The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Something like that,’ said Gray quietly.

  ‘Oh I see. You’ve had an attack of conscience. Well tough. I pay you a great deal of money, Gray Townsend, I’ve borne a lot of expenses, this Jersey trip alone, fucking fortune. And now suddenly you’re wimping out. Did Bard Channing threaten you or something?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Now look, Gray,’ said Guthrie, his voice suddenly more reasonable, ‘you don’t have to write it, it doesn’t have to go under your byline. If you want to disappear for a bit, that’s OK. But I want that story.’

  ‘You can’t have it,’ said Gray.

  ‘I’ve paid for it.’

  ‘I’m sorry. There isn’t a story.’

  ‘Did you get it all wrong? Is that what it is, can’t you find the guts to tell me?’

  ‘Dave, there just isn’t a story. OK?’

  ‘No, not OK. Nobody does this to me. You’re fucking fi — ’

  ‘And I’m resigning.’

  ‘What! Oh don’t be so bloody pathetic. Of course you’re not resigning. We can – ’

  ‘Dave, I’m resigning. Sorry. Here’s my letter of resignation. And there’s no story, no notes, nothing on my machine. So please don’t go looking for it.’

  ‘Get out!’ said Guthrie, his face white now with alarming scarlet blotches on it. ‘Get the fuck out of here. Don’t show your face in here ever again. Ever. And I would be very surprised if any other newspaper wanted to see it either, by the time I’ve finished talking about this.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid you’re probably right,’ said Gray.

  He left Guthrie’s office, walked back to his own. An evil-looking plastic cup of tea sat on his desk. He picked it up, drained it. Tricia watched him in astonishment.

  He smiled at her, and said, ‘Right, well, I’m off.’

  ‘Off? Where to?’

  ‘Home,’ said Gray. ‘I’m sorry to spring it on you, Tricia, but I’ve just resigned. I’ll come back in next week for my stuff, if Dave hasn’t personally set fire to it, and buy you a lunch to die for. Meanwhile, have a good weekend.’

  He suddenly bent down to her as she sat, literally open mouthed, staring up at him, and gave her a kiss. ‘You’ve been great,’ he said, ‘thank you for everything. I’ll miss you.’

  When he got home, he went straight up to his study, and phoned Briony.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, ‘it’s me.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh, hallo Gray.’ She sounded wary, almost cold.

  ‘Are you busy tonight?’

  ‘No-o. No I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘I wondered if you’d have dinner with me,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  Oliver stood on the doorstep in Hamilton Terrace, thinking he had never been nearer in his life to running away. He kept taking deep breaths, thinking it might help; all it did was make him feel lightheaded.

  Sandie opened the door.

  ‘I’ve – I’ve come to see Mr Channing. I’m Oliver Clarke,’ he added, in case she didn’t recognise him.

  ‘Oh yes. He’s expecting you. Come in.’

  Oliver went in. He had been to the house several times, but it never failed to impress him. His own small house would almost have fitted into the hall alone, he thought, gazing up at the immensely high ceiling, the fine staircase at the back of it, the tall window, reaching almost from floor to ceiling. He followed Sandie through the folding doors into the drawing room, running the depth of the house, still almost inclined to run, to claim a suddenly remembered urgent appointment.

  Bard Channing was standing by the fireplace. ‘Ah, Oliver. Come in. Sit down. How are you?’

  He looked very tired, Oliver thought, tired and somehow smaller. He made a great effort to smile at him.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Mr Channing.’

  He sat down rather suddenly on one of the sofas; it was very soft, he felt engulfed in it, trapped.

  ‘Good. Well, what is it, what did you want to see me about? I’m afraid I can’t help you with your job, if that’s what you’re hoping.’

  ‘No,’ said Oliver, ‘no it isn’t.’

  ‘Well, what is it, then? Ah Sandie, thanks. Put it down there. Tea, Oliver?’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Oliver. He thought if he tried to swallow anything he really would be sick.

  There was a silence. Bard began to look irritable, visibly struggled not to sound impatient.

