Dancing With Mortality (11 page)

She asked him how he was feeling.

‘Better now. Though I didn’t sleep well last night. Sorry if
I upset your parents, by the way.’

‘Well, they were certainly shocked. Daddy apologises for
upsetting you too.’

‘After all this time I’m surprised it still gets to me. Just
feels like unfinished business.’

There was a short silence while she digested this. ‘I don’t
understand. What do you mean, “unfinished business”’?’

He yawned. ‘I’m not sure I know the answer to that one.
Don’t know why I said it. Can you come back today? I miss you.’

‘Pick me up from the station later. I’ll call you when I’m
on the way.’

He smiled. ‘Ok, will do. Now I need some breakfast.’

The following week a letter arrived
from the surgery, informing Harry that his blood test had come back positive.
An appointment had been made for him with a specialist at Thomas’s hospital in
London, so a few days later he found himself attending a morning clinic. After
a long wait while several other people preceded him, he was finally called in
to the consultant’s office.

‘Have a seat, Mr Ellis.’ His consultant sat studying the
notes in front of him. ‘I’m Dr Ashe.’

Harry did as asked, and waited. Shortly afterwards the
doctor looked up at him.

‘Hepatitis C, what do you know about it?’

 Harry had to admit his ignorance on the subject. Dr Ashe
nodded, leaned back and contemplated the ceiling.

‘It’s a blood borne virus, which attacks the liver. Left
untreated it can do enough damage to precipitate cirrhosis and possible liver
failure.’ He didn’t register Harry’s look of alarm. ‘We can’t say how long you
may have had it. Have you ever injected hard drugs, had a blood transfusion
before 1989...’

’Bingo,’ chimed in Harry. ‘Blood transfusion, 1981.’

‘That could well be the event. How much do you drink by the
way?’

‘I don’t count,’ replied Harry. ‘Is it important?’

‘Alcohol speeds progression. Avoid it.’

Wonderful. ‘Anything else I should know?’

He was told of the treatment on offer – a chemical cocktail
with possible adverse side effects and a 50% success rate, that the disease
progressed at different rates in different people but was often fatal, and
sometimes a liver transplant was the only option left if nothing else worked.
He felt slightly overwhelmed by the extent and nature of this new information.

‘How long does it take to kill you then?’

‘You may die of old age first. Or not. But I think treatment
is the best course of action. Liver failure isn’t a pleasant experience, so
think about it and make a follow-up appointment in any case. We like to monitor
people.’

He left the hospital, reflecting on what he’d been told as
he walked across Westminster Bridge. He couldn’t absorb the implications all at
once – an hour ago he was as healthy as ever and now he was about to meet the
Reaper. He needed a drink. He stopped at the next pub he encountered and
ordered a whisky. Sitting nursing the drink, he wouldn’t accept that his
diagnosis might mean a premature death. On the other hand, why be surprised?
Death could come at any time. All he had to do was think of Natalie to know
that.

After 20 years the pain of Nat’s death was still with him.
Occasionally he dreamed about the explosion and would wake up sweating. No one
had been arrested, and Litchfield had kept insisting that O’Reilly was the man
responsible. Harry was still inclined to agree, even in the face of Michael’s
denial, which he’d never mentioned to Litchfield. He had stayed quiet about their
meeting at Siobhan’s funeral. Harry had left Ireland shortly afterwards, and
Michael O’Reilly had effectively disappeared.

Harry had arrived in London, intending to stay a short time
and then return home to New Zealand. That didn’t happen. He rented a small flat
in Notting Hill Gate, financed by the payments SIS continued to make him –
blood money. The money was still going into his account now, though he hadn’t
seen anyone from SIS since Dublin. It was easier back then to pretend he
preferred living in Europe, rather than face the condemnation of Nat’s family
back home. And after a while he stopped thinking about it. He took a course in
computer programming and began working in financial institutions in the City.
And now he was a process analyst, and concerned himself with business problems
and their solutions. His embryonic career as a linguist with academic
aspirations had been packed away in the box marked ‘Ireland. Not to be
disturbed.’

And apart from the dream, it rarely was disturbed. He
finished his drink. He’d taken the morning off work for this appointment, and
intended to get in a half day at the office. He could walk to the City from
here, along the embankment. He liked that walk and it was a beautiful day. The
sun warmed his back as he strode by the river, admiring the view. He could see
several cranes in action, and realised that ever since he could remember the
cranes had been a part of the City of London skyline. He smiled to himself.
Should be a nice town when it’s finished, he thought.

