Faithless (33 page)

             
She shook her head vigorously. "No. I'm too good. Can we go and get a coffee?"

             
"Sure, there's a café just at the end of the street here."

They managed to find a table outside. The waitress took their order and they watched the crowds wander by, looking in the shop windows, children sitting on father's shoulders, boys talking about football.

              "That's a posh Oxfam," she said pointing. "There are actually some nice things in the window. I mean obviously second hand, but nice for someone."

             
"There's a lot of money in Durham City."

             
"Mine failed, so what's your plan John?" She said sweetly.

             
"I'm going to hang around the County Hotel until I catch him on his own and then very subtly happen to be standing next to him and engage him in conversation."

             
"About maps?"

             
"Exactly."

             
She made a dismissive noise.

At that moment a sandy haired man with glasses stopped outside on the street to look at a leaflet. Though he hadn't seen him since his wedding nearly a decade previously, John recognised him as his University room-mate Frankton. Frankton looked round, noticed him looking, did a double take then shouted, "John Gilroy! Long time no see! What are you doing here? "

             
Without hesitation, Frankton came over to their table and gave him a hug. With a faint smile, Ailsa got up and disappeared into the café. Frankton noticed her leave. "That wasn't Karen was it?"

             
"No, Karen's got dark hair."

             
"I thought she might have dyed it." He grinned. "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting anything mate."

             
"No, it's not like that. We work together. It's a business trip."

             
"To Durham? What are you up to? Aren't you still working for the fascist regime? Hopefully undermining it from inside."

             
John shook his head. "No. Well I was in the Civil Service, but I didn't like it. I work for Stanford's maps now. I'm up here trying to sell to the bookshops. I go round all the university towns in England."

             
"Sounds like a nice job. Better than the other. I'm glad you didn't sell out forever. Can I sit down?"

             
John looked out onto the street and then back into the cafe. Ailsa had vanished. He pulled out a seat. "Nice to see you mate. Do you want a coffee?"

             
"No, I'm here with the missus and kids. They've gone to the funfair and I'm meeting them at the Swan and Three Cygnets in about twenty minutes. So how've you been? How's Karen?"

             
"She's fine." He remembered the night Frankton had seen her covered in blood. "We have twins. We're living in North London."

             
"Rather you than me. The London bit I mean. I've got a boy and a girl. I married Sue from Ashfield Road in Workington, about a hundred yards from where my parents lived."

             
"What are you doing now?"

             
"Working at the steel works. I'm the man who tells them when to pour the molten metal."

             
"Sounds a responsible job."

             
"It is. If we pour too soon or too late we lose thousands of pounds."

             
"Do you like it?"

             
"Mostly. But I might not have it for long. Thatcher's got her eyes on us. Word is the steelworks will be closed within the year. The bitch. She wants to destroy manufacturing industry and have all of England's economy based on her banker friends." He snorted in contempt. "What kind of world is it where it's better to skim money off dodgy deals than to  make railway tracks to cover the world?"

             
"I'm sorry to hear that mate."

             
"Any system whose only motivating power is greed is bound to crash sooner or later.  That's what Marx said, but in a more learned fashion. It has before - look at 1929 and the wasted decade after that. Then they regulated the financial sector and now she's deregulating it again so we will go back to 1929. She doesn't care about the damage her policies do to communities. It's 'I'm all right Jack and you can fuck off and die.'"

             
"It does seem pretty uncaring."

             
"It is uncaring. And the Tories think that they are rich because of some inherent moral virtue and the poor are poor because they are lazy and flawed. I mean look at that guy," He pointed  at a group of students left over after term ended who were sitting at the next table. One in particular was wearing a long blue scarf and smoking a cigarette. His clothes, his posture, the way he confidently smoked his cigarette all marked out his social class. "That guy there will really have to fuck up big style not to end up running some merchant bank. I mean unless he messes up he's made. While people born in Spennymoor down the road have to really really be lucky not to end up on the dole."

             
"Your politics hasn't changed then Frankton."

             
"No. I joined the Party finally. You were always a lightweight dreamer John. You had the heart, but your socialism was emotionally based. That's why it didn't last." Frankton suddenly looked ashamed at what he'd said. "I don't mean to be critical. You're a good bloke and all, just a dreamer."

John shrugged. "No offence taken. You're probably right. Someone else recently accused me of being an idealist."

Frankton laughed. "More a sentimentalist. Me, I come here every year - and this year especially. She's beaten us and she and her friends will pick our carcasses clean, but today at least we can pretend things aren't so bad. She said there's no such thing as society, but if there isn't society what is there? If there isn't people looking after each other what is there?  - a world of greedy predators. That's what Thatcher wants, but I for one will keep the red flag flying here. And I'm going to sing that this afternoon in the pub after I've had several beers."

             
"I hope you don't lose your job."

             
"So do I. Anyway where's your friend?"

             
John shook his head. "Vanished."

             
"I must have scared her off."

             
John laughed.

             
"Maybe you are doing something you shouldn't. She was pretty tasty."

             
"Never laid a finger on her."

             
"Pleased to hear it. Now, I need to scoot. But, first let me write down my address." He took out a biro pen and wrote down his address in Workington on the Durham Cathedral leaflet he'd been carrying. "Now you can write me a postcard every now and again, or even pop and see me if you happen to be in Workington."

             
John smiled. "I will."

             
"Unlikely, I guess. But you never know," said Frankton. "Anyway mate. See you around. I'll be in the Swan and Three later if you fancy a rendition of the red flag. Send my love to Karen. And good luck with the maps."

             
Frankton got up and disappeared into the crowd. Like a beautiful blonde revenant, Ailsa reappeared. The sun was behind her, her eyes fixed on him.

             
"And old friend from University," he said.

             
"Don't worry. I went and had a look in Oxfam. Let's go back to the County."

They walked back along the bridge and John purposefully did not look down towards the Swan in case he saw Frankton again. They went over the road and stepped into the County Hotel. Ailsa led him through into the bar. They could see the main desk f
rom where they sat. She ordered a glass of Chablis. He only wanted a coke. She said, "I'll go and ask where he is. It doesn't break my cover to be a journalist interested in the Russian diplomat's whereabouts."

             
She walked over to the clerk and John saw Ailsa talking and then the clerk accepting something from her. When she came back she said, "He's out, but I gave the man a tenner to let me know when he comes back in. We'll probably see him though."

             
"Do me a favour - will you go and do  bit of counter surveillance for me?"

             
She raised her eyebrows. "Yes sir, of course sir."

             
He smiled winningly. "Please."

             
"Pfft. He won't have anyone up here with him. We'd know."

             
"Some of the local Party members might be co-opted. They might be watching out for him. I don't want them to rumble us."

             
She sighed theatrically. "Ok."

There was a silence. He thought she was bored or offended. He wanted to please her but he didn't know how to. The silence grew. Then she said, "Do you want to talk or can I read my book?"

              "Do what you like," he said.

             
"Good." She reached into her bag and pulled out a copy of Lawrence Durrell's
Clea.

             
"I thought you were reading Jilly Cooper's
Riders.
"

             
"I lied to entertain you."

             
"You lie easily," he said.

             
"That's why I'm a natural for this job. What's your excuse?"

             
"Get lost."

For around twenty minutes she read. He was feeling apprehensive about Vinogradov. She didn't seem to care. He wondered whether she was interested in him and thought probably not. He tapped his foot rhythmically on
the carpet.

             
"Stop it," she said.

             
"Ailsa?"

             
She looked up. "Stop annoying me. What do you want?"

             
After a pause he said, "You know I have a thing for you."

             
She shook her head. "A thing?"

             
"You know what I mean."

             
She looked back at her book but he didn't think she was reading it. The silence grew.

             
"I know it's stupid and immature," he said.

             
Without looking up she said, "We're not sixteen John. More importantly we're both married."

             
"I know. I don't want to feel like this."

             
"Thank you," she said with a smile.

             
"You know what I mean," he said again, not knowing whether she did. He looked at her deeply like a prospector hunting gold in a river, hoping to catch some fleeting glimmer of feeling. But she was blank.

Without meeting his gaze, she reached out
and took his hand. "What do you want me to say? Life's hard John. Really - sometimes I think it's too hard."

At that moment some men came in the hotel door. John looked up. Even though he had only seen him in surveillance photographs he recognised Vinograd
ov with a group of Union officials. They went upstairs. Outside he could hear the brass band getting closer. The clerk looked over and met Ailsa's gaze and nodded slightly with a smile.

             
"Ok," said John, feeling that the tension between them had been broken.  "Just go and take a look outside. Make sure there's no one watching the place, and then come back and sit in that table at the corner of the room while I try to get close to him."

She got up without a word, then leaned over and kissed him on the lips
- lightly as if she were his wife going out, soon to return. As if that was their cover. But she wasn't his wife, not even in a story.

He saw the march going past outside - pit banners, brass and men sweating in the sunshine. When the march had passed by,
John sat in the bar waiting. He got himself a pint. He went back to his table and got out his maps; his samples and props. After about twenty minutes Ailsa returned. She went and sat on another table from which she had a good view of the whole bar area. She did not acknowledge him.

He sat for a further half an hour, nursing his beer, looking at his maps and feeling like an angler waiting for the tell tale pull on his line. And then Vinogradov came downstairs into the bar with a group of local union leaders
. They were all chatting heartily. They went to the bar and got a round of drinks. They stood there, all of them smoking and laughing. Vinogradov was getting on well with them. After five minutes or so, John got up to get another drink. He left his maps on his table and his briefcase on the chair so that anyone could see the table was taken. The bar was  busy - full of manly laughter and wreathes of cigarette smoke. The door stood open and sunlight spilled in from the street with half muffled sounds of music and talk. John pushed his way to the bar and found himself standing next to Vinogradov who was in conversation with the man next to him. He listened to Vinogradov's accented English. He ordered a drink and willed the barman to be slow at bringing it. He felt the adrenalin running through him and then he tapped Vinogradov on the shoulder and said in Russian, "You're Russian aren't you?"