Requiem

by Clare Francis

  There was a short silence. ‘Certainly,’ Peasedale said.

  ‘That can’t be necessary, surely?’

  ‘There’s no other way, not if you’re going to be absolutely certain.’

  Nick gave a visible shudder and resumed his study of the scene outside the window.

  ‘The original tests,’ said Daisy, picking up the argument again. ‘If they show cancer, surely that’s significant.’

  But Peasedale wasn’t going to have words put into his mouth. ‘Almost anything will cause cancer, given in sufficient quantity for a long enough period. But we’re not talking cancer here, are we? We’re talking about another sort of illness, a different set of symptoms. Now, if we were looking at something like 2,4,5-T, as found in Agent Orange, then we might have something. It causes all sorts of weird symptoms which don’t show up in standard tests – immune dysfunction, enzyme and hormonal imbalance, that sort of thing.’ He turned to Nick. ‘You are sure it was Reldane and not something else?’

  The sun had emerged from behind a cloud, driving golden shafts into the room and illuminating Nick Mackenzie’s face in harsh brilliance.

  Eventually he stirred. ‘It was definitely Reldane,’ he said in a soft voice.

  ‘She’s seen a toxicologist?’

  A slight pause. ‘A couple.’

  ‘And the symptoms – these guys couldn’t suggest anything?’

  ‘Not really. They got excited about her memory loss, about mixing up her words – getting her sentences back to front, you know – and about her gut troubles. Then just as quickly they got unexcited again. Said they couldn’t find anything.’

  ‘Did they do a biopsy?’

  ‘I’m not sure – ’

  ‘It involves taking a minute amount of tissue, usually with a needle.’

  ‘Oh – that. Yes, they did it once – no, twice. I wouldn’t let them do it again. Hurt her too much.’

  ‘What about enzyme levels? Did they measure those?’

  ‘I suppose so – yes. They said they’d looked at everything, anyway.’

  Peasedale gave a wide shrug. ‘In that case, I don’t know what to suggest. And you say your wife hadn’t been taking any prescription drugs recently?’

  Nick shook his head. ‘Neither of us ever took anything.’ He added wryly: ‘We went up to Scotland to escape all that, you see. Chemicals, pollution … Funny, when you think about it.’

  No one smiled.

  ‘What about water? Could she have drunk contaminated water?’ Peasedale suggested.

  Nick didn’t reply, so Daisy answered for him. ‘Mr Mackenzie had a sample sent down from the house supply. We had it tested. Nothing wrong with it.’

  ‘Tell him the rest,’ Nick said to Daisy, looking at her for the first time in a long while. ‘Tell him what you told me on the phone.’

  Daisy drew a breath. ‘They said it was some of the best water they’d ever tested.’

  ‘You see,’ Nick said with gentle irony. ‘Clean air. Clean water. Perfect.’ With a last look at the sky, he stood up. ‘Thank you, Dr Peasedale. You’ve been most helpful. Very informative.’ There was no sarcasm in his tone, only resignation, and Daisy had the feeling that it was only by this rather forced show of manners that he was managing to keep himself together.

  She followed him towards the lift. His expression didn’t invite conversation. When they came out into the street he strode towards the waiting car in the same cannon-shot way that he had emerged from the clinic. When she caught up with him he was holding the car door open and waiting for her to get in.

  She murmured: ‘But my office – it’s out of your way.’

  ‘Your – ’ He frowned suddenly. ‘Oh? I thought – lunch? You haven’t time?’ He asked it tentatively, with an awkward sideways look, as if he wasn’t at all sure of getting a positive response.

  ‘Of course – yes. If you want to. Of course.’

  He gave a sudden fleeting smile, a look that flickered up to her eyes and away again, and she realized that for all his apparent confidence and bodily grace he was essentially a reserved man. It was hard to reconcile this with the image of the seasoned stage performer who stood up in front of thousands of people, but as they set off, she realized her first instinct had been right. He hardly ever looked people in the eye for very long, not when he could possibly avoid it, and when he was forced to, he screwed up his eyes into a tight frown, as if this could offer him some degree of camouflage.