‘I had a mystical experience the
other day.’

‘Really, Harry,’ said Cindy. ‘Is this a common occurrence?’

Dr Lucinda Roberts was a psychotherapist with a practice in
Chelsea. He’d been seeing her twice a month for the last year, albeit at first
reluctantly. When Sophie had insisted he do something to address his drinking,
which she thought was his way of ‘self medicating’ his anger at Natalie’s
death, he’d picked up on the unspoken implication that if he didn’t agree his
marriage might be headed for trouble. There were times, especially after a few
glasses of wine, when he would snap at her irritably, which almost inevitably
precipitated a shouting match, though he was the one doing most of the
shouting. Sophie would rise to the bait for a short while, then she would sit
quietly looking miserable till he shut up. He hated himself the next day, but
it seemed a pattern had developed.

Sophie knew Lucinda, or Cindy as she preferred to be called,
through Susanna, who had apparently consulted Cindy some years ago. Harry had
never asked why, but he was almost certain Clive was the reason. Another man
who drank too much, perhaps he was hell to live with too. So in the interests
of marital harmony he had consented to meet Cindy.

She was in her mid-40’s and rather too glamorous in his
opinion for her profession. He had a pre-conception of a serious spinster type
with horn rimmed glasses who spoke with perfectly received pronunciation, but
Cindy was petite and well shaped, with a mane of shoulder length blonde hair,
which tended to fall over her eyes on occasion. When this happened she would
toss it back over her shoulders with a theatrical nod of the head, which always
momentarily startled him. She had a penchant for short skirts and black
stockings, and he often found himself distracted, especially when she crossed
her perfect legs to reveal a generous expanse of thigh as the short skirt got
even shorter. He was sure she did it to titillate him, and considered it to be
rather unprofessional, but he thought, what the hell, they were there to
discuss his neurosis, not hers, he would put up with her quirks. And she was
Australian, though the accent had been diluted after ten years in London. For
some reason their shared Antipodean heritage gave him a sense of connection,
and though he knew it was irrational, it helped to relax him nevertheless.

He realised he was staring at her legs again and had missed
her last remark.

‘Sorry, what was that?’

‘Tell me about your mystical experience, Harry. You went
quiet for a minute.’

‘Sorry, lost in thought.’ He described his meeting with the beech
trees. ‘For a while it seemed I just forgot myself completely, it was actually
quite beautiful. I don’t remember ever feeling like that.’

‘What do you think it means?’

‘I have no idea. Maybe it means there are opportunities to
transcend my mundane little world from time to time. Just thought I’d mention
it to you.’

Her hair was getting unruly. Here it comes, he thought, the
toss of the head, but she didn’t oblige. ‘What else has happened since we last
met?’ she asked.

‘Well, I’ve been diagnosed with a possibly fatal illness,
otherwise nothing much.’

The head went back, and the mane was restored to order. He
thought about suggesting an Alice band, but restrained himself.

‘I’m sorry to hear that. What sort of illness?’

After he’d recounted his visit to Thomas’s she asked him how
he felt about it.

‘Scared, worried.’

‘Angry?’

‘Yes, as it happens.’

‘Perhaps your mystical experience and your illness have a
connection,’ mused Cindy.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Sometimes, when people have an existential crisis they
start seeing the beauty in everyday things around them that they never noticed
before. When they realise their time in this world is finite after all, they
start paying attention to things that have always been there, but that they’ve
never really seen, if that makes sense. As a culture we do a lot of looking
without seeing.’

‘Is that what I’m having – an existential crisis?’

Cindy smiled. ‘I shouldn’t be putting words into your mouth.
Will you take the treatment?’

‘I don’t know yet. Maybe.’

‘And how are you and Sophie doing?’

He thought for a bit. ‘We’re doing ok. I don’t shout at her
for no reason as much as I did.’

She smiled. ‘Good. I’m pleased to hear that. Are you still
angry about Natalie?’

He sighed. ‘Yes, that never changes.’

A week later he was still undecided
on what to do about his hepatitis. The research he’d done had not given him
huge cause for optimism. The side effects of the drugs on offer ranged from
mild itching and fatigue to full blown depression and psychosis. It was hardly
an appealing treatment regime, but it seemed there was no alternative.

