The Judas Boy

by Simon Raven

  Fielding's sweaty fingers trembled and slipped. His hand touched the neck and his throat heaved. With a great effort he mastered himself and once more tackled the knot. Could any mere handkerchief be worth such torture?

  'Surely,' he remembered saying to Percival, 'he'd never have left such a conspicuous object behind him on that boy's body?'

  'I've no doubt he had every intention of removing it. But it didn't work out as he thought ... They arrive at the scene of execution and carry the body from the car. All in total darkness. They bend back the trees, which they have selected earlier by daylight Two men secure them. Another man busies himself with the boy's ankles. Meanwhile Restarick pulls the pad out from under the mask and starts to untie the mask itself. The knot is tight and it won't undo. Someone blunders or panics, the trees are released before Restarick is ready ... Then, when it's all over, he hears a car in the distance: the police. Hurriedly be tears at the knot in the handkerchief—standing on his toes, perhaps, because the parting trees have swung the body well dear. So he reaches up for the hanging head, and he can't risk a torch, and the car is getting closer. One final attempt to drag the handkerchief off the head, but it's tightly tied and he can't see and he's sweating with fear—so he runs for it with the rest of his men and hopes for the best.'

  'Guesswork. All of it.'

  'All except for one handkerchief of finest quality linen ...'

  This handkerchief, Fielding thought now. The knot too tight to undo. ... One final attempt to drag the handkerchief off ... Too tightly tied even for that ... then ... But now ... There is ... something different ... now. Slowly he peeled the linen up over the poor sunken face; clearly visible, amid the stains on the underside, was a Maltese Cross embroidered in green. The handkerchief stuck slightly and he gave a quick pull. The handkerchief came away and his knuckles rapped very sharply against the inside of the tomb. Cuts: flaws in the skin. Weeping with terror he 'threw down the cerement and ran for his bag. He scrabbled in it for the wine bottle, poured the lees over his knuckles, rubbed them well in. Would it be strong enough to disinfect? He must get back to Nicosia and find a doctor in case. But first there were things he must do. Still pouring with tears, he removed his own handkerchief from his face, dropped it on top of the filthy thing on the ground, gathered them up together and thrust them into his bag. Then he went back to the tomb to work the slab into its proper position. But no, he thought, there's something else I must do first, what is it, O God, what is it? Yes. Yes.

  He felt in his breast pocket and took out the Mezuzah. Gregory won't mind, he thought, as he placed it on the broken body.

  'Forgive me,' he cried out loud as the tears of terror and pity and disgust streamed off his cheeks, 'please forgive me. Don't let there be a curse. Let the sacred name of Shaddai absolve me from your curse.'

  Part 2: Arcadia

  5: Appraisals

  'I'm sorry,' said Tom Llewyllyn to Fielding Gray in the Television Centre, 'but it simply isn't enough.'

  'I quite agree.'

  'All you've produced,' continued Tom, 'is one handkerchief which you found round the neck of a corpse. True, you have been able to verify that it was sold to this man Restarick by a London firm of haberdashers; but what does that prove? Handkerchiefs are easily lost or stolen. Even if you can show that Restarick was in Cyprus at the time of the murder, that handkerchief does not necessarily prove that he was present at the killing, or that he was helping EOKA, or that he was Diomedes.'

  'But it does create a strong supposition that he was mixed up in it all somewhere?'

  'In this sort of case we can't afford to deal in suppositions,'

  'I have already said that I agree.'

  'Then why,' said Tom, 'have you come back to London so soon? Not but what I'm very pleased to see you.'

  'I've come back,' said Fielding, 'to make quite certain where I stand. There have already been signs—that telegram to Athens—that the BBC isn't over-enthusiastic about this enquiry, and I don't imagine that the implications of what I have discovered will give very much pleasure. And so I want your assurance that if I follow this through, whatever I later discover will be fully and fairly presented on television and not suppressed or laughed off.'

  'I'm in sole charge,' said Tom, 'of Today is History. You have my assurance—you always had it—that I will broadcast anything of value which you may discover in or about Cyprus. But are you sure you want to go back? Haven't you had enough trouble already?'

