Dead in the Water (6 page)

“
Sorry to keep you waiting, Mark. I’d hoped we’d have a good half hour, but events are overtaking us, I’m afraid.”

“
I understand.” At least she’s referring to him by his first name; but everything else about this situation reminds him of being up before the Head in the minor public school he attended as a teenager: the combination of leather and oak; the pompous vanity portraits; even the smell. Angela Walker’s modern perfume cannot compete with the overwhelming pungency of history and tradition. Although her personal office enjoys the benefits of modern lighting, in every other way it is probably as it was a hundred years ago. He is not the first to be standing where he is, feeling that he will be lucky to escape with a detention.

“
I’ll be speaking to the Commons at four o’clock. Firstly, I shall deal with the terrorist issues. Officially, we haven’t a clue, although we know it’s not Al Qaeda.” She stops, folds her hands together, looks him in the eye and, after a studied pause, as if to affirm her unique trust in Mark, she adds: “Unofficially, and off the record, it looks like the work of an environmental terrorist group. The security people have a source, but we need to be certain that it’s genuine before we go public. The timing is not an accident…” Does she expect him to say something?

“
They want to up the ante before the Summit; hijack the agenda. A week tomorrow eight world leaders arrive in this country. A week on Saturday I want to be engaged in meaningful discussions without the world’s media looking on and accusing us of giving in to extremists.”

“
Of course.”

“
What that means, Mark, is that the Transport Policy has to be put on hold.”

The Transport Policy: Mark’s baby, the product of months of negotiations, a co-ordinated integration of road, rail and air; public and private; sticks and carrots. He looks quizzical – a studied look that he has developed to mask
What the fuck does that mean?
“If we bring it in on the back of this outrage,” she continues, “We shall be accused of giving in to terrorism. And that, Mark, I will not allow.”

“
I don’t understand what you’re asking me to do.”

She looks surprised, as if it should be self evident what he has to do. “I want you to write that part of my statement for me. I need it by 3.45. I need your backing for this, Mark.” He looks perplexed. “I do not want to abandon the Transport Policy, Mark. I want to introduce it from a position of strength.”

“
You want to postpone the legislation to implement the Transport Policy because we are in a State of Emergency?”

“
I know you’ll find the right words, Mark. That’s what you do so well.”

As he’s leaving Angela Walker’s private office, David McTaggart, the Deputy Prime Minister, is waiting in an ante-room, reading the
Times
. Mark catches a glimpse of the front page, made up of the stark banner headline
UNDERPASS BOMBERS TARGET POLICE
and a full page aerial photograph of the rubble filled entrance to the Piccadilly Underpass. McTaggart looks up; and shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

“
Boyd. What a surprise. How is she?”

“
Seems to thrive on crisis.”

“
Tough one, this, don’t you think.”

“
Absolutely.”

“
And what is the half life of the policy proposal you have just made?”

“
Not my job.”

“
What? To propose policies? Well exactly. That’s what we all think. Hasn’t stopped you in the past.”

“
Glad to see the sun shining again,” says Mark, smiling. He enjoys Tag’s resentment. It reaffirms his special relationship with Mrs W.

“
Nasty little policies, I’d say. And even though they decay quite fast, and sometimes mutate, they never quite disappear.”

“
Nice metaphor,” says Mark.

By early evening, it has started to rain again; the same warm gentle rain they have had for the past six weeks. At nearly nine, he decides to walk home.

Mark regularly does this walk in the summer, wandering along the Serpentine, taking vicarious pleasure in Park Life – the tourists and the lovers, the hucksters and the suckers. As he leaves the Park, a late edition of
Metro
clings to the pavement, muddy footprints stamped across an inside banner headline,
LONDON
COMMUTER CHAOS.

By the time he gets back to his flat, he’s drenched. While the bath’s running he phones Sara, but gets her voicemail.

“
Hi. It’s me. Pick up if you’re there. Sara. Sara? I’m about to get in the bath. Wish you were here. Do you fancy a meal? I owe you. How about that Lebanese restaurant in Kendal Street? Bye for now.”

He’s soaking in the bath, slowly warming through, when the phone rings. He scrambles from the bath; but his own answering service kicks in before he can catch it.

“
Mark. Are you there? I’ve been worried about you all day. Give me a call as soon as you get in.” It’s Joanna.

He dries off and wraps himself in the towel before calling her back.

“
Are you OK?”

“
I’m fine,” says Mark. “Nice of you to think of me”

“
Is it as dreadful as they say?”

“
On the news? I don’t know. I haven’t had a moment all day.”

Since the separation a couple of years ago, they have both learnt a kind of wary politeness with each other, occasionally infused with warmth and affection, though more often with guarded circumspection.

“
Are you still planning to come this weekend?”

“
Of course I am. That’s what we arranged.” Hearing the defensiveness in his voice, he tries to soften his tone. “But I’m going to have to bring work. And I may be late on Friday. Things are pretty hectic.”

“
I can pick you up at the station.”

“
I thought you were going to the Lake District for the weekend.”

“
Robert’s got a conference.”

“
So you’re going to be at home. Would you rather I came another ––?”

“
Stephen’s here. I think he needs to talk to you. He’s supposed to be revising. You could try to get him a bit more focused.”

They talk for a while about Stephen, who is nearing the end of his second year at LSE: and then Mark asks whether Joanna has heard from Rachel.

“
We had a chat on Sunday,” she says.

“
Was she alright?”

