Icelight

by Aly Monroe

  John Driver sighed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Back in Wilbraham Place Cotton shook John Driver’s hand and wished him well.

  ‘Goodbye, Hans.’

  ‘You know where I am,’ he said.

  38

  COTTON WENT upstairs to his flat and called the contact number for Derek Jennings.

  About half an hour later Derek called him.

  ‘I’d like to see you. And Bambi Bosworth,’ Cotton said.

  ‘I don’t know if he’ll like that.’

  ‘I don’t imagine he’ll refuse. Can you come up to Victoria station?’

  ‘All right. There’s that little news cinema to one side. Do you know it?’

  ‘I know where it is. What time?’

  ‘Can we say noon tomorrow?’

  ‘All right.’

  At noon on Monday, Cotton was outside the cinema. Derek and a tiny person with a very round face were waiting.

  ‘Mr Bosworth?’

  ‘That’s my father,’ said Bambi. He looked like a slightly wrinkled schoolboy, had no need to shave and spoke at deepest as a contralto.

  ‘Derek, could you stay here, while we have a little stroll?’

  Derek nodded first to Cotton, then to Bambi. ‘It’s all right,’ he said.

  Cotton and Bambi turned and began walking towards the main concourse.

  ‘They cut your leg,’ said Bambi.

  ‘That’s right. I’m going to speak. Interrupt if I get something wrong. All right?’

  ‘I don’t want trouble.’

  ‘There will be none. About last October you were approached—’

  ‘No. I was picked up by the police after I had met Mr Watson. Not the usual kind of thing. A man told me I should become Mr Watson’s regular, if you know what I mean. I said I didn’t know. I didn’t know what kind of man Mr Watson was.’

  ‘Were you paid?’

  ‘Not then. But I got paid in January. A fiver.’

  ‘That was for Watson?’

  ‘No. Watson was extra. And that was after, when he was going to top himself. I got paid after the whistles blew and Watson was arrested. I had a little holiday in Brighton.’

  ‘Was that it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did you do more work for the people who paid you?’

  ‘No. It was a one-off.’

  ‘Who gave you the money?’

  Bambi Bosworth pointed at Cotton’s thigh. ‘Two Scottish gents,’ he said.

  Cotton nodded. He turned back and they walked slowly towards Derek.

  ‘Why are you called Bambi?’

  ‘About 1943 a sailor knocked me down.’

  Cotton glanced at him.

  ‘Then he told me to get up. You know. “Get up, Bambi. Get up.” Everyone laughed. So it stuck.’

  ‘A client?’

  ‘Yes. Some of them get uncomfortable afterwards.’ He shrugged. ‘I can buy children’s clothes, though. That’s cheaper.’

  Derek was walking towards them looking anxious.

  ‘Two coppers told me I should move on,’ he said.

  ‘Apparently you’re going to have to get used to that,’ said Cotton. ‘They’re about to change tactic, I’m told. A different emphasis.’

  Derek shook his head. ‘I’m not a cottager,’ he said.

  ‘You’re going to have to take more care, that’s what I am saying,’ said Cotton.

  ‘He means the police will be getting back to normal and charging us. Rather than the other way round,’ said Bambi Bosworth. ‘I’ve got to get back.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Derek. ‘Anything else, Colonel?’

  ‘No. You’re free to go, Derek.’

  Derek squinted at him. ‘Your department?’

  ‘Doesn’t need you.’ Cotton took a pound from his wallet. ‘Your fares, gentlemen. Thank you very much.’

  Cotton saw the policemen.

  ‘I’ll say goodbye,’ he said. He walked directly at the policemen and took out his identification as he did so.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said to them. ‘You almost spoilt something. If you wish you may contact Inspector Dawkins of Special Branch. My name is Cotton. It’s up to you, officers.’

  ‘No, sir. That’s satisfactory.’

  Cotton shook his head. ‘I’ll bet,’ he said.

  He walked back across the Park to his office in St James’s Street.

  ‘Sir Desmond wants to see you,’ said Miss Kelly. Miss Kelly had perfected a peculiarly impassive look that meant something was, at least potentially, going badly – in this case she meant Sir Desmond was displeased.

