‘Believe me, I don’t think that for a second.’
‘Let me finish. It’s important for me to say this to you, face to face. I don’t get the chance on email. I don’t get the chance on the phone.’
‘OK.’
‘What you did was wrong. You didn’t kill Kate or Will, but your work and your lying led to their deaths. And I don’t see you doing anything out here to put that right. I don’t see you making amends.’
Ordinarily I might challenge Saul on this. Make amends? Who is he to speak to me this way? I make amends with my solitude. I pay penance with exile. But he has always believed in the myth of self-improvement; any reasoning I might employ would only burn out in the fire of his moral authority. We find ourselves eating in silence, as if there is nothing left to be said. I could try to defend myself but it would only feel like a tactic, a lie, and Saul would jump on it as quickly as he leaped on my earlier defence. At the next table the grandparents are standing up with considerable effort, having paid their bill and left just a few small coins as a tip. At the base of their receipt it says ‘No A La Guerra’ and the waiter has written ‘Gracias’ in felt-tip pen. The husband helps his wife into a garish fur coat and casts both of us an inscrutable smile. Perhaps he understood English after all. For once, I do not care.
‘Jesus!’
Saul has bitten into a hot padron and downs an entire glass of wine to kill the heat.
‘You OK?’
‘Fine,’ he says, pursing his cheeks. ‘We need more booze.’
And this small incident seems to break the spell of his disquiet. A second bottle comes and we spend the rest of the meal talking about Chelsea and Saddam Hussein, about Saul’s grandfather – who has lung cancer – and even Heloise, whom he is inclined to forgive in spite of her blatant adultery. I note the double-standard in his attitude to the two of us and wonder if there is something saintly in Saul which actually encourages people to betray him. There has certainly always been an element of masochism in his personality.
With coffee, the waiter brings us two small shots of lemon liqueur – on the house – and we down them in a gulp. Saul is keen to pay (‘as a present, for putting me up’) and I feel mildly drunk as we make our way out past the kitchen and into the bustle of Chueca. It is past midnight and the nightlife is well under way.
‘You know a decent bar?’ he asks.
I know plenty.
7. Churches
Spaniards dedicate so much of their lives to enjoying themselves that a word actually exists to describe the span of time between midnight and 6 a.m., when ordinary European mortals are safely tucked up in bed. La madrugada. The hours before dawn.
‘It’s a good word,’ Saul says, though he thinks he’ll be too drunk to remember it.
We leave Chueca and walk west into Malasana, one of the older barrios in Madrid, still a haunt of drug dealers and penniless students though, by reputation, neither as violent nor as rundown as it was twenty years ago. The narrow streets are teeming and dense with crowds that gradually thin out as we head south in the direction of Gran Via.
‘Haven’t we just been here?’ Saul asks.
‘Same neighbourhood. Further south,’ I explain. ‘We’re going in a circle, looping back towards the flat.’
A steep hill leads down to Pez Gordo, a bar I love in the neighbourhood, favoured by a relaxed, unostentatious crowd. There’s standing room only and the windows are fogged up with posters and condensation, but inside the atmosphere is typically rousing and flamenco music rolls and strums on the air. I get two canas within a minute of reaching the bar and walk back to Saul, who has found us a spot a few feet from the door.
‘Do you want to hear my other theory?’ he says, jostled by a customer with dreadlocked hair.
‘What’s that?’
‘I know the real reason you like living out here.’
‘You do?’
‘You thought that moving overseas would give you a chance to wipe the slate clean, but all you’ve done is transfer your problems to a different time zone. They’ve followed you.’
Here we go again.
‘Can’t we talk about something else? It’s getting a little tedious, all this constant self-analysis.’
‘Just hear me out. I think that some days you wake up and you want to believe that you’ve changed, that you’re not the person you were six years ago. And other times you miss the excitement of spying so much that it’s all you can do not to ring SIS direct and all but beg them to take you back. That’s your conflict. Is Alec Milius a good guy or a bad guy? All this paranoia you talk about is just window-dressing. You love the fact that you can’t go home. You love the fact that you’re living in exile. It makes you feel significant.’
It amazes me that he should know me so well, but I disguise my surprise with impatience.
‘Let’s just change the subject.’
‘No. Not yet. It makes perfect sense.’ He’s toying with me again. A girl with a French accent asks Saul for a light, and I see that his nails are bitten to the quick as she takes it. He’s grinning. ‘People have always been intrigued by you, right? And you’re playing on that in this new environment. You’re a mysterious person, no roots, no past. You’re a topic of conversation.’
‘And you’re pissed.’
‘It’s the classic expat trap. Can’t cope with life back home, make a splash overseas. El ingles misterioso. Alec Milius and his amazing mountain of money.’
Why is Saul thinking about the money?
‘What did you say?’
A momentary hesitation, then, ‘Forget it.’
‘No. I won’t forget it. Just keep your voice down and explain what you meant.’
Saul grins lopsidedly and takes off his coat. ‘All I’m saying is that you came here to get away from your troubles and now they’ve passed you by. It’s time for you to move on. Time for you to do something.’
