Did Grey see a pattern here that connected him to Pen? He was yet another man disappearing from a marriage. Grey stayed on the sofa at a colleague’s apartment, and swore the other man to secrecy. In the evenings, Grey kept uncharacteristically silent. Finally, his colleague said to him, ‘You can’t stay here forever. Why don’t you just go home?’
Grey nodded. He gathered together the few things he had with him and left. He had quietly left the car at his house, for his wife, so he walked. He had never liked walking—the city was a place of exposure, and walking in it made him feel naked. He knew he should give his movements a look of confidence and belonging, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. It was maybe a half hour walk to his house. But he turned in another direction. Janet’s was closer. That wasn’t the reason for going, of course. For all his ‘bravery’, he couldn’t see his wife.
Actually, walking wasn’t so bad. It allowed anger to enter his step. Anger at whom? Initially in his legs, but he began to feel it too in the swing of his arms. He punched out at the net of following and knowing and observing that Shanks had thrown over him. But no, it wasn’t Shanks, or not only—Grey/Kenneth had thrown it over himself too, by being part of that world. His walk wasn’t only a walk away from his family, but a walk away from a way of being. It was a change of sides, a DEFECTION, one seeded in him by Janet and by Shanks. He carried with him a vital, damaging, terrifying piece of information. For that reason, it could be said that he wasn’t simply running away. Instead, he was walking headlong into danger. He was carrying out an important task.
‘Grey!’
A man was running after him. It was Cosmonaut, the former Fedorovian Grey-Kenneth had sent to visit Janet at the election party. ‘Hey, man. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’
Kenneth/Grey kept his pace up. ‘I’ve been busy.’ Cosmonaut walked alongside him. They weren’t too far from the house, though, and K/G didn’t want to go too near with company.
‘I talked to that woman. Pen’s wife, yeah? She threw me out.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘Why’d you ask me to go? What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’
‘She seemed to think there was still some organisation left around. She was asking questions.’
‘There isn’t.’
‘She thinks he was killed by the Fedorovians. Was Kim Denby involved in something? Come on, you know stuff, don’t you?’
G/K stopped. ‘If I knew anything, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.’
‘So you know something.’
‘No.’
‘Come on. You gave me a shitty twenty-dollar note to go and be kicked out of that party. You can give me more. Has Kim done something to Pen?’ Then: ‘These guys were my friends.’
Grey, Kenneth looked at him afresh. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know anything and I don’t think Mrs Evans does either.’
‘I could never face him again. I mean, I always think he’s holding something back from me. I’m sure he’s on your payroll, too. Fuck, everyone is, aren’t they?’
A pause. ‘Who?’
‘Kim. For God’s sake.’
‘Kim? You’re in touch with Kim Denby?’
‘Yeah, of course. He’s a mate.’
‘The Fedorovian Society?’
‘You asking me? No, not that I know of. Not him.’
‘So you know how to get in touch with him?’
‘Of course. You don’t know where he operates? I thought you guys—’
‘Where he operates?’
‘Oh. Yeah.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s got a, um, an operation.’
‘Oh.’
‘I guess it’s more of a police matter.’
‘A what?’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’ll give you his address if you want.’
Silence. ‘Shit. Not right now.’
‘Okay.’
‘I know how to get in touch with you.’
The two of them stood facing each other.
Cosmonaut said, ‘I don’t have anything to do with it. What he does.’
‘Okay. Goodbye, Cosmonaut.’
‘Bye.’
