by Berry, Tony
SEVENTEEN
HE looked out of the window at an endless landscape of uninhabited nothingness. Barren, unpopulated, with not a town, road or even an isolated homestead to be seen. On and on it went into the far distance. Neither mountainous nor flat; just endless undulations. He thought of a crumpled napkin discarded on a restaurant table. The landscape 12,000 metres below was a banqueting suite of napkins crumpled and creased. And there were another four hours of this bleak burnt vista to be endured before they even left Australia and descended into Singapore. Worse still was the knowledge that this was only the hors d’oeuvre – the main course of a 13-hour sector to London was still to come.
Why, he wondered, as he tried to tune out the bawling cries of the child two rows in front. Not why did it take so long – he knew that was inevitable, a geographical fact encapsulated in the Australian cliché “a tyranny of distance” – but why was he doing this? Why put himself through this test of mental and physical endurance for the sake of some long-ago and very brief dalliance?
There was a sheep’s fleece of clouds below them now, but hiding the interminable terrain did nothing to improve his mood. Not even Max Markson could put a positive spin on this. His gloom was too deep. He hailed a passing steward.
‘Any chance of a scotch?’
‘Sure, sir. On the rocks?’
‘Straight.’
Chunks of ice were for polar bears. The fewer the rocks the more they felt obliged to fill the void with whisky. Bromo swirled the liquid around the glass. He sipped and was satisfied. It was the balm he needed.
*
Arrival in London was smooth and seamless. Too smooth; too seamless. And that was a worry. He expected questions or at least a raised eyebrow and some additional tapping at the computer terminal as he offered his passport. The usual people were hovering near the immigration desk but he detected no signs of concern or recognition, no quick glances suggesting this was a “person of interest”. Or had he missed something? The relief at a hassle-free entry was fast evaporating beneath his suspicions. These were the games he had so often played; making situations seem different from the reality. But what was the reality?
Stuff it! He followed the arrows down the stairs and into the baggage claim area. A short wait and his bag was there. Through the Green Zone – nothing to declare and not a Customs officer in sight. He made a quick pause in the duty-free enclave to stock up with a special offer of two bottles of Glenmorangie at a heavily discounted price and wheeled his way out into the bemused and anxious throng cluttering the Arrivals area. He trundled his bag down the slope and on to the Heathrow Express to Paddington. Pre-booked tickets spewed out of the machine as soon as he entered his credit card. His meeting with the Grumbler was a mere five hours away. It was all too easy.
His thoughts were echoed by the frumpy, middle-aged woman munching a pizza slice and clenching a Gloria Jeans styrofoam cup of coffee. Yes indeed, it was all too easy. Tracing this Perkins man from airport to train had been a breeze. He was obviously alert but not alarmed. She hadn’t even had to call for a backup tail. His trail had been as they had expected.
She threw the cold crust of the pizza into a bin and sipped the dregs of her coffee as she sauntered over to Platform Five where the Cornish Express would be pulling out in six minutes’ time. The Perkins man was way down the platform, pausing to heft his bag into a carriage. The woman pressed a button on her mobile phone. The voice that answered was almost an echo of her own – female and middle-aged.
‘Has the traveller returned?’
The woman on the platform wasted no words.
‘He’s on his way.’
Her job was done. Someone else would be picking up the trail in Truro.
EIGHTEEN
BROMO paused to sneak a sidelong glance at the cathedral as he moved out of its deep shadows. Its soaring spires, floodlit to emphasise their dominating presence over the city, never failed to impress him. Even when caged in scaffolding for months of maintenance work they remained as symbols of endurance when all else changed. For that moment, all was well with his world. He took a long slow breath and focused on his surroundings; glistening wet roads just wide enough for two cars to squeeze past each other, footpaths so narrow people walked in single file, an endless rush of water along the deep gutters. Above him a jumble of ancient roofs tumbled together in a collision of angles. Slates and tiles speckled with clumps of moss.
