Reaper

by Hurley, Graham

  Buddy had listened to him, nodding, absorbing it all, standing by the cab, the snow beginning to fleck his denim jacket. Pascale had come to an end, extending a hand, wishing him a good flight back. Buddy had shaken his hand briefly, his brain slightly fuddled.

  “But tell me again …” he’d said, “what happens if it doesn’t work?”

  Pascale had looked at him for a moment. Then he’d shrugged. “Nothing,” he’d said, “which is why you’re here in the first place.”

  Now, sitting on Jude’s bed again, Buddy told her everything, bending in towards her, trying to share his excitement. Jude listened without comment, and as he developed the story, telling her about Pascale, what he looked like, the way he talked, the sheer confidence of the man, he began to detect a certain disbelief, as if he might not have gone there at all, as if it were some fairy-tale to keep her spirits up. When he started to talk about sensory gain, and the chance of real improvement, she nodded, and abruptly changed the subject.

  “Feel my hair,” she said.

  Buddy did so, reaching forward and running his fingers through her hair. It was clean and light. There were two tiny scabs, dried blood, where the points of the tongs had been embedded in her temples. She looked up at him, smiling, and told him about her first shampoo.

  The traction had been off now for two days, and one of the nurses had washed her hair. Her face and neck and scalp were the only bits of her she could feel any more, and this first shampoo in two weeks had, she said, been brilliant. The nurse had taken her time, kneading her scalp, working the lather in, and Jude had watched her hands, smelling the scent of the shampoo, something really expensive. It had smelled of some herb, she’d said, probably rosemary. The nurse had stopped by a chemist on the way in, and bought it specially, a treat. She’d used bowls and bowls of water, deliciously hot, sluicing it all away, and she’d been able to feel the water at the back of her, dribbling down, wetting the sheet, until it got to the nape of her neck, and the feeling stopped. Afterwards, the nurse had used a new towel, lots of nap, rubbing and rubbing, drying her hair, and at the end of it her head had been tingling all over, an almost sexual glow. She looked up at him, smiling.

  “So party nights …’ she said wistfully, “you’ll know what to do.”

  Buddy stroked her hair again, returning to Massachusetts, the Clinic, Pascale. He knew what had happened while he’d been away. Bishop had been at her, at her bedside, telling her what a waste of time it all was, how science had no answers, what a fraud Pascale would turn out to be. But he no longer cared about any of that. He, Buddy, had been there. He’d seen the place, met the man, and as soon as they could raise the money, they’d be on the next plane out. It was worth a shot. It was better than lying there, simply taking it all. They owed it to each other to at least try.

  “How much?” she said quietly.

  “Eighty thousand.” He paused. “Dollars.”

  She smiled. “We don’t have eighty thousand dollars,” she said. “Eighty thousand dollars is a fortune.”

  “We’ll sell the house.”

  “I don’t want to sell the house.”

  “We’ll raise a loan.”

  “On what kind of security? Me?”

  “I’ll talk to your father.”

  “I have already.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He was devastated.” She paused. “He says I’ll need various aids. Lifts. Special arrangements. He knows about all this stuff. His best friend’s son came back in a wheelchair from ’Nam.”

  “Oh …”

  Buddy nodded. Jude’s father was an executive with a big company in Atlanta, a cautious, practical man with none of Jude’s zest. Buddy had met him once. They’d talked about the economics of peanut farming.

  “You told him? About Pascale? Me going across?”

  Jude nodded. “Yes,” she said.

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said it was fantasy.”

  Buddy looked at her for a moment. “Shit,” he said softly. “He’s wrong.”

  Jude smiled up at him.

  “Maybe,” she said, “maybe not.”

  They said nothing for a moment, and Buddy realized that she’d taken charge of the conversation, not wanting to hurt him, not wanting to douse his enthusiasm. If she had arms, he thought, she’d put them round me. He stood up, confused, a little angry, hating this place, every exit blocked. She was still smiling.

  “You must be tired,” she said.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  There was another silence. A nurse walked past and nodded at Buddy. Jude watched her.

  “She’s the one,” she said softly. “Did the shampoo.”

  Buddy looked down at her, noticing the little scabs of blood again, where the tongs had been. He touched one of them.

  “That hurt?”

  She moved her head on the pillow.

  “No.”

  “Good to have the thing off?”

  “Great.”

  “What good did it do? They tell you?”

  She nodded. “Yes,” she said.

  Buddy smiled at her. “Well?”

  Jude didn’t answer for a moment. The nurse came back. She was carrying a flask of urine. Jude coughed, a thin dry noise in her throat. Then she turned her head away.

  “Nothing,” she said, “it’s made no difference.”

  Leeson was still reading the reports of the latest Argentinian overflight when they told him he wouldn’t be going to Washington.

  The news arrived with his midday post. It came in a long, white envelope marked “Confidential, Addressee Only”. He put the envelope to one side for nearly half an hour while the office emptied for lunch, thinking that it contained news of a different sort about the posting, confirmation of his overseas allowances, information he’d requested about DC accommodation bureaux, more guff on exactly how much he’d be permitted to ship over before he’d have to start paying commercial freight charges. Only when he’d finished drafting the note on the overflight, with its attached photocopy of a long article from the latest edition of Siete Días, did he reach over the desk, his mind still elsewhere, and slit open the envelope.