Sophie’s reaction didn’t help either.

‘Is it contagious?’ She looked slightly disgusted.

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Transmitted blood to blood
I think he said.’ He realised with alarm that he hadn’t considered the possible
effects on people close to him. ‘You can get tested, maybe you should.’

‘What about sex, Harry?’

‘We didn’t discuss sex.’

‘Well, find out please. I suppose I will have to get tested.
How horrible.’

‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’ She looked less
than convinced. ‘But yes, I’ll find out for you.’

He couldn’t swear to it, but he felt that for the rest of
the evening she went out of her way to make sure he wasn’t too close to her.
And sex was most definitely off the agenda that night.

The following evening found him in a
wine bar near Brick Lane, with a friend from work. It was low lit and cosy,
with candles burning on strategically placed wine barrels to enhance the
ambience. A half-full bottle of good claret stood between them. One bottle had
already been disposed of.

‘You know, Neil, I’ve never been mad about financial
services,’ said Harry.

‘Just mad about the money, Harry’. Neil was another contract
analyst at the bank. He was ten years younger than Harry, single, good looking,
and he dressed the part of the City wide boy. He was also intelligent and
funny, with a dry sense of humour that Harry found refreshing.

‘Yes, it’s always about the money, and then about more of
the money. Non-stop really.’

‘Very profound of you, Harry. Have some more wine. I’m just
going to powder my nose. Can I interest you?’

‘Thanks, Neil, but alcohol is my poison of preference. Go
ahead mate’.

When Neil came back his eyes had that certain sparkle. Harry
smiled in spite of himself.

‘I was going to suggest a restaurant, but no doubt your
appetite is non-existent now’ he said.

‘We should sustain ourselves on nothing but liquids and
chemicals, Harry. I swear by it.’

‘Don’t know how you do it, actually.’

‘Listen, Harry, the only really important thing in life is
the pursuit of pleasure – women, drugs, money, that’s my religion. Excess is
the only rule I live by. Hell, you could be dead tomorrow.’

How very true, thought Harry.

Neil disappeared again to replenish his nose. Harry looked
across the room at a group of young women laughing at something over their
drinks. One of them, a dark-haired, Italian-looking beauty, looked across at
him briefly and flashed a smile. He smiled back. They look so beautiful and
alive he thought. He felt a stab of anxiety. One day, this will all be gone,
I’ll be dead, and what the hell will it have all been about? Perhaps Neil has a
point after all.

Feeling rather dispirited by this turn of thought, he
reached for the claret and poured another glass. Nothing more wine wouldn’t
fix. His mobile rang. It was Sophie.

‘Where are you?’ she asked.

‘With someone from work. Wine bar in Brick Lane.’

‘Right.’ There was a pause. ‘I had a blood test today. It
will take a week to come back.’

‘Yes, sensible thing to do,’ he began, but she cut in.

‘I’m staying in Fulham for a while, Harry. There’s so much
to do at work and it’s just easier than commuting every day. You’ll be ok on
your own for a bit, won’t you?’

‘How long is “a bit”?’

‘I don’t know.’ She sounded irritated. ‘I’ll call you when I
do. Bye, darling.’

‘Sophie, hang on...’ She’d gone. He leaned back in his
chair. Didn’t see that coming. Was he becoming untouchable? No, she was just
overreacting.

Meantime, Neil had reappeared.

‘Everything ok, Harry? You look a bit pissed off.’

‘Do I? Piece of advice, Neil. Don’t get married, it’s far
too much like hard work.’

Neil grinned. ‘I take it that was your wife. Well, if that’s
the effect she has then your advice is duly noted.’ He looked at his watch.
‘I’ve got to move. Meeting a lady for a late dinner. Sorry to leave you in the
lurch, she’s just texted me. I’d forgotten all about it.’

‘That’s fine, Neil. I need to get the train soon anyway.’

Neil departed, and Harry examined the wine bottle. One more
glass in there he thought. I’ll finish that and I’m out of here. He filled his
glass, wondering whether he should call Sophie. He sat, mobile in hand, then
returned it to his pocket. Can’t reassure her without any facts to back me up
he thought. And not until she has her test results. It will be ok.

He was aware of someone beside him. He looked up.

‘Hello, Harry.’

For a moment he was nonplussed. The man next to him was in
late middle age, wearing a well-cut pinstripe suit. Grey-haired, with almost
feminine eyelashes, and smiling at Harry’s obvious lack of recognition.

