Up to now, for some odd reason, I hadn’t really managed to connect past with present, to make the mental links in my own mind which rendered Nicola the actual offspring, the baby-child-teenage-adult product of a physical home in which Gray and her mother existed day to day and cooked and read the paper and washed dishes and copulated at night.
The truth was that I had chosen not to face it; just as Nicola had not yet realized the dimensions of the shadow which hung over us both. Now she looked as if she had gone freezing cold. Getting to her feet, she crossed the room, gazed out through one of those circular windows at the old-fashioned street lamp outside. She said: “I saw a show once…a musical thing. I remember one of the numbers. There were two people — a boy and a girl — and they were trying to…to reach each other, with a sort of love song.”
She turned and looked at us dully, her eyes veiled. “Only they couldn’t, you see, because there was this netting that hung between them. In a sense, they didn’t know it was there…and they groped through it with their hands, yet couldn’t find a gap. The sorrow they felt, and expressed in the words of the song, was there because they just didn’t understand…”
She paused a while and neither of us interrupted this bridge-passage of silence. But eventually she went on: “Well, that’s how it’s been between me and my father…I felt that talking to him was almost like sitting in the cinema watching a film of someone you just know is about to do something terrible to himself. You keep wanting to warn him, to shout something at the screen. You keep hoping he’ll hear you, by some miraculous process…Oh, I’m talking nonsense I know. But if only the man in the film would hear me; if only he’d turn round and listen a moment and change all that is predetermined by what is on the roll of celluloid yet to come. There’s no way of running the film backwards, is there? — to the point where they joined the wrong piece on? — Why is it, that I know where the missing piece of film — the right piece — was destroyed for ever? — inside an egg-shaped thing?”
Flaske, absolutely immobile now, said: “For almost the first time in my life I feel really frightened.”
Nicola: “Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to…” Her voice trailed off.
Flaske got up, joined her at the window, opened it. “Smell that? Smell that lovely, rich colloid of an early summer night? See the moths mushing around the street lamp? — the quiet of the little houses near us? — prettier than this one, for sure! Just one or two lights on, here and there. Families going to bed, you see. All…peaceful.” He turned and I watched him. “If they only knew! I wonder — ” He looked at us both, in turn. “I wonder what you two are to each other? Don’t think I’m an old man who just likes to pry. Assuredly, whatever it is you may have together, don’t waste it.”
The silence in that room seemed as if it would go on forever. From the window came the sound of a baby crying, far in the distance. A car arrived, departed…and still no one spoke. Not till the little night-rustlings were swamped by the distorted sound-track of some television soap opera, the ‘you’ll never get away with this’ and the ‘you’ve had this coming’ and the gunshot and the percussive music bridge…all of which floated across the tree-studded clearing outside from someone’s living-room…not till then did anyone speak.
Nicola, closing the window and then just standing without life in her body — rather as she had been that night at Tesh’s — said dully: “So obviously Dr Flaske knows about the BRUNDASH business, James. If you’d told me that I’m not sure I would have come.”
I said: “Whatever it is, Nicola, surely it has to be faced?”
Nicola turned toward the window. “I’d rather be like those people out there. At least when someone says danger they know what to look for…like that gunshot on the TV, or the smell of fire, even falling masonry. Something people understand. But this…this abstract thing…” She curled her fingers in an instinctively grotesque gesture, clawing with them at a force she could feel but couldn’t name. “Where is it? When is it? What is it?”
And Flaske knocking out his pipe. “And what does the name BRUNDASH mean to you?”
And me, suddenly realizing I was being addressed, not Nicola. “Oh…one of those words, I suppose, made up of initial letters…like SHAEF, UNESCO…one of those things. I never found what it actually meant.”
And Flaske’s odd smile. “Yes, I thought you’d say something like that. They didn’t tell you, did they? Brundash was a man. Mark you, the Pentagon later decided that he wasn’t. He never existed. He was too dangerous to exist. Never before has the State Department aped the performing ostrich quite so remorselessly! Mr Fulbright: there is a question on the tip of your tongue. What is it?”
“I was simply going to ask if his first name was Herbie.”
“Of course it was.”
After that, we didn’t mention the matter any more. It took some doing and I loved him for doing it, but Flaske systematically jollied Nicola out of that frighteningly depressed mood and then insisted on taking us out to some local place for supper. There, we talked of all the things in life that Dr Flaske felt were worth preserving — and they were many. An old pub — so different from the Stook and all its pretensions — and beef and jacket potatoes and finally a game of darts, at which pastime Flaske was probably the worst exponent I have ever seen.
When it was time to go home the dark mood seemed to have passed.
But I noticed that Flaske was very careful to emphasize that he seldom went out and was always on the end of a telephone should anyone need him. Any time.
*
Then came an incident which caused me suddenly to have doubts about Nicola’s trustworthiness.
We were on the way home; I was driving; Nicola was sitting very quietly, and — I thought — tensely. We weren’t playing the radio and there was rather an atmosphere. When I looked in the driving mirror I realized why.