“
She says she’s loving it. How anyone can be having a great time in the middle of the rain forest, I do not know; but she seems to be. Did she not call you?”

“
She rang last night. I was in the shower. She left a message, but the satphone signal was breaking up. Knowing Rachel, she forgot to charge the batteries. I tried to call her back. But I haven’t got through yet.”

“
Mark?”

His heart sinks.

“
What?” His tone resolutely upbeat. “What?”

“
I’m … It’s stupid, Mark. But I’m worried about her. With the troubles in Venezuela.”

“
Joanna, that’s in Caracas. That’s 800 miles from where she is. She looks after herself better than I do.”

“
That’s not saying much. But you’re right, I’m sure.”

Mark, however, is not as convinced as he hopes he sounds.

They talk easily enough for another ten minutes or so, before he excuses himself: “I have to get myself something to eat.”

While his Ready Meal is defrosting in the microwave, he writes a card for Sara; a loving, patient and apologetic card. Addresses it, puts a first class stamp on, and realises that he doesn’t want a fucking Ready Meal tonight.

He rings for a cab. Surprise her. Twenty minutes later he’s on the doorstep of her flat in Finsbury Park. No lights on. He rings the bell. No response.

He puts the card through the letter box and asks the driver to take him back to a cheap Italian restaurant in the Edgware Road. He’s eaten most of the pasta and drunk about half a bottle of Chianti when his mobile chirps, the number unrecognised.

“
Hi.”

“
Mark Boyd?” A female voice.

“
Yes.”

“
This is Daniella Gilman. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“
Sorry?”

“
I ran into the back of your car last night. Sorry. Is this a bad time?”

“
No. No, it’s not a bad time.” Not a bad time at all.

“
I don’t suppose I could pop in and see you, could I? I know that’s terribly rude. My brother lives a couple of blocks away from you; and he had a suggestion. About the car.” She sounds nervous. “I’m sorry. That sounds dreadful. I don’t want to invite myself to your house. I just want to talk.”

“
Actually, I’m not at home.” He gives her the name of the restaurant and, still apologising, she agrees to join him there.

She’s taller than he remembered her, well dressed; black skirt, loose fitting white cashmere pullover beneath the same unbuttoned light raincoat she was wearing last night. Her elegance, however, is undercut by nervy embarrassment.

“
I didn’t want to ––”

“
You’re hardly gate-crashing a party.”

Her eyes are deep green. But there’s something more than awkward shyness about her smile; she seems almost fearful. They don’t touch – not even a handshake. Mark is wary of being misread.

“
Difficult parking?”

“
No. No problem. And very easy to find,” she says, though her hair and raincoat are wet and it’s obvious that she must have walked some distance.

“
Would you like a glass of wine?”

“
I’m driving,” she says, smiles again; and puts her handbag on the table in front of her. “Look, the thing is, I spent the evening with my brother. One of his closest friends runs a garage. Maybe I was being out of order, but I thought … I just feel terrible about last night. And of course I can’t say a thing to Martin. My husband. He’d be furious with me. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. Anyway, I thought if Simon, my brother, if Simon could arrange something so that it could be done really quickly. This is probably me being way out of order.”

“
It’s OK. I appreciate it,” says Mark. “The roads were wet. At that time of night you don’t expect someone to stop suddenly. Really. It’s just one of those things.”

She smiles again.

“
Look,” she says. “I quite understand if you want to go through the insurance ––”

“
No. I appreciate what you’re doing,” says Mark. “It’s always ‘Knock for Knock’ with insurance companies. No matter what. I’d lose my no claims ––”

“
Yes, Simon said that. He rang his friend James, the garage owner, while I was there. I didn’t arrange anything, I just ––”

“
Thank you.”

“
He said he could do it in the next couple of days if that’s what you wanted.”

“
That’s really very thoughtful of you. You’ve been ––”

“
No. It’s all my fault, Mr Boyd. I’d just like to clear it up as quickly as possible, and then I won’t trouble you any more. If I make a mess I like to clear it up quickly.” She reaches into her bag and hands him a card for the garage and accident repair company:
James Harvey Garages
. “You need to call him before midday tomorrow.”

“
Thank you.”

“
If you want to go ahead.”

“
I think I probably do.”

She gets up to leave. Mark stands. And this time they do shake hands. She smiles again. Then she turns quickly and is gone. He sits back down. What a beautiful woman. But very fragile, very vulnerable. And probably therefore very available.

Mark has just got back to the flat, when a text arrives from Sara

Nice text. So why didn’t she ring? But he knows exactly why. She didn’t ring because she doesn’t want to talk. But he calls her just the same, only to find that her phone’s switched off. Wishing he hadn’t tried, a knot of anxiety begins to form in his stomach as he starts to wonder if Sara is perhaps pulling away.

Determined to block the thought process, he showers, puts on his dressing gown, pours himself a large glass of whisky and sits down in front of the computer. In the past he’s done some of his best work in the early hours; and with any luck he’ll get the report for Linden finished before heading for bed.

It’s half two in the morning when the phone rings.

It’s Angela Walker, not Sara. She is not the first Prime Minister to be renowned for needing little sleep – and for her assumption that if she can manage on occasional catnaps, then anyone else claiming to be a player in government should be able to do the same. She is insistent that they talk immediately; and that it cannot be done over the phone. Wishing he’d not had that glass of whisky, Mark makes himself a strong coffee and hopes he can drink it before the official car arrives to pick him up.