Grey (Kenneth) walked more slowly now. A police matter? The phrase gave the man an unfortunate echo of Shanks—or it might be, of course, that the man belonged to Shanks. Now though, again, the net came down. Was ‘Cosmonaut’ a reminder of it? Was he Shanks’s agent, sent to snare him once again? And so the anger again, a desperate swinging anger that made him break into a run, directionless, even as he followed the same direction. He was crossing the border with more determination than before. It was a great, nervous transition. What safety would there be for him in that house? What reception? He split in two—Kenneth on one side, Grey on the other—excited and nervous respectively. The split made him pause. He couldn’t go there! Cosmonaut (did he have a real name?) had talked about being thrown out. Was it the very mention of his name (Grey)? Would it only be with the granting of a new name that he might be admitted? This was not his usual mode of thinking. He felt as if a whole life were being stripped from him. He could find nothing in him for his wife, his children. With that thought, though, a pounding weight of guilt. He kept running as if the guilt itself might be outrun. Was the guilt also Shanks’s tool? Nothing, it seemed, belonged to him.
In front of the house itself, he stopped. Defections needed to be carefully arranged in advance so that the defector could be quickly brought under the protection of the foreign state. Did he think that? Steps forward, and one or two back. But the curtains were all open, the inside not yet lit in the twilight, so it was impossible to tell against the sky’s reflection on them whether he was being observed. This uncertainty committed him more than any sure knowledge of being watched would have. Did he think of that last glimpse of Yvonne at his house, before he backed away? And, indeed, Shanks, whose face had infected the sky itself, a looming concave presence. Was he thinking straight? He had no passport. He spun internally, but his legs carried him up. He raised his hand to knock, but before it could make contact the door opened and he was faced with a hippy. Was he prepared for this? The man was as surprised as he was, but quickly settled his face into an accommodating passivity, stopping his body mid-step and becoming wide and gesturing. It was Marcus Milne, GreyKenneth realised.
‘Oh,’ said Marcus. ‘Come in.’
‘Come in?’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Why do you ask?’
Marcus looked at him, and the look had a kind of answer in it. ‘Come and sit down, and we can talk about what’s going on.’
Kenneth let himself be taken inside. He was taken to a lounge and offered a chair. There was another man in there already, who stood up, surprised. Marcus looked at the man, and he left the room.
‘Can I get you something?’
‘Actually… ’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m very hungry.’
‘Okay.’
Marcus left him alone for a few minutes. Did Marcus recognise something of the psychiatric patient in Kenneth? In any case, he returned, all care, with a sandwich. The defector picked it up and began to eat—and also to cry. After a few bites, the crying took over from the eating. Marcus took the sandwich from his hands and put in on a coffee table, without plate (had it come on one?). For Marcus, this effect was no doubt confirmation of something—of the possibility that a place, an environment, can have an almost magical effect on someone’s mental wellbeing. Something made him stand and draw the curtains—was it Kenneth’s repeated glances at the window? There was music playing somewhere, perhaps elsewhere in the house or perhaps in another, close by. Kenneth smiled at it, amidst his tears.
‘You were going out.’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Why are you… ?’
‘Don’t worry about me. Not for now. Is there somewhere else you should be?’
‘Yes. No.�
��
‘That’s a good answer.’ Marcus was, of course, a psychiatrist. ‘I’m sure you can’t see, at the moment, that it’s a good answer.’
‘No.’
‘But everyone has those kinds of answers in them. Yes and no to the same question.’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Grey.’
‘Do you have a first name?’
‘Yes. Kenneth.’
‘Do you like to be called Ken?’
‘No.’
‘Kenneth, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how did you come to be on our doorstep?’
‘I have something for you.’
Now Marcus stopped. Did the environment change for him, too? This was, we can assume, not the answer he expected. Still, he resumed his act with barely a stutter. ‘For me?’
‘For all of you. For Janet. And yes, for you.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry, I thought—’
‘No, you haven’t met me.’
‘You seemed… ’
Kenneth looked up at him. His tears were drying now. He said, ‘I seemed out of control.’
Marcus said, ‘I get out of control sometimes.’
‘Is Janet here?’
‘I think she’s putting her son to bed.’
‘I am. I was. Yes, I was out of control—I have been. I’ve come for your help.’
