Reconstruction (25 page)

Timmy and Gordon. Gordon and Timmy.

‘Talk about Miro,’ Ben Whistler had said.

Eliot didn’t give a fuck about Miro, whoever fucking Miro was. This had nothing to do with him or his boys.

At my desk, thinking about lunch
. . . This should have read: At my desk, thinking about Louise. If not for Louise, he and his boys would have been elsewhere.

Jaime said, ‘You are one of them. You are on their side.’

‘I just closed the door, Jaime. I could have walked right through it. The next time they come in, you’re dead. So talk about Miro. Why was he so sure he was in danger?’

‘Because of things he knew.’

‘Not because of what he stole?’

‘He was not a thief.’

Question answer, question answer . . .

If Eliot shut his eyes, he could be back at the school quiz.

But he couldn’t remember the questions now; that was the funny thing. At the time, he’d never forgotten a detail in his life; no fact too trivial, no statistic too insignificant, to have escaped his attention – the Cato Street Conspirators’ ringleader; Hitchcock’s first American movie; the third man on the moon. He’d recalled the depth of the Marenas Trench. On a multiple choice, true, but a breathtakingly unlikely answer to the less well informed. And then, of course, there’d been the downhill stuff – contemporary lit, seventies TV, late eighties pop and pre-Blair politics.

‘You are the king of trivia,’ Louise had whispered.

‘Oh, I’m good at important stuff too,’ he’d whispered back.

They’d formed a faction: the two of them v. Lizzie. Safety in numbers; plus, Lizzie knew remarkably little about anything – refusing to believe, for example, that Cliff Richard wasn’t his real name. ‘It’s a trick question,’ she’d said.

Louise was hot on botany, geography, and – surprisingly, though Eliot pretended otherwise – sport.

‘You’re good at this too.’

‘Oh, it’s not the only thing I’m good at.’

The other tables: they blew them away. It was the scene in the movie – give him a moment, Eliot would tell you its director – when everything goes right, the background’s a soft buzz, and there’s no doubt who’s in focus.

It didn’t even feel like a mistake that it wasn’t Chris sharing it with him.

When Eliot tried, he could remember life as a sequence of tracts of time controlled by Christine; the early days, when her choices determined his mood. ‘That’s what we’ll do for Christmas,’ she’d say – or for her birthday, or his, or for the first Sunday after Whitsun: whatever – and something inside him would relax, and he’d think: Okay, she intends us still to be together then. And it had quietly become established that their future was a series of shared events. When had that stopped? The king of trivia couldn’t put his finger on it. Like everything else that had happened to him, the opening of that chasm had been a gradual process. You could pick the twins’ birthday, of course, but that had been a sharing day; he honestly couldn’t remember being happier. The slippage was buried somewhere since; the dim falling off from his centrality in all their lives to being the ghost who left for work every morning, and didn’t come home till the fun was over. For all the boys’ important steps – their first, for instance – he’d been elsewhere. Which he could have lived with if it weren’t for the guilt he was made to feel: it was as if Chris resented his having a career, when it had been her choice to stay at home. Neither liked the idea of full-time childcare; he earned more than she did; she was their mother – it was a nobrainer. So why had it become another of those unspoken-of areas; part of their relation-ship’s no-man’s land? And how did no-man’s land work, anyway, when one of them was a man? Well, it worked in the obvious way – he’d had more intimate moments with his dentist lately than he’d had with his wife. And he hadn’t seen his dentist in a year.

You could blame him for what had happened with Louise – of course you could – but you couldn’t
blame
him for it. This was a subtle shade of difference that he wouldn’t have liked to justify before an audience, but nevertheless it was deeply felt. You could blame him. But you couldn’t
blame
him.

. . . Even here, even now, he could look at Louise and know that in a single encounter, he’d established a greater connection with her than he’d known with Christine in years. And for all this turbulent danger that had jumped out of nowhere, there was a comfort in knowing that she’d found that too.

Even so, she was avoiding his gaze.

‘It began when he went to Iraq,’ Jaime said.

If he’d stop looking at her, this might be easier. It wasn’t first on her list – if the boy with the gun hadn’t turned up; if they weren’t arranged against a wall; if there hadn’t just been an armed incursion into the annexe – if none of that had happened either, this would definitely be easier; but still, right that moment, what Louise mostly wanted was for Eliot to stop looking at her.

Then again, if none of that had happened, she’d have to be talking to him.

Ben was saying, ‘Iraq. Right,’ as if a coin had dropped into his mental well.

Iraq
had been one of the answers at that damn quiz.

