October Song

by Ru Pringle

  He scans the jetty and forecourts of the castle. Lowers his binoculars and looks again at his watch. She’s been gone more than an hour-and-a-half.

  What the hell is she doing?

  He’d watched with the binoculars as she was marched off the boat into the floodlights of that weird, phantom building, and he’s seen and heard nothing since. What’s winding him up is not simply the nagging suspicion that at any instant he could be chopped in half by a minigun. All kinds of lurid scenarios have begun filing through his head. Has she been kidnapped? Is she locked in a room somewhere – being tortured? Or gang-raped on video? Then again, he’s probably fooling himself if he thinks he knows her any more. She’s been conspicuously cagey about a lot of things. Has she taken him for a mug, and simply been using him until now? Dumping him now she no longer needs him, as part of some unspoken previous arrangement with whoever is on the island?

  He ponders this last thought for a while. It doesn’t make a lot of sense: the journey’s been too influenced by chance events for them to have ended up here by design. He scrolls back through his memories of the previous days, looking for ways in which he might have been unwittingly coerced, seeking a pattern. He isn’t aware of anything from her beyond a sense of relief that they’re heading north.

  If she’s manipulated him in any major way, she’s very good at it.

  He tries to analyse his thoughts, to pinpoint why he’s getting so jumpy. To his dismay, he realises that a core component is the prospect of returning to work. By which he supposes he also means reality. If Coira doesn’t reappear, what’s next? What will he do? How can he go back to MI5 and expect to carry on as before? Somewhere along the line – among all the things he expected this new Coira to be, and those he didn’t – she has somehow become entangled with feelings of hope. Of possibility.

  But at the root of it all, while it’s horribly complicated given their histories and situation, and he doesn’t understand what it might mean – or want even to think about the trouble it could cause him – he finds he’s simply worried for her.

  Alistair curses himself. He knows he should have insisted on going with her. But she always was … No, not persuasive. Intractable. In certain moods, a thermonuclear explosion was unlikely to shift her from her chosen path. When her mind was set on something in this way, a sense of purpose seemed to radiate from her eyes so that only the brave or reckless dared challenge her.

  It had clearly paid dividends. He was sure it was what got her so senior in the police. But he suspected it had also kept her alone. It was certainly what killed his relationship with her, after his return to Edinburgh from boarding school. She had always been too wild for him. Even as children, the trouble he’d found himself in had largely been Coira’s doing. They had jumped off a cliff once into the sea. It had been so high, he’d been knocked out. Doctors said he was lucky not to have died. She’d been fiercely protective of him after that, perhaps out of guilt.

  With Coira, fierce had been the active word.

  And now she’s suddenly materialised back into his world – unwelcome, stirring things up again, in almost every way. Everything is confused. After the last few days, whatever happens next, he knows that neither he nor his life can ever be the same.

  He considers abandoning her. Considers it long and hard. Can he live with himself if he does? It’s probably the sensible thing to do. Their meeting was only ever about luck, and no one could blame him for putting himself first. All he was supposed to be doing here was giving her a sodding lift.

  ‘Damn you, Coira Keir.’

  He’ll give her a couple of hours, he decides, and turns back to his binoculars.

  CHAPTER 47

  ______________

  Proposal

  THE LIFT GLIDES DOWN through the trapped rainforest.

  Coira is more nervous than she wants to admit. She’s allowed herself to get trapped in a deceptive little sparkly bubble, she realises. Which, she suspects, was precisely the intention. Yegor Rotislavovich Gryanov is a Russian oligarch. Russian oligarchs don’t get to be oligarchs by being frivolous or kind. He’s only interested in her – he’s only doing any of this – because he wants something.

  Trouble is, she can’t even begin to guess what that might be.

  The concierge who took her to her room seems to have been assigned to her. There’s a subtle droop to his eyelids that wasn’t there before. She hopes the fucker doesn’t expect a tip. Trying not to twist her ankle in her ridiculous shoes, she follows the man as fast as she can across the echoing atrium and into a secluded restaurant space.

