The Terrible Privacy Of Maxwell Sim (3 page)

‘You know what I love about aeroplanes?’ I asked, undaunted. ‘They’re the last place left to us where we can be totally inaccessible. Totally free. No one can phone you or text you on an aeroplane. Once you’re in the air, nobody can send you an email. Just for a few hours, you’re away from all of that.’

‘True,’ said the man, ‘but not for much longer. There are already some airlines where you can send emails and use the net from your own laptop. And they’re talking about letting passengers use their mobiles soon. Personally, I can’t wait. What you like about flying is just what I hate about it. It’s dead time. Completely dead.’

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘It just means that if we want to communicate with someone during a flight, it has to be done directly. You know, like – talking. It’s a chance to get to know other people. New people.’

He glanced across at me as I said this. Something in his glance told me that the chance of getting to know me was one that he might have passed up without too many spasms of regret. But the rebuff that I was expecting didn’t come. Instead he held out his hand, and said gruffly: ‘The name’s Charles. Charles Hayward. Friends call me Charlie.’

‘Maxwell,’ I returned. ‘Max, for short. Maxwell Sim. Sim, like the actor.’ I always said this when introducing myself, but usually, unless I was talking to a British person of a certain age, the reference would go over their heads, and I would have to add: ‘Or like a SIM card.’

‘It’s good to know you, Max,’ said Charlie; then picked up his newspaper, turned away from me, and began reading it, starting at the financial pages.

Well, that wouldn’t do. You can’t sit right next to someone for thirteen hours and ignore them completely, can you? In fact, not just thirteen, but twenty-four hours – because I noticed from the boarding card lying on his table that Charlie and I had been seated together on the second leg of the flight as well. It simply wouldn’t be human to sit in silence for all that time. I was pretty sure, anyway, that, if I made a big enough effort, I would manage to draw him out. Now that we’d exchanged a few words, I realized that he didn’t look unfriendly, as such – just rather stressed out and overworked. He must have been somewhere in his mid-fifties: over dinner he told me that he’d grown up in Brisbane and now held a fairly high-powered position in the Sydney office of a multinational corporation which was starting to experience financial difficulties. (This, I suppose, was the reason he wasn’t flying Business Class.) He was on his way to London for crisis talks with some of the other senior figures: he didn’t specify what the financial difficulties were, of course (why would he, to someone like me?), but apparently it was all to do with leverage. His company had taken out loans which were over-leveraged, or under-leveraged, or something like that. At one point when he was trying to explain this to me he started to look quite animated, and I thought there was a chance he might become positively chatty, but when he realized that I knew nothing about leverage, and had no real understanding of any financial instrument more complicated than an overdraft or a deposit account, he seemed to lose interest in me, and from then on, it became increasingly difficult to get more than a few words out of him. It didn’t help that he’d drunk several glasses of champagne and a number of beers with his lunch, and was beginning to look even more tired than he did before. The other problem was that, as he grew more and more taciturn, I did the opposite, and – as if terrified by the possibility of silence between us – started to turn garrulous, over-talkative, and began pouring out confessions and confidences to this new acquaintance which I’m sure he must have found boring, if not a little embarrassing.

It all began when I told him: ‘You’re so lucky, you know – living in Sydney. What an amazing city. So different to where I live … ’

I left a short silence, which he finally broke with the dutiful question: ‘Don’t you live in London, then?’

‘No, not London exactly. Watford.’

‘Ah, Watford,’ he repeated. It was hard to tell whether he was investing the word with curiosity, disdain, sympathy or anything else.

‘Have you been to Watford?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t believe I have. I’ve been to some great cities. Paris. New York. Buenos Aires. Rome. Moscow. Never Watford, for some reason.’

‘There’s a lot to be said for Watford,’ I insisted, with a defensive edge to my voice. ‘Not many people know that it’s twinned with Pesaro, an extremely attractive Italian town, on the Adriatic coast.’

‘I’m sure it’s a marriage made in heaven.’

