Sabbathman

by Hurley, Graham

  For reasons she’d never properly understood, Annie had found the offer immensely flattering, but she’d begun negotiating at once, leaving them with a series of stipulations. If they were serious about her talents – her languages, her drive, her track record, her singlemindedness – then it would have to be the fast lane. She didn’t want to be moored to some desk or other, endlessly reviewing files. She didn’t want to be snared by office politics, or any stone age ideas about the role of women. She wanted to be out there, doing it. She wanted to listen, and to learn, and in due course – take over.

  Cousins blinked. ‘Take over what?’

  ‘The Service. The top job.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘Of course. The D-G’s a woman. Why not me?’ Annie drained the rest of her pint. ‘Not now, not yet, but one day …’ She nodded. ‘Sure, why not?’

  They talked about Belfast, Annie more cautious now, sensing a new element in the conversation, a nerve in Cousins that her naked ambition seemed to have touched. The smile was a little less benign, a little less patronising, and when she brought the story up to date – nine months running agents of her own in Belfast – it vanished altogether.

  ‘You’ve really seen my file?’ she was asking.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did you think?’

  ‘Impressive.’ He nodded. ‘Very.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Cousins shook his head, raising his glass, refusing her the satisfaction of an answer. Soon afterwards, the pub noisy now, he semaphored that he had to go. Annie nodded as he stood up, shaking her head at the offer of another drink, mouthing goodbye. She watched him as he picked his way through the crowd, wondering if she’d already said a little too much for her own good. Cousins, after all, might be the new ‘T’ Branch Controller. It would be a wildly imaginative appointment, not at all Five’s style, but she knew they were after fresh young blood, and she doubted whether blood came fresher than Cousins’.

  She was still deep in thought when she felt someone nudge her chair. She looked up quickly. Alan Kingdom was standing behind her. He had two pint glasses, one in each hand. He put them carefully on the table, one in front of Annie, and sank into the other chair.

  ‘So who was that?’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Friend or foe?’

  SEVEN

  Kingdom was drunk before he admitted that he’d followed her to the pub from the Home Office. Annie studied him carefully over the remains of her Chicken Masala. They were in an Indian restaurant off the Fulham Road. The place was nearly empty.

  ‘How come?’ she said. ‘How did you know I’d be there?’

  ‘I didn’t. I was supposed to be at the meeting. With the Guv’nor. I got there late.’ He looked at her. ‘An hour late.’

  Annie nodded, remembering the empty seat behind Allder. ‘I’m not sure you missed much.’ She tidied the rice on her plate. ‘So where were you?’

  ‘At the bank,’ Kingdom said thickly, ‘with my bank manager. Discussing Dad.’

  ‘On the firm’s time.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  Kingdom lifted a weary hand, trying to attract the waiter’s attention, signalling for more lager. So far, including the pub, Annie had counted seven pints. When the waiter came over, she let him take her empty glass.

  ‘Your dad?’ she said to Kingdom.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You were talking to the bank manager?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  Kingdom studied the tablecloth for a while. Where his plate had been, there was a neat circle of yellow stains.

  ‘I was relying on some money,’ he said at last. ‘It didn’t happen. It’s not going to happen. It’s gone.’

  ‘Steve? Your brother-in-law?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s in the shit. Like everyone else. Business problems. He’s down to his last swimming pool. Sad.’ Kingdom shook his head. ‘Fucking sad.’

  ‘And your dad?’

  ‘My old dad? He needs looking after. I’ve found the guy. Mr Right. No question about it. Barry. Believe me, Barry is the biz. What he’s done for Dad …’ he shook his head again, looking up. ‘You wouldn’t begin to understand.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not going to try me?’

  ‘No.’ Kingdom tried to flick a grain of rice off the tablecloth. ‘No fucking way.’

