Faithless (55 page)

             
"I'm Alan Peathouse," said the  man. "I used to be a lecturer at Caius but they fired me for being a troublemaker. Or as I call it, speaking truth to power. Power didn't like it."

             
"Oh," said John.

             
"Now I preach revolution outside the Bodleian Library."

             
"Anyone take any notice?" asked John.

             
"Some. That's not the point. Some are happy with things the way they are because they've got money and are hanging onto it. Some are duped into being happy."

             
"Really," said John.

             
"Yes," said Peathouse. "Capitalism has turned them into consumers and told them they're free. Free to buy Hi-Fis and washing machines and keep quiet while their masters rip them off."

             
"Surely if that's what they want, they should be allowed to do it?" said John.

             
"If they filled a man full of drugs to make him quiet there'd be uproar, but if they show him adverts of a new CD player he gets mesmerised by his greed and does whatever they say. Have you read Marcuse's
One Dimensional Man
?"

             
John nodded. "Yep."

             
"Good," said Peathouse. "I'm surprised though. Not many have. You seem like a bright chap. Too bright to take their shilling."

             
"Pardon?" said John

             
Peathouse ignored him and looked over his shoulder at the tall man by the bar in the regimental blazer. "Some of us have always taken the shilling though haven't we inspector? Always keen to do our master's dirty work in exchange for scraps from his table."

             
"Shut up Peathouse," snapped the man without looking round.

             
"That's Inspector Ramsbottom of the Yard," he said to John, jerking a thumb at the tall man. "As was anyway. He's just an ex copper on an inadequate pension now spending his time in pubs reminiscing on how he used to protect the rich."

             
John shrugged. Peathouse lowered his voice and said knowingly, "Inspector Rambsbottom mind you."

             
John looked blankly at him.

             
"Where are you staying tonight boy?" asked Peathouse.

             
"What's that to you?" said John.

             
"I'm a friend."

             
"Of mine? We haven't met as far as I'm aware."

             
Peathouse said quietly. "Your face is all over the news. If you know what's good for you you'll come with me because at some point tonight or tomorrow the Inspector is going to remember seeing you and tell his ex colleagues where he did."

             
John felt a chill. He looked suspiciously at Peathouse. Peathouse said, "I'm an honest Marxist. Look at my beard. Now look at the Inspector's military bearing and shiny shoes. Which of us do you think's on your side?"

Peathouse said that he would leave and for John to follow five minutes later. He shouted good night to the barman and went o
ut. John waited, watching Ramsbottom at the bar who was slowly making his way down his third whisky. Then John got up. He went quickly through the door, emerging into a foggier night ringing with the magnified footsteps of strangers, lost in the dark, on their way home or perhaps on errands of love. Peathouse found him. "Come with me," he said, leading him through streets that John would never remember, by lamps, past the comforting lights of happy houses. They came to a run down, private let where Peathouse lived alone with his cat Mabel. Inside, he took off his greatcoat and offered John a cold pork pie, which he took and gave him a blanket. He pointed to the sofa. "That's yours. Tomorrow I'll give you a lift to Birmingham. There's this week's Morning Star on the table. But don't stay up too late, we'll make an early start."

8th November, 8:30pm, London:
The night had deepened by the time Sue and her Special Branch collaborators arrived at the house where John had stayed with Ailsa in Chelsea.  They knocked. After a short delay she opened the door, dressed casually, no make up. Toby Ewing thought she still looked beautiful. Sue still hated her because she did - but she smiled falsely, fooling no one, not even the quiet policemen on either side.

             
"Quite a gang you have with you," said Ailsa.

             
"Can we come in?" said Sue.               

             
"It's a bit wet out here!" laughed Toby.

             
Ailsa's eyes flicked to Toby. She recognised him from MI5's offices at Gower Street but didn't know him. She took in the two policemen who resembled what they were sufficiently for her not to have to ask. She shrugged. "Why not?"

             
They followed her through into the comfortable living room. She gestured politely for them to sit. "Coffee?" she asked. Sue shook her head. Toby, with at voice like a small boy,  said, "Yes please, if I may - black no sugar."

             
The sternest of the policemen - the Scottish one - shook his head but his colleague, in a South London accent that sounded out of place among the well honed speech of his betters, also shyly asked for a coffee but with milk and three sugars.

             
"Your teeth will drop out," said Ailsa smiling and thus disarming him. All men were weakened by her and if the policeman had come with any ill intention he couldn't have carried it  out.  Ailsa meandered through to the kitchen and made them instant coffee at her leisure.

             
Sue fidgeted in her seat. Toby told her to calm down. The young policemen looked around at all the expensive and he supposed tasteful things in the room. The stern policemen looked at his nails and his shoes which had become scuffed.  Eventually Ailsa returned with the coffee for the men.

             
"So," said Sue.

             
"Just a sec," said Ailsa. She smiled and pointed back towards the kitchen. "Got to get mine."

