by R. J. Dillon
‘What on God’s good earth are you playing at?’ panted Rossan, pulling up at Nick’s side, catching his breath. ‘Bloody Bensham is threatening to scream blue murder, the cretin. You didn’t strike him, Nick?’ demanded Rossan, ‘nothing physical occurred did it?’
‘He provided me with background on Lubov.’
‘Have you forgotten you’re suspended?’ he ranted.
‘Just tying up a few loose ends in my own time.’
‘Well make sure they’re tied up pronto,’ said Rossan, meshing his fingers together, forcing his leather gloves onto his fingers. Warily looking round he inched closer. ‘I’m risking a hell of a lot by being here. You’re officially classed as dodgy currency, a contaminated entity.’
‘Better make sure you’ve had all your jabs, Paul, don’t know what you may catch off me.’
‘Early retirement for a start,’ Rossan said with feeling.
‘What was Wynn doing freelancing?’
A party of Japanese in clear plastic rain capes scurried through the first wave of drizzle, clanking down below to the mess decks. Rossan bided his time until they’d passed.
‘No one is talking and no one is telling, so forget it.’
‘Someone must have sent her to Hamburg?’
‘Let’s walk,’ suggested Rossan, touching Nick’s arm, coaxing him away from the starboard rail. ‘You’re a valued senior officer, Nick and a friend,’ he said, concern in his clear eyes. ‘You and I both know that Moscow is now counted highly, a strategic partner in more ways than it used to be because of its perceived value in preventing terrorist attacks.’
‘Sally Wynn had twin boys for Christ’s sake, Paul. I’m not prepared to let this go.’
‘I didn’t say you should, but there are factions who wouldn’t mind if you were thrown out on your ear, door slammed, thank you and bugger off.’
‘Who knew about the collection apart from Parfrey?’
They’d stopped at the stern and Rossan gripped the rail looking towards Tower Bridge, his arms straight and locked tight.
‘The usual suspects probably,’ Rossan said slowly, ‘any operations on European soil are cleared by Jane, Teddy, Roly, C and myself.’
‘No one else, no friends or associates?’ Nick asked, setting off without warning, Rossan having to hurry to catch up.
‘Not to my knowledge,’ Rossan said.
‘Well someone invited Moscow to the party,’ said Nick.
Braving the rain on a second slow tour of their own making, they passed under the barrels of the forecastle’s six-inch guns.
‘Look, Nick, you’ve spent so much time on the road recently that you’re out of the loop as far as new allegiances on the eighth floor go,’ Rossan disclosed with a bitter smile. ‘Teddy is still nursing his ego after the appointment of our new Chief which seriously put his nose out of joint. I sincerely hope that you’re going to stay out of town for the foreseeable future, or until you’ve had this meeting on Monday. Listen to me,’ urged Rossan, gripping Nick’s wrist. ‘C is a slick political act who finds darling Jane his new best friend and flavour of the month, Teddy as his doer of dirty deeds, and Roly and me are simply tolerated and suffered in silence.’
‘How far do we go back Paul?’
‘A way and some more.’
Looking over to the boarding kiosk on the embankment, Nick noticed a lone figure patrolling forlornly backwards and forwards. ‘That why you brought along a babysitter?’ Nick nodded to Rossan’s minder.
Rossan didn’t immediately reply, but seemed to be searching for the right answer to satisfy each of them. ‘It’s better for both of us this way,’ said Rossan, his voice and his eyes unable to disguise his embarrassment.
‘Did you get my things?’
‘I swore your secretary to a lifetime of pain and torment if she so much mentions what I collected,’ Rossan declared, his voice low and urgent, passing Nick a plain A4 buff envelope. Nick tore back the gummed flap, glancing inside at a number of worknames he’d used before; different professions, different lives, all of them bearing photographs of Nick with sullen expressions. ‘I didn’t ask and I don’t want to know.’
Slipping the package into his rucksack Nick nodded his thanks. ‘Just following up a possible lead, a Latvian source of Wynn’s, that’s all.’
‘Damn it, Nick, I don’t want the details,’ said Rossan in a temper. ‘This is as far as I go,’ Rossan added, ‘from here on in, you walk by yourself. We haven’t met, we haven’t discussed a thing, we haven’t even said hello.’