  ‘When?’

  ‘He asked to see you when you got in.’

  Cotton prepared himself and went upstairs. Sir Desmond Brown made him wait for ten minutes, before calling him in and frowning at him.

  ‘Your name is cropping up far too much!’ Sir Desmond sounded exasperated.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Operation Sea-Snake has been terminated.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, sir.’

  ‘It’s a damn pity about Ayrtoun. Dreadful shame about his wife.’ Sir Desmond shook his head and looked up.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cotton. ‘I was very sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Ayrtoun was effective, I understand.’ He shook his head. ‘Unbearable pressure. That’s what the committee decided. Given his wife, it just wasn’t fair to have him on the front line, as it were. Best thing for everyone.’

  Cotton said nothing. He wondered if one or two of the people Ayrtoun had been hunting were on the committee.

  ‘Awful business,’ said Sir Desmond. He looked down at his desk. ‘You’ve been recommended for something,’ he said.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘This United Nations thing. You’ll be in New York. All very high sounding, of course. J. D. Rockefeller has given 8.5 million dollars to purchase some land by the East River. But I understand it is all getting rather grubby.’

  ‘When would that be, sir?’

  ‘In May, I think. The end of May. I understand you have some experience of the US.’

  ‘I was in Washington in late ’45, sir. With Mr Ayrtoun.’

  ‘Good. It says here you were involved in the economic aspects of postwar decolonialization.’

  ‘Only rather briefly,’ said Cotton.

  ‘Keynes got the money, didn’t he?’

  Sir Desmond was not listening. He turned a page on his desk and read a little more.

  ‘Behind the scenes,’ he said. ‘You’ll be behind the scenes. The Americans are awfully keen on decolonialization but rather remiss on what it actually means. What do you think?’

  Cotton thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Good man,’ said Sir Desmond. ‘I’ll get the paperwork started.’ But then he frowned. ‘I wasn’t entirely sure, you know, quite whether to give this the go-ahead.’

  ‘Are you saying this is a promotion, sir?’

  ‘I was referring more to this man Mair,’ he said. ‘Some snippy little estate agent has been on to us and given your name.’

  ‘That’s MI6 business, sir. MI6 let Mair go last September, then they or possibly MI5 employed him again unofficially. Do you remember the plutonium scientist A. A. Watson, sir? He committed suicide in Croydon. We have reason to believe Mair may have provided him the wherewithal.’

  ‘Dear God!’ said Sir Desmond. ‘This is serious stuff!’

  ‘But it’s not our stuff, sir, under any circumstances. Mair mentioned two men he called Crouch and Cunningham. I doubt if those are the real names. I saw Mair about Watson and an interview he had had with Oleg Cherkesov of the Soviet Embassy.’

  ‘Cherkesov has gone.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Mair’s house was rented and paid for either by MI6 or MI5 – or at least paid out from one of their funds.’

  ‘This estate agent claims there’s no furniture in the house.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that, sir. The place may have been robbed, of course. I believe Mr Mair is no longer in this
country. But I repeat, under no circumstances is our agency liable for anything to do with Mair.’

  ‘Have you a report?’

  Cotton gave him the report Mair had given him.

  Major Albert Briggs MP was pleased to invite P. J. B. Cotton for a drink at the Houses of Parliament. It was the first time Cotton had been there. Because of the bomb damage, the House of Commons was still meeting in the Lords Chamber while the Lords were meeting in the Robing Room. There was internal scaffolding. A couple of stonemasons were working on blocks of stone before the parliamentary session began.

  ‘Hello, lad. You’ve heard, have you?’

  ‘Heard what, Major?’

  Major Bertie leant quite close. ‘Sir Hear-Hear Johnson is leaving the country.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  Briggs laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The old goat has a place in Jamaica.’ He laughed. ‘I almost feel sorry for the Jamaicans!’

  ‘And Lady Madeleine?’

  Briggs made a face. ‘Who cares? They haven’t lived together for years.’ Briggs beamed. ‘Good riddance, I say. And if he could only take some more toffee-nosed cunts with him!’

  Cotton glanced at him, but Major Bertie was not drunk.