  'Look,' said Fielding. 'I have persisted so far in order to find out the truth for myself. This I have now done to my own broad satisfaction, but, as we both agree, I have not yet come up with enough solid evidence to justify making the matter public. Since I think the matter should be made public, I am prepared to go back and hunt for more evidence, however disagreeable the circumstances, provided that I am assured of your support—'

  '—Which you are—'

  '—And also that you will now define exactly what sort of proof you will require from me before going ahead with an exposé.'

  Tom put his hands in his hair and his elbows on his desk. His eye was promptly caught by a large piece of paper which bore the memo Call for Baby's Cod-Liver Oil and Malt, an instruction which had been telephoned by Patricia just before Fielding arrived. He shuddered with irritation and re-addressed himself, not without effort, to the affair in, hand.

  'Difficult,' he said. 'What do you think you can offer?'

  'My informant, Percival,' Fielding said, 'who was dead right about that handkerchief, has now come up with something else.' Leonard Percival had in fact emerged from wherever be had been lurking to meet Fielding at London Airport the previous evening. In the taxi from the airport to Buttock's Hotel he had expressed satisfaction at what Fielding had achieved and issued crisp instructions for the next move. 'Something else,' Fielding said now, 'of a rather different kind.'

  'Well?'

  Fielding rose and went to the window which looked down on the White City Stadium. Tom, he thought, is not going to like this. Well, supposing he doesn't? I can just give the whole thing up. and that will be that. I've done what I wanted to; I've defied those who tried to bully me and found out the truth which they wished to hide; my honour is satisfied. I've won the game and I know it, and I'm surely a mature enough man not to care whether or not the result is made public.

  And yet he knew very well that he did care. He cared, not on grounds of morality or politics or patriotism, but simply because he had an intense personal distaste for agitators— for all people like Restarick who (whatever their motives) went round stirring up trouble where there had been peace and quiet before. Such people made everything they came near ugly and uncomfortable. He, Fielding, resented them, he wanted them caught and humiliated and put out of the way. Until recently his hatred had been all for the Cypriots, who had taken one of his eyes and ruined his face for ever; but now, now that he knew what he did, it was Restarick he wanted to punish, not so much because Restarick was ultimately responsible for the events which had led to his disfigurement, as because Restarick was representative of those forces of disruption which were daily posing a more vicious threat to all the things he cherished.

  For Restarick was the Enemy: he stood for Change. To be sure, he was the agent of an American organisation which existed to promote stability and good order throughout the world; but in this instance that organisation, inspired by jealousy of Empire, by sheer atavistic spite, was following a deliberate policy of rabble-rousing and revolution. Restarick had been sent to Cyprus to play the demagogue, to inflate trivial discontent to the point of obscene explosion. Restarick stood for disintegration, he stood for rant, for 'protest', for subversion—and Restarick must be destroyed. Which meant that Restarick must be exposed; so that it was very important, as Fielding now recognised, that he should not give up at this stage, that he should persevere until he could bring a public case. For this he needed Tom's support; but Tom, he knew, would not be pleased when Fielding told him what must come
next, and it would have to be put to him with care.

  'Well?' Tom said.

  'According to Percival,' said Fielding, 'there was a large notice left behind near that Jewish boy who was murdered. This specifically stated that it was Diomedes—not Dighenis, which was what Grivas called himself, but Diomedes—who had engineered this act of revenge. Never mind whether or not he was actually them, it was Diomedes who had given that order, and someone was evidently anxious that people should know this was the case. Now, who and why?'

  'Perhaps Dighenis—i.e. Grivas—wanted to dissociate himself?'

  'Precisely. Diomedes was making a stern and necessary example, as he thought, but Grivas reckoned that this particular piece of atrocity was going too far and would probably do harm to his reputation. This fits in very well with your ''Grivas was just a decent soldier” theory. He couldn't prevent Diomedes, if only because Diomedes was the agent of those who were providing the cash, but he wasn't going to be held personally responsible for this bit of beastliness. And so with or without Diomedes' knowledge, Grivas arranged for a notice to be left behind saying that it was all Diomedes' work.'

