schenker had known it would. Driscoll, his eyes darting rapidly round the room, ran a smoothing hand down the front of his jacket and pulled his shoulders back, soldier fashion. ‘I must go,’ he said sharply, and got to his feet. Schenker rose and they nodded formally to each other.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Driscoll murmured, and marched off. This time he forgot to nod to his acquaintances.

  Anne Dublensky gave a long shuddering sigh of exasperation. ‘What do you mean, let’s be positive?’

  ‘I mean, let’s be positive,’ Dublensky replied with a short laugh.

  ‘Sometimes you talk so much baloney, I think your head needs attention.’ She stalked out into the yard, letting the screen bang behind her. Standing up wearily, knowing what was to come as surely as if they were reading a script, he followed her outside and found her raking the leaves with ferocious energy.

  ‘What do you want, Anne?’ he asked, genuinely puzzled. ‘I mean, I have this job, don’t I? We have a new start. It may not be much, but what am I meant to do – throw it all away?’

  ‘I hate this place,’ she hissed under her breath.

  Automatically, he turned to look at the house. Okay, it wasn’t perfect – truth be told, it was rather a dump – but it wasn’t as if they were buying the place. They were just renting it while they waited for the house in Allentown to sell.

  ‘When the agreement runs out we could try another place,’ he suggested.

  ‘What?’ She looked at him as if he were a fool. ‘I meant

  this place.’ She made an impatient all-encompassing sweep of her arm.

  Ah, this place. This small town in New Jersey. It wasn’t such a bad neighbourhood, at least Dublensky didn’t think so. A little too satisfied with itself perhaps, not so friendly as other places they had been, a little too thick with country clubs that had mysteriously few Poles, Italians or Jews among their members, but not to be condemned for all that. There were always good unaffected people everywhere; you just had to go out and look for them. For some reason Anne hadn’t shown much interest in meeting people. Nor, for that matter, in applying to join any projects, although in the past she had always complained bitterly when she had been denied the opportunity to work.