‘Could it be?’
‘No.’ Goodfellowe shook his head. ‘If Kunga wished to betray the child, all he had to do was to find him then hand him over. Like a Judas.’
‘Then Wangyal.’
‘Not Wangyal. He could have betrayed Kunga at any time yet still he protects him.’
‘So it was one of the other two.’
‘No, not Frasi, not Phuntsog. You see, they never knew Kunga was in the country, not until after the restaurant had been burned down.’ He shrugged. ‘Which only leaves me. Because who else knew that Kunga was in town? Who else knew that I was helping him? Who else knew that we were looking for a Chinese child? Who else could have betrayed every part of this to our enemy? Nobody!’ He turned, a faceless and threatening figure silhouetted against the window. ‘Except you.’
Mickey, normally so at home with words and wit, was suddenly stripped of all her powers. She could only stare at this menacing form in front of her as though he were quite mad.
‘There was nobody else, Mickey.’
‘You can’t seriously believe I would betray you,’ she stumbled, already in deep shock.
‘But you have. I don’t know why, but you have. There is no other explanation.’
‘Stuff your explanation. What sort of woman do you think I am?’
‘I no longer know.’
‘You … you just go swivel on it, Goodfellowe!’ she spat, thrusting her index finger into the air with great ferocity. ‘You’re out of your mind. Your brains have turned to bollocks.’
He did not respond in kind. His voice was soft, like the lining of a coffin. ‘You knew. About Kunga. About me. About the Chinese boy. And you told someone.’
‘No!’
‘You told someone,’ he insisted with rising heat.
‘I never would. I never did. I …’ She suddenly caught herself, grew defensive. ‘The only person I’ve talked to about this is Paddy Baader. But it was you who talked to him first. He knew you were involved because you bloody asked for his help.’
‘Correct. But I didn’t tell him that the boy was Chinese. Did you?’
Her jaw dropped, trembled. ‘I was only … He said … Look, you talked to him first. He told me he only wanted to help you.’
‘Mickey, did you tell him the boy was Chinese?’
Her lips were quivering in uncertainty. ‘I might have done. Yes.’
‘And about Kunga?’
‘No! You told him Kunga was here. Asked him to arrange political asylum. You told him!’
‘But I never told him where Kunga was hiding. Where he might be found.’
‘And neither did I! How could I? I didn’t know where he was staying. All I might have said was that he was above some sodding Tibetan restaurant. I never knew which one, not until it was firebombed.’
‘Oh, Mickey. Oh, Mickey. What have you done?’
She was sobbing now, gulping in air, wanting to fight but overcome by confusion. ‘What have I done?’
‘You told him about the restaurant.’
‘But not which one.’
‘There is only one. One Tibetan restaurant in the whole of the damned country.’
‘Oh, God. Are you telling me that it’s been Paddy? All along?’
‘Why? Why did you tell him, Mickey?’
She couldn’t seem to breathe, couldn’t answer. Something inside was imploding.
‘Why? What could make you tell him such things? Share such secrets?’
Her lips moved but made no sound. Then her eyes, damp and desperate, fell in shame.
‘Oh, hell, Mickey. Is it as simple and pathetic as that?’ There was venom in his voice. ‘That he’s had you on your back?’
Silence.
‘If you’d betrayed me for a great fortune, even betrayed me for a minor principle … But for nothing better than a bit of over-mortgaged prick. How low can you get?’
‘Tom, believe me, I never knew. I’ve been betrayed too.’
But her words fell on ears that would no longer hear.
‘I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, Tom. What can I do?’
She couldn’t see his eyes against the sunlight and for that would be forever grateful, but she could sense all the energy and revulsion that he focused on her. And his words she would never forget.
‘What can you do? You’re a slut. You can get out.’
The editor of The Times enjoyed giving parties at his extensive home in Hampstead and his favourite occasions were those when he was able to erect a marquee in the back garden and cram literally hundreds in. Even people like Goodfellowe. For his own part Goodfellowe hadn’t wanted to go, wasn’t in the mood, but it was also because of his mood that he feared not going. Sitting alone with his thoughts in the dark he knew would be corrosive. Drinks with The Times was in his diary, so drinks with The Times it would be.