‘It has been a while since we last met.’

‘Christ, is it you Jack?’

‘One and the same,’ replied Jack Hudson. ‘Mind if I join
you?’

Harry stared back blankly. Then he found his voice. ‘No, of
course not. Can I get you a drink?’

‘I’ll get you one. Give you a chance to recover. I wonder if
this place serves Irish whiskey.’ He headed off in the direction of the bar.

Harry watched him go. Jack Hudson, who he hadn’t seen for 20
years. What on earth was he doing here now? He took a few deep breaths. Maybe
he’d had too much wine and was hallucinating. He suddenly felt as though the
last 20 years had dropped away. Perhaps he should just nip outside and reassure
himself that he was in Brick Lane and not Dublin. He decided against it. After
all, if it did turn out to be Grafton Street out there, what would he do next?

Jack returned, pulling up a chair opposite.

‘They do have whiskey.’ He handed one to Harry, raising his
own glass. ‘Slainche.’

‘Cheers. How did you find me?’

‘I know where you work, Harry.’

‘I see. It might have escaped your attention, but this isn’t
my place of work.’

Jack laughed. ‘Things have moved on a lot since Dublin. I
have your mobile number. And a little software that’s programmed into my phone
helped me track you down. Useful, don’t you think?’

‘Remind me to get one.’

‘Not available to the general public yet. For a lapsed SIS
employee though, I might be able to pull a few strings.’

‘Lapsed. Right.’ Harry took a sip of his whiskey. ‘Think I
might need another one of these. So, this isn’t a happy co-incidence?’

‘I don’t know about the happy part, but no, this is not
co-incidence. You could at least ask how I am.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m well, thank you. You’re not looking so bad yourself. I
understand you re-married?’

Harry’s mind went back to Dublin, an image of Natalie and
Christmas in Harcourt Street. ‘Yes, I did. A few years ago.’ He sighed. ‘Sorry,
Jack, you’re turning back the clock for me right now.’

‘Yes, I thought that might happen. Can’t be helped though.
Do you remember me saying you don’t resign?’

‘Do I even count as a current SIS employee? Our association
didn’t last very long, did it?’

‘No, Harry. But we have been paying you regularly ever
since.’ He noted the flash of annoyance in Harry’s eyes, but was unperturbed.
‘Yes, perhaps you could call it a Death in Service Benefit for want of a better
expression, but it is a payment nonetheless.’

‘Which is your way of saying you have some entitlement to
me, is that it? What exactly do you want, Jack?’

‘We need your help. You remember Michael O’Reilly?’

Harry finished his whiskey. ‘Get me another one please. This
conversation is becoming distinctly unpleasant.’

Jack gave him a long look, but did as he was asked. When
they were both refilled he continued. ‘He disappeared as you know, quite
effectively as it turned out. He was in Kilburn in London for a while in the
80’s, but then the trail goes cold.’

‘So why resurrect it now?’

‘We think he may have information that will help us with a
current investigation.’ Harry raised his eyes in mock amazement. ‘Yes, Harry. I
know how long it’s been. We want you to help us locate him.’

Now the amazement was real. ‘What the hell can I do?
Besides, if I find the bastard I may not be responsible for my actions.’

‘You only need to pinpoint him, not go face to face. Now
listen. What we do know is that he had a woman in Dublin, a German nurse. We
think they are still in touch. We’ve located her, and through her you’re going
to locate him.’

Harry was finding this hard to take in. ‘What am I going to
say to her exactly? And why me, you could send someone more persuasive,
couldn’t you?’

‘Think about it, Harry. You speak the language. And the bank
you’re currently working for has a branch in Frankfurt, which is only an hour
away from Heidelberg, where she lives. You’re not exactly seasoned intelligence
material, so I doubt she’d suspect your motives, even if the thought crossed
her mind. We’ll get your contract transferred to Frankfurt and take it from
there.’

‘My God, you’ve already got this thing in motion haven’t
you? One thing you haven’t told me is how I get this information out of her,
assuming she has it.’

Jack smiled ever so slightly and then produced a photo from
his inside pocket and passed it across. ‘Her name is Sabine. She’s attractive
don’t you think? Perhaps you can have an affair with her.’

The last train from Charing Cross
rushed through Kent, as though impatient to reach its final destination and
turn in for the night. All Harry could see was his own face and those of the
other tired looking commuters reflected back from the windows.

