Summerland

by Hannu Rajaniemi

  ‘I must say that when it comes to Mata Hari tactics, I am with Harker.’

  ‘Ah! The sex drive does not come into it, not at all! And in this case, I doubt it would work on Bloom in the first place, even if he was still alive, all due respect to your charms, Mrs White. No, I am guessing that with him it will be about ideology.’

  ‘So how do I approach him?’

  ‘You don’t. You make him come to you. We will turn you into a desirable candidate for recruitment. That will require surprisingly little effort, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Rachel opened her mouth to protest. Then she imagined reading her own file, as she might have done in the old Registry’s reading room. An outstanding officer, one of the first women in the Service, but demoted for insubordination. Considered resigning. Financially dependent on her husband. Marital troubles?

  ‘All right. On paper, I am a promising target. But is it going to be enough?’

  ‘Not quite. We need something else, an … incident. The Harris soirée should do fine.’ The doll’s fixed smile appeared to widen. ‘Remember that I can quite literally see into your soul, Mrs White. Just have a few drinks and it will all happen quite naturally.’

  Goo the cuckoo moved in the doll’s lap and stretched its wings.

  ‘Now the poor thing is awake,’ Max said. ‘And we haven’t even started on the breeding and care of finches.’

  * * *

  With a spring in her step, Hildy led Rachel up a long, narrow staircase, past a priceless red-and-gold tapestry and precious Spanish furniture of dark wood, and into a large salon on the second floor where the Group was holding court.

  Guy Liddell was playing the cello, more for his own pleasure than as formal entertainment. Tommy Harris was seated next to him, tapping his foot. He was darkly handsome, with black hair and intense Mediterranean eyes.

  There were perhaps two dozen guests, enough to make the L-shaped room a little crowded. Rachel recognised several faces: Anthony Blunt, Tim Milne, Victor Rothschild, Richard Brooman-White—all younger Winter Court officers, all drinking red wine or something stronger, engaged in lively conversation.

  A smaller contingent from the Summer Court hovered near the grand piano by the window, all in charter-bodies—no Edison dolls for Group meetings. The New Dead often chose mediums who resembled their past selves, but Rachel had only ever met Bloom briefly when he was alive and wasn’t sure if she would recognise him by the medium he had chosen. In any case, these particular charter-bodies all looked identical, like exotic birds in their evening wear and white or black Venetian masks and metal-crested spirit crowns.

  When Rachel and Hildy entered, there was the briefest hush in the conversation. Rachel tensed. The furtive glances cast towards her felt like splashes of cold water.

  Hildy took her arm. ‘Kim is playing barman as usual,’ she said. ‘I have to abandon you to these beasts and check up on a few things in the kitchen.’

  A large, ancient oak table beneath a gold-framed landscape painting served as the bar, displaying a small cityscape of alcohol. Tommy had once said that no good table could be spoiled by wine-stains. Kim Philby stood behind it, busy pouring drinks, improvising cocktails and refilling glasses.

  ‘Look after this one, Kim,’ Hildy told him. ‘She had a bit of a head start at home, so go easy on her. We want to make sure she gets to the finish line.’

  Kim gave Rachel a dimpled grin. He had a friendly, boyishly chubby face with a heavy drinker’s complexion, and one of those voices that tickled your belly, no matter what he said. He was an up-and-coming young officer, close to Sir Stewart, who worked at Blenheim Palace liaising with the Summer Court. Rachel reckoned he was the perfect target for Max’s scene. The dance of her gastric butterflies became a brisk waltz.

  ‘Have we finally broken through your defences, Mrs White?’ he asked. ‘I have never known you to drink anything stronger than tea.’

  ‘Perhaps that was my problem all along,’ Rachel said, swaying slightly. ‘I never quite appreciated that drinking was the best part of the job. Can you make me a short one, please?’

  ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, madam.’

  Kim poured her a Pimm’s and laced it with absinthe. She downed the concoction in one go. It went straight into her stomach and sent up a fountain of warmth that left her dizzy.

  ‘Thank you. I think this one was a tad too short. Could you make the next one longer?’

  Laughing, Kim mixed her another drink. As she sipped it, his expression grew serious.