Marcus nodded. Part of his work was this: to hold off, for long stretches at a time, on the understanding of a situation. The situation, though, now included Janet, and himself—his own home and community. A boundary had been crossed. Kenneth Grey seemed to know him. He said, ‘So there seem to be two realities here. You have something for me, for us—and you have come for help.’
A silence. Kenneth composed himself, visibly shifting his body, straightening it, aligning his limbs. In Marcus’s experience, such a realignment of the body was usually a good sign—though it could also be a sign of defences being put into place. Kenneth said, ‘I know about Pen.’
Did Marcus’s own body now show some signs of its own? A collapse? ‘You mean, you know he disappeared? Did you know him?’
‘That’s not what I meant. I know more.’
Now the realities that Marcus seemed to have discerned shifted. There was a game of realities here, a game in which roles themselves were being played with. Could Marcus continue to play the psychiatrist? His hand went, almost involuntarily, to his arm, his veins, though he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt—and Kenneth Grey’s eyes followed the movement.
‘I want to talk with Janet. Can I wait until she’s finished?’
‘Oh. Yes. You’re a friend of hers?’
A silence. Had he retreated into himself now, afraid that he’d given too much away? Then: ‘I don’t know. That is, I’m not sure. I know her, yes.’ Kenneth stood, with a sudden movement; was caught in the act, sat again. He offered a smile. ‘I shouldn’t say too much. I mean, I want to say it to her.’ He reached for the sandwich again and took a large bite.
‘Would you like me to get her?’
‘Your friend has gone to get her.’
‘What? My… ?’
‘The man who was in this room. I think he’s probably gone to get her.’
‘Oh.’
‘He’s seen us together.’
‘Leonard?’
‘Yes, that’s his name.’
‘How do you… ?’
‘I’m good at noticing things.’ Almost apologetic.
And sure enough, the door swung open then, and Janet and Leonard came in. Janet stopped when she saw Kenneth, as though his presence was both unexpected and expected at the same time: a foretold shock. She shook her head. ‘Hi.’ Then: ‘Marcus, this is Kenneth.’
‘We’ve introduced ourselves.’
Kenneth said, ‘Actually, you didn’t say your name.’
Marcus frowned. Was it true? An oversight on his part.
Kenneth said, ‘Marcus Milne.’ Then, again, that apologetic look. Did Marcus see something highly unstable in him? Though, of course, that meant not so much a BROKEN PERSON as a person caught in incompatible lives, someone STRETCHED ACROSS A BORDER. ‘Could I talk to Janet alone?’
Janet said, ‘No.’ Then: ‘Sorry.’
What was with all the apologising? The room had entered a kind of stasis—it needed movement. Leonard initiated it by stepping forward to introduce himself to Kenneth. It was a strange gesture, both formal and ordinary. Then he sat himself heavily on one of the room’s sofas. Janet shrugged and sat too. Kenneth said, ‘Could everyone not sit opposite me? I’m just wondering, maybe we could have more of a… circle?’
Janet laughed. ‘A circle? You want to have a circle?’ There was something tender in her laugh, though it wasn’t clear whether Kenneth had noticed it. She said, ‘What are you doing here?’ Leonard looked at her, confused.
Marcus said, ‘He knows something about Pen.’
Janet blinked, stiffened. ‘What?’
‘Pen. I know something. I’ve got something for you.’
‘What?’
‘He’s dead.’
Janet said, too quickly, ‘You arsehole.’
‘I wasn’t involved… ’
‘Yes you were. Fuck. Fuck!’ She sat back and covered her face.
Marcus and Leonard were looking at her. Where was Kenneth looking? There was nothing to say.
‘What do you mean, Grey? What do you mean he’s dead? What do you mean?’
‘I wish I could say it a different way. But there’s no point in… ’
‘Is that what you’ve got for me?’
‘It’s information.’
‘Some gift! Can’t you see—’
Marcus said, ‘I don’t want to know.’
