The Trojan boy

by Ken McClure

  The letter was sandwiched between the electricity bill and an exhortation to provide life insurance for his loved ones. It looked interesting; pristine white and postmarked Cambridge. The paper felt pleasingly expensive as Avedissian unfolded it and saw the embossed coat of arms of Trinity College, Cambridge. He read it with disbelief then re-read it. He was invited to attend for interview on Thursday next at ten o'clock in the morning with a view to employment 'in a professional capacity'. What the hell did that mean? he wondered. He had not applied for any job and he did not know anyone in Cambridge.

  Avedissian looked for signs of mistaken identity but reminded himself of what his father had said: if anyone said 'Avedissian', they meant it. It wasn't a name you mixed up with Smith or Brown. He read on. Expenses would be paid on a scale according to 'Grade 3' and at a rate of?34.15 per night plus second-class travelling costs. Was this some kind of sick joke? Why the hell should he go to Cambridge on the strength of an unsolicited letter? Because he had nothing else to do, that was why.

  Chesterton Road was dark but the night was warm and friendly, one of those English summer evenings that optimists like to call 'typical' but which in reality are beautiful exceptions. The scent of blossom filled the air as Avedissian climbed the steps to check in at his hotel.

  The hotel was all right but only in the way that many hotels are all right, anonymous decor, anonymous guests. But what it did have in its favour was its location. It stood on the banks of the River Cam.

  After a snack taken in the bar, Avedissian walked slowly along the towpath and listened to the sound of talk and laughter coming from the houseboats moored against the sluggish flow. He had to duck his head as he came to a bridge span that was in no hurry to rise, and heard his footsteps echo on the damp stone.

  There was a smell of lichen from the underside of the arch. It awakened in him a long-forgotten memory from childhood, a memory of summer days spent fishing beneath weeping willows. There had been a stream running through his village and he and his friends had spent a great deal of time on its banks. The underside of the bridge by the village church had smelled like this one.

  Across the water the patrons of a riverside pub had spilled out into the courtyard to laugh and drink beneath the stars. The symbolism of laughter and gaiety being on the other side of the river while he walked alone in darkness did not escape Avedissian but he felt embarrassed at having even considered it. He continued his walk, leaving the towpath and climbing some steps up to the road beside Magdalene College. It had been a long time since he had been in Cambridge. He decided to see if he could still remember where Trinity College was. He could.

  Avedissian awoke to the sound of bicycle bells and had the feeling that the sun was itching to fill the room. He checked his watch and relaxed; there was plenty of time. He felt good because he had refrained from drinking on the previous evening and the walk by the river had ensured that he had slept well.

  Analysing how he felt about the interview was a different matter and not easy. His overriding feeling was one of curiosity but there was an element of annoyance there too. He was dancing to someone else's tune and that rankled, for by turning up at all, without question, meant that he had conceded the first round.

  As Avedissian bathed, in preference to struggling with an ill-fitting shower curtain and makeshift sprinkler that had obviously been added for the benefit of the American summer trade, he wondered what role he should play at the interview. He could not appear as the eager candidate when he did not even know what the appointment was and had not applied for it in the first place. On the other hand he would hardly be negotiating from a position of strength for he was almost on his uppers. He suddenly realised that this had a lot to do with his feeling of annoyance. It stemmed from the fact that his interviewers must know this.

  Avedissian walked out into the morning sunshine and crossed the road to look at the river as he walked towards Trinity College. It was good to be able to walk somewhere with purpose again. He opened the tall iron gate and entered the college grounds, pausing to admire the rolling greenery that swept back from the river, before looking for the entrance that the letter had decreed. He paused again on one of the bridges and watched the water slide slowly underneath. A solitary punt was moored nearby.

  The courtyard was quiet as he crossed it, looking up to see the minute hand on the clock tower move on to three minutes to the hour. As he entered the building a uniformed porter stepped forward to meet him and before he could say anything, the man said, 'Dr Avedissian? This way, sir.'

  The slowness of the lift's ascent obliged Avedissian to say something. 'It's very quiet.'

  ‘The vacation, sir,' replied the porter, without taking his eyes off the floor indicator.

