Rules of Engagement

by Hurley, Graham

‘Mr Controller…’ Annie began, ‘before you go in…’ She let the sentence trail away, and Goodman accepted the invitation with practised ease.

  ‘Controller’s an awful word,’ he said, ‘and redundant, too, thank God.’ He glanced at his watch and smiled at her. ‘We’re here to give thanks,’ he said. ‘We’ve all been through it, every one of us, and my only sadness is that the cathedral isn’t bigger. We should all be here. We should all be bearing witness. The whole city. It’s been a kind of miracle, a kind of rebirth. It’s time to look forward. And thank God we still can.’

  He stopped, the tone perfectly pitched, the message perfectly articulated. In the realm of the sound bite, those little ten-second quotations so beloved by news editors, Goodman was clearly king. He looked apologetic and glanced up the path towards the door. The Bishop’s party, and the Mayor, had disappeared into the cathedral. Annie smiled her thanks, and watched Goodman shepherd his wife towards the open door. His wife was much smaller than he was, slight, attractive, well-dressed, the same expensive tan. The perfect couple, she thought, turning away to look for a handful of other shots to bridge the gaps in their brief conversation, to make the scene come alive.

  Across the road was a line of spectators, the beginnings of a thin crowd. Annie reached back to nudge the cameraman, then stopped. Standing apart, slightly to one side, was Gillespie. She didn’t recognize him at first. He was wearing a collar and tie. An ill-fitting blazer, and a pair of slacks. She half-raised her hand, began to call his name, but he’d been looking at her all the time, taking it in, the camera, Goodman, the exchange of smiles at the kerbside, and now he turned away, refusing to acknowledge her. She stepped out into the road, starting to go after him, but the cameraman was calling her name, a query about shot numbers, and by the time she’d given him the information he needed, Gillespie had gone.

  Gillespie was back home twenty minutes later. He went straight to the bathroom. He tore off the blazer, wrenched at the tie. He stepped out of the slacks, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Then, in vest and briefs, he walked through to the living room.

  The first set of press-ups helped, deep dips, his chest touching the carpet. Every tenth press-up he pushed hard off the floor, clapping his hands once, then catching himself as his chest fell once again towards the carpet, hands outspread. At seventy, he lost count, the muscles in his shoulders and his upper arms beginning to burn, his strength ebbing away, leaving only that tight knot of determination inside himself, that absolute disregard for gravity and pain that was finally his only resource.

  Another thirty seconds, and he was finished, fighting his way upright on the carpet, refusing to lie down, refusing to let his body rest, turning over, sitting upright, pushing himself into the next set of exercises, stomach curls, flat on his back, hands behind his head, hinging upright, elbows touching his knees, grunting each time he did it, driving away the demons, pushing Annie out of his head, the terrible suspicion at last confirmed. He did fifty to begin with. Then fifty more. Then, when his stomach began to cramp, the beginnings of another set.

  The door bell rang, Gillespie’s rhythm slowed. The bell rang again. He stopped, sitting on the carpet, hands behind his head. For a moment or two he did nothing, thinking of Annie again, standing outside the cathedral, ringed by her precious film crew, cosying up to Goodman, a smile on her face. He glanced at his watch. Forty minutes had gone by since he’d left the cathedral. Just enough time for her to finish what she was doing, tidy up, and come round. She never gave up. Never stopped trying. It was bound to be her. He got to his feet, glad that the worst of the anger had gone, glad that he could say his piece, seal the whole thing off, without losing control. Ten minutes earlier, he’d probably have killed her. Now, he’d simply tell her what he thought.

  He walked down the hall. There was a shadow at the door. He pulled it open, feeling the fresh air raise the sweat on his face. He blinked. It was Sean.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said gruffly, robbed of a different conversation.

  Sean looked startled.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ he said, uncertain.

