The Chemical Reaction

by Fiona Erskine

  This again. They’d been through it all so many times. There was no point in protesting, no point in arguing. No room for reason. Jaq pressed play again and Angie closed her eyes.

  They sat together, listening to the other études, finishing Le Voyage Magnifique with a sublime allegretto. ‘Darling.’ Angie was smiling now, the sudden change from spite to charm unnerving. ‘Get me my pills.’

  Jaq looked around. ‘What pills?’

  ‘My painkillers.’

  ‘You are in pain?’ Jaq asked.

  Angie groaned. ‘I’m always in pain.’ She began to cry. ‘Terrible, terrible pain. It’s eating my bones from the inside. Excruciating, unbearable . . .’

  ‘Let me get the nurse.’ Jaq pressed the buzzer.

  ‘No! They don’t understand pain.’

  Dona Rosa appeared at the door.

  Angie pointed at her daughter. ‘She stole my pills!’

  Dona Rosa laughed, a long throaty chuckle. ‘You know that is not true, Dona da Silva.’

  ‘Give me my painkillers, I want them now!’

  Dona Rosa entered the room and checked the sheet at the end of the bed. ‘You’ve already had them. You can have more at 6 p.m.’

  ‘I’ll be dead by then.’ Angie pointed a finger at Jaq. ‘Why is she here?’

  ‘Your daughter is here to see you, Angie.’

  ‘In trouble again, ha!’ The old woman made a crude gesture, ramming the index finger of one hand into a circle made from the middle finger and thumb of the other. ‘Puta!’

  The anger rose, impossible to quell. In trouble, yes, but not that sort of trouble. You made sure of that. Why should the force of the anger take her by surprise? She should know by now, recognise the signs. There was no point in trying to fight it. Jaq stood up. ‘I’m leaving now, Angie.’

  ‘Go,’ Angie screamed. ‘And don’t come back.’

  Jaq walked briskly through the garden, striding into a cloud of swirling leaves. The rain had started, fat drops driven sideways by the wind. As she approached the exit, a pale face appeared at the office window and a disembodied hand tapped on the glass. She suppressed a sigh and entered the office.

  ‘I’m afraid we need to talk about funding for your mother’s care.’

  Jaq swallowed, but her mouth was dry. ‘Funding?’

  Aunt Lettie had taken care of everything when she rescued Jaq from this place. The Lisbon properties belonging to her mother’s family had been sold to pay for her mother’s care.

  ‘I thought the annuity covered everything.’

  ‘Times have changed, and costs here have risen faster than inflation. Your mother’s dementia is much worse. She’s more aggressive, and needs special care.’

  ‘But the money she brought with her?’ The nuns had access to Angie’s bottomless box, the one Jaq was allowed to borrow from, but prohibited from seeing inside.

  ‘I’m afraid we gave you the last of the cash when you visited earlier this year.’ Escaping from Slovenia, en route to Belarus and Ukraine, pursued by Interpol, she’d been grateful for the lifeline, never imagining it was finite.

  ‘There’s nothing left?’

  ‘Personal stuff, a few papers and letters, some trinkets and mementos.’

  ‘How big is the shortfall?’

  The nun patted Jaq’s arm. ‘Let’s discuss the options.’

  The storm had passed by the time Jaq left the convent office, the sky washed clean. The turmoil had passed to Jaq. She needed thinking time.

  Few people knew about the tunnel which connected a storeroom in the basement of the British Hospital to St George’s church. The key was in its usual hiding place, exactly where she had left it. Emerging into the British Cemetery, she walked slowly between cypress trees and took her seat on a bench opposite the elaborate grave of the fifteen-minute baby. A stone cherub held a chain that linked the family tombs, each stone ziggurat marked with a simple cross.

  Her eyes fell to the inscription.

  In loving memory of the son of Manuel and Alice Nunes Correia, who died on 4 February 1905 aged 15 minutes. Thy will be done.

  It wasn’t her baby buried here, although his life had been equally brief. They took him away from her, telling her that it was for the best, a blessing in disguise, for how could an unmarried teenage mother be expected to cope with a child? They blamed her for his death, the wages of sin, demanding to know the name of the father. She never told them. She never even told her mother. Especially not her mother.