‘Sometimes,’ I continued, ‘I do ask myself why I ended up living in Watford. I’m from Birmingham, originally, you see. I suppose it came about because I got this job a few years ago with a toy company, based in St Albans, and Watford’s pretty close to there, as you probably know. Or perhaps you don’t. Anyway, they’re right next to each other. Couldn’t be handier, really, if for any reason you wanted to go from one to the other. Mind you, I stopped working for that company pretty soon after moving to Watford, which is ironic, when you think about it, because after that I started working at a department store in Ealing, which is actually further from Watford than St Albans is. Not
much
further, you understand, just another .… well, ten or fifteen minutes, if you’re driving. Which I usually was, because it’s quite hard to get from Watford to Ealing by public transport. Surprisingly hard, as a matter of fact. But I certainly don’t regret taking that job – the job in Ealing, I mean – because that was how I met my wife, Caroline. Well, my ex-wife Caroline, I suppose she will soon be, because we separated a few months ago. I say separated, but what happened, really, was that she told me she didn’t want to be with me any more. Which is fine, you know, that’s her prerogative, you’ve got to respect that kind of decision, haven’t you, and she’s … you know, she’s very happy now, she’s with our daughter Lucy, they’ve moved back up north, and that seems to suit them, because for some reason, I don’t know why, Caroline never really seemed to take to Watford, she never seemed entirely happy there, which I think is a shame, because, you know, there’s something good to be found everywhere, isn’t there?, which isn’t to say that, living in Watford, you wake up every morning and think to yourself, Well, life may be a bit shit, but look on the bright side, at least I’m in Watford, I mean it’s not as if Watford is the sort of place where the very fact that you’re living there gives you a reason to go
on
living, that would be overegging the pudding a bit, Watford just isn’t that sort of place, but it does have an excellent public library, for instance, and it does have The Harlequin, which is a big new shopping centre with some … terrific retail outlets, actually, really terrific, and it does also – now I come to think of it, and this will amuse you actually – well …’ (noticing his frozen expression, I wasn’t so sure) ‘… it might amuse you, anyway, it does also have Walkabout, which is a big, sort of themed bar, which has a big sign outside it offering to give you “The Awesome Spirit of Australia”, although, thinking about it, when you’re in there, it never really feels as though you’re in Australia, you never
really
forget that you’re in Watford, to be perfectly honest, but then if you’re like me, and you like living in Watford anyway, what’s wrong with that?, I mean, some people are just happy with what they’re given, aren’t they, and I don’t see anything wrong with that, I mean, I wouldn’t say it had ever been my
ambition
to live in Watford, I don’t ever recall my father sitting me down on his knee and asking me, Son, have you ever thought about what you want to do when you grow up, and me saying back to him, Well, Dad, I don’t really mind, just as long as I end up living in Watford – I don’t remember any occasions like that, it’s true, but then, for one thing, my father just wasn’t that sort of person, he never did sit me down on his knee, as far as I can remember, he was never very tactile, or affectionate, or very …
present
really, in my life, in any meaningful way, from the age of about – well, for about as long as I can remember, I suppose – but anyway, my point is that just because Watford isn’t the sort of place you dream of moving to all your life, that doesn’t make it the sort of place you can’t wait to move out of, in fact I had a conversation along these lines a few years ago with my friend Trevor, Trevor Paige, who is one of my oldest friends actually, we go right back to the 1990s, right back to when I used to be a sales rep for this toy company that I was telling you about, he used to cover Essex and the East Coast, and I was doing London and the Home Counties, but I left that job after a year or two, as I said, to go to this department store in Ealing, but Trevor stayed on, you see, and we carried on being friends, mainly because he only lived a couple of streets from me in Watford, until about two years ago that is, because about two years ago we were having a drink together in Yates’s Wine Lodge in the precinct, and suddenly, he said, You know what, Max, I’m fed up, I am, I’m really pissed off, and I said, Pissed off?, what are you pissed off with, and he said, Watford, and I said, Watford?, and he said, Yes, I am, I am well and truly pissed off with Watford, I’ve had it up to here with Watford, I’ve lived in Watford for eighteen years now and to be perfectly frank I really think I’ve seen everything that Watford has to offer and it can truly be said that Watford holds no further delights or surprises in store, and I’ll go further than that and say that if I don’t get out of Watford soon I shall probably kill myself or die of boredom or frustration or something, which was a huge surprise to me I must say, because I’d always thought that Watford suited Trevor and Janice – that’s his wife’s name, Janice – down to the ground, and in fact that was one of the things that Trevor and I had always had in common, really, the fact that we were both quite partial to Watford and more than partial, actually, we were both quite
fond
of Watford, you know, a lot of our best memories and the most treasured … shared moments in our friendship were associated with Watford, like for instance the fact that we’d got married in Watford and our children had been born in Watford, and to be honest I thought that Trevor had really just lost it that night and it was the alcohol talking, and I can remember thinking to myself, No, Trevor will never leave Watford, he can talk the walk but he can’t walk the … talk, or take the walk or something, anyway, I thought he’d never go through with it, but credit where it’s due, there was more to Trevor than I thought, and it hadn’t all been bluster, he wanted a clean break with Watford and a clean break with Watford was what he got, and six months later he and Janice moved to Reading, where he got this new job – a very good new job, by the sound of it – with a company that makes toothbrushes, or imports them anyway, I think they import them from overseas, but they distribute them all over the UK, and not just regular toothbrushes but specialist toothbrushes with quite, you know, innovative designs, and also dental floss and mouthwash and a number of other oral hygiene products, which is actually quite a fast-growing … Erm, excuse me?’

