Faithless

by Tony Walker

  "I understand how difficult it would be for you," said Toby. "He was your friend. Even if he betrayed you."

  Ailsa nodded, embarrassed at the tears filling her eyes. "He was my friend. He still is my friend - as misguided and foolish a man as he is."

  "How can a traitor be your friend?" sneered Sue.

  Ailsa looked at her. "I'm not sure you understand friendship Sue."

  It was on the tip of Sue's tongue to tell Ailsa what a silly, pretentious woman she was, but even she occasionally had some wisdom, and she remained quiet.

  "What I want to ask," said Toby, "is do you know where John is now?"

  "No," said Ailsa.

  "Well, do you know where he might have gone? We thought he might have gone north."

  Ailsa smiled softly as if remembering. "The north is home. He might have gone to Durham. Or Scotland. If he were sentimental."

  "And is he sentimental? asked Sue thinking she was being clever.

  "Oh yes. He thinks he's a revolutionary, but he should have been a poet."

  "Good," smiled Sue. "I think we're getting somewhere. So you think he'll go to Durham?"

  Ailsa shrugged. "I don't know. I don't see that being very practical for a man on the run. And anyway," she added. "If I did know, I wouldn't tell you."

  "You wouldn't tell me, perhaps, Ailsa," said Sue. "We don't see eye to eye. But you would tell Toby. Remember your duty."

  "I wouldn't tell either of you," she said, "I know my duty, and I've done it. But I have my loyalties also."

  9th November, 9 am, Oxford: The next morning in Oxford it was still raining. John heard it beat on the window of the small terraced house. It took him a while to come to himself and realise where he was. He was lying on Alan Peathouse's shabby sofa. Behind him in the grey of the curtained room he saw shelves of books and magazines in no particular order. They were about economics and history and also stamp collecting when Peathouse tired temporarily of Marxism. A large fluffy cat appeared at the foot of the sofa and walked over on his chest to inspect him, purring loudly. John stroked it. Then the door opened and Peathouse walked in, wearing only underpants and a grey vest.

  "Slept in too late. What do you want for breakfast? I'll make a cup of tea and I've got some shredded wheat if you like that."

  "That'll be fine," said John. "Thanks for putting me up last night."

  "If I hadn't you'd be in jail by now Mr Gilroy. Get dressed. The bathroom is through there for your ablutions."

  John enjoyed the mug of strong tea and also strangely the shredded wheat. He'd avoided it in the past but made a mental note to get some if he managed to escape prison.

  "Car's out the back," said Peathouse.

  They got in the aged Ford Cortina and they drove out of Oxford and north on the A44. Peathouse drove them through Chipping Norton and Shipston on Stour and Stratford upon Avon. The day brightened and Oxfordshire was beautiful. It was another part of England John would never see. Never be free to explore its fields and towns. No cream teas. No antique markets. No real ale with Ailsa in a Cotswold Hotel. No Ailsa.

  They came into the ugly outskirts of Birmingham. Peathouse navigated his way through grey concrete ribbons of motorway. He dropped John in Sparkhill. "This is it, comrade. Good luck."

  "Thanks, Alan."

  "Remember why you did it boy."

  "I'll try."

  "You did it for ordinary people. You did it for the memory of our grandfathers and for the future of our grandchildren so that they can have education and health care and not be kept in poverty. So they don't have to slave for low wages in dangerous conditions. So that a few don't live a life of leisure at the expense of the many. If they win, they'll starve us like they did before. They can't be allowed to win, and that's why you did it."

  Peathouse gave him a comradely hug and waved goodbye. John watched him fire up the Cortina and head off into the future. John went into a cheap clothes shop and bought a baseball cap and a new sweatshirt. He also bought sunglasses as the day had become sunny enough to warrant them. He found a car and van rental in Sparkhill and hired a van in the name of Joseph Boyd; he had the driving licence and passport as evidence of his identity. He paid cash up front. He told the man a story that he was going to pick up some furniture but the man didn't care and didn't look up. He gave the keys to John and said, "Bring it back full. Tomorrow yeah?"

