It is worse than she imagined. Gloomier, smellier. It might be different for women, she thinks. The smell would be different and there would be different discomforts, different sadnesses. She has imagined the feel of the prison clothes on her back, the bucket in the corner of the cell, eating porridge out of a tin bowl with a spoon. Eating everything with a spoon. And how much worse it must be for Max. To be here and to have done nothing. The thought of it torments her, knowing he will be despairing at the injustice of it all, and that they will not be giving him enough to eat, that he will not be sleeping properly.
She closes her eyes. She waits.
The door opens behind her, footsteps, and then a breathless pause. Slowly she stands up, turns around, and there he is. His hair is cut short and he is in a pale grey flannel jacket and trousers. There is a prisoner number on his chest and, when he sees her, his face breaks into a smile. She wants to sink to her knees, to put her head in her hands at the knowledge that she has done this to him, but she knows that this would not help either of them and so she does not. She forces herself to smile while the silence rises almost palpably between them.
He steps towards her, cautious and questioning, and reaches out to take her in his arms. ‘You came,’ he says. ‘I didn’t think you would.’
‘No touching,’ the guard says.
Joan makes a movement with her head which is somewhere between a shake and a nod, and steps obediently away from him. ‘Of course I came.’
Max’s arms drop to his sides. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
Joan swallows. ‘You too.’
‘How’s everyone else?’
‘Karen sends her love. She forwarded your letter to me.’
‘Where?’
‘I’ve been staying at my mother’s while this is going on. I’m sure the others will . . . Well, they’ll come round. It’s just been a bit of a shock.’
Max nods but does not say anything. He looks uncomfortable, vaguely embarrassed. He sits down at the table and Joan goes to sit opposite him. Does he know? she wonders. It seems impossible that he does. Surely she would be able to tell if he did. There would be something different about him, something sharp.
He looks up at her and attempts a grin. ‘Terrible service round here, isn’t it?’
Joan smiles. She waits. No, she thinks. He doesn’t know. ‘I brought you some cigarettes,’ Joan says, taking them from her bag and placing them on the table.
‘Thanks.’ A pause. And then Max speaks again. ‘So, I said I had some news. I got a letter from my wife.’
‘Oh?’
‘She’s finally agreed to the divorce. She’s signed all the papers. It’s official.’ His face breaks into a grin and he reaches out his hand to her across the table. ‘If I’d known that was all I needed to do, I’d have got myself arrested years ago. I’d ask you to marry me right now only this isn’t how I want to do it. I want to wait until all this is done with and I’ve been cleared and then . . . ’ He stops. ‘What is it? Why are you crying?’
Joan is clutching her bag to her chest and there is a slipping, shifting feeling inside her, as if something inside her is breaking in two. There is so much she wants to say. She cannot bear the thought of leaving him and explaining it all in a letter after she has gone. A huge wave of sound is building up and she has to push it down, down, so that when finally she trusts herself to speak, it comes out as a splutter. ‘I can’t, Max. I can’t marry you.’
‘Why not? Of course you can. I’ll get out of here. I haven’t done anything. They say they’ve got evidence but they haven’t. Or if they have, I haven’t seen any.’
‘I know you haven’t done anything.’
‘Then what is it? Why are you crying?’
The words stick in her throat. She hears him ask the guard for just a minute alone. There is a pause, and then there is the sound of the door opening and closing as the guard relents and steps outside. It is just the two of them now in the room and she feels his arms slipping around her, lifting her up, stroking her hair, holding her, calming her, until her sobs have softened. She has to tell him now. There may never be another chance. She doesn’t feel brave enough for this. She holds him tightly against her, her lips brushing his ear, and she whispers the words oh so gently into his neck. ‘It was me.’
Max’s arms grow slack around her body. She does not draw away because she does not want to see his face but he puts her down and steps back, holding her shoulders with both of his hands. ‘You?’
Joan nods. She looks at the floor. Her whole body is shaking.
‘You?’ He walks across the room to the window and then to the door. He comes back into the centre of the room and then walks to the window again. Perhaps he will fling the table across the room. Perhaps he will call for the guard, hammering on the door to get her taken away, to set him free, swearing and shouting and telling her to leave.
‘I’m going to confess,’ she whispers, cringing at how pathetic the words sound.
Still Max says nothing. He is perfectly still now, staring at the bars on the window.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers.
He turns around. ‘How could you?’ he asks eventually, his voice quiet and angry. ‘Why?’
Joan feels her body flush. ‘I thought it was the right thing. After Hiroshima . . . ’
Max groans.
‘ . . . after Hiroshima, it looked like the Russians would be next. I thought it would make everything safer.’
Max puts his hand against his forehead. ‘All those commie marches when you were a student. They asked me if you were a security risk because of those and I said no, of course you weren’t. I vouched for you. Told them it was just a phase. And Leo Galich.’ He shakes his head. ‘You did see him in Canada, didn’t you?’
Joan looks away. She considers lying about this but decides there is no point. Slowly, she nods her head.
He turns away.
‘I only saw him briefly, I swear. And I didn’t want to, but he found me. But I said no then.’