“Somebody’s following us,” I said, and looked across at her.
She stared straight ahead and said: “Why should anyone follow us?” It was a silly answer and confirmed my suspicions.
I said: “There’s no point in sulking, Nicola. Who is it? He’s been on our tail, with only his parking lights on, for almost ten miles. And if it’s your father you will already have made him realize that we have duplicate number plates.”
“It won’t be him.”
“Oh, I see…Then you obviously do know about this. What do you have in common with Miles Pollenner, then, that you won’t tell me?”
She still glared ahead. “You have no right to question what I do, and you know it.”
“Tesh was of the opinion you could be trusted.”
“I haven’t told Miles anything.”
I pulled up.
In alarm, she said: “What now?”
I opened the car door. “When I don’t know the answer to something I take steps to find out.”
“James!”
I got out without saying anything and slammed the door, started walking back along the road.
It was in pitch darkness, and a faint hum of wind sang through the telephone wires. My own footsteps sounded very loud; the rest of the night — deadly soft.
I hadn’t seen the other car stop; indeed, Miles had turned his lights off and I couldn’t see him at all. Then I heard another door slam, some way along the road. A cigarette ember arced through the air, marking the gesture.
Miles spoke into the darkness. “In a way,” he said, “I’m glad you stopped.”
The voice was defiant, anxious…and yet somehow it conveyed a desperate degree of aesthetic grace.
We had halted, facing each other, in the middle of the road. Somewhere near at hand I could hear a trickle of a guttered spring splashing into the roadside brook.
My eyes had grown used to the darkness by now and I could vaguely see the man’s expression. It matched his voice: for though it was arrogant, this was arrogance through pain.
“You are trying to anticipate us,” he said.
; “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“We are trying to…to undo something that once happened. You understand?”
He scrunched a few paces across loose gravel toward where the burbling sound of water came. “Everything flows at a certain pace,” he said, “and to disturb it now would throw all our calculations. You must be very careful.”
“And supposing all your calculations are wrong?”
“Who are you to question them? If you wish to involve yourself with old Graybags’ daughter, that is one thing. Perhaps to you it is the most important thing. But doesn’t that rather illustrate your own attitudes to science? In your way you’re a very frivolous man, Mr Fulbright…only you try to make it seem otherwise. That’s why you need an excuse for everything. You won’t face the fact that you’re only one energy level away from the pure playboy — you colour it up and confuse yourself until you think it doesn’t show.”
“Are you simply jealous of ordinary human weakness because you don’t suffer from any yourself?”
“I’m suspicious of people who mix up the two.”
“Well, I don’t know how all this business started,” I said heatedly, “but it seems to me that if so-called human weakness had found another outlet in the first place you wouldn’t have got in so deep.”
He looked amused. “I hardly expected to receive a moral lecture from a playboy.”
“Are you going to tell me why you followed us to Great Missenden?”
He chucked his cigarette in the stream. “Mr Fulbright — neither Tesh Philbar nor his department nor you understand what’s happening. The bone is several sizes too big for the dog. Can’t you leave it alone now?”
“All I can promise,” I replied, “is that I shall use my own judgement in whatever I do.”
“Oh,” he said. “Then Heaven help us.”
“Well at least,” I said, “playboys don’t start nuclear wars.”
“No,” he said, turning to go, “but oh my, don’t they bore” I strode back to the Vauxhall and slammed the door. Miles shot past us in an irritating Morris Minor and had the cheek to flick his dipswitch and throw me an ironical salute. I noted that at least he didn’t wear sunglasses for night driving.
Nicola looked at me and said: “That’s funny; I never thought Miles could make anyone angry! What did he say to you?”
“It’s what he made me say,” I replied, staring hard at the road ahead. “Speechifying. He made me feel a pompous fraud. Maybe he’s right, too. Which is what tears me up…One thing greatly interests me though: is ‘Graybags’ a standard nickname for your father?”
“No. I’ve never heard anyone else use it. Only Dr Flaske.”
“Interesting.”
“Why?”
“Where’s your handbag?”
She looked at me, deadpan, held it up. “Here. But my powder wouldn’t suit you.”
“Shove it on the back seat.”
“Why?”
“I’ll let you know.”
When we got to the Oxford road we caught Miles up in the traffic, but he turned right toward High Wycombe. So I belted along the A40 for London breaking all speed limits and making one or two people almost as angry as I was myself.
Nicola sat quite still, saying nothing. I knew she felt guilty as hell about something; what I wanted to find out was just how far it went. I just prayed she didn’t understand about the handbag.
I slammed on the brakes outside Tesh’s flat and said: “You coming up?”
“Is there any point? If you’re going to push me around I’d really much rather not.”
I said, controlling myself better: “Nicola…I think you’ve been pushed around already — by someone else. If I’m wrong, then no doubt you’ll leave after five minutes. Okay?”
She shrugged. “Okay.”
“Don’t forget your handbag.”
Silent ride, Nicola fuming, in the lift.