  ‘Good job,’ said Major Bertie. ‘I hear you’re off soon.’

  ‘Quite soon, yes.’

  ‘I’ll remember, lad,’ said Major Bertie. ‘I always do. I’ve got a memory like a fucking elephant.’

  ‘Major Briggs, thank you.’

  Cotton took a cab to the Garrick Club.

  ‘Long time no see,’ said Miles Crichton. ‘It’s all over, I take it.’

  Cotton nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Success?’ Crichton summoned champagne.

  Cotton smiled. ‘I’d hardly say that. We’ve probably put a lid on Briggs. Not that you would know it. He’s ecstatic that Sir Hear-Hear Johnson is off to Jamaica, all due to the photographs he now has in his possession. But I suspect Mr Perlman will have him concentrate purely on prurient things.’

  Miles Crichton laughed. ‘Quite! The purely prurient, eh!’ He downed a glass of champagne. Cotton pushed his own glass towards him as he leant forward.

  ‘We may have got MI5 to adopt a more roundabout, perhaps less violent, approach to homosexuals. And I think we may have got two razor boys removed from circulation, in this country at least.’

  Cotton sat back. Miles Crichton smiled and took a sip from the second glass. ‘That’s bloody good,’ he said. ‘You’ve achieved something. Yes, I’d say you’ve probably done rather well.’ He looked up. ‘And you yourself? What’s next? No, no. Don’t answer.’ He considered. ‘You’ve probably caused some alarm, even consternation in the constipated corridors of Whitehall. That would suggest . . . let’s see. They won’t quite punish you for being a laxative, I don’t think. Ah! Wait a minute. I always think of Dickens in these cases.’

  Cotton laughed. ‘We were told not to use the name when describing our conditions of work.’

  ‘No, no, dear boy, I’m talking about movement. What happened when sales flagged?’

  ‘Are you talking of Martin Chuzzlewit?’

  ‘Yes. He was sent to America, wasn’t he?’

  Cotton laughed. ‘You’ve been talking to somebody?’

  Miles Crichton was delighted. ‘I have not! Oh, all right. A member here told me Alfred Perlman had said you were international level.’

  Cotton shook his head. ‘I believe the Americans call that failing up. I hadn’t appreciated that Mr Perlman was quite so generous.’

  ‘Balls,’ said Crichton. ‘The British Empire looks not for Judas but for Pontius Pilate, a pretty decent colonial governor if you think about it. He upheld a version of the law, kept his subjects happy and gave Christians the Resurrection.’

  Cotton smiled dutifully. He summoned another couple of glasses of champagne.

  ‘Oh, I really am going to miss you,’ said Miles Crichton. ‘Am I out now?’

  ‘I’ll recommend they keep you on,’ said Cotton. ‘I understand Inspector Radcliffe of Special Branch has been put to investigating a certain Sydney Stanley. Apparently Mr Stanley is decidedly generous towards certain civil servants and government ministers.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Crichton, ‘the British Establishment may be an unholy mix of stodge and privilege but, by God, it survives. A little whiff of bribery? The Government will be in a panic.’

  With difficulty, some of it apparently emotional, Miles turned his head towards the large, shabby eighteenth-century window of the Garrick Club and the grey view from it.

  ‘God, it’s fucking dreary,’ he said. ‘Thanks, old man.’

  It was time to leave. Cotton shook Crichton’s hand and walked downstairs. The light showed up the heads on the portraits on the stairwell as blank ovals, where the original space on the canvases left for the faces and the later varnish combined to make the features vanish and reappear.

  Cotton stepped outside on to Garrick Street. In a grey, overcast sort of way he felt relieved and free.

  39

  ON FRIDAY, 14 March, Cotton went to Guy’s Hospital and had the stitches in his thigh taken out. The doctor was pleased but the skin around the scar looked puffy to Cotton and the stitch marks looked a long way from neat invisible mending. They resembled more the scars on Frankenstein’s movie monster. He was told to apply an ointment and to avoid violent exercise.