‘You need information. I know it’s horrible, it’s horrible, I think so too.’ He sat forward, nearly stood, as if to reach across to her.
‘Oh, I’m so glad you think so.’
Marcus said, ‘Can I… ’
Janet said, ‘Why did you come here? You’re ruining everything.’
Kenneth said, ‘I’m sorry. But I had to tell you.’
‘How long have you known?’
A silence. Finally Kenneth said, ‘I believe you came to me, in the first instance, asking for my assistance.’
‘Assistance!’
‘I can’t go back.’
Marcus, Janet and Leonard exchanged looks. Janet said, ‘Back where?’
‘Back. Back home. Or to work. I want to cross over. Can I stay with you?’
Marcus said, ‘What do you mean, cross over?’
Janet said, ‘He’s with the SIS.’
‘I’m used to keeping secrets, but I don’t want to now.’
Marcus said, ‘Janet? Does he know where Pen is?’
‘—I’ve told you where Pen is. Well, no, I told you… ’
Janet said, ‘Stop. Everyone? Stop?’ She asked again, ‘Is Pen dead?’
‘I saw his body. It’s not the kind of secret I can keep. It took me a while to realise it. Not after… ’
Janet nodded. Her face was altering from moment to moment, unable to settle into one expression. She looked down, then looked at Grey. There was a difficult equation—perhaps even an impossible one. ‘You knew already?’
He nodded almost imperceptibly.
Marcus was silent.
Leonard stood up, left the room, and returned quickly with a bottle of whiskey and four teacups. ‘Should everyone else be in here too?’ Marcus shrugged. They each took a cup.
Kenneth said, ‘Can I stay here?’
Marcus said, ‘Yes, of course.’
Janet said, ‘No.’ Then: ‘For a short time. On the sofa.’
‘I just didn’t, I couldn’t… I don’t know what to say. I saw his body and I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t know what to do. Do you understand that? I didn’t know how I should be reacting to it and I was quite confused. I’ve actually never seen a dead body. Never
before. Not like that. It wasn’t… no, but I’ve never seen a body at all. Can you believe that? Never. But not only that, I mean. Penwyn. His body. It didn’t even look like a body, but I guess that’s not surprising, given that… ’
Janet said, ‘Given what?’
‘I thought I would have handled seeing a body with professional, um, with the kind of—because it’s not entirely unexpected, in my line of work. Though it’s not like that, mostly it’s not.’
‘Given that?’
‘He’d been dead quite a long time. Apparently.’
‘Oh.’
Kenneth shook his head. ‘I think I thought I could carry on, even though I had that image in my head, but I admit everything changed. It changed everything. I don’t know how. I’m… oh, I don’t want to talk anymore.’
What could be said? Abruptly, Janet stood. ‘I’ve got to get out.’
Kenneth said, ‘There’s more.’
She said, ‘Later. That’s enough for now.’
Did the silence continue after she left, or did the others all talk? The whiskey still burned in the back of her throat. She wanted and didn’t want him to stay. How long would he stay? The evening was still not dark, but the street was deserted in front of the house. She stopped, unsure where to go. Instead she leaned on the fence, then let herself sink to the footpath. This was a minimal remove from the room where Kenneth sat with Marcus and Leonard—the house’s men, three men, together. His presence, his ‘information’, changed the meaning of the sex they had. Did it? What meaning could it have, with or without the new revelation? He was unable to return to his home. Kenneth had been buffeted not only by the shock of Pen’s death, but by Janet and by what had happened between them. Janet was also buffeted by it, by it all, and now still new INFORMATION was being unearthed, possibly, there in the house. (‘There’s more.’) Why hadn’t he told her then, when they drove and—? We might think he had not yet fully understood Pen’s death, even that he had not then—in the situation he found himself in with Janet—known it, or not in a way that he could utter. It had yet to find words. Or we might think he was operating, still, in his capacity as a spy, loyal to the job of managing information. Janet remembered his face in the car—open, then troubled, and still open.
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