  He said: ‘I appreciate all you’ve done.’

  Done? She caught the past tense with a twinge of alarm. ‘I’ve done eff-all,’ she said firmly. ‘Yet.’

  He was silent for a moment, then began haltingly: ‘You know … in the old days – in the Sixties anyway – we all used to blame everything on the system. It was very … well, convenient, I suppose.’ He shot her a quick glance. ‘But you wouldn’t remember that. You’re only – what?’

  ‘Thirty-two.’

  He squinted at her. ‘Oh? You look younger.’ He said it as a statement of fact, not flattery.

  He continued thoughtfully: ‘Blaming the system used to be a great let-out. It covered everything – the government, the law, the welfare state – anything you liked. When Alusha became ill I was desperate to find an it or a someone to blame, just like in the old days. I longed to come face to face with the person or thing that could let this happen. I wanted to – well, create stink, show them – I don’t know. I just wanted them to suffer like Alusha was suffering.’ He gave a gesture of resignation. His hands were long and slender. ‘But really – what would be the use? Even if such a person existed, or an organization or a thing, and even if they were exposed or whatever, it wouldn’t change much, would it?’

  ‘But it would!’ she said emphatically, forgetting her intention to show restraint. ‘It could. It might prevent this sort of thing happening again.’

  His mouth turned down into a look that she was beginning to recognize, an expression that suggested she was being naive and idealistic.

  ‘But it wouldn’t get Alusha better, would it?’ he pointed out, looking at her for the first time without frowning. She noticed the vivid blueness of his eyes, and how the skin at the edges was crinkled into islands of strong lines, as if under happier circumstances he smiled a lot.

  ‘But it might,’ she continued doggedly. ‘Once they find out what happened – how this stuff actually caused the damage – then they might be able to find a treatment.’

  ‘But they’re never going to find out exactly how the stuff did what it did, are they?’ he said patiently. ‘Not if one’s to believe Peasedale – which I do. So there’s not much point in …’ He paused, choosing his words. ‘… Well, going on with it. I’m sorry. I really feel my wife has to be my first priority. I have to concentrate on finding a doctor who can help her, a doctor who can find out what’s wrong. I can’t spend more time on this sort of thing.’ He waved a hand apologetically. ‘I don’t mean your campaign’s not worthwhile – far from it. It’s just … I really can’t get involved.’

  ‘You mean – ?’

  ‘Your campaign – I wouldn’t be able to do it justice.’

  He was giving up, she realized. He was telling her that, despite everything – his apparent interest in Catch, his agreement to publicise the case – he didn’t want to be involved any more. In which case the campaign had, within the space of just two weeks, won and lost the most valuable asset it had ever possessed. The odd thing was she didn’t blame him at all, although this didn’t stop her from feeling an unaccountable sense of loss, as if something really important had been taken from her.

  ‘I understand,’ she said, managing a small smile.

  ‘I’ll be pleased to help when this is all over, when my wife’s better. Tell me over lunch, what I might be able to do.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The car drew up outside a sparkling neo-classical building behind Covent Garden. Nick got out and, holding the door open for her, led the way inside at his c
ustomary pace. As they sped through the main lobby, heading for an open lift, Daisy saw a wall sign and realized they were making for the David Weinberg office.

  ‘I’ll be about ten minutes,’ Nick explained as the lift started upwards. ‘Just a few calls to make. You don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  The doors opened to reveal a stage-lit reception area, all chrome and muted greys and arrays of large glossy photographs and golden discs. The place was surprisingly crowded. Two delivery men in overalls stood by a trolley loaded with cartons, apparently waiting for orders, various people were sitting on low sofas along two sides of the room, looking as if they’d been there for some time, while a party of four smartly dressed women was grouped around the reception desk.

  Even as Nick launched himself across the room towards a door on the far side, Daisy could see that he wasn’t going to make it. One of the well-dressed women was nudging her neighbours and, as Nick advanced, the four turned to face him. One was a young girl of about twenty, the other three were quite a bit older.

