The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy (33 page)

There's a slight chill in the air, reminding me of the altitude. Thin skeins of blue-black cloud race across the sky, scything through the moon. The square feels as if it is at the centre of a whirlpool. I sit down next to her, not too close.

‘An open-air assembly of religious fanatics?'

‘No,' she smiles, ‘not this time. Just you and I.'

Brighton seems a long, long time ago.

‘Have you heard the news about Ascavar?' she asks.

Across the square I notice Senor Maldovar is shutting up shop for the night. The light is out and he is locking the front door. I watch as he exits the bottom corner of the square, smiling, obviously satisfied with his day's work. Maybe he's thinking of the old doctor.

‘Yes, I heard all about it. The man in the shop over there gave me the details.'

‘I want to apologise for Mr Ascavar's excesses. For the stress he put you under yesterday. But it is, or rather was, his way. He had a rather grand opinion of himself. I think you may have witnessed that.'

‘Just a touch,' I say, the images of the animal trophies and Ascavar on his throne coming to mind.

‘You will, I am sure,' she continues, choosing her words carefully, ‘be aware of the complexity of our work.'

She looks me in the eye to see if I am in tune with what she is trying to explain. I am to a point.

But what will all this mean? Am I to be handed over to another master (or mistress) in the same way that Soylam and the countless thousands of others are? A commodity with a use-by date. Forever indebted, a literal slave to misfortune. Or will I be free to pick up my life? And for Caitlin to get a second chance?

‘You'll have to explain some more,' I say, rubbing my forehead to clear my mind.

‘There are a great many issues at stake here and some very intricate negotiations,' says Mary, speaking slowly, deliberately. ‘They've involved individuals and organisations at the very highest levels. But please, do not confuse strategy with conspiracy. People find the latter so much more palatable. If only it were so simple. No, much planning has gone into our endeavours. Planning that is both flexible and, without seeming too mercenary, opportunistic.'

Again, she glances at me to be sure I am not surprised at her revelations. A sudden breeze picks up, sending a spray of fountain water through the air.

‘This doesn't surprise me, but why kill Ascavar just now?'

‘It was overdue. We'd had a board meeting, so to speak, without him. Some of our North American members were keen to appease the public back home and to show who was in control. Besides, he was becoming decidedly unpredictable and uncontrollable. In the type of projects in which we are engaged, we cannot afford mavericks.'

‘And the opium?'

‘Ah, the opium. That is all taken care of, safely on its way to the slopes of the Andes. You did the job we asked of you and you deserve an explanation. It's not rocket science, more like political science. The heroin producers in Afghanistan and South-East Asia have been getting too powerful for too long and we needed to shift the balance. Cocaine was becoming less attractive to our Colombian colleagues, so what better solution than to pollinate across the continents. You could even call it redistribution of wealth. And a shuffling and balancing of power. Taliban, Marxists Idealists, War Lords, Drug Barons. We can't have any one faction getting too powerful. Not to mention the calming effect of good-quality heroin on the mean streets of the USA. Coke was making everyone a bit too edgy, a bit overactive. I'm sure you'll appreciate that, yourself.'

She casts me a sideways look; the type a headmistress gives to the head boy.

‘Very complex indeed. If I were to draw you a map of all those involved, you'd be astonished.'

‘I'm astonished enough already.'

The car begins to move slowly around the fountain. Who else is behind those blackened windows? It comes to a stop. Is this a sign for Mary to bring the interview to a conclusion? The thought suddenly springs to mind that maybe it's a sign to bring me to a conclusion. The fear must have registered in my expression.

‘Everything is fine,' Mary says calmly. ‘You can go soon. You've got an open-ended business ticket in your pocket. No one expects you back in London for another week or so. Take a holiday. You deserve it.'

I am listening to her, but another sound has caught my attention. It is the muttering and jabbering of the small boy. He is back in the square, walking around the perimeter, mumbling to himself and dragging a half-filled sack in his wake.

‘And Caitlin? When will I see her?'