  'Of course,' said Avedissian, ending the conversation.

  The corridor smelt of dust, leather and floor polish. Avedissian liked it. It had the timelessness of a library.

  'In here, sir,' said the porter, opening a door and flattening himself against it to allow Avedissian to pass.

  Inside the room Avedissian was met by a smiling woman in her early thirties. She held out her hand and said, 'How nice to meet you, Doctor. I'm Sarah Milek, Sir Michael's assistant.' Avedissian found the smile reassuring and was pleased to hear a name at last, for his letter had been unsigned.

  'Sir Michael who?' he asked.

  'Just Sir Michael,' replied the woman. 'Follow me, please.'

  Avedissian followed the woman into a pleasant, sun-filled room where four men sat waiting at a table. They had their backs to the window. He would be facing it.

  'Dr Avedissian,' announced Sarah Milek before turning to leave.

  A silver-haired man got to his feet and gestured to Avedissian that he should sit. 'How nice of you to come,' said the smooth, cultured voice.

  Avedissian managed a smile but felt patronised.

  'May I introduce Mr Bryant, Mr Stapleton, Mr Carlisle.'

  Avedissian nodded to each of the three men in turn. Stapleton and Carlisle said 'Good morning' but Bryant looked through him.

  The silver-haired man, whom Avedissian took to be 'Sir Michael', opened a file in front of him and moved his glasses to the tip of his nose before shuffling his way through a pile of papers and apparently back again. 'Let me see now…' he muttered, beginning the process all over again.

  Avedissian noticed Bryant move impatiently in his seat and saw him raise his eyes briefly to the ceiling. The other two remained impassive but Avedissian was aware that they were watching him. The knowledge made him determined to maintain a sphinx-like expression.

  'Ah, here we are,' said Sir Michael. 'Mark Avedissian, age thirty-seven, married with no children. Wife deceased. Three years with Her Majesty's Forces, commissioned, served with the Parachute Regiment, resigned commission to enter medical school, graduated third in class in 1973, specialised in paediatrics, last position, consultant paediatrician, St Jude's Hospital, Southampton. Bit of a change, army to medicine, what?'

  Avedissian remained silent.

  'Care to tell us why?'

  'No,' replied Avedissian.

  ‘Too tough for you, Avedissian?' asked Bryant, attracting a sidelong glance from Sir Michael who cleared his throat in disapproval and continued before Avedissian felt obliged to reply.

  'Convicted of administering a lethal dose of barbiturates to one Michael Fielding, a patient in your care… Parents and judge sympathetic to your motives but law has to be upheld… Short prison sentence and removal from the Medical Register… Subsequent employment as a medical representative with… several companies in fact. Would you agree that that is an accurate, if superficial, account of your curriculum vitae, Doctor?'

  Avedissian agreed that it was.

  Bryant said abrasively, 'You have been sacked from five companies in the last two years, Avedissian.'

  'Yes.'

  'Is that all?' demanded Bryant. 'Just "yes"?'

  'Why am I here?' asked Avedissian, seething inwardly but outwardly remain
ing calm.

  Sir Michael looked as if he were about to reply but Bryant got there first. 'Good question,' he snorted and sat back in his seat. He stared down at the desk pad in front of him.

  Sir Michael looked briefly at Bryant before turning to Avedissian and saying, 'We think that you may be able to help us.'

  'How?'

  'First we have to ask you some questions.'

  Avedissian sighed slightly but then nodded.

  'Why did you leave the army?'

  'It wasn't for me.'

  'You were a first-class officer with a promising career.'

  Bryant showed signs of impatience again and interrupted Sir Michael's leisurely approach. 'You decided it wasn't for you after you were sent to Northern Ireland. Isn't that right?'

  'I did serve in Northern Ireland,' agreed Avedissian.

  'And you lost your nerve.'

  'No.'

  'Oh, became a pacifist did we? Got all moist-eyed over the bleeding hearts in the Emerald Isle did we?' sneered Bryant.

  'I did not become a pacifist,' said Avedissian with a levelness of tone that seemed to annoy Bryant even more.