A pause. ‘Until Hiroshima.’
‘Yes.’ Joan steps towards him. ‘Max, I’m sorry. Nobody was supposed to get caught.’
He snorts.
‘Especially not you,’ she whispers.
Silence.
‘I’m going to tell them everything.’
Max doesn’t turn around.
What am I expecting? Joan wonders. That he should be grateful to me? That he should thank me? She shakes her head at her own stupidity. ‘But will you give me a few more days? I just need . . . ’ she hesitates, ‘ . . . a bit more time to get away.’
He does not move. It’s too late, Joan thinks. This is the end. He’s going to make her confess now, or if he doesn’t, he is going to inform the authorities as soon as she leaves and she’ll be arrested before she even reaches Brixton Hill. She shouldn’t have come here. She should have known that it would be too much for him to take in, that it would be impossible for him, for anyone in his position, to be reasonable about it. And why should he do as she asks? Why should he give her a few more days? Why should he not clear his name absolutely, right now?
She goes back to the table and picks up her gloves and bag. Her eyes are blurred with tears. She wants to put her arms around him, tell him that she loves him, that she never meant to hurt him, but she does not want to make it worse for him than it already is.
‘Wait,’ he says suddenly, spinning around. ‘What do you mean, get away?’
‘Australia,’ she says. ‘I’m going to Australia. There’s a boat in five days’ time. I promise you’ll be fine. They’ll drop all the charges once I confess.’
‘Australia?’
There are footsteps in the corridor outside the door. She sees Max’s eyes flick to the doorway, and she knows that this is her only chance. She has to get him to believe her. She reaches out her h
and and touches him, and she feels the burn of his skin against hers. ‘I promise you can trust me. I will get you out of here.’
Max shakes his head. ‘No.’ He grabs her hand. ‘No.’
She can hardly breathe. ‘Just a few days. That’s all I need.’
He shakes his head.
‘I know it’s a shock for you and I’m so sorry.’ Her voice is shaking. ‘I can’t tell you—’
‘No, that’s not what I meant.’
‘Then what?’
‘I mean, don’t go.’
‘But I have to. I have to confess. I have to get you out.’ She looks up at the barred window. ‘And if I stay here . . . ’
‘But don’t you see? What’s the point of that? I don’t want you to go to Australia. I love you.’
She looks at him and her heart cracks inside her. ‘I love you too,’ she whispers.
‘Exactly. So I want you to stay here, with me. There’s no evidence against me anyway.’ He looks at her. ‘Why not just let me go to trial?’
Joan stares at him. She shakes her head. ‘How could I do that? Even if you’re acquitted, everyone will remember this. Your name won’t ever be cleared. You won’t be able to go back to your old job. Your old life.’ She pauses. ‘And you won’t be able to forgive me.’
He is silent for a moment. ‘You don’t understand,’ he says. ‘I don’t want my old life. It’s all I’ve been thinking about while I’ve been in here. I want a new one, with you.’
Joan cannot speak. What does he mean? Surely he will want her to confess in one way or another. Nobody could be that generous. Not even Max. ‘But how can you? After what I’ve done.’
He gives a wry half smile. ‘I’m a mathematician, Joanie. As far as I can see this problem has no rigorous solution, based on my initial assessment of it. So the best I can do is find the closest approximation.’
Joan almost grins, in spite of herself. ‘Don’t tease me. Not now.’
There is a knock on the door. ‘Two more minutes.’ A gruff voice, deep and croaky.
Max pulls her closer to him. ‘I’m not teasing you. You love me, don’t you? I know you do. That’s why you’re here.’
‘Of course I do. I had to see you. I had to tell you.’
‘Well, there you are then.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, wait for me. Let me go to trial. Let me clear my name and then let’s get married and never mention this ever again.’
She shakes her head. ‘But now you know the truth, you’ll have to lie for me. I’ll be making you lie to protect me.’ She pauses. ‘They’ll see it as the same level of betrayal.’
Max looks at her. ‘Only if they find some evidence,’ he whispers.
Her heart seems to stop, and when it starts again it pounds inside her. She cannot allow him to do this. She does not deserve it. It is too risky. There are too many things that could go wrong. A thought suddenly comes to her and she squeezes his body against her own, hurriedly trying to think how it might work. She can hear footsteps along the corridor outside. One more minute, she thinks. Just one more minute.
‘There might be another way,’ she whispers.
‘What?’
‘You’d have to be the running type though.’
‘I can’t run. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m incarcerated in a high-security prison.’
‘No, I mean, I think I can get you out.’
‘How?’
‘I have a friend in the Foreign Office. He’s . . . ’ she hesitates. ‘He’s in the network too.’
Max rolls his eyes. ‘There are more of you?’
Joan hesitates but she knows there is not enough time to explain. ‘I’m sure he could sort something out for you. But not in England. That’s the deal. If we leave now . . . ’
‘Not Russia,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t live in Russia for the rest of my life.’
Joan shakes her head. ‘How about Australia?’