I’d become aware that somebody was tapping me on the shoulder. I turned round and saw that it was one of the stewardesses.

‘Sir?’ she said. ‘Sir, we need to have a word with you, about your friend.’

‘My friend?’

I didn’t know who they meant at first. Then I realized that she must be talking about Charlie Hayward. There was another stewardess standing beside her, and a male flight attendant. They didn’t look happy. I remembered that there’d been a bit of fuss a few minutes earlier, when one of them had come to take his tray away, but I’d been busy talking, and hadn’t taken much notice. Anyway, as they now informed me, it was impossible to be sure of the exact timing – not until they’d found out if there was a doctor on the plane – but apparently he’d been dead for at least five or ten minutes.

It was a heart attack, of course. It usually is.

The airline handled it all very delicately, I must say. A week after I’d got home, they sent me a letter, letting me know a few extra details which I have to say were comforting, very comforting. They told me that Charlie Hayward had suffered from heart problems for some time – this was his third attack, they said, in the last ten years – so the news hadn’t come as a complete shock to his wife, although of course she was devastated. He had two daughters, both in their twenties. The body was flown back home from Singapore and he was cremated in Sydney. On the way out to Singapore, though, they’d had no choice but to keep him in the same seat, right next to me. They put a blanket over him and said that I could come and sit with them if I liked, on one of the staff seats near to the galley, but I said no thanks, it was OK. Somehow I thought that would have been rude, disrespectful. Call me fanciful, if you like, but I felt he would have appreciated the company.

Poor old Charlie Hayward. He was the first person I’d really managed to speak to, after taking my decision to reconnect with the world. Not a very auspicious start.

However, things were about to get better.

3

I was the last person to leave the plane after it landed at Singapore. While they lifted Charlie’s body and carried it off, I moved over to another seat, and sat there for a while after the other passengers had gone. Depression came over me. I could feel it. I was used to it by now, and knew how to recognize it. It reminded me of a horror film I had seen once on TV when I was a little boy. This man was trapped in a secret chamber in a big old castle, and the villain of the story pulled a lever which made the roof of the chamber start coming slowly down on top of him. Closer and closer, until it threatened to crush him. That’s what it felt like. It never quite crushed me, of course, but it got close enough that I could feel it, weighing down on my spine, cutting off my freedom of movement, paralysing me. Whenever this happened, I would for some time be physically unable to raise myself, will myself into motion. You could never really tell what was going to bring it on, either. It could be anything. In this case I suppose it was a sort of relapse: having said so much to Charlie, having unburdened myself so shamelessly of so many words, a tidal wave of words finally breaking through the floodgates, after months and months of withdrawal from the world, months made long by silence, by lack of human contact (contact, that is, unmediated by technology) – after all that, and the disaster it had just led to (indirectly or otherwise), I was already suffering something like a nervous reaction. I lapsed into immovable stillness and had no awareness, none at all, of what was going on around me. Finally, I noticed that a stewardess, once again (it was even the same stewardess, I believe) was shaking me gently by the shoulder. ‘Sir?’ she was saying, in a kindly undertone. ‘Sir, we must ask you to leave the plane now. The cleaning staff are waiting to come on board.’

Sleepily I tilted my head towards her and, without a word, rose to my feet in a slow and I suppose trance-like movement. I made my way down the aisle, through Business Class and then out along the walkway towards the arrivals lounge. For some of the time I think the stewardess must have been walking alongside me. She said something like: ‘Are you OK, sir? Would you like someone to come with you?’, but the reply I gave must have been reassuring enough for her to trust me to my own devices.