  'Perhaps killing babies is more your style, Avedissian?'

  'Why you son of a bitch I'll

  Bryant leaned back in his seat and grinned with self- satisfaction. 'So you're not a complete wimp after all, Avedissian. Good to know.'

  Sir Michael seemed embarrassed at Bryant's psychological game. Stapleton and Carlisle remained impassive.

  'Your wife committed suicide?' asked Carlisle.

  'Yes.'

  'How do you feel about that?'

  'That's a bloody stupid question.'

  Carlisle ignored the comment and asked, 'Any dependent relations?'

  'None.'

  'How would you like to practise medicine again, Doctor?' asked Sir Michael.

  Avedissian was angry. 'Just what is this bloody farce?' he demanded. 'You know damned well that I can never practise again. It's against the law.'

  Sir Michael took off his glasses and sat back in his chair. He looked into the distance over Avedissian's shoulder and said, 'In any society, Doctor, it is essential that people be subject to the law. However, there will always be a criminal element who ignore it and, at the other extreme, there will always be the necessity for a small group of people who are not entirely subject to every nuance and letter of it.'

  There was a long silence in the room while words kept sticking in Avedissian's throat. When he did finally manage to interpret what he had been told he cleared his throat and said, in acute embarrassment, 'Am I being recruited into the Intelligence Services?' He thought it sounded like a bad line from a village hall play and was relieved when no one laughed.

  'In a manner of speaking,’ said Sir Michael.

  Avedissian felt as if he were alone on a tightrope, the butt of some tasteless joke. In an effort to defend himself he said, 'I am, or rather was, a paediatrician. I am thirty-seven years old, heterosexual and I am not a graduate of this university. That, I would have thought disqualified me on all counts.'

  The four men at the table remained impassive. Sir Michael said, 'We have need of a doctor, you are a doctor and you are available. The fact that you have served with the armed forces has some bearing on our choice.'

  'Why do you need a doctor?'

  'I can't tell you.'

  'If you are looking for someone to feed Scopolamine to Russian spies then it isn't me.'

  'No Russian spies.'

  'And if I say no?'

  'Then you can go back to becoming an aimless drunk,' rasped Bryant.

  A spark of anger flared in Avedissian but he controlled it, for whatever way he looked at it, the comment was not without foundation. 'Very well, I agree,' he said.

  'You will now sign this,' said Stapleton, bringing out a document from his briefcase. 'It's the Official Secrets Act.'

  Avedissian signed and said, 'Now can you tell me what this is all about?'

  'Not yet,' answered Sir Michael, collecting his papers and getting up to leave. 'Mr Bryant will tell you all you need to know for the moment,' and with that, he, Stapleton and Carlisle were gone.

  Avedissian was left alone in the room with Bryant who said, 'You will not be returning to your home. Your things will be collected and brought to you. Miss Milek will give you your instructions.'

  As the door closed behind Bryant, Avedissian felt hopelessly alone and filled with foreboding about what he had let himself in for. He crossed to the window and looked down at the courtyard to see a black saloon disappear through an arch. The sun shone on the cobbles and it was quiet, deathly quiet.

  Sarah Milek came into the room and joined him at the window. 'Welcome aboard,' she said softly.

  'Do people really say that?' asked Avedissian, still looking out of the window.

  'When they can't think of anything else.'

  Avedissian turned to face her and said, 'I'm sorry, that was rude.'

  'Don't mention it. I understand life has not been treating you too kindly, and now this…' said Sarah Milek.

  'What exactly is "this"?' asked Avedissian.

  I'm sorry. I can't tell you any more than I've been instructed to.'

  'Which is?'

  'Nothing really. I'm to give you this.' Sarah Milek handed over a sealed envelope which Avedissian accepted in silence. 'Open it here,' she said. 'It contains all you need.'

  Avedissian sat down at the long table that had been used by Sir Michael and the others. He opened the envelope as Sarah Milek turned to leave. When she reached the door she turned and said, 'Take your time. When you're ready the porter will let you out.'