  Annie shrugged, easing her chair back, stretching her legs. She’d been this way with Kingdom before, occasional evenings in Belfast when huge doses of alcohol had unlocked a door inside him. In these moods, it always seemed to her that he viewed himself as spoiled goods, damaged in transit, one of life’s casualties. It wasn’t as simple, or pathetic, as self-pity. She wouldn’t have tolerated that for a moment. No, it was something else, a sense of deep bewilderment, a conviction that he could have played things a little more cleverly, that he could have done better.

  ‘Were you after a loan?’ she said. ‘At the bank?’

  Kingdom was trying to find money to pay the bill. In the end, he gave the waiter a credit card. Then he reached for the lager the man had brought. He sipped it carefully, as if he hadn’t seen a drink all evening, thinking about the question.

  ‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘I was. Eight thousand quid. Secured on yours truly. My salary …’ He looked up, wiping his mouth. ‘And my prospects.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He asked me what for, what I needed the money for. I told him it was for Barry and Dad. I explained it all. Everything. Everything that little man means to him.’

  ‘And what did the bank manager say?’

  Kingdom adjusted his chair, leaning back against the flock wallpaper. The candlelight deepened the hollows of his face, giving him a strangely vulnerable look, haunted and slightly manic.

  ‘He said it was a lousy investment. Not in so many words. Not that phrase exactly. But that’s what it boiled down to. That’s what he meant.’ He nodded. ‘My dad. His sanity. A lousy investment.’

  ‘So how long would eight thousand pounds last?’

  ‘A year. Barry and I had sorted it out. Eight thousand for cash. Nothing on top for the agency. He said he’d have left the agency, and he would, too. He meant it. He’d have given Dad a year of his life.’ Kingdom’s fingers crabbed back towards the grain of rice. ‘He’s got a family, this man, you know that? Kids of his own to feed. Responsibilities. Yet he’d still have done it. A whole year. Eight grand. Guy’s a real Christian.’

  ‘And the bank manager?’

  ‘Turned me down. Gutless bastard.’

  Annie reached out, touching Kingdom’s face. ‘It’s a fortune, my love,’ she said softly. ‘He has bosses of his own to answer to. That’s the way it works now. I’m not surprised he turned you down.’

  Kingdom stared at her, motionless. ‘His words exactly.’ He nodded. ‘The bit about the bosses.’

  They drove west, out through Hammersmith, Annie at the wheel of her new Escort Cabriolet. Kingdom had phoned his father from the restaurant and Barry had answered. He and Ernie had been to the dogs, over at the Walthamstow track, and Ernie had even won a quid or two. When Kingdom said he was tied up, back late, Barry had said not to worry. Ernie would be fine. If necessary, he’d even stay the night.

  Now, Kingdom sat hunched in the passenger seat, his collar turned up, his face pale under the passing street lights.

  ‘I was watching you in the pub,’ he said. ‘I was there all the time. Funny, isn’t it? I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I dunno.’ He didn’t look at her. ‘So who was he?’

  ‘A friend,’ she said, ‘I think.’

  ‘Known him long?’

  Annie shrugged. ‘About an hour and a half.’

  Kingdom nodded, saying nothing. It was early, not yet ten, and the traffic was still heavy, heading out of London.
At Chiswick, Annie turned left, crossing the river. She had a top floor flat in a quiet cul-de-sac near Kew Gardens. Kingdom had stayed there before.

  ‘Funny,’ he said at last, breaking the silence, ‘I felt quite jealous.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In the pub. Watching you two together.’

  ‘You shouldn’t.’ She glanced across at him. ‘There’s no one else, I promise. Not as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘You mean apart from you?’

  Annie said nothing, ignoring the taunt. Kingdom leaned forward, reaching for the radio. There was a cassette already loaded in the player, Puccini, La Bohème, and he listened to it for several minutes before turning it off again.

  ‘His name’s Hugh Cousins,’ he said quietly, ‘and you want to be fucking careful.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I phoned Allder from the pub. I’m not stupid.’ He looked at her a moment. ‘This liaison thing’s a joke. We all know that. Me, Allder, you, but there are lots of other things happening, my love, and Cousins is one of them. He’ll be your boss by tomorrow. Did you know that?’