  "Sure," said John. "On the dot of nine."

  The van had been abused. The brakes were spongy. The gears clanked and stuck. The accelerator hardly did anything. When he got it moving it felt like driving a big empty box. He pulled out onto the main road. He looked for signs for the M6 motorway which would take him east until it joined up with the M1. The van did 50 at a grumble and 60 sounding like it couldn't bear it - its engine running with a prolonged shriek. He settled down at a bumpy 55mph and was soon heading north. He turned on the wireless. It was on Radio 1 which played Dire Straits and Wham! and Whitney Houston on an apparently infinite loop, interspersed by zany and cool comments from the DJ. The news came on. The British Government had expelled 25 Soviet diplomats from London, accused of being intelligence officers. In response the Soviets had expelled British diplomats from Moscow. There was speculation that this was related to the disappearance of KGB spy - former British intelligence officer John Gilroy. The newsreader said that Gilroy had so far eluded capture but that police were actively seeking him and any member of the public who had any information was invited to ring their local police force. There followed a short and unflattering description. He took off his sunglasses to see the road better.

  He ate up the miles and was going past Sheffield when the overhead motorway gantry message boards warned of delays and ordered a speed reduction to 50mph. He complied. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe an abnormal load. Maybe road works. Just short of Leeds the gantries reduced the speed to 30mph. He could see the lines of traffic condensing in front of him and snaking in shiny impatient lines far down the road. Within half a mile the traffic ground to a halt. Eventually when it looked like it wasn't going to start any time soon, he switched off the engine. He left the radio on but after ten minutes decided he couldn't stand any more Wham! and switched that off too. Three lanes of traffic were at a standstill. The sun was out and it was unseasonably warm. He put his sunglasses back on and pulled down his cap. He wound down the window and got the attention of the driver of the van next to him. It was an Asian guy who was making deliveries of saris. The man wound down the window.

  "Hey mate. What's up?" said John. "Is it an accident?"

  "No mate," said the man. "I've got CB radio. It's a fucking road block."

  "What?"

  "Police are checking cars for this missing spy."

  "You're kidding me?"

  "No mate. That's what the CB says anyway. But once you're through traffic's moving ok." The man looked at him for longer than was warranted. John put his sunglasses back on and wound up the window. He turned again and the man was speaking into his CB radio.

  John felt his heart race. He was in the slow lane. To his left was the hard shoulder. Empty apart from a dead crow, a piece of rope and plastic bottles here and there. There was an embankment down to fields. He slid over to the passenger seat and opened the door. He stepped out of the car and went over to the embankment as if he was going to pee. Looking down he saw a fence, small trees and then a field with cows in it. He half stumbled down the slope and then clambered over the fence. The cows took little interest. They were lying down: it was going to rain. John had his rucksack on his back. He began to run across the field. When he got to the field edge, he looked back. No one had followed him. That didn't mean they weren't. If they had wind of him going north, he had to change his plans.

  He began to run again, crossing fields, climbing fences and gates. He got to a truck stop on the outskirts of Morley. There he got a lift from a man delivering cattle fodder who only had three teeth. The man was going to Skipton first and then over to Appleby in Cumbria. It would be slow
he said. John took the ride. The man talked about horses mainly. Apparently it was his aim to settle down on a small holding with a few ponies. The driver was in no hurry. They stopped at a Happy Eater and John bought the man a cheeseburger which was much appreciated. They didn't listen to the radio as the driver had a Motorhead and a Led Zeppelin IV cassette which he'd taped from the LPs. He played them on a loop. Eventually they came through the Yorkshire Dales and entered the soft green lands of the Eden Valley in Cumbria. Another place he had never been and would probably never return to.