The footsteps have reached the door now; heavy, hobnailed boots on the rough concrete floor indicating that the visit is over. Max steps forward and pulls her towards him so that her shoulder fits in under his arm and her face rests against his neck. She can feel his breath against her skin, short, indecisive bursts of air, his lips almost tickling her with their nearness. He holds her there, as close as he can, not speaking as the door opens and the guard appears in the doorway.
‘Time,’ he barks, standing aside so that Joan can pass.
Joan feels a terrible dryness in her throat. She knows she is asking too much. She cannot expect him to give up his home, his life, his country, just like that. And would it work, in any case? Would it not just put them both at risk?
She feels her body tremble as Max bends down to kiss her chastely on the lips. It is a farewell kiss, so painful, so definite. She feels tears rising and she has to close her eyes as his finger traces the line of her collarbone for the last time, and then slips around to lift the hair from her left ear so that when he leans forward to kiss her once more on the cheek, it is not a kiss which he delivers, but a murmured ‘yes.’
FRIDAY, 9.03 A.M.
The piece of paper in Joan’s hand is folded into perfect quarters. She has memorised the address, but she looks at it anyway. She is wearing her fur, no longer wanted by the second cousin and officially hers to keep. It is flung around her shoulders, and when she walks, it falls open at the knee and swings confidently behind her. She arrives at William’s office and the receptionist in the lobby directs her towards a settee whose cushions are covered in golden velour. She perches on the edge of it, her knees pressed together. She is holding herself in, tightly, tightly. There is a painting on the wall opposite her, a ship docked at dawn with the phosphorescent light of the city rising behind it. Where is that? she wonders, trying to distract herself from what she is about to do.
‘Ah,’ William says, striding into the grand foyer with a smile fixed on his face but his eyes questioning, alert. She can smell the sweet staleness of whisky on his breath as he kisses her. ‘You got my note then?’
Joan stands up. ‘Yes, and I was just passing,’ she says, echoing William’s words to her the last time they spoke. ‘I thought you might be free for lunch.’
William turns to the receptionist who is inspecting Joan’s legs, as if assessing the likelihood of this being a romantic lunch. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to cover for me again, Cheryl. Tell anyone who asks that I’m out on business. And if it’s Alice, mention that I’ll be late.’
‘Of course, sir.’
William waits until they have turned the corner and crossed the street into St. James’ Park and then he turns to her and takes both of her hands in his. ‘I thought I might be seeing you. Why didn’t you come to me earlier?’
‘I didn’t know anything was happening. You said you’d warn me.’
William’s eyes are narrowed in confusion. ‘Didn’t you hear from Sonya?’
Joan shakes her head slowly. ‘No.’
‘That’s strange. She said not to contact you as she wanted to do it herself. But then when I didn’t hear from you . . . ’ He stops, seeing Joan’s face crumple slightly. ‘Are you in trouble?’
Joan is shivering now, her whole body seeming to ache with the cold in spite of the warmth of her coat. ‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘Please. Will you help me? I have to get out.’
He lifts his hands and presses them on her shoulders, intending to steady her but the sensation is discomforting. ‘Are you sure? You know it will arouse suspicion if you just disappear.’
She nods. ‘They’ve arrested Max. They know there’s been a leak from our laboratory.’
William sighs. ‘They think there has, you mean.’ He looks down at her and she observes that his eyes are pouchy and tired. ‘It’s falling apart, Jo-jo. Rupert has been posted to the Washington Embassy. Which is
an enormous coup for us, of course, but he’s becoming a liability. He’s falling out of clubs every night, completely gone. Apparently he told some woman he’s a Russian spy and it’s been passed off as a joke, but he’s a time bomb out there. I think the pressure’s got to him.’ He glances at Joan. ‘Sorry. That’s not why you’re here, is it?’
‘This is urgent, William. I need to get out now.’ She pauses. ‘You promised.’
William frowns. ‘All right, all right. I can apply for full defector treatment for you. I know they hold you in extremely high regard. You’ll get a good flat, a pension . . . ’
‘Not Russia,’ she interrupts. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘Ah yes,’ William says. ‘We never quite managed to convince you on that score, did we?’ He takes a cigarette case from his jacket pocket and flicks it open. ‘Mind you, I’m not sure it would do for me either. I have terrible circulation.’ He lifts up his hands and rubs them together before breaking into a hum. ‘How cold my toes.’
Joan does not smile. ‘You mentioned Australia before. That’s where I want to go.’
‘Really? It’s a long way.’
‘Exactly.’
William frowns. ‘That will take a while to sort out. A week. Maybe two.’
Joan shakes her head. She grasps his sleeve, a desperate, childish gesture. ‘I can’t wait that long.’ She pauses. ‘And there’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘I need two tickets.’
‘Two? Who’s the other one for?’
Joan hesitates. ‘It’s for Max. I need you to get him out of prison and onto that boat.’
William stares at her. ‘The professor? Why?’
‘He knows everything. I’ve told him everything.’
His mouth opens and then closes again. His hands move outwards and then hesitate, falling back to his sides. ‘But why?’ he asks again.
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