The Long Room

by Francesca Kay

  ‘No, not now, tonight; it is possibly too late. But tomorrow. Or the next day, maybe. I have been thinking about Christmas. It is not nice to spend the holiday alone. Not really. Not when everybody else is with their families and friends. I contemplated skiing but I don’t have now my passport; it is being renewed. Anyway, there is nothing I adore as much as discovering a new part of this green and pleasant land. But it not much fun alone. And to be completely frank, not really practical for me. So come with me! Please, please! It will be good for me of course, but even better for you! For you may find your lady – just imagine: she is walking on the beach alone and you are there, and she speaks to you and then your life will change.’

  ‘Why not?’ says Stephen, laughing. He is charmed by the man’s impetuosity but this latest invitation is pure fantasy and moonshine spun out of the solstice, which will not outlast the night. ‘Super!’ cries Alberic. ‘I will telephone you tomorrow or when I can.’

  Outside, on the pavement he embraces Stephen, putting both arms around him, holding him close, before pointing him in the direction of Leicester Square. ‘I go this way,’ he says, indicating the opposite direction. ‘Hasta la vista, goodnight, ciao, see you very soon, mon brave!’

  Stephen, swaying on the Tube, unsteady on his feet on the short walk home, is flying high on promises and hope. The spell of tonight’s music binds him still but the melancholy of it has ebbed to leave behind the legacy of beauty. And by sheer chance, by the sort of luck that seldom strikes in real life, he has found a friend. No, more than a friend: the uncle he never had, a guide and a purveyor of advice and sympathy and kindness. His name shall be called wonderful. Tomorrow is a new day, champagne is delicious, friendship is a very fine thing indeed.

  But in the dead of night he woke, his heartbeat racing, in the vise of dread. He had not closed his curtains and now, at the bedroom window, he seemed to see small white faces staring in out of the darkness. Small white hands pressed up against the glass. Children wandering abroad and lost? Who is he and what has he done – this self-deceiving fool, this thing of rags and dust?

  Wednesday

  Stephen had forgotten to set his alarm clock and did not wake until after nine on Wednesday morning. His sheets were tangled sweatily around him; he must have had a fever in the night. For a while he did not know what day it was or what he should be doing. Then, seeing the time and coming to his senses, he tumbled out of bed.

  ‘Delays on the Central Line,’ he told Louise by way of justification when he got to the Institute but she had more important things in mind than Stephen’s lateness. Something must have happened in the night: Ana and Martin from Group II were in anxious conclave round Louise’s desk with an analyst from Department Four, and the atmosphere was tense.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he whispered to Charlotte as he passed her.

  ‘Not sure. It’s something to do with phoenix CUCHULAINN. Somebody was killed last night but I don’t know who or where. We’ll get the gen later from Lou-Lou, I expect.’

  Work that day was scheduled to end at five o’clock because of the Christmas party. Reminded of this by Charlotte, Stephen remembered he should have brought the party food with him. Now he would have to go shopping at lunchtime, a nuisance as he would rather have had a quiet sandwich in a pub; his head was aching badly. Muriel came past on her morning round. ‘No sign of that tape, I don’t suppose?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid not,’ Stephen said, cursing himself inwardly for having left all the tapes behind this morning in his rush. He had intended to slip them back into the system; he must be sure to bring them in tomorrow. The new tapes that Muriel delivered were from Tuesday morning. With Helen away, he could see no point in listening to them; whatever PHOENIX did or did not do in reality was immaterial to him. But he had nothing else to fill the day and was afraid that Rollo might at any time come hunting. He’d be safer in the shelter of his headphones.

  The morning dragged sleepily on. For ODIN and his wife, life was relatively smooth: Diane had had a tranquil couple of days; the consultant had said her heart was bearing up, her wheelchair was mended and now they were enjoying their Christmas preparations. Mrs ODIN said that Diane loved the tree. There was nothing but unanswered calls on VULCAN’s line. When no one was watching, Stephen dialled VULCAN’s number himself but still got no reply. Probably the old man was feeling better, after the doctor’s visit, and had gone out for a breath of air or to do his shopping. Stephen would try him again later.

