Expo 58: A Novel

by Jonathan Coe

  ‘It was removed this morning,’ said the assistant.

  ‘Removed? On whose orders?’

  ‘Mr Buttress, sir. He came in and supervised the work himself. He and a couple of the lads took it all apart and loaded it into a van.’

  ‘And then what? Where did they take it?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell you that, sir. Leaves a bit of a gap, though, doesn’t it? We’re going to have to fill it up with something else. Apparently there’s some sort of big new computer thing arriving in a day or two.’

  His mind reeling with the implications of all this, Thomas thanked the assistant and hurried off around the ornamental lake and towards the Britannia. Nodding the curtest of greetings at Mr Rossiter, he pushed his way through the crowd of patrons and squeezed behind the bar. He asked Shirley to make him a double-strength coffee as soon as she had a moment, and made straight for the telephone.

  ‘Can I speak to Mr Carter, please?’ he said, after dialling through to the British Council offices in Brussels. ‘My name is Foley. Tell him that it’s very urgent.’

  Before long Mr Carter’s reassuring cheerful drone came down the line.

  ‘Afternoon, Foley. So you’re still in the land of the living, then?’

  ‘Yes, I am, just about. Largely thanks to you, by the sound of it.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, old man. All in a day’s work. Best go easy on the old potato juice next time, though. That stuff is deadly. How was the hotel, anyway? Sorry, we didn’t exactly leave you in the lap of luxury. Was everything all right with the bill?’

  ‘Yes, it was all paid for. Settled in the name of Wilkins – whoever that might be.’ Mr Carter did not comment. It was unclear, from his silence, whether the name Wilkins meant anything to him or not. ‘Well, anyway, you have my eternal thanks, however the thing was managed. But that’s not really why I’m phoning. Listen, Carter, there’ve been some rum things going on today.’ (He glanced around, but no one seemed to be listening, apart from Shirley, who was hovering at his elbow with the coffee.) ‘Tony – Tony Buttress – has disappeared. Vanished. Packed up all his belongings and scarpered, without even leaving a note. And even worse than that . . .’ (Thomas’s voice dropped to an even lower register) ‘. . . the machine has gone as well.’

  There was another longish silence at the other end of the line.

  ‘I’m not quite sure I’m with you, old man.’

  ‘The machine. The ZETA machine.’

  ‘Well, how can that have gone?’

  ‘Apparently Tony himself came in first thing this morning and had it packed up. About eight hours after you and I both heard him telling Mr Chersky what a great thing it would be for international relations if the Russians knew all about it.’

  Again, there was silence at Mr Carter’s end. Thomas could tell that these revelations had shocked him.

  ‘All right,’ came the voice, finally. ‘Situation understood. I think we might be getting into pretty deep waters here, Foley. I’m going to need to take some advice at my end. I’m just going to . . . ask around a little bit, and then I’ll call you back. Or somebody will. Where are you? At the pub?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then don’t go away. Stay where you can be reached, on this number. You’ll hear something within the next hour or two.’

  ‘Understood. But what I really wanted to –’

  Thomas stared at the receiver. Mr Carter had already rung off, and the line had gone dead.

  He busied himself for the remainder of the afternoon by rearranging the display of nautical prints in the Exhibitors’ Club upstairs. When that was done, he polished the glasses and made a record of the quantities of liquid left in the spirit bottles above the bar, since Mr Rossiter did not seem to have undertaken this task for some time. He was still upstairs when he heard Shirley calling him from the hubbub of the main saloon bar.

  ‘Mr Foley! Telephone!’

  On taking the call, Thomas found himself being addressed by an unfamiliar voice, speaking with a neutral English accent.

  ‘Foley?’

  ‘Yes, speaking.’

  ‘Good. Now listen carefully. We want you to come to Josaphat Park tonight. Nine p.m.’

  ‘But look, when you say “we”, what do you mean? Who am I talking to?’

  ‘Find a bench in the north-western corner of the park. You must have a copy of a newspaper with you. De Standaard. You must have it open at page twenty-seven. Do you understand?’