  ‘Well, come on, then. Am I really so frightening?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Oliver truthfully.

  ‘Well then,’ said Bard, making a clear effort to lighten the occasion, ‘the sooner you tell me why you’re here, the sooner you can leave again.’

  This was the sort of logic that appealed to Oliver; he took a deep breath, looked briefly, wildly at the door, and said, ‘It’s about – about the accountants. About the investigation.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Bard Channing didn’t move, nor did his face change, and yet he became visibly, instantly, more alert, tense. ‘What about them?’

  ‘Well – you see – I went back there the other night. I’d left my jacket behind. And the phone was ringing in the office that Mr Sloane’s been using.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was your old office. Well, your secretary’s.’

  ‘Yes, Oliver, I know that.’

  ‘And he wasn’t there, there was no-one there. And I heard the answering machine pick it up. And I could hear – someone’s voice.’

  ‘Not unusual,’ said Bard lightly. But he didn’t look light; he looked heavily, fiercely intense.

  ‘No, of course not. Anyway, I thought I recognised the voice, so I stopped to listen. It – well, it was leaving a message about some financial routes. Into Switzerland. I didn’t know what it meant. I expect you do.’

  Bard said nothing, but his jaw had tightened, and the vein throbbed in his neck.

  ‘Well, this person obviously knew Mr Sloane. Had talked to him before. Said they’d phone again next day. With the information about these financial routes.’

  ‘Yes. Is that all?’

  ‘Well, it’s all they said, Mr Channing. The point was, who this person was. Supplying this information. I mean – well, it seemed rather odd, that’s all. And I thought – well, you ought to know.’

  ‘Oliver, I would be very grateful if you could let me know who this disembodied voice belonged to,’ said Bard. ‘I think I’ve got the picture now and the gist of what you’re trying to say.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Oliver, ‘yes of course. Well – ’ He stood up; he thought if the bawling started that would be better than if he was sunk into the great soft sofa. ‘Well, the thing is, Mr Channing, and you may very well know this, of course, and if you do I’m sorry, but it was – well, it was Marcia Grainger.’

  ‘Now look,’ said the doctor soothingly to Francesca, ‘yes, your baby has a cough. It’s only slight. Little more than a cold really.’

  He smiled at her; an old-style GP, white haired, kindly, all-powerful, dishing out old-style anodyne.

  ‘But she’s got a temperature,’ said Francesca, trying to keep her voice level, ‘and a heart condition, and I’ve been told – ’

  ‘Yes, yes, she has got a temperature. A very, very slight one. Just a hundred. And I know she has a heart condition. I’ve spoken to your own doctor about her, and – ’

  ‘Dr Paget, why didn’t you speak to Mr Lauder? Her consultant? That’s who I told you to get in touch with – ’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Lauder was away, Mrs Channing. On holiday. But your GP was very reassuring, and – ’

  ‘He’s an idiot,’ said Francesca shortly. ‘He missed the hole in her heart in the first place.’

  ‘Mrs Channing, this isn’t getting us anywhere.’ Dr Paget was clearly put out by this slur on the medical brotherhood. ‘The point is, your little girl’s condition is simply not very serious. I’m going to prescribe some antibiotics for her and I’m quite sure that in twenty-four hours she’ll be right as rain.’ />
  ‘Well, I’m going back to London tonight, I can get a second opinon then,’ said Francesca.

  Dr Paget looked at her, a careful patience on his face. ‘Now I really don’t think that is a good idea. It’s a long drive, it will tire her, she’s far better staying here, at the convent, resting, and then you can go back when she’s recovered.’

  ‘But I want – ’

  ‘Mrs Channing, you can do whatever you like, of course. She’s your baby. I can only say if she was mine, she would stay here peacefully, getting over her cold, rather than be subjected to jolting around in a car for five hours, inhaling motorway fumes.’ He reached out suddenly, patted her hand. ‘I know how worried you are. Any mother would be. But she will be all right, I promise you.’