  It was not yet lunchtime but, if he slipped out now, he could be back before Louise had even noticed he was gone. He unhooked his coat from the rack by the door as unobtrusively as he could but was halted by Solly shouting out across the room to him, using VULCAN’s real name. ‘Hey Steve! What do you know about old Jacky?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Come over here and have a listen.’

  A comrade on the telephone on Monday to one of Solly’s regulars, saying he was a wee bit worried about old Jacky. He’d been calling him at various times of day for the past two days now, but the old man never answered: could he be off on his holidays? But no, both men agreed, Jacky wasn’t the type for winter cruises, nor for late nights neither. They knew he lived alone. There was a son but he was somewhere else – was it Australia? Was there anyone else who lived closer to Jacky than they did, and could pop round more easily, in case? Happen there was nothing to worry about but all the same, it was unlike old Jack not to pick up his telephone. Opposite problem on the whole – once you had him on the line it was a hell of a job to get him off it – no one like Jacky for a natter. In the end they couldn’t come up with anyone in Motherwell; the caller would give Mick a bell, Jacky was like a father to him although he had a lot on his hands just now, what with the strike and all.

  Stephen imagined VULCAN coughing tar and coal dust from his lungs, stranded between breaths, panicking to reach the next one, failing, drowning, falling, dead. Comrade, courageous fighter. No. The obvious explanation was that the doctor whose visit Stephen had requested yesterday had packed VULCAN off to hospital straightaway. That would certainly be the best place for him: a nice clean bed and nurses to fetch him cups of tea and wish him a merry Christmas. The old man safe in striped pyjamas, not all alone and hearing the ringing of the telephone but too weak to reach it.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong,’ he said to Solly.

  ‘Should you mention it to his strategist?’

  ‘I will, when I see her next.’

  He put his coat on in the corridor and hurried from the building. Another day of bitter cold. Time felt unreal to him and oddly still, as if the hours had turned to ice and he was imprisoned in them. He told himself it was only because he had slept so badly.

  Where do you buy cheese near Piccadilly? Stephen didn’t know. He usually bought food in the corner shops of East Acton. Charlotte and Louise regularly shopped in Oxford Street but he wasn’t sure where and didn’t have time to look. Rollo Buckingham would be bound to know the best shops. What would Helen do? She’d go to a delicatessen in Soho, or a stall in a street market, where the cheesemonger would greet her by her name or call her darling. They would have a serious discussion and he would give her slivers of his cheese to taste before she chose one. How did people learn these things: the right cheeses, the right wine? He faltered on the icy pavement of White Horse Street, seeking inspiration, and then remembered Fortnum and Mason. He had never been inside it but it was a food shop, wasn’t it, and it was nearby.

  Again he found a sanctuary from the cold and from the world outside. Why had he not known earlier that there were such places – opulent, heated like greenhouses full of tropical plants, heavy with scent and colour? A man could simply stand there and get warm. But he was surprised how much the cheese and biscuits cost. ‘JOBLESS TOTAL NUDGES 3 MILLION’, read an Evening Standard billboard by the Ritz.

  It turned out that he need not have done his shopping that day. When he got back to the long room
he was met by Charlotte looking important and Louise with a harassed expression on her face. ‘Where have you been, Stevie?’ she scolded. ‘You’re turning into the Scarlet Pimpernel. I can never find you. We have a situation. CUCHULAINN is Alpha now. We’ve had to postpone the party; we’ve no choice. But isn’t it lucky that we hadn’t already made the sandwiches? I’ve been up to Catering and begged a roll of tinfoil off them; the quiches and the ham will just about squeeze into the fridge and Solly says he’ll store the sausage rolls at home. It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘Coo,’ said Charlotte, ‘look at Stevie’s bag! Dead posh!’

  ‘Well, I do hope this isn’t going to get in the way of anything else that you had planned this afternoon. Things are difficult enough at this time of year as it is.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Stephen said.

  ‘Oh yes, no I mean – I’m sorry, I should have made it clear. The thing is that it would really help if you could share the Alpha monitoring with Charlotte. Martin’s off, as I said, and Harriet simply has to catch the train this evening or she just won’t be able to get to Colonsay and now that you’ve done quite a lot of CUCHULAINN and most of your own cases are suspended …’

  ‘Come on, Steve,’ Charlotte broke in before he had a chance to speak. ‘Pack up your kit! We’re going in five minutes.’