  Inside, there was a single sheet of paper. He smoothed it on the desk, one eye still scanning the photocopied article. Siete Días was an influential Buenos Aires publication, offering a weekly analysis of political events. It had impeccable sources and was often used to float various government lines, testing them out on an informed readership. The latest article reviewed the negotiations between Argentina and the UK on the Falklands issue. The negotiations, it said, had been effectively stalled by the British. 1982 would be the key year for the recovery of the islands. If the British weren’t prepared to talk, then force would have to be used. It would be wholly justified, and entirely the consequence of British intransigence. The military occupation of the Malvinas was a last resort, but the time had come for the issue to be finally resolved.

  Leeson reached for a Pentel and highlighted the key phrases. In conjunction with his note on the latest overflight – the subject of the morning’s alarmed telex from Government House in Port Stanley – it might, at last, concentrate the appropriate minds. Short of sending a letter of intent, or declaring war, the new administration in Buenos Aires was making the clearest possible noises. The Falklands, they were saying, belong to us. And sooner or later, you’ll have to acknowledge it.

  He leaned back from the desk, picking up the note from the Confidential envelope, wondering just what difference an American perspective might make to his analysis. Galtieri, he knew, had been in Washington only months ago. He’d had dinner with the Secretary of State for Defense, a comfortable, friendly occasion warmed by a common view of what was best for South America. Galtieri, according to the telegrams from the embassy on Pennsylvania Avenue, had gone down a storm. His particular brand of macho, right-wing nationalism had an obvious appeal to the Reagan honchos, and they’d clearly gone out of their way to ma
ke him feel at home. The President’s National Security Adviser, no less, had called him “a majestic personality”. With endorsements like that, Galtieri would feel immune from international criticism. With the Americans in the bag, nothing could come between Argentina and her precious Malvinas. That, at least, was Leeson’s view.

  He picked up the Confidential note and read it for the first time. He blinked, glanced round, then read it again, more slowly, letting each phrase settle in his mind. “Contrary to previous indications,” it went, “a decision has been taken to withdraw the offer to you of a Grade Four post in the Washington Embassy. Until further notice, you will continue your work in the South American Department at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. There will be no upward adjustment of your grading or your salary commensurate with the promotion discussed with you at the minuted meeting of 16th September, 1981. Should you now decide to review your position in the Diplomatic Service, you will, of course, be aware of the appropriate procedures. This letter will be placed on your file, and supersedes all other correspondence on the matter.”

  Leeson read the letter for the third time. It was brutally short. No mention of a reason. No reference to a cut-back in Establishment numbers, or plans for an alternative promotion. No hint of an apology, nor even a note of regret. Just the bare facts, plus a thin-lipped suggestion that he might choose to consider resignation. Washington’s off. Take it or leave it. Your call.

  He got to his feet and walked to the window. The office was empty, still lunchtime. He gazed out, down King Charles Street, out to St James’s Park beyond. It looked bleak and bare, the trees still leafless, a single middle-aged figure, clad in a long black coat, bent against the wind, feeding bread to the ducks. He let his head fall against the window. He felt physically sick, recognizing the letter for what it was, a declaration of war, a long thin finger pointing him towards the door, an invitation for him to do the decent thing and resign before the papers got hold of it, and turned a lifetime’s indiscretions into a nasty little scandal.

  He thought about his vetting, Miller, how foolish he’d been to underestimate the man, to trust him. Of course they’d known about his social life, his proclivities, his taste for sexual danger and a little pain. Of course they knew about the consequences, the possibility of blackmail, the likelihood of some hideous disease. For all he knew, they might even have acquired the results of the tests he’d undergone, getting the information before he did. God knows, they might even be running the clinic, a modest little investment, even profitable, an early warning radar to spot the unguided missile before it did them – in their estimation – untold harm.

  He returned to the desk and gazed down at the note, wondering whether he might, after all, be a little hasty in his conclusions. On the face of it, in terms of strict textual analysis, his career had simply been stalled, parked for a while in this dull, empty office, while someone else was chosen to fill the Washington post, or – just as likely – the post itself fell victim to some cost-cutting directive or other. That was the way it might have gone, forces beyond his control, an individual’s chances of promotion counting for nothing against the over-riding need to trim, cut back, save money. If so, he had the right to find out. He could ask for a formal interview, his Head of Department, the Personnel Director in the Establishment Section, whoever else might be able to offer him a little official consolation. That, he had to admit, sounded reasonable enough. There might be a post going somewhere else. They might get him to Washington later in the year. They might even express a little mild regret.