Bromo snapped back to reality; he took quick cautionary looks to left and right and stepped into the narrow confines of Squeeze Gut Alley, his shoulders grazing the blank walls on either side. A cat scuttled out of the shadows. A true alley cat, Bromo surmised. Halfway along, the passage bent to the right and widened slightly. Bromo eased past a garbage skip almost filling the entire width of the passage. His eyes scanned the walls for cameras. He saw none but was sure they were there. He curled his knuckles and rapped three times on a solid wooden door. He paused for a silent count of three. Four more taps. Another pause. One tap. Pause. Five more taps. It was a nonsense but he knew he had to play the game.
There was a click. A lock being released. Slowly the door gaped open. Bromo pushed it wider ajar and stepped into a small space at the foot of a flight of carpeted stairs. A long wooden chest filled one wall. A cluster of Wellington boots, chunky walking shoes and a rack of heavy coats filled the other. It was a cupboard pretending to be a foyer.
‘Stop gawping. Wipe your feet, sling your coat on a hook and come up. You look like you need a drink.’
Bromo did as he was told; he knew better than to dither when the Grumbler was giving the orders. She was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, leaning over the banister of a landing where he noted three doors.
‘If I pick the right one, do I win the princess?’
‘In your dreams, Bromo.’
She pushed open the door on the left and led the way ahead of her.
‘In here. Still drinking Lagavulin?’
She knew it was a rhetorical question. He followed obediently, noting her stockier look – broader in the beam, slightly shorter than he remembered. Maybe it was her clothes, the absence of the slimming, mannish suits she used to wear. In their place a swishing, multi-layered angle-length skirt.
‘Good trip?
‘Do you care?’
‘Making conversation. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?’
‘Old habits, eh? Clinging to conventions in an uncivilised world.’
‘So how was it?’
‘Usual ordeal, but I survived. We’re not meant to spend 13 hours speeding across the sky in a metal tube. And kids should be banned from business class. Or made to go and play outside.’
‘My god, Bromo, how can you afford business class?’
‘I can’t. Pulled a few strings and put it on the card. It’s my indulgence. Only way to survive. Anyway, cabin’s full of airline staff on their discount fares. And their bloody kids.’
She laughed. It was that throaty, gutsy, one-time smoker’s guffaw that he recalled from service days. He glanced around the room.
‘Gone all folksy in your old age?’
She flashed him one of those worldly-wise looks he knew of old; one eyebrow raised, a slight curl of the lip. All-knowing. No nonsense.
‘Less of the old … and folksy, as you call it, suits the lifestyle.’
He saw what she meant. The room was pure Country Life. Thick weave rugs, rural prints on the walls, a capacious lounge and two matching armchairs, heavy curtains blocking out any city noise – a cocoon of comfort and casual good taste. Bromo took it all in as she busied herself at a corner cabinet.
‘So the old Grumbler has come home to roost,’ he said.
She turned and smiled.
‘Funny you should say that; perceptive as ever. Yes, I call it my nest; my eyrie. And less of the Grumbler if you please. It seems they’ve moved on and found a new nickname for me.’
Bromo raised an eyebrow. What could be better than referring to Co
nstance Rumble as the old Grumbler? It was how he would always think of her: the guard dog of the inner sanctum; the taciturn dispatcher; the person of first contact; the know-all who revealed nothing. She handed him a tumbler tinkling with ice cubes and half full of pale gold malt.
‘Blame technology,’ she said. ‘As soon as we got our email addresses some bright wag was on to it.’
The cryptic crossword cell in Bromo’s brain processed her comment immediately.
‘I’d rather you grumbled than crumbled.’
She clinked her glass against his.
‘Cheers. You got it in one. Crumble is my name these days. I’ll try not to live up to it. Depends what you want. I’m a bit out of the loop these days.’
He didn’t believe that but let it pass as she sat on a high-back long settee and patted the space beside her.