  Stephen locked his things away, including the bag of cheese, and followed Charlotte down to the basement garage, which was empty except for a few cars and a small white van.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked her.

  ‘They never tell you. They just take you there.’

  A man emerged from a side-door, cocked his head enquiringly at them and, at Charlotte’s answering nod, opened the back door of the van. He motioned them inside. ‘You have to sit on the floor.’ He climbed into the driver’s seat, pulled a cap onto his head and started up the engine. The garage doors slid open and they drove straight out.

  ‘I feel like I’m being kidnapped,’ Stephen said.

  ‘How do you know you’re not? Maybe Louise has tricked us and we’re being taken hostage. Six months in a cell for us. Only, your folks would pay the ransom. If, that is, they actually want you back.’

  ‘Keep your heads down, please,’ the driver said over his shoulder and then nothing more for the forty or so minutes of the drive.

  ‘We’re heading north,’ said Charlotte confidently, although she and Stephen could see nothing from their uncomfortable position on the floor. When they stopped, the driver turned to them again. ‘Stay here, please. Keep your heads right down and don’t make any noise.’ He got out of the van and locked the door.

  ‘Oh God,’ Charlotte hissed. ‘I hope they’re not going to make us do the monitoring in here! It’s so bloody cold and I need a wee.’

  Her nearness was reassuring. That hostage-fantasy was meant merely to amuse but even so Stephen felt a sharp-edged pang of fear in his guts. He was finding it difficult to breathe. What if something were to befall the driver and prevent him coming back to let them out? How long must he and Charlotte stay here, trapped in this white prison, while snow cascaded on them and hid them from the world?

  ‘Do you suppose that in the event of nuclear attack, you and I are essential personnel?’ Charlotte said in a low voice after minutes of silence.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know. The list of essential personnel who would be whisked away into the bunkers at the first sound of the warning bell.’

  ‘What warning bell?’

  ‘It must be a siren actually. A klaxon? Five minutes’ warning, isn’t that what we’d have?’

  ‘Five minutes doesn’t sound long enough to get anyone into a bunker.’

  ‘Well, it could be that key people get an earlier alert. But anyway it’s true. There is a list, and there are special underground shelters all across the country, built for people like us in case of war.’

  ‘They had bunkers in the last war – Churchill had one.’

  ‘Those were not the same. Those were designed as shelter from the normal sort of bombs; these are proof against nuclear attack. Beneath the streets of London there are comms rooms, canteens, larders full of tins and water, dormitories, sick bays, even operating theatres, all equipped and airtight to keep us safe from nuclear fallout. So they say. We could be down there for months. Think of that. You and me and Lou-Lou living together for months on end, while above our heads there was total devastation.’

  ‘We wouldn’t be key personnel.’

  ‘Yes we would. Even when the Reds were raining nuclear bombs on us, the strategists would want to know what the miners and the dear old boys were doing.’

  ‘They would all be dead.’

  ‘That’s true. Have you any idea what really happens in a nuclear attack? Third-degree burning of the skin, melting of the eyeballs, rupture of the eardrums …’

  ‘Why do you know all this?’

  ‘Everybody does. Besides, my brother-in-law is a submariner and they know a lot about attack drill. They …’

  She was interrupted by the return of the driver in the cap. He unlocked the back door, half-opened it, put his head in and said quietly: ‘Please count down two minutes before exiting the vehicle. Walk in an easterly direction, holding hands. At the bottom of the hill, turn left into Arcadia Street. Small block of flats about halfway down on the left-hand side, Arcadia House, flat number 3. These are the keys to the entrance and the flat. Let yourselves in. Exit the van as quickly as you can.’

  ‘A two-minute warning,’ Charlotte murmured. ‘Steve, I hope you’re counting.’

  They did as they were told. Charlotte’s hand was cool and firm in Stephen’s. ‘Why are we holding hands?’ he asked.

  ‘So that we look like an ordinary couple, you idiot,’ she said.