  Gillespie looked at him a moment, then turned away and walked back along the hall. Sean followed him, closing the door. They both went into the kitchen. Gillespie wiped his face on a tea-towel. He hadn’t seen the boy for more than a week, and even then there’d been little to say. Both Sandra and Sean had made the running, closing the door on what had happened out in the marshes, out by the boat, the guns to their heads, the faces daubed with camouflage cream, the ride to the hospital, the incessant round of questions. All that had gone, no blame, no bitterness, no need even to hang onto the memory. Dave, their Dave had done his best and the only outcome worth a mention was the fact that he was still alive. The rest was a nightmare, devoid of plot, empty of meaning. A day or so later, the world had woken up, and here they all were again, a living to make, chores to attend, business as usual. Except that Dave had changed, gone funny, withdrawn so totally that it was impossible to even see him.

  Sandra, at first, thought that they must have hurt him. Drugs. Shock treatment. A beating or two. White noise. The sort they’d used on her brothers. But when she finally managed to coax him to the telephone, he said they’d done nothing of the sort. On the contrary, he said, they’d behaved like perfect gentlemen. She’d remembered the phrase for days, the way he said it, the bitterness in his voice, the sense of personal injury. She’d worried about it. She’d phoned him again, to no effect. She’d even written to him, telling him to take it easy, to relax, to be like everyone else in the city and simply forget it all. Gillespie had read the letter early one morning, the postman’s footsteps receding down the pavement in the street outside. He’d left it on a shelf in the kitchen, tucked behind a mug where he kept the broken fishing traces he was always meaning to mend. Sean looked at it now, recognizing his mother’s handwriting, the careful backward slope to the capital letters.

  ‘She wants to see you again,’ he said. ‘She wants you to come round.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Gillespie folded the tea-towel over the edge of the sink. He was still thinking about Annie. The things he would have said to her. The way he would have put it. The boy was a distraction. The wrong face. The wrong day.

  ‘Listen –’ he said. ‘I’m pretty busy.’

  Sean looked round. The pile of unwashed plates on the draining board. The empty Guinness tins. Leavings from a life going nowhere. It was like walking into some stranger’s kitchen. His father had always been methodical and tidy. Not fussy. Not worrying about it all the time. Simply neat. Ship shape. The way he liked it afloat. This place belonged to someone else. He tried again.

  ‘She’s really upset…’ he began.

  Gillespie grunted, cutting him off, not wanting to listen.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I bet.’

  ‘She is…’ he paused.

  ‘So?’ Gillespie spun round, swamped again by the anger and the pain, the world on his back. ‘What the fuck do I do about it?’

  Sean blinked and backed away, and Gillespie saw the shock in the boy’s face, and then the fear. He stopped himself, realizing what he was doing, where the conversation was heading. His own son. In his own kitchen. Scared witless. He sank into a chair and gazed at his hands. To his surprise, they were shaking.

  ‘Son…’ he began, ‘I’m sorry…’

  Sean looked nervous, not knowing quite how to react. First the flash of explosive temper. Now this.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said uncertainly.

  ‘No,’ Gillespie shook his head, ‘it’s not OK. It’s not OK at all.’

  He looked up, trying to coax a smile from the boy, but all he saw was wariness and a growing sense of bewilderment. Gillespie got up and reached for the kettle, knowing that at last the time had come to make yet another decision.

  The first, four weeks back, had been forced upon him. He’d been offered a simple choice, yes or no, freedom at the turn of a key, or prosecution for murder. The latter was by no means
a foregone conclusion but the evidence was strong and they were obviously prepared to play the Ballycomble card: McMullen lying dead in the gravel with a 7.62mm hole in his head. This man has killed before. This man has killed again. He has a taste for it. A talent for it. Lock this man up. He’d thought hard about the prospect, the way the man in the suit had meant him to, and in the end he’d elected for freedom, and for silence. Set me free, he’d said, and your precious secret – Harry Cartwright’s little racket – will be safe. The man in the suit had concurred with a nod. Wise move, his smile had suggested. Good lad.

  He’d known then that it was a hopeless decision, the worst sort of compromise, but he thought he might be able to live with it. Now, a month later, he knew that he couldn’t. The evidence was there in front of him, Sean reaching for the door handle, his own son, the one relationship that really mattered, looking for a way out. At this rate, unless he did something radical, took a risk or two, there wouldn’t be a relationship left. He’d end up like his own dad. Dead in the water.