Brisk walk to the apartment entrance.
Jigger the key in the lock.
Coffee?…Okay…I’ll make it…No, you make yourself comfortable…no honestly…
“Nicola…Your handbag. Can I see it, please?”
Her expression was blank. “Yes, of course…if you want to. What are you accusing me of?”
“Stupidity.”
She handed it across. “You’d better be right.”
“You’re sure you don’t know what’s in here? — Besides the usual things?”
“Go ahead and open it.”
So I yanked it open and poured the contents on to the sofa. All the usual things…a small diary, some makeup, a wallet containing notes, a few odd bits of Kleenex. It began to look as if I was wrong, and Nicola’s expression was burning me up. There was no way back now.
There were two zip compartments inside the inner fabric. One was clearly empty.
The other had something oblong in it.
Nicola was standing over me, looking increasingly helpless and unhappy. It was as if, by accusing her of something that she didn’t understand, I was throwing away something we might have had before us.
“What do you keep in here?” I said roughly, indicating the compartment.
“Nothing. There’s nothing in there.”
“Feel.”
She did so, then looked up at me. “Well, I don’t know what it is.”
“Do you swear that?”
“No. I don’t have to swear anything to you or anyone else. I’m stating a fact.”
I still didn’t unzip the thing. I wanted to be satisfied on something vitally important before I confirmed what I suspected. Still feeling furious I rapped: “When you told Miles where we were going, did you phone him? Or meet him?”
“I met him.” Her mood matched mine. She was breathing fast, her nostrils flared in fury at this interrogation. “Just as I’ll meet him in the future if that’s what seems best to me.”
“And somehow he got you to leave the room, without your handbag?”
“No. Why should he?” She stopped. And just looked at me for a long time.
When she spoke again her voice was low, as if all the stuffing had gone out of her. My shame was complete at what I’d made her go through. But she said: “What you’re saying is that he planted some listening device in my bag?”
I said quietly: “We’d better take a look.”
I handed the bag across to her. She looked at me for a brief second, then she unzipped the pocket, taking out a miniature transmitter.
I took it from her and examined it. “If I wasn’t so ashamed of myself,” I said, “I’d give you a good spanking.”
“Well,” she said, “magnanimity is quite as impressive as a firm hand.” As if to take my mind off it, she went on quickly: “It was the remark about Graybags, then?…You are clever…and you are also a brute. I shall get the coffee.”
While we drank it, we carefully went over the conversation that had taken place at Dr Flaske’s house. It was Nicola who said at the end of it: “I’m afraid I’ve caused you to give away a great deal.”
“It may not matter,” I said.
Later on, I broke the uneasy tension by telling Nicola I had to call Tesh.
“I know you have to work with Tesh to some extent,” she said carefully, “but I also know Tesh thinks that in some ways you’re rather talented, James. Shouldn’t you think — and act — independently?”
I gave her seat a smack. “You,” I said, “are just trying to stop me telling him how your handbag got bugged!”
“Well, it is rather embarrassing.”
“I know,” I said, going to that mysterious little office where the green phone was, “no one minds being a knave; it’s being taken for an idiot that hurts. Believe me, I should know.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“No. I’m going to ask him something.”
“What?”
“I want to know just what happened to Herbie Brundash.”
She walked away from me without saying anything. I
gazed after her for a moment, then picked up the phone. I got Tesh straight away, and — as it were — checked in. I went on: “Where are you? Do you live in the telephone exchange from now on?” Mystery for mystery’s sake seemed a bit unnecessary.
“I honestly would prefer not to tell you, James. For one thing it would be like leading a witness. It’s important that I don’t push your brain along.”
I felt my brain was being slightly overestimated. “Why don’t you take it out of my head and put it in a glass case?” I asked. “I’m getting a bit fed up with it myself.”
“Funny man. There’s a reason.” That’s all he would say.
So I asked him about the proverbial Herbie.
Tesh said: “Oh, so you know about him. Well, he defected to Russia.”
“Who told you that?”
“It’s on the file.”
“Who,” I asked irritably, “put it in the file?”
“I don’t know…some nameless clerk with the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel, I suppose. Why?”
“Because it doesn’t ring true. Your job in Los Alamos didn’t involve spies and things, did it?”
“No.”
“What about Moorbridge?”
“I was never at Moorbridge.”
“Couldn’t we find out if Brundash was there? — say, in April nineteen fifty-nine?”
“As far as I know, he wasn’t.”
“If he’s in Russia definitely,” I said, “you could get confirmation from M.I.6.”
“I don’t see why this is important,” said Tesh obstinately. “The people who are concerned with the situation now are the ones who matter.”
“Tesh, I think the backlog on this is significant.”
A short silence. Then: “All right. I might just get the information you want from the Americans. That side of things was their baby.”
I said: “That baby could turn out to be a monster.”
Chapter Seven
“James…I’m frightened. I can’t fight it off. It keeps getting hold of me.”
The Egg-Shaped Thing Page 9