  Thy will be done. What a cop-out.

  She rarely thought about Mr Peres. On discovering that she was not the only girl in the class who was ‘special’, she’d made sure he would never teach chemistry again. After that, she held no bitterness, no rancour towards him. Their brief affair was legal and consensual, if unethical on his part, but he’d gifted her with an appreciation for the power of chemistry. A superpower which had allowed her to earn an independent living, never to be dependent on anyone else, ever again.

  Now she needed money. A lot of money. The costs of her mother’s care were shocking. Was there an alternative? Not in Portugal; the state provision was minimal. Bring Angie back to England? Was it any better in England? Could she find a dementia home willing to take a violent, deluded, aggressive patient? And if the only option was private, the costs would be even higher. The Shetland job would just about cover her own living costs plus her mother’s care. But not the legal costs to fight Frank Good.

  Who could she turn to?

  The banks had already rejected her approach.

  Johan, her best friend, had no money to spare, not with a family to support and everything invested in his outdoor adventure business.

  Nat would help if she could, but the sums of money were daunting.

  Gregor, her soon-to-be-ex-husband, was out of the question. He was making the divorce complicated enough without letting money taint it further. And he had a granddaughter now – Lily – a child whose special needs came first.

  As she waited to board the flight at Lisbon airport, Vikram called.

  ‘About the Krixo job,’ he began.

  ‘I’ll do one trip.’

  He sighed with relief. ‘Thank you, Jaq. This job seems tailor-made for you.’

  A little frisson, a premonition of danger, made her shiver. Tailor-made, or a trap? Too late; she had financial commitments that couldn’t be avoided now.

  ‘One trip. Then I go to Shetland. OK?’

  ‘Already arranged. Angus has approved your CV. You start as soon as the Krixo job is done. I won’t forget this . . .’

  She cut him off and switched the phone to flight mode.

  One trip to China. Just one.

  Anything to free herself of Frank Good.

  Vladivostok, Russia

  The palace towered over the bluff, high above the town of Vladivostok. Stone walls sheltered the ornamental shrubs from the Pacific monsoon to the east and the Siberian High to the west. Sunlight glinted on tall windows, the transoms lining up with the gaps between mature trees to give unimpeded views of Golden Horn bay. The wide stone stairs – partially covered with a curving steel ramp – led through fluted Doric columns and under a smooth architrave with carved triangular frieze to a double doorway. The customers arrived through this portal, some still walking, many in wheelchairs, a few on stretchers with fluid drips and oxygen masks, to this place of respite. To days, weeks, even months of peace and kindness. Before moving on . . .

  The old man rocked by the window of his room on the second floor. Groan, clack, swish, squeak. Back and forward, the runners of the old oak chair catching on the rug in front, then slapping against the wooden floorboards behind. Back and forward, syncopated to the rhythm of his laboured breathing. He turned his face towards the sea and a shaft of sunlight illuminated his cloudy eyes. His lips moved silently and his fingers twitched, his brow furrowing as if searching for some memory.

  His hand reached into his dressing gown, brushing aside the button that would summon medica
l assistance. Since the heart surgery, it wasn’t the doctors who were keeping him alive, it was the unfinished business. Slow fingers traced the golden chain down to the pendant and stroked the jade, tracing the circles of dragon fire with his pinkie as his heartbeat slowed and his breathing returned to normal.

  So little time left, and so much still to do.

  He resumed rocking in his chair. Groan, clack, swish, squeak. The sun hid behind a cloud and he shivered, pulling up the soft felt of his dressing gown collar to cover his scrawny neck. Waiting. But what was he waiting for? What hope, after so long?

  The doctors had no explanation for the unexpected side effect of the surgery. Cortical blindness, they called it. Unusual but not unknown. All in his head, apparently. Now he relied on visitors for news of the outside world, both auditory and olfactory.

  He smelt the chlorine before he heard the knock. The boy spent so much time in the swimming pool that he must be half dolphin by now. The old man stopped rocking and smoothed his remaining strands of hair.

  ‘Come in, Timur!’

