The Man With No Face

by Peter May

  Marie-Ange looked around with a critical eye. If she was impressed she didn’t show it. ‘We don’t have to stay all evening do we?’ she said to Slater.

  He smiled patiently. ‘Just showing our faces, Marie. Appearances are everything in this town. You should know that.’ He turned to Bannerman. ‘Would you look after Marie-Ange for a bit? I have a little business to attend to. Shouldn’t be more than about fifteen minutes.’

  Bannerman glanced at Marie-Ange. She was clearly unimpressed, but seemed resigned to her fate. ‘Sure,’ he said.

  Slater squeezed her hand. ‘Back soon.’ He slipped away among the dinner jackets. Bannerman lifted two glasses of champagne from a tray carried by a passing waiter.

  ‘Drink?’

  She glanced at him and then the glass, before taking it without a word.

  ‘So where did you and Tim meet?’

  She sipped on her champagne and Bannerman saw its bubbles break around her lips. She turned her head to look at him very directly. ‘Not sure that’s any of your business, Mr Bannerman.’

  ‘Probably not. But I’m a nosy bastard.’

  She smiled. ‘And nothing if not blunt.’ Then, ‘You also have a very strong handshake.’

  ‘I do.’

  They moved aside to make way for another group of arriving guests. ‘Shall we go in?’ she said.

  Bannerman nodded, and took her arm to steer her into the reception room. Immediately the sensation of being observers dissolved and gave way to the discomfort of being part of the crowd. Voices rose and fell in half a dozen different languages, socially consolidating awkward political alliances. There were too many people laughing too easily. Waiters offered smoked salmon and whisky from silver platters. A manufactured bonhomie hung in the air like smog.

  ‘So this is how they live in the Euro-ghetto,’ Bannerman said, and took his first sip of champagne.

  She eyed him curiously over her glass. ‘You disapprove?’

  ‘I’m not here to judge, just report the facts.’

  ‘And yet I sense you have already made a judgement on me and Tim.’

  ‘Do you?’ He raised an eyebrow in surprise and shook his head. ‘It’s not really a judgement, Marie-Ange. More an observation.’

  She waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t she sighed. ‘Which is?’ She was doing a poor job of masking her curiosity with indifference.

  Bannerman smiled. ‘I think you could probably hazard a guess.’ He saw the slight puckering of her lips, the tiniest manifestation of her irritation, and he said, ‘You speak very good English.’

  A forced smile betrayed the realization that he was not going to give voice to his observation. So now she feigned boredom and cast her eye around the room. ‘I was educated in England and Switzerland. I also speak French, Flemish and German. But English has always been my lingua franca.’

  Someone nudged her elbow as they passed, and she very nearly spilled her champagne. Bannerman caught her hand to steady it and felt the lightest touch of her breast on his arm. The scent of her perfume seemed suddenly more intoxicating than the bubbles in his champagne. Her face was too close to his. She smiled, her voice faintly husky as she leaned closer. ‘You’re an interesting man, Mr Bannerman.’

  He smiled and moved imperceptibly away. ‘More interesting than Tim?’

  Her smile settled like frost on her lips.

  ‘Bannerman, isn’t it? Neil Bannerman?’ The voice crashed into the intimacy of their conversation. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting.’ Bannerman turned to see a small, rotund figure in a dinner suit two sizes too big, a cheap rental job badly chosen off the peg. Its wearer was in his late fifties, bald with little tufts of greasy grey hair clinging around the edges of his head. His fat, unlined face smiled amiably, a familiar smile below bushy eyebrows. A soiled red handkerchief clutched in short stubby fingers mopped at his forehead and under his chins. His free hand was extended. ‘You remember me, don’t you? Platt. Richard Platt. We worked together on the Mail. Long time ago now.’

  Bannerman heard Marie-Ange tut impatiently beside him. Of course he remembered Platt, but there was an unwillingness to acknowledge it. It was not a time about which he cared to remember. ‘Yes,’ he said reluctantly, and shook Platt’s soft, damp hand.

  Platt said, ‘Must be, what, fifteen years? More. What a coincidence meeting you here in Brussels.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it,’ Bannerman said without enthusiasm.