  Seeing Nick, the older women’s faces lit up like awed teenagers. Their ludicrous smiles, their round-eyed stares were both fascinating and rather embarrassing.

  One of the older women stepped forward to intercept Nick. She was smiling hard, too hard, although, if you took away the smile, she was good-looking in a slightly overstated way. Her makeup, though well applied, was a little on the heavy side, and her fair hair, which was longish and layered like feathers, had that solid impenetrable look that comes from long hours with a hairdresser and a tall can of hairspray.

  ‘Nick,’ she sang, standing in his path. ‘Hullo! How are you?’

  Nick jerked to a halt like a cornered animal. Finding no escape, he produced a polite though unconvincing smile.

  ‘It’s been such a long time, I can’t believe it,’ the woman persisted, subtly but firmly blocking his way. She gave a nervous laugh, aware of the audience behind her.

  Nick was grappling with his memory, and it showed.

  ‘Twenty years,’ she hurried on, the first hint of panic in her voice. ‘It seems unbelievable!’

  Nick blinked rapidly. ‘Yes, of course …’

  But it was obvious that he hadn’t placed her and there was an awkward pause, the sort that seems to stretch out for ever. The woman’s smile faltered, then, attempting to carry the thing off, she made a joke of it. ‘Good God, I didn’t think I’d changed that much! At least, most people tell me I haven’t changed at all.’ If she was hoping for some sort of affirmation, she was quickly disappointed.

  She laughed again, a sharp discordant sound, then, before the situation deteriorated any further, announced: ‘It’s Suki Armitage. Well, that’s what you’d remember me as. I’m not that any more, of course. My name’s Driscoll. And nowadays people seem to call me Susan. The Suki got lost somewhere along the line …’ She went on for a bit, rather too fast, and after repeating herself a couple of times, trailed off.

  A shot of recognition had flickered over Nick’s face. ‘Good Lord,’ he murmured, and shifted his weight, on the point of flight again.

  But Susan Driscoll wasn’t about to give up. ‘I was thinking about you only the other day,’ she blundered on in her breathless Knightsbridge accent. ‘I saw Annie and Roger Fenner. You remember them? And all those wonderful parties they used to give?’

  The Fenners, as Daisy and everyone else in the world knew, were leading fashion designers. Susan Driscoll, it seemed, was rather practised at dropping names because she managed to squeeze in a few more as she rattled breathlessly through the brilliant people and parties of the good old days.

  Daisy could tell that Nick had finally placed Susan Driscoll, though, from his expression, the realization did not seem to have thrilled him nearly as much as Susan Driscoll had hoped it would.

  The one-sided conversation lurched on. Susan Driscoll’s voice became shrill at the edges, and Daisy had the feeling she was less than pleased at not having been instantly remembered. Nick was looking increasingly hunted, and Daisy was not surprised when he flicked a glance at her, signalling his intention to escape.

  ‘Well, it’s good to see you again,’ he muttered to Susan Driscoll.

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your wife,’ she said to his retreating back. ‘I do hope she’ll recover soon.’ Nick gave a brief backward glance of acknowledgement.

  ‘And we’re so thrilled about the concert. I can’t tell you what it means.’

  Nick paused in the doorway. ‘Concert?’ He looked back at her in mystification. ‘Concert?’

  A pause, little short of electric. ‘For Save the Children,’ Susan Driscoll said bravely. ‘I’m organizing it.’

  He stared at her. ‘What – ’ He shook his head abruptly. ‘There isn’t going to be any concert.’ For an instant he seemed to hover on the point of explanation then, thinking better of it, he turned and was gone.

  There was a long moment while no one spoke and no one moved. Mrs Driscoll looked as if she’d got a very nasty taste in her mouth. Her lips were taut, her eyes narrow as a cat’s. Humiliation then anger crossed over her face in quick succession, followed by something altogether more guarded.

  Unobtrusively Daisy made for the door through which Nick had vanished. As she reached it, she heard a young voice saying: ‘Oh, Mummy … Perhaps there’s a mistake …’

  Daisy looked back. Susan Driscoll was managing a brilliant recovery job. She was shrugging her daughter off, lifting her chin, putting on a smile. Only her eyes, in the instant before they swung round to face her friends, showed a last flash of bitter light.