Because he was not in a sociable mood he was content to linger on the fringes and feed off the conversation of others. There were many dishes from which to choose. Like the columnist pressing the Minister for what really happened in Cabinet – although it was remarkable how little pressure was truly required. Or the brusque businessman and the willowy actress sharing the confidence that life in front of the footlights could be so lonely, and exchanging telephone numbers. And the bishop and the eco-activist, disputing in increasingly lurid terms how green was God. Did bishops really require full-time chauffeurs to round up their flocks? Then there was a parliamentary colleague of Goodfellowe’s, a woman he had always regarded as mutton dressed up as crispy duck, who was demanding to know from a literary agent how much a book might be worth that would expose half the amorous liaisons within Westminster of the last ten years, including details of the dinner party for eight members where the young black waiter had worn nothing but a pinafore and a broad smile. Potentially a fortune, he had advised, but in practice very little. The lawyers wouldn’t allow it without the corroborating evidence of someone who actually took part. She puckered her lips. But it was me who took part, she purred.
The agent had just added a zero to the figure under discussion when, in the swirling current of the marquee, Goodfellowe found himself standing near to Madame Lin. She had been much in his thoughts. During his struggle over Tibet, Goodfellowe had never had any doubts that the enemy was Chinese. Not all Chinese, many of whom cared little about Tibet and who would have trouble locating it on a map, and not the ordinary Chinese with whom he lived and shared, but official Chinese. That meant the Beijing Government. And that also meant the Government’s representatives, amongst whom Madame Lin was the most senior. Nevertheless, as mayhem had followed murder, Goodfellowe had been unable to convince himself that she was directly involved. She was a grandmother, personable, cultured, had been a friend. It couldn’t be, for no better reason than he didn’t want it to be. But now their eyes met and they both knew the truth. Her eyes were not unfriendly but defensive. Wary. She knew. She was part of it. And Goodfellowe’s eyes, hard and deep-set, burned like a night sky under attack from a shower of meteorites.
He was thinking of moving away when she approached. She did not extend her hand.
‘I am sorry we should find our meeting like this difficult, Thomas.’
‘Me, too, Ambassador.’
‘There are many difficulties in leading official lives. We are not always our own masters.’
‘I think I can remember those times.’
‘I am glad you understand.’
‘Understand, perhaps. But I do not excuse, Madame Lin.’
She nodded, considering. ‘Do you not accept that there are times and circumstances when it is justified for a Government to take exceptional measures? To require sacrifice from its own people, perhaps even sacrifice of other people? At times of war, or great crisis? Such as you have had in Northern Ireland, for instance?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Tibet is our Northern Ireland. Sadly there have been sacrifices on all sides. I regret very much we are on different sides. Politics
makes for bad bedfellows.’
‘But for me this is not politics, Madame Lin, this is personal. You have violated my own home. And you have attacked my own daughter. That is what I will not excuse because, before I am a politician, above all I am a father.’
‘Your daughter was attacked?’ Her voice betrayed genuine shock. ‘Please believe me, Thomas, I did not know. And I would never have allowed, particularly with your family.’ She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘We Ministers give orders, we do not always know how they will be implemented. You will remember how such things work, Minister Goodfellowe.’
‘I don’t remember ever giving orders to hunt down a child.’
‘He is not just a child. He is a great symbol. A great force for good or for evil. Depending.’
‘On what?’
‘On who controls him. The legitimate authorities. Or terrorists. Just like Northern Ireland.’
‘But he is a child!’ His voice was beginning to rise.
‘And I am a diplomat,’ she responded with equal force. ‘As also I was once your friend,’ she added more quietly. ‘And perhaps later, when this matter of Tibet is settled and behind us …’
He shook his head. ‘Neither of us will live that long, I fear.’