None of it had been deliberate, not on her part. If she’d been given a map of the evening before starting out, she’d have vanished screaming. There was solid circumstantial back-up for this, and it was scribbled all over her recent history: Louise had already teetered on the edge of her life’s Big Mistake – her version of ‘teeter’, admittedly, being another woman’s ‘plummet’ – and no way was she was approaching that cliff again. It wasn’t as if the danger wasn’t posted. There had been a significant increase, Claire had mentioned, in fathers delivering their young ones since Louise had started work, and while Claire hadn’t necessarily meant it as such, Louise had taken it as a warn-ing. ‘Maintain distance’ had become her mantra. It had worked until that evening.

You could avoid wine and moonlight, steer clear of roses and poetry, and still come undone over something as simple as shared victory.

Iraq
had been the final answer, and even as their sheets were collected in, Louise was saying, ‘I think we’ve won.’ ‘Put it this way,’ Eliot said. ‘We haven’t lost.’

‘Put it this way’ was already a familiar Eliotism; frequently attached to statements so straightforward, it was hard to know what more obvious formulation he’d rejected. But knowing they’d just managed something special together had a warming effect. So Louise simply smiled. ‘Yes. We haven’t lost.’

For the next ten minutes they listened to Lizzie explain-ing that it didn’t matter who won, that she’d read in a book that Cliff was his real name, and wasn’t this nice, and it was a pity Chrissie couldn’t be there, though obviously that wasn’t possible, what with the little ones. Then she broke off to accost some passing acquaintances, while Eliot explained that ‘Chrissie’ was Christine – Chris – and that nobody called her Chrissie except Lizzie, who’d never met her.

‘I like Chris,’ Louise had said. In fact, she wasn’t entirely sure she had the right woman. The twins were a clue, being the only pair in the nursery, but sometimes the mothers melded into an abstraction of exasperation and busyness.

Their prize was a bottle of champagne.

‘Well, isn’t that
lovely
,’ breathed Lizzie. Then: ‘I don’t drink, of course.’

That
of course
was an insight into a whole other mindset.

‘So I think it would be nice if Eliot took it home for Chrissie to share.’

Louise didn’t mind one way or the other, but cared a lot less about Lizzie making the offer for her.

‘That’s kind,’ Eliot said. ‘If Louise doesn’t mind.’

A ghost of a wink accompanied his words.

They left not long after. Lizzie was on her bike – another
of course
– and Eliot was heading for the bus stop. They were out of the building before Louise said, ‘I can drop you. I’m in the car.’

‘Well, I live over East Oxford. It’s out of your way.’

The bottle was in a bag he was holding carefully; not let-ting it swing.

‘That’s all right.’

They’d driven maybe two hundred yards when he said, ‘You should have this.’

‘Have what?’

‘The bottle. Lizzie doesn’t drink, did you notice that? So she doesn’t think it’s much of a sacrifice you shouldn’t either. But you won it really. Besides, I’d just glug it.’

‘We both won it. And I’m sure Chrissie would enjoy a treat.’

He smiled.

‘Or doesn’t she drink either?’

‘Well, with kids, you know how it is. She’s so exhausted by the time they’re packed off to bed.’

‘So glug it yourself. Once she’s gone to bed.’

‘Can’t drink champagne on your own.’

That hung between them for a while. They came to a halt at pedestrian lights, though no one was using the crossing.

‘Well, we could share it,’ she said.

And there it was –
of course
– unplanned, but definitely stated. The point at which the evening’s map sheered into uncharted places. Beyond here lie monsters, they used to say. The fact that the monsters were instantly recognizable didn’t make them any less scaly.

‘Um,’ said Eliot. ‘I think drinking in cars is a bit of a no-no. Put it this way. It’s definitely frowned on.’

The little green man gave way to the red, and she drove on, passing the junction which would have taken them east. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘You can always say we went to the pub after.’

‘I’d probably better say we were part of a crowd.’

And then, a minute or so later, he added, ‘Actually, it’d probably be best if I didn’t mention you at all.’

The downstairs light was on when they got back, and Eliot had asked whether that was for burglars, and she’d told him, lightly, Oh, her mother was staying. Every sentence was conspiracy. This particular construction nearly unravelled everything, but mischief was rearing in her soul: ‘It’s okay. She’ll have gone to bed.’

Which she had.

So what happened next? The inevitable happened next. They whispered on the sofa and drank the bottle, and then stopped whispering and started kissing instead, and before either of them got much older her knickers were round one ankle, and maybe three minutes after that she was pulling them up again; the whispering a little more formal, the bottle definitely empty.

‘I’m not sure I should drive you home.’

‘It’s okay. I can walk.’

‘It’s just, I’m over the limit . . . ‘

‘Don’t worry.’ He insisted on kissing her again. ‘When can I see you?’

‘Eliot, you know what we just did was stupid, don’t you?’

But his face wore a moon-fogged expression, which he might have thought tender, but only spelled trouble. Already, he was cherishing a Memory. Already, she was regretting an Incident. One of those irresistible force/ immovable object scenarios, which could be postponed but never avoided.

