‘Eight to ten miles, I should think.’ His teeth were chattering now. ‘But I’ll be fine. It’ll be OK.’
Greg thought about this for a moment. ‘That’s a long swim, dude,’ he said.
Not wishing to depart with this ominous observation hanging in the air, Daniel tried to make light of the situation, for Nancy’s benefit. ‘Do you think we’ll get any money knocked off the holiday for this?’
Nancy didn’t seem to hear. ‘Good luck,’ she said.
‘Don’t give up,’ Daniel said, holding her hand. He felt in his pocket for the ring box. It was gone. ‘I promise I’ll be back with help. Trust me. Try and keep the others.. .’ He couldn’t think how to finish the sentence. ‘Try and keep the others from drinking their own urine until I get back.’
Nancy gave a taut smile at this. ‘I’ll try.’
Daniel’s eyes slid away as Nancy sought them. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but he knew he would choke on the words. They seemed hollow now. Instead he gently cupped the back of her neck and bowed his head so that his brow was touching hers. ‘I can make it,’ he whispered. ‘Just stay alive.’ He then turned and swam away. For fifty yards he kept his arms by his sides, using his fins to propel himself and his snorkel to breathe, then he raised his head to check he was still swimming in the direction of the sun. After half an hour he turned to look behind him. The floats of the plane were no longer in sight. He shivered, as much from loneliness as cold.
CHAPTER TEN
AT ONE MINUTE TO FIVE, WETHERBY APPROACHED THE DOUBLE doors of the Senate Room, his gown billowing behind him. As the minute ticked down, he composed himself. He had perfected, over many years, a look of unsmiling disapproval – at the frivolous, at the vulgar, at the pointlessly aesthetic. People expected it of him, and he did not like to disappoint. Today, he knew, he would have good reason to glower. The other male faculty heads would be gownless and wearing open-neck shirts under their jackets. Wetherby saw it as his moral duty to shame them. He was damned if he would allow his own standards to be compromised by the provost’s new informal dress code. For more than a century and a half, dons had worn gowns for the monthly Senate meetings and he was going to ensure the tradition was upheld, even if no one else was, even if everyone else thought him affected. He paused for a moment. Checked his watch. Counted down the final five seconds to the hour before opening the doors.
He was surprised to see all the other heads of faculty seated.
‘Afternoon, Larry,’ the provost said, holding up his arms and pulling a mock-guilty face that made his rubicund cheeks wobble slightly. ‘Didn’t you see the email I sent round?’
‘To which email do you refer?’
‘My fault. We had to start half an hour early because the commissioner here has to go on to another briefing at Whitehall. He has been talking us through the new emergency procedures for campus.’ Moving his head rather than his eyes,Wetherby turned his gaze slowly towards a uniformed policeman holding a braided cap. The commissioner was standing next to a flip chart that had a floor plan of the north cloister of the college on it. The officer acknowledged Wetherby with a nod and a compact smile. Wetherby flicked out his gown. Sat. Stared at the provost’s open collar.
‘Now, where were we?’ the provost said airily.
‘I think I’d more or less finished,’ the commissioner said. He checked his watch and looked out of the window. ‘Better be going. My driver’s here.’ He shook hands with the provost and gave a couple of nods to cover the rest of the room.
‘We’ve been discussing how best to combat radicalization on campus,’ the provost said for Wetherby’s benefit. ‘How to infiltrate political groups, how to detect warning signs of Islamist extremism. I’ll fill you in later. Now. While I have you all here, I have some exciting news. We’ve been bequeathed some money by an alumni.’
‘Alumnus,’ Wetherby corrected under his breath.
The provost did not hear. ‘A considerable amount of money, in fact. On legal advice I can’t tell you at this stage who left it or how much they left because the family of the deceased are contesting the will. But the sum would be enough to pay for, say, a new library or theatre, a new sports hall, a gallery or museum, a new conference hall or a new lab perhaps. The only condition is that it must be open to the public. We would also be eligible for a building grant from the Heritage Lottery Fund which would match the bequest pound for pound. So.’ He clapped. ‘I’d like you all to go away and have a think about this and then put in your bids. Any other business?’