  'You're still no nearer proving who Diomedes was.'

  'Wait a little ... Now, in the event it didn't matter what the notice said because the mess was cleared away by the police before anyone knew about it. In fact, the whole thing was so carefully hushed up that only a handful of people know about it even to this day.'

  'All right. But where does all this get you?'

  'It gets me to Athens. It gets me to the house of General Grivas, as he is now styled, telling him how much, as an ex-soldier myself, I admire his conduct of the campaign in Cyprus. True, I shall say, the terrorist element was unfortunate, but after all Grivas was outnumbered and had no choice. In the circumstances, he could be forgiven a few dead civilians, a few bombs in the markets and the taverns, because it was the only way to make his point. Indeed, I shall tell him, it is now generally agreed that the whole affair does him nothing but credit. So much so that BBC Television is very keen to do a piece about it—a piece which will demonstrate, in typical breast-tearing English fashion, that everything was all our fault and that our enemies were the most spotless and courageous of idealists.'

  'Go on,' said Tom, frowning down at the memo about Baby's Malt.

  'Well,' said Fielding, 'Grivas will sit there purring, and I shall then ask permission to put a few preliminary questions. Because, I shall say, there is one slight snag. Our investigations have revealed that there was one very nasty piece of work indeed, which up till now nobody knows about. The barbarous mutilation of a young Jewish boy, who was literally torn apart. No doubt about it: if necessary we can produce the body. Impersonal terrorism is one thing. I shall proceed, but this is quite another. Will the General kindly explain?'

  'Oh yes, yes. the General can explain: that particular murder was done against his wishes—he even had a notice put up to disown it. ''I'm afraid, sir. that I must ask you to be more precise.'' Very well: it was arranged by his—er— assistant, Diomedes. “And who was he?” Well, er ... “Come come, General. Diomedes is just a code-name. It could mean anybody or nobody. Who was he? What was his role? Because if you don't tell me, the BBC will have to take a less tolerant view of your activities. I shall be compelled to report that I have inspected the remains of a victim—a mere child—whose manner of death was more revolting than anything since Dachau, and for whose murder General Grivas himself must be held responsible.” And what, Tom, does this gallant officer do then? Does he sit there and endure the stain on his honour? Or does he come up with the truth about Restarick?'

  'He kicks you straight out of the house,' said Tom, 'if, indeed, he ever let you into it. I don't like it. Fielding. I don't like the way you propose to use threats in the name of the BBC—'

  '—You can always say I exceeded my brief—'

  '—And leaving that aside, I just don't care for your method. It's sheer blackmail—against all conscience.'

  'It's only my conscience that need be involved. Leave that to me.'

  'I shall be responsible for using the stuff.'

  'But not for getting it. You need know nothing more that.'

  'You've already told me what you intend.'

  'Pure speculation, dear boy. An imaginative version of the way things just might work out Look, Tom,' said Fielding, 'what it boils down to is this: if I come back from Athens, bringing a signed statement from Grivas, or some other authoritative figure in this field, that Diomedes was the American, Earle Restarick, will you accept it as evidence?'

  Tom breathed heavily and clenched both fists.

  'Yes,' he said at last: 'if you can prove the signature.'

  'What about a tape recording?'

  'Yes; if Grivas or whoever gives it his written attestation.'

  'And suppose I get the recording without his knowing?'

  'Then I shall require one other witness, besides yourself, to swear that the tape is genuine.'

  'Fair enough,' said 'Fielding. 'So those are your conditions and you will stand by them?'

  'I will,' said Tom, wiping his palms on his lapels.

  'Good,' said Fielding. 'I shall leave for Athens as soon as you send me an air ticket. First class, please.'

  'My budget isn't bottomless.'

  'It'll run to first-class air tickets for old friends. I shall be at Tessie Buttock's.'

  'Oh, all right,' said Tom, and ground his teeth. 'Give my love to Tessie.'

  Tom sends his love.' said Fielding to Tessie Buttock that evening.

