Red Joan (41 page)

Joan shakes her head. ‘That won't work.'

‘But it might. And tell them that you think William killed himself because he was guilty. Tell them something he did, so they can at least issue a warrant for a full toxicology report on his body to prove it. That's all they want to hear. You just have to give them what they want.'

‘They want me.'

‘No, they don't. They just want someone. They practically told you at the beginning that there was room for leniency if they got what they needed.' He turns to her, his voice low and urgent. ‘Don't you see? It's embarrassing for MI5 that you weren't found before. Even now, they didn't actually find you. They were
told
about you. They had a Russian spy sitting under their noses at the top of the atomic project, slipping secrets to Russia for nearly five years, and it seems that nobody ever thought to run a proper check on you. And do you know why?'

Joan's brain feels fuzzy. ‘No.'

‘Would there have been the same laxity in the security checks if a man with a science degree from Cambridge had been in the same role as you?'

‘I suppose not.'

Nick smiles for the first time in what seems like days. ‘Exactly. So that only adds to the embarrassment. Not only did they not check up on you, but the reason they didn't was because you're female.'

Joan rests her head in her hands. ‘I still don't see how this would help me.'

‘It helps you because, politically, it would be better for them if you were innocent. So tell them something they want to hear, something that makes them look better. Let them have William. He's dead anyway, isn't he? And tell them that Sonya tricked you. They tracked her down, didn't they?'

‘But if I deny it, they'll still take me to court. There'd have to be a trial.'

‘Maybe.' Nick's voice betrays a hint of his growing impatience. ‘You'd just have to stick to your story then, wouldn't you?' He pauses. ‘It's your only chance.'

Joan looks down. She feels her heart burning with love for her son, for his wishful thinking in spite of everything she has done, for the fact that he is sitting here now, in her bathroom, and he still believes she has a chance. How she wishes she could simply agree, throw her arms around his neck and thank him, and tell him that yes, it will all be okay and it's a wonderful plan. But she can't do this because she knows it's too late. It wouldn't work. There is a video recording of her confession, and there would have to be a trial. She would have to stand in court and deny everything in the face of so much evidence. She would have to commit perjury, and so would Nick. He would probably be able to claim in his defence that he thought everything he said was true, but she cannot ask him to do that. She will not allow him to do this for her. She must protect him now, as she has always done.

She lifts her eyes to look at him, and she sees in him all the hopefulness of those early years in Australia, so much happiness distilled so perfectly into his person. She feels a sudden burst of sorrow at the memory of leaving her own mother in the way she did, guilt at the terrible hurt she must have caused by running away without saying goodbye properly, and without ever explaining the real reason for her disappearance. She had always justified it to herself by believing that the alternative would have been worse, and that at least her mother had Lally nearby which must have been a comfort to her, but she also knows that this can't have made up for her own seemingly unfathomable decision to leave so inexplicably and abruptly to live in such a faraway place, so soon before Lally's wedding. Not that her mother complained. She made no demands on her, but Joan could always hear the hurt in her voice, the delay on the line on those Sunday evening phone calls made more pronounced by her mother's incomprehension of Joan's decision. Even when she got her cancer diagnosis and Joan still did not come back to visit, even then, she didn't complain, saying only how sad she was that she wouldn't get to meet her darling Nick, but please could they send more photographs of him eating fish and chips on the beach, just as Joan described, so she could put them up in her room in the hospice.

She did not deserve that.

And for herself, Joan isn't convinced she could cope with the wrench of separation all over again, if it should come to that. But she also knows she cannot say what Nick wants her to say, and as the certainty of this realisation dawns on her, she knows that there is another reason for her reluctance other than to prevent Nick's involvement, and she is surprised to find that this reason is so compelling for her. ‘I'm sorry, Nick. I can't.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because it's not true,' she whispers.

‘It doesn't matter.'

A pause. Joan looks at him. ‘It matters to me.'

A shudder of anger seems to pass through him, and his expression hardens. ‘Look, I don't want to be mixed up in this either. It's not good for me, professionally, to be associated—' He stops himself from continuing with this train of thought even though they both accept the truth of it. ‘But I'm here, aren't I? I've come up with a plan. And I really don't think you're in any position to get all high and mighty about truth and the difference between right and wrong.'

Joan reaches out to put a hand on his knee. ‘I didn't want you to be mixed up in this. All I've ever wanted was to protect you from it. That's why I don't want a trial.'

‘Well, you should have thought about that earlier, shouldn't you?' He shakes Joan's hand off, and his lips are drawn and straight. ‘You shouldn't have adopted me, after what you'd done. You didn't have the right.'

Joan feels something snap inside her. ‘How can you say that?'

‘Because it's true. I've been thinking it for the past few days. You can't say you wanted to protect me if you had already done this when you
chose
me, as you always tell me you did. What about me? Where's my choice in that? When do I get to
choose
whether or not I want an atomic bomb spy for a mother?'

‘Oh, Nick.'

‘I don't know why you can't just say what I've told you to say. What would it cost you to play along, even if you're only doing it for me?'

‘But it wouldn't work.'

‘Isn't it worth a try?'

Joan's head is in her hands but she shakes it all the same. Her heart is pounding but she knows now that she cannot back down, not just for him, but also for herself, for the person she was back then; for Leo, for Sonya, for William. For her father. ‘But it's not true,' she whispers. ‘I did it for a reason.'

There is a pause while Nick takes this in. ‘So you're telling me you won't even try?'

Joan shakes her head. Her voice is so quiet that he has to lean forwards to hear her. ‘I can't.'

Nick stands up and walks to the door. His hand rests on the door handle as he waits for Joan to say something, to change her mind, but there is nothing she can say.