  She’s surprised: she’d expected a long table in some private dining chamber with an ostentatious view. Once again, the décor here is an almost inoffensive modern take on Scottish baronial, with feature walls of faux-weathered stonework and nods to tartanry. The place is more empty than full, and the few couples or small groups she can see are talking quietly. Again, many have facial bandages and obvious bruising. Few look below the age of forty. Smooth jazz is playing. She does a double-take as she sees it’s coming from a live band.

  Gryanov himself is seated at a small, circular table in an intimate corner close to the bar. Something in the way he’s sitting makes her think it’s a favourite spot. He sees her, smiles, and walks over, seeming to drink her in with his eyes from head to foot and back again. Again, he takes her hand. Again, there’s that little bow.

  ‘You look like … a queen.’ He says. ‘Or, like a movie star. Please.’

  He motions for her to sit. She does, and a sommelier – a fucking sommelier – appears and asks what they’ll be eating.

  ‘We could look at the menu,’ Gryanov says, leaning conspiratorially across the table, ‘but my advice to you is the local langoustines and mussels for the starter, then the black truffle and beluga caviar risotto.’

  She doesn’t really hear what he says, but nods. She’s feeling dazed. Gryanov and the sommelier have a brief exchange and the sommelier disappears, reappearing moments later with a bottle.

  ‘I’m afraid that we do not have the ’14,’ he says. He actually does sound French, assuming his accent is real. ‘But instead, if I might be so bold, permit me to recommend the exquisite ’18 Melipal Malbec Reserva. It might not have the pedigree of the French wine, but between you and me, it’s even better.’

  ‘The lady is having langoustines.’

  ‘Even with the seafood, sir. Trust me.’

  The cork is expertly extracted and a little wine poured into Gryanov’s glass. He tastes it without preamble and nods.

  ‘Prost!’ he declares once they are alone again, raising his glass.

  ‘Oh. Slàinte.’ She clinks her glass against his. Sloshes the wine around. Takes a sniff and sips it.

  She’s no kind of wine buff, but knows good wine when she tastes it.

  ‘So, if you’ll forgive me, Mr Gryanov …’

  ‘Yegor, please.’

  ‘Yegor. Please tell me. What is this place?’

  He swirls his wine in its glass, takes a slow, deep sip, and leans back. ‘Like I have told you – it is a bit like a hobby of mine. You could say it is a business, but to be honest with you, it probably doesn’t make me much money, especially now. Not like my football club. Football is much more profitable!’

  ‘Yes, but what is it?’

  ‘Ah, my dear Ms Keir. So very business-like. Always to the point.’ He sighs, theatrically. ‘Very well. It is, at least primarily, a spa.’

  Coira realises her facial muscles have gone slack. ‘You built a spa? Here?’

  ‘Yes. For health, and beauty. You know?’ She really doesn’t. ‘Rich people: all are wanting somewhere they can come and nobody is asking questions. You know, when they are developing … some embarrassing health problem. Or when,’ he traces lines around his eyes, ‘maybe they are needing a bit taken away from here, or the cheeks, or maybe the stomach – or a little bit more is needed for the tits. When everything is heading d
ownhill, under gravity.’ His hands graphically emphasise what he’s describing. ‘You know?’

  ‘Plastic surgery?’

  ‘Yes!’ he beams. ‘But, not only this. We have many other health and beauty treatments as well. We have here top doctors – many are coming from Cuba, now that Cuba is not so safe. Also they are coming from England, from Russia, from Germany … Perhaps you are asking why such a thing would be good for me – why this would be a hobby for me, when I am a businessman?’

  He pulls down the corners of his mouth, looks around and raises his palms at the ceiling.

  ‘Well, I will admit that it, how do you say – da, it “flatters my ego”. Also, it is a kind of exchange. I provide this,’ he gestures around the room, ‘and, in return, I get to meet the rich and the famous, from across the world. We eat together, and we drink together. They call me Yegor. It is very good business. It is networking. You know?’