  Annie was trying to overtake a lorry. When a bus appeared in the road ahead, she pulled back in.

  ‘Sort of,’ she said, eyeing the mirror, letting the bus sweep past, then trying again.

  Back at the flat, Annie made coffee. When she brought the mugs through to the living room, Kingdom’s long body was sprawled across the carpet, his eyes closed, his head pillowed on his arms. She found mats for the mugs and then knelt down and loosened his shoes. The room was cold and she lit the gas fire, kneeling beside it, warming her hands.

  ‘Who’s peddling the line about Northern Ireland?’ Kingdom said softly. ‘Is it a career move? Is it you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who, then?’ Kingdom opened one eye.

  Annie shook her head, refusing to answer. ‘Your coffee,’ she said. ‘It’s getting cold.’

  ‘Is it Cousins?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘You’re a fool, then.’ Kingdom got up on one elbow. ‘And you’ll regret it.’

  Annie nodded at the coffee. Kingdom was about to say something else. ‘Don’t,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Don’t talk about it. It’s irrelevant. You do your job, I’ll …’ she shrugged, ‘… do mine. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. I’ve done it most of my life. If there’s a real problem …’ She smiled at him, reaching out. ‘You’ll be the first to know.’

  Kingdom got up, still holding the coffee mug, and disappeared into the kitchen. Annie heard the clunk of the fridge door and the slurp of milk. When he returned, Kingdom had both hands round the mug. Annie made room by the fire.

  ‘Cold?’

  ‘Freezing.’

  ‘Come here.’

  Kingdom shook his head, sitting down on the sofa. Then he produced a piece of paper and gave it to her. Annie looked at it. It was a gas bill. On the back, in Kingdom’s scrawl, was a telephone number.

  ‘Zero seven zero five?’ she said, looking up.

  ‘Portsmouth. Subscriber by the name of Hubbard. I want you to do me a favour.’

  ‘Alan–’

  ‘No, listen, please. The number was wired last year, around November time. I don’t know for how long. It may still be on. I think it was an A1A job.’

  Annie looked at the number again. A1A was a section of ‘A’ Branch. They specialised in breaking and entering. They were the people you went to if you wanted a tap installed.

  Kingdom sipped at the coffee. ‘You’ll have logs. There may be transcripts.’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘Both.’ He looked at her. ‘Please.’ He paused. ‘I’ve put a request in through the usual channels but fuck all’s happened.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  Annie frowned, eyeing the gas bill again. She gestured at the number. ‘So who is this again?’

  ‘Her name’s Jo. Jo Hubbard. She’s a young doctor.’ He looked at his coffee. ‘That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘And is she the subscriber?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘Have you met her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Annie was still studying the number. ‘And?’

  Kingdom didn’t reply but drained the rest of his coffee and joined her by the fire, warming his hands against the line of dancing flames.

  ‘My Guv’nor says you’ve been lunching with the intelligentsia.’

  Annie smiled. ‘Willoughby Grant? He’s weird. Not what I expected at all. I thought they all wore green eye-shades and threw things. This guy’s still in the nursery.’

  ‘Sharp, though.’

  ‘Oh, yes, no question, very.’

  ‘And right?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘You don’t go along with Mr Angry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because …’ She glanced across at him, still reluctant to pursue the conversation. ‘He’s a fiction. He’s in the paper to get the punters going. Grant admits it.’

  ‘And the rest of your mob? What do they think?’ Annie didn’t answer. Kingdom was still staring at the fire. ‘You going to tell me?’ he said at last.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anything at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does that mean you buy the Irish line? Is that what you’re saying?’

  Annie folded the gas bill and gave it back to Kingdom. Then she stood up and yawned, loosening the belt on her dress. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said.

