What Will Survive (25 page)

— Gee thanks. You want hers as well?

— Hers? You mean Aisha?

— Yeah, I said holiday snaps. She put her films in Fabio's camera case, smart girl, otherwise they'd have gone sky-high. Amazing what those metal cases can withstand. There's a couple of him looking like that bloke, you know — Abu something.

— Abu Nidal?

— Nah, he's the hijacker. Guy I'm thinking of makes bombs. Sort of a freelance — Dermot did a piece about him in the mag a while ago. Don't you read the paper? Abu Thaer, that's it. Secretive sort of bloke, doesn't like publicity, but I found a pic of him in a book — biography of Colonel Gaddafi, if I remember rightly. Tossers who published it credited the wrong
agency, I had some guy on the phone doing his nut... You should have a look at Dermot's piece — it tells you who all these guys are working for, in case you ever need to know. Did you hear about Dermot?

— No.

— He's resigned. By fax. So the whole office got to read it.

— What did it say?

— It was addressed to the ‘editor' — just like that, in inverted commas. It said since you're no longer running a newspaper in any known meaning of the word, it's clear you no longer require a Middle East correspondent. I quote. I can tell you, he's hopping.

— Oh shit.

— I didn't think you were a fan of his.

— I've never met him.

— Not Dermot. The editor. Looked like he was going to have a stroke in conference this morning.

— Oh dear. I was hoping Dermot might introduce me to a few people. Ingrid, this freelance in Beirut, she's nice but she's really a TV producer and she hasn't been there anything like as long. I wondered why he hadn't answered my fax. Do you think he'll talk to me anyway?

— Funny bloke, Dermot. Territorial, if you know what I mean. Anyway, he's still in Pakistan or somewhere, according to Michael.

— Shit. How's the competition coming along?

— Don't ask. Fucking nightmare. The editor wants celebrity judges but he doesn't want to pay for them. I spend my life being humiliated by agents. But we have got a logo. Tony in the art department mocked it up, and it looks like it. Pay peanuts, get monkeys.

— Listen, Mark, I have to get on. Back to Princess Di.

— Oh yeah, the things that really matter. Cheers, Amanda.

— See you tomorrow. Thanks, Mark.

Stephen appeared at the side door of the pub, stepping into the garden with a glass in each hand. He blinked in the strong sunlight and ducked to avoid a football, which sailed over his head to land in a clump of bushes. A boy of seven or eight rushed past, in single-minded pursuit.

‘Richard. Richard.' A young woman with a foreign accent and straw-coloured hair tied back in a ponytail trailed wearily after him, knelt down and began to remonstrate. The boy gave her a blank look, dived to retrieve the ball and dodged round her, running down the hill to where two more young women — au pairs, Iris guessed — were sitting at a rectangular garden table. Pushchairs were drawn up around them like an encampment, each with a toddler strapped inside. The ball flew wide again, this time into the display of lilies, lupins and irises at the top of the sloping garden, where they flared brilliantly against a tall brick wall. On the side of the pub, next to the door Stephen had just come through, was a sign which read ‘no ball games'. Iris wondered how long it would take one of the two women who had recently taken it over — reputed locally to be lesbians, the kind of prurient gossip which circulated about unattached women — to come out and enforce the ban.

‘White wine.' Stephen placed a glass in front of her and moved round the table to sit on the other side. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt — the first time Iris had seen him out of a suit. He looked almost boyish in casual clothes and only the dark hollows below his eyes gave away the fact that he was having sleepless nights. Lifting a leg over the wooden bench, he sat down, tasted his own wine and remarked: ‘Not bad. At least it's cold. Sure you don't want anything to eat?'

‘I'm not very hungry. Thanks, anyway. Are you having something? You've had a long drive.'

‘I ordered a chicken salad. Seemed a safe option.'

‘Oh, the food's good here.' Iris glanced towards the pub. ‘It changed hands about six months ago and Aisha and I started — we used to have lunch here sometimes.'

Stephen gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘I'm grateful, Iris, you agreeing to meet me like this.' His eyes widened. ‘As you can imagine, there's no one else I can talk to.'

