The Dog Who Came in from the Cold (8 page)

Saint Sebastian was a case in point. He was always depicted as a young man of great physical beauty, clad only in a conveniently placed loincloth. He was extremely spiritual, thought Gillian; much more so than dear Saint Francis, who was somewhat homely—exactly the sort of saint whom a grateful animal might lick in appreciation.

Gillian had been incensed when a cousin of hers, a rather cynical
woman who enjoyed making iconoclastic remarks, had suggested that many of the pictures of Saint Sebastian’s martyrdom were thinly disguised exercises in homoerotic art.

“I’m sure he didn’t wear quite as seductive a loincloth in real life,” this cousin had said. “Saints rarely did, you know.”

Gillian had bristled in her indignation. How did this woman know about saints’ underpants? It was ridiculous. “The point of the loincloth,” she observed, “was to show the arrows with which poor Saint Sebastian was pierced. That’s the whole point of the pictures. They remind us of his suffering in a very vivid way. If he were wearing clothes we wouldn’t see the arrows piercing his flesh.”

The cousin smirked. “But what evidence do we have that he was so … so lithely muscular? In real life, that is?”

“I’m not going to discuss this with you any further,” said Gillian.

Later, she had mentioned the disagreement to Basil, who had listened intently to her, and then sighed. “People don’t understand,” he said. “And of those who do not understand, there are some who do not understand because they
will
not understand.”

Gillian agreed with this wholeheartedly. “But at least we understand,” she said. “That is understood, I think.”

“Of course it is,” said Basil.

Oh, if only
you
understood what I feel, Blessed Basil, Gillian thought. But she suspected that he did not; or, rather, would not. In that respect he was like those people who he said did not understand because they did not want to understand.

That is my burden, she thought. And it’s the burden of so many women. Men simply will not
see
. And we have to wait in the wings for them to make up their mind, to decide whether they like us enough to confer the benefit of commitment upon us. Why do we put up with it? Why don’t we spell out to them that we’re fed up with waiting, that we’re not going to tolerate their detachment any more, that it’s going to be us, women, who are going to decide in future.

She sighed. That was not the way the world was—or certainly not for people like her.

J
AMES ARRIVED
at Corduroy Mansions earlier than he had anticipated. He had allowed himself more time than he needed to travel from his flat in Clerkenwell and had fifteen minutes in hand by the time he found himself outside Corduroy Mansions. Dee answered when he pressed the doorbell and buzzed him into the entrance. He noticed that something was going on in the ground-floor flat—a party, by the sound of it—but he did not linger and bounded up the stairs to Caroline’s flat. James was pleased that Dee was in; he liked her and had not seen her for a few weeks. Dee gave him news of the latest health food products, and occasional free samples too. Last time he saw her, she had given him a one-month course of a brain-power-enhancing supplement, ginkgo biloba, and he had taken it conscientiously until the bottle was empty, without any noticeable result. “Of course, you don’t really need this,” she had said to him. “There are lots of people I know who could do with a course of ginkgo. You’re really not one. Here’s some garlic as well.”

Dee opened the door to him when he reached the landing. As he came in, she bent forwards to give him a kiss. James winced.

“I’m not going to bite,” said Dee.

James was embarrassed. “I know that.”

“Then why not let me give you a little kiss? Caroline won’t be jealous.”

James blushed. “I don’t normally kiss,” he said. “It’s not just you. I don’t like all this kissing that goes on. Why not just shake hands?”

Dee laughed. “I won’t kiss you if you don’t want me to,” she said. “Anyway, come in.”

She took him into the kitchen, where she had been sitting at the table tackling a newspaper sudoku. James noticed that the puzzle was marked
extremely easy
.

“If you took ginkgo-what’s-its-name, you’d be able to do difficult sudokus,” he said. “In fact, why don’t you sell ginkgo in little bottles marked ‘Sudoku Remedy’?”

Dee stared at him. “That’s a rather good idea,” she said.