  ‘I’ve been following your career with great interest. Made quite a name for yourself.’ He paused and beamed at Marie-Ange, who glanced at him with distaste.

  She turned to Bannerman. ‘You’re not doing a very good job of looking after me, Mr Bannerman. My glass is empty.’

  ‘Allow me.’ Platt waved towards a waiter and lifted three glasses when the tray arrived. ‘Sure I’m not interrupting?’

  ‘You are, actually,’ Marie-Ange said with the sweetest of smiles.

  Bannerman shook his head and found a grin. ‘Not at all.’

  Platt shuffled uncomfortably. His smile became fixed. ‘I . . . I’ve been in Belgium nearly ten years now. The evening paper here in Brussels. La Belgique Soir. Perhaps we could meet sometime, for a drink. Chat about old times. Next week if you’re still here.’ He searched his pockets before producing a grubby business card. ‘You can get me at the office most days. And I’m home most evenings after about ten.’ Bannerman took the card and slipped it in his pocket without looking at it. Platt positively wilted under Marie-Ange’s glare, and he backed off. ‘Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it.’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ Bannerman said, knowing that he wouldn’t. And fleetingly wondered what a low-life journalist like Platt was doing at a gathering like this. Platt nodded uncertainly at Marie-Ange and vanished among the dinner jackets.

  With distaste in her voice, Marie-Ange said, ‘Lovebirds?’

  But Bannerman wasn’t listening. He was thinking about Platt. About how little he had changed in all the years. The same drinker’s face, the same nicotine-stained fingers. The same nervous tic over the right cheekbone, the same bad teeth. Uncomfortable in his rented dinner suit, he would have been more at home in his shabby brown raincoat and felt hat. Still, all that had been a long time ago.

  He replayed now what it was Marie-Ange had said on Platt’s departure. He turned to her and inclined his head. ‘Perhaps we make a more convincing couple than you and Tim.’

  The crowd behind her parted suddenly like the Red Sea at the behest of Moses, and he saw Slater at the far side of the room in deep conversation with a man whose back was turned to them.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to Marie-Ange. ‘I have to see a man about a dog.’ He didn’t wait to catch her frown of consternation, and pushed off through the crowd as it ebbed and eddied ahead of him.

  A frown of annoyance crossed Slater’s face when he saw Bannerman approaching, and the other man turned, running a tanned hand through thick dark hair. ‘Maybe time you got back to your good lady,’ Bannerman said. ‘She’s pretty high-maintenance, and I’m off.’

  Slater could barely conceal his irritation at Bannerman’s intrusion. But his companion seemed to welcome the interruption.

  ‘Neil Bannerman, isn’t it? I thought I recognized you. You were at the Council of Ministers yesterday.’

  ‘This is Robert Gryffe, Minister of State for Europe.’ Slater made the introduction grudgingly.

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Bannerman shook Gryffe’s hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Minister. I’m flattered that you should have recognized me.’

  ‘Ah,’ Gryffe smiled. ‘But Mr Bannerman, you have a certain reputation.’

  ‘Would that be good or bad?’

  Gryffe made a moue with pale lips. ‘Not for me to say.’

  Bannerman grinned. ‘Ever the diplomat.’

  All three of them shuffled self
-consciously then as an uneasy silence fell among them. Bannerman had already sensed the tension between Slater and Gryffe. In the former it was patent. In Gryffe it was more subtle. Here was a man used to changing masks, as all good politicians are. The easy smile, the strong handshake. A salesman of ersatz sincerity. But Bannerman was attuned to reading the signs, peeling away the masks. He was good at it. As he had to be. As all good newspapermen had to be.

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’ Bannerman glanced from one to the other and stole Platt’s line to fill the awkwardness.

  ‘Not at all,’ Gryffe said. ‘Tim and I were just chatting. Anyway, it’s time I did some mixing.’ He beamed at Slater, whose attempts to conceal his agitation were falling well short of convincing.

  ‘Nine-thirty,’ Slater said pointedly. And for a second Gryffe’s mask slipped and his face clouded.