‘You always were one of my favourites. Come, sit and tell the old Grumbler your problems.’
She brushed a hand down the folds of her skirt, spreading it over the light russet pattern of the settee. A seemingly casual movement that resulted in a full on designer arrangement. As neat and precise as ever, noted Bromo. He took a sip of his drink and used the moment to assess his surroundings.
‘Seems old birds like to do things in style when they furnish their nests.’
‘And why not? I never got much chance to spend up big during all those years in the service. Invested well. Generous pension scheme.’
‘And us poor buggers out in the field …’
His voice trailed off. No point in sour grapes. He could have done the same instead of seeing everything whittled away in three failed marriages. As always, she read his thoughts.
‘Divorce is a costly diversion,’ she said. ‘Something you never learnt.’
Silence. Their thoughts entwined: memories, old times, other places, different people.
‘You’re looking good,’ he said. ‘Sparky. Love the hair.’
The shoulder length black tresses, usually rolled up and coiled, clipped in tight for the office, had been severely cropped. And bleached and tinted. No more stern old Grumble but a feisty outdoors woman striding over the dunes in boots and windcheater, a red setter or some such lively beast, in her wake rather than briskly controlling a bank of phones and files. She smiled.
‘What’s this? This old charm offensive. Come on Bromo, it’s time to talk. Cut the waffle. There has to be a very good reason for you to leap over here from the far side of the world.’
Bromo stood and stepped away from the settee. The floor was solid polished timber, pitted and worn. Probably centuries old and trodden by generations of traders and their families. He needed to walk as he talked.
‘It’s Sigiriya. It’s alive. Up and running again.’
He waited for her reaction but none came. No sudden blink, no twitch of facial muscles.
‘Go on. Tell me more.’
Not quite so abrupt as the old Grumbler but still firm – the controller. So he did as ordered, keeping the story as tight as a journo on a deadline. No frills, no comment. She had no need of that. She would draw her own conclusions without prompts from him. He paced the room as he spoke – a short journey between a bookshelf on one wall and a low antique oak sideboard against the other, where a heavy, dark red curtain covered a window he guessed overlooked the street alongside the cathedral. He let his story run its course … and waited.
‘Interesting, Bromo. Very interesting.’
‘Is that all you can say? It’s more than bloody interesting. It’s fucking scary. These people are running around taking the law into their own hands, killing and kidnapping, creating mayhem and setting their own agenda – and no one even knows what it is. And no one seems able to stop them. What’s worse is that I seem to be piggy in the middle even though you all reckon I’m not part of the organisation anymore.’
Constance sat suddenly upright, all pretence at playing the country house hostess evaporating in seconds. The steely stare of old returned.
‘Don’t include me in that, Bromo. I’m retired too.’
‘Bollocks. Pull the other one. The organisation may have moved on since our days but you know we never let go. They won’t let us.’
Neither looked away. He was challenging her: don’t deny it – you’re as much a part of the organisation as you ever were. We all are. They give us labels – “retired”, “on hold”, “out to grass”, “sleeping”, “off the bus” – but they mean nothing; they never let you go.
She looked away; sipped her drink.
‘Maybe.’
It was a reluctant admission of a truth they both knew.
‘Okay, what do you want to know?’
He spread his arms wide in sudden exasperation. Droplets of drink splashed over the rim of his glass.
‘Someone is pulling strings and I want to know who. And why. I didn’t come all this way for a change of scenery.’
‘And you think I can tell you?’
‘The old Grumbler knows everything.’
She allowed a glimmer of a smile to soften her stare. There was a long silence. Bromo knew better than to say any more. He waited.
‘I’ll see what I can do, but don’t expect miracles,’ she said. ‘The new boys think differently from us. Maybe think too much.’
Another pause while they both let the past swirl around their heads. She snapped out of her reverie, stood tall.
‘Tomorrow. I’ll be in touch.’