  Avedissian examined the contents. One hundred pounds in cash, a railway timetable and a travel warrant. A brief typed and unsigned letter instructed him to present himself in the lobby of the Brecon Inn in Ebbw Vale on Saturday at ten in the morning. There was a suggestion that it might be sensible to spend the previous night at the inn.

  The porter opened the front door as Avedissian emerged from the lift and walked towards him. Almost on impulse Avedissian pointed to a building across the square and asked, 'What building is that?'

  The porter seemed embarrassed and looked briefly at his feet before saying, 'I'm afraid I have no idea. I've not been here very long.'

  'No, I didn't think you had,' said Avedissian. The "porter" was no more part of Trinity College than he was.

  Avedissian bought himself a large gin at a riverside pub and ordered something from the bar menu. The veranda doors were open so he took his drink outside and leaned on the railing to enjoy the green pleasantness of a perfect summer day.

  'Would you like to eat out here?' asked a girl whose accent proclaimed her as a student doing vacation work.

  'Please,’ he replied.

  After lunch Avedissian walked by the river and thought about the morning. On the positive side he felt that he was employed again and that must be good… or was it? He could not make up his mind. He had no idea what his job was but the one good thing seemed to be that it did not involve selling and that was a big plus.

  Avedissian was temperamentally unsuited to selling as a career for, apart from the occasional person whom he liked instinctively, he tended to regard people in general with reserved suspicion. They were idiots until they proved different and, if they didn't, then he had no further time for them.

  Unfortunately, his career as a representative with several companies, as Sir Michael had so euphemistically put it, had brought him into contact with a succession of people who had failed the Avedissian Test when he had been in no position to flunk them. Clients had felt that he had not treated them with due deference and company superiors had felt that he had not acknowledged their true importance. In the end both had conspired to make his life a misery.

  All that was behind him now. The question was, what lay in front? He paused to watch two little boys play with model boats in the water before leaving the towpath to rejoin the road by crossing the foo
tbridge. He had a hundred pounds and a travel warrant in his pocket and he had to be in Wales on Saturday.

  TWO

  Kevin O’Donnel was dying and like so many at such times, he was unprepared for death and struggled to say so much before it was too late. Martin O'Neill cradled the dying man's head in his arms and tried to comfort him but he was too badly hurt himself to be of much use and blood flowed freely from a shattered left arm. It started to rain, turning the pools of red a muddy brown and plastering the men's hair to their heads as they huddled in their backstreet doorway.

  'I'm thirsty,' croaked O'Donnell, but there was only the summer rain to moisten his parched lips.

  O'Neill looked up sharply as he heard the shrill sound of a whistle in the distance. Next would come the clatter of army boots and the revving of laboured engines as the British combed the area. O'Donnell had heard the sound too and reacted with new urgency.

  'Listen… Listen to me. There's an envelope in the safe at the Long House. Get it, hide it, let no one else see it. Promise me?'

  'I promise.'

  There was a trickle of blood at the corner of O'Donnell's mouth and a gurgling sound from his throat that said his lungs were filling up. He gripped O'Neill's lapel and pulled him closer. 'One… last order.'

  O'Neill brought his ear close to hear it then sat upright and repeated, as if in a daze, the words he had just heard.

  ‘That's right,’ O'Donnell gasped. 'Obey it…'

  O'Neill nodded dumbly as O'Donnell's head fell back and he was dead.

  O'Neill clutched his wounded arm to his side as he struggled to his feet. The shouting was coming closer but the pain in his arm was becoming unbearable. He set off down the lane but had to stop as light-headedness blurred his vision, for he had lost too much blood. Knowing that he was in imminent danger of passing out he knelt down in another doorway and put his head on the ground to restore the blood supply to his brain. He had to make a decision.

  The British had already achieved a major victory. They had killed Kevin O'Donnell, the IRA’s senior commander in Belfast and, whether they knew it or not, the most listened-to voice on the war council. They must not take him alive as well, for he knew too much and the British would make him talk, of that he was sure. There was no level of bravery that could stand up to modern interrogation techniques and only a fool would believe differently. By the time that sound machine had scrambled his brain he would be ready to kiss the Queen's arse and recite nursery rhymes for the Duke. There was no real decision to make. He would have to take his own life.