A secretary with a pageboy haircut checked the minutes. ‘There’s the zoology chair.’
‘That’s a formality, I think,’ the provost said, reaching for his pen. ‘No objections to Dan Kennedy getting it, are there?’
There was a brief silence before Wetherby cleared his throat softly. ‘I think it should be advertised.’
A dozen pairs of eyes turned to him. The provost spoke first. ‘Why?’
‘I believe European employment law requires it.’ He paused as he studied the faces of his colleagues. ‘Also, I am not sure Dr Kennedy even wants the job.’
The provost laughed. ‘Course he wants it.’
‘That is not my impression.’
‘Has he told you that?’
‘Not in so many words, but I know he has a lot of other commitments.’
‘Commitments?’
‘His extracurricular activities. Television. That natural history series he does.’
The provost drummed his fingers on the table. ‘What series? Why didn’t I know about this?’
Pamela Henton, the professor of biology, slapped her pen down on her notepad. ‘Look, Dan’s been effectively running the zoology department for the past six months. You can’t say he’s not committed.’
‘Oh, I do not doubt his commitment,’ Wetherby said through closed teeth. ‘And as you know I personally hold him in the highest regard as a colleague, and a friend.’ He studied the faces of the other dons again as if challenging them to disagree. ‘But I would feel it a betrayal of our friendship if I did not raise this matter with the Senate.’
‘Well, I would have thought he was the poster boy for our new approach,’ said Roger Eastman, a silver-haired history professor. ‘Have you seen that photograph of him on the college website, the one of him wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses?’
‘And designer stubble,’ Henton added with a grin.
‘I could not agree more,’ Wetherby said, raking a hand through the remaining strands of his hair; his tonsure was not visible from the front and this recurring, nervy gesture was designed to keep it that way. ‘He is most telegenic.’
‘I saw him walking around campus the other day, with his iPod and manbag and thought he was a student,’ Henton continued with a grin. ‘Besides, his brand of militant atheism is terribly fashionable at the moment.’
‘Like Marxism was fashionable, you mean?’ Wetherby said. ‘Yes, I can see that. It used to be terribly fashionable for middle-ranking academics to defend Mao and Stalin. Now that those heroes of atheism are out of fashion, Darwin has become the lad to follow. Darwin and Dawkins.’
Eastman was enjoying the light relief, too. ‘Did anyone see that graffiti outside the Student Union? “Dawkins is God”. Rather witty, I thought.’
‘Hilarious,’ Wetherby said in a voice heavy with sarcasm.
‘Come on, Wetherby. It was a reference to “Clapton is God” … You must remember that. When were you a student?’
‘Oh, I got the reference, and I do appreciate the wit involved in substituting the name “Dawkins” for “Clapton”, but it took the caretaker a whole—’
‘Dan’s activism on the environment is very current as well,’ Henton interrupted. ‘The students really respect him for it.’
Wetherby seized his moment. ‘As well they should. The man practises what he preaches. He told me the other day that he was planning to offset his global footprint for a trip to the Galápagos Islands by arranging fo
r mahogany and cedar trees to be planted in, I think he said, the Bushenyi District of Uganda, as recompense for his flight to Ecuador.’
‘What trip to the Galápagos Islands?’ the provost said, his brow furrowing.
‘I presumed he was filming part of his next series there.’ Wetherby checked the date on his watch. ‘I believe he is there now.’ Professor Nick Collins, head of psychology, was looking at some notes. ‘I don’t know why we’re even discussing this. Dan’s academic record is exemplary.’
There was a pout in the provost’s voice. ‘I wouldn’t wish to make an appointment without the full backing of the Senate.’ He looked at Wetherby. ‘We shall advertise the post, but I don’t imagine there will be any better candidates.’ He scanned the room. ‘And would all heads of department kindly remind their staff that I’m not keen on moonlighting. Also, I need to know when staff are absent, for whatever reason. Now,’ he tapped his papers on the table. ‘I, too, have to leave.’ A dozen chairs scraped back in unison.