  ‘Listen, I could not help hearing about what happened. A terrible shame, really. Those old Colonials can be dreadful. My former Section V chief Cowgill was the same, paranoid and frankly quite dim. So chin up. There’s nothing that time and unfeasible quantities of drink won’t cure. Bottoms up, what?’

  ‘Bottoms up,’ Rachel said and lifted her glass.

  They gossiped for a short while. Apparently all the secretaries at Blenheim had already been warned about Roger Hollis and his philandering ways, and no one would go out with him. Rachel laughed loudly at that, for appearances’ sake, and said that Roger’s reputation was exaggerated. To her knowledge, he was hopelessly smitten with one secretary in particular.

  Defending Roger reminded her that she had been unfair to him. He was one of the good ones, like Kim. And now she would have to be unfair to Kim, too, for England.

  Halfway through her fourth drink, she decided it was time.

  Rachel closed her eyes and leaned on the table, exaggerating her state of inebriation just a little.

  ‘Thank you for all the sympathy, Kim. I appreciate it. Really. I am sure it is well meant. It’s just that I can’t drink my way to the Summer Court like you. I wish I could, but the only thing I will get for my troubles is cirrhosis, and they don’t give out Tickets for that.’

  ‘Steady on, now—’ Kim started.

  ‘You know, I have been at the Court for nearly twenty years. Where were you twenty years ago, Kim? I started as a clerk. How did you start?’

  ‘Look, Rachel—’

  ‘Tell me. How did you start at the Court?’

  ‘Well, I think it was Guy Burgess who talked his way in first and put in a good word for me,’ Kim said. ‘Listen, I understand that you are upset, but you must know that you are amongst friends here.’

  ‘Easy for you to say. I get blamed for something I could do nothing about and now I am doing sums for Mrs Scaplehorn.’ She let out a small sob. ‘No one put in a good word for me. No one.’

  She leaned on the table heavily now. Kim started to come around to her side but she shook a finger at him.

  ‘No touching! No fraternising with colleagues, now. I am just one of the boys to you, aren’t I? Or is that what you prefer, like with Nick Elliott?’

  She hated herself for saying it. But the bitterness had to ring true, and so she forced the words out. Philby’s face darkened.

  ‘Only I am not one of the boys, Kim. I am the girl. I will always be the girl. If I make a mistake, it is because I have a nervous temperament, not because I am following orders from an incompetent nincompoop. If I get upset, maybe it’s that time of the month.’

  ‘Rachel—’

  ‘Mrs White to you! I am a married woman. I should not be here on my own, with all these dis-disreputable people.’ She managed to slur the words convincingly and raised her voice.

  ‘Good girls don’t get to go to Summerland. Good girls don’t get to be spies.’ A tear ran down her face. Max had made her rehearse the outburst several times, but she had never managed to cry before. People were watching her now. Tommy Harris stood up. She hoped that Bloom was amongst the crowd, but if not, the story would get to him soon enough.

  ‘So maybe it’s time I stopped pretending to be one.’

  She wiped her nose. Her elbow brushed against her glass. It plummeted to the floor and shattered into glittering fragments.

  At least I did not get any more stains on Tommy’s table, Rachel thought. Then she
cried a mixture of fake and real tears, and allowed Tommy and Philby to lead her away.

  * * *

  ‘No, really, Tommy, I am absolutely fine. I don’t need a taxi.’

  Tommy Harris refilled her water glass from a crystal carafe and handed it back to Rachel. She drank gratefully. They were in his studio—Tommy was an amateur painter—a brightly lit, high-ceilinged room with an unvarnished wooden floor and covered canvases. It smelled of paint and pipe tobacco.

  ‘Are you sure? It’s no trouble.’

  ‘I am so sorry about making a scene. It was stupid. I want to stay.’

  ‘Of course. You are always welcome here, Rachel, no matter what happens.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Hullo there.’ Guy Liddell, the deputy chief of the Winter Court, gave them a jowly, apologetic smile. His banker’s suit was even more rumpled than usual. ‘Would you mind if I have a quick word with our patient, Tommy?’

