by GJ Minett
His legs and back offer a token protest at the thought of being disturbed. He takes the heavy overcoat from the back of his chair and slides his arms into the sleeves. His fingers struggle with some of the buttons as if aligning themselves with the prevailing mood of lethargy. His gloves are so soothingly warm to the touch that he can’t resist the temptation to slide his hands inside them, even though he knows he’ll have to remove them in a moment to pay. Then he stands for a while with his back to the radiator, pressing his legs against it, as if storing up units of warmth for future use, like a camel taking on water.
The girl behind the counter sees what he’s doing and smiles – pretty girl, maybe early twenties, somewhere around the age Julie would have been now. She calls out to him, something cheery in an accent as thick and impenetrable as black treacle, and he gives a non-committal smile in return, hoping maybe this will persuade her that he’s understood. A thing of wonder, the Scottish accent. All those rolled Rs, the rising intonation, the guttural enunciation that seems to draw on a thousand years of history in every syllable. Bunny Warren, a maintenance engineer with 302 squadron at RAF Duxford, had given him his first experience of it. He used to say (only half in jest, he suspects) that he and his fellow Scots always made a bit of an effort with the Poles. If you wanted to hear the Scottish accent in its purest form, you should hear the extra reserves of phlegm that were saved for conversations with the English. Dead now, of course, Bunny. Like so many of them.
He walks over to the counter, removes one of the gloves and takes his wallet from his back trouser pocket. She tells him how much he owes, then repeats it more clearly when he shows signs of uncertainty. He counts out the coins, which are no more familiar to him now than when decimalisation first came in. It’s been three years but he still does the mental maths, automatically converting back into ‘real money’. He’s never quite managed to overcome the suspicion that he’s being taken advantage of in some way, unable to forget how his favourite pie and chips, a monthly treat from the fish and chip shop at the end of the road, went overnight from two shillings and nine pence to 29p, an increase of 100 per cent. Yet another sign that he’s getting old.
He asks the girl where the nearest phone box might be, then realises in the midst of her detailed and for the most part unfathomable explanation that he doesn’t need to know. Dorrie will be on her way to the cinema by now, if she hasn’t arrived there already. Saturday-night film club – just about the only pleasure she seems to allow herself these days. He wishes he could share this passion with her, the enjoyment she derives from escaping just for a couple of hours from the reality of this world. He tried, way back in the dim distant past, but it never worked for him. Where she sees wonder, he sees fairy tales. What she finds uplifting, he views as chicanery. Perhaps that says it all.
He wonders if she suspects anything, anything at all. Not about today – he’s sure he’s in the clear in that respect. If she had even the faintest inkling as to where he is now or why he’s here, she’d have to say something about it. He’s pleased with the plausible alternative he managed to come up with. As far as she’s concerned, he’s in Manchester at a 302 squadron reunion. He’s spending the afternoon on a coach trip, visiting museums and wartime aerodromes with old friends and colleagues, and then attending a formal dinner in the evening. It’s convincing enough as alibis go. These reunions take place all the time, so she’ll have thought nothing of it. Her only concern was the fact that he would be driving as far as Manchester, which she felt was ill advised at his age, especially with the weather so unpredictable at the moment. If she knew he was now in Inverness, having driven almost all day without a break, he’d never hear the end of it. If she knew he was going to be meeting up with Mr O’Halloran, she’d probably have a fit.
No, he’s sure she knows nothing of his true movements today but he does wonder just how much she suspects about the illness. She’ll know something is wrong, for sure. You can’t live that long with someone and not learn a little bit about him. She’ll have noted the loss of appetite, heard the unmistakable sounds from the bathroom, maybe even smelt it on him. She’s commented on his lethargy and the pallor of his complexion, asked several times if he’s absolutely sure he’s alright. If they were as close, as intimate as was once the case, she wouldn’t need to ask. She’d have been able to make out with her fingertips the contours of the concentration of corrupted cells that has been building up over a period of time, eating away at whatever vitality he’s managed to cling to since Julie died. But they’ve not been that intimate for some time now. They lead lives that are as separate as possible for two people under the same roof. They’re independently dependent on each other, if such a thing is possible. She has no way of knowing it’s there.
She has urged him to go to the doctor. Despite their gradual estrangement, he doesn’t think urged is too strong a word. She does still care for him and is convinced he needs sometimes to be protected from himself and his own mulish disposition. He’s dug his heels in. It’s the Pole in him, she says, and his recalcitrance merely increases her frustration, driving the wedge between them even deeper. He regrets this but can’t help himself. He has no intention of going to any doctor. There’s nothing he needs to be told. He certainly has no intention of undergoing invasive treatment which will strip him of any dignity he has left. If this is his time, if circumstances (even now, he cannot bring himself to acknowledge her precious God) dictate that this is the beginning of the end, then so be it. He’s lived a long time, longer than many of the young men who flew with him all those years ago. In a sense, he can even be said to have lived too long. No father should have to bury his own child and then live with it. He feels no desperation, no desire to cling to a life that has moved the goalposts and left him behind. He’ll take whatever comes and, when he can’t take it any more, he’ll walk away without a backward glance. It’s not been a hard decision to take. There’s no pressure here. Pressure is a Messerschmidt on your tail, anti-aircraft fire strafing you, a parachute that catches fire as you struggle to open it. This will be the quiet, dignified, undramatic exit which was denied to others less fortunate than he.