  The flat consisted of two grubby and sparsely furnished rooms. In one, Damian and Aoife were sitting on a single bed pushed up against the wall, both wearing headphones. On a low table in front of them were two tape-recorders built into overnight bags and connected to a small square suitcase that contained a mass of wires. These, Stephen saw, ran from the suitcase into the skirting board.

  ‘For this relief much thanks,’ said Aoife, taking her headphones off. ‘We’re bored to tears. It’s completely quiet up there. I bet Department Four have got it wrong.’

  Damian slipped his headphones off and handed them to Charlotte, who immediately put them on. ‘Shall I make you some coffee before we go?’ he asked. ‘There’s milk, mirabile dictu.’

  Charlotte freed an ear to hear him. ‘Is there anything to eat?’

  Time and again Stephen has imagined this: the urgency, the excitement, breathing when the target breathes, two hearts beating in one rhythm. But it is Helen’s breath that he wants now, her heartbeat, not a stranger’s. From above him comes the sound of a vacuum cleaner, ‘Someone’s upstairs,’ he whispered.

  ‘Of course,’ said Aoife. ‘He is doing his housework. He can’t hear you unless you’re very loud.’

  ‘But nothing’s happened so far?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘Nothing. He has the radio on. We must have heard the Human League ten times, but that’s better than Cliff Richard. So, you’re on till eight, I guess? Good luck. The comms radio is there if you need to call an operative and the legs are out there somewhere, watching. But hey, Steve, don’t try to take a look! Keep the curtains closed!’

  ‘We know, we know,’ said Charlotte. ‘We don’t need a lesson.’

  ‘Keep your hair on,’ Aoife said. ‘We’re off.’ She tied a scarf around her head, waited for Damian to button up his raincoat and blew a kiss from the door before she closed it.

  Stephen sat down on the bed beside Charlotte. ‘What now?’ he mouthed.

  ‘He’s still hoovering. We both need to listen, though, in case one of us misses something crucial.’

  Stephen put on Aoife’s discarded headphones. They were still warm. He drank some of the coffee. Charlotte had made herself as comfortable as sh
e could, using a stained pillow as a backrest and sitting cross-legged on the bed, shoes off. Her feet were surprisingly small and shapely. He listened for a while to the vacuum cleaner and, when that stopped, the scrape of furniture being moved across the floor, the music on the radio and the voice of the announcer. There was no other voice. He felt himself drifting into sleep and shook himself awake. What would Helen be doing now? Hanging a silver star onto a tree, walking along a beach alone, where the salt-wind strokes her face and blows the gold hair off her forehead? Thoughts of Helen are as lifeblood constantly pulsing through his veins. She is his still point; the fixed foot of the compass to which he must return, however far he strays. What is this – this dismal room in a dingy flat in an unknown part of London, the unknown man in the flat above, now pacing up and down like a creature in a cage, the woman sitting close to him, her blue skirt rucked up around her thighs – but a deviation from the purpose of his story?

  Charlotte nudged him awake and leaned over to push an earpiece off. The V-neck of her jumper showed the line between her breasts; she smelled of smoke and roses. ‘I’m going to make more coffee – Damian’s was filthy. Do you want a cup? Will you be okay on your own for a few minutes? I need to use the loo.’

  In the flat above the man had finished his cleaning. He had also switched the radio off. It was very quiet. Charlotte came back with coffee, a packet of Rich Tea biscuits and an ashtray. ‘Look what I found,’ she said. Stephen ate two of the biscuits, letting the dry crumbs soften to fill and coat his mouth; Charlotte searched in her handbag for cigarettes and lit one. They sat side-by-side, attending to the absence of sound, cut off from the sounds outside and the sounds they themselves were making by their headphones.

  Boredom is the condition of the listener. They might have to stay like this for hours, Stephen thought. Charlotte was apparently rapt. He was drowsing off again when Charlotte dug her elbow in him. He heard the sound of a doorbell and reflexively stood up to look out of the window and down at the street below. Charlotte pulled him back. The man upstairs must have pressed a button to open the main door; there was half a minute’s pause before the front door of the flat was opened. This visitor, whoever it was, had come straight past the door of Number 3 on the way up, a thought that thrilled but also brought with it a sense of danger. Stephen had been told nothing at all. Who were these people and what might they be doing? Were they gunmen or bombers?