  Dmytry was ready for the waft of cool air as the door opened and closed, the confident bounce of rubber soles on wood, the warmth and strength of the young man’s embrace. He pushed Timur away and moved his nose down and to the left. Beside the hypochlorite there was soap, glycerine scented with rosin. And something else. Mint? Menthol. Deep heat cream.

  ‘Trouble with the shoulder again?’ he asked.

  ‘How did you know?’ Timur laughed. A screech of wood on wood as he pulled up a chair, a sneeze of dust as he sat on the cushion and then the warmth returned with an outstretched hand. ‘The physio wants me to stop competing for a while, give it a chance to recover.’

  Dmytry squeezed the young man’s hand with his withered claw. ‘Is it snowing?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘This will be my last winter.’ He hated the sound of his own voice, so thin and querulous compared to the younger man’s rich bass rumble.

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘I won’t make it to the spring.’

  ‘Of course you will.’

  ‘I failed,’ he said.

  ‘No, Dedushka, you—’

  ‘I broke my promise.’

  ‘Hush, rest now.’

  Dmytry sighed. ‘I left it too late.’

  Timur brushed his brow with soft lips. ‘Why don’t you let me help you?’ The voice was low and gentle. ‘Your secretary told me that you were bidding for something when . . .’

  ‘When my heart stopped me.’ Ironic, really.

  ‘What was it you wanted to buy?’

  Wanted? That made it sound frivolous, a toy for a rich man. He didn’t want it. He needed it.

  ‘A piece of Chinese jade.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ The voice was gentle. ‘Why was it so important?’

  What to tell him? After all this time, after all the lies. Here was the one person left in the world who thought well of him. Loved him, even. Could he throw that away? Now, when he needed it most?

  ‘Is it connected to my father?’ Timur asked.

  Interesting. Useful. Perhaps he didn’t need to tell the truth. Perhaps the young man’s curiosity was enough. ‘In a way, yes.’

  ‘Then why don’t you let me track down the buyer for you?’

  ‘What about your training?’ Elite athletes couldn’t afford to take time off.

  Timur hesitated a fraction too long. ‘My shoulder, remember?’

  What choice did he have? He could no longer complete this alone.

  ‘You would make a journey for me?’

  ‘Anything, Dedushka.’

  The old man released his hand and his words flowed like water.

  PART V

  NOVEMBER

  Teesside to China

  The afternoon sun glinted on the little Fokker 70 as it banked over the river Tees and turned east on the short flight to Amsterdam. From seat 1A, Jaq looked down at Teesside airport. Or Durham Tees Valley as it was now called, courtesy of a ruinously expensive rebranding exercise. Absurdo. Nestling in farmland between Darlington and Yarm, the airport was miles from the city of Durham. What was wrong with Teesside, anyway?

  The fields gave way to industry: Billingham and Seal Sands, then south over Teesport to Redcar and Wilton. Depressingly little activity to be seen. The dark spaces, whorls of scar tissue left by long-demolished factories, outnumbered the bright lights and healthy plumes of steam rising from the working ones. Manufacturing had once thrived here. Now it was moving east. To the Far East.

  Just like Jaq.

  The cabin crew unfurled a curtain between Rows 3 and 4. Only three passengers travelling business class, and each had a row to themselves.

  Flicking through the newspaper she had picked up in the airport, she stopped at the article.

  BRUTAL ATTACK LEAVES RETIRED UNIVERSITY LECTURER FIGHTING FOR HIS LIFE

  An elderly man was attacked in his own home on Thursday night.

  John Tench (76) is in a critical condition in hospital with multiple knife wounds.

  Kay Tench (73) returned from her book group to discover her injured husband and dog in their North Yorkshire home and called 999.

  The dog did not survive.

  A local resident, who did not wish to be named, said: ‘I can’t believe this has happened, it’s quite a shock. I have lived in this village for thirty years. Who would hurt a dog like that? It’s inhumane. You don’t expect things like this to happen here.’

  Witnesses or anyone with information about the attack have been urged to contact police.

  Was England becoming more violent? Knife crime was endemic in big cities like London. Was it spreading to rural areas as well? Jaq shuddered and closed the newspaper.