‘Well, then,' Nick says eventually, his voice cold and hard. ‘Looks like you're on your own.'

J
oan is in bed but she is not asleep. The landing light filters into her darkened bedroom and her thoughts are punctuated by the small red flashes of the surveillance cameras installed at the beginning of the week, reminding her of what they think she might do. There is at least one camera in every room in the house. They do not intend to lose her, as they lost William. Or if they do, they intend to have it on tape.

The sting of Nick's abrupt departure is still raw, twisting in Joan's stomach. His words echo in her mind, and once again she wonders if it might be better if she simply doesn't wake up tomorrow. Better for her. Better for Nick. She imagines for a moment that she might do it. Not with the sleeping pills but with the St. Christopher's medal given to her by William as a parting gift, still there in her bedside table drawer.
Just in case
, he had written in the accompanying note, and she had been appalled by the very idea. Even if she had thought about it, she would not have pictured it happening like this. Not after so many years.

But then again, she had never thought William would do it either.

She knows that she needs to order her thoughts in readiness for the press conference later that day. All night she has lain awake, but the piece of paper upon which her statement is supposed to be written remains blank.

She knows that there is only one approach that would be acceptable—an apology, a display of sincere remorse—but the truth is that she has always believed what she did was a brave thing. Yes, if she had been more aware of the horrors perpetrated by the Soviet state at the time she would have had other reservations, but how could she have known? So little was known back then. And it still doesn't really change anything. She didn't do it to save the Revolution. She did it because of Hiroshima, because of the mushroom cloud pictures and the casualty figures and the reports of the terrible clawing heat. She did it because of the feel of her father's hand in hers as he lay in bed recovering from his first heart attack, and because of the memory of him standing on the school stage, imploring his pupils to acknowledge their duty to each other.
We are each responsible
. . .

She knows that Nick's plan could work. She can see that there is some truth in his assessment of what MI5 would be willing to accept. She could telephone him now and tell him she has changed her mind. She could tell MI5 that yes, she regrets allowing herself to be manipulated by those around her, that she should have reported her suspicions about Leo and Sonya at the time, that she believes William killed himself to avoid going to trial. Her story could then be amended to implicate him before being presented to the House of Commons. She can see that this would be the best thing to do, from a purely selfish viewpoint.

But every time she goes to write the words, she finds that her hand will not allow her to do it. The pen hovers over the page but it will not touch.

Because it's not true, is it?

Or at least, most of it isn't true, but she will not tell them what she knows of William. He deserves her discretion, after what he did for her. Thankfully, the files seem to be silent over this point, and Joan is relieved that she does not have to confess to how it ended. He covered his tracks well.

She closes her eyes. There is nothing to be done now but wait.

 

*

 

She telephones her mother from the phone box at the end of Sonya's road to ask if she might come to stay for a few days.

She can tell that her mother is smiling at the other end of the line. ‘And to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?'

The soft familiarity of her mother's voice causes a lump to rise at the back of Joan's throat and she has to make an effort to sound normal. ‘Oh, no reason,' she says. ‘I had a few days' leave so I just thought I'd visit.'

‘Of course you can. You don't need to ask.'

Her mother is there to meet her at the station, embracing her as she steps off the train. ‘You're wearing your fur!'

Joan grins. ‘I thought I'd lost it. And don't we need to return it at some point?' Joan's voice is muffled from being pressed into her mother's shoulder.

‘I should think my cousin's forgotten about it by now.'

‘Maybe.' She glances at her mother's foot. ‘How's your limp?'

‘It's not so bad. Don't tell me off for walking to meet you. I wanted to come. I've missed you.' She smiles. ‘Not that I'm lonely without your dad. Don't go getting that into your head. I miss him—of course I miss him—but I'm absolutely fine.' She glances at Joan conspiratorially. ‘I've joined a choir.'

‘But you can't sing.'

‘That was just your father's opinion. I always knew I had quite a nice voice, and the choir mistress seems to think so too.' She pauses, and then continues shyly: ‘There's a concert next week. You don't have to come, but if you were free . . . ' She tails off. ‘It'd be nice, that's all.'

Joan feels the faint pulsing of her heart. ‘Of course I'll come,' she says, even though she knows that so much might have changed by next week that she cannot say anything for certain. She leans across and kisses her mother's cheek, and inhales the faint lavender smell of her, the smell of childhood, of comfort, of being told that everything can be made better again. They cross the road and a car pulls slowly to a halt beside the kerb. Her mother barely acknowledges it, but when they pass in front of it Joan sees that there are two men sitting behind the dashboard, neither speaking to the other, their unblinking eyes seeming to be fixed on her. She hears the car slip into gear and pull away behind her, the windows dark and impenetrable as it passes.

A butterfly shivers across her heart.

It's just a car, she thinks. It's nothing.

Her mother glances at her. ‘I hope you're not working too hard. You look awfully thin.'

Joan raises her eyebrows. Her mother always says she is looking thin when she means something else. ‘Am I?' she asks, although this time she wonders if it might be true. She has always been slim, but recently she has noticed her clothes slipping more than usual. ‘It must be the rationing,' she says. She glances behind her. The car is nowhere to be seen.

‘Yes, I suppose it must.' Her mother pauses. ‘I was thinking I ought to fit you for your bridesmaid's dress while you're here.'

‘Might as well.'

‘You don't mind, do you? The fitting, I mean.'

They turn in through the gate of the school and follow the path around to the lodge. They have had this conversation before: her mother being utterly convinced that Joan minds her younger sister getting married before she does and that this is why she has been acting so strangely. They have discussed it perhaps ten times over the phone and each time Joan has insisted that she doesn't mind. ‘No,' she says. ‘And before you ask again, I'm very happy that Lally has found someone she wants to marry. I'm delighted for her.'