By the time the provost reached the door, Wetherby was at his shoulder, speaking in a low voice. ‘On the subject of security,’ he said, ‘what do you know about the guard on duty at the Porter’s Lodge today?’
‘Donaldson? Been with us for two or three years. Good man by all accounts.’
‘Not the accounts I have heard.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘One of the Chinese students has complained about him making racist comments.’
The provost came to a halt and turned to face Wetherby. ‘Christ, that’s all I need.’
‘He was making mock of her name.’
‘This is going to look bad. We’ll have to have an investigation. For form’s sake. Will you take care of it?’
‘Of course.’
‘But try and keep it quiet. We don’t want the press involved.’
‘Probably best to suspend him while the investigation is pending.’
‘Do whatever you think best, Larry.’ The provost caught a flicker of disapproval on Wetherby’s face. ‘You don’t mind me calling you Larry, do you?’
‘Not at all.’
‘I think the less stuffy we can make this place the better.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I’m glad you told me about Dan’s television work.’
‘Perhaps I should not have.’
‘Don’t feel guilty because he’s your friend. It’s best I know these things.’
‘That is why I thought you should be made aware of his reservations about the job. He would never voice them himself.’ The thin smile. ‘You know Danny.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THROUGH HIS MASK, DANIEL COULD SEE STINGRAYS AND GROUPERS. He could also see pink marks on his skin: welts, grazes and weals where coral had scratched him. These, he knew, would attract sharks. He tried not to think about it and was relieved when a dolphin appeared and swam underneath him. Sharks don’t like to hunt when dolphins are around. He could concentrate on worrying about the jellyfish. They were everywhere and he was being stung constantly on his bare legs, each sting a cigarette burn.
A second dolphin appeared and the two circled below, their swimming synchronized as they turned on their backs to get a better view of the strange fish they had found. Daniel knew he was approaching another shallow ‘reef flat’ because the water was alive with blue tangs and angelfish. As he swam over a coral garden, grazing it with his fins, he recoiled at the sight of volcanic funnels and what looked like human brains. Beautiful in any other context, they were sinister now. A school of yellowtail floated past within inches of his facemask, making him flinch. A blue-spotted ray scuttled off in a cloud of sand. Once it felt safe, it slowed down and, with graceful beats of its wings, disappeared from view. Daniel could hear parrotfish pecking noisily at the hard coral now. He could also hear the sound of his breathing amplified by the water. The ocean was too tranquil; too neon-blue. Clownfish were hovering among the waving tentacles of sea anemones. He wondered how they could be so oblivious to the plane that had crashed in their environment. How could everything be back to normal so quickly? A small reef shark appeared, the black tip on its dorsal fin sweeping back and forth as it patrolled the shallows. Daniel no longer felt afraid.
You can’t hurt me. Not today.
He swam over a coral wall and looked down over a sheer drop. It gave him vertigo, making him feel as if he were floating in the sky, contemplating the ground. This thought triggered a sense memory of the crash; a feeling of panic; of falling out of the sky; out of time. He could make out a craggy labyrinth of rock below, and it looked like a twisted fuselage.
The crash, he figured, must have left him with mild concussion because memories were flowing back to him with frightening clarity, placing him back in his seat in the plane. He could hear the screaming of the engine. He could feel the noise, too, vibrating through his seat, through his groin, through his bones. He remembered thinking to himself: It’s over. It’s over. He shut his eyes as though to shut out the memory, and his mask began to steam up as hot tears wet his cheeks.
After three quarters of an hour, he brushed against an object floating on the surface. He shouted and recoiled with revulsion, thinking it was the decapitated body of the flight attendant. Now he saw it was something half eaten, a sea lion perhaps, and pushed it away, trying not to be sick. He realized that he hadn’t counted the flight attendant. There were nine dead, not eight.