  ‘Good evening, Dr Silver.’ The KLM cabin attendant had done her homework. ‘Can I offer you a meal this evening?’

  Jaq rejected the proffered tray of food – too early for dinner. She sipped black tea and looked out at the grey North Sea. A wind farm lay a few hundred metres offshore. Serried ranks of slender white stalks, with trefoil petals moving slowly. Each wind turbine containing a permanent magnet made with up to two tonnes of rare earth metals. Rare earth metals from China.

  Jaq released her seat belt and retrieved her bag from the overhead locker. She flicked through the information Vikram had compiled. The glossy brochures with the Krixo logo – three green recycling arrows inside a triangular flask – were aimed at investors rather than engineers; the technical information was sparse.

  As the plane began its descent into Schiphol, she checked the connecting flight details. Over two hours before the flight to Shanghai. Not quite enough time to pop into Amsterdam city centre, but plenty to enjoy the most civilised airport in Europe.

  From the business lounge, gazing out through huge windows at the planes landing and taking off, Jaq considered her official mission.

  With the death of Charles Clark, his daughter Sophie had become the 49% owner of a Chinese joint venture. The mysterious majority partner, Wang, never seen in person, was resisting any changes. Sophie wanted to negotiate ‘from a position of strength’. Jaq’s job was to visit the industrial park incognito. By working through the consultancy CCS, there was no need for anyone to know that the real client was Sophie.

  She checked her emails and sent a message to Dan, her former student.

  Arriving Shanghai tomorrow, then Shingbo for a few days. Any chance of meeting up? Jaq

  She left the business lounge in plenty of time for her flight. She stood apart from the queue and observed the milling crowd. With her class of ticket, or even the frequent flyer miles collected, she could have jumped to the front. But the plane wasn’t going without her, and she preferred to stretch her legs in the airy departure hall than be jostled in a line or confined to a seat. She had little luggage – her bag and a carry-on trolley case – and preferred to board at the end to minimise time spent inside a cramped, pressurised aluminium tube.

  The young prie
st joining the business-class queue caught her attention. His face managed to be both sharp and delicate at the same time: dark hair shaved at the sides with a buzz cut over the top, dramatic eyebrows – tapering black slashes over slanting green eyes, high cheekbones, a straight nose, square chin and full lips. His flowing cassock couldn’t entirely hide the grace with which his body moved beneath the black silk, and the neck emerging from his white preaching bands revealed well-developed trapezius muscles more usually associated with a swimmer than a cleric.

  Since when did priests travel business class? Is that what they used the congregational pennies for these days? The money left over from paying lawyers to cover up the latest scandal? Or had the faithful donated their air miles to a man on a mission? She failed to suppress a smirk when a check-in assistant scanned his boarding pass and gestured him towards the back of the economy queue.

  As the final stragglers boarded, she approached the counter and was directed left down a special gangway. Seat 72B was on the upper deck of the Boeing 747, a wide seat with plenty of legroom.

  A Chinese cabin attendant with boyish features offered to hang up her jacket and returned with a bag of complimentary toiletries: toothbrush, toothpaste, lip balm, hand cream, comb, ear plugs, eye mask, flight socks. The cabin crew distributed flutes of chilled champagne. Jaq made her preparations. Phone, computer and e-reader set to flight mode. Luggage stowed. Headphones plugged in. Quilt unwrapped. Pillow plumped. Boots off, flight socks on. Seat belt fastened. The aisle seat beside her was still unoccupied when the safety video started and the plane began to taxi towards the runway. Jaq stretched her legs.

  Once the plane was airborne, Jaq flicked through the in-flight entertainment options. Audiobooks, recorded music collections and ‘live’ concerts, HBO box sets, Hollywood and art house films, nature documentaries. From the galley she could hear the tinkling of glasses. Work, eh? There were worse places to be stuck for eleven hours. On quadruple time.

  ‘Excuse me, madam.’ The boyish attendant offered a hot hand towel and the dinner menu. ‘We have a passenger who is eligible for an upgrade. Do you mind if he takes this spare seat?’