“I wasn’t serious,” said James. “Just a joke.”

“No,” said Dee quickly. “It’s not a joke, James—it’s a really good idea. That’s exactly what they’ve done with echinacea, isn’t it?”

James was not sure what they had done with echinacea.

“They sell it as protection from infection while you’re travelling,” Dee explained. “Then they sell it as a protection against flu. And so on. It’s the same basic stuff, of course—it simply boosts your immune system. But you can package it in a hundred different ways.”

“Well,” said James. “I didn’t know about that. But will people who do sudokus want help? If they did, then surely they could just put the figures into their computers and the computers would come up with the solution.”

Dee shook her head. “That’s not the way they think,” she said. “People who do puzzles want to solve them themselves.”

James was not so sure. “So what about those gadgets that help with crosswords? You put in a couple of letters and it comes up with the solution for you.”

“No self-respecting crossword person uses one of those,” said Dee. “But every self-respecting crossword person would be quite happy to take something to help get their mind in gear. A cup of coffee, for instance. That would not be cheating. Neither would some ginkgo.” She paused. “And we could market a Crossword Remedy too.”

James smiled. “You’d get very rich,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Where’s Caroline?”

“She’s gone to a party,” Dee replied. “Or I think that’s what she said. Something about a drinks party. I wasn’t paying much attention.”

“But she’s meant to be having dinner with me,” said James. “We made a date over the phone.”

Dee shrugged. “Well, maybe she’s forgotten. I did that once, you know. Maybe she needs to take some ginkgo.”

“It’s not funny. I’m cooking dinner for her. Here. And she’s gone to a party.”

Dee’s instinct was to protect her flatmate. “Maybe I got it wrong,” she said. “I wasn’t really listening.”

“Well, she’s not here, is she?” said James. “She’s stood me up.”

“Oh come on, James. Anybody can get dates mixed up. I remember once—”

James interrupted her. “Something that’s arranged a week or two ahead, yes, you can forget about that sort of thing if you don’t put it in your diary. But not the same day.”

“Oh. Well,” said Dee.

James looked at his watch again. “It’s really inconsiderate. I was going to cook something and then we were going to watch a DVD together.” He paused. “Are you doing anything, Dee?”

Dee thought quickly. She would love to have dinner with James. She had nothing in the fridge except a small piece of cheddar and a tub of yoghurt. Anything would be better than that.

“Not really. Why?”

“I’ll take you out to dinner,” said James. “We could go to the Poule au Pot.”

“The Poule au Pot!” She had walked past the restaurant many times but of course she had never been able to go inside. Dee was permanently hard-up, and a meal out, even in a much more modest restaurant, was a rare treat for her.

“Yes,” said James. “Let’s go and see if they can take us. If they
can’t, I know somewhere else. There’s a really nice Greek restaurant ten minutes away. Would that suit you?”

Anything would suit Dee, who felt only a slight pang of doubt as she went into her room to change. It’s her fault, she thought. She takes James for granted—anybody can tell. If he belonged to me, I wouldn’t do that. I’d spoil him. I’d do everything for him. I’d make him really happy.

They left the flat and walked the short distance to the restaurant. It was not a busy night, as it happened, and a table was quickly found. They sat down, and James ordered a bottle of wine. Then, while waiting for their starters to appear, James said, “I’m really cross with Caroline, you know.”

Dee looked around her at the room. She was basking in the pleasure of being out for dinner, in an expensive restaurant, with somebody as good-looking and as generally
nice
as James. She turned her gaze to him.

“I don’t blame you,” she said quietly. “Poor you.”

W
HEN
W
ILLIAM AWOKE
the following morning, he did so with the realisation that this was a significant day. But it was one of those realisations, only too common, when the actual reason for the day’s significance fails to come immediately to mind. So might a politician, on the morning of his inauguration into high office, awake with a feeling that something was about to happen, but, in that curious stage between drowsiness and full wakefulness, not remember what lay ahead; or so might a prisoner, facing release after long years of incarceration, forget that the front door to freedom would open
for him within hours. Yes, something important was due to happen, but what was it? It took a moment or two for him to remember: today was the day that he was due to meet his contact, following the instructions he had received.

