Girl on the Landing

by Paul Torday

  ‘Who on earth is Mr Patel?’ I asked. Then I remembered. ‘No, don’t tell me, I’ve got it. So what happened?’

  Mikey said, ‘When I finally got to see him, I asked, “Mr Patel, why on earth do you want to join a club like Grouchers?”’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Mikey began to laugh.

  ‘He said: ‘But I don’t want to join. I’ve nothing against the club, or its members. It’s simply that I wouldn’t use it. I don’t have the time.’ He spends half his life in New York anyway. We both had to laugh. In fact, we couldn’t stop laughing.’

  Mikey was still laughing at the memory now.

  ‘It’s all Peter, of course. Control-freak Peter. He made Patel put his name forward for the club, and he won’t let him withdraw.’

  Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

  ‘The whole situation is completely unnecessary; absolutely pointless. It sums up Grouchers perfectly.’

  Michael would never have said that. This was Mikey speaking.

  Over supper he calmed down, and concentrated on his food.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said, ‘this is really delicious. Such a nice change from Italian.’

  I said nothing, just smiled. Inside I was thinking: all that laughing, is that normal, or is it because he’s off his drugs? I shook my head; of course it was normal to laugh. It wasn’t normal not to laugh; Michael had scarcely laughed at all.

  ‘Penny for them?’ said Mikey.

  ‘Oh, just wool-gathering,’ I said, looking at my plate as I chased a bit of chicken around the rim with my fork.

  ‘You tell me your thoughts, I’ll tell you mine?’

  I looked at him, and now he had that curious smile on his face I had seen once or twice before. It was a smile I found rather unsettling, as if he were looking right through me, seeing my thoughts as clearly as if they were written on a page.

  ‘I was wondering what you were going to do about Mr Patel. Will you talk to Peter about it?’

  ‘Is that what you were thinking? Truly? Well, I suppose I will have to, although I know that Peter will tell me to mind my own business. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘I don’t know that I’ve ever seen that side of him.’

  ‘Yes, well, he can become very fixated on things. You probably don’t know this, but Peter used to suffer from depression.’

  I froze. Did Mikey know, somehow, that I had been to see Stephen Gunnerton behind his back?

  ‘No! Really?’ I said, as naturally as I could.

  ‘Yes, really,’ said Mikey, smiling at me again. ‘This was many years ago, before you and I met. I don’t know what they did to cure it, but one result is that Peter can be more than a little obsessive about things. He gets very stuck on an idea, and it is very difficult to unstick him. So it all depends how he takes it. I might get away with it, but I am rather expecting a lecture about it all being a point of principle.’

  We talked about other things then moved back next door, where I sat reading my book. About ten o’clock, Mikey suddenly stood up and said, ‘I’m going out for a walk. I won’t sleep if I don’t stretch my legs, get some fresh air. There are too many thoughts buzzing around in my head, what with Muirfield, and Mr Patel. Don’t wait up for me, I’ll take my keys.’

  I looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘No, darling, you know how you hate walking. I won’t be too long.’

  In a moment he had grabbed his coat and scarf, and I heard the front door shut. I waited up for a while, but then sleep got the better of me. I put myself to bed and lay there, thinking about Stephen Gunnerton, and then about vast networks of tunnels, getting on the tube at Baker Street and somehow travelling forever downwards, through unknown tunnels and silent stations where silent people stood on the platforms like ghosts, and then downwards again, into the darkness.

  I awoke with a start as I felt Mikey’s cold body slip into bed beside me. I looked at the bedside clock and saw that it was three in the morning.

  A couple of days later I rang Peter Robinson and persuaded him to meet me at his chambers near Lincoln’s Inn.

  ‘It’s not about that Patel thing, is it? Michael isn’t trying to use you to soften me up? Because—’

  ‘No, Peter, it has nothing to do with Grouchers. I would never interfere. I just need half an hour of your time. Please.’

  We agreed a time and a while later I knocked on the door of my editor’s office. I half opened it and said, through the gap, ‘Celia, I’m just popping out for three-quarters of an hour, something’s come up. I’ll work late, I promise. Do you need me for anything in the next hour?’

  Celia looked up from a series of photos she was studying.

  ‘No, dear, you just go off and enjoy yourself. We’re getting quite used to managing without you.’

  I’d heard Celia use that sarcastic tone with others from time to time. It was not pleasant, and most of the people she’d spoken to like that were no longer with us. The familiar sense of dread that Celia produced in me stayed with me until I got off the bus in Holborn. As I walked down towards Peter’s chambers I thought: if she fires me, she fires me. Mikey will look after me. I realised, not for the first time, how much things had turned around. I wanted to spend more time with Mikey now, not less.

  Peter Robinson didn’t keep me waiting. He was a tall, thin, intense-looking man, and while I was fond of him in a way, because Mary was such a good friend, I still had reservations about him. To start with, he was always sweating: people who perspire a lot shouldn’t wear dark blue shirts, and there were dark crescents under each armpit, even though it was a cool day.