  From the sleepy market town of Appleby, with its comfortable looking terraced houses leading up the hill to the castle, John caught a bus to Penrith. It was around 5pm and the bus was quiet. John judged that the scattering of people on the bus - two old ladies, a couple of lads heading on a night out and a man with three bags of shopping - were too removed from the life of the metropolis and world politics to notice him or care who he was. The bus took its time, winding through villages, where little happened other than dairy farmers' lives of market, milking and mending fences, village teas, birthday parties and quiet Christmases. He arrived in Penrith by a pub called the Board and Elbow on Great Dockray. He went in and ordered a pint of bitter. The pub was quiet and reassuringly gloomy. He decided to ask about a room for the night. The barman said he would go and get the owner. The owner's brother was the local Conservative Party agent, not that John knew. He didn't like the way John was dressed. He looked a bit ragged and dirty and was Scottish. But then his rooms were empty. He said there was a room for the night and would John like something to eat? He smiled throughout but his gaze lingered on John as if trying to remember something. The room could be paid for in the morning by card or cheque but John said he'd prefer to pay cash now as he would be off early in the morning. The man accepted the money with due deference to a cash paying customer. Then he said, "Full English?"

  "Sure. No mushrooms."

  "Fine, sir. Here for the walking?"

  John nodded.

  "Come by car or train?"

  "Train."

  The man laughed. "I guessed that because if you'd come by car you'd be staying in the Lakes. You can get a bus to Pooley Bridge just outside. Then you're at Ullswater. The most beautiful of the lakes, I think. Though I'm biased."

  "Thank you."

  "But you can get some boots and proper gear in town before you go."

  "Thanks."

  "Couldn't help noticing that you're not really dressed for walking and you don't have any luggage."

  "I travel light."

  "Best way Mr Boyd. Another pint?"

  John shook his head. "No, I'll go out and look round the town."

  "Pity about the weather. But it is Cumbria. I always say the only way you know it's summer is that the rain's warmer."

  "Thank you again. Do you have the key?"

  "Of course silly me. And here's the back door key. Front door is locked at 11:30. Leave your bag here if you don't want to go up to your room yet."

  John unshouldered his bag and gave it to the landlord. "I'll be back before too long."

  The man smiled again. "You never know. The delights of Toppers might tempt you. Open until 2 am! Don't have the energy for it at my age. But you're still a young man. Don't kiss any of the local girls though. The farmers' boys don't like strangers."

  John smiled back. "Thanks for the advice. I'll be back shortly."

  "What time?" asked the landlord.

  "Half an hour? Won't be long."

  He walked out. The sky was cloudy but it wasn't raining. Darkness descended again. John wandered round the middle of town and bought some cod and chips which he ate standing in the doorway of the Midland Bank. A few people walked around going into the pubs and take-aways. The town's shops were closed and it gave itself over to drinking until bed time. John thought about going back to his room, but it was still early so he went for a pint in the Gloucester Arms which was also only quarter full. As he stepped out after his drink, he looked over the road. There were three police vans, blue lights flashing outside the Board and Elbow. Not subtle, he thought. He could hear the police radio crackling. He turned right and ducked into the ginnel between the egg shop and a house. He put on the baseball cap he had bought but thought it looked urban and out of place. He hurried up the narrow passage and came out into an estate of council houses, most of which had been bought by their owners under Mrs Thatcher's scheme. They would be sold to professional landlords over the next few years and rents would rocket. So much for a property owning democracy. He walked along Castle Terrace and found himself by the Queen Elizabeth Grammar School. He saw a sign pointing to Workington and the West Coast. He felt his trouser pocket. In there was his diary and address book. He walked down the road and across the huge motorway roundabout, taking his life in his hands as he ran across in gaps between the waggons making their way up and down from Scotland to Yorkshire and Manchester. Eventually he found himself walking down the unlovely A66 towards the middle of the Lake District. It was dark. He started to thumb for a lift. He reckoned the police wouldn't be checking western routes. They just led into the bowels of Cumbria. Eventually a car stopped. It was a three wheel disabled car and the man driving it had a brown pork pie hat, a brown suit and was half drunk. He was about sixty and spoke in an almost impenetrable northern accent. He was friendly enough but was sleepy. John started talking to him to keep him awake though as far as he could tell the man had little interest in his stories. The mountains were only huge shadows as he passed beneath them. The lakes were ghosts, their wave tops catching light from the moon. Beside forests and underneath the Cumbrian fells they sped, John and his drunken driver. He was heading to Maryport but he very good-naturedly agreed to divert via Workington. By the time he dropped him in Workington outside a pub called the Travellers' Rest, they were the best of friends. He shook John's hand and said, "Good luck Mr Boyd and I hope to meet you again some day. You've been very entertaining company."