‘Perhaps not. Then maybe in another life.’ It was a strangely ambiguous note on which to finish.
‘Goodbye, Madame Lin.’
She was about to take her leave when she hesitated. ‘Oh, Thomas. I hope you will forgive me, but last week I took the liberty of sending a herbal pillow to your wife. A small gesture. I hope you will be able to accept it in the spirit in which it was sent. The spirit of friendship. It might bring her, and you, some comfort.’
With that she turned and was gone.
Goodfellowe had barely been able to sleep, troubled by vivid dreams of sitting in his own apartment and hearing cries of lust coming from behind the bedroom door. He didn’t have a bedroom door, of course, not in a studio apartment, but this was a dream and it appeared all too horrifyingly real. He had run to the door, determined to throw it open. He knew the man inside was Baader, there was no mistaking his cries of triumph. But who was the woman? It had to be Mickey, her cries of fulfilment growing deeper and more abandoned with every beat of Goodfellowe’s racing pulse, taunting him until he could stand it no longer. He was grasping for the handle when suddenly the cries changed, as though from a different voice, then changed yet again, casting him into a torment of uncertainty. There was more than one woman. Baader had more than one woman, was screwing them all, in Goodfellowe’s bed, and Goodfellowe hated him for it! In a fury of jealousy and disgust, he threw open the door. There, stark naked and with smiles of fulfilment, were Baader’s conquests. Mickey. And Elizabeth. Oh God, and Sam too. Tied willingly to the bed. He could see her in every detail, every tensed and articulated muscle, every fold of her young skin. And beside her on the bed, Baader was stretched out, laughing at him …
He had got to his office in the House unusually early. He found Mickey, equally red-eyed and sleepless, clearing her desk.
‘I won’t be long,’ she said, not looking up from the papers.
He coughed. Such a stupid, nervous gesture, he thought. But he felt stupid and nervous. He coughed again.
‘I was too hard on you yesterday, Mickey. After all, you were entirely unwitting. You didn’t mean to—’
‘To betray you. I think those were the words you used. Betrayal.’ With considerable vehemence she threw a pile of papers into the waste bin, still not looking at him.
‘Yes, but … as you said, I was the first one to raise the matter with Baader. It wasn’t entirely your fault.’
‘Personally, I don’t believe any of it was my fault. What I did I did for you and in what I believed to be your best interests. It’s scarcely my fault that politicians can’t be trusted.’
He was still standing by the door, and only now took a tentative step forward. ‘It could’ve been worse. No one died.’
‘So you’re not blaming me for the St Petersburg fiasco? That’s very generous of you. Which leaves me carrying the can only for a little casual arson, burglary and assault on your daughter.’ She was looking at him now, her eyes brimming with bitterness.
‘This has got out of hand.’
‘Well, it’s certainly out of my hands now. And good bloody riddance.’ Another avalanche of old correspondence descended into the waste bin, which shuddered in protest and then toppled, strewing its contents across the floor.
‘Look … Mickey …’ He coughed again, swallowed hard. ‘Please stay.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘We’ve been working together, been friends, for how long?’
‘You’ve got fingers. You count.’
‘Nearly five years. That’s a hell of a lot of friendship to walk out on.’
‘Forgive me for correcting you, I know it’s not a secretary’s place to correct a politician, but I’m not walking out. You bloody well threw me out!’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Very sorry.’
‘Oh, I see. That’s supposed to make it all right, is it?’
‘I hope saying sorry helps.’
Flames began to lick around her eyes. ‘I said sorry yesterday. And I meant it. Remember how you responded? Remember, damn you? You called me a slut.’ She kicked the pile of papers, which scattered like a snowstorm about the room. Then you threw me out.’
‘Look, I was overwrought.’
‘Screw being overwrought. You were way, way out of order. Who the hell do you think you are?’ The flames had now consumed any restraint she might have retained. ‘You call me a slut because I happened to have sex with a politician. Does that make Elizabeth a slut because you managed somehow to find your way into her underwear?’