‘Caitlin is fine and in good care. You will appreciate she has been through a lot. Not just these last weeks, but during her time in service. We will need to debrief her. You take that holiday and we'll make sure you see her safe and well on your return.'

I can't help the disbelief showing on my face.

‘Trust me,' says Mary with a smile. ‘I am a doctor!'

The little boy has fallen silent and sits at the base of the fountain, staring up at the cascading water.

‘And my work? Can I trust you with my work? There's so much more to do, so much more to think about. My one-use needle may be great for immunisation, but I've listened to the drug users. They need needles, even though mine is not the one. We can work to get a good cheap disposable needle. One they will want and use. We need to listen to them.'

‘Be confident, we're on your side. Let me assure you of that. Our aim is to keep the world a safe and healthy place. Someone will peddle the drugs. Someone will blow up politicians. It all works better when we can have some say in the means and the ends. It may look strange on the surface, but the good guys and the bad guys are all mixed up. Look at Ascavar with his zoo. Environmentalists have been amazed at his breeding programs. His efforts will not go to waste. As they all say, there's a little good in the worst of us and a little bad in the best. You couldn't be in better hands.'

The car engine starts up again. Mary gets up to leave.

‘Taneffe will be back in touch when you return to London and you can put all your efforts, and I mean all your efforts, into your science. I will say goodbye and thank you,' she says, shaking my hand. ‘Take that holiday and good luck for the future.'

She walks around the fountain, ignoring the boy as she passes. Someone from inside the car opens the door for her and she steps into the back seat. The door closes and the car moves off slowly, speeding up as it turns left at the end of the square.

When the car is gone from sight I turn to the small boy who is whimpering in a huddle not ten yards from where I sit. I walk over to him, feeling for some notes in my pocket.

‘Buenas noches,' I say, an expression I can manage in a dozen languages.

He looks vaguely in my direction, but his eyes are dark and dull. He is even tinier and more wretched close up. He could be any age. My guess would be eleven or twelve. I hold out a few notes. His expression is unchanged. He stares back up at the fountain and through the fall of the water to the moon and the clouds.

‘For you,' I say, proffering the money.

He stares hard at me and then lets out a howl, like an injured animal. It's then I see the injection marks on his arms. He grabs the notes from my outstretched hand, jumps to his feet and runs away across the square. He settles down in another corner, engaged once more in conversation with his own special demons.

17

Homecoming

As we cruise towards the terminal building at Heathrow Airport the rain is lashing down.

Once, on a rare spring London day, a Texan stopped me in Gordon Square. He wanted to know when it would rain and where was the fog? I told him London was in the middle of a dry spell, and that I was from Melbourne. Not even the prospect of blue plaques and Bloomsbury scandals could cheer him up. He walked away dejected, his illusions shattered. How happy he would be if he had landed from Houston today, I think, as I sit in the taxi on the way back from the airport.

Looking out at the grey, flat landscape, I realize I'm nearly home and that Caitlin is waiting for me. My journey is nearly over and for the first time in my adult life I've gotten off an aeroplane sober. I'm not sure which is the biggest achievement: my sobriety; or my safe passage through the underworld. As the taxi snakes its way through the commuter traffic on the West Way, I reread the message that was pushed under my hotel room on my last night in Bogotá. It told me Caitlin was well and being looked after. She would be waiting in London and wanted to see me. In the cloak-and-dagger style I was now accustomed to, I was to call a particular phone number when I arrived home and then all the necessary arrangements would be made. Enclosed was what appeared to be a copy of a note in Caitlin's handwriting:

‘Thanks for everything. I was treated okay during my time away and I have been given a chance to rest and recuperate. You might be alarmed at the way I look. No need to be, as I am fine inside. I am a bit worn out, but I am okay. I'd love nothing more than to see you when you get back to London. I'll be here when you return. Things happen to us that we could never expect. Love, Caitlin.'

‘Where have you been, then?' asks the taxi driver as we grind to a halt in gridlocked traffic outside the British Library on Euston Road.

‘Good question.'