  Daisy escaped into a short corridor. There were several doors leading off it. The first stood open, revealing an empty office. The next was also open, and contained a young woman who seemed to know who Daisy was, and waved her to a seat.

  After fifteen minutes Daisy’s stomach started to rumble. After twenty she began to wonder if lunch might possibly have been forgotten.

  She passed some of the time thinking about the rest of her week. She and Simon had been planning to go to a new film that evening but he’d cancelled. It was the novel again. The novel had become a fixture, like the lover in a menage a trois, mysterious, vaguely threatening, but best left alone. Looking at the relationship coolly – and it contained precious little heat even in its warmer moments – it had not developed a great deal. They liked the same things all right: they went to environmental awareness parties and political conferences, they saw art films and exhibitions, they ate in wine bars and went to parties in Islington. But when it came down to it, the only thing that had really changed was that she was now the one feeling beleaguered, while Simon was increasingly relaxed and carefree. Well, who wouldn’t look happier when he had someone to collect his laundry, and cook and wash up twice a week?

  Now there was an unworthy thought. She was forgetting how Simon had come and fixed her kitchen door and cooked Sunday lunch two weeks running. She was forgetting the conversations, the evenings out and the occasional smiles. Perhaps that was all you could ever ask or expect.

  She thought of Nick Mackenzie and tried to imagine Simon in his place, fighting for her as she lay in some hospital bed, searching the world for some way to cure her, but the picture wouldn’t come alive and she abandoned it.

  The time crept on. The secretary unwrapped a sandwich. Daisy began to wonder if Nick Mackenzie wasn’t quite as unspoilt as he seemed and didn’t perhaps make a habit of keeping people waiting.

  At last, after what must have been half an hour, there was a murmur of voices, the door opened and Nick Mackenzie finally appeared. Behind him was a dark plump balding man – presumably David Weinberg – who, spotting Daisy, peered at her briefly as if to confirm she was of no great importance, before saying a hasty goodbye to Nick and disappearing into the corridor.

  Nick flopped down on the seat beside her.

  ‘Sorry, but I had to sort out that schemozzle,’ he said companionably. ‘For some reason my manag
er had decided not to tell that lady that the concert had been cancelled. He seemed to think I would change my mind.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t think the lady was too pleased.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  Daisy couldn’t resist asking: ‘Did you remember her?’

  He shot her a grin which quite transformed his face. ‘To be honest, no, not to begin with. She looked completely different. I mean, like someone else. Then … yes, I realized who she was.’ He looked away and shook his head, as if some memory had just come back to him.

  ‘Come on,’ he said abruptly. ‘Let’s go and eat.’

  They got as far as the end of the corridor – Daisy was just allowing herself a vision of a nice restaurant somewhere off the Covent Garden Piazza – when the secretary called Nick back to say his wife was on the phone. A look of surprise and pleasure leapt into his face as he turned to go. Calmly Daisy settled back against the wall and began a thorough inspection of the framed golden discs that decorated the corridor.

  This time she didn’t have to wait long; it was only a couple of minutes before he reappeared, emerging so quickly into the corridor that he was almost past her before she had realized.

  Something had happened: his face was like thunder. She hesitated, uncertain whether to chase after him.

  She caught up with him at the lift. As they both stepped inside, he flung her a fierce but impersonal look.

  ‘Is there something the matter?’ she asked. ‘Can I do anything?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. No …’ His voice was trembling with suppressed rage. ‘No, no,’ he repeated harshly. ‘It’s just that … I’ve got to go and move my wife.’

  ‘Move her?’

  ‘They made her swim. Made her swim when she hates it, absolutely hates it! And they’ve given her some drug, something that makes her feel terrible. They didn’t even tell her what it was. Didn’t even tell her! I can’t believe it’s possible. I can’t – ’ He broke off and screwed up his mouth, not trusting himself to say any more.