  John bade him fare well and said he hoped that they would meet again. He doubted it, not least because the man would most likely fall asleep at the wheel and die in the near future.

  9th November, Workington, Cumbria: John checked his address book. Frankton had told him that he lived near the Traveller's Rest. Opposite the pub was Ashfield Road. Frankton lived at number 8. John walked up to the door and knocked. After a short delay Frankton opened the door. "Fuck me," he said.

  "Hello Billy."

  "I never thought you'd come here."

  "It's not a problem?"

  "No comrade, it's not. Come in."

  John stepped inside Frankton's modest home. An old patterned carpet was on the floor, some china ducks, hanging on nails, flying up the wall in formation. Frankton gestured into the front room. There was a stranger there. John stood warily without entering the room.

  "It's ok. He's Robbo. He's a comrade."

  Still not reassured, John went in and sat heavily on the Draylon sofa. Only when he sat down did he realise how tired he was. It was nearly 10 pm.

  "Want something to eat? I'll make you a bacon butty. Sue's out at her mam's with the kids. They're stopping over. A cup of tea too?"

  "Sure. Sounds great," said John.

  "Want one Robbo?" asked Frankton.

  "No sandwich. But I'll have a cup of tea."

  When Frankton went out to make the tea and bacon sandwich. John sat back, not having the energy to make conversation. Robbo looked shyly at him as if in the company of a celebrity that he recognised but didn't know. At one point a word formed on his lips, but he let it die, not sure if he was allowed to mention the obvious truth. John said nothing. He didn't know if he was safe.

  Frankton came back. "You lads are quiet." He handed them a mug of tea each. "Robbo's local branch secretary. He's sound. This is John Gilroy. He's been on the news."

  "Aye, I thought it was him," said Robbo.

  "I take it you don't want us to let anyone know you're here?" said Frankton.

 
; John nodded.

  "Well the secret police won't get it from us," said Frankton. "I admire you by the way. You've been braver than I ever was."

  "How long were you doing it?" asked Robbo hesitantly. John didn't answer.

  Robbo coughed. "Sorry, mate. Listen I'd better get off. Leave you two to it." He got up, leaving his tea undrunk.

  "Ok, mate. Listen, catch you tomorrow night. Fancy a pint at the Apple Tree?"

  "Aye sure. See you Billy." He paused. "And good luck mate."

  When Robbo had left, Frankton turned to John. "Well mate, I say again - 'fuck me'. Who'd have thought?"

  John shrugged.

  "I knew you were one of us back in the day. Thought that all went out when the pay checks started coming in. Seen it happen many times."

  "I'm tired," said John. "Sorry to arrive and then want to crash out, but I'm knackered."

  "Yeah, there's a spare bed upstairs. You can stay as long as you want."

  "It's not safe for you. Or for me. I need to keep moving."

  "They won't expect you to come here. I didn't."

  "They know you're a party member. Your branch will be infiltrated, but they don't know we're connected. I don't want to put you at risk. You could go down for helping me so let's keep it short and sweet," said John.

  Frankton pushed his glasses up his nose. "I mean I have my differences with the CPSU. Especially after Prague in '68, but it's them versus the Yanks and their Conservative poodles. At least the Sovs are socialists for all their faults."

  "I feel the same."

  "You're either with Reagan and Thatcher - warmongers for Capitalism. Or you're with the Soviets."

  "Listen, I'm a bit too tired for dialectic materialism. I can't think."

  "Sure, go to bed. Just saying I appreciate you did. It's heroic."

  "I need to get to Ireland. I thought via Stranraer."

  Frankton looked at him. "You must be mad. The boat to Belfast is crawling with Special Branch. You won't make it. Plus you have to make your way round the Solway. Easy if you're a seagull but a long way to Stranraer by road from here."