  He looked up at Sean and smiled.

  ‘You won’t understand this, son…’ he began.

  Sean hesitated by the door, detecting a tone in his father’s voice, conciliatory.

  ‘No?’ he said.

  Gillespie shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘but I think I do.’

  The boy frowned.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I screwed up. Dropped a big one.’ He shrugged. ‘Happens sometimes.’

  Sean looked at him, the uncertainty still there.

  ‘And?’ he said, wanting only the good news.

  Gillespie was silent for a moment, toying with the big knife he used to gut fish. The kettle began to boil. Finally, he looked up, the decision made, a sense of marvellous calm spreading inside him. Peace at last, at whatever price.

  ‘We get another boat,’ he said, ‘after I’m through.’

  Annie McPhee left the camera car at the foot of the tower block while she went up to arrange the interview. The last time she’d been here, there’d been a riot in progress. Now, it was quite deserted, sixteen storeys of curtained windows in a wasteland of abandoned supermarket trolleys.

  Annie took the lift to the twelfth floor. The woman’s address she’d acquired from the young reporter on the local paper. ‘Hudson Towers,’ he’d told her, ‘No. 1204’. He’d hung onto the conversation for a moment or two, curious about her interest, but she’d been deliberately vague. My story, she’d told herself. My chance.

  The lift stopped and she got out. Number 1204 was at the end of the corridor, an orange door. She rang the bell and waited. Nothing happened. She rang the bell again. Another door opened across the hall. A woman emerged, old, running to fat. She was wearing a housecoat, quilted nylon, pink. She looked hostile. Annie introduced herself.

  ‘I’m after Mrs Duffy,’ she said.

  ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘Left?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The old woman sniffed. ‘Gave her a transfer, didn’t they? Brand new place.’ She looked closely at Annie. ‘You from the Social?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Friend, are you?’

  ‘No.’ She paused. ‘It’s personal.’

  ‘Oh.’ The old woman nodded. ‘Then maybe you can tell me what she’d want with four bedrooms? Just her and the two kids? Eh?’

  Annie nodded, beginning to understand. Like everyone else in the block, Mrs Duffy probably hated the flats. What she’d want would be a transfer, somewhere ground level, somewhere with a bit of space, and a garden. Somewhere half decent to bring up the remains of her family. In this vision of a better life, Mrs Duffy wouldn’t be alone. There’d be thousands like her on the waiting list, resigned to a wait of years before they amassed enough points to take them to the head of the queue. Miraculously, though, in the space of a month, Mrs Duffy had gone. Annie looked at the orange front door, wondering what kind of price Mrs Duffy had offered to pay, what kind of deal had been struck. She glanced back at the old woman.

  ‘I’m press,’ she said idly, ‘I was wondering about that boy of hers. The one that got killed.’

  ‘Jason?’

  ‘Yes. Jason.’

  ‘You want to talk to Mrs Duffy about Jason?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The old woman shook her head and began to step back into her flat.

  ‘Fat chance,’ she said.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because Mrs Duffy ain’t talking. Not now. Not ever.’

  Annie nodded, thanking her, stepping back towards the lift. No interview, she thought. Not now. Not ever.

  Mick and Albie finished up at Mick’s place, gone seven in the evening, that strange twilight interlude between the working day and an evening of serious drinking. Albie, at last, had abandoned his pineapple juice and was into his second can of Special Brew. Mick watched him, recognizing the old problem, all or nothing, totally slaughtered or totally sane. He grinned to himself and lay back in the big leather armchair, half closing his eyes. Time for a gentle piss-take, he thought. Time for a few laughs. He proffered the can, a toast.

  ‘The Albie Curtis Home Defence System,’ he said. ‘Fifty gallons of nicked emulsion and a load of old cobblers about the Space Shuttle.’ He paused, making room for the punch line. ‘Should have done a bomb, shouldn’t it? Eh, Alb?’