Though dumping it in a hostage situation might throw it into perspective.

And now Louise thought: what had it all been about? Really? And understood that it was mostly payback for her mother shirking the evening quiz.
You want me to have fun?
Okay. This is how grown-up girls have fun.
With half a bottle of bubbly inside her, she hadn’t even cared if her mother had heard them, though it was amazing how quickly that had turned into a damp sticky fear that her mother had heard them. Not the only thing that had been amazingly quick. At least there’d been no cries of passion to stifle.

‘When was that?’ Ben asked. And then said: ‘No, I remember. It was last year, wasn’t it?’

Other people’s memories now.

She tried to shut her mind down.

But found herself asking anyway: ‘What was he doing there?’

Fredericks was smoking again. Chances were, he’d have been smoking even without cigarette in hand: it would be coming out of his ears; comically erupting from sleeves and trouser cuffs.

Not just fucking up: he’d been there before.

But fucking up with the world’s press a typewriter’s throw away.

Faulks had said: ‘There’ll be time for postmortems later.’ ‘Good choice of words.’

‘We don’t need this, Malc. Sir. The important thing is –’ ‘That they’re still inside. I know.’

And okay:
world’s press
was an exaggeration. But the whole damn story would be on the web before he’d finished his cigarette, which he shouldn’t be smoking in the Incident Vehicle anyway. He dropped it into the dregs of a cup of tea.

It began when he went to Iraq.

Fucking great. His career fizzing out like that butt, and all over spook stuff – they should keep their cloak and dagger games where they belonged, not drag them into a nursery practically outside his office window.

What was he doing there?

Faulks said, ‘That’s the woman. Kennedy.’

‘Do they even
know
we just tried to get them out? It’s like they’re –’

‘Sir . . . ’

They listened.

‘Talk about Miro.’

‘You are one of them. You are on their side.’

‘I just closed the door, Jaime. I could have walked right through it. The next time they come in, you’re dead. So talk about Miro. Why was he so sure he was in danger?’

‘Because of things he knew.’

‘Not because of what he stole?’

‘He was not a thief.’

‘You’ll have to do better than that. Are you keeping up, Jaime? You have one chance of getting out of here alive, and that’s telling me what you know.’ Ben paused. ‘Please. For all our sakes.’

Jaime said nothing.

‘And don’t think the gun will help. Those weren’t toys those guys had. Pull that trigger, they’ll spray you over the walls. You might as well put it in your own mouth. If you want to live, tell me about Miro.’

Just look at him, Ben thought – his hair sticking up in improbable tufts; eyes wild, sweat glistening on his fore-head. The gun in his fist was an anomaly. You wouldn’t put money on him having strength to pull the trigger. For half a second, Ben thought about striding across and taking it away – it could be done. And then Jaime would be tied up in knots and delivered to Bad Sam Chapman. And that would be the end of him.

‘It began when he went to Iraq,’ Jaime said.

‘When was that?’ Ben asked. And then said: ‘No, I remember. It was last year, wasn’t it?’

‘What was he doing there?’ Louise asked.

They both looked at her. It was as if they’d forgotten there were others present.

Ben said, ‘That’s really not important.’

‘You think?’

‘The reason I’m here –’

‘The reason you’re here is to get us out alive. That’s what you’re going to say. But there’s more to it, isn’t there? The reason you’re here is because this man knows some-thing, and you’re trying to find out what.’

‘This would be a lot easier if you kept quiet.’

Eliot said, ‘This would be a lot easier if we weren’t here.’

Now everyone turned to Eliot.

Who said: ‘None of this is happening by accident. This man called you last night.’ He was looking at Ben. ‘He just said so. And people tried to kill him because of that. That’s why he’s here. That, and because of . . . the “lady”.’

He looked at Louise.

She said: ‘I’ve got no idea what makes me important.’ Though wasn’t sure she believed that herself.

Ben said, ‘You really don’t want to be part of any of this.’ ‘It’s a little late for that,’ Louise pointed out.

Jaime was following this, or not following it, with grow-ing confusion. And like any boy, he grabbed the first thing that made sense and shook it. ‘Yes,’ he said. The others turned to him. ‘I call you. Miro give me the number. Where you work.’

Ben chewed that for a moment. Then asked, ‘What time did you call?’

It had happened subtly, this shift, but it had happened. Jaime still held the gun, but was no longer calling the shots. ‘Late. I do not remember. Ten o’clock?’

‘I’d long left by then, Jaime. Who answered the phone?’ ‘You did.’

‘Ten o’clock, I was in the Three Whistles. And I don’t have call forwarding.’ This left Jaime a good way behind. He tried again: ‘It wasn’t me who answered, Jaime.’

‘The person say it was you.’