  He took some papers off a chair and invited me to sit down.

  ‘Peter,’ I said, ‘it’s very good of you to see me. It’s about—’

  ‘It’s about Michael, I know. I rang Mary and asked her what you could possibly want to see me about in my chambers.’

  ‘You’re right. It is about Michael,’ I agreed.

  ‘Stephen Gunnerton won’t tell you a thing. You’re much better off talking to someone like me. I’ve known Michael for quite a while. Stephen Gunnerton won’t even see you.’

  I did not waste time disagreeing. Instead, I asked, ‘Peter, exactly how long have you known Michael?’

  ‘Quite some time.’ He rubbed his nose and then put a forefinger briefly into an ear and twirled it around. I don’t think he was conscious of doing it. ‘I suppose I met him a few months before Mary and I got married. He came out of nowhere. No family, no friends that I’ve ever met. I don’t know where he went to school, and I don’t think that he went to university. He just turned up, aged twenty-something, and his past is a complete mystery to me. Do you know anything about his past?’

  ‘Not really,’ I admitted. ‘Just bits and pieces about his childhood at Glen Gala.’

  ‘It’s inconceivable to me,’ said Peter, having found something in his ear and transferred it to a handkerchief beneath the desk, ‘that a man can leave so little trace in the world. He must have friends and relations, but I’ve never met any.’ Peter sighed.

  ‘And you met him where?’ I asked. Peter looked at me sharply.

  ‘We both know where I met him, and why I was there, because I know that Mary told you. I had some very minor problems I needed to sort out, and they were sorted out very satisfactorily. But we’re not here to discuss me. Your husband’s condition was more complex. Do you know what it was?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, but Peter wasn’t interested. Here was another man who liked an audience, without the slightest interest in anything I might have to say.

  ‘He was schizophrenic,’ said Peter. ‘Still is, I imagine, except that the medication keeps it under control. But you probably wanted to ask me about Michael’s very bizarre behaviour that night at Beinn Caorrun? When that vulgar man David Martin was there?’

  I hadn’t especially wanted to ask that question, but it was as good a starting point as any, so I sat and l
istened, nodding respectfully when appropriate.

  ‘All that stuff about genes and DNA that Michael started spouting took me by surprise. In fact, I was rather interested in what he said, and subsequently took the trouble to read up about it. This idea that Britishness is an invented concept, that a lot of our DNA comes from hunter-gatherers who moved up from the Pyrenees - it’s an interesting concept and I believe it is very much at the sharp edge of modern genetic archaeology. Michael’s obviously been reading some of the popular science on the subject. But that’s not the important thing.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘so what’s the important thing?’

  ‘What’s important,’ said Peter, ‘is his motivation. He’s obsessed by issues of identity. That’s what makes him do it. As a former schizophrenic, he wants to locate himself in some structure, some form of logic that gives him a sense of self. A sense of self is what schizophrenics don’t have, it’s what sets them apart from people like you and me, Elizabeth. So Michael is, I hope, quite cured and able to live a more or less normal life and hold down a job, even if it is a bit of a non-job compared to that of most men of his age and intellect. It’s just that he obsesses a little about certain things, and this whole “who are the British?” notion is one of them. Quite harmless; nothing sinister in it. Certainly nothing for you to worry about. As long as he keeps taking his medication, that is. I’m surprised in a way that you don’t appear to have ever asked him about it. Still, that’s your business.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ I said. ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘I hope that was helpful,’ said Peter. He had found something in his nose now, but couldn’t quite bring himself to fish it out while I was still sitting there.

  ‘Yes, absolutely. Thank you so much.’

  I stood up to go.

  ‘When are we going to see you both?’ asked Peter, all smiles now that the ordeal of having to talk to me was nearly over.

  ‘Soon, I hope.’

  ‘I’ll get Mary to look in the diary,’ he said. ‘We’re quite busy at the moment but I’m sure we can fix something up in a month or two.’

  ‘Are you going to the Grouchers golf tournament?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, his eyes glinting. ‘It will be a very big occasion.’

  13

  Rule Britannia!

  Elizabeth cooked the most delicious dinner, but if it was intended to distract me from recent events, it did not succeed. I could smell Stephen Gunnerton on her, hear his oily tones echoed in her voice. Just to make sure, while Elizabeth was putting things away in the kitchen, I went into the sitting room, where I had seen her handbag, and reached into it. I pulled out her mobile. I supposed Stephen would not have changed his telephone number in the last ten years. I scrolled down through the recently dialled numbers, and there it was. I smiled to myself.

  Clever girl, I thought once again.

  I had given her Stephen Gunnerton’s name, and I had told her about Alex Grant. It was curious, how I seemed to be pointing Elizabeth at my own past like a loaded gun. What Stephen might have told Elizabeth, I did not know. Not much, probably, but that would only compel her to ask further questions. When she picked up that packet of Serendipozan, it was like watching a stone being thrown into a pool, and the ripples were still widening out across the surface. It was stupid of me not to have hidden the packet from her. I had managed to conceal my medication for ten years, and it was only when I had stopped taking it that I grew careless and left it in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, where she was bound to find it.