  Albie looked at him, tipped the can of lager half an inch, a small dangerous movement that should have told Mick a great deal.

  ‘Ha, ha,’ he said, totally mirthless.

  Mick lifted his own can in acknowledgement.

  ‘Listen…’ he said grandly, the big gesture, ‘I’ll take a couple of tins, old times’ sake.’

  Albie nodded.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘but what do you want paint for?’

  ‘Thought I might cheer this place up.’

  Albie nodded again.

  ‘You staying here?’

  Mick frowned.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘where else?’

  ‘I thought you were on notice? I thought Cartwright was sending the bailiffs in?’

  Mick looked confused.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  Albie paused. He was talking slowly now, not a trace of the Special Brew, plenty of space between the words, no ambiguities.

  ‘You told me, a month back, before all the bother…that we were skint.’ He paused, took a long attentive drag from the can. Then he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘That’s why we went into boats.’ He paused again. ‘Isn’t it?’

  Mick nodded, automatic reflex movement.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Only the boats didn’t work out, did they?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And we didn’t see a penny, did we?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because Cartwright disappeared…’ He smiled, a bad sign. ‘Or at least that’s what you told me…’

  Mick swallowed hard.

  ‘It’s true,’ he said defensively.

  Albie looked at him, said nothing. Mick tried hard to think of something funny. Nothing happened. Albie smiled again, totally in control.

  ‘So when’s he back?’ he said softly. ‘Mate?’

  Mick nodded, understanding him perfectly, the situation, the Special Brew, twenty-odd years of obligation.

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he said quietly, ‘on the Jersey boat.’

  Gillespie drove into the Wessex TV compound at dusk. The security guards stopped him at the gate. He gave them Annie’s name. He said he was expected. He sat behind the wheel, waiting. They conferred on a phone and let him in. He drove around the studio block and parked outside the main reception door. The parking space was labelled ‘Managing Director’. He got out.

  Annie met him at the front door. She was in a T-shirt and jeans. She had a pencil tucked behind her ear.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ she said.

  Gillespie shrugged.

  ‘Away,’ he said, smiling to himself
, a private joke. ‘Out of touch.’

  ‘I’ve been worried,’ she said, ‘more than worried.’

  ‘Yeah. I gathered.’

  ‘You picked up the messages?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Didn’t phone me back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Gillespie shrugged.

  ‘I thought it was better this way,’ he said, ‘face to face.’

  Annie looked at him a moment, then glanced at her watch.

  ‘Right now it’s difficult,’ she said, ‘I’m running late.’ She paused, expecting him to accept the tacit invitation, take the hint, make a date for later and leave. He smiled at her.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘I’ll come in.’

  She hesitated a moment, then shrugged and led the way into the studio. They walked along a series of corridors, then into a small editing suite. A young man with glasses turned from the control console, nodding at Gillespie, directing Annie’s attention to the middle of three monitor screens.

  ‘What do you think of this?’ he said. ‘Watch.’

  He punched a button. Goodman appeared on screen, getting out of a large black Jaguar. Gillespie recognized the scene outside the cathedral. Goodman approached the camera, acknowledged Annie’s whispered question, delivered the perfect answer. Something was missing in the middle, bridged by a shot of a young mother across the road, watching with her baby in a pushchair. The sequence came to an end. Annie nodded, her hand on Gillespie’s arm.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘He sounds quite plausible.’ She turned to Gillespie. ‘Don’t you think?’

  Gillespie shrugged.

  ‘Depends…’ he said.

  Annie looked at him, a new look, a professional curiosity. Smoke in the wind. New information. New source. The photo she’d found in the living room. This man she could never control.

  ‘Depends on what?’ she said.

  Gillespie looked at the screen, Goodman arrested in mid-smile. The glasses. The eyes. Four weeks earlier, he’d been a face in his own viewfinder, sitting on a bench in the Botanical Gardens, at odds with his mistress. Now, very evidently, he was on the edge of stardom, this week’s TV personality. His ever-loyal wife, Gillespie’s ex-client, beside him.