For a wild moment, undoubtedly reinforced by alcohol, it crosses my mind that Saul has been sent here to recruit me, to lure me back into Five. Like Elliott sent to Philby in Lebanon, the best friend dispatched at the state’s request. His angle certainly sounds like a pitch, although the notion is ridiculous. More likely Saul is simply adhering to that part of his nature that has always annoyed me and which I had somehow allowed myself to forget; namely, the moralizing do-gooder, the self-righteous evangelist busily saving others whilst incapable of saving himself.
‘So what do you suggest I do?’
‘Just come home. Just put an end to this phase of your life.’
The idea is certainly appealing. Saul is right that there are times when I look back on what happened in London with nostalgia, when I regret that it all came to an end. But for Kate’s death and the exhaustions of secrecy, I would probably do it all again. For the thrill of it, for the sense of being pivotal. But I can’t state that directly without appearing insensitive.
‘No. I like it here. The lifestyle. The climate.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
‘Well then, at least don’t change your mobile phone every three weeks. And just get one email address. Please. It pisses me off and annoys your mum. She says she still doesn’t know why you’re out here, why you don’t just come home.’
‘You’ve talked to Mum?’
‘Now and again.’
‘What about Lithiby?’
‘Who’s Lithiby?’
If Saul is working for them, they have certainly taught him how to lie. He runs his finger along the wall and inspects it for dust.
‘My case officer at Five,’ I explain. ‘The guy behind everything.’
‘Oh, him. No, of course not.’
‘He’s never been to see you?’
‘Never.’
Someone turns the music up beyond a level at which we can comfortably speak, and I have to shout at Saul to be heard.
‘So where did you put the disks?’
He smiles. ‘In a safe place.’
/> ‘Where?’
Another grin. ‘Somewhere safe. Look, nobody’s ever been to see me. Nobody’s ever been to see your mum. It’s not as if… Alec?’
Julian Church has walked into the bar. Six inches taller than anyone else in the room and dressed like a Royal Fusilier on weekend leave. There are certain things that cannot be controlled, and this is one of them. He spots me immediately and does a little electric shock of surprise.
‘Alec!’
‘Hello, Julian.’
‘Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Night on the tiles?’
‘Apparently. And you?’
‘The very same. My beloved wife fancied a drink, and who was I to argue?’
Julian, as ever, is delighted to see me, but I can feel Saul physically withdrawing, the cool of Shoreditch and Notting Hill reacting with violent distaste to Julian’s tasselled loafers and bottle-green cords. I should introduce them.
‘Saul, this is Julian Church, my boss at Endiom. Julian, this is Saul Ricken, a friend of mine from England.’
‘Ah, the old country,’ Julian says.
‘The old country,’ Saul repeats.
Think. How to deal with this? How do I get us away? A chill wind comes barrelling in through the open door, drawing irritated looks from nearby tables. Julian hops to it like a bellboy, muttering ‘ Perdon, perdon,’ as he shuts out the cold. ‘That’s a bit better. Bloody chilly in here. Bloody noisy, too. Senora Church won’t be far behind me. She’s parking the car.’
‘Your wife?’ Saul asks.
‘My wife.’ Julian’s pale skin is flushed and pink, his widow’s peak down to a few fine strands. ‘Madness to drive into town on a Friday night, but she insisted, like most of her countrymen, and who was I to argue? You staying the weekend?’
‘A bit longer,’ Saul replies.
‘I see, I see.’
This is clearly going to happen and there’s nothing I can do about it. The four of us locked into two or three rounds of drinks, then awkward questions later. I try to keep my eyes away from the door as Julian takes off his coat and hangs it on top of Saul’s. Do I have an exit strategy? We could lie about meeting friends at a club, but I don’t want to arouse Julian’s suspicion or risk a contradiction from Saul. Best just to ride it out.
‘Did you get my email?’ Julian asks, and I am on the point of responding when Sofia walks in behind him. She does well to disguise her reaction; just a flat smile, a clever look of feigned recognition, then fixing her gaze on Julian.
‘Darling, you remember Alec Milius, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’ It doesn’t look like she does. ‘You work with my husband, yes?’
‘And this is his friend, Saul… Ricken, was it? They were here quite by chance. A coincidence.’
‘Ah, una casualidad.’ Sofia looks beautiful tonight, her perfume a lovely sense memory of our long night together at the hotel. She uncurls a black scarf, takes off her coat, kisses me lightly on the cheek and gently squeezes Julian at the elbow.
‘We’ve met before,’ I tell her.
‘Si. At the office, yes?’
‘I think so.’
Once, when Julian was away on business, Sofia came down to the Endiom building in Retiro and we fucked on his desk.
‘I thought you two met at the Christmas party.’
‘I forget,’ Sofia replies.
She places her scarf on the surface of the cigarette machine and affords me the briefest of glances. Saul appears to be humming along to the music. He may even be bored.
‘So what’s everybody drinking?’
Julian has taken a confident stride forward to coincide with his question, breaking up the huddle around us by dint of his sheer size. Saul and I want canas, Sofia a Diet Coke.