Not wanting to run into another dead creature, he opened his eyes and began swimming breaststroke, keeping his head above water to see where he was going. When his neck began to ache he alternated with front crawl. Every fifteen minutes or so he stopped for a sip from the Lucozade bottle. Soon after he had emptied it, he began to feel dehydrated and cold. His sense of direction, of time and space, was slipping. He was adrift now and, with the randomness of delirium, thoughts of his great-grandfather’s letters began melting through his mind. He tried to recall what they had said, to picture Nancy’s face as she was reading them, and his father’s face as he handed them over, almost reluctant to let them go.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE TEMPERATURE IN LONDON HAD RISEN BY TWELVE DEGREES overnight and the softly falling snow had sharpened to sleet and drizzle. This, Philip thought, is more appropriate. November weather. Remembrance Sunday weather. He usually travelled to Bayeux for the ceremony, officially because he was a director of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, unofficially because that was where his father was buried. But this year he had been asked to lay a wreath at the Cenotaph on behalf of the Handbags, as members of the Royal Army Medical Corps were known.
The wreath he was holding, a red cross of poppies on a white cardboard background, was chafing his knees as he rocked back and forth on his heels, waiting. Umbrellas had gone up in the crowd around him but he had no need of one today: his dark-blue beret was keeping his head dry. He had angled it so that it covered his missing ear. Earlier that morning, he had checked and rechecked in the mirror that his cap badge – the rod of Asclepius – was one inch above his left eye. He checked, for the third time in ten minutes, the row of polished metal across the breast of his overcoat. Along with his campaign medals – Northern Ireland, the Falklands, the First Gulf War – there was a silver cross standing out against the charcoal grey of his coat material, an MC. With leather-gloved fingers, he flicked an imaginary speck of dirt off his shoulder, as if that, and not the medals, was what he had been staring at. He straightened his back, raised his chin and looked around.
From his position in Whitehall, a few rows behind the Chiefs of Staff, he could make out, through the gathering mist, Nelson’s column. He closed his eyes for a moment and, when he opened them again, the column had disappeared from view. He studied instead the monolithic slab of Portland stone in front of him. It looked severe and beautiful. As he read and reread its simple inscription – ‘The Glorious Dead’ – the massed band of the Guards Division began playing Elgar’s ‘Nimrod’. Coming as it was from his deaf side, t
he adagio sounded more muffled and colourless than usual, but no less autumnal. Despite the cold there were still some leaves clinging on to the trees. In the overcast light, the branches had become almost invisible so that the golden and copper tints looked as if they were floating on the still surface of a lake. As Philip studied one particular branch, its leaves began to shimmer, stirred by a gust, and, almost as one, relinquished their hold and began spiralling slowly to the ground, only to be caught up again in a flurry. Dead leaves defining the shape of the breeze. He checked his pocket watch, a silver half-hunter inscribed with his grandfather’s initials. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month was approaching. He bowed his head and felt the silence deepening, like a shelf of sand sinking away beneath his shoes.
A numbing inner stillness descended upon him. There is no such thing as silence, the composer John Cage once said, and Philip knew the truth of this. When he went from being Lt Col Philip Kennedy RAMC to Lt Col Philip Kennedy RAMC (Rtd), he was presented with a silver sword and a rare collection of BBC recordings of the silences held at the Cenotaph since 1929. Whenever he listened to them he noticed the chimes of Big Ben were followed not by silence but by ambient noise: distant planes, birdsong, the shuffle of feet. Broadcasters knew that such near-silence had more resonance than shutting down the airwaves for two minutes. But for Philip the two-minute silence was crowded in other ways. In what amounted to a family tradition, he had not known his father, who in turn had not known his father. Neither man had grown old, as he, the son and grandson, had grown old. They had instead been frozen in youth, their likenesses recorded in a few granular photographs, their names carved on stones in foreign fields. They were strangers to one another, grandfather, father and son, yet once a year, on the same November morning, they met for two minutes in the silence.
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