  He took off his glasses and sank into his chair at the desk, knowing in his heart that it was fantasy. The gun was loaded, pointing his way. Act the injured innocent, seek clarification, and they’d simply pull the trigger. They knew about him. They knew what he was like, where he’d been, what he’d been up to. He could tell, just by reading the letter, picturing the man who’d drafted it, the curl of the lip, the distaste, the contempt. The phrases he’d used came straight from the deep-freeze, that special pot of formal English they used when the time for communication, for dialogue, for answering back, was over. If nothing else, the last ten years had taught him to read properly, to accept nothing on paper at face value, to hunt for the hidden, undeclared subtext, to understand what the words were not saying. He gazed down again. This letter was a small masterpiece of its kind. It informed him of one decision and invited him to take another. As he’d first suspected, he’d no other choice but to tidy his desk, and find out about the pension arrangements, and return his security pass, and go.

  He leaned back in the chair again and closed his eyes, thinking – quite suddenly – of Connolly. The boy, after all, had been right. By the river, that bitter day, he’d simply pointed out the follies of excess. While Leeson had been sword-dancing in the minefield, his had been the voice of gentle moderation. For moderation, of course, Leeson had never had any time. It smacked of compromise, and caution, and that fitful series of false starts most people called their working lives. None of that had ever been for him. He’d been a player, famous for it, devious and charming and full of irresistible mischief. He could drink all evening and still make sense at midnight. He could lay his colleague’s wife, with discretion and some skill, and still be godfather to the kids. He could fuck some perfect stranger most of the night, and still not know his name when he left next day. He’d wanted it all, all the time, and now it was nearly over. He folded the letter, slowly, and slid it into his pocket, still thinking of Connolly. He realized he felt unaccountably lonely. He realized he missed the boy.

  He got up and reached for his coat. Any minute now, his colleagues would be back from lunch. He wanted, very much, not to be there when they returned. He paused by the door, more clear-headed, more decisive, than he could remember. First, he’d go to the clinic. His results were due, and they owed him a verdict. Then he’d have a drink, and a think, and decide what to do. He buttoned the coat, opened the door, then – as an afterthought – returned to the desk. He picked up his report on the Falklands, with its attached photocopy, and folded that, too, into his pocket. Then he left.

  Miller’s request for increased London surveillance on Leeson landed on a desk in Paddington Green police station. The desk, and the small office, belonged to a thirty-two-year-old Special Branch officer called Ingle. Ingle, who was easily bored and had a pathological hatred of surveillance work, read the accompanying brief twice and lifted the phone. He dialled a number from memory, straightening a paper clip and picking his teeth while the number went burr-burr in his ear. Finally, the number answered.

  “Ingle,” he said briefly, “sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “Who’s Miller?”

  There was a brief pause while the man at the other end, the Inspector in charge of assignments, tuned himself in to Ingle’s frequency. The two men had never got on. It was a working relationship that could have been eased with a little tolerance on both sides, but Ingle never believed in taking prisoners. The man was a prat. Always had been. Ingle yawned.

  “Miller,” he repeated, “he wants the evil eye on a bloke called Leeson.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Well? Who is he?”

  There was another silence, and Ingle leaned back in the chair, his feet on the desk. A promising Christmas had been wrecked by the abrupt return of his estranged wife. For a week now, he’d been thinking about emigration. There was a crackle on the line.

  “He’s in the military,” the Inspector said, “Northern Ireland.”

  Ingle nodded, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling. He’d got that far himself.

  “Which part of the military?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Nineteenth?”

  “Yes.”

  Ingle nodded again, fingering Miller’s request form. He’d done a couple of months himself in Belfast, staying long enough to glimpse the kind of jungle that a decade of counter-terrorism had produced. Everyone battling for turf. Everyone at each other
’s throats. RUC. Military Intelligence. MI5. MI6. Even his own lot, mainland Special Branch, yet another bunch of spooks from over the water. To Ingle, it had been a wonder that any of the Provos ever got nicked at all. Most Brits he’d known were too busy trying to screw each other.

  “Nineteenth are cowboys …” he mused aloud, “should we be working for them?”

  “Not our decision.”

  “Good question, though.” He paused. “Don’t you think?”

  He waited for an answer, picturing the scene in the busy open-plan office two floors above him, the Inspector at his neat little desk, safe behind a picket of secretaries and photocopiers, the man whose biggest operational thrill was filling in another square on his wall chart.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well what?”

  “Why should we be running errands for Nineteenth?”

  “God knows.”

  “This bloke Miller know someone? Got pull, has he?”

  “Pass.”

  “Hmm …”

  Ingle picked up the request form. There were categories of surveillance. The scale ran from one to five. Five was the works: blokes on the ground, complex set-ups at key points, multiple vehicles, fancy radio procedures, the lot. Ingle squinted at the form.

  “He wants Cat Two.” He paused. “Bit modest, isn’t it? For them?”

  “Not really.”

  “No?”

  “No. They wanted Cat Four. I said Cat Two was our limit. Bearing in mind the overtime.”

  Ingle smiled. Recently, budgets had been slashed. The bosses said that it was a purely temporary measure, but Ingle knew different. The economy was shot to ribbons. The country was going to the dogs. He shut his eyes a moment, leaning back in the chair again. New Zealand, he thought. Or maybe Western Australia. Somewhere hot. Somewhere a man could spread his wings.