He noticed she hadn’t asked where he was staying. No phone numbers had been exchanged. It confirmed what he had feared: the office had him tagged. There were watchers out there reporting his every movement. And if the office was on his tail there was every chance the mob – whoever they were – had someone not far behind. He shivered. She noticed.
‘Scared.’
‘Cold,’ he lied. ‘From 40 degrees to zero in one day plays havoc with the system.’
‘You’ll survive.’
She stood up. The message was clear. It was time to go.
‘I aim to,’ he said and eased himself off the settee.
She led the way down the stairs and helped him with his coat. The old Grumbler was never this solicitous.
Bromo reached for the door handle.
‘No, not there,’ she said and laid a hand on his arm, guiding him away from the entrance. She indicated a curtained-off alcove.
‘Through here, tradesman’s entrance. You’ll bamboozle the lot of them.’
Another hint that he was being watched and that she knew it to be so. She pushed him forward. He heard a slight click, felt a blast of ice-laden air and found himself sheltering in a doorway in the city’s main street, next to a shop selling racks of discounted clothing. The door at his back was firmly closed with not a handle or keyhole to indicate its existence – a sheet of steel resolutely set in its brick surrounds.
‘And goodnight to you, too,’ he muttered as he huddled deeper into his quilted black topcoat and stepped out across the cobbled road in the direction of his lodgings.
A darkened shop window reflected a flicker of movement on the far side of the street from where he had just come. It seemed that the Grumbler’s secret exit was fooling no one. Someone had picked up his trail. He walked on through the almost deserted town. It was too early in the week and far too cold for all but the hardiest of night owls. The restaurants and bars he passed were mostly bereft of customers; staff outnumbered the small clusters of drinkers and diners. Yet it was not a cheerless scene. Bromo envied the warm cosiness exuded at each place he passed – oases of comforting cheer in the numbing chill and dark. It was something his fuzzy mind and weary body could well do with right now.
He gathered his coat even closer and lengthened his stride. Bugger dodging his trackers – he had a bottle of duty-free back at his lodgings.
NINETEEN
THE breakfast room scene was all too familiar. Bromo had seen it acted out with varying numbers of players and a multitude of casts in boarding houses and
tacky motels all over the world. Even in a so-called luxury joints with gilt and marble replacing sticky carpets and plywood furniture. It got no better when the setting moved up to the five-star bracket; more glitter and ostentation but the same measure of gloom.
Five people were already seated – at five separate tables – and all were resolutely staring straight ahead or studiously looking down at their food. Three men, two women. All dressed in chain store business garb – the blacks and greys of commercial travellers and sales reps. Only one, the puffy-faced and rotund woman in the far corner, glanced up at Bromo’s entry. She looked quickly away, back to spreading a thick layer of butter on a slice of toast. Hardly the watcher type, he decided – too obvious with the junkyard of bling dangling around her neck and wrists. And would probably need CPR if she tried to match him at anything more than a slow march.
Bromo paused at a table laid with jugs of juices and mini packets of cereal. He helped himself to a glass of apple nectar and tipped a mound of bran flakes into a bowl.
‘Milk and sugar are on the table,’ said a short roly-poly man who emerged from a door alongside the table. The voice was an effeminate whisper, as if revealing some deep secret. The man made a show of tidying up the table, brushing away non-existent crumbs. More words slid out from the side of his mouth.
‘Got a message for you.’
Ah, so there was something not for other ears.
‘I’ll bring it with your bacon and eggs.’
‘I haven’t ordered any.’
‘You will.’
The man waved a limp hand as if brushing away a fly. He gestured in the direction of a table in an alcove next to a fireplace aglow with genuine burning logs. The table was set for one, the sole chair facing out into the room. Everyone else in full view. Bromo approved; the boys knew their trade. The whispering man stood at Bromo’s side as he sat down.
‘Well done, Cedric,’ said Bromo. ‘Still on the ball I see.’
‘A nice turn of phrase, Mr Perkins.’
‘And how is Julian?’