But he’s not quite ready. Not yet.
The wind hits him the moment he opens the door to the café and his instinctive reaction is to duck back inside. He turns up the collar of his overcoat, counts to three, then opens the door once more and steps out into the snow, which looks as if it’s been falling thickly for some time now. A layer has already settled in the car park and he treads carefully as he picks his way, head bowed, across to his car. He has to remove one glove again to locate the keys in his pocket and takes ages to select the right one and slot it into the lock. The wind catches the door and wrenches it from his grasp. He takes a painful blow to the knee before he is finally able to slide into the front seat and wrestle the door shut.
It’s cold in here, almost unbearably so, his breath instantly fogging the windscreen. The heater in his car won’t take effect for a few minutes yet. He starts the engine and reaches across to pick up a sheet of paper, which is lying on the front passenger seat. He studies it briefly, familiarising himself with Mr O’Halloran’s directions. He looks at his watch – he still has two hours to find somewhere to stay and then make it to the Prince’s Arms. If the notes are accurate, he’s no more than twenty minutes or so away at present. He wants to be there early. He’s thought this through so many times, has thought indeed of little else since Mr O’Halloran first contacted him. He wants to be there when the boy arrives, wants to see him in the flesh for the first time in years and then take stock before he confronts him.
He switches on his headlights and puts the car into gear. Then, with exaggerated care, he edges forward and leaves the car park.
February 2008: Ellen
The first thing Ellen did when she arrived at work was to send for Alan Wharton. Eudora’s laptop, still in its case, lay there on the desk between them, ignored for the time being while she used Langmere business to e
ase her way into the conversation. She always felt the need to do this with him. He was not someone who relaxed easily.
He’d been there for more than six years now and she felt she barely knew him. He’d arrived, armed to the teeth with glowing references and testimonials from the council in Ballymena, where he’d worked for several years for the Parks and Gardens department, but it was his work rate and his calm, unflustered approach to any task put before him that ultimately convinced his new employers that he was the man to take forward the development of the pitch-and-putt course. Everyone knew it would be in safe hands.
The real bonus however was his obsession with and proficiency in the arcane world of information technology. No one knew anything of this extra string to his bow when he was first taken on, but his ability to get the network back up and running had proved invaluable on more than one occasion. Ellen had recently asked him to carry out a detailed review, seeking out weaknesses in the system. She listened now while he fed back his initial findings, then thanked him for the work he’d done so far. As he half-rose, expecting to be dismissed, she cleared her throat and nudged the laptop across the desk towards him.
‘There was something else,’ she said tentatively. ‘I was wondering . . . could I ask your advice about something? It’s personal, not business.’
He sat down again, waiting patiently for her to elaborate, and she was struck once more by just how passive he was in conversation. He only ever seemed to speak in response to direct questions.
‘I’m not even sure you’ll be able to help,’ she continued. ‘The thing is, I have this laptop and I can’t get into it because it’s password-protected.’
She gave the laptop another nudge, as if inviting him to pick it up. He looked questioningly at her.
‘It’s OK,’ she assured him. ‘I promise I wouldn’t ask you to do anything illegal. It’s actually my laptop – well, it will be tomorrow.’ She laughed, realising how bizarre it must all sound. ‘It’s a bequest . . . you know? In a will? Only it’s no use to me if I can’t even get into it and I haven’t got a clue where to start.’
Wharton still didn’t move. He switched his gaze briefly to the laptop case, then back to her. She felt the need to break the silence once more. Damn, he was hard work.
‘It’s not a problem if you’d rather not,’ she said. ‘Or if you don’t know how to. I mean, you see these things in films and so on, but I don’t know how true to life that is. I imagine it’s a lot more difficult in the real world, only I don’t know who else to ask.’
‘It’s not difficult.’
‘It’s not?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s like anything else – if you know what you’re doing. There are programs you can buy that will retrieve passwords from just about any system. Depends on what level of access you want and what you’re hoping to do with it.’
‘So have you done this before . . . this sort of thing?’
‘Like I said, it’s not difficult.’ He began to relax a little, as if more comfortable with solid ground beneath his feet. He talked about forums and downloads, using initials and abbreviations that meant nothing to her and served to obscure meaning rather than reveal it. She tried to follow him for a while but gave up, allowing herself instead to take a closer look at this strange little man, whom she knew to be her elder by a good few years but whose preferred style of dress was more that of a wayward adolescent. The hoodie, jeans and trainers, while eminently practical for outdoor work at this time of year, must be desperately uncomfortable in June and July, yet he wore them all year round, as if fearful of losing part of his identity in their absence. The skintight black glove on one hand, which tended to highlight rather than conceal the loss of a finger in a work accident back in Ballymena, and the New York Yankees baseball cap, which he always removed on entering the office but otherwise wore back to front, suggested he wasn’t overly concerned with creating the right impression. He dressed to suit himself, not anyone else, and was happy to be judged on his work.