  ‘Of course. Make sure you stay for food, Rachel. We went an extra mile, this time.’ He vanished through the door, and after a moment they heard the grand piano.

  Liddell sat down on Tommy’s painter’s stool.

  ‘I want you to know that nobody blames you for Kulagin,’ he said. ‘I spoke to Harker. He overreacted, of course. But you overstepped. And I do agree with him, for once. It was a misinformation gambit. You could not have known.’

  ‘I should have known.’

  ‘Nonsense. None of us saw it. It was a mess, with me pulling one way, Harker and Vee-Vee the other. You got caught in the middle. I am truly sorry, and I will do everything I can to help.’

  Rachel squirmed mentally. She had not expected Liddell’s support. It made her feel warm.

  ‘Like I told Tommy, it is perfectly all right,’ she said. ‘I might take some time off. Travel with Joe. There is a nice place in France we haven’t been to for a while.’

  Liddell patted her arm with a stubby-fingered hand.

  ‘That’s good. That’s good. When the fuss dies down, there might be an opening in the Irish Section, if you are interested.’

  It would be a sensible thing to do. She had the experience. She could be leading the Section in a couple of years. But her rant at Philby had not been entirely fabricated. Was that Max’s trick? Maybe he saw what was inside his agents and used them in just the right way to bring it out?

  Rachel forced a smile. ‘I will think about it.’

  ‘That’s all I ask. And Rachel? I am sure I don’t have to tell you this, but whatever nonsense Kulagin told you—do keep it to yourself. We have enough trouble with the Summer Court as it is.’

  Not Liddell, too, Rachel thought.

  Your superiors will do anything to keep him safe in order to secure favours from the highest level, Max had said.

  ‘Of course,’ she said aloud. ‘I completely understand.’

  ‘Now, shall we go and face the music?’

  Liddell offered his arm. Rachel took it, and together they walked back towards the piano music and conversation. She tried not to hear the barely perceptible dip in the murmur of voices when they entered the ballroom.

  * * *

  Food was served around eight, an exquisite spread of tapas and cheeses. It was delicious enough that Rachel forgot her worries and simply enjoyed the stuffed peppers, small sausages and Spanish omelette. She had not eaten a proper meal for days.

  As the evening wore on, Rachel drifted from one small group to another, light-headed and fatigued from making small talk. There was a jarring shift in the conversation whenever she tried to join, like a gramophone needle jumping over a record’s grooves. People became polite and distant and talked of inconsequential things. It was the mask one adopted with people who were not a part of the secret world, the uninitiated.

  Ironically, the only person who stuck with her for a while was Guy Burgess, Kim Philby’s original gateway into the Service. Burgess was one of the more openly flamboyant Summer Court officers. He was unmasked, stank of liquor and cigarettes, and his open-collared shirt was covered in wine stains. He inhabited the body of a dark-haired, rakish medium with olive skin whose slack face was a stark contrast to his spirit rider’s sharp wit.

  ‘I applaud you for coming here, Mrs White,’ he said. ‘But I think you were right. You ought to go home to your husband and find something to do other than spying. It shouldn’t be difficult, and I would know: I only got into it because it was the most useless thing I could think of.’

  ‘Well, Mr Burgess,’ said Rachel, ‘looking at you, I can assure you that it is not the most useless thing I can think of.’

  Burgess laughed. ‘I see we met too late. Sad. I am going to miss you now. Please don’t leave.’ He tossed his hand-rolled cigarette stub onto the Harrises’ thick burgundy carpet. ‘Actually, there is a host of little angels in the Summer Court more useless than me. That bounder Bloom, for example. We were supposed to meet for a drink but he is not even here yet.’

  Rachel smiled, but inside, she was furious. Had she made a fool of herself for nothing? It might be months before Bloom visited the living world again, and by then it would be too late.

  Burgess noticed her pause and looked at her, swaying slightly in his odd, pigeon-toed stance.

  ‘I don’t suppose I can entice you along on a secret mission to Tommy’s wine cellar, hmm? I am guessing he had new locks installed after my last visit.’