A few minutes passed. I can’t say for certain where I would have spent them, but after a while I became aware that I was sitting at a café table, conscious of an oppressive, sticky heat and surrounded by shops bearing the names of familiar global brands, through which crowds of jetlagged passengers wandered in their own kind of daze, their eyes glazed and sightless, each one threading between the racks and stands and revolving displays with the thoughtless tread of a sleepwalker. I looked down at the liquid in my coffee cup and saw that it appeared to be some sort of cappuccino. Presumably I had ordered it and paid for it. I inserted a finger between my neck and the collar of my shirt in order to wipe away a ring of sweat that had gathered there. As I did so my eyes were drawn to one figure in particular amidst the crowd of somnambulant shoppers. She was a young woman of about twenty-five and my first impression of her was curious. I am not a particularly spiritual person but the first thing I noticed about this woman – or thought that I noticed – was that she was wearing a very colourful blouse. In fact it was probably this burst of colour, making her stand out like a fiercely burning beacon, that had first caught my attention and startled me out of my latest trough of depression. But actually, when I looked at her more closely, her clothes were of quite an ordinary colour and what I must have sensed, instead, was something else about her that was colourful, something internal, some kind of bright and luminous aura. Does that make any sense? As I continued to watch her this aura slowly flickered out and faded away but still there was something compelling and irresistible about her. For one thing, while the surrounding crowds seemed to be drifting ever more slowly, as if in a state of deep hypnosis, this woman had a sense of purpose. A rather furtive sense of purpose, admittedly. She wandered from shop doorway to shop doorway, trying to appear nonchalant but unable to stop herself from looking around her so frequently and so warily that at first I thought that she might be a shoplifter. Since she never actually went into any of the shops, however, I had to discount this theory. She was dressed in a rather masculine way, with a blue denim jacket which seemed quite unnecessary in this kind of heat, and had the sort of short hair and boyish looks which I’ve always found particularly sexy. (Alison used to have the same looks, for instance – Chris’s sister, Alison Byrne – although the last time I saw her, about fifteen years ago, she had started to wear her hair long.) I suppose you would call this woman’s hair reddish, or perhaps strawberry blonde. It looked as though she might have used henna on it. Anyway, the jacket is the important thing, because after a while I began to suspect that she might only be wearing this jacket in order to conceal something underneath it. I came to this conclusion after watching her, I suppose, quite brazenly, for a minute or more, during which time she noticed me and flashed me one or two anxious and irritated glances. Embarrassed, I averted my gaze, turned it towards my now empty coffee cup, and tried to concentrate on something else – in this case, an announcement over the PA system: ‘
Welcome to Singapore. Passengers in transit are respectfully reminded that it is forbidden to smoke anywhere inside the terminal building. We thank you for your cooperation and wish you a pleasant onward journey
.’ Then, the next time I looked at her she caught my eye again, and this time she came over, weaving her way through the drifting swarms of passengers until she had reached my table and was standing over me.

‘Are you a policeman or something?’ she asked.

She had an English accent. Quite posh, but with that hint of Mockney that posh young people these days seem compelled to affect.

‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I’m not a policeman.’ She said nothing in response to that, just continued to stand over me, glaring down suspiciously, so I added: ‘Why would you think I was a policeman?’

‘You were staring at me.’

‘That’s true,’ I admitted, after a moment’s reflection. ‘I apologize. I’m very tired, and I’m halfway through a stressful journey. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

She thought about this, before saying: ‘OK,’ in an uncertain tone of voice. ‘And you don’t work … for the airport, or anything like that?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t work for the airport.’

She nodded, apparently satisfied. Then, just before turning away, she added: ‘I’m not doing anything illegal, you know.’

Again, her tone was tentative, as if she didn’t really know whether this was true or not. I tried to reassure her by saying: ‘That had never occurred to me.’ I was trying to see what she had hidden beneath her jacket, where I could see a distinct bulge, but it was impossible to tell. She was on the point of turning away again, but something still seemed to be holding her back. It occurred to me that she was tired and might like to sit down.

‘Can I get you a coffee?’ I asked.

Immediately she thudded down into the seat beside me. ‘That would be great,’ she said. ‘I’m bushed.’

‘What sort?’

She asked for a skinny latte with a shot of maple syrup and I went to buy it for her. When I got back to the table with our coffees her jacket was no longer bulging. Whatever had been under there she had now transferred to her handbag, which was a loose, roomy affair she was just in the process of zipping up – again, with that slightly furtive air which seemed to characterize all her movements.

I decided not to reveal my curiosity, in any case, and confined our conversation to small talk.

‘My name’s Max,’ I said. ‘Maxwell Sim. Sim, like the …’ (I glanced at her, and hesitated) ‘… like the card you put in a mobile phone.’

She finished zipping up her bag and held out her hand. ‘Poppy,’ she said. ‘Where are you headed?’

‘Back to London,’ I said. ‘Just a quick stopover here. Couple of hours. Should be at Heathrow first thing in the morning. On my way back from Australia.’