  ‘Well, I understand that, yes, but what I don’t understand is who –’

  It seemed to be a day on which people were resolved to hang up on him. Once again he found himself staring at an unresponsive receiver. Shirley laughed and offered him another coffee.

  It was still light at nine o’clock that evening. None the less, there was a chill in the air, and the park was almost deserted. For the first few minutes, Thomas’s only companion was an elderly woman exercising a pair of miniature poodles. At least, he assumed that it was an elderly woman. The day’s events had become so surreal and inexplicable that it would not have surprised him if she had turned out to be his mysterious caller from earlier in the afternoon, carefully disguised. But no, it was fairly obvious when that particular figure appeared. He was wearing the regulation beige macintosh and trilby hat, and could be spotted from some distance, even in the encroaching twilight. Thomas sat forward on his bench and held up his copy of the newspaper at an angle which was not conducive to reading but would certainly make it visible to the advancing stranger. The ruse seemed to work, for the man sat down beside him and then stared intently at the newspaper for some little time, before switching his gaze to Thomas, and then back to the newspaper, then back to Thomas again, apparently in a state of some indecision. Finally he cleared his throat and spoke.

  ‘Mr Foley?’

  Thomas nodded. ‘Of course I’m Mr Foley. Do we have to go through all this palaver? Do you see anybody else reading De Standaard in this corner of the park?’

  ‘You’re reading page twenty-three. I told you to have it open at page twenty-seven.’

  ‘There are only twenty-four pages.’

  ‘Oh. Really? I should have thought of that. Blast.’ The oversight seemed to preoccupy him, for a moment or two, but then he dismissed it and rose briskly to his feet. ‘Follow me, would you?’

  He set off at a furious pace. Thomas rushed to fall in beside him.

  ‘Yes, but look, where are we going? What the devil is this all about?’

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In the fullness of time.’

  ‘You could at least tell me your name.’

  ‘My name’s Wilkins.’

  They reached the edge of the park. Wilkins looked up and down the street, scrutinizing a row of parked cars, his indecision having evidently returned. After a few seconds, however, a pair of headlights flashed at them from one of the cars.

  ‘Ah! There we are.’

  He led Thomas towards the car, a green Volkswagen Beetle. The driver leaned over and opened the passenger door for them.

  ‘What on earth did you bring this thing for?’ Wilkins said to the driver, throwing an impatient gesture at the car. ‘Couldn’t you have chosen something a bit bigger?’ The driver said nothing. Wilkins let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Come on,’ he said to Thomas, ‘we’re just going to have to squeeze in.’

  It was easier said than done. Wilkins was a corpulent man, and Thomas himself was no featherweight. The first attempt, with Thomas going in first and Wilkins climbing in after him, was not successful: Wilkins ended up wedged fast between the front passenger seat and the door frame, and only managed to extricate himself after a prolonged, energetic struggle, accompanied by a chorus of ill-tempered grunts. Finally, when they were both settled on the back seat, they found themselves so tightly pressed up against eac
h other that they could scarcely breathe, let alone move.

  ‘Is this going to be a long drive?’ said Thomas, ‘because if so, I’d better take my coat off.’

  This action also presented considerable difficulties. By the time he was halfway through it – after giving Wilkins at least one accidental poke in the eye with his elbow – both men’s tempers were starting to fray even further.

  ‘For God’s sake, man,’ said Wilkins, ‘why couldn’t you just keep your coat on and be done with it?’

  ‘Nearly done,’ said Thomas, tugging at his one remaining sleeve. ‘And I must say, it would be a lot more comfortable if that . . . thing in your pocket wasn’t sticking into me. What on earth is it?’

  ‘My gun, of course.’

  Thomas paused in the act of folding his coat on his lap and stared at Wilkins, aghast. ‘Gun? What are you talking about? Are you pointing a gun at me?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘God damn it, man, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. Now put this on and pipe down.’

  He handed Thomas a strip of black cloth.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘What do you think it is? It’s a blindfold. Now hold still while I tie it at the back.’