  Francesca suddenly felt rather ashamed of herself. ‘Yes. I’m sorry if I seem impatient. It’s just that – ’

  ‘Of course. Now look, give her this sachet in her milk now, and here’s another couple, just in case you miss the chemist tonight. Every six hours, wake her at midnight – it may seem cruel, but it’s important. And any worries at all, just call me, I’ll gladly come any time, middle of the night or not.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Francesca humbly.

  She looked down at Kitty, sitting on her knee; she did seem better. She put her small hand up, touched her mother’s face as if to comfort her.

  ‘There, you see,’ said Dr Paget, ‘she’s trying to tell you not to worry. She’ll be fine, Mrs Channing, just you see.’

  Briony was waiting in the restaurant – the Depot in Barnes, one of their old haunts – when Gray arrived. He stood for a moment in the doorway, just looking at her. She was reading the evening paper, looking very pretty in a black T-shirt and a long natural linen skirt, her brown hair falling over her face. She pushed it back behind her ears, looked up and saw him, and smiled. He had managed to get a table window; the river was gleaming in the evening sun, studded with boats, on the other side people walked with their dogs, children cycled and skated. It looked like a painting, as if it had been painted indeed with the precise purpose of making a backdrop for her.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, going over, bending to kiss her.

  ‘Hallo, Gray.’

  ‘You look lovely.’

  ‘Thank you. Why are you so brown? Holiday?’

  ‘Few days in Jersey. Researching a story.’

  ‘Good story?’

  ‘Well – something of one in its own right. I’ll tell you about it. Let’s order. Then we can concentrate.’

  They ordered and then sat in a slightly strained silence, punctuated by the bright polite ‘What you have been doing?’ and ‘Seen any good films?’ of the once intimate. The starters arrived – goat cheese and rocket salad, the best in London Gray always said, and Gray smiled awkwardly at her, took a deep breath.

  ‘This is – very good of you. To see me at such short notice.’

  ‘That’s all right. I wasn’t busy.’

  ‘I just needed to talk to you. Terribly badly.’

  ‘Yes. Gray – ’ She hesitated, looked awkward. His heart thudded uncomfortably; she was going to say she had someone else. He took a very large mouthful of the Chardonnay he had ordered, felt it hit his bloodstream, found himself brave enough to say, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh – nothing. Doesn’t matter, it can wait. How’s the News?’

  ‘I suppose it’s all right,’ said Gray. ‘I’ve resigned.’

  ‘You’ve resigned?’ She looked totally stunned. ‘Gray, why, how, what happened?’

  He looked at her, put down his fork. He couldn’t eat this, even if it was the best in London. He reached out, took both of her hands in his.

  ‘Briony, just listen, will you? Till I’ve finished. You can ask me questions when I’ve finished. This is very complicated and very – difficult. Just listen.’

  Briony listened. She was very good at that. She always had been. He’d forgotten quite how good. And when he had finished, she sat in silence, looking at him for a long time, her clear blue eyes very thoughtful. And then she said, ‘I’m sorry, Gray, I need to think about this. Quietly, on my own. I’ll – I’ll phone you in the morning. If that’s all right. Sorry about the dinner.’

  Gray sat staring after her as she walked across the restaurant and out into the courtyard, her long skirt floating round her, and wondered why he couldn’t see her more clearly. He realised after a while it was because his eyes were full of tears.

  ‘Marcia? This is Bard Channing. I’d like to come and see you, if I may.’

  ‘What, this evening, Mr Channing? Well, I don’t know if that would be entirely convenient, I had planned to have an early night, I’m rather tired.’

  ‘It won’t take long, Marcia, I assure you. I just wanted to check a couple of details with you.’

  ‘Oh. Very well then. Of course. If it’s reallly essential. How soon can you be here?’

  ‘Oh – in half an hour or so.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Channing. But I do hope it won’t take too long.’

  She would never have said that in the old days; the balance of power had already shifted.

  She opened the door to him, smiled her rather awkward smile. She was wearing a pair of dark grey trousers and a beige cotton shirt.

  ‘Mr Channing. Do come in.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He walked past her into her sitting room, as regimentally neat and orderly as her office had been. It was impersonal, but in a rather surprisingly good taste, all shades of beige, like many of her clothes. The only strident note was a painting of the harbour at St Brelade on Jersey: a rather vulgar painting, the colours brilliant.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘did you buy that there?’

  ‘I did. A local artist, I feel they should be encouraged.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘Would you like a drink, Mr Channing?’

  ‘Oh – yes, please. Whisky if you’ve got it. I may as well add drunken driving to my list of crimes.’

  ‘Mr Channing, I don’t think you should talk like that. It’s defeatist,’ said Marcia severely. ‘All may yet be well.’

  ‘That’s what you think, is it?’ said Bard.

  ‘Of course, yes.’

  ‘Well, in that case, you’re going to be very disappointed.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said you’re going to be very disappointed. If that happens in spite of all your endeavours.’

  ‘Mr Channing, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Marcia, come off it,’ said Bard. ‘You’ve been feeding – shall we say sensitive? – information to the accountants. I know you have. I’ve been told.’

  Marcia looked at him. Her face was very flushed. ‘Who?’ she said. ‘Who’s been telling you these lies?’

  ‘Not lies, Marcia. Are they? That is what you’ve been doing. It all seems extremely clear suddenly. How they’ve got to it all so fast. Nobody could have worked all that out, not for months. So let’s not waste time playing silly games, please.’

  She took a large mouthful of her whisky. ‘You can’t prove it,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I have a very reliable witness, who’ll testify to it in court.’

  ‘Who was it?’ she said, her voice heavy. ‘One of them?’

  ‘I don’t think I should tell you. What was it, Marcia, a bit of pleabargaining ? “If I tell you all this, will you see I get off more lightly?” Something like that?’

  ‘There’s nothing for me to be charged with,’ she said.

  ‘Oh really? What about Jersey?’

  ‘Mr Channing,’ she said, her voice ice-cold, ‘I was only – what is the phrase – carrying out orders. I don’t think there are very heavy penalties for that.’

  ‘Oh really? What about the little bit of creaming off you did there, Marcia? Your own personal bank account, opened with company money, your nice little bedsit you’ve been renting over there in St Ouen, your application for the boarding house, only three
years away now. I’d call that theft, myself. What happened to honour among thieves, I wonder?’

  ‘Nobody knows about that,’ she said, ‘nobody. You could never prove it.’

  ‘Well, I could, actually, Marcia. The person who told me found out all by himself. He’s talked to someone over there. It’s all written into a story, as a matter of fact. A story that’s going to appear in the Sunday papers. Featuring all of us, mainly me of course, but certainly you, Marcia. Quite a lot about all that. It might be a bit hard for you to get another job now, I think. And I think your application for the house might not go through quite so easily either, do you?’

  She was silent; she was white now, her grey eyes gimlet-hard in her face.

  ‘Why did you do it, Marcia? That’s what I want to know. You could have got off, you were only obeying orders, as you so rightly say, you could have pretended innocence. You were well rewarded, well paid, you were able to sell your shares in good time …’

  Marcia drained her glass. ‘I wanted to hurt you,’ said, quite matter-of-factly. ‘I wanted to damage you.’

  ‘But Marcia, why? What did I do? I know I swore at you, treated you badly, but that was just my way. I know it was bad, I don’t make any excuses, but you knew I was fond of you, you’d been loyal for so long …’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘everyone has a breaking point, Mr Channing. Even me. I didn’t mind the swearing, as a matter of fact. Or your terrible temper. I knew it didn’t mean anything. I thought it was rather absurd of people to mind, as far as I was concerned it was simply another facet of your personality. The personality I had always admired.’

  ‘But, Marcia – ’

  ‘Mr Channing, I would like to finish.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘We had a very close bond, you and I, for all those years; I was proud of it. I liked the fact that I was privy to all your secrets, that I knew much of what was going on, I didn’t care about it in the least, what you did, so stupid of people not to realise, not to be aware of the way of our world. I thought it was very amusing, rather pathetic, that your own wife could not see it at all.’