He’d given Jack an email address, and Jack had promised to
send a file on Sabine Maier the following day. His protestations on the
feasibility of an affair with her had been batted to one side.

‘I’m married Jack, you seem to have overlooked that little
detail,’ he’d objected.

‘Think of it as an intimate friendship then,’ was the
rejoinder. ‘You need to get close to her, but only for a short time. Full blown
romance won’t be necessary. We’ve arranged an introduction, it’s all in the
file. Read it and get back to me.’

Fine, he thought, I’ll read it then tell him what to do with
it. But even the claret and whiskey couldn’t dull a growing sense of
anticipation, the reason for which eluded him. He would wake up stone cold
sober tomorrow and apply some objective thought to the matter then.

He printed Sabine’s file when he got
home the following evening. There’d been no word from Sophie all day, and
although he’d been alone in the house many times before, tonight it seemed cold
and lifeless without her. Perhaps the antidote was to eat out later, if only to
be in the presence of other people. He sighed. He’d get the reading out of the
way first, then formulate some appropriate response to Jack Hudson, detailing
all the reasons why this proposed assignment was a total non-starter. He fixed
a gin and tonic, made himself comfortable on the living room sofa, and began to
read.

An hour later he’d learned that Sabine Maier had been born
in Heidelberg in 1961 to a German father and Irish mother. She’d had one older
sister named Monika, who had died age 20 (no reason given). Some details about
education, including the fact that she’d done philosophy at Heidelberg
University, then, having decided not to enter academia (which might have been
the logical next step), trained as an intensive care nurse. She spent 1981 in
Dublin at St. James’s hospital, where she met Michael O’Reilly when she nursed
his sister Siobhan after a shooting incident. Returned to Heidelberg 1982, and
since then had divided her time between nursing and a career as a jazz
musician. Highly regarded as a leading female exponent of the alto saxophone on
the contemporary European jazz scene.

How they’d made the connection between her and O’Reilly was
not explained, nor was any reason given as to why they thought she might still
be in touch with him. It seemed a little tenuous. A deliberate omission perhaps.

He read on. She had never married, no children from any
relationship, and was currently single. Had an apartment in Panorama Strasse
not far from the Old Town, drove a blue Golf, paid her taxes and was ostensibly
a model citizen. But nothing about her personality. The photo was a full length
shot of a slim dark haired woman standing outside a restaurant somewhere in
Germany (the name ‘Goldene Rose’ clearly visible behind her). She wore a belted
blue dress that clung enough to show a well-defined figure, and she smiled into
the camera, projecting a quiet self confidence that so many Germans he’d met
seemed to share. There was mischief in that smile though. She was attractive,
no doubt about that. Whether he’d still think that after they’d met and she’d opened
her mouth was another matter. If they met.

Now came his cover story. Yes, he worked for a bank in
Frankfurt, but was also a part time writer for ‘Jazz Europe’ magazine, who
wanted to do a profile of Sabine Maier for their next monthly issue. She had
been contacted by the magazine and had consented to an interview. He was to
attend an upcoming gig in Heidelberg and  then meet her the following day at
her apartment.

To assist in any gaps in his knowledge, a file of relevant
interview questions and an electronic copy of ‘The Jazz Saxophone – History and
Players’ had been thoughtfully attached. Any queries he might have after
reading these should be listed and returned to Jack. He was advised not to
present himself as an authority or critic, and just stick to the pre-prepared
questions, one of which would raise the subject of her time in Ireland.

It was all rather speculative, he reflected. She was hardly
likely to mention her affair with O’Reilly no matter what he asked her about
Ireland. When was he supposed to be doing all this? He scanned the final page.
His transfer to Frankfurt was effective in two weeks, and the gig was the week
after that. How on earth had they arranged the transfer? And they’d done it in
what seemed like the certain knowledge of his co-operation. It would seem that
refusal on his part was not anticipated. Or simply not an option.

Jack had included a phone number, with the instruction to
call once he was ready for the ‘additional briefing.’ No time like the present,
he thought, reaching for his mobile.

Jack answered almost immediately. ‘Well, Harry. What do you
think?’

‘Tell me the rest first.’

‘Ok, it’s simple enough. We want you to get a feel for this
woman. Especially her political affiliations. I need to know why she would be happy
sleeping with a terrorist, however long ago it was.’