‘I owe you.’
‘You bloody do,’ Rossan said, softly patting Nick’s arm. ‘Oh, by the way, Jane wants to see you, usual place, usual time.’
‘Take care Paul.’
Halfway down the deck Rossan turned but didn’t wave, seeming to Nick that his old friend was taking a last look at him, fixing this moment into his mind.
• • •
Nick arrived home after eleven that evening and the milk bottles were already out; four in a neat line that he almost kicked over. Angela had obviously ignored his warning and remained obstinately at home and Nick felt their separation was complete, two lives divided by their own needs and rituals. What could be more natural than a secret life here as well, he thought. We could arrange to avoid each other through the Dairy Crest milkman; skimmed, semi-skimmed, silver and organic, the Torr code for complete separation would never be broken. He’d eaten and waited for Jane at the Cittie of Yorke in Holborn, but she never turned up and after making a couple of pints last almost an hour, he’d written her off, not for the first time, and left.
The house was dark, an after smell of casserole pressed into the warm air. In the kitchen he opened the fridge, finding more packs of Japanese lager had been added. Nick helped himself to a can.
Crossing the kitchen he turned a lamp on in the alcove, light swimming out in a warm wave across the dining room table. Two dirty plates, two pudding bowls, two empty bottles of wine, red and white, two cans of lager crushed, no doubt with a finger and thumb. So what was the hurry Angie that stopped you clearing away? Nick wondered. Amidst the remains of a dinner for two, a photographic timeline of Tom set out in uneven columns along the table. Nick took a drink and tried to work out why Angela was reawakening the past?
Wanting an answer, Nick swung out into the dark hall. One stair, two climbed, drinking as he went, past Angie’s barrier up to a smaller staircase and the second floor. Tom’s room had become Angela’s untouched shrine to their dead son; its door a spacecraft flight deck painted full size on the panels was slightly open. Nick hadn’t ventured in here for years and he pushed the door open, one hinge needed oiling he remembered too late. Everything untouched, a family memorial that reminded Nick how it had once been the centre of his life. The room still and sad, one vital ingredient would always be missing; pine bed and sleeping boy, a clown night-light and serene breaths, unexpected joy.
He took a final glance and closed the door. He’d have given anything to hold Tom, apologise for ever raising his voice, showing his temper, his impatience, his annoyance. He felt every molecule of Tom flowing through him, a continuum between father and son; love, hope, joy, the promise of the future and Nick didn’t want the responsibility for breaking the link.
His head raked back draining the can, Nick didn’t notice a large ceramic dish. Kicking it sideways it delivered its load of polished pebbles through the banister spindles, thumping on down the stairs. A dash of light hit the landing below and Nick sensed a figure waiting by his bedroom door. An explanation would be demanded, he’d apologise of course. Maybe he’d even get one of Angie’s tearful polemics that he he’d never been able to find an answer for.
Rehearsing his excuse for trespassing into Tom’s room, Nick made his way down and came face to face with Guy. Standing in an oblong of light spilling from the main bedroom Guy stood firm, naked except for boxer shorts and a hockey stick Angie kept by the bed for when Nick was away; grasped firm, ready to take a strik
e.
‘It’s okay, Guy, he belongs to me,’ Angela said standing in the doorway, dressed in a loose creased white T-shirt and black Agent Provocateur knickers.
‘That’s right, Guy, I’m Angie’s husband, I live here,’ Nick said.
‘Sometimes,’ sighed Angela.
Then Nick did the most ridiculous thing, crushing the Japanese can he pitched it towards Guy’s bare feet. ‘Not bad.’
‘What’s mine is yours, what’s yours is mine,’ grinned Guy, flicking the can to one side, weighing the hockey stick in both hands with menace.
‘Don’t,’ urged Angela coming to Guy’s side. ‘Nick works for a security company, he’s served in the Royal Marines.’
‘That’s right, Guy,’ said Nick, taking a couple of paces forward, calculating his striking distance his eyes set resolutely ahead hardly blinking, his hands locked firm and tight.