  ‘What the . . .?’

  Remembering the presence of the gun, Thomas decided that protest, let alone resistance, was useless. He waited in silence for the blindfold to be tied firmly at the back of his head.

  ‘Right,’ said Wilkins, emphatically. ‘That should do. How many fingers am I holding up?’

  ‘Three,’ said Thomas.

  ‘God damn it to hell, how did you know that? Can you see through the cloth?’

  ‘No. It was a guess.’

  ‘Well you’re not supposed to guess. For crying out loud, I’m trying to make sure that you can’t see where we’re going. We’re not here to play guessing games. How many fingers am I holding up?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I can’t see a bloody thing.’

  ‘Good. It was four, by the way. Not that it matters. Now shut up. We’re going to be stuck together like this for a while, and I’m not in the mood for chit-chat.’

  The driver started the engine and the car at last shuddered its way out onto the empty, quiescent, midsummer street.

  A nice old pickle

  The journey was long (about an hour and a quarter, Thomas guessed) and very uncomfortable. After twenty minutes or so he could tell that they were leaving the hum of the city traffic behind and entering the countryside, although still driving along straight main roads. There were enough right and left turns, in random succession, for him to suspect that they were being taken mainly to confuse him. It was only in the last quarter of an hour or so that the car slowed down, and the roads seemed to become narrower and less reliable. Thomas and Wilkins would have been violently thrown from side to side by some of the sudden turns, if they had not already been wedged so tightly together.

  Eventually, after climbing a slight but steady incline for several minutes, the car came to a brief halt, with its engine still running; then it took a sharp right turn, and they were travelling along a dirt track, which lasted for perhaps half a mile, with many bumps and lurches. After that, the car swung to the left, and came to an abrupt, final stop. The engine was turned off and at once Thomas’s suspicion was confirmed: they were in deep countryside. The silence around them was profound, and its profundity was emphasized by the regular hooting, no more than a few yards away it seemed, of a solitary owl.

  ‘Right,’ said Wilkins. ‘Let’s get out of this confounded vehicle.’

  Getting out proved just as difficult, long-winded and bad-tempered a process as getting in; even more so, in Thomas’s case, because he was still blindfolded. Freed from the confines of the tiny car at last, he stood in the fresh air for a moment or two, sensing loose gravel beneath his feet, until he felt the barrel of Wilkins’s gun being thrust into his ribs again.

  ‘Come on,’ his abductor said. ‘This way, and no funny business if you please.’

  They walked perhaps fifteen or twenty yards across the gravel. Then someone – Wilkins, presumably – knocked loudly upon a heavy wooden door with an iron knocker. The door was opened and they stepped inside. No words were spoken.

  They walked along a corridor which, from the sounds of Thomas’s footsteps, was paved with flagstones. There was one shallow upwards step which he almost tripped over. The corridor was quite long, so Thomas imagined that the house – if this was indeed a house – must be a large one. At the end of the corridor another door was opened and he was pushed through it.

  ‘Right you are,’ said Wilkins. ‘Made it. Home sweet home.’

  He untied the blindfold and Thomas blinked in the sudden brilliant light from an overhead lamp. Still blinking, he looked around him. He was in a small ground-floor bedroom, plainly but comfortably furnished with heavy, dark furniture. The window was shuttered. The walls were painted a dirty mustard-yellow and decorated with reproduction (or were they original?) landscapes in the Flemish style. In addition to the single bed, there was a desk and an armchair. Altogether it looked considerably more inviting than Thomas’s cabin at the Motel Expo.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, turning to Wilkins. ‘I’ve been very patient. Now would you kindly tell me the purpose of this ludicrous rigmarole.’

  ‘Someone’s put some cocoa out for you, I see,’ said Wilkins, nodding towards a mug on the bedside table. ‘I should get it down if I were you. Help you to sleep.’

  ‘Are you seriously telling me that –’

  ‘Good night, old chap. Sweet dreams and all that. There’ll be someone along in the morning. I dare say all will be made clear.’

  And before Thomas could press him for any further explanation, he was gone – locking the door behind him. Thomas grabbed the doorknob and pulled on it with all his strength, but it was no use. And the shutters on the window, he soon discovered, were firmly locked as well.

  Despondent, he sat down on his new bed and picked up the mug of cocoa. He’d had nothing to eat all day – apart from one packet of Smith’s crisps at the Britannia – and was beginning to feel fierce pangs of hunger. He sniffed the cocoa gingerly a few times and then took two or three sips. It was lukewarm, so it was easy to drink it down in a few draughts. And the sedative it contained must have been powerful, for he did not wake up until late the next morning.

  Even the noise of the key in the lock and the opening of the door did not wake him: instead it was the sudden invasion of light – cheerful morning sunlight – when the shutters were unlocked and thrown open. He sat up in bed and saw that an elderly woman was in the room. She was fussing around, dusting, emptying the waste-paper basket, straightening the furniture. She picked up his cocoa mug and looked at it with some distaste.

  ‘Waarom blijf je zo lang in bed liggen?’ she muttered. ‘Ik heb werk te doen. Ik moet deze kamer schoonmaken en klaar maken. Er komt nog iemand vanavond is me gezegd.’

  Thomas got out of bed, rubbing his eyes. It was the second night in a row that he had slept in these clothes. He felt filthy and tired and his headache was worse than ever.

  ‘Where am I?’ he asked.

  ‘Naar buiten! Nu! Ontbijt!’ said the old woman.

  Thomas walked over to the window. The view was a pleasant surprise, he had to admit. Outside his bedroom was a wooden verandah and, beyond that, a vast expanse of lawn. The grass was neatly trimmed for the first hundred yards or so, and beyond that, it had been allowed to grow long, and was scattered with wildflowers of every colour imaginable. There were sculptures in the modernist style placed at intervals amid the grass, and in the far distance, a line of oak trees rose up, silhouetted regally against a flawless blue summer sky. To the left, he could glimpse open cornfields; to the right, a paddock where three chestnut horses and a pony were n
ibbling contentedly on bales of hay.

  ‘Kom mee!’ said the woman, standing in the doorway and gesturing impatiently. ‘Naar buiten! Volg me!’

  Thomas turned and followed her, back down the long corridor which he had walked through but not seen the night before. It was lined with books and more pictures, in dark oak frames. The overall impression was rather gloomy, but this mood did not last for long: after leading him through a bright and airy sitting room to the right, Thomas’s elderly guide brought him out through some French windows and they emerged onto the terrace, into the full dazzle of the morning sunshine. And here was a large round table, already laid for breakfast: white tablecloth, silver cutlery, the lot. And sitting around it, clearly awaiting his appearance, were two familiar figures whose presence at this mysterious house at once struck him as wearily inevitable.

  ‘Ah! Morning, Foley!’ said Mr Radford.

  ‘Good to see you again,’ said Mr Wayne.

  ‘Pull up a chair.’

  ‘Take a pew.’

  ‘Help yourself to coffee.’

  ‘The cup that heals.’

  ‘It’s jolly good.’

  ‘If you like the continental stuff.’

  Thomas sat down without saying a word. Greetings on his part did not seem to be appropriate, given the manner of his arrival at this house. He allowed Mr Radford to pour him some coffee, and sipped at it eagerly. After this, there was a considerable silence. Mr Wayne was busy buttering his toast and spreading it with strawberry jam. Mr Radford applied himself to tapping open the top of a boiled egg with the back of his teaspoon.

  ‘Beautiful morning,’ said Mr Wayne, finally.

  ‘Delightful,’ said Mr Radford.

  ‘Would you pass the sugar, old man?’

  ‘Happy to. Some more milk?’

  ‘Just the ticket. Thanks very much.’

  Meanwhile, Thomas helped himself to toast and an egg. He was damned if he was going to open the conversation by asking them what he was doing here. For several minutes the three Englishmen continued to silently occupy themselves with breakfast, and admiration of the scenery.