  Yes, I’ll bet it’s good business, she thinks, pondering what kind of favours knowing the personal secrets of some of the world’s most powerful people might allow Gryanov to call in. She strongly feels she’s being circled by a shark.

  ‘And now besides, we are offering a new treatment. A most revolutionary new treatment, let me tell you. It will not be available for everyone.’

  She waits for him to continue. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Gryanov takes an unhurried slurp of wine.

  ‘Now,’ he says, ‘we can extend your life.’

  ‘Extend … your life?’

  ‘Yes, yes. You know?’ His free hand makes whirling motions. ‘Making you live longer.’

  Coira actually rocks back. ‘You’re shitting me.’ Apparently, he isn’t. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes!’ His expression is one of glee. ‘I will be honest with you, it is not by much. Right now, it is ten years, maybe fifteen. But what we do also makes you more …’ he searches for the word. ‘More fit?’

  ‘Fitter,’ she suggests, wondering if he’s used the treatment himself. She has no way of telling how old he really is.

  ‘Da, exactly! Fitter, for a longer time. And with less of the need for the Viagra, or,’ his eyes become faintly libidinous, ‘the lady Viagra.’

  Something about this whole concept repels her, though she’s too stunned to work out exactly what. ‘But how is all this possible?’ Gryanov looks confused. ‘With everything that’s happening. And we’re told this is just the start – have you seen what it’s like out there? It’s chaos!’

  Gryanov shrugs mildly. ‘People with money, we have what you might call our insurance policies. Besides, all this movement: of people, of climate … All this change that is happening. This is not purely inconvenience, like you are seeing. Also it is opportunity.’

  He takes a leisurely sip of wine.

  ‘Now is boom time for wealthy people. Money makes barriers …’ he searches for the word ‘… permeable. Ms Keir, this is something I think you have noticed. You will find people like me not so much troubled by what is happening in the world right now. With money, you can live anywhere, without a problem.’

  The blasé manner with which he says this chills Coira’s blood.

  ‘You don’t believe?’ Gryanov dabs a napkin against his lips. He leans forward.

  ‘Very well, let us take the big example. So, it is the nineteen seventies. Scientists are working for the world’s biggest oil company. And what these scientists are finding is what the independent scientists also are finding. Their product is changing the climate.’

  He leans back.

  ‘So what will you do? When you are this company? When you are an ordinary person, then maybe you are shouting: “Stop! This is bad! This will change everything! People will die, trees and animals will die”, and so on. This is very understandable.’ He pulls down the corners of his mouth.

  ‘But when you are thinking like a businessman, like a rich man … Then you see quite clearly that in the twenty-first century, easy oil is gone, and prices are rising. And that this is very fortunate for you, because at the same time the melting of ice is making new oil available. And so, you pay fake scientists, for making the water like mud, while also you are getting cosy with the rich men who control all the news. Now people see there is argument. They no longer know what to believe. So they choose to believe what is comfortable. And while there is arguing, you use your product – quite deliberately, in full knowledge of the effects this will have – to engineer the climate of your planet for the future opportunity for your company. You may not like hearing this. But it is well recorded that this is how it was done.’

  Gryanov studies at Coira intently. She doesn’t know what to think, let alone say.

  ‘You look at me like I did this, Ms Keir. And truth is …’ he angles his head slightly, ‘I did. As did you. Also your parents, my parents. Their parents. We liked the lifestyle these companies were selling us, so we chose to ignore the warning.’ He gestures expansively. ‘And now, we have what we see.’

  Coira fiddles with the stem of her wine glass. It strikes her that she should be angered by what Gryanov’s saying, but what she feels is far more complicated. Gryanov leans forward again. ‘Do you understand what the differences are,’ he asks, ‘between people you might call ordinary, and someone like me?’

  Not knowing what else to do, Coira shakes her head.

  ‘There are just two.’ He holds up a finger. ‘One – I am lucky. I admit it. I work hard; I use my brain. But so also do many people, many of them much more clever than me, and yet who never will be like me. This is not modesty. I am clever enough to recognise my limitations, and it is truth. And two …’

  A second finger goes up.