Caitlin turns over in the unfamiliar bed. Everything is new. Too many noises, lights, smells surround her. She keeps the heavy curtains drawn to soften the lines, dull the colours. She opens her eyes, then closes her eyes. Opens her eyes, then closes her eyes. The new room is there, the new room is gone. New room here, new room gone. New room here.

I open the door to my flat, kick the mail out of the way, drop my bags in the hallway, find the piece of paper from my pocket, pick up the phone and dial.

‘This is Anthony Malloy,' I say urgently when the phone is answered. ‘I'm in my flat in London.'

‘Good,' says the man's voice. ‘You'll see in your mail a postcard with a picture of the seafront in Brighton.'

‘Hold on.' I stretch the cord and give the pile of accumulated mail another kick. Letters and packages fly into the air. The postcard of the pebbly beach and West Pier floats down onto my foot.

‘I've got it.' I lean down and pick it up.

‘Excellent,' says the voice again, very English, very detached. ‘There's an address written on the postcard. Be there tomorrow at ten in the morning and your sister will be waiting.'

And, just as the phone goes dead, I realize I recognize this voice, but can't quite put a face to it.

By a quarter to ten in the morning I am standing outside a mansion block near Marchmont Street in the seedy area of London's Kings Cross. I ring the bell and say who I am. To my surprise the same voice from last night's phone-call tells me to come in. I follow the arrows to number seventeen and enter a courtyard filled with potplants and chained bikes. From a window a woman watches me as she washes dishes, and then turns away to stack a plate. Radios and voices can be heard from the flats opening onto the courtyard and a small child hurtles past me on a tiny scooter. I enter the building and walk up the concrete stairway to the top landing. The door to number seventeen is slightly ajar, so I push it open.

‘Austin,' I say, surprised to see him standing in the hallway, unsure as to where he fits into the picture.

‘Come in, Anthony. We can have a chat in the sitting room.'

‘How did you get here?' I ask, following Austin down the corridor.

‘I was on the same flight as you from Bogotá. Just to make sure you got home safely. First class, I'm afraid. Terrible bunch of people. Pop stars and the like. Footballers. Always drunk and rowdy.'

The room is sparsely furnished, with a concrete floor and no carpet. There is a table and two chairs in one corner, two large armchairs beneath the single window. On a shelf is a portable television: the picture is on, but the volume is off. On one wall is a large framed print of a picture I recognize. It is of a handsome Italian nobleman from the seventeenth century. He is dressed in fine but simple robes and has luscious long black hair, somewhat unkempt. He stares out at me with slightly troubled but defiant dark eyes. He is holding a stone tablet with an engraving in Latin.

‘A great picture,' says Austin. ‘I got the poster from the National Gallery. We needed something in here.'

‘What does the inscription say?' I ask, sitting down on one of the armchairs.

‘Be silent, unless what you have to say is better than silence,' replies Austin with a grin.

Something on the television catches his eye and he turns up the volume.

‘Excuse me, but this could be important.'

‘We have just received a bulletin from Downing Street,' announces the newsreader, ‘that the decision has been made to switch off the life-support machine that has maintained the Prime Minister in her deep coma since the terrorist attack in Brighton. We now go over to our Westminster correspondent, Hilary …'

Austin turns off the volume. He smiles. ‘Good timing, Anthony, all the ends are being tied up.'

‘I thought you'd be on a boat up the Amazon.'

‘Ah,' says Austin, ‘we all say things we might not mean with a drink inside us.'

‘Then why are you here?'

‘To help with the knots, so to speak, and to reassure you about Caitlin.'

‘So what happens next?' I ask.

‘Well, the new Prime Minister, a frightfully handsome man, thank God, will be sworn in, the peace talks will begin in earnest in Dublin, and the American underclass will be doped into inertia by cheap high-potency heroin.'

‘No, not all that,' I say impatiently. ‘What will happen to Caitlin?'

‘Ah, I'm so sorry. Caitlin will be absolutely fine. She has been thoroughly debriefed. No further action will be taken by any, and I mean any, parties. She is free to get on with the rest of her life.'