  ‘Nine-thirty,’ he repeated, and then the moment had passed and he was smiling once again. He turned his back on Slater and asked Bannerman, ‘Are you in Brussels for anything special?’

  ‘Just sniffing around,’ Bannerman said.

  Gryffe chuckled. ‘Like a dog.’

  ‘A bloodhound,’ Bannerman elucidated. But his smile faded as beyond Gryffe he saw, with a sinking heart, the American couple he had met on the plane. The Schumachers. And they were heading his way. This was not his night.

  ‘Well, Mr Bannerman. Isn’t this a surprise? Just fancy meeting you here.’ Mrs Schumacher was flushed from too many sherries as she barged in on the tiny gathering. Henry followed quietly in her wake. His habitual smile of embarrassment was fixed but genuine. Laura-Lee, however, was oblivious. She raised a pencilled eyebrow at Bannerman. ‘I have to admire you, young man. It didn’t take you long to get in with the movers and shakers.’ She paused to take a breath and straighten her dress. ‘Are you going to introduce us to your friends?’

  Bannerman smiled awkwardly. ‘Mr and Mrs Henry Schumacher, Mr Robert Gryffe, British Minister of State for Europe, and Tim Slater, European correspondent for the Edinburgh Post.’ Slater looked positively hostile, but Gryffe remained unruffled. He shook both their hands.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘And we you, I can assure you, Mr Gryffe.’ Laura-Lee turned towards Henry. ‘My husband is with the US government at NATO. Perhaps you’ll have heard of him?’

  ‘I’m afraid . . .’

  But Laura-Lee didn’t want to hear it. ‘I do so think there should be more contact between the politicians of our two countries. Socially, I mean. Wouldn’t you agree? Perhaps you would lunch with us one day.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to,’ Gryffe lied.

  Mrs Schumacher took his arm confidentially and steered his eyes towards Bannerman. ‘Has this young man been trying to sell you vacuum cleaners?’

  Bannerman watched Gryffe’s face with amusement while Henry Schumacher’s embarrassment grew more acute. ‘I think perhaps you should come and sit down, Laura-Lee,’ he said.

  ‘Oh nonsense, Henry. Don’t fuss. I’m sure Mr Gryffe doesn’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Gryffe said.

  Bannerman noticed Platt watching them curiously from a leaning position against the far wall, a glass clutched tightly in his hand. It was time to put a stop to this. He turned to Mrs Schumacher. ‘I’m sorry to break things up, but I’m afraid I have to go.’ And to Slater, ‘I’ll see you later.’ Pause. ‘Goodnight.’ He turned abruptly and made his way towards the door.

  ‘Well, that’s a shame,’ Laura-Lee said. ‘Such a nice young man. You’d never guess he was a vacuum cleaner salesman.’

  ‘A what?’ Gryffe asked, puzzled for the second time.

  ‘A salesman. Of vacuum cleaners. What was the name of his firm, Henry?’

  ‘The Quick-Clean Vacuum and Brush Company, I think, Laura-Lee.’

  Gryffe smiled with genuine amusement. ‘I think our Mr Bannerman has been pulling your leg, Mrs Schumacher.’

  ‘Oh?’ Laura-Lee glared at him. ‘Who does he work for then?’

  ‘He’s the investigative reporter of the Edinburgh Post. A man with quite a reputation.’

  Mrs Schumacher let go of Gryffe’s arm and he took a relieved step back. ‘You hear that, Henry?’ She turned towards her husband. ‘A reporter. Why on earth would he tell us he sold vacuum cleaners?’ Henry Schumacher’s face echoed Gryffe’s bewilderment of a few moments earlier.