‘I’m driving,’ she explains, directing her attention at Saul. ‘ Hablas espanol?’
‘Si, un poco,’ he says, suddenly looking pleased with himself. That was clever of her. She wants to know how much she can get away with saying.
‘Y te gusta Madrid?’
‘Si. Mucho. Mucho.’ He gives up. ‘I just arrived tonight.’
And what follows is a pitch-perfect, five-minute exchange about nothing at all: Sofia conducting a conversation about the Prado, about tourists at the Thyssen museum, the week she spent recently in Gloucestershire with Julian’s ageing parents. Just enough chat to cover the span of time before her husband returns from the bar. When he does, all of his attention is focused on me.
‘Actually, Alec, it’s a good job we’ve bumped into each other.’ He clutches me round the shoulder. ‘Saul, can I leave you with my wife for five minutes? Need to talk shop.’
Dispensing the drinks, he steers me into a cramped space beside the cigarette machine and assumes a graver tone. The need for secrecy is unclear, although I should still be able to eavesdrop on Saul’s conversation. I don’t want him leaking information to Sofia about my past. Things are nicely compartmentalized there. They are under control.
‘Look, as I said, I need you to go to San Sebastian early next week. Is that going to be a problem?’
‘Shouldn’t be.’
‘We can pay your expenses, normal form. It’s no different to your usual work. Just diligence. Just need you to look into something.’
‘Your email said it was about cars.’
‘Yes. Client wants to build a factory making parts near the border with Navarra. Don’t ask. Blindingly dull small town. But the workforce will be mostly Basque, so there might be union trouble. I need you to put together a document, interviews with local councillors, real-estate bigwigs, lawyers and so forth. Something to impress potential investors, calm any nerves. Sections about the tax position, the impact on exports of the strengthening euro, that sort of thing. Most importantly, what effect would Basque independence have on the project?’
‘Basque independence? They think that’s likely?’
‘Well, that’s what we need you to find out.’
I’m tempted to tell Julian that Endiom would be better off buying a crystal ball and a subscription to The Economist, but if he wants to pay me €300 a day to stay in San Sebastian as a glorified journalist, I’m not going to argue. Saul has already mentioned that he wants to go to Cadiz to see a friend, so I’ll kick him out on Tuesday and take the car.
‘You want to fly there?’
‘I’ll drive.’
‘Up to you. There’s a file at the office. Why don’t you pick it up on Monday and we can go through all the bumph? Might have a spot of lunch.’
‘Done.’
But Julian won’t let me go. Rather than return to Sofia and Saul, he lingers in the corner, engaging me in a mind-numbing conversation about Manchester United’s chances in this year’s Champions League.
‘If we can just see our way past Juventus in the second group phase, there’s every chance we’ll draw Madrid in the quarter-finals.’
This goes on for ten minutes. Perhaps he is enjoying the male camaraderie, a chance to talk to somebody other than Sofia. Julian has always held me in the highest esteem, valuing my opinion on anything from Iraq to Nasser Hussain, and is strangely deferential in approach.
Behind me, Saul is sounding enamoured of Sofia, laughing at her jokes and doing his best to talk me down.
‘Yeah, we were just saying how friends change in their twenties. It’s tough staying loyal to some of them.’ This is all very pointedly within my earshot. ‘I think people used to think I was a bit of an idiot for hanging out with Alec, you know, but I felt sorry for him. There was a time when he really tested me, when I felt like cutting the rope, only I didn’t want to be the sort of person who bailed out on his mates when they were in trouble, know what I mean?’
I can’t hear Sofia’s response. Her voice is naturally quieter than Saul’s and she is speaking out into the room, with Julian in full flow leaning into me for greater emphasis.
‘I mean, most people would now agree that Roy Keane is
not the player he was. Injuries have taken their toll – hip surgery, knee ligaments – he simply can’t get up and down like he used to. I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes to Celtic next season.’
‘Really? You think so?’ It’s a struggle to remember the name of Manchester United’s manager. ‘Alex Ferguson would be prepared to sell him?’
‘Well, that’s the million-dollar question. With Becks almost certainly off, would he want to lose Keano as well?’
Saul has started talking again and I try to pivot my body against the cigarette machine so that I can still hear his conversation. He’s saying that he’s known me since childhood, that he has no idea what I’m doing out here in Spain.
‘…one day he just upped and left and none of us have seen him since.’
Sofia sounds understandably inquisitive, although it’s still impossible to hear what she’s saying. Now Julian is asking me if I want a couple of spare tickets to the Bernabeu. Was that a question about London? Saul’s answer contains the phrase ‘oil business’ and now I really start to worry. Somehow I have to break away from Julian and intrude to stop their conversation.
‘Do you have a cigarette?’
I have turned and stepped up to them, my weight shifted awkwardly onto one leg, looking unguardedly at Saul as an instruction to make him shut up. He pauses mid-sentence, extracts a Camel Light and passes it to me saying, ‘Sure.’ Sofia looks startled – she has never seen me smoking – but Julian is too busy offering me a light to notice.
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