  On 16 March 1947 the cold ended, the grey skies darkened and it started to rain. The rain was abundant, the snow melted, but since the ground was still frozen to some depth, the water ran off the surface and caused widespread flooding. Gales and even more rain followed and though limited to a fortnight, made that March one of the wettest on record. The soldiers, German POWs and Poles were moved from snow clearance to stacking sandbags and rescuing stranded people, sometimes in rowing boats.

  On March 17th the Prime Minister suggested that the British people were now engaged in a Battle of Britain 1947. There was some coal in fireplaces by the end of the month. The stuff was wet, difficult to light, and when alight smoked and spat. The smoke from millions of chimneys rose into the rain. On his way home on the Tube, Cotton saw a girl wipe her face and leave a sooty streak. On the tip of his umbrella was a drop with tiny specks of black suspended in it. London smelt of dampened sulphur and acrid tar.

  On Friday, 28 March, Charles Portman came to see Cotton. He told him that ‘the selection process was over’ and that a new person had been appointed to the Malayan desk. Cotton could now remit all papers. Cotton stared at him.

  ‘I don’t have any,’ he said.

  Portman was only momentarily discomforted. ‘Ah, yes. Of course.’

  On Saturday, 29 March, Cotton went down to see his father in Peaslake.

  ‘You’re looking better,’ his father said. ‘You’ve found your feet with the great and the good, have you?’

  Cotton laughed. His father wasn’t usually so pointed. ‘No great, no good,’ he said. ‘Just the usual Horlicks.’

  His father blinked. ‘I never understood that,’ he said.

  ‘Understood what?’

  ‘Well Horlicks is a bedtime drink, isn’t it? It avoids something called “night starvation”, something else I never understood. So how did it come to mean a mess?’

  Cotton shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. I always thought it was a euphemism. Rhyming slang? It’s a sort of milky gruel, isn’t it?’

  James Cotton made a face. ‘These Cockneys are awfully roundabout, you know.’ He looked up. ‘I’m not going to America. I’ll stay here and do up the house. Then they can come and see me.’

  ‘They being Joan and family?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Cotton. He looked around and saw Joan’s letter paper on the kitchen dresser.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because I’m off to the States at the end of May. United Nations.’

  ‘I see,’ said James Cotton. ‘Well, at least one member of the famil
y will be on this side of the Atlantic. Ah! That girl who used to come here. Caught shoplifting in Woolworths, you know.’

  ‘What did she steal?’

  ‘I really don’t know. Something trivial. Nail varnish, I think. It wasn’t lipstick, I know that. I’m afraid I felt unable to provide a written character reference, you know, to present at the hearing.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t think even the Australians are that keen on criminality now.’

  ‘Are you saying they won’t be able to emigrate?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ said Cotton’s father. He looked up and sighed. ‘It’s going to have to be patch and repair for this old place, you know, rather than new. But not to worry. I’m pretty sure we are getting back to normal.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’ll get back, old boy, to a certain decency. At least in public.’

  Cotton looked at his father. He decided not to say ‘Have you no desire at all to see your grandchildren?’

  ‘Oh, there are a couple of letters for you, one foreign,’ said James Cotton. ‘On the mantelpiece. In the drawing room.’

  The drawing room smelt dank and was still cold enough for Cotton’s breath to show. His father had put the letters behind the clock. Either his father had stopped winding the clock or it had not survived the winter.

  One was from Washington DC from Evelyn Duquesne. The letter was typewritten, dated March 17th. Her signature had taken on a slight tremor.

  So sad about Penny Ayrtoun – not, of course that it was a complete surprise. What was a surprise was that he, as we say, just folded. It’s strange how dependent we can be, however unlikely the dependence can look. At least that is the story I hear. Nobody got a chance to say goodbye to him. I understand he’s now in Canada, Ottawa I think. Somebody told me that there’s a doctor there who uses electric shock therapy with some success on the dispirited and depressed. This being Washington, I can’t be sure that is true, of course.

  Cotton folded the letter and put it in his inside pocket. He noted he felt next to nothing. Was that resentment? He did not know. His ignorance did not bother him.

  The other letter was from Dr Powell in the village. It acknowledged payment for treating Mrs Douglas. The doctor had added a note: