The Truth

by Michael Palin

  Hector’s eyes flicked up to the mirror and focused on Mabbut, like someone peering into a house through the letter box.

  ‘What did he do? What would you do?’

  The traffic edged forward. Keith, whose attention had wandered during the early part of the story, shook his head equivocally.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You’ve no idea! A woman you’ve helped out of the gutter turns and spits on you, and you’ve no idea!’

  Fischer braked sharply to avoid killing a frail elderly person who was making their way over a designated crossing.

  ‘I tell you what I would do,’ he shouted over the blast of his car horn. ‘I would have kicked her out and changed the locks! That would be my idea of what to do!’

  They turned into Doughty Street. When he’d first arrived in London, Mabbut had come down here to pay homage to Charles Dickens, who’d lived and worked in one of these houses.

  ‘Every time she sobbed a tear and shook her bum he took her back. “Oh it’s OK! Don’t worry! I’ll look after you! Put your head on my shoulder. There!”’

  After all these years, the amount of history in a single London street was still something to marvel at.

  ‘I would have said there was only one place for that head. On the block!’ Hector chuckled grimly and accelerated towards a traffic-calming platform ahead of them.

  ‘On the block!’ he repeated with satisfaction.

  Silla finished one call and started another. Mabbut decided to feign sleep.

  Urgent Books occupied the first two floors of an old tobacco warehouse on the south bank of the river between Southwark and London Bridge. It had been brusquely converted for a quick sale at the height of the property boom and despite its cast-iron columns and sturdy brick walls the change of use had rendered it virtually indistinguishable from a host of similar commercial developments which had sterilised a once quirky riverside.

  Automatic glass doors gave access to a wide open-plan reception area, a curious conjunction of marble tiled floor and whitewashed brick walls. A curving glass staircase led up to a gallery and a bank of lifts serving the upper floors. Mabbut and Silla were halfway up the stairs when a wiry, athletic man strode out on to the balcony above. Silla waved. He nodded back at her with a wink that could have been a twitch. Or just a wink.

  Ron Latham didn’t fit any preconceived idea Mabbut had of a publisher. He had very black curly hair and an almost unnaturally clear complexion, such as you might see on a waxwork. His shirt was collarless, and worn tucked into snug-fitting black jeans. He wore a pair of rimless glasses, so thin that they almost could be mistaken for part of his skull. His age could have been anything between twenty-five and forty-five. He greeted Silla with a kiss and Mabbut with a firm grip from a surprisingly soft hand.

  ‘Ron Latham. I’m the CEO. Everyone calls me Ron.’

  He smiled mirthlessly and led them through an open-plan office, past twenty or thirty consoles from which no one looked up. At the far end was the only room with a proper door: steel with a hardwood finish. Latham held it open and beckoned them into a conference room with a wide picture window overlooking the Thames. Mabbut caught sight of a train rumbling over the bridge to Cannon Street station before Latham pressed a remote control and blinds clicked into place.

  ‘Sorry. Bit bright. Coffee?’

  A complete breakfast had been laid out at one end of the glass-topped conference table. Latham poured coffee and stretched his arm out over the spread.

  ‘There’s juice and pastries. Croissants. Whatever you want.’

  He didn’t make it sound tempting.

  Latham and Silla talked a little of mutual friends and the ups and downs of the market. The two of them seemed comfortable together. Mabbut looked about him. At one end of the room stood an easel from which hung sheets of paper, ruffled almost imperceptibly by the softly humming air con.

  Considering this was a publishing house, there were very few books to be seen. Maybe this was the shape of the future. The world on a screen. Mabbut was old fashioned in these matters. He used a mobile and a computer, neither very competently, but when he was on the road his first point of contact remained his notebook and pencil.

  As he reached for a croissant, Mabbut caught Latham’s eye. Latham smiled crisply, professionally. Maybe he was nervous too, for when he spoke it was with a touch of unconvincing matiness.

  ‘I’ve known Priscilla since she worked the show-biz pages at the Chronicle group. I like her, because she’s always gone her own way. Never followed the herd.’

  Mabbut was about to reach for the butter, but thought better of it.

  ‘So when this came along, she was the first person we went to for a recommendation.’

  Mabbut looked across at his agent. Her expression gave no hint of her trademark hard-nosed scepticism. Instead she stared back at him with a look of bright anxiety, like a mother who was taking her child to the doctor.

  Latham finished his coffee and put his cup back on the table. He smiled.

  ‘She thought of you.’

  ‘For what, exactly?’ asked Mabbut.

  ‘Something quite exciting.’

  Latham indicated a row of chairs and at the press of a remote control, a screen purred down from the ceiling.

  ‘This is super-confidential, but it’ll give you some idea of what we’re after.’

  He flicked the remote and the room darkened. Suddenly the screen was illuminated and an arresting image appeared, a figure walking from left to right across what looked like stony scrub in some hot country. The camera zoomed in and revealed an imposing middle-aged to elderly man with a mane of thick greying hair.

  Mabbut recognised the man even before the title caption came up.

  ‘Hamish Melville,’ intoned a sententious voice-over. ‘Aged seventy-five. Anthropologist and activist.’ A series of close-ups showed a large head and a strong face with eyes deep set beneath the brow, as if they were peering out from the mouth of a cave. The face was not so much handsome – the nose and cheekbones were too prominent for that – as it was mesmerising; the way John the Baptist looked in Renaissance paintings, an impression strengthened by hair worn long and tangled. Various film clips followed. Usually shot on the move, with Melville striding through the bush, or surrounded by a group of tiny tribal people, or, in one case, sitting cross-legged with a group of fellow protesters in front of a police line. Place names clicked up on the screen: Bangladesh, Brazil, Borneo. All the environmental hot spots.

  The presentation was clinical and factual, but to Mabbut it was fascinating stuff. In an age of universal access Hamish Melville remained an enigmatic maverick. The Action Man of the environmental movement. Mabbut was familiar with the background. The cancellation of the million-dollar Puerto Jainca dam project and the saving of the Akwambe lands in the Niger delta were just two of Melville’s successes, yet the man himself was famously reclusive. He rarely gave interviews and when he did they were more likely to be for a school magazine than a national broadsheet. Apart from his hit-and-run campaigns, his legendary influence on everything from conflict resolution to economic development stemmed from two books and the occasional address, delivered, more often than not, to a convention of rickshaw drivers rather than a UN assembly. For journalists of Mabbut’s generation this combination of the inspirational and the subversive was a constant source of speculation. They admired and envied Melville’s unique ability to stay out of the headlines and yet remain extraordinarily effective in pricking consciences. To see these glimpses of the great man – working on a farm, riding a train, swimming and laughing in some frighteningly turbulent river – was almost like watching footage of some old communist icon.

  The last sequence was quite different. It was a montage of maybe a dozen shots of Melville in urban locations, caught on what looked like a CCTV camera, leaving an airport, entering a building, on the steps of a government facility, shaking hands with movers and shakers. In some of them Melville wore a suit. In one,
getting into a large car, with security men holding the door, he was carrying a briefcase. On this last, incongruous image, the commentary drew to a conclusion. ‘Who is the real Melville? And where does his power lie? Melville. The True Story. An Urgent exclusive. Coming to you next Christmas.’

  The words faded and slowly the lights came up. Latham reached for the remote. The screen ascended, disappearing soundlessly into the ceiling. Almost simultaneously the blinds folded back and daylight flooded the room.

  ‘That’s interesting stuff,’ Mabbut murmured. He glanced towards Silla. ‘But why are we . . . er . . . why are we watching Hamish Melville home movies?’

  Latham raised his immaculately trimmed eyebrows.

  ‘More coffee?’

  Mabbut shook his head. Latham stood, refilled his own cup, added sugar, glanced briefly towards the door then turned back again.

  ‘We, that is, Urgent Books, want to commission a book on Melville. Everyone loves him, everyone respects him. He’s admired all over the world. By the people whose land he saves, by the conservationists and the ecologists, as well as a hell of a lot of people who don’t agree with what he’s saying, but like the way he says it. And he has an international profile.’

  Latham walked towards the window, stirring his coffee.

  ‘He isn’t government, he isn’t UN. He’s not a bureaucrat or a politician. He’s never accepted an honour or a medal. He’s one of the last of an almost extinct species – the free spirit, the lone wolf. The guy who does what he thinks is right and argues about it afterwards. He’s an inspiration to some, a bloody nuisance to others. Yet the real Hamish Melville is a mystery. We know jackshit about the man himself. How he lives, works, operates. What he really wants to achieve. That’s the gap we want to fill.’

  Latham turned and looked at Mabbut.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we want you to fill it.’

  This was so completely not what he’d expected that at first Mabbut could come up with no reaction at all. He needed a moment to decode the complex mix of excitement and unease that had suddenly come over him.

  ‘Me?’ Aware that his voice sounded shrill, he paused and came down an octave. ‘I mean, why me?’

  ‘As you can imagine, Melville isn’t the sort of man for a celebrity biog or a memoir. He’d run a mile from a star performer. He’d sniff out anyone with an agenda. It’s happened before. Good journalists, top writers have tried to get close and failed miserably.’

  ‘So why would I be different?’ asked Mabbut.

  Latham moved towards him. He was talking faster now, like someone homing in on a target.

  ‘Silla’s filled me in on you, Mabbut, and I hope you won’t mind me saying this, but you don’t carry any intimidating baggage with you. You’re not a celebrity, your name is hardly a household word. Your . . .’ His brow furrowed momentarily. ‘Your record is solid but unspectacular. Even, possibly, a little dull. But you can write. She’s shown me your stuff and it’s fine.’

  Somewhere behind him, Mabbut heard his agent clear her throat. Latham continued.

  ‘You’ve been a journalist. You know about deadlines. You know about sources. And environment is your thing. You exposed that water company. You’re used to working under the radar. But most of all, Priscilla tells me you’re basically an honest man, a straight guy. Someone we could depend on.’

  Keith stole a glance at Silla. She smiled back. But he wanted more than that. Some guidance, for God’s sake, as to how he should be dealing with all this.

  Latham pulled out a chair and sat down close to Mabbut.

  ‘We’ll make it worth your while, of course.’

  Mabbut felt claustrophobic. He didn’t like this place, he didn’t like this man, and he had been in the business long enough to know that publishing houses were not charities.

  ‘But we’re not a charity, Mr Mabbut. Your part of the deal is to produce the book, start to finish, in six months flat.’

  Mabbut felt a rising panic.

  ‘I’m writing a novel . . .’

  ‘The company wants this to be one of our lead titles for next Christmas, so I need it by April at the latest. For legal checks, rights sales and so on. And I will need complete confidentiality. If anyone asks, you’re writing an overview of environmental movements.’

  ‘But I’m writing a novel,’ Mabbut repeated.

  Latham leant closer to him.

  ‘What’s really important is that you look at every aspect of the man. I mean every aspect. We don’t want a fanzine, Mabbut. We want the truth.’

  Latham stood. He repositioned his chair carefully at the table. A martinet, thought Mabbut, not bright but neat. Likes things just so.

  ‘Silla and I can discuss the details.’

  Ron Latham extended his hand to Mabbut, and they made their way to the door.

  ‘Good to meet you, Keith.’

  Mabbut wanted to get his thoughts in order, to express clearly and unequivocally what his position was, but he couldn’t think how to do it. Nor, it seemed, was he going to be given the opportunity. He gave a last, instinctive look towards Silla. She nodded back eagerly.

  ‘Call you,’ she said, half standing and motioning towards the exit.

  Latham was already at the door, holding it open for him.

  ‘I hope you’re as excited as we are.’

  FIVE

  The glass doors of the Urgent building quietly slid shut behind him. Mabbut stood in the small brick plaza. Around him office workers were occupying the steps and unpacking lunches. He felt confused. Out of place. A purposeless man in a purposeful world. He turned left, then right, heading instinctively towards the river. When he reached Bankside he picked his way through the cross-current of ambling tourists and keen-eyed joggers and found the reassurance of a bulky granite wall. He leant out over the parapet and looked at the river. It was high tide and a stiff breeze was sloshing the water about. The horn of a passing barge blasted out, like an elephant in pain.

  Mabbut stared across the river, his eyes moving east to west across the oddly assorted clumps of buildings that made up the north bank. Hardly welcoming. The towers of the City held their own secrets. The ivy-clad walls of the Inns of Court protected their inmates from curious glances. The smooth stone bulk of the Ministry of Defence and the carved and curlicued Houses of Parliament, accessible only by special pass, took up another half-mile of London’s private riverside.

  A pair of runners thudded by behind him.

  Cities, he thought, especially capitals, give the impression of being open and busy and full of people going here, there and everywhere, but at heart they’re closed, conspiratorial places. He knew this because at one time it had been his job to prise out information from behind the high walls, to infiltrate the defences of impenetrable institutions and find someone somewhere who was accountable. At one stage his zeal had been ambitious, almost evangelical, until he overstepped the mark. Called powerful people liars, paid informers inside the company, showed that good, decent people with families, friends and Masonic colleagues had been prepared to tolerate bad practice rather than frighten their shareholders.

  As far as Mabbut was concerned his ends had always justified his means. Looking back now, the award he’d won for the water story probably hadn’t helped. It had stirred envies, made him look smug and self-righteous in some people’s eyes. It certainly made people close ranks against him. But he had been a good journalist, that was for sure, and he had bitterly resented having to make do with crumbs: corporate vanity projects, official histories, publicity puffs of one kind or another. Writing a book about Hamish Melville sounded too good to be true, and that was what worried him. Why would a sleek, smooth, plausible man like Ron Latham have any interest in an iconoclast such as Melville? And the other thing that really rankled was the way the two of them, especially his own fucking agent, for God’s sake, had dismissed the novel. Well, he’d prove them wrong. Albana distilled what he had wanted to say for so long. In Albana the big is
sues would take centre stage, and the piffling cover-ups and compromises of modern life would be put firmly in their place. It would be a big story on a big canvas. Universal and compassionate. Saying everything he wanted to say. No compromise needed.

  His phone rang. Silla sounded breathless. She was obviously on the move.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I just took a walk, along the river.’

  ‘Good news. Ron likes you.’

  ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How can you tell what a robot thinks?’

  ‘Don’t be frivolous. All I’ve got to do now is iron out a few contract details, and I’m pretty sure you’ve got the job!’

  ‘Silla, Silla. Slow down. Who says I want the job?’

  There was a pause on the other end of the line.

  ‘What d’you mean? What else are you going to do?’

  ‘I have a novel to write!’

  ‘Your science fiction thing?’

  Mabbut aimed a kick at the wall. ‘It’s not science fiction, it’s historical re-creation. Documentary drama.’

  ‘But it’s still fiction. This is for real, Keith. And, what’s more, I think I can get you real money for it!’

  Mabbut looked down. At his feet, a pigeon, quite oblivious to the passing crowds, was worrying away at a stub of discarded falafel.

  ‘Silla, I told you what I want to do now. You may not have listened, but I did tell you. I don’t want to be a hired gun any more. I have my own plans and I’ve taken the decision to concentrate all my time on my novel. This is the only way I will ever produce anything of my own. If Urgent like me that much then let’s talk to them about Albana. An advance wouldn’t hurt.’

  Somewhere in the background he heard Hector’s raised voice. Silla giving instructions. A door slamming. Then her voice, again, a little muffled at first.

  ‘Keith, are you still there?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘There is no way that I am going to get a penny for a science fiction story.’

  ‘It’s not—’