‘I’ve read all about your sort,’ sneered Guy. ‘Fast buck mercenaries someone called you in The Independent.’
‘Not that sort of security,’ Angela put in quickly, realising the danger. ‘Nick’s a consultant. He advises foreign businessmen about protecting their employees and anti-kidnapping techniques,’ she said, attempting to prise the hockey stick from her lover’s hand but having no luck. ‘You adore the travel more than anything, don’t you?’
‘The travel’s great,’ said Nick, inching a step closer. Who wouldn’t want to see the inside of a Moscow military prison, he thought. Thinking also of his recent operation in Afghanistan, that was all fun as well. A British patrol supporting Nick’s team had been ambushed; casualties from the patrol’s lead WMIK Land Rover were being treated by the medic as the vehicle burnt itself out. After a short contact they’d taken three Taliban prisoners, holding them in a dry riverbed, sitting cross-legged, hands cuffed behind them, their AK-47s and ancient bolt-action rifles kicked clear.
Nick in combats solid with dust, his face sporting a three-week beard, stood behind members of his highly pissed-off team as an NCO from the patrol attempted to discover from their Afghan Army interpreter how the Taliban knew about their route and timing. The interpreter spoke to the prisoners in Pashto relaying their replies to the NCO, explaining how a senior Taliban commander from a different district had provided all the information. Nick pushing his way to the front, asked the interpreter in Pashto why he was lying, why did he tell the prisoners to say nothing important, only to give small talk as their answers? Laughing to cover his surprise, the interpreter cockily told Nick in English he must be mistaken, must have misheard. Drawing his 9mm P226 Sig-Sauer, Nick put a round into the interpreter’s knee, advising the NCO that they had their informer, then started to question the prisoners in Pashto all over again.
‘I really do like the travel,’ said Nick for Angela’s benefit.
‘Bit of a lame excuse for neglecting a beautiful woman,’ said Guy with real venom. ‘Good job I’m here to take care of her.’
It was over in a matter of seconds. Though Nick could only recall connecting with Angie’s lover once, it must have been more; because after Angie screamed for him to stop, had slapped his face, Nick had the hockey stick and Guy was on his hands and knees inside the bedroom gasping and retching. Everything then moved at speed. Nick had Guy’s arm bent in a nasty lock behind his back, ordering him to grab his clothes. With his shirt, jacket, trousers, shoes and socks in a bundle clasped to his chest, Nick ran Guy down the stairs taking the treads two at a time. With Angela screaming ‘bastard’ all the way to the front door, Nick heaved her lover out onto the garden path kicking the door closed after him.
‘That’s it, we’re really finished now,’ yelled Angela as Nick came through the hall, adopting her usual defensive position on the stairs.
‘I didn’t know we’d even started,’ shouted Nick going down to the kitchen, helping himself to another can of Guy’s favourite lager.
‘You’d better leave,’ she demanded from halfway up the stairs as Nick returned, placed a foot on the first tread as a sign of intent, though he wasn’t ready to advance.
He drank greedily going for half the can but couldn’t swallow fast enough. To stop himself choking he closed his eyes. When he opened them, Angela was gone. So was the light. Drifting from the bathroom, he heard the shower’s wet rays and the loud blast of a radio. A portable battery one she toted everywhere and used effectively to obliterate him from another of her senses.
Up in the bedroom Nick turned on his bedside light, puncturing the darkness with a savage click. He viewed the room as though it bore the evidence from a scene of crime. The bed still held their imprint, fresh sheets ruffled and creased he noted avoiding going near it, preferring a chair on his side of the bed. Though how many others could make that claim of avoiding Angie in that bed he couldn’t decide. Silence from the radio marked Angela’s return, walking straight in, naked. Too much wine Angie, too many dinners with Guy he decided, watching pouches of flab bounce at the top of her legs.
‘I’m going to see a solicitor, on Monday,’ she announced curtly, watching him with her sly eyes. Nakedness had never troubled her, she was as natural in any state and believed inhibitions were for the stupid and ugly. Another of her cannibalised beliefs she’d acquired at the Slade. What was the other? Love is an unattainable state, sex is a base desire. He stared at her face deliberately avoiding her body.