‘Look, this is—’
‘Does it make Sam a slut because she gets into the back seat of a BMW? Lets the boys fondle her. Fumble with her? Then FUCK her? That makes her a slut, does it? Does it, Tom?’ She was on the point of screaming.
‘Please, Mickey, this isn’t necessary.’ His lips felt as dry and unforgiving as sandpaper. He worried who else might be listening to every word through the open door.
‘Then what makes me a slut in your eyes, Tom? Is it because I enjoy sex? Because I like being penetrated? Because if I want it I take it?’ Then a look that suggested she wanted to do damage. ‘Or is it because you’re jealous of other men having me?’
‘For pity’s sake.’
‘Pity doesn’t come into it. You showed me no pity yesterday. All you showed me was your typical male double standards, and it makes me want to throw up!’
He advanced a pace towards her, trying to find a placatory note. ‘Mickey, calm down. I’ve already apologized.’
‘But you haven’t suffered. You men make us women suffer yet you refuse to take any of the blame.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘How old were you when you got married, Tom?’
‘What’s that got to do with—’
‘Just answer the bloody question.’
She had stopped shouting now; he’d made some progress. He decided he’d better co-operate. After all, this was nothing to what he knew he would be in for later.
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘Fooled around with a lot of women before that, eh?’
‘A few. Sure. Doesn’t everyone?’
‘And that’s all fine and dandy. For a man. You brag about it, how many times you scored, how many notches you had on your bedpost. You get led around by your dicks. But when any girl reaches out to take you up on it, all of a sudden she’s a slut. Because she brings you face to face with all your male hang-ups. That you aren’t big enough. That you won’t last long enough. That she knows someone who’s always going to be better than you are. All the things you worry about with Elizabeth.’
His eyebrow twitched.
‘So you take it out on us. Because you daren’t accept that a girl might have the same approach to sex
as you yet with none of your pathetic schoolboy insecurities. That’s why you’re all control freaks, because we threaten you. And that’s why you feel you have to bring us down.’
‘I’m not trying to bring you down.’ He supposed he had this coming. He had no choice but to take it.
‘Then why in your eyes, Tom, am I a slut?’
‘Mickey, you are not a slut. I can’t apologize enough for what I said. If there is any way I can make it up to you …’
‘I’m not proud of the mistake I made with Paddy. And I don’t mean the sex; that wasn’t a mistake. That was fun. But I misjudged him.’
‘I did that too.’
‘I know it was moronic and always going to end in disaster. But I was blind. Because I made the biggest mistake of all.’ There was a huge intake of breath. ‘I fell in love with him.’
Women, he’d never understand them. She was an Amazon who had just gone to war and reduced him to incoherence and shame. Now she burst into tears. She was in his arms, sobbing her heart out. ‘Oh, God, how I hate blubbing bitches,’ she cried.
He could feel her tears, her heat, her passion. He knew she was right. He was jealous of Baader.
‘Tom, is there any chance it wasn’t Paddy? Not directly? That perhaps he told someone in all innocence – a civil servant, a colleague?’
‘He promised he wouldn’t. And after St Petersburg? After they tried to burn out Kunga? No, not in innocence. Sorry, love. It was Paddy.’
‘I’ve made such a fool of myself.’
‘I want you to stay, Mickey. Please. I can’t do all this without you. I need you. We’re a team, you and me. I want your help.’
‘And I want to help, too.’ Her head was buried deep in his chest. ‘How can I help, Tom? To make it better. Tell me.’
He shocked himself almost as much as he outraged Mickey with what he said next. He hadn’t thought it through, had arrived with only an incoherent and half-formed idea of what needed to be done. Now he expressed it with stunning simplicity.
‘You have to go on seeing Paddy.’
She looked up, her eyes full of confusion. ‘But I can’t. Not now.’
‘You must. It’s the only way. We’ve got to find out what the other side is up to. He’s our only contact, the only chance we have of keeping up with them. Otherwise we are lost.’
The Buddha of Brewer Street Page 21