Ever since the surprise visit from Angelica Brockelbank, former bookshop owner and now employee of MI6, William had been puzzling over the implications of what she had said. Although she had not been reticent in admitting that she worked in intelligence, and had been direct in her suggestion that MI6 wanted William to do something for them, she had been coy about saying exactly what it was.

“We can’t talk too openly here,” she had said, glancing about her at William’s kitchen, as if to imply that their conversation might be overheard.

William had been tempted to laugh. “What do you mean by that?” he asked. “Are you suggesting my flat’s bugged?”

Angelica looked at him with complete seriousness; she had not been joking—not at all. “You’d be astonished,” she said. “If I were to give you a list—even a highly abbreviated one—of the places in this city that are bugged, you’d be utterly astonished.”

William looked at her with amusement. These cloak-and-dagger people, he thought—too much imagination. On the other hand, there had been those journalists who had hacked into the telephones of prominent people. How dare they? They did not even have the excuse of protecting national security—which Angelica and her people could at least advance; they had been motivated by pure salacious interest or, in some cases, a desire to humiliate and embarrass public figures.

“But people’s private houses …,” William began.

Angelica smiled. “An Englishman’s home is his castle? Not any more, William, not under our current masters. Remember that these are the people who want to keep a record of every mobile
phone call, every single email you send, no matter how banal. The authorities want to know about it. They really do.”

It seemed to William that Angelica was getting into her stride. What he was hearing was so unexpected, so out of the ordinary, that he sat meekly and listened.

“And here’s another thing,” she went on. “The census. You may have noticed that there is pressure to ask people to disclose their sexual orientation in the census questionnaire. Yes, people would be asked whether they are gay or straight or whatever. What a cheek! What people are is their own business and nothing to do with the state or social researchers or anybody else really. Nothing. Sex is a private matter and adults should be allowed to do what they like without having the government breathing down their necks. And the same goes for religious beliefs. People are entitled to their private conscience, if that is what they wish.”

William shook his head. He resented people asking him what party he would vote for, and he knew that there were people for whom that question would be only the beginning. It surprised him, though, that this was coming from Angelica. Surely the whole point of having spies—if that was what she was—was to obtain information about other people. Did a spy who believed in privacy make sense? Were there
libertarian
spies?

“This country used to be free,” he said. “We used to be able to speak and think as we liked. We used to be entitled to a private life.”

Angelica nodded. “I’m inclined to agree with you. I went into this job, you know, because I felt that I would be helping to protect freedom. Freedom of speech, freedom from arbitrary arrest and intimidation, freedom to walk about the place without being obliged to give an account of yourself to some officious gendarme. I really believed that.”

“And now?”

She looked William in the eye. “I still believe that. I still think
that the work we do is meant to protect our society from people who would impose their will on us. From ideologues who use violence to intimidate others. Who would impose tyranny of one sort or another on us. I still believe that …” She faltered. “Except, I think that while we’re trying to protect freedom, there are plenty of people who are busy destroying it. And they’re not doing it with threats or bombs, they’re doing it through regulations and legislation and a hundred little restrictions on freedom of thought and speech. Each of these may be small, but their cumulative effect is a massive erosion of freedom. Death by a thousand cuts. They’re hooked on getting as much control over us as they can. They’re thoroughly illiberal. They really are.”

William listened. He agreed with her; what she said seemed very reasonable. And yet she had made this absurd, almost paranoid suggestion that they could not talk openly in his flat.

“I can assure you that there’s nobody listening in to what is said in this place,” he said. “Corduroy Mansions isn’t bugged.”

“That may be so,” said Angelica. “But the point is this: we have to have strict rules about when we can talk with our contacts. We like to control the time and place. It’s a procedural issue.”

“So when do you want to see me?”