‘Long trip, then. Business? Pleasure?’

‘Pleasure. Theoretically.’ I took a sip of coffee, and muttered, ‘Bestlaid plans, and all that,’ into the froth. ‘How about you?’

‘No, this is a working trip for me.’

‘Really?’ I tried not to sound surprised. Now that we had started talking, she seemed even younger than I’d first thought – not much more than student age – and I found it hard to imagine her as a business traveller. She didn’t look the part at all.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I travel a lot in my line of work. In fact that’s pretty much what it consists of. Travelling.’

‘Were you … working just now?’ I asked, for some reason. I suppose it was an impertinent question, but she didn’t seem to take it that way.

‘While you were watching me?’

I nodded.

‘Well yes, I was, as a matter of fact.’

It seemed as if she wasn’t going to tell me any more.

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘it’s none of my business what you do for a living.’

‘It certainly isn’t,’ said Poppy. ‘After all, we’ve only just met. I don’t know anything about you.’

‘Well,’ I began, ‘I work –’

‘Don’t tell me.’ Poppy held up her hand. ‘Give me three guesses.’

‘OK.’

She sat back, arms folded, and looked at me with an appraising but also mischievous gleam in her eye.

‘You write software for a computer game company with a reputation for horrific misogynistic violence.’

‘No, not at all. You’re miles off.’

‘All right then. You breed organic chickens on a smallholding in the Cotswolds.’

‘Not that.’

‘You’re a celebrity hairdresser. You do Keira Knightley’s highlights.’

‘’Fraid not.’

‘You work in a gentlemen’s outfitters in Cheltenham. Bespoke three-piece suits and frighteningly accurate leg measurements.’

‘No, and that’s four guesses. But you’re getting closer.’

‘One more then?’

‘OK.’

‘Well, how about … Senior Lecturer in Contemporary Fashion at the University of Ashby-de-la-Zouch.’

Actually I do consider myself quite a smart dresser, and since she made this suggestion with a lingering glance at my Lacoste shirt and Hugo Boss jeans, I was rather flattered. Even so, I shook my head. ‘So, do you give up?’

‘I suppose so.’

I told her the truth: that I was the After-Sales Customer Liaison Officer for a department store in central London. To which her immediate response was:

‘What on earth does that mean?’

Now, I decided, was not the time to go into a huge amount of detail. ‘I’m there to assist the customers,’ I explained, ‘when there’s been a problem with their purchase. A toaster that doesn’t work. A pair of curtains that doesn’t hang properly.’

‘I see,’ said Poppy. ‘So you work in the returns department.’

‘More or less,’ I conceded, and was about to add, ‘
Used
to, at any rate,’ and start explaining that I hadn’t actually been into work for the best part of six months, but something stopped me. I had overburdened Charlie with my confidences, after all, and that hadn’t panned out too well. ‘So, is it my turn now?’

She smiled. ‘It wouldn’t really be fair. You’ll never guess what I do. Not if I gave you a thousand guesses.’

It was a nice smile, revealing her white, neat but slightly uneven teeth. I realized that I was perhaps staring at her more intently, and for longer, than was strictly polite. How old
was
this woman, exactly? Already I felt more comfortable talking to her than I’d felt talking to anyone for a long time, and yet she must have been at least twenty years younger than me. The realization gave me a curious feeling: half uneasy, half exhilarated.

Meanwhile, Poppy was unzipping her handbag, and then she opened it up just far enough for me to see something unexpected inside: a digital recording device of some sort – professional quality, by the looks of it, at least the size of a hardback book – and a large microphone: again, the sort that professionals use, robust, chunky and sheathed in a grey polyester windscreen. As soon as I had peered over and had a good look at this equipment, she zipped the bag shut again.

‘There you are,’ she said. ‘A clue.’

‘Well then … You must be some sort of sound recordist.’

She shook her head. ‘That’s only part of what I do.’

I pursed my lips, unable to think of any further suggestions.

‘You say it involves a lot of travelling?’ I prompted.

‘Yes. All over the world. Last week I was in São Paolo.’

‘And this week Singapore?’

‘Correct. Although – and this is another clue – I didn’t leave the airport, on either occasion.’

‘I see … So you make sound recordings of airports?’

‘Also correct.’

Try as I might, I couldn’t see what she was driving at. ‘But why?’ I had to ask, eventually.

Poppy placed her coffee cup carefully on the table, and leaned forward, her chin cradled in both hands.

‘Put it this way. I’m part of an organization that provides a valuable and discreet service, to an exclusive clientele.’