‘Great,’ he said, realising that she actually wanted to make him feel inadequate, perhaps even crave what he couldn’t have again. She shrugged and he couldn’t help glimpsing the movement in her breasts.
Pulling on a clean T-shirt and knickers she sat at her dressing table. She’d more pots of cream and lotions than an alchemist he thought, watching her apply barriers to prevent wrinkles and lotions to dam the onset of middle-age. Anger in one big icy hand slid over his intestines, squeezing, releasing, squeezing again; funnelling shock into the pit of his stomach. This, after all the years of trying, was finally the end. Blowing his hair off his hot forehead, Nick shook away the icy fingers. This then the end of a life not lived for cover, but his own life written off; discarded like a blown workname and this realisation sent his whole system plummeting on a continuous free-fall.
‘I’ll move out for a while,’ he offered as she slipped between the sheets.
No movement from Angie’s side of the bed, her new total exclusion zone and Nick’s eyes roved onto the curtains, picking out faces rising from the coloured swirls and blocks of print; demons, monsters and screaming mouths all sniggering, taunting him.
‘Good, because it’s over. You, me, this house, we’ve reached the end of the road,’ Angela said dully. ‘Just go, now, right now, we’ve nothing more to say.’
Instead he took a shower, the spray too hot, too cold; another tradesman Angie would have to hire to rectify the house’s little misdemeanours. After re-strapping his ribs from the first-aid kit, and a change of clothes, he pulled down an overnight bag from the top of the wardrobe cramming in a few warm shirts, trousers, socks and underwear. If she wanted the house she could have it.
Downstairs he started throwing her symphonies and concertos to one side. A sudden rush of fury at her wilful rejection at reconciliation overloaded Nick’s circuits, shorting his fuse. He rummaged through his CDs. Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Beatles, Hendrix, Roxy Music, Bowie, Brubeck; albums before Angie came along were added to the bag. By the telephone, a pad they used for passing on messages. Ripping out the numbers from a page she had titled His Calls, Nick skimmed the numbers and saw one of his missed calls attributed by Angie to ‘The Bitch’, his wife’s shorthand for Jane Stratton.
Switching off the lights Nick grabbed his bag and banged the door behind him, the lion’s head knocker rattling for all it was worth. On the street Nick made a visual sweep, left and right; his face tinted a pale orange from the street lamps before striding off for his car. Another of my funny habits Angie, the ones you always complained made us look ridiculous, though you wouldn’t know how many times they migh
t have saved your life. Same for the agents I had to run he recounted, climbing into his Saab. Grubs out of the woodwork, that was what Angie used to call them. It’s something she wouldn’t understand, she’d never tried, never made the effort. This leaves us where exactly, he asked himself; two isolated lives that we’d tried to live as one, but it didn’t take long for Angie to see through the charade, Nick decided and one day Angie, you’re going to have to admit the truth, we hated ourselves and each other for not being able to love. He started the car and drove off at speed.
• • •
Nick made the drive to Devon in just over three hours, reaching the remote detached cottage before four in the morning. Locking the Saab, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder a blast of sea air whipped his tiredness away, rising up over the cliff less than half a mile away. To stand in the darkness was a relief, as though an old friend had been anxiously waiting to greet him. This spot more than London was where he considered home, his nearest neighbours a row of ex-coastguard cottages used as holiday lets a quarter of mile further along the cliff, a small village for provisions lying a mile behind inland.
Both keys turned with effort and the swollen door, sticking in its frame as usual, required a brutal push from Nick’s shoulder to swing it open. Cold damp air streamed around him and Nick began his usual ritual of acclimatisation. On a shelf inside the porch an oil lamp crackled and hissed as he lit it, his only means of illumination until he’d turned on the power. No gas and no telephone, no modern design fads and whims; this is how he wanted it, basic just like him. Inherited from his mother the cottage was his hideaway; a jealously guarded retreat where he rarely invited anyone, much to Angie’s disgust. She saw the place as a chance to impress pleading with Nick to let her modernise it, redesign it, but he always refused. In summer he’d have all the sash windows open, the breeze carrying in the smell of sea, the fields, and a heady aroma of stock. In the evening, depending on the weather, the incense of wood smoke drifted in.