  ‘It is tempting,’ Rachel said, ‘but I think I will try my luck with Kim again.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He looked at Rachel. ‘I know it feels like you were not picked for the polo team, Mrs White. But imagine what a stupid game that is, sitting on top of smelly animals and trying to hit balls with long sticks.’

  ‘Yes. Only men could invent such a game,’ Rachel said.

  * * *

  Around ten o’clock, she found herself standing alone, drinking dark Spanish wine from a glass Kim had poured for her after making a show of arguing that the best way to sober her up was to push her through drunkenness and to the other side. Kim’s grin had been the same as ever, but his eyes were flinty.

  At the other end of the room, Hildy and Tommy Harris held forth on one of the subjects they were both experts in—art, sculpture, music, cuisine or treachery. She considered joining the circle of listeners but could not bear another moment of hushed awkwardness.

  Drinking more was not a good idea, but she continued anyway, in the faint hope that imbibing the Harrises’ grand vin would revive her connection to the secret world. Or failing that, magically summon Peter Bloom.

  To distract herself, she studied a large Velasquez painting of the Madonna. The Mother of God floated in the air, surrounded by a bright halo. There were dirty, dark-haired people below her, reaching up, while she lifted two fingers in a serene but uncaring benediction.

  Rachel was sceptical of religion like any intelligence officer faced with a poor cover story. The Anglican Church had adapted its doctrine to argue that Heaven and the Kingdom of God lay in the ana direction, where souls came from. Summerland was merely where the souls of the dead resided until Judgment Day, when they would return to their bodies on Earth and the chosen would be taken up to the true Heaven above.

  The view was opposite to that of Pope Teilhard, who argued that the spirits evolved towards Godhead, and that the fourth dimension wrapped around itself in a circle. Summerland was the purgatory; the process of Fading—one’s memories being stripped away from the luz, the soul-stone—was a cleansing. Heaven waited in the infinite abyss of kata. It was heresy to cling to the world of the living for too long.

  She finished her wine and cradled the empty glass against her collarbone, staring at the Madonna’s beatific face. Maybe Teilhard was right. Maybe she should just let it go.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  A New Dead guest stood next to her. He was shorter than her, with dark, thinning hair, hands clasped behind his back. He wore a full face mask, a white, featureless oval with a thin golden net over the eyehol
es. There appeared to be something wrong with his spirit crown: it made an audible humming sound.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wanted to thank you. For creating a little scandal. I was worried it was going to be dreadfully dull and took my time getting here. Instead, everybody has been talking about you.’

  Rachel’s heart jumped.

  ‘To be honest, sir, I could use a little more dull myself. But you are welcome. Have we met?’

  ‘I’m so sorry—where are my manners? We met only briefly, before my transition. Peter Bloom. Peter. I’m with the Iberian Section.’ His hand had a charter-body’s chill, but the grip was practised and firm.

  ‘Rachel White.’

  ‘Guy Burgess told me what you said,’ Peter said. He twitched, put a hand in his pocket, adjusted something and then shrugged. ‘Excuse me. Poor connection. I had a bit of a tumble earlier. I expect the medium will charge me an arm and a leg for it.’

  That explained Bloom’s slightly dishevelled look. There were fresh mud stains on his trousers.

  ‘Are you going to offer me your sympathies as well, Peter? I’m afraid I’ve had enough of that for one evening.’

  ‘Not at all. In fact, I agree with you. Both branches of the Service have their problems, and nepotism is one of them. Section heads fighting turf wars is another. And then there is interservice rivalry. We wine and dine together here, but your people resent mine, and the Summer Court has a tendency to feel a bit…’ Bloom trailed off.

  ‘Superior? Arrogant? Stuck-up?’

  ‘Your words, not mine. In any case, you are not the only one who has been treated unjustly. It is a shame, isn’t it? We join the Service to experience something bigger than ourselves. Something holy, even.’ Bloom looked up at the painting, head cocked to one side.

  ‘Well, not asking questions or rebelling worked out for Mary,’ Rachel said. ‘She did what she was told and we still honour her. Perhaps I should follow her example.’ Her tone was bitter.

  ‘You are in a very cynical mood.’

  ‘I am a cynical sort of person. An occupational hazard, I suppose.’