  Past midnight, Annie crept back into the living room. The lights were off and the curtains were pulled back but the gas fire was still on and she could see Kingdom’s body curled on the hearth-rug. He was still fully clothed. His knees were tucked up to his chin and he’d thrust both hands between his thighs. She watched him for a full minute. Then she knelt beside him and began to cover his body with the spare duvet. She felt him twitch and then wake, one bloodshot eye staring up at her.

  ‘If you really don’t want to,’ she said, ‘at least keep warm.’

  Kingdom grunted, pulling the duvet around him, closing his eyes again, not saying a word.

  Next morning, Annie awoke with a start. The clock on the bedside table said 07.06. She could hear rain at the window and the rumble of the morning rush hour traffic down Sandycombe Road. She sat up in bed, peering into the living room through the open door. The curtains were closed again and the room was in near darkness but she could see no sign of Kingdom.

  She got up and slipped into a dressing gown. Next door, the gas fire was off but still warm. She hesitated a moment, wondering how long Kingdom had been gone, then she went into the kitchen. The cereal packets were undisturbed and the kettle was stone cold. She filled it and plugged it in and she was still scissoring the top off the last carton of milk when she saw the gas bill. It was lying on the side, an egg cup on each corner. No message. No goodbye. Just the number: 0705 932851. She looked at it, remembering the name, Jo Hubbard, then she heard the rattle of the letter box down the hall. She glanced at the clock on the cooker, wondering why the postman had been so early, but when she got to the front door she found a folded newspaper waiting for her on the mat. She looked down at it, frowning. She never had the papers delivered. She always called at the newsagent at the bottom of the road.

  She retrieved the paper and returned to the kitchen. It was a copy of The Citizen, the front page dominated by a grid of photographs. There were five in all. The first four contained head and shoulders shots of the known Sabbathman victims: the Jersey banker, the Newcastle civil servant, the south coast MP, and now Jonathan Lister. The fifth box was blank, just a silhouette head and shoulders. Inside the head was a huge question mark. Stripped across the top of the front page was the morning’s headline, Willoughby Grant’s wake-up call to the nation. COME ON MR ANGRY, it ran, GIVE US A CLUE.

  Annie l
ooked at it a moment, hearing Willoughby’s voice in the restaurant, how gleeful he’d been, his beloved Mr Angry leading four million readers in a wild conga, away from the facts, away from the complications, away from the real world, back to the never-never land where The Citizen and its backers could make serious money. She began to laugh at Grant’s chutzpah, and she realised again exactly what it was that had so unnerved the politicians. This man was beyond control. He simply didn’t care.

  The phone began to ring in the living room. When Annie answered it, she recognised the voice at once. Hugh Cousins.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said crisply, ‘this morning.’

  ‘I know. I’ve just seen it.’

  ‘Seen what?’

  ‘Grant’s rag.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Annie fetched the paper from the kitchen and began to describe the front page. When it occurred to her that Cousins wasn’t interested, she stopped.

  ‘There’s something else?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. I’m camping at Euston Tower at the moment. Seventeenth floor. Room 1710. Meet me there at twelve.’

  Annie took the tube to Gower Street and was at her desk by a quarter past nine. She tried Francis Wren’s extension three times but it was nearly ten before he was there to pick up the phone. He sounded faint, as if the line was bad, and a night’s sleep had done nothing for his morale. When Annie asked for ten minutes of his time, he sounded surprised.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Now would be convenient.’

  All the controllers occupied spacious offices on the Gower Street side of the building and one perk that came with promotion was the right to choose a colour scheme. Wren had settled for chocolate and cream, a combination that gave his office the feel of a 1930s railway waiting room, an exercise in nostalgia that somehow fitted the man to perfection.

  Annie knocked and went in, taking a seat in front of the desk and waiting for Wren to finish reading his morning mail. On the way to work, strap-hanging on the tube, she’d wondered quite how to play it. The news of Wren’s demotion was by no means official but it was clear to both of them what had happened.