Iris reached out a hand, then withdrew it. ‘I did think about ringing you, but I didn't have a number... I suppose I could have rung the House of Commons but I didn't know if anyone would be there during the recess. I wouldn't have felt comfortable leaving a message.'

‘My secretary goes in a couple of afternoons. It would have got to me eventually, but it doesn't matter now.' Another nod, as though he was having trouble concentrating.

‘How are you —'

‘How have you —'

Iris said, ‘You first.'

Stephen's shoulders slumped and he looked down. After a moment he said in a low voice: ‘I don't know what to say or do. I can't stop thinking about her. Nothing like this has ever — I can't seem to take it in. I dream about her all the time, I say, “I thought you were dead,” and she laughs and says, “Oh no, I got better” — you know how she tosses her hair? Some nights I can't bear to go to bed, I stay up and walk round... God knows, I don't know what I do really.' He lifted his head, his face flushed. ‘Yesterday I called her mobile by mistake, I actually heard her voice — I mean, how long before they turn the bloody thing off? I've had to stop myself—'

For the second time that day, tears started in Iris's eyes.

‘Christ.' Stephen put a hand up to his forehead.

They sat in silence, Iris gradually becoming aware of the hot sun on the back of her neck. She had changed before leaving the house, putting on a crisp white shirt and dark skirt without giving any thought to the fierce afternoon heat. After a while, Stephen said in something like his normal voice: ‘Sorry. When's — when's the funeral?'

‘Friday.' Iris moved slightly, angling her shoulders away from the sun. ‘Didn't I say?'

‘Yes. Yes, of course you did. I think I even read it somewhere.'

He swivelled to look behind him, where the au pairs were listening in miserable silence as Chrissie, the younger of the two publicans, described
the damage their charges had done to the border. ‘OK, boys,' Iris heard her say, ‘who wants to come and see the rabbits?'

‘Me, me, me,' was the answer, in three piping voices.

‘I get confused with the days,' Stephen said, turning back. ‘Sometimes it seems as if it only happened yesterday.'

Iris said, ‘Have you —'

‘I didn't find out straight away. I was in a meeting, I remember some woman going on about the Taliban.' He frowned. ‘She left me a message, you know. My battery was down, I'd forgotten to charge the damned thing, and by the time I got it, it was too late, although of course I didn't realise... I kept getting her voicemail.' He flinched. ‘Probably it was all over by then but I just thought —' He made a gesture. ‘You know, foreign country, bad reception.'

A memory came to Iris: ‘It was on the machine at home, her voice, I mean. The message kept playing and Tim — he didn't seem to know how to turn it off. In the end I unplugged it.'

Stephen managed a grim smile. ‘Technology and death — I expect someone's sitting in some new university writing a thesis about it. I had to stop watching the news and as for that programme on Channel Four, Jesus. If the House was sitting, I'd have put down an EDM.' He picked up his wine, sitting up straighter now.

Iris said, ‘I hope they'll lose interest after Friday — the press, I mean. It's kept it all going, the time it's taken for the — for her to be brought home. The formalities —'

‘You don't need to tell me. I have a constituent, bit of a wide boy, his wife fell off a balcony in Estepona. He wanted me to talk to the Foreign Office, see if I could hurry things up, and then I discovered, completely off the record, that the Spanish cops thought he might have had a hand in it. Sounded quite likely, according to the British consul in Malaga, though I try not to be prejudiced. Tattoos up and down both arms,' he explained, seeing the question in Iris's eyes, ‘and probably in places I couldn't see, fortunately. Nothing ever came of it, and I expect he voted for me in May. Another satisfied customer, which is what the life of an MP is all about these days. I saw the inquest was adjourned.'

‘The — oh. Yes. The coroner is waiting for some report or other, but it's only a formality. According to Tim, anyway.'

‘Number 12, chicken and walnut salad?' Cheryl, who did the cooking at The Queen of Hearts, as she and Chrissie had renamed The Black Swan, was standing in the garden with a tray.

‘Over here,' Stephen called out. He turned to Iris, eyebrows raised. ‘Another glass of wine?'

‘No thanks, I've got a client at three-thirty. But I'll have some mineral water.' Iris felt inside her straw basket, which Aisha had brought back from Spain, and withdrew a scarf, which she draped over the back of her neck.