  *

  Platt watched Bannerman leave and wondered what he was up to. He drained his glass and peered at the faces of European society through a haze of alcohol and cynicism, wincing slightly as his ulcer issued the first warnings of a troublesome night. He took a tablet from a bottle in his pocket and chewed on its mintiness. It was not worth staying much longer, he thought. There was no copy in it. His news desk would be upset in the morning, but they could go to hell. It was not his kind of job anyway. Dinner suits and smoked salmon. Though he knew he could not push his luck too far. It was a long time since he had turned in a good story. But he would show them. Rémy and Clerck and the rest. There was no way he would lose this job too. He was happy in his exile. Anonymous, safe from the failed years in Scotland, safe from the single-end, the succession of hard-drinking pubs, the sole milk bottle on the doorstep and the letters of complaint from the woman across the landing. He signalled a waiter and told himself this would be the last whisky tonight. Perfect for washing down his antacid. Now he had Bannerman. An arrogant bastard, yes, but a bloody good reporter. Something must have brought him to Brussels. Something big. And if Platt played his cards right, maybe he could get a piece of the action, whatever it might be. He chuckled to himself. After all these years he might get some mileage out of Bannerman yet.

  II

  Sally sat listening to the slow interminable tick, tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. There was no sound from the child’s room and the apartment was deathly quiet. Her book lay open on the table beside the settee. She had been unable to read, unable to watch television. She had been thinking about Bannerman ever since last night. He’d had an unexpected effect on her. His extraordinary presence, powerful, but subtle at the same time, like the taste of a good wine. There was a sense of something tantalizingly concealed behind his smile, and she found herself wanting to reach out and touch it. But then somewhere deep inside her was that same old fear of commitment that she had been unable to shake off ever since . . .

  She was startled by the sound of the key in the lock and looked at the time. It was only eleven. They were early. She had not expected them back until around two. But there were no voices, only the quiet closing of the door and soft footsteps in the hall. The door opened into the living room and Bannerman stopped on the threshold. He smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten you’d be here. My mind was on other things.’ He swayed slightly as he closed the door and she saw that he had been drinking. He slipped off his coat and threw it over the back of the settee.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ she said.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head again. ‘A little bit drunk, a little bit sad.’ He walked unsteadily past her to the window where he drew back the curtains and stood looking out into the blackness. He could not have seen anything for the light in the room, but she could see his face reflected darkly in the glass. He sank his hands deep in his pockets and she saw his eyes closing. She said nothing, and the moments of silence dragged on. Then he said unexpectedly, ‘You know, there is no way of escaping the things you regret. They’re always there, shaping the way you are, even when you don’t know it. And then something, or someone, brings it all back and it seems all the worse for the years you’ve buried it.’ Sally did not know what to say. He would not, she knew, say these things if he had not been drinking. ‘First the kid,’ he said, ‘and then Platt, and maybe even you in some way.’ He turned to face her.

  She eased herself out of the settee and moved tow
ards him. ‘Don’t say any more.’ She put a finger up to his lips and he kissed it before pulling it gently away.

  ‘I need someone . . .’ he whispered.

  She shook her head. ‘You should sleep on it.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Alone.’ And she felt afraid again. It would be so easy. And it had been so long.

  He let her take his hand and lead him out of the living room and into his bedroom. The shutters were open and the light from the streetlamps shimmered in bright yellow flecks through the drops of rain on the window, tiny needles of light in the darkness. He let her slip off his jacket and tie and start undoing the buttons of his shirt, and all the time he watched her green, speckled eyes. He still felt warmed by the drink, and the sadness had stayed with him. He felt her lips on his chest and he reached out and pressed her head close into him. It felt small and fragile and precious in his hand, her hair soft and silky so that it was almost like touching nothing. He felt the softness of her body pressing against him. All the curves and hollows. She stretched up and he kissed her and they slipped back on to the bed so that he felt all the nakedness of her skin against his – and he could not remember her having undressed.

  They lay for some time, wrapped in each other, without having made love, until Bannerman slipped away into a deep alcoholic sleep. Sally looked at his fine features and ran her finger lightly over his face, feeling the roughness of a day’s growth on his jaw. She was glad that they had not made love. It made it easier to draw back, to avoid involvement.

  She dressed slowly in the darkness and laid Bannerman’s clothes over the chair by the bed. Something fell from his trouser pocket and landed with a light thud on the carpet. She stooped and searched about and felt a key under her hand. He’d forgotten to put the key back under the mat. Quietly she left the room and pulled the door to and slipped down the hall. She opened the front door and replaced the key beneath the mat and heard footsteps and voices on the stair below. A glance at her watch told her it was nearly two. How was it possible that three hours had passed?