When she returned she was pleased to see that Sue looked uncomfortably furious. Internally, Sue raged at how this upper class hoity-toity madam was treating her. No respect to her hard earned position. It was pla
in insolence, but she didn't vent it - she as too smart for that. Ailsa sat down and crossed her legs. Her jeans were expensive and flattering. Her designer t-shirt showed off her figure. The policemen noticed. So did Toby though he would have had less idea of what to do with it. Ailsa sipped her coffee and smiled.

             
"So," said Sue again.

             
"So, Sue. " smiled Ailsa back.

             
"You haven't asked why we're here."

             
"No," nodded Ailsa in agreement. "I haven't."  She gave a delicious smile at the younger policeman who blushed. He colleague glanced at him in a disciplinary manner.

             
"It's about John Gilroy," said Sue.

             
Ailsa let the silence grow, sipping her coffee, maintaining eye contact with Sue.

             
"That's no surprise to you I suppose," said Toby, finally breaking the tension.

             
"No," said Ailsa. She grinned at Toby. "I don't think we've been introduced. I recognise you, but I don't know your name."

             
"Ah, sorry," said Toby. "I'm Toby Ewing. I work in K7."

             
"I get mixed up with all your MI5 sections. What does that one do?"

             
"We investigate penetration of British intelligence and security."

             
"Ooo. I should be careful," smiled Ailsa.

             
"Why?" said Sue sharply. "Have you anything to hide?"

             
Ailsa ignored her.

             
"John was living here until recently," said Toby.

             
"Yes. I phoned you to let you know he had left."

             
"After two hours," said Sue, "Why did you delay so long?"

             
"I was very upset," said Ailsa.

             
Sue snorted. "Or you wanted to give him a head start."

             
"I reported my friend to you, what more do you want?"

             
"It was your duty," said Sue.

             
"Yes, my duty."

             
"But you waited two hours," said Sue, her anger now revealing itself. Anger not just at the delay but at everything Ailsa was and had and she did not.

             
"I understand how difficult it would be for you," said Toby. "He was your friend. Even if he betrayed you."

             
Ailsa nodded, embarrassed at the tears filling her eyes. "He was my friend. He still is my friend - as misguided and foolish a man as he is."

             
"How can a traitor be your friend?" sneered Sue.

             
Ailsa looked at her. "I'm not sure you understand friendship Sue."

             
It was on the tip of Sue's tongue to tell Ailsa what a silly, pretentious woman she was, but even she occasionally had some wisdom, and she remained quiet.

             
"What I want to ask," said Toby, "is do you know where John is now?"

             
"No," said Ailsa.

             
"Well, do you know where he might have gone? We thought he might have gone north."

             
Ailsa smiled softly as if remembering. "The north is home. He might have gone to Durham. Or Scotland. If he were sentimental."

             
"And is he sentimental? asked Sue thinking she was being clever.

             
"Oh yes. He thinks he's a revolutionary, but he should have been a poet."

             
"Good," smiled Sue. "I think we're getting somewhere. So you think he'll go to Durham?"

             
Ailsa shrugged. "I don't know. I don't see that being very practical for a man on the run. And anyway," she added. "If I did know, I wouldn't tell you."

             
"You wouldn't tell me, perhaps, Ailsa," said Sue. "We don't see eye to eye. But you would tell Toby. Remember your duty."

             
"I wouldn't tell either of you," she said, "I know my duty, and I've done it. But I have my loyalties also."

9th November, 9 am, Oxford:
The next morning in Oxford it was still raining. John heard it beat on the window of the small terraced house. It took him a while to come to himself and realise where he was. He was lying on Alan Peathouse's shabby sofa. Behind him in the grey of the curtained room he saw shelves of books and magazines in no particular order. They were about economics and history and also stamp collecting when Peathouse tired temporarily of Marxism. A large fluffy cat appeared at the foot of the sofa and walked over on his chest to inspect him, purring loudly. John stroked it. Then the door opened and Peathouse walked in, wearing only underpants and a grey vest.

             
"Slept in too late. What do you want for breakfast? I'll make a cup of tea and I've got some shredded wheat if you like that."

             
"That'll be fine," said John. "Thanks for putting me up last night."

             
"If I hadn't you'd be in jail by now Mr Gilroy. Get dressed. The bathroom is through there for your ablutions."

John enjoyed the mug of strong tea and also strangely the shredded wheat. He'd avoided it in the past but made a mental note to get some if he m
anaged to escape prison.              

             
"Car's out the back," said Peathouse.

They got in the aged Ford Cortina and they drove out of Oxford and north on the A44. Peathouse drove them through Chipping Norton and Shipston on Stour and Stratford upon Avon. The day brigh
tened and Oxfordshire was beautiful. It was another part of England John would never see. Never be free to explore its fields and towns. No cream teas. No antique markets. No real ale with Ailsa in a Cotswold Hotel. No Ailsa.

             
They came into the ugly outskirts of Birmingham. Peathouse navigated his way through grey concrete ribbons of motorway. He dropped John in Sparkhill. "This is it, comrade. Good luck."