‘Hot, isn't it? Seems all wrong for a funeral.' Stephen looked up at Cheryl. ‘Do you do coffee? I'll have a double espresso. And some water with ice.'

‘Coming up.' She took Stephen's five-pound note and tucked it in the pocket of her pink jeans — Iris saw that the seams were decorated with sequins. ‘How are you, Iris? I'm really sorry about your friend. We couldn't believe it when her picture was on the TV.'

‘I'm OK, thanks for asking.'

Cheryl went back inside and Stephen began eating. ‘You're right,' he said, holding up a fork. ‘Chicken's good.'

Halfway through the meal, he reached into his pocket and took out his mobile, which was vibrating. ‘Sunil, you got my message? Where are you? No, there's no rush. But if you have time to do a search at Companies House — you know what to look for. Friday'll do at a pinch but Thursday's better, then we can offer it round the Sundays.'

He put the mobile away. ‘Sorry about that. I'm in the doghouse with my constituency association but they'll get over it if I can embarrass the government again.'

Iris nodded. ‘I saw something about you in the
Guardian
. It wasn't long after Aisha's... accident, so I don't remember the details.'

Stephen pulled a face. ‘Me and my big mouth. It isn't terminal, at least I don't think so, but I'm having to call in a lot of favours. It's that or think of another way of paying the mortgage.' He glanced towards the pub. ‘What's happened to that coffee?'

‘Here she is.'

Stephen waited until the drinks were on the table. ‘So what was all that crap about the marriage?'

Iris stared at him. ‘What? Oh, you mean Tim's interview.'

‘I thought — I had the impression she was going to tell him before she went away.'

‘Tell him —'

‘That she was leaving. That it was finished.' He made a chopping motion with his right hand. ‘Finito.'

Iris said guardedly: ‘She didn't tell him about you, if that's what you mean. He may have guessed she had someone, he's not stupid, but I don't think you need worry about — recriminations.'

Stephen stared at her, astonishment flaring in his eyes. ‘I'm not worried, I just found it pretty hard to take. I know the guy's got problems, but it was a pack of lies from start to finish. That stuff about soulmates.' His mouth puckered. ‘Can you imagine what Aisha would have said?'

‘I saw him this morning. I think he's — embarrassed.'

‘Delusional, more like.' Stephen threw back his coffee and put down the cup, rattling it against the saucer. A man and a woman, having lunch at the next table, looked across.

Iris said, ‘There's often a — when someone dies, people have different versions of history. It's a common reaction.'

Stephen rocked back. ‘Come on, Iris, don't give me any of that New Age shit. Doesn't the grieving widower act make you sick?'

‘Yes, actually, but it doesn't mean he isn't suffering. First Aisha tells him the marriage is over, then she dies in this absolutely dreadful way. I can't help feeling sorry for him.' A picture came into Iris's mind, Tim standing in her hall that morning, asking a tactless question about Ginger, and she amended what she'd just said. ‘Well, I try to.'

Stephen said shortly: ‘You're obviously a nicer person than me.'

‘I know you had a — a difficult conversation before she went away.'

He exhaled. ‘It was late, I'd had a couple of glasses of wine, I said things I shouldn't have — not things I shouldn't have, I said them in the wrong way. I thought about it while she was away, I thought about little else in fact — I
was going to talk to her as soon as she got back. Face to face, not on the phone. She was absolutely right. We'd have worked something out.' His face twisted. ‘She was braver than me. You always think you've got time —'

‘Stephen —'

He made an impatient noise. ‘Anyway, enough of that.' He sat up, reverting to what Iris thought of as his politician's face. ‘I'm sure you've got things to do — sorry, you already said. And I've got a surgery this afternoon.'

‘This afternoon?' Iris knew his constituency was in Surrey.

‘Well, this evening. All part of clambering back up the greasy pole.' He stood up, feeling in his pocket and tossing a couple of pound coins on to the table. ‘Remind me how to get back to the main road?'

‘I — are you all right to drive?'

He gave her a quizzical look, shading his eyes against the sun. ‘I've only had one glass of wine. And that coffee would keep an elephant awake.'