  'There's a dear boy, like he always was. How was he looking?'

  'A bit harassed. I think this BBC job worries him.'

  'I hope.' said Tessie, 'that wife of his is feeding him proper.'

  'I doubt it. She was used to a big house in the country with plenty of servants. She hasn't taken to London.'

  'She could learn. I've no patience with these girls that put on airs.'

  'It's not altogether her fault,' said Fielding. 'For years now Tom has been making a lot of money, and he could easily afford a house or a large flat with a girl to live in and help with the work and the baby. Instead of which he insists on living in a poky little hole in Southwell Gardens and won't have a servant anywhere near the place. Something to do with his socialist conscience.'

  'But even socialists have servants,' Tessie said. 'Anyway, Tom was always in and out of restaurants, and he had people waiting on him when he lived here.'

  'Hotels and restaurants are different. You pay an agreed sum for an agreed service. But if you have servants in your own home, Tom told me once, it sets up a feudal relationship which is a denial of human dignity on both sides. His own words.

  'What rubbish. Ask Albert Edward,' Tessie said, and poked the snoring dog. 'A fat lot he cares for his human dignity as long as he's warm and fed.'

  'I also think.' said Fielding, 'that consciously or not Tom's punishing Patricia for having had a rich and easy childhood. Whereas he himself—well, no one even knows where he came from.'

  'He once told me something,' Tessie said, 'which made me think his mother must have had a rough time. "Four of us," he said, "and she could never be sure the money would come." So perhaps he's punishing this Patricia because of his mother.'

  'Or perhaps he's sending his mother a lot of money to make up and can't afford anything better than Southwell Gardens after all. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that he's turning Patricia into a drudge and seems to regard it as the natural fate for a married woman.' Fielding disengaged his thigh from the embrace of Albert Edward and rose from the fender-cushion. 'So long, Tessie. I'm off out.'

  'Not staying in for supper, dear? I've got your favourite steak and kidney.'

  'Sorry, love. I've got a date.'

  'Made it with my own hands.'

  'Never mind,' said Fielding, who knew as well as Tessie did that it had come out of a tin, 'it'll make a nice treat for Albert Edward.'

  'I can't imagine,' sa
id Patricia Llewyllyn in Southwell Gardens, 'what made you forget Baby's Cod-Liver Oil and Malt.'

  'I've had a difficult day,' said Tom, 'and I had more important things to remember. Anyway, why couldn't you get it?'

  'Baby and I went to see Isobel, which is the wrong way for the chemist.'

  'How was Isobel?'

  'Very energetic. She was cleaning out the attic.'

  'Why not follow her example?'

  'We haven't got an attic.'

  'We've got a sitting-room,' said Tom, looking despondently round it.

  'Somehow,' said Patricia, 'I can't bring myself to care much about it. It's such a transitory kind of place. Now, Isobel and Gregory's house—'

  '—Is all very well for Isobel and Gregory. I'm different I've always lived in transitory places. I couldn't do anything else.'

  'What about me?' said Patricia.

  'Come over here,' said Tom.

  When Patricia came to him, he took her on his knee and kissed her on the lips.

  'Remember what I told you when we were married?' he said.

  'Tom ... Kiss me again.'

  'In a minute ... Remember I said that I was a writer before I was a husband? And that in some ways my writing would always have to come first?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, this flat.' said Tom, 'is one of those ways. A writer is someone who lives in passage, and so this flat is just a place of passage. Soon we shall move to another. We shall never have a house like Isobel and Gregory, not even if I make a million pounds, until I am dead as a writer. Do you understand?'

  'I think so, Tom. Baby's asleep. Come with me.'

  Later on, while they were eating Heinz Spaghetti on toast, Tom said:

  'Have you seen my National Insurance Card? They keep asking for it at the BBC.'

  'I don't think you've ever had one.'

  'But I thought they came automatically.'

  'You have to stamp them,' Patricia explained, 'and send them in at the beginning of every March, and then they send you another one for the next year. If you've never had one, you'll never get one ... if you see what I mean.'