‘You got through to the switchboard, right?’

‘. . . Yes.’

‘And asked for me.’

‘I ask to speak to Ben Whistler.’

‘And the woman said?’

‘She put me through.’

Ben was nodding before Jaime had finished. ‘She put you through all right, Jaime. But not to me.’

‘The man say he was you.’

‘Well, like I said, Miro and I weren’t exactly spies. But we work for the security services. A lot of lies get told. What did you tell this man? It was a man, right?’

‘Of course a man. He tell me he’s you.’

‘Sorry. Of course it was a man. What did you tell him?’

‘I tell him who I am.’

‘That you’re Miro’s boyfriend.’

‘Yes.’

‘And what else?’

‘That I am frightened. That I want a place to hide.’

‘Where were you, Jaime? Where were you calling from?’

‘From a phone box.’

‘Not your mobile?’

‘I have no money on my mobile. No pay-up.’

‘No prepay, okay. So a call box. Where?’

‘Near the Marble Arch.’

‘Why there?’

‘It is near where I work.’

‘Okay. And you wanted to talk to someone. Someone who might know where Miro is. Did you tell him – this guy you thought was me – did you tell him where you were calling from?’

‘Yes. He tell me to wait there. That he come to collect me.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because you’re here, Jaime. What happened at Marble Arch?’

‘I wait near corner. Near underground. Not in main road. By a turning.’

‘Okay.’

‘I am not the only person waiting near there.’

‘I can imagine. What happened?’

‘A car arrive.’

‘Just one car?’

‘Lots of people come and go. People getting into cars. I think some are prostitutes.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised. And a car came for you, right?’

‘Yes. But it have two men in it. I tell you – tell him, the man who answer phone – I tell him to come alone. I trust no one else.’

‘How did you know they were looking for you?’

‘I can tell. They are serious people. They look at faces. They see me straight away.’

‘Tell me what they looked like.’

‘First is big man. He have close haircut.’ Jaime ran his free hand through his own locks. ‘And big grey coat.’

‘Right.’

‘Other man is short and dark. But scarier.’

‘Right . . . ’

Ben looked around. Nothing much had changed. The daylight had shifted slightly, perhaps. He glanced up at the skylight; wondered if anyone was on the roof. But that was corrugated iron: only a pixie could get up there with nobody inside knowing. On the other hand, there were any number of policemen mere yards away, and sharp-shooters well within killing distance. But all of that, right this moment, was irrelevant. There was an ear inside the annexe, and it was picking up everything. And pretty soon, Ben thought, the conversation was going to take directions nobody out there should know about. One nobody in particular.

He left the wall, and walked to a table in the corner.

‘Where you go? You come back.’

Ben put a finger to his lips: the universal sign for silence.

‘You come back now!’

Jaime raised the gun.

Ben put his hands in the air. ‘It’s okay,’ he said softly. ‘Everything’s okay.’

‘You go back against wall. You go back now!’

‘There’s something I need to do.’ Again, he spoke softly; his words only just carrying. ‘It’s all right. Don’t panic. Stay calm.’

He turned, and made for the table once more.

Jaime pointed the gun at his back.

‘No!’ Louise said.

The twins tried to melt into Eliot’s legs.

Ben heard the bullet pass through him just as he reached the table; felt the clean round hole it cut in his body before passing through the outer wall of the annexe – on and on it flew, leaving clean round holes through everything in its path, before tiring of flight and burying itself in the earth miles away. Strangely, this was painless. He put a hand to his chest and found no hole; there had been no shot – only Louise’s cry. Almost immediately the mobile in Jaime’s pocket rang; that dreadful, irritating Nokia tune, more ubiquitous than the Beatles.

He picked up the sheet of paper he’d come for, and a thick black marker pen, and turned round.

Jaime was still pointing the gun at him.

‘Better answer that,’ Ben said. ‘Don’t want to alarm them.’

He walked back to the wall, and joined the others.

It was so much a cliché it had passed through to the other side, re-emerging as irony. Three ducks on the wall went with everything else in this little house – the bookshelves loaded with knick-knacks and videotapes; the sofa sheathed in protective covering; the Toby jugs on the mantelpiece. What bothered Sam Chapman was that there were only two of them. Ducks, he meant. One of those details he’d find hard to forget.

‘So you’re not with the police,’ Deirdre Walker was saying.

She was upper-fiftyish, and not giving ground grace-fully; her hair not so much permed as soldered into place, and enough make-up to keep a clown troop on the road. Whatever perfume she was wearing had a cloying, insect-repellent quality, and only just made its presence felt above the mustiness of stale cigarette smoke. A situation whose parameters Deirdre Walker altered now by adding fresh cigarette smoke, belatedly waving the pack at him.

‘Thank you.’

‘So you’re not with the police.’