Computers were clearly the love of his life. This was as close to animated as Ellen had ever seen him. She tried to tune back in and make sense of what he was saying but gave up at the first mention of the word protocol. She waited patiently for a pause in the flow.
‘So what are we looking at here?’ she asked eventually. ‘How long would something like this take? Assuming you’re happy to have a go, that is.’
He puffed out his cheeks, then let the air out slowly.
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On how much the previous owner knew about computers for one thing.’
‘Not a lot, I wouldn’t have thought. She was in her nineties. Then again, I wouldn’t have expected her to be using a laptop in the first place, let alone know anything about passwords and usernames.’
‘Unless she got someone else to do it for her?’
‘I suppose so.’ Ellen cast her mind back to the only picture she’d ever seen of Eudora, the wedding photo in the cottage, of the demure-looking young girl on the threshold of a new life. She tried to envisage her as an elderly woman, sitting at the keyboard of a machine that would have been unimaginable back in those days. She couldn’t do it.
‘Assuming it’s straightforward though,’ she said, ‘how long do you think it would take you to get access to it? What are we looking at? A week? Two weeks?’
He reached across and pulled the laptop from the desk, the first indication that he might be prepared to help her. ‘I’d say . . . three, maybe four hours. As long as no one’s built in other layers of protection, that is.’
‘Three or four hours? That quick?’
He smiled. ‘It’s a laptop, not the Pentagon.’
‘And you’d be willing to do this for me? I mean, I’ll pay you obviously.’
‘When would you want it?’
‘Well, I have to go to the Cotswolds this weekend so I was thinking of leaving it with you then but –’ Ellen broke off as a new possibility occurred to her. ‘I didn’t think for one minute you’d be able to get it done so quickly. If there’s any chance I might have a look at whatever’s in there before I go, that would be fantastic. It could save me a lot of time and trouble once I’m up there.’
‘So you want me to have a look today?’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Ellen, ‘have you got anything on this morning that’s desperately urgent? Anything the others couldn’t handle between them?’
He shook his head.
‘OK – so how about this? I’ll get cover for you and get you set up in one of the business lodges. They’ve all got wireless access. You take as long as you need and do what you can to get me into this machine by, say, five this afternoon, and I’ll still pay you the going rate on top. What do you say? You think you could do that?’
He raised one eyebrow in surprise.
‘You want me to do this on company time?’
Ellen smiled, recalling Kate’s comment the night before to the effect that there’s not much point in being your own boss if it doesn’t bring a certain amount of independence.
‘I won’t tell if you don’t,’ she said.
Much to her frustration, the rest of Ellen’s day was less productive. The editor at the Cotswold Daily Gazette wasn’t remotely helpful and seemed more curious about the reason for her interest in O’Halloran than anything else. He made it clear from the outset that he wouldn’t be giving out any information on employees without a clear understanding of the reasons for her phone call and wanted to ask twice as many questions as he was prepared to answer. All she managed to wring from him was confirmation that Frank O’Halloran was an occasional contributor, on a freelance basis, and an offer to pass on her details, so that O’Halloran himself might get in touch personally, should he wish to do so. Ellen hung up without offering anything approaching an explanation.
The Beresford Management Group were more forthcoming but no more illuminating. A receptionist was quick enough to put
her through to a softly spoken man with a strong Welsh accent, who was happy to confirm that SJM had indeed been bought out two years ago. Stuart Mahon, the owner of the agency, had taken early retirement and emigrated, as far as he was aware, to New Zealand. He himself had no knowledge of any cases SJM might have worked on before the takeover and the name Eudora Nash meant nothing to him. As for old records, Mahon had arranged for the removal of all of his paperwork once the takeover had been finalised, but whether he’d kept it or made himself a nice bonfire the moment he got home, he couldn’t say. He was sorry – he’d love to help and would be happy to take on the task of tracking Mahon down, if she wished to make use of his professional services. She’d thanked him and assured him that wouldn’t be necessary.
At least the video-conferencing went well, although today Ellen was aware for the first time of a certain edge to it all. It was one thing to watch Sam reel people in and tie them up on her behalf. It was quite another to process the idea that those skills might have been used against her at some stage on a personal level. For the first time, heretical though the thought might be, she found herself wondering exactly who the real Sam Balfour might be.
He asked for the link to be kept open, once the meeting was over, so that he and Ellen might have their weekly review. True to form, once they’d covered more mundane business matters, in what seemed to her to be an unusually hasty and superficial manner, he worked his way around to her visit to the solicitor and that lady with the funny name – what was it again?