  ‘I do what I must. Not just to survive, Coira. That is not enough. I plan to live well. Also, while I know it is too late to achieve for myself … I plan for my children to be standing on top of whatever pile of ash is remaining when I am gone.’

  The starters arrive. Coira begins to eat. Doesn’t really taste it. ‘But why build this here? Is it not dangerous for you right now?’

  Her host takes a break from cracking open a langoustine to make a so-so gesture with his hand. ‘Actually, not so much. When you compare to many parts of the world, this is not yet so bad. But yes, it is not ideal. And so, we are offering a price reduction for our guests until things are settled down. Also, we have our own … arrangements, let me say. To make sure we are left alone.’

  Arrangements? Oh hell. ‘You’re supplying arms to the separatists.’

  ‘Yes!’ he replies brightly, langoustine juice dribbling down his chin. ‘We arm your separatists; they keep clear from my territory. I tell you the truth now: anyone who attacks Gryanov island, they will have one motherfucking battle on their hands. But …’ he wafts a napkin around, ‘we like to avoid this. Guests might be upset. And that is bad for business.’

  He applies the napkin to his goatee and takes another sip of wine.

  ‘Of course,’ he goes on, ‘we are not arming only separatists. Also, we are arming the British government. Very hush-hush, of course. It would be embarrassing for your government if this was widely known. You seem surprised.’

  Gryanov grins.

  ‘But, Ms Keir – always it has been like this. In almost any war I can mention, the same people are giving weapons to both sides. It is … like the perfect business model. The other side is getting weapons as good as your side. Maybe even for free, like, like –’ he clicks his fingers ‘– a “taster”, you know? Like heroin? Your side then is wanting better weapons. Better means more expensive. Your profits go up. The other side then also is asking for these better weapons. And so it continues, value added each time.

  ‘United States of America and United Kingdom: both countries were masters at this game. Maybe you have seen this in your history blogs. America is invading some Middle Eastern country with support from American lap-dog, UK. Surprise! Already the invaded country is as deep as your knees in weapons from these
places. So now, in UK and America, politicians are wanting more money to,’ he adopts a passable American accent, ‘“make our boys safe”. When politicians tell everyone the war is finished, the country now is full of people who are very annoyed, and who also are armed up to their teeth. And this is an ideal combination! Where before there was power and order, now there exists only anger, and so they fight – invaders and each other. They do not respect borders. It is a “New kind of enemy”! The latest boogie-man. And so, again, US and UK must have better weapons! More and better, so everyone feels safe. And – here is the best bit – these people who are …’ he clicks his fingers again, frustratedly, ‘being scammed in this way, then they are voting, willingly, that they want to be scammed even more! Meanwhile, defence contractors and their puppets in government are laughing all the way into their tax havens.’

  He wipes away what look like genuine tears of mirth. ‘It is genius! Oh, democracy is such good game. “We are democratic! We bring democracy to foreigners, whether they want it or not! Even if our own voters do not support this!” Ha!’ He bangs the table. ‘Russia had so much to learn from your US and UK. So much subtlety in this trick.’

  Suddenly his eyes are like pits of tar.

  ‘And we did learn.’

  Coira feels like she will keel forwards into her half-eaten crustaceans. The anger she’d expected is still choked. She’s seen enough of human nature to know that most people would want to be where Gryanov is, and wouldn’t be too picky how they got there. Her survival instincts are screaming at her not to antagonise him. She picks at her plate until a waiter comes to clean it away.

  The main course arrives. She’s recovered enough to register its taste before she tucks in. It smells delicious and the rice is cooked to perfection, but otherwise … Subtle, is how she’d charitably describe it. She can only assume that, for Yegor Rotislavovich Gryanov, the cost of the truffles and caviar improves the taste.

  He is telling her something about volatile markets in an evolving world. Of oil rigs at the north pole, and the cultivation of Siberian steppe. Of war in China spilling into Kazakhstan, Mongolia and eastern Russia. The Mrs Granovs were right: the man has verbal diarrhoea.