  Perhaps I had wanted her to find it. Perhaps I wanted to talk to her about my past. But once the talking started, where would it end? I could not tell her the whole story, but Elizabeth was Elizabeth. She would know if I was holding back, and then she would want to know what I was holding back.

  That could lead to difficulties.

  It was ironic, wasn’t it? A few months ago, while I was still on medication, our relationship had been so cool and distant that if I had appeared at breakfast with two heads, Elizabeth would not have taken much notice. Since I had stopped taking the drug and its poison had started to withdraw from my system, our marriage had changed so much for the better. Now Elizabeth cared for me more than she ever had before. I knew that. I could see it in her glance, feel it in her embrace, hear it in her voice. And because she cared, she was asking questions. Because she was asking questions, I was going to have to do something. I didn’t want to hide anything from Elizabeth; at the same time, a part of me knew that, if I told her everything, she might not be able to bear it. Then there was another question: what is more important, love, or survival? I thought I would soon find out.

  At about ten o’clock, with these thoughts going around in my head, I knew I had to talk to someone. I made an excuse about needing some fresh air, and stood up to go out. I could see the worry in Elizabeth’s eyes as she smiled and told me not to be late.

  I walked to the bridge across the Serpentine and, as the divine wind flowed around me, I found the girl, leaning over the parapet beside me and studying the dark water.

  ‘Did you make my dog run away?’ I asked her. She turned and laughed, studying my face in the lamplight with her black eyes. In the dark she no longer seemed young, or attractive: her shadowed face was all hollows and eye sockets.

  ‘We’re not here to talk about dogs, are we?’ she said.

  ‘But if we are, then that bitch you live with is asking questions. And you don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Please don’t talk about Elizabeth like that,’ I said, ‘or I will have to go.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know where you think you can go that I can’t find you. Perhaps you would like me to come home with you now? I know the way, as I am sure you realise. Perhaps we could go and see your darling wife together?’

  I looked at the girl as she spoke.

  ‘What is your name?’

  She seemed surprised, and turned away from me to look down at the black water.

  ‘I don’t have a name. I don’t need one,’ she said, after a moment.

  ‘I thought you said you were called Lamia.’

  ‘That is what I am, not who I am. But you came here because you needed to talk to someone who understands what you are. I am your only friend, you should listen to me. You have a choice, don’t you? You must decide whether you will follow your own nature, or go back to the drugs. You know this. You have always known this. The people who poisoned you and took away your life will do it all over again if you let them.’

  We stood together in silence for a while. I don’t know for how long, but her silences gave me more comfort than her words. She knew everything, she understood everything, and she would never be far away from me now. After a time she left. I did not see her go. Then I walked slowly through the empty streets back home.

  The Grouchers golf team flew to Edinburgh and were then decanted into a coach and driven down to North Berwick. I drove up, because there were one or two things I wanted to do while I was in that part of the world that might make it more convenient for me to have my own transport. I had to leave early in the morning in order to get to the Marine Hotel before everyone else and make sure, as far as I could, that all the arrangements were in order.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ I asked as I said goodbye to Elizabeth.

  ‘Of course I will be,’ she answered. ‘When have I not been? You have a lovely time with all your Grouchers golfers, and remember not to tell me anything about it when you come back.’

  She smiled as she said this, and we embraced. She looked better than I ever remembered, glowing with life. I felt her warmth, smelled her fragrance, and wondered when I would next hold her against me.

  ‘Take care of yourself, darling,’ she whispered, as I released her.

  ‘It’s only a game of golf,’ I said. We both knew she wasn’t thinking about golf.

  It took me about seven hours to get up to North Berwick, but I managed to arrive ahead of everybody els
e. There was to be a day at Muirfield, playing the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers, a bye day when people could play golf at other local links courses around North Berwick, and then a match against a northern team, the Borderers, at Gullane. On the way up I had used the hands-free mobile to ring my opposite numbers at the other clubs involved, and as far as I could see, it would all work out on the day. While I was at it, I made one or two other arrangements as well.

  This golf trip was the most important event in the Grouchers calendar, even though the golf team never won a single match it played. This was not an isolated occurrence, or a symptom of any particular weakness at golf among the Grouchers faithful. Most members played regularly, as they played backgammon, bridge, snooker and real tennis. In all of these sports, no matter whom we played, whether we were up against White’s Club, or the Conservative Club in Dorking, Grouchers teams were invariably beaten. Despite an unbroken string of defeats stretching back at least to the Second World War, morale among Grouchers members remained high. Team talks were a regular feature of these events. Tactics were discussed, and every move of the opposing team was second-guessed and triple-guessed. The war gaming